[nezuscribe]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐦

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader

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. 

[happybird16]

Feral Gojo english dub highlights... Just close your eyes and listen..

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[veejiez]

um this is for scientific research.

[strychnynegirl]

@alygator77 @madamechrissy

[alygator77]

😏 ah, i see… yes yes… for science 🤓☝🏻

@strychnynegirl @veejiez @madamechrissy

[veejiez]

with this critical research i am one step closer to completing my phd in slutology ☝️🤓🙂‍↕️

[iamsoclone]

I Do It All For You

꒷꒦pairing꒦꒷ serial killer!Gojo x detective fem!reader

꒷꒦cw꒦꒷ NSFW, 18+ MDNI—(oh boy, here we go) modern AU, angst and smut and despair, explicit sexual content, graphic depictions of death and torture, so much blood (it's messy), moral quandaries, mentions of sexual assault, stalking, abduction, drugging, plotting & betrayal, heavy on the dub-con, mind fucking/breaking, choking (out hehe), slapping, knife play, (very) inappropriate use of firearms, dirty talk (threats count as dirty talk right?), 'make it fit' trope (big dick nerd mmm), fingering, face fucking, unprotected piv sex, creampie, sex with a dead body in the room, p0rn with a dose of murderous plot, obsessive and possessive and very yandere nerd gojo, he's a walking red flag and reader is kind of a freak as usual.

꒷꒦summary꒦꒷ the nerd in forensics has always been on your radar. everything about him is too crafted to be genuine. so you've always got your eye on gojo. the same can be said for him, but he’s just watching your back! you have a nasty habit of getting stalked by people who definitely aren't him. but it's mutually beneficial. you don't get murdered by the scorned, ex-con stalkers you've put away, and gojo gets another killer to bleed dry. you really are perfect for each other. but things are going off the rails this time around, and you finally see gojo for what he truly is. maybe you should have stopped looking so hard, but it's too late for maybe now.

꒷꒦a/n꒦꒷ this got out of hand so fast wow, but Dexter and Gojo? i couldn't stop, so now this is fat and absolutely filthy. it's still kinktober tho, right?┃art in the header by @/savoryjump on insta, dividers by @/cafekitsune, @/anitalerina, and @/sister-lucifer ꒷꒦w/c꒦꒷ 17.5k (holy shit, i swear its worth it T_T)

All the usual familiar faces greeted Gojo as he strolled out from the elevator, a box in one hand and a sugary coffee in a to-go cup from the cafe just down the block.

He flashed a smile, crooked and charming and with a few more teeth than typical for him at 8 AM, but he couldn’t help it. Gojo was in a great mood. How could he not be? He not only did the department a huge favor last night, but Tokyo as a whole.

“Good morning, Gojo!” A freshly promoted officer greeted him, wide-eyed and eager. Her uniform pressed, bright blue hair tied back in a neat ponytail, and a folder in hand as she walked through the open glass doors. “The lab had the results ready for that hair sample. I brought it up with me, figured I could save you the trip down!” She held the folder up in one hand with a smile as she kept pace with him.

Gojo glanced her way as he stopped to let a few people grab a pastry from the pastel pink box in his hand. They greeted him with distracted murmurs, eyeing the box for a favorite. 

She was a new face around the department, and Gojo was already a little poor at keeping track of names. It’s one of the few things that made him both feel a little more human, and somehow even more removed from normalcy. It was a flaw, one of many, but in a different way than most of his. He should remember names; being remembered makes people feel a personal connection, like they matter. It disarms them. 

When Gojo smiled at her, he made sure it reached his eyes, coming off warmer and more genuine that way. “That was very thoughtful of you, thank you. But, uh,” He glanced up towards the desks, a few still empty with officers and detectives off duty or having not arrived yet, and gestured to one with the hand holding his coffee. “I’m not the one to do any favors for. That’s who you should probably be grabbing paperwork for.” 

Right on time—no, you'd have been there for at least an hour if he gauged the time by how your desk was littered with folders and a few open boxes. Your head propped up on one hand as your eyes darted up and down from your monitor to a page. Maybe you pulled another all-nighter, you were in different clothes, but they were already rumpled like you’d been in that fitted button-down for a few hours already. Critical and sharp eyes a little tired. But that’s how it always was when you were on the precipice of a break, especially on a case as big as the one he knew you were working on.

“The sergeant?” Officer whats-her-face asked, looking from you to Gojo again. “She didn’t want any help, I already asked.” She said sheepishly, and Gojo’s smile got a little wider.

“Yeah, that sounds like her.” 

You grabbed a mug off your desk and took a sip, eyes glued to the screen for a long moment with the ceramic pressed to your lips. After taking in the same two sentences on the witness statement over and over until they blurred, you blinked, broke from the screen, and locked eyes with Gojo.

As if it's a reflex your body made the very moment you registered his presence; your eyes narrowed and your grip tightened on the mug. You looked him up and down fully, not an ounce of shame or hesitation in your sweeping gaze. You weren’t checking him out though; you were putting him under a microscope.

Like you could see the blood still on his hands, spattered on his face, and dripping from his hair if you looked hard enough. Like maybe he’d finally crack under the weight, and a piece of his mask would fall away if you cut through him with piercing eyes.

It happened every day, at the same time, no matter what, Gojo Satoru walked into your department with an effortless air of confidence surrounding him. There was always a smile on his face, sometimes it was small and seemed a little tired, his eyes distant, like his head was stuck somewhere else. Some days, he walked in like he was a fucking god. Wearing a smug grin like he’d won the ultimate prize in life, his unnaturally bright blue eyes satisfied and easy. 

Always wearing some lame ass button down, untucked like he couldn’t be bothered. Sometimes—like today—he’d grace the collar with a loosely knotted tie. Looking like a university student showing up to their first job interview, an attempt at professionalism that missed the mark and landed somewhere in nerdy frat boy cosplaying a salaryman. His platinum hair pushed back a little, just a few strands falling back down on his forehead like he didn’t use product to hold it. 

He was messy in a way that came off as endearing. Like he was just the nerd in forensics, appearances weren’t important, so he threw whatever on and stopped at the bakery down the block for assorted pastries that definitely were just random, it was chance that he somehow got everyone’s favorite treat every time. 

He really was so likable too, maybe that’s what really pissed you off the most. He was generally nice, helpful, and smart—one of the best in his field. He was funny, and thoughtful, a little goofy, but it balanced out because he was infuriatingly good looking on top of it all. 

You outranked him, but you were tilting your head back to make eye contact when he gave you a briefing at a crime scene. You’ve had to snap yourself out of it and yank your eyes off him when he rolled the sleeves of his shirt up over forearms roped with a little too much muscle for a nerd and flexed long fingers into blue latex gloves.

It was all a little too effortless for him; he was crafted in a way that seemed literal. Like the pieces of him were put together to disarm, to appease, and fit in, and keep people from pulling back a curtain and looking any deeper.

But you clocked it a long time ago. It seemed like overcompensation, and you started digging, especially when you were promoted to sergeant, and that’s when you saw the first crack.

Gojo had a habit of engaging in extracurricular activities. 

A few hair samples here, a blood analysis there, print matching galore, and none of it tied to a case number.

When you confronted him about it, he covered so quickly and perfectly, all you could hear was a hammer cracking down the final nail in his coffin. 

"Blah blah blah, data to support the arguments in a collaboration piece for a geeky magazine, it’s probably not your thing but it’ll be out in a few weeks if you really want to read it. You interested? Seems like it.” 

It was the perfect mix of authenticity and teasing, a perfect explanation delivered with a smirk at the end that twisted the spotlight back onto you instead. Like you’d only be interested in one thing, and it didn’t involve advancements in DNA testing.

You’d crossed your arms, looked down your nose at him, and told him to notify you before putting lab work through without a case number, and if it happened again, you’d write him up for it. 

“Yes, ma’am.” He winked with a mocking salute, like he loved it. Loved the way your nostrils flared at his insubordination and your glare at his smile that feigned innocence on the surface to hide something monstrous and sadistic lurking just beneath. 

You could see it, though, and from then on, you had your eye on him.

Gojo nodded your way, smiling like he wanted your eyes on him, like he enjoyed having your sights set on him, the challenge of being in your crosshairs and getting away with it.

He strolled right up to your desk with a, “Morning, sarge!” You leaned back in your chair, your eyes staying trained on his through his thick prescription lenses, the black frames low on the bridge of his nose. “I think they threw your favorite in again, want something glazed to start the day?” He said slyly as he offered out the box, but he knew you’d decline, you always did.

“No, what I really want is the full report on the head hunter vic from yesterday.” You responded flatly, your mouth set in a hard straight line. Your eyes flicked behind him. “Kasumi, you’re coming with Nanami and I to verify the statement from the witness yesterday, something isn’t right here.” You murmured, gesturing vaguely at your screen.

“Yes ma’am! When do you want to leave?” The blue haired girl immediately jumped to action, coming up beside Gojo to address you. 

“Help Gojo with his paperwork and then we’ll leave, his hands look a little full.” You looked right at him, the words curt and clipped and he grinned right back.

“Awe, thanks sarge, always so thoughtful.” Gojo's head cocked. Your eyes narrowed.

“Mm.”

“Good luck with your witness.” His smile grew by a fraction and your eyes flitted over his frame quickly once, cataloguing every bit of him before he nodded again, and turned to head to his lab. The new officer followed behind, file in hand.

The witness wouldn’t lead anywhere. None of your efforts would ever lead anywhere, not after last night.

The latest victim's head was the last trophy that sick freak would be taking. In a twist of something that Satoru likes to quantify as justice or maybe karmic retribution, but was really just Satoru making things a little more personal for the guy, a cleaver glinted as he pulled it from his kit, and hacked the killers own stuttering head off.

Who’s a fucking trophy now?

But his work is hardly over, it never is. The satisfaction only lasts for so long before hunger comes creeping back in. It all works out though because once again, and all thanks to you and your pretty face that can never keep out of trouble, tonight's the night.

A long moment passed within which you burned holes into Gojo’s back as he wound around the other desks, in absolutely no rush as he chatted around with others setting up for the day. Offering out the box of confections like he was fucking Santa Claus or some shit.

He could feel your eyes glued to him, and it just made him drag it all out more. He couldn’t help but like that you paid so much attention to him, because it just proved that he really was the best at what he did. Having you watching his every move and still getting away with it?

God damn, Gojo was good.

“You’re staring,” Nanami’s murmur yanked your attention off of Gojo as he and Kasumi moved on and headed to the lab set to the rear of the department floor. You glanced sidelong at your partner, his arms crossed, biceps straining at the blue cotton weave of his dress shirt. “It’s not polite.”

You scoffed, “Just keeping tabs on the department. Are you ready to go? Kasumi is coming with once she’s done in the geek hole.” 

“Mhm, do you really think it’s worth it to redo the witness statement?” Nanami cocked his head, and you swiveled your chair a little to face him. “She seemed quite frazzled yesterday. I doubt it’ll be much different now.”

“We have to try,” You sighed, “But even if we just clean it up and get a consistent statement out of her, it’s worth it. Everything has to be perfect to nail this guy, you know that.” The chair squeaked as you leaned forward. “I’m not letting that L’Oréal ad of a defense lawyer fuck this up because of an inconsistency if that hair sample doesn’t pan out.”

“You’re right, but don’t let this consume you. You won’t be any help running on shitty coffee and konbini food instead of sleep.” Nanami raised a brow, his soft hazel eyes studying your face, the rings under your eyes that you know have deepened after an almost full 24 hours at the precinct. “You sacrifice too much on cases like this.”

“We’re so close. DNA and a witness? The perp is getting sloppy; this is our shot to catch up and finally nail the sick fuck.” Nanami visibly tensed, a slight grimace passing over his features. It’s been almost a full year of finding body after body, once beautiful young women violated and left posed with their hands splayed out where their heads used to be, a polaroid of their sleeping faces where the real thing once was. The heads of each never recovered. 

“It can’t happen again. I can’t see another one like that, Kento, it’s just… you know.” You swallowed hard, and your shoulders slumped. Not defeat, you’d never accept that, just… tired. Tired of the same scene and little to nothing to show for it.

“I know.” Nanami said softly. His hands dropped, one went to a pocket of his grey slacks, the other thumbing the edge of a file on your desk. He cleared his throat, and changed the topic. “Are you thinking she lied? The witness.” 

“It’s more likely that she wasn’t thinking straight, but it’s not out of the question. Why though?” You hummed, taking a breath. “I’m not sure.”

“Coercion?”

“From the perp?” Your brow furrowed, and you hummed low again. “Why would he have even left her alive? If she saw identifying features, it’d make more sense to kill her, and he’s definitely not the type to show mercy.”

“Maybe it’s to throw us off,” Nanami countered, pushing your gears to start turning harder. “Lead us on some goose chase with a mismatched description.”

“Like… maybe he’s trying to set someone up?” Your jaw worked, and you stole a glance at the window to the lab. “We’ve never found DNA, and now we find a hair? Shit.”

“You think it’s all just for a setup?”

Your chair screeched back, and you practically leaped from your seat. “What if he’s trying to make a getaway? It’s all way too coincidental.” 

“Kasumi!” You called, storming off towards the lab, gaining a few turned heads. “Hustle up, we’re leaving!” Nanami groaned, slinging his jacket over an arm and following towards the lab. You threw a look over your shoulder at him. “Oh, what? She’s just doddling now, we have shit to do.” 

“You need some sleep, you’re doing that thing again.”

“What are you talking about? What thing?”

“The one where volume control goes out the window.”

The second statement from your witness turned up nothing new, as you had kind of expected, but you noticed something off about her this time around. She was nervous. Her story was straighter this time around, and she cleaned up details about the events, rescinding contradictory bits and pieces until the statement was airtight.

She was treating it almost like an alibi. Like there was something to prove. It just didn’t sit right with you, but she was a witness, not a suspect. Sure, you could have brought her back to the station and set her in an interrogation room and grilled her with Nanami until something came of it, but you had a feeling that nothing would come of it besides a burst of tears and a firm reminder about proper witness treatment from the inspector.

It was the last thing you needed, so you gave a slight bow, and left. Going around in circles with Nanami in the car, Kasumi surprised you a little by chiming in nervously every so often from the back. She was new, inexperienced, but getting fresh and eager eyes on tired information never hurts. 

But again, as expected, nothing new really came of it. Just that the shift from uncertainty about the features on the figure she saw to absolution, seemed suspicious. But then again, the shock of seeing a dead body—a headless one at that—makes much aside from that difficult to remember. Maybe she was just recalling things more clearly now with time given to get thoughts together. 

Maybe you were looking for loose threads to pull where none had come free. But then again, that’s what made you good at your job. And maybe sometimes a little much.

Fuck, you hated this shit sometimes. There really was no winning.

Back at the precinct, Nanami told you he’d deal with the inspector, and to go home. You didn’t have the energy to argue, not much at least. So, you tidied up your desk a little and told him you’d be back after a shower and a catnap, and to make sure the geeks had a match on the hair sample by the time you got back. 

As you grabbed a couple folders to take home for some light reading, your eyes gravitated towards the lab. Window unobscured with the blinds up, you saw Gojo working away at something involving the high-powered microscope. The lights dimmed slightly, and the bluish glow from his monitor cast a hue over his pale, defined features. Platinum hair shone silver, pushed back and held up by his glasses. 

He frowned at whatever he was observing, slim pale brows upturned. He pulled back, biting his lip a little and studying the slide under the microscope like it would give him more information if he scrutinized it with eyes whose blue you swore could only be found on butterflies or flowers or tropical ocean waters. 

Even his appearance was an enigma to you. But the perplexed look made him look kind of normal. Like even the perfect boy-wonder Gojo Satoru could be mystified by something. 

You're hard on him. Maybe, just maybe, sometimes a little too hard. Sure, he was a weirdo, and he set off the feeling in your gut that only screamed at you when you were in the vicinity of something dangerous. But he'd never done anything solidly wrong. Just gave you glimpses of things that could glint at something more sinister, but you never saw that.

You've been looking for something, chasing something, that you had no hard proof existed. Maybe all that darkness you felt emanating from him, hanging around him like a cloud, maybe it was all just like… depression, or something. You’d been there before, hiding behind a mask to keep up appearances. Hell, you were feeling something similar now. 

The bodies lately, the sobbing families, mothers who had to be told they'd outlive their daughters. Daughters who had whole, beautiful lives ahead of them, stolen by some psychopath who collected pretty faces framed by dark hair.

You'd been doing that a lot lately. Second-guessing yourself and your instincts. There had been too many cases like this one, where it just went on for too long. Some of them solved, the killers brought down and served up on a silver scale to the judicial system to lay down proper punishment. Something you felt could be harsher based on the horrors you've witnessed, but didn't contest because what else could you do? You'd done your job.

Some of them though, they haunted you. The killing stopped, the MO never picked up again, and it was like the killers just… vanished. You were grateful for that at least, but it meant they moved on. Got away with it, and were maybe even in another prefecture to play boogeyman there.

Your gut was usually bang on, but you've been wrong before. Maybe, just maybe, could you be wrong about Gojo?

The man in the lab rubbed his eyes with his forefinger and thumb, pinching the bridge of his nose before pulling his glasses back down to sit there, and looking up through the window. 

You didn't look away; you met his immense blue gaze head-on just as you always did.

He smiled with a few too many teeth, waved once, and winked at you. Long pale lashes brushing a high cheekbone in a single flick that set your teeth on edge. It screamed, ‘I know something you don't.’

Nah.

There was something seriously wrong with this motherfucker.

The files dropped to your desk with a soft thud, and you marched toward the lab. 

Gojo traded out the scrap of fabric under his microscope for a clear, flat slide with a print, and tucked the scrap in a drawer. He hit two keys on his computer, the monitor switched quickly to the DLC database, the page set to a window waiting for scanned print information to be input. Just in time for you to fling the door open without knocking.

“Hey, sarge. How'd it go with that witness?” Gojo asked as you stood in the doorway, crossing your arms under your chest. Practically squishing your tits together and shoving them in his face. Cleavage peeked from the buttons undone on your shirt, but Gojo was a perfect gentleman and kept his eyes on yours.

You ignored his question and asked your own instead. Your eyes narrowed and already unimpressed as you looked him over, sitting hands in his lap. “Did you pull any matches from that hair sample?” 

“It'll be hard, I know, but try to contain yourself.” Gojo grinned, turning slightly to snatch up a folder off a pile beside his monitor. “I not only got a match, but the guy is a real piece of work too.” You swiped it right out of his hand as he turned back to you, frowning as you flipped the front open to look for yourself. “Got sentenced to fifteen years on two counts of aggravated assault, rape, and abduction. The girls survived, but they matched the descriptions for the head hunter victims. Guess he escalated things once he got out of prison.”

“Served seven years and out on good behavior, my fucking ass.” You murmured, eyes darting around as you flipped through. Gojo hummed in agreement. “Fuck me, he matches the witness description too.”

“Oh? Well, let's hope he's still in town.” Gojo chirped, propping his elbows on his knees and leaning forward a little. Reading through the file, you were distracted and Gojo let his eyes glide over you fully once. Slow, appreciative. 

God, you looked fucking great. Smart and sharp as a tack. That shirt hugged your tits perfectly, and he knew the moment you turned to walk out the door, he'd get a great view of your ass. Lips pushed together in concentration as you studied the pages, he wondered not for the first time what they'd look like in an ‘o’ with a moan spilling out. Your service weapon holstered at your hip made you deadly on top of it all.

Truly the perfect little package. Gojo almost felt guilty for deceiving you so much. But he didn’t. 

What you didn't need to know, was that the piece of shit rapist he just handed to you, had absolutely nothing to do with all those headless girls.

But he was going to take the fall for it regardless. It all just kind of fell into his lap. Why not get attention off the real killer currently in nine pieces at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, get another scumbag thrown back in jail, and land you win with a huge case finally closed? 

The witness was easy to convince, planting the DNA was a joke, he had early and backstage access to the scene, and bam! The perfect crime committed once again.

He was practically a fucking hero.

Well, maybe that's a stretch. Vigilante? Lame.

He was fucking good at this. That's what he was.

“How long have you had this ready?” You set a hard look on Gojo and he hummed.

“Maybe… an hour?” 

“Why am I just now seeing it?” You snapped, shutting the file and crossing your arms once again. “I've been right there for fifteen minutes.”

Gojo’s jaw set, barely a clench. 

That was one thing you were. You were so fucking ungrateful. But you were oblivious to all he did for you, so he couldn't be upset. 

Maybe one day you'd see, but that day wasn't here yet. You weren't quite ready to accept whatever Gojo was. 

Definitely not, actually.

“Sorry, sarge. I've been kinda busy in here.” Gojo shrugged, and you outright glared.

“With what? What could possibly be more important than a suspect on this case?”

“Um… the five other homicides on my plate?” Gojo said slowly, as if it were the most obvious thing on the planet. Knowing full well he was just pushing buttons now.

You scoffed. “Check your priorities, because you're wrong about that, Gojo.” Your arms dropped, and you put a hand on his desk, leaning into his space and boring your eyes into his. “If we're too late and this fucker gets away because of your time management skills, I'll make sure that goes in the report, got it?” 

You wouldn’t be too late. He wasn’t going to get away because he wan’t even running. He had no idea what was coming for him. But Gojo feigned being sheepish and apologetic because he guessed that in your eyes, he fucked up.

“Sorry, sarge, it won't happen again.” 

Your eyes took a slow trip down and back up over him, looking for something but not finding it, so you removed yourself from his personal space. Not that he minded you there. “Better not.”

“I'll just give you a call next time.” He drawled, a lazy smirk on his lips as he slung an arm over the back of his chair.

“Mm, please do.” It looked like it killed you to say those words, so you added a light, "That's what the damn thing is for after all.” 

“You’re so right.” Gojo crossed a leg over the other, and cocked his head. “I’ll be sure it gets put to good use.”

You didn’t say anything else, just took the folder, turned on a heel, and gave Gojo a great view of your ass as you marched out, leaving the door open. He sighed, pulling out the fabric from the drawer he’d stuffed it in to resume his side work. 

God damn, you were so much work. But he always lived for a challenge. And he could take the backtalk and the pressure you loved to put him under when you served him up guys like Zenin Naoya almost like a sacrifice, he’d take anything you threw at him.

It was absolutely perfect. You put the Zenin guy away for a few years on some assault charges, and a grudge was born. No, something deeper than a grudge, like a personal vendetta. Something strong enough that he’d want to make you pay for ‘ruining his life.’ 

Fucking unacceptable. That the piece of shit would ever think he had the right or even could come close to you, take you for himself, hurt you. Gojo already had some… mildly violent tendencies, and something about the thought of another person, another man putting his hands on you just made the red he saw even bloodier.

He’d never get the opportunity to get close to you. Not with Gojo around, he would always make sure of that. The Zenin worm would be in bags at the bottom of the Pacific before the sun rose. 

Gojo glanced up through the window. You were talking with Nanami, flipping through the file as he looked from you to the turning pages.

Nanami was… fine. He was a good guy, he looked out for you—not that you’d ever need anyone but Gojo for that. He wasn’t a cop, he couldn’t be your partner out in the field or anything, so Nanami was probably the best of all the options you had. He just didn’t like the way Nanami looked at you sometimes. A little too lingering. A little more than just friendly affection in his eyes.

It was fine though. Nanami could be your partner in the field; he could help you with cases in the traditional sense—he was definitely that kind of guy anyway—but he could never do everything that Gojo did for you. 

Nobody could ever do what Gojo did for you. 

The neighborhood was near empty, typical for—Gojo pulled the sleeve on his shirt back enough to check his watch—10 PM. Cars lined the sides of the street, all your neighbors were home and settling in for the night, but not you, though. You’d likely be out at the precinct all night again thanks to the suspect you picked up earlier. 

How perfect was that timing? Almost like someone planned it all. 

A familiar car pulled up, and Gojo watched as it parked a few spots up from him. Gojo had everything ready for tonight. He had all he needed confirmed to finally act, and you’d be gone all night. 

It was perfect. A nice night for this, too. Cool enough that it wasn't too hot with a beanie covering his distinct and immediately recognizable hair. Left his glasses at home in favor of contacts in case of a brawl because he could never be too prepared.

Naoya would wait around for a bit, but being the impatient little fuck he was, he’d get bored once he realized you wouldn't be home and head to his usual spot; an izakaya a few minutes away, and get obliterated. 

Tonight was the night, and everything was perfect. 

Gojo couldn't help but smile a little as he took a long sip of an iced matcha latte, letting the sweetness of extra vanilla syrup roll over his tongue, savoring it. He usually would save a sweet treat for afterwards, but he just had to get a little something for the stakeout.

The driver door on the Zenin creeps car opened, and out stepped the worm himself, glancing around as he tucked something in the waistband of his pants behind him. Gojo’s smile dropped instantly.

What the fuck was he doing?

The door shut, and Naoya made his way up the street towards your house. A scowl pulled Gojo’s mouth down, and he jammed the drink back in a cupholder. He gripped the wheel to keep his hands occupied and off the door handle. The creep was about to break in. He was going to wait for you inside your house.

The thought made Gojo’s skin crawl; it made him yearn and itch to go knock the ugly fucker out right then and there before he had a chance to get into your space, to touch your belongings. But Gojo reminded himself with a breath that you’d be gone tonight. That it would be fine, and Naoya would get bored of waiting quickly and give up once he realized it was pointless to hang around. He would just come back another night. 

Too bad he wouldn’t get another night.

It was fine. Seeing Naoya stalk around the side of your house and disappear from view, it kind of made him want to grab the hunting knife from his kit and slit the wormy fuck groin to sternum and gut him like the animal he was, but Gojo took another long and cooling sip from the iced sugary drink and reminded himself that it was fine. 

It was the perfect night. He had it all planned down to a tee; one little setback wouldn't put the whole thing off course. 

Gojo sat for an hour in his car, and Naoya stayed put in your house. He was more annoyed than seething at that point; he really wanted to hurry this up. It was the second night in a row he’d been out hunting, and he was running on fumes and sucrose and the warm, metallic stain he could still feel as it spattered his lips. 

As he was about to check his watch again, headlights beamed in his side mirror. His eyes went to them immediately, knowing it was likely just a passerby using the residential area as a shortcut or—

He jerked upright in his seat.

What the fuck were you doing here?

This was wrong. You weren’t supposed to be here. Why the fuck weren’t you still at the precinct? It was barely past 11 PM. If you were going home to change, he knew that wouldn’t happen until the early hours of the morning. So what the hell were you doing?

He didn't have time to analyze the why. You pulled into the spot right in front of your gate, and your car shut off. You were about to step right into the trap Naoya had set in your house. He had to do something, and fast. You couldn’t see him here, though, how the fuck was he supposed to do this?

God, you were so much fucking work. And of course, you couldn’t just make things a little easier by doing what you always did and just stay at the precinct all night. Tonight of all the fucking nights.

Did you want to die or something? Sometimes he wondered.

Gojo reached back and grabbed the small zippered case from under the backseat, and watched you walk up to your front door. He waited until you shut it behind you before you threw his own door open.

It had taken a lot of convincing, but with the suspect in an interrogation room and holding fast on total innocence and refusing to budge despite having him practically dead to rights, Nanami finally told you to leave. You could come back and join the action again after a brief rest and a shower. He assured you that he’d call if anything happened, but that you’d likely be walking into the exact same situation after a few hours away. 

Nothing would happen while you were gone. It would be fine. You kept repeating it as you kicked off your shoes and flicked on the light in your hall, dropping your keys on the small table by the door. 

The kitchen light flicked on and cast the area in a warm glow. You’d get a bite to eat, shower, try your best to sleep for a few hours, then head back. Your fridge didn’t offer much aside from a box of takeout from a couple of nights ago, so you grabbed it and threw it in the microwave. 

While it was heating, you made your way down the hall to your bedroom. A few photos of your family lined the walls, your academy graduation photo, the one with—

You halted midstep. The photo with Nanami, the both of you in uniform, his hand on your shoulder as you wore the sergeant's shield for the first time with a small, proud smile, was crooked. 

Maybe there was a minor earthquake in the area?

None of the other photos were off, but you drew it up to the hook potentially being loose, and straightened it, continuing down the hall and unbuttoning your shirt. 

In your room, you placed your service weapon on your dresser and changed out of your work attire quickly. Slipping on a black and white Tokyo Metro Police Department shirt, a few sizes too big and softened from years of washing and wearing. 

Your pants were off and around your ankles when you heard a creak in the hallway. Your head snapped up instantly, and you kicked off your pants, creeping out to check the dim hall.

Tip-toeing along the hardwood in an oversized t-shirt and panties, you felt almost like a horror movie damsel. It felt strangely eerie, and you thought for a moment about running back to your room to grab your service weapon, but before you could—

A figure stepped out. Dressed all in black, hair covered by a hood pulled up, face obscured by shadow, the person stood in your way at the end of the hall. Their hand moved, and you noticed the glint of light reflecting off metal. A gun.

Sure, you were a cop, a detective, but you weren’t impervious to fear. And that was exactly what ripped through you as the intruder took a quick step forward. Then another.

“What the f—stop!” You stepped back, almost stumbling over your own feet as you backed towards your room, towards where your gun was, and away from the intruder moving towards you. “I said stop! Right where you—” 

Your words halted completely as your eyes found another figure behind the first. This one was moving faster though. 

Fuck. There were two of them in your house. You had to get your gun, and fast. You started to turn around as the second intruder caught up to the first and—

In an instant, the second person brought a hand up to the first's neck, and they both came to a halt. 

“Gotcha,”

The first intruder crumpled to the ground like a doll, and you stood in shock for a moment, staring at the man on the floor with your mouth hanging open. 

What the fuck just happened?

Your head snapped up, back to the intruder still left standing. It all happened so fast, but as you looked a little harder at the second intruder, you felt your brain short-circuiting. You… recognized him. Well, you recognized the bit of hair that was uncovered by his hat.

Pure, abject horror crept in as he held his hands up, and stepped towards you.

“Oh my fucking god.” You took a step back. You didn’t have your phone, you didn't have your gun. All you had was the short distance between you and Gojo, who was in your fucking house for some reason.

“Okay, okay, I know this looks kind of bad, but that—”

“What are you doing here?!” You cut him off, still moving backward as he kept taking tentative, almost delicate steps toward you. Like he was approaching a wounded animal with its teeth bared.

He scoffed, shoulders dropping a little. “You could say thank you. That guy was gonna kill you, you know that, right?” The light from behind reflected off of something in his hand. The same hand he’d brought the intruder down with. 

It was a fucking needle.

“Thank you? For what, breaking into my house? What are you even doing… here?” A realization settled in, and you barely breathed the word out. You almost couldn’t believe it. He said nothing, just cocked his head at you, like you were finally catching up to him.

Your eyes darted back and to the side. You could make a dash for it. Your room was right there, along with your gun and your phone. Gojo followed your eyes, and you both stood in silence, neither making the first move. 

“Sarge, let's just—” 

You lurched for your room. Launching into a sprint and pushing off the door frame to dart inside. Heavy, fast footsteps ran after you. Your fingers grazed the dresser, your gun was in reach, but a hand twisted into your shirt, and yanked you back. 

You swung around, hand flattened to hit him in the throat, but he ducked out of the way. Catching your arm and pulling you around so your back was to his chest. 

You made a fist with your free hand and slammed him in the balls with it. 

“Ngh, fuck,” He gasped and groaned and hunched behind you, grip softening on your arm, and you tried to wrench free. But Gojo was bigger than you, and apparently, he was stronger too because his hand tightened fast and a thick bicep came up around your neck, pressing hard into your windpipe. 

You fought for air, and got none as he squeezed tight and pulled you up, leaving your toes barely brushing the ground.

“Always so fucking difficult,” He rasped into your ear, breath hot as his lips brushed the shell. You clawed at his arms, scratching the fabric of his shirt, and he hissed, his arm around your neck was near crushing. “I could kill you right now, so stop fighting or I will.”

Oxygen was running out, your head was getting light and airy, but that sent a hard shiver through you.

You were right. You had been right the whole time. 

Gojo was a fucking psycho. 

And now he was going to kill you.

What you didn’t know was that Gojo was bluffing. He definitely could kill you, but he wouldn’t. And definitely not like that, with your face turned away from his. 

This was unreal, though. He knew it was bad, that he’d fucked up by letting you see his face, letting you see him at all. But you hadn’t really given him a choice; it was all because you’d come home early, so he may as well live in the moment and revel in feeling your body flush against his. His arms wrapped tight around you in a moment he’d only imagined for a long time, and here it finally was. 

“Sorry, Sarge, I didn’t want to do this.” It was a half-truth murmured in your ear as he felt you struggle and fight against him. Kicking and punching and scratching weakly until the last bit of air ran out, and your body slowly went limp as you lost consciousness in his arms. 

Gojo loosened his arm around your neck and turned your face to him. The blood vessels around your eyes had burst, and little purple specks, almost like freckles decorated the skin. It was kind of cute. You even had a little furrow to your brow, he figured that was kind of a permanent thing for you. 

“What the fuck am I gonna do with you?” He shifted an arm under your knees, and lifted you fully into his arms. Your head fell back, lips parting, and he looked over your sleeping, half-naked form as he strode back into the hall. Zenin Naoya was still in a pathetic pile on the floor.

“What a fucking mess.” Gojo grumbled, stepping over the creep in his way. 

He was right. This was a fucking mess.

The ground beneath your feet was cold, like stone or cement. Your head throbbed, and as you pried your eyes open, the vision they took in was blurred. 

You shifted, and found your arms were bound when you tried to pull them up to rub your face. It woke you the fuck up instantly, and you jerked upright. Blinking furiously to clear your eyes, your breaths started to come in shorter as you looked around yourself. You were sitting in a chair, hands tied behind the back of it. Your feet were unbound, still bare from the waist down.

Where the fuck were you?

What the fuck was going on?

“Good morning.” A familiar voice sing songed from across whatever room you were in, and your head snapped up to Gojo. You opened your mouth to speak, but barely rasped out what before you choked on it and coughed instead.

“Ah, yeah,” He chuckled, looking almost sheepish as he rubbed the back of his head. “I was kind of hoping to use the M-99, but you didn’t give me much of a choice. Sorry.” 

You lurched forward, and your wrists stung as hard plastic bit into the skin. The room around you was sterile, plastic covered every inch of the floor and walls, and soft yellowish light shone from behind the sheeting. There was a table between you and Gojo, and something was atop it.

A man.

You cleared your throat and swallowed a few times. The movement was difficult, like an impossible lump was there to block your esophagus, but you forced it down and looked Gojo in the eye again. 

His hands splayed out, palms flat on the table between you and leaning over the figure with a coy smirk. 

“What… the fuck… have you done?” You rasped out, almost choking on the words again.

“What have I done?” He echoed, cocking his head at you. “Well, for one, I saved you from this guy.” He gestured to the man on the table. He seemed to be asleep still, not moving as Gojo waved a massive hunting knife over his laid out body. “The least you could do is say thanks.” 

“Thank you?” You cried incredulously, pulling hard at the restraint around your wrists. You wrenched and fought as panic started to creep in. “You fucking psycho! You choked me out! HELP! HELP ME!” You screamed at the top of your lungs, as loud and as hard as you could with your windpipe still suffering the aftereffects of being closed off.

“Go ahead, scream your head off!” Gojo yelled back, “Nobody can hear you.” 

“Oh my god, I fucking knew it, fuck I knew it. You’re insane,” Your head hung, pulling at the ties around your wrists as you murmured more to yourself, “fuck he’s crazy.” 

It's not like you wanted to be right, but you did feel a slight twinge of satisfaction being validated. You weren’t crazy, you saw it, and you were right.

“Why did you come ba—”

“Are you going to kill me?” You cut Gojo off, and he stared open-mouthed for a long moment, contemplating. Hesitating. “Oh my god! Fuckfuckfuck, okay, you don’t have to do this, we can—”

“Just relax, I'm not going to kill you.” He waved the knife in his hand around, dismissing your panic with an annoyed eye roll. “I don’t kill innocent people, but I can't really say the same for this guy.” 

“What?” 

“Do you recognize him? You should.” Gojo took the man's head in his hand and turned his face to you. Dyed blond hair and dark brows, upturned eyes shut, sharp features and a few piercings on his left ear.

“Is that… Zenin Naoya?” 

Gojo smiled and let Naoya’s head drop back to the table. He was covered in a layer of plastic just like the room around you. Gojo strode around the table towards you, and you slumped back in the chair as he approached you, hunting knife still in hand. He crouched beside you and gestured to the wall of plastic to your right by Naoya’s feet.

“See those?” You followed the tip of his knife; there were a few photos of women, their faces bright and smiling. They all looked familiar; you’d definitely seen all of them at some point. “They were found in ditches on the outskirts of Tokyo, their heads all bashed in. Same murder weapon used in all three unsolved cases.”

Of course, they looked familiar; their faces had been up on the board in the briefing room for months. Their cases eventually grew cold, and the precinct had moved on with no leads.

“The only physical evidence we ever had was a fabric scrap found a few meters from the last body, barely even a few threads, and it never led anywhere. But,” Gojo whipped the knife back around, pointing it directly at Naoya with a wicked and satisfied grin on his face. “I found a shirt that matched it in a safe, in his apartment.” 

“Why… why not hand over the evidence?” You felt you already knew the answer to the question, but you asked it anyway.

Gojo gave you a flat look in return. “There's a few reasons for that, a couple of which you definitely already know.” He straightened up, standing tall over you. He put a hand on the back of the chair and leaned in close. “First, I didn’t obtain the shirt… legally, as you’d say. The evidence would be thrown out immediately, but you know that.” 

The tip of the huge knife pointed in your direction, Gojo dropped his head closer to yours, and your breath caught in your sore throat. “Second, Naoya has held a bit of contempt for you for a while now, guess he didn’t appreciate you putting him away on rape charges a few years ago. He’s been following you, and he was gonna act tonight if I didn’t stop him first—so you’re welcome for that.” 

“And third,” Gojo sucked his teeth, pulling the knife away and backing out of your space, towards the table behind him. “If I handed him over to the department, I wouldn’t get to kill him. Duh.” His icy blue eyes rolled like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

With a hard swallow, your mouth opened and out poured years of hostage negotiation training. “You-you’re right, but you don’t have to do this, Gojo. It’s not too late, if you just let-let me go, I’ll take Zenin in and I’ll make sure he goes away for a long time. We can do this the right way.”

“Come on, Sarge,” Gojo tipped his head to the side, amusement playing on his handsome features, glasses nowhere to be found and hair falling across his forehead. He looked so different than usual, almost sympathetic. 

“We both know that's a lie. Even if Naoya went away, it wouldn’t be for near long enough.” He twirled the knife in his hand, still looking at you as it spun in his fingers. “Sometimes, the world just needs to be cleansed of its filth.”

You opened your mouth to try again, but Gojo cut you off. “Just stop, the cop talk-down doesn’t work when the subject knows all the tricks.”

Fuck. 

You took Gojo in in full. He had on a butcher's apron over a black, long-sleeved compression shirt. Black latex gloves covered his hands. There was another table covered in plastic with a black mat atop it, and an assortment of blades gleamed, tucked neatly in each slot.

He was going to kill Naoya. With you right there.

“This isn't the first time, is it?” You asked on a breath, almost a whisper, but Gojo heard, and he shook his head with a smile.

“This wasn’t how I wanted you to find out, but I didn’t have much of a choice.” He sighed, walking back in your direction. A gloved hand came up, and your breath caught as he brushed your cheek. You jerked your head away, but he caught your chin and forced you to face him again. So close you could see each pale eyelash as his gaze flitted around your face.

“You shouldn’t have come home. If you’d just stayed at the precinct like you were supposed to, none of this would’ve happened. Too late for woulda, coulda, shoulda now though, right?”

A shiver shook through you. Incredulity twisted your features, and Gojo pouted. “Oh come on, don’t look at me like that.” 

You swallowed hard. “Like what?”

“Like I'm some kind of monster or something.” His head tilted, lip jutting out still. “I’m just doing what you and the rest of the department can’t. I’m on your side here, really.” 

“Are you looking for acknowledgement? A thank you or something?” 

He shrugged, “I wouldn’t say no to that.”

“You broke into my house and choked me out, you’re a fucking psychopath.” You spat out, glaring.

“After you punched me in the dick,” Gojo scoffed, “and I didn’t really have a choice there because you were definitely going to shoot me.”

“No shit! You broke into my house!”

“I’m not going in circles with you on this. I was there for a reason, and it’s because you can’t watch your own back for shit.” He let you go and walked back to the table where Naoya was somehow still passed out cold. 

Your head was swimming, still fuzzy from the oxygen deprivation and the impossible scene you found yourself tied up in, literally. 

There was no exit you could see, and Gojo had said no one would hear you scream. 

You were kind of fucked. All you could do was watch as Gojo pinched something close to Naoya’s face, and the man strapped to the table jolted awake with a gasp.

“What the f—”

“Shut up,” Gojo cut Naoya off, gripping his cheeks hard and bringing his face close. “You’ve been very bad, haven’t you?” Gojo practically purred in Naoya’s face. He took up the knife again and pointed it at the three photos on the wall, forcing Naoya to follow the tip of the blade. “Emiri Saito, Chieko Yamada, and Narume Kojima, look at them. You had the balls to take something from all of those girls, so have some fucking respect and look at them.” 

“What the fuck are you talking about? Who are you?” Naoya managed to get out with his face squished in Gojo's hand. “You’ve got it wrong, I-I’ve never seen any of them before!”

Gojo snorted, “You’re such a bullshitter, Naoya. I think I speak for everyone here when I say that nobody is buying that.”

Naoya seemed to register the words, and he looked around frantically, his eyes finding you quickly. 

“You,” He hissed, “You fucking bitch, you did this, didn’t you? Set me up again, you fucking cunt!”

Before you could refute or object, Gojo slapped Naoya hard. He grabbed him by the throat, squeezing tight enough to cut off air, and snarled in his face. “Watch your fucking mouth. Don’t even talk to her you fucking scum.”

Your already hammering heart kind of… skipped? 

Gojo tore his eyes off Naoya and met your gaze. The blue in his irises was brighter somehow, wide and wild and almost crazed, and your thighs squeezed together under the weight of it all. He chuckled, bearing a smile that flashed a few pearly teeth and fit with the look in his eye.

He was kind of right; what he was about to do wasn’t right, but he was doing what you couldn’t. If Naoya really was what Gojo said—a killer, taking the lives of innocent young girls after he’d violated them, maybe he kind of deserved whatever Gojo was about to do. 

You should have been more scared than you were. But you weren’t.

What the fuck was wrong with you?

“Did you like that?” Gojo asked, his voice low and rough.

Maybe.

“You’re fucking crazy.” 

It wasn’t a no, and Gojo took note of that. He saw the shift in your posture, your knees as they pressed together. 

Such a bad liar. 

He clapped his hands, looking almost giddy as he took a breath. “How exciting, I've never had an audience before. I’ll be sure to make this entertaining.” 

Entertaining was one way to put it; Gojo put on a fucking show alright.

Gojo had spent a few years in med school before joining the forensics unit at TMPD, and he was sure to flex the skills he learned on Naoya. 

He went through a few packets of smelling salts, pushing Naoya practically to the brink of death, passing out a few times before bringing him back to consciousness.

It was messier than usual. Naoya was missing a few fingers; the few he still had were mangled. Shallow stab wounds littered his torso, only where the knife would miss vital organs. Deeper cuts severed tendons and ligaments, rendering Naoya immobile even without the plastic strapping him to the table. 

The eyeball just popped right out with the optic nerve still intact; he pulled until it snapped. Naoya screamed and screamed like a little bitch and passed out again. He was still out cold, and Gojo had yet to wake him up again.

The blood was glorious. They were both covered; it dripped from Gojo’s hair, down his face, and back onto Naoya in a cycle of sorts, then to the floor to pool with the rest. 

Naoya wouldn’t last much longer; it was time to finish this. Gojo tore his eyes off Naoya to look at you. 

He thought you might have been sickened by it all, and you definitely looked like you might literally be sick a couple of times, but you held out. You looked away a few times and winced when you heard a bone crunch and a pathetic cry choke out.

“How should I do it? Stab to the heart, slit his throat, sever the carotid artery and let him bleed out slowly? Ooh, I could cut his head off, but I did that with that last one.”

“Why would you do all of this?” You asked, your voice sounded weak and small. It didn’t even sound like you, and his smile fell.

“Because Naoya deserves to suffer. You know what happened to those girls,” He gestured to the photos with the bloodied knife, and his expression went cold. “He would’ve done the same to you, and I couldn’t let that happen.” Just the thought of it made him want to drive the knife home right then, but he held out. He’d need to wake Naoya up first.

“Don’t you see? All of this,” He gestured around himself, down at Naoya still out cold. “It’s all because of you, to keep you safe from scum like him.”

“What happened to this being about your fucked up sense of justice for those girls? Don’t pin this on me.” You snapped, and Gojo’s smile returned. 

That's more like it.

“I’m not blaming you. Naoya would’ve ended up here regardless of whether he went after you or not. But he did, and I’m feeling quite passionate because of it.” 

Your eyes widened a fraction, like you were just now realizing the extent of things. The things he would do for you, like you hadn’t just witnessed it all.

Gojo cracked a fresh pack of salts and held it to Naoya’s face. “Wake up, asshole, we’re not done yet.” The man startled and whimpered as consciousness returned, and he felt the full extent of his wounds all over again.

“What do you think, sweetheart? Should I put him out of his misery?” Gojo cocked his head, and Naoya glanced at you with one remaining eye. 

He started to gurgle, “Fuck y—” The words cut off abruptly as the blade in Gojo’s hand carved through his throat with a roar.

“I told you not to fucking talk to her!” Fresh crimson spattered his face from the slit gaping wide on Naoya’s neck. 

Gojo looked like a fallen angel, something horrifically biblical and cast from heaven as he heaved ragged breaths. Rage twisted his face, his eyes wide and the whites and blues burned bright against the deep, bloody red that splattered the rest of his face.

He groaned a low, “Fuck.” And ran a hand through his hair, streaking the stark white strands a bright red. He looked up from Naoya’s lifeless body to you, and your breath caught. 

Still holding the knife and covered in Zenin Naoya's warm blood, Gojo stepped around the table and walked to you. You shook from the cold and something deep in your gut, like fear, swallowing hard as your head tilted back to look at Gojo.

He grabbed the back of the chair and tipped you backward. Your bare feet left the ground as Gojo loomed over you, his face close enough that you felt the heat of his breath on your lips, saw the individual specks of blood that decorated his face like freckles.

“I’d do anything, fucking anything for you. You understand that now, right?” 

Your mouth opened to respond, but no words could make it up and out of your throat because warm lips wet with fresh blood pressed hard to yours. 

You didn’t move. You couldn't move. 

You had been trained to deal with hostage situations and knew what to do in theory if you were ever in one yourself, but nothing could have prepared you for something like this. 

What the fuck were you supposed to do when your captor kissed you?

Probably not kiss them back. Right?

Blame it on adrenaline, the numbness of watching someone be tortured and killed, and maybe a few brain cells dying thanks to the headlock Gojo himself had you in a few hours ago, but his mouth on yours didn’t feel terrible. 

It felt kind of… good?

Gojo was a psychopath. A confirmed killer. As a cop, you should have been thinking of any way to get out and get him detained, bring him to justice.

But as a captive, and the object of his twisted, fucked up affection…

I’d do anything for you.

Your lips parted, and you kissed him back.

What the fuck else could you do here, really? You really hated it, but you’d always found him attractive. Even being covered in blood and holding a knife didn’t detract from that.

In a perverse way, it was kind of flattering. Horrifying, of course, but maybe you’d been desensitized to all this shit from so many years of investigating brutal murders, seeing the bodies yourself, because what Gojo had done right before your eyes didn’t make you as sick as it should have.

He was right. Naoya was scum. And now he was gone, and Gojo did it for you. It was wrong and illegal, so fucking illegal, but he’d done what you and the law couldn’t. Served up justice with a blade, and now Zenin Naoya would never hurt another girl again, and that was certain.

Fuck. You should really stretch before doing mental gymnastics. Maybe you could blame it on Stockholm syndrome, too.

The taste of pennies and something sweet like vanilla hit your tongue as it met Gojo’s. A slick, gloved hand gripped your thigh, the knife pressed flat to your skin under his wide palm. It was still warm, too.

Gojo almost couldn't believe it. It was impulsive, the high of a fresh kill left him up in the clouds, and there you were, tied up and half naked and wide-eyed, and he just did it. Kissed you without expecting anything in return because he couldn’t stop himself.

But you were kissing him back. 

He’d shown you the deepest, darkest part of him and expected disgust in return. Not… this.

Maybe you were more fucked up than he thought. 

You still trembled a little, but you didn’t pull away as his hand glided up on your thigh, streaking blood on your skin. Blood he spilled for you. 

Gojo pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, to see the blood smeared on your lips. “You liked it, didn’t you, sweetheart?” You shook your head, but you were squirming in your seat. “Don’t even try to fucking lie to me.”

“What are you going to do to me, Gojo?” It came out breathless, pitched, and almost desperate, like you were thinking of all the things he could do to you, that you couldn’t stop him from doing.

He laughed and tilted his head a little, “What do you want me to do to you, sergeant?” 

“I-I don’t…” You trailed off, your eyes flitting away for a moment. Gojo dropped his head, and your nose brushed his. He pulled his hand from your leg, and the tip of the knife caught the hem of your shirt.

“Tell me when to stop, I might.” He smirked, and slowly lifted the blade in hand, pulling your shirt up with it. You looked panicked as your shirt went up over your panties, cute and black with a pretty lace trim. But you said nothing, just breathing hard and fast with eyes impossibly wide as he exposed more of your stomach.

What were you doing? You should say it, say stop and hope to god that Gojo would. But you didn’t. You said nothing as the tip of that huge knife dragged lightly over your sternum, up between your breasts, staring silently at Gojo as his eyes lowered.

Cold air hit your breasts, your nipples pebbled with the cotton barrier removed, and you finally spoke. 

“Let me go.” You whispered, but it wasn’t stop, and Gojo looked you in the eye again.

“You know I can’t do that.” The knife halted close to your neck, the blade pressed to your skin just under the collar of your shirt. “Tell me what you really want, and don’t lie this time.”

You stayed silent, lips pressed together almost as hard as your thighs were. 

What the fuck was wrong with you? Your body was committing the ultimate betrayal; heat was pooling low in your gut despite how you shivered against the cold. It had been a while since you’d had time for a relationship or even just a hookup, and Gojo had just lit up something that demanded satisfaction after being long ignored.

Why now? 

Was your own sex drive going to be the thing that got you killed?

Gojo let the back of the chair go, and the feet slammed to the floor with a bang that made your teeth clack. He flipped the knife around fast, and the blade tore through your shirt with a loud rip. 

You inhaled a sharp gasp, and Gojo chucked quietly. “Oops, I slipped.” 

He was always like that. A teasing little shit, and it always irked you, and the irritation broke you from the silence you’d been holding. “Are you a fucking animal? Why not just take it off?!” 

Gojo seemed a little taken aback by the outburst; you were too actually. But he recovered quickly and scoffed, lifting a pale brow. “Well, you didn’t tell me to take it off. Don’t get pissy because you’re too chicken shit to say what you want.” 

The knife dragged down your stomach, leaving a thin red trail in its wake. Stopping only once he reached the waistband of your panties, the tip hooked in and caught the lace. 

“Should I cut these off too? Or will you use words like a big girl?” 

“Fuck you.” 

Gojo gripped your face with his free hand, and he sneered. “Watch it. I like you, but don’t push your luck here.” He was close enough again that his lips brushed yours as he whispered the next words that sent a fresh jolt of lightning up your spine. “You’ve seen what I do when I’m pissed off, so be careful, sweetheart.”

He kissed you again, still holding your face in place as his tongue pushed into your mouth. It must have stolen rational thinking from you, because you kissed him back again instead of biting his tongue like you probably should have.

Gojo’s hand left your face, but you didn’t take the opportunity to turn away. No, for some reason, you angled your head, leaning into it more and more. It felt too good for the situation you were in, but maybe that was what made it impossible to pull away from. The electricity that sparked with each flick of his tongue against yours, the danger that lurked in his lips, so pretty and warm and nice sliding against yours with little chu’s.

Something cold and hard pressed to your temple, and clicked. Gojo smiled against your mouth. You knew the sound well, and your eyes flew open with a gasp, breaking the kiss.

“Tell me, sweetheart. Tell me how badly you want me to fuck you, or I’ll pull the trigger and do it anyway.”

“Oh my god, what the fuck is wrong with you?” You whimpered, and only received the cold steel of the barrel of your own gun pushing into your temple harder, and a manic grin in return.

“A lot, you should’ve realized that by now. Say what you want, don’t think I won't do it.”

He was still covered in the blood of a man he’d brutally killed right in front of you; you had no doubt he’d pull the trigger.

Fear filled your wide eyes, glassy with unspilled tears you were holding back. It looked so good on you. He wanted you to shake and cry and beg almost as much as he wanted you to admit the truth. 

Gojo usually just dealt with the body and grabbed a sweet treat after dispatching a killer, but he had the feeling you’d taste better than any dessert. 

Your eyes darted from his, to the gun in your periphery, wide and panicked. Your chest rose and fell fast. You were struggling, trembling, and overwhelmed by the shift and thinking your life hung by a thread, easily severed by one little twitch of his finger.

He wouldn’t do it like that, though. Not with a bullet to your head, that was so impersonal, and not his style.

You hated this feeling. Fearing for your life and for some reason still not pulling away from the person threatening it. It was like nothing you’d ever felt before; your skin burned hot despite the cold with your shirt bisected and hanging open. The gusset of your panties was slick and sticky, and you kept your legs squeezed shut to keep it hidden.

Had you ever thought about Gojo like that before? Maybe …yes. 

Were you thinking about his hands on your body, what his cock was like, and what it would feel like if he fucked you right now? That was a shameful maybe. 

Would you ever admit that without your life on the line? Probably not.

But it was. Gojo literally had a gun to your head. You had to say it, right?

You took a deep, shaky breath and swallowed. “You’re fucking crazy, Gojo. But I-I want you.”

Something like surprise flickered in his eyes, almost like he hadn’t expected you to actually say it. But you didn’t get a moment to analyze it. Gojo slammed his lips to yours. It was bruising and desperate, and the barrel dropped from your temple, dragging cool steel down the side of your face, down your neck to press up under your jaw.

You probably would have done it anyway, but he forced your chin up and your head to tilt, deepening the kiss you could already barely breathe around.

The knife at your hip moved, and you heard another rip.

You groaned into Gojo’s mouth and pulled back a little. “What the fuck, I said—”

“I felt like it.” He murmured, cutting you off and putting his lips back on yours. The knife clattered on the ground, and Gojo’s fingers curled into the waistband of your panties and yanked. They tore like fucking paper and left you exposed.

He pulled the gun away from your jaw and used both hands to pull your legs apart. You didn’t fight it. Your mind was melted and spinning, and you didn’t even try to close your legs when two fingers glided along your slit. Gojo swallowed the moan that spilled from your lips, then pulled his tongue from your mouth and broke the kiss. A lewd, pinkish string of saliva still connected your wet lips to his.

“Were you this wet when you denied liking getting to watch me kill Naoya? Bet you were, a liar and a slut.” He tsk’d and slid two thick fingers still wrapped in slickened latex, into your cunt, watching closely as your face contorted. 

Your brows turned up, lips parting a little as a quiet “Ohh,” escaped. 

Fear looked good on you, but that was the face Gojo had been dying to see. The one you made as he fucked you nice and slow on his hand. Savoring the sounds that spilled from your lips every time he pushed in deep and the way you gripped around him when he curled his fingers. 

Gojo kept going until he finally hit a spot and pressed up, and you gasped, legs trying to clamp shut around his hand. He didn’t bother forcing them back open; he just put the muzzle of the gun under your chin again, and your eyes went wide. He didn’t miss the way your cunt twitched and pulsed with your own gun put to your head.

“Ah, keep them open.” You obeyed, legs falling open again. You bit your lip and let your chin be pushed up when he nudged with the muzzle. Gojo pressed his cheek to yours, letting his lips brush your ear as he spoke. “I've never seen you like this, so obedient. I didn't even think you could go thirty seconds without barking at me like a bitch.”

Your vision unfocused, and your eyes almost rolled as Gojo pulled his hand back, and pushed back inside with a third thick digit. The muzzle pushed your head up again, and you felt Gojo’s teeth on the side of your face as he smiled.

“You like this though, don't you? Like being held on the firing end of your own loaded service weapon with the safety off?” 

A whimper left your mouth, and you barely registered the feeling of steel dragging down your chest over Gojo nipping at your ear. Your mind was splintering a little more with every thrust of three fingers into your cunt that seemed to get faster. 

So suddenly, you almost choked on the spit pooling in your mouth. Gojo's hand pulled away, and cold metal pushed into you instead. Your legs closed on instinct, and Gojo’s now free hand pulled them open again. 

“Tch, if I want to fuck you with this thing, I will.” His tongue traced the shell of your ear. The cold muzzle glided through your folds easily with the slick still drooling from your hole. “Would you like that? Would you scream and cry and shake and come all over it like a slut?” 

The cold, thick barrel barely pushed inside. It felt perverse. The metal felt wrong, unforgiving and alien, and so fucking wrong. 

Dehumanizing, you felt like something was being stripped from you with each centimeter of your own service weapon that your cunt was forced to stretch around. Tears that had been held back up until that point broke free and spilled over. 

Your own body was betraying you again. Your rational mind knew you should object, knew that you should have tried to stop all of this before it got out of hand. 

But you didn’t. And now you were getting fucked with your own gun by a killer still coated in the blood of his latest kill, the one he did for you, and it felt wrong but not bad, and that fact splintered the rest of your mind. 

You were supposed to be able to deal with situations like this, ones where your life was on the line and it was you and your experienced mind versus whatever crazy had decided to take you on.

But Gojo was different. He wasn't just another crazy. He was smart and calculating and psychotic. He'd planned for this, all while you should have seen it coming, but didn't. 

You knew there was something wrong with him, but you never saw him coming. And now, you were trembling, biting your lip hard to keep a pathetic noise in your throat as the last few centimeters of cold steel were shoved inside you. 

The tears streamed down your flushed cheeks, burning from shame at the way your hips shifted around with the barrel stilled inside you. 

“I've never seen you cry before,” Gojo marveled as he looked you over. “You're even prettier than I had imagined.” You hated the way you leaned into his palm as he cupped your face and brushed a thumb through the wet tracks. 

His voice was sweet like saccharine honey and at complete odds with how he pulled the barrel out halfway and pushed back in. “Be good and make lots of noise when I make you come, sweetheart. I've been dying to hear what you sound like.” 

You could feel every cold ridge and edge of the barrel as it dragged slowly in and out, so deep that the trigger guard pushed into your clit and made you jolt. It felt purposeful, like Gojo wanted you to feel every little bit of it, wanted you to sit and squirm and take it as he fucked you with the most deadly inanimate object a person could encounter.

Your face was something Gojo had never even imagined. Better than anything his own mind could've created. Contorted in pleasure and fighting it hard. Cheeks flushed a deep red, lashes wet and clumped together as more tears spilled. Like you hated that you liked it, maybe even loved the way it felt. 

He was torn. Watching you twitch and jerk and fight your own body from doing what it really wanted was beautiful, and he didn't want to stop until you couldn't hold it back any longer. He didn't want to stop until you broke by his hand and gushed around the cold steel barrel.

But on the other hand, he wanted to feel it himself. He doubted you'd object, you'd probably welcome the replacement of cold metal—that was probably still shockingly cold compared to how hot your cunt was—with his dick. 

But the desire to watch you fall apart and shatter first outweighed the need to stick his dick in you. Just barely.

Your lip trembled, your eyes were far off somewhere else and glassy, darting around the room behind Gojo. They landed on something and went round, your breath caught, and you hiccuped. You looked at Gojo again, fear and pleading in your blown pupils.

“P-please,” Your voice cracked on the word. He had never seen or heard you like that, never thought you even could beg or whine like that.

He brushed your cheek again with a thumb, wiping the fresh wetness that fell. “Please what, sweetheart?” He never stopped the movement of his hand, still savoring the way he could feel your cunt gripping the barrel. 

You whimpered, “Please, fuck, I-I can't—I can't… fuck,” You couldn’t even finish the sentence, biting down on your quivering lip. You were writhing, chest heaving, and he finally realized that…

You were about to come, and you hated it. 

“You can, just stop fighting it.” He pulled your lip from between your teeth with his thumb.

He tore his eyes off your mouth, still stained red, looking like you’d been wearing lipstick before he came and fucked it up. 

“Give in to me, I promise you'll feel so fucking good. I'll make sure of it.” Gojo’s lips brushed yours, not a kiss, not yet. He had to hear you say it. Say yes and let go, let him make you see stars and forget how fucking wrong what you were doing was, and just give in to how right it felt. 

You were right there, dangling on the precipice of breaking. Your eyes glazed, lashed fluttering as you held his gaze and whispered his name. 

“Gojo, please.” The sound of you begging, pleading him. Uttering his name like some kind of broken prayer that could save you from what was happening, what was about to happen. 

It was so unbelievably easy, you made it so easy. Just dripping slick arousal and the barrel slid through your cunt. It was a mess. You were a mess, and the sounds of your pussy squelching and sucking the barrel back inside were obscene.

Your jaw dropped a little more but no sound came out, and Gojo sent the command into your open mouth. “Do it,” 

Your body tensed, he felt it. Your eyes started to roll, losing focus and your legs shook. You were still fighting it. 

“I’d do anything for you, I'd fucking kill for you, so come for me.” Gojo gripped the back of your head, fingers tangled in your hair. Your glassy eyes were on his, the look that bore through him was there but it was like you were finally seeing behind the curtain. His lips were on yours as he poured the words he’d held back for years right into your mouth. 

“Just give in, let me break you. I’ll be yours forever."

Legs shaking, your hips lifted. Spine arching into a bow, chest pushed up and your head dropped back into his hand. Looking like a fucking angel in a tattered black t-shirt as you finally let go. A pretty moan spilled right into Gojo’s mouth as the tether holding restraint snapped, and you broke.

Wrong. It was wrong how disgustingly good it felt. The heat that coiled and tightened and wrapped through your entire body finally freed, you heard the sounds that came from your own mouth and almost couldn’t believe it. Guttural and unrestrained, your wrists stinging as sharp plastic bit into your skin and drew blood with every shift and pull. 

Gojo kissed you again and you let him in without a fight. Still tasting of warm metal, like sucking on coins after being held in hand. It was filthy. Tasting the blood of one man while you were kissing another. Your walls pulsed and gripped around the barrel as Gojo fucked you through the mind melting orgasm, pulling your hair and holding your head back to him as you saw stars and felt them bursting through you.

The last waves shuddered through and you twitched as he pulled the barrel out and left you empty. Breaking from your mouth with another filthy string of saliva tying you together.

He bought the slick coated barrel up to his face, holding it upside down, pinky resting on the trigger. Safety off, hammer cocked. One slip of that finger, and you’d have been bleeding out. 

It shouldn't have been so hot. You shouldn’t have shivered at the sight of Gojo, blood streaked in his hair and spattered on his face, sticking his tongue out to lick the full length of the barrel. Pale lashes fluttered, moaning as he tasted you on the steel. 

“I’d love to let you hold it while I suck this thing clean,” Gojo waved your gun and winked, “But I get the feeling you’d pull the trigger if I did.” His tongue glided up the barrel again and flicked over the muzzle.

You swallowed hard, and countered with, “Take the bullets out then.”

He seemed to contemplate it, head tipping to the side as he tapped the muzzle to his lips. “Hmm, but I’d have to cut those straps.”

“Is that a bad thing? I could touch you, don’t you want me to?” You bit your lip, angling your head a little with the doe-iest eyes you could summon. Gojo’s jaw clenched, gaze growing heavy under thick, pale lashes. It only lasted a moment before he licked his teeth and a wicked smile spread in its stead.

“Think you’re smart? Sorry, sweetheart, that won’t work.”

“I want to touch you, Gojo.” You pouted, it wasn't a complete lie. 

“Satoru,” He corrected, gently but firmly. “We’re past formalities now, don’t you think?” 

You pulled forward, as far as you could with your arms behind the chair, bringing your face closer to him. “Let me touch you, Satoru.”

Fuck. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that.

So pretty, and catching onto the fact that you could ask just about anything of him and he’d do it. You looked like a trap, like the moment he took the bait, steel would clamp around his hand. 

Gojo knew restraint, he could wait and be patient and bide time. But he had limits. That bait was you, squirming around barely covered by that bisected shirt, thighs glistening and slick. Eyes wide and pleading and fucking needy. Looking at him like you needed him.

“You’re not getting the gun, loaded or not.” Gojo straightened, stepping around the chair to stand behind you. He grabbed your chin, tilting your head back to look up at him. “Try anything, and my finger might slip.” 

Acknowledgement came in a slow nod, lip caught between your teeth. Gojo lowered his face to yours, pulling your lip free with his thumb. “Very good, remember that, sweetheart. I’d hate to do it, but I won't hesitate to snuff you out.”

Gojo kept the gun in hand as he snapped the bloodied zip tie around your wrists, breaking the plastic at its weak point and your shoulders sagged as your arms were freed. He straightened again and watched you closely as you rubbed your wrists. 

You were free, you could run right now. Instinct made you itch to leap to your feet and dash for the closest exit. 

Too bad you had no idea where that was, and Gojo would catch you before you could figure that out for yourself. 

Looking around, you saw the knife near your feet. If you lunged for it, you’d get a bullet to the head. 

Gojo could see the gears turning in your head. But you were fucked here. Even if you got out you'd be running into practically the middle of nowhere being on the far outskirts of Tokyo. 

He pulled the tie on the butchers apron free and tossed it aside, moving to stand in front of you again. You lifted your eyes to his, hands in your lap and idle.

“Stand up,” 

You definitely weren’t running anywhere, your legs still trembled a little as you rose to your feet. You took a tentative step forward, bringing yourself close enough to feel the heat of Gojo's body through the clingy black shirt. Eyes trained on his, you reached out with one hand to glide over his wide chest, and down.

A sigh left his pretty, full lips as your fingers curled into the waistband of his dark pants. His shirt had ridden up a little and you could see the lines that curved along his hips and dove down, your fingers brushed through a trail of soft hair, bright white just like the mess of it on his head. He tensed when you touched him, biceps flexing, but he didn’t stop you. 

Silently, you lowered to the ground. Your knees hit the hard ground and plastic crinkled quietly. The only other sound was heavy breathing as both hands moved to pop the button on his pants open.

Gojo took your chin in his gloved hand and lifted your face up to him. “Is this what you want?”

Your lip caught again and you hummed. “Mhm,”

Gojo pulled it free again, and slipped his thumb past your teeth, into your mouth to press down on your tongue. “No biting.” He winked. You nodded, opening the closure on his pants. The knife was just to the left of your leg, it was in reach, but the second you moved you’d get a bullet to the head. 

Distract him.

That’s all it was. The saliva pooling in your mouth, the slick dripping down your thighs. You ignored that. Ignored how wet you were getting and how heat coursed through you as you pulled his boxers low and freed his cock.

Of course it was pretty too. Pale with a little curve, blushing tip beading pre-cum from the slit. Long and thick enough that you could just wrap your hand around the base because of course he’d have a big dick too. 

It was always the fucking nerds.

Gojo jolted a little and a pitched noise like a whine caught in his throat as your hand twisted up the length of his cock, and your thumb brushed his tip. Spreading the pre-cum that just kept leaking.

His thumb left your mouth, gliding over your lips, wetting them with your own spit.

“Want me to be gentle, sweetheart? Or should I fuck your face?” He asked, breathless and cheeks already flushing pink under the spatters of crimson.

You shook your head, pumping his cock slowly. “I don’t want gentle, Satoru.” 

He slapped you. Hard. Your head snapped to the side and you choked on a gasp as your cheek started to sting.

You said it. So he was going to deliver. 

His hand tingled from the impact and his cock throbbed as he watched you recover from shock. Taking your chin in hand again, he gripped hard and turned you back to face him.

Your body was as masochistic as Gojo was sadistic and your cunt drooled, the heat on your cheek from the slap was everywhere else too. 

He did it again, palm flat as it connected to the same cheek just as hard and your head snapped to the side with a little less force. Like you’d prepared for it that time. Your jaw clenched but it didn’t stop the whimper from coming out. Your thighs shook and rubbed together, sliding easily with the slick that smeared. 

Gojo almost did it again when you lifted your face to him all on your own. But the look you gave him made him falter a little. Brows turned up, lips glossy and parted, bright red deepening on your cheek, and your eyes. Fuck. The need in your eyes almost brought him to his knees. Tears gathered and ready to spill, about to fucking cry all over again. 

He wanted those tears to fall when you choked on his cock.

“What a slut.” He crooned as your lip trembled, “Remember, sweetheart. Bite me, and I’ll put one between your eyes and keep going till I come.” 

Looking horribly angelic with a smile that was pure and sweet, Gojo spewed vile filth that made your heart kick at your ribcage, and your core flood with heat.

Wrong. There was something seriously wrong with you. Because you nodded and, and opened your mouth wide.

His fingers thread into your hair, holding tight but he didn't pull or guide you, just held as you licked the drip of pre-cum off the tip of his cock. Tasting salt and sweetness on your tongue. He sucked a sharp breath in through clenched teeth as your lips closed around him. 

The sounds he made were pretty and pornographic and matched the look on his face as your lips stretched around the thickness and he hit the back of your throat. Pulling back, your tongue traced a prominent vein along the underside and he moaned again. Pale brows knit together, the baby blue of his irises rendered to a thin ring with the wide black of blown out pupils. 

You couldn’t help but think he looked so pretty like that. With his lip caught in his teeth, blood streaked his brilliantly white hair pink, pieces of it fell into his face, across his eyes and framing his face.

I’d do anything for you.

I’ll put one between your eyes and keep going till I come.

It was a shame he was such a nut.

Your eyes went wide and you choked as he tightened the hand in your hair and thrust into your mouth, shoving almost all the way in. He groaned deep in his throat and his cock pulsed in yours. Tears pricked your eyes and fell as you blinked. 

The hand in your hair held your head in place as he started to fuck your throat. Your eyes rolled, hand dropping away to your side as control was taken from you. “Like that, huh? Fuck, you’re so filthy. Such a—mnnh—such a slut.” 

It went right to your aching cunt, pulsing around nothing. Throbbing with Gojo’s cock hitting deep in your throat, forcing you wide open to him as he held your head and fucked your face. Drool dripped down your chin, so much it trailed down your neck in lewd streaks.

Your mind was splintering again as your nose buried in the soft, fluffy hair. Lashes fluttering as your eyes rolled and you gagged. 

“Ohh my fucking god,” Gojo moaned loud, his head flew back and your objective snapped back into place. You moved, reaching to your left and your fingers closed around the handle of the huge hunting knife.

Gojo’s grip tightened, your scalp stung. 

The tip of the knife barely pushed into his side before steel pressed to your temple again.

“Gotcha,”

Fuck. 

The blade pricked and cut into his side, the tip of it broke skin and was pushing in between his ribs. You gave him a weak glare, throat tight and still choking on his cock with the muzzle of your gun to your temple.

He was close already, balls tight and abs clenched to hold himself back. But that sight alone pushed him right over the edge. 

He grunted a “Fuck,” and his hips stuttered. Your eyes went wide and you blinked furiously as his cock kicked in your mouth, and he spilled hot cum down your throat. “Don’t—ngh—don’t fucking look at me like—ugh—like that,” He muttered through clenched teeth, shoulders drooping and panting.

“Think you’re sneaky, huh?” He asked, catching his breath as he pulled your face away. You gasped for air and coughed when his cock pulled from your throat. Holding the knife that cut into his ribs. He held the gun to your head as you recovered. “Saw that one coming the second you got on your knees, sweetheart.” 

“Fuck… you,” You choked out with a glare.

Gojo gripped your arm and hauled you up to your feet. The knife pulled from its spot between his ribs and moved to his throat quickly, blade pressed to a critical vein. The muzzle of the gun went under your chin. 

He held your naked body to his, his face amused as he asked, “So, what now?” 

You searched his face, lips puffy and glossed with spit. Your cheek still bright red from the slaps. 

You lurched forward, and kissed Gojo, lips pressing to his hard.

It caught him a bit off guard, but he got his shit together quick and wrapped an arm around your waist. Your head tipped and your arm went over his shoulder, fingers threading up through his hair. The other still holding the blade to his neck. 

The muzzle of your gun stayed pressed to your temple as Gojo walked you backwards until you hit a wall covered in plastic. Your mouths clashed, short breaths hot and mingling together as your tongues tangled and slid together. 

He pinned you to the wall with his body, hard chest pressed to yours. 

Gojo lifted his face away and pulled the latex glove off his free hand with his teeth, tossing it to the floor. His mouth found yours again and he gripped and squeezed along your body. Your spine arched, pushing your breast into his bare hand as he pinched and rolled your nipple. 

You moaned into his mouth. His hips pushed forward, to you. Cock already hard again and pressed to your stomach. 

Wrong. So, so wrong. How badly you wanted it. How twisted and dangerous and fucking hot it was with a gun to your head and a blade to his throat. 

Maybe you were a nut too.

Gojo slid his hand down to your thigh, lifting your leg to the side. You pushed up on your toes to get yourself a little closer to his height.

“Say it,” He murmured to you. 

You were aching, doing everything but begging for it at that point. 

“Fuck me,” It was a whisper of a plea into Gojo’s mouth and it made him smile. That you’d finally admit it, admit that you wanted him. For real this time. The cards were all out in the open, no sneaky blade was about to stab into his vitals because it was already at his throat. 

“Anything you want,” He glanced between you, “Give me a hand, sweetheart. Mine are a little full,” He tapped the muzzle to your temple lightly with a smirk.

The hand in his hair dropped, gliding over his broad shoulder. Down his chest, you felt every line and dip and defined muscle of his abs. Your eyes lowered to follow to trail down, and you gripped his cock. He took a sharp breath, eyes trained on your face as you bit your lip and slid the tip of his cock through your folds. 

Long fingers dug into your thigh, gripping hard as you lined him up to your drooling hole. The heat of your cunt was driving him fucking crazy, and he wasn’t even inside you yet. 

You looked up again, lip in your teeth, and he drove his hips up. 

Your face contorted, nose scrunching as your pussy struggled to take the thick intrusion. The blade at his throat trembled as you cried out, clenching around Gojo’s cock as he pushed halfway in and stilled. 

Fuck. You were so fucking tight.

He’d imagined something like this before, but nothing, not the vision his head fed him to pump his cock to, no other person, nothing could ever come close to being buried in you.

Gasping for air, gripping his shoulder and bunching the fabric of his shirt in your fist as you trembled on his cock. Stilled halfway in, every little twitch and pulse of your cunt made his breath come short. 

“Fuck…” You whimpered as his lips touched yours again. “Gojo, I can’t—”

“Satoru,” He reminded, “I’m literally inside you, sweetheart.” He groaned and pushed into you deeper, “You can take it all, right? Make it fit like a good girl, yeah?” 

You whined, shaking on tip toes. “Don’t fucking call me that,” 

“Want me to call you a slut instead?” He grinned, breathing hard and pulling out to shove back in deeper. “What if I called you mine?”

You shut him up with another kiss. He licked into your mouth like a claim, branding you with his hot tongue and his cock buried so deep it felt like he was in your guts already. The stretch burned and took your breath, pain and adrenaline made it melt into pleasure that you craved more of.

Fucking into you steadily, you felt every vein that dragged through your walls. The angle had him push into a sweet spot on every thrust into you. 

Moans and heavy breathing and obscene squelching echoed off the plastic as he fucked you up against the wall, holding you open to him with the muzzle still pressed to your head.

“You’re mine, you understand that now, right?” Gojo murmured to you, “You’ve always belonged to me, now I'm just taking what’s mine.”

He nipped your lip, dragging his mouth over yours as he pinned you to the wall and bottomed out with one hard thrust. “Say it.”

Fucked. That’s what you were. So unbelievably fucked.

You looked him in the eye as you breathed the words out. 

“I’m yours,” 

It didn’t feel like a lie. It felt like you belonged to him. Gojo killed for you, why didn’t that scare you more? Make you want to run from him and the claim he’d seemed to set on you long before this.

The gun dropped from your head and clattered to the ground. You had leverage now, he was giving up control and power and you could do it, tell him to stop and use this to get out.

But you didn’t.

You dropped the knife, threw your arms around his neck, let him pick you up with both hands, and kissed him.

Gojo carried you across the room and set you down on the table that held Zenin Naoya’s lifeless body. He broke the kiss, still buried inside you, and turned your head to face the corpse. You shut your eyes against the sight of it.

Gojo’s lips brushed your jaw as he spoke, his voice was raw and low. “Look. He’ll never hurt another girl again, and it’s because of you. Because I’d do anything for you.” Gojo turned you to look at him again. “I belong to you, too. Every fucked up part of me is yours.” 

He looked as raw as he sounded. Eyes wide and vulnerable like he was bearing his soul to you, and you nodded. You didn’t agree with the method, but you understood.

Too many times you’d felt you weren’t enough, like you were failing the people you swore to serve and protect. Gojo had done the same, and he was doing it in a way that made certain the monsters that roamed free would never harm again.

You were always into the vigilante thing, you guessed. It was pretty hot. Maybe Gojo would wear spandex and a mask too.

The thought made you laugh a little and you cupped his face with both hands. “You’re a fucking psycho. Take your shirt off, this feels unfair.”

Gojo grinned, wide and wicked and so pretty it wasn’t fair. “I’m crazy for you, sweetheart. Anything you want.” He pulled the tight black shirt over his head and tossed it to the floor. 

That wasn’t fair. 

You always thought it weird that a nerd holed up in a lab all day would be so jacked, and now you understood why. You eyed him without shame, just as you always did. Lingering on his broad chest, gaze sliding down the ripples of his abs. There was a bloody cut on his oblique from where the knife had dug in.

Oops.

“Fuck me,” He was still buried inside you, but you said it anyways. And Gojo obliged.

He spread your legs open with both hands, and held tight as he thrust hard into you. He split you open on his cock, panting into your mouth and staring with lidded eyes into yours as he slammed in balls deep. 

Your head flew back and a guttural sound came from deep in your chest. The pace he set was brutal, like he’d held something back before and it was snapped free now. A sound like a growl rumbled in his throat, teeth raking down your jaw, over your throat and he latched on to the skin. 

He sucked and bit and bullied into you. Pushing your legs wider as he angled his hips up to push into a spot that made your head spin. Stars glittered across your vision and your nails dug into skin as you gripped his shoulders. 

The pain didn’t bother him one bit. He reveled in it, savoring the sting of your nails breaking skin. He bit harder and moaned against your throat. The table rocked with every hard thrust. 

He never wanted it to end, your cunt gripped and pulsed around his cock, greedy as fuck and sucking him in. Wet and loud and hot, what heaven might feel like. Your pussy was better, and he’d never even get to see the gates to compare.

Gojo rocked into you, sliding in deep and whining around your throat as the tip of his cock ground against your cervix. You cried out, cunt fluttering around him. Your legs shaking in his grip, spine bowing to push your chest up to him.

It was perfect. You were perfect.

He wanted to ruin you, break you just to put you back together and do it all over again. 

Heat coiled through you, wrapping through your insides like a white hot wire that burned anything it touched. Every drag of his thick cock through your walls sparked more and you clawed at Gojo’s shoulders, keening as you clung to him.

You were so lost in everything you didn’t even notice his hand move until his thumb pressed to your clit and your eyes rolled.

“Oh my god, f-fuck!” Your body locked up, shuddering as he toyed your clit, pressing mean circles on the sensitive bud.

Your cunt gripped tight, like you were trying to slow him, but Gojo was relentless, never slowing even as his abs clenched. He pressed his forehead to yours, both slick with sweat.

“Let go, come for me sweetheart, I want to feel it.” 

Another shudder wracked through you, and the wire snapped free. Your jaw dropped in a silent cry, your cunt pulsed and gushed around Gojo’s cock. Warm slick flooded and dripped as he hammered into you. Thumb wet and slipping as you twitched with every messy circle he kept rubbing, drawing out your orgasm until his balls tightened.

“Gonna come in you. You’re mine so I’m fuckin’ fill you up.” It wasn’t even a question, you wanted it just as bad as he did. As if you’d go through all of that just for him to fucking pull out.

He threw his head back and moaned. A pretty sound, almost as pretty as the sight, the column of his throat exposed. He gripped the plush of your thigh hard, buried to hilt in your still twitching cunt, and the ache in his cock finally released.

You felt the kick deep as he shuddered, hips stuttering as he spilled. Spurts of hot cum coated your walls. He didn’t stop, head falling forward again and whining as he fucked it all deeper into you. You keened and jerked on every short, sloppy thrust. Sweat dripped down your neck and your body felt beyond spent. 

Finally Gojo stilled, both of you caught your breath a little before he kissed you again. Softer, less urgent with the tension released. He pulled back and murmured against your mouth, cupping your face and brushing his thumb over your cheekbone.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. Don’t be mad when you wake up.” 

Something pricked your neck and you jerked back, eyes going wide. “What the fu…” You couldn’t even finish the sentence before the syringe of M-99 he pulled from his back pocket worked its magic and you passed out. He caught you with an arm around your waist and lowered you to the table. He pulled out of your cunt and watched as his cum poured from your pussy. Pretty and used and dripping milky cum. 

What a fucking sight. Everything about you was so pretty. But he didn't quite trust you not to stab him in the back and run the moment you got the chance, not yet.

You’d be just as pretty when you woke up again tied up, even if you were in a blind rage when you did. 

He always did kind of like when you yelled at him.

꒷꒦a/n꒦꒷ if you made it thru all of this and haven't already, please go check out TMD by Innka on ao3, her work is incredible and seared into my brain and got me through this one (TMD is unfinished but still brilliant and worth the read). huge ty to my soulmate and beta reader @sadtrash69 for making this legible omg T_T

[sweethearticism]

˖ ࣪૮₍ 𝓞.𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐄𝐎!𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 𓂃 ⭒ comes to pick you up from uni & is a flirty little shit about it

⤿ ꒰ you're stranded and the first person you call is, regrettably, him. what will you two get up to in the car? :: make outs :: dry humping :: age gap ( 20s/40s ) :: guys my age series ꒱

Finals week was a sham. You were in shambles.

Running on three hours of sleep, poorly filtered coffee and pure, god-killing spite. The universe worked hard to dim your resolve. But you worked smarter.

Another dreadful exam under your primed nails. Another professor left in shambles with your sharp calculations sliced into the paper. You strutted through the university hallways with the kind of face that made even frat boys look the other way.

Home. That's all you cared about.

Home.

Two minute ramen.

A colourful pep-talk in the mirror.

Ball's deep in textbooks and assignments.

With your biggest final on the horizon, there wasn't much time to waste. It's why you harassed begged a friend from finance to spare you a ride home. The last thing you needed to deal with was the trouble of public transport. You needed to get home as soon as possible to coop yourself up for the final stretch and regret your life choices as a physics major for the week to come.

Bing.

You glare could have combust the phone.

'Sorry. Something came up. Can't get you today.'

Can't? Can't?

You willed your thumbs to be polite rather than reach into the screen and dig his eyes out. Couldn't he let you know sooner?

Standing in the middle of the hallway and feeling like the world betrayed you as your mind scrambled through your options— you mindlessly swiped into your contacts. Hovered over one.

Public transport. You'd just brave through public transport. Not this. Anything but this.

Alas, even academic weapons could ignore their pride. Even if yours was kicking and screaming at the mere prospect of—

"Well if it isn't my favourite girl."

How you wanted to claw your ears out until they bled when that aggravating, grating, impossibly irritating voice smoothed through the phone's speaker. How was it velvet even across poor cell service?

"Gojo." You cleared your throat. Swallowed your screaming pride.

"I need a favour."

"Oh? Well that's new, sweetheart."

You huffed through your nostrils and rolled your eyes. You could practically see him. Long legs stretched out on his desk with criminally less paperwork than any CEO or renowned scientist should have. Leaned back in that pricey chair with an even more expensive grin.

Gathering all your willpower, you explained your situation as you popped your shoulder against one of the walls. Hoping to cage yourself from the grin you could feel growing across the line.

"TLDR. I need you to send Ijichi to come get me."

"Sure."

Not even a beat.

"Just send me your location, yeah? Would hate to keep a pretty girl waiting." He hummed.

You hung up before your words could turn more colourful than a flustered chameleon. Digging your thumb against his text contact like you could dig his eye out, you sent your location. Shoulders sagged. Defeated. You wouldn't hear the end of this come Monday.

Whatever. Ijichi was there in fifteen minutes.

Or well, what should have been Ijichi.

You've never wanted to run back into class more than when you trotted down the steps and saw your worst nightmare. Doned in money that put your student loans to shame. With that. Damned. Smile. That could bankrupt Swarovski.

Leaned up against the front door of a sleek, black koenigsegg jesko. With confidence shining in his rimless shades pushed into his white hair and audacity creased in his pale blue sleeves rolled above the elbows.

Gojo Satoru. In your uni parking lot. Attracting attention like it was his god given right. Looking like that damned silver spoon you're sure he came fresh out of the womb babbling on.

Gojo. Fucking. Satoru.

Very much NOT Ijichi.

"What did I say?"

You hissed as you briskly made your way to the car. Gripping your bookbag to fight the urge to shove him into the open window and run off for the 4pm train. It was 3:52. With the sheer surge of your frustration you're sure you could make it in time with some to spare.

"Huh?" He feigned a pout and curved his head. Not-so-subtly dragging his crystal stare over your body like he was decking you in diamonds. "Didn't you ask me to pick you up?"

"I said send Ijichi."

"And pass up the chance to see my girl? Finals' been keeping her from me. I miss her."

His girl. He said it like he was already slipping a rock round your ring finger.

Your ears grew hot once you became acutely aware of the stares and titters floating in the air. Whipping around you realised just how much attention you drew. Especially when Mister height-for-days with women-killing-blue-for-eyes looped a single, long finger into your bag's strap and slipped it over his elbow instead.

Sucking in a breath and reminding yourself that your studies were worth more than your pride, you circled round the car and shuffled in. Hopefully dodging the bullet of being next week's hot gossip.

Satoru slipped in after you. Probably pouting that you didn't let him open the door for you, but grinning at the idea that you were in his car. In his passenger seat.

"My passenger princess." His croon smoothed over the revving engine as he braced the wheel.

"Roll up the windows."

You ignored his comment. Ignored his stare. Ignored the way his long arm bracing the back of your seat as he pulled into reverse had heat creeping up your neck. You jostled your white collar. Thank god for uniforms.

His deep chuckle nearly had you snatching the gearshift. Brazen blues peered at you over the rim of his glasses hung infuriatingly low. "Why? Scared your friends will think I'm your boyfriend?" He grinned.

And oh.

That gearshift could end this all.

End you. End him. End this sickeningly familiar tension flickering between your seats like it did whenever you trotted into his office as if you were already his personal assistant. And he stared at you like you were more.

Instead, you huffed. Folded your arms. Dug your elbows into your sides and forced you stare ahead. It could have shattered the windshield.

"You're insufferable."

"And you look damn good in that skirt."

His low whistle blossomed the heat across your face next. You shot him one more glare that he returned with a rumbled chuckle that told you he wasn't sorry as he pulled onto the road. As you wished, the tinted windows finally rolled up. Hiding the reality away from your peers:

You had something going on with a man twice your age. Hell, who could, and would, buy out your university if you batted your lashes once at him. Your fucking boss to top it all off.

Your lips pursed. Shoulder flushed against the car door as you endured his grating, irritatingly handsome voice throughout the ride.

Hey, here's a calculation for you. How fast did a vehicle have to be moving for you to jump out and obtain minimum injuries?

You'd take the risk if it meant escaping him. You're sure of it.

Escape how good his single hand looked against the steering wheel. How your heart fluttered whenever he cut you that charming smirk. How your mind went loopy when he crooned out an endearment and glanced in the rear view.

"Can't believe my sweet girl called for help. Nice change, isn't it?"

"My poor girl. Finals must be getting to you."

"Y'know. Offer's still up. You could retire in Okinawa."

"I'm twenty three."

"And? Pretty thing like you should only worry about soaking up sun and having men like me wrapped around your little finger."

"Shut up."

"No can do, sweetheart. You signed up for this when you called me all begging and pleading—"

"I didn't beg you! I said send—"

" 'Oh pleaaasseeee Mr Gojo, come get me. I'm tired, and pretty, and miss you so soooo much'—"

"Satoru."

"Oh say it again, sweet thing."

His head crooked over to you as the car slowed down. Faint cologne consuming you as white strands tickled your cheek. "C'mon, can you blame me? I've been without you for a whole week. Missed that little nose wrinkling whenever you debate punching me."

"I'm gonna—"

"Go on. Bite."

The red light couldn't come sooner.

Red in your palms. In your stuttering heart. In your blazing vision.

Click.

Your seatbelt snapped back. Your leg swung. Over the console. Round the seat. Your palms slammed into his shoulders. Thighs knocked into his hips.

Satoru's snowy lashes fluttered like a startled butterfly. Fingers lax on the steering wheel. A nasty comment building on his tongue—

But you smothered it out of him.

Suffocating him on the taste of cherry gloss and chagrin. Your lips crashed into his. Like stars colliding. Devastating. Aching. With a force that shoved his head back into the seat and spurted a rumbling groan from the depths of his soul.

There's was only one thing that could shut Gojo Satoru up.

And it just so happened to the pretty girl bundled in his lap.

Your mouth meshed with his. All tongue and teeth and terrifying need. Frustration from finals pouring out in a finesse of fiery kisses. Lips moulding. Hearts synching.

You parted for a moment. A moment too long. His large hand flushed to the base of your skull and dragged you backed in. A desperate attempt to snuff out the need bristled from seven days apart and the stress of academics.

Your tongue, ever the weapon, sliced into his mouth and demanded. Prissy and audacious just like you. He returned it with that effortless dominance that made your thighs weak. Twisting and taming. Hands abandoning the steering wheel to lock on your hips. Grind you down onto the the growing bulge that with every throb spelt out: I missed you, brat.

You missed him too.

Missed his vexating grins. His irritating teases. The simple way in which he made you stumble but you never dared to let him see.

What your words couldn't bear to voice, your tongue did instead. Your fingers wrinkling his shirt. You hips— joining the message with fevered, instinctual bucks into his. His crotch wedged between your thighs. Under your skirt. Catching so perfectly on your panties.

Gasping. You were gasping into him.

And him? Grinning.

"Fuck, sweet thing." His croon looped your tummy. He pulled away. A second. A second too long.

You dove back in. Smothered his grunt.

"Fuckin' missed my girl."

It was for the best. You might have crumbed into nothing but his girl in his lap if you heard it loud and clear.

When your lungs burned and the heat between your cores grew too much— you parted. Finally. Unfortunately. Dragging his lower lip between your teeth and locking heated stares. Yours half-lidded. His hot. Needy.

Satoru chased after you. Greed on his tongue as he shoved it back into your mouth. His hands that couldn't decide where to grope finally settled for your ass. Bundling up the fat. Squeezing. Toppling you further into his lap to catch his filthy grinds.

You mewled. He moaned. Maybe you'd be studying late after all.

The collision of stars broke into a flurry of blaring horns.

His muscles tensed. You snapped back. Saliva on your tongue and little remorse in your stare for the cars screaming their horns from behind. The blue light illuminated in your hair. Like a halo. Or maybe horns— you were his devil after all.

Especially with how your tongue swiped over your lower lip and dragged those strings of spit.

"Fuck."

He groaned. Hands squeezing one more time for good measure before he limped back into his seat while you slipped into yours. He white knuckled the steering wheel and wafted an apologetic sign out the window before he took off again.

His shoulders rolled back. Tense. He glanced in the rearview. Needing a distraction. Needing you— no.

Silence.

Heavy. Hot. Ready-to-shoot-over-the-console-and-teach-you-a-lesson-with-two-fingers-knuckles-deep silence.

In the end, it was you with a smile plastered to your face. Small and smug and oh so sinister as you folded your arms and stared out the windshield. Like you weren't the pretty little reason his pants were uncomfortably tight.

You even had the audacity to rub those slutty thighs together beneath that skirt he thought you looked sooo damn good in.

You watched his jaw tick.

Good.

"Well."

He spoke after awhile. Voice caught in the back of his throat and eyes narrowed ahead of him.

Your smile curled wider.

"Hmm?"

"Ever heard of road head?"

Then curled down with that. With the cocky little smirk that you caught from your peripheral. Sigh. In the end. He was still Gojo Satoru.

"Wanna see how many times I could stuff that bratty mouth back to your apartment?"

"Don't push your luck."

"Oh sweetheart. You already did."

© 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒔𝒎. no plagiarism or ai training authorised. divider: @/cursed-carmine. art cred: @/amamyco (twt)

ᝰ.☆ enjoyed this piece? consider supporting or commissioning me <3

[ssorasky]

AN ETERNAL NIGHT — SATORU GOJO

♱ vampire slayer!gojo x vampire princess!reader

summary — there is no vampire slayer more terrible at his job than Satoru Gojo, yet for reasons completely unknown, no immortal has ever survived an encounter with him. you, the overindulged daughter of the vampire king, have been forbidden from leaving the castle tonight. the infamous slayer is out hunting. your father is worried. the vampire community is hiding. you, however, have a date. surely nothing will go wrong.

♱ word count — 17k

♱ content warning + tags — MDNI 18+ ONLY, fem reader, fluff, some angst, supernatural au, plot with smut, eventual smut, slow burn, hidden enemies to lovers... until it's not, mutual pining, vampire typical violence, vampire naoya, unprotected piv, reader is thirsty - literally and figuratively, satoru impales you but not with a sword.

♱ a/n — merry christmas! tis' the season for vampires (>.<) apparently, i'm still in my monster era, but at least this is set in winter. i hope you enjoy it ♡ 〢 art: yan yu jun (weibo) and pinterest, rose divider: @ divinyae

There was one name vampires feared, and that name was Satoru Gojo. Not because he was good at hunting them down, but because he was incredibly bad at it, and still managed to kill them.

It was one thing to be turned to dust at the hands of a slayer. It was quite another when that slayer didn’t even carry a holy sword, yet would somehow end up impaling them. Embarrassing, really. No respectable vampire who was worth their fangs could stomach the thought that someone so incapable would be responsible for their final demise. They’d be the laughing stock of New Transylvania, and that certainly wouldn’t do well for their reputation as blood-thirsty immortals. 

For this reason alone, whenever the night winds blew word that Satoru Gojo was prowling about, the wisest thing for a vampire to do was keep a wide berth from the infamous slayer.

Because no one, alive or undead, wanted to be made a fool of.

By a fool.

“Which is why you will not be leaving this castle tonight, my dear.” 

You crossed your arms and pouted. You’d been tarrying about your father’s study for the last hour, hoping he’d change his mind. But tonight, no matter how you twisted and turned your words, he seemed determined to remain unswayed.

Frankly, it was annoying you to no end. Your father had always been resolutely obstinate, but rarely when it concerned you. Every bloodsucker, far and wide, freshly turned and centuries old, knew that the King of Vampires, Sukuna, could never deny his daughter her heart’s content. You were the apple of all four of your father’s eyes, and all you had to do was simply exist.

It had been this way since the beginning. You occupied the largest wing in the castle, which was redecorated every season according to your mood, while the furniture in Sukuna’s own wing remained as permanent as the prime immortal himself, unchanging since the dawn of time. You loved roses, so Sukuna had captured employed a team of alchemists and gardeners to drape the expansive gardens with every imaginable species of the flower, and to ensure they were in perpetual bloom all year round, including winter. Whenever you attended any of your father’s audiences, it was customary to greet you first before Sukuna, and whenever you were absent, it was customary to ask after your well-being before uttering anything else. The more creative a compliment towards you that one could conceive, the more inclined Sukuna was to listen to their plights.

No request you made, however fanciful, however outrageous, was too much for Sukuna to grant. 

Except this. Except when it concerned Satoru Gojo.

“What if I bring Uraume along?” you tried again. “Certainly you won’t object to that.”

“It changes nothing. And Uraume is busy. The blood moon is less than a month away, and there is much left to be prepared for the Red Feast. Our pens are not yet fully stocked. I should like to avoid feeding our guests rat wine during the night of my daughter’s betrothal announcement.”

“Then all the more you should let me go out tonight,” you pressed. “Since, my dear father, I have yet to decide who I wish to be betrothed to.”

“Mmm, and you seem to be taking your own sweet time with it.” Sukuna raised an inquiring brow at you. “I should think a hundred years was long enough for you to find someone to your liking. And since we’re on the topic of suitors, this Zenin boy you are so insistent on meeting tonight—I was under the impression that my daughter had better tastes than that.”

“What’s wrong with Naoya?”

Sukuna did not look amused. “Only in so much as I believe him to be a waste of your time. The boy has no respect for our ways and behaves like a rabid gutter rat during hunting season. If he weren’t a Zenin, I’d have him staked out under the sun by now.”

“Well, I disagree. He’s been perfectly nice to me.”

“Everyone is nice to you, my dear. Unless they’d like to perish most painfully. And I said the boy is a waste of time, I never said he was stupid. He’s a power hungry maniac—“

“Speak for yourself, father.”

“Yes, but I am powerful. The Zenin boy merely thinks he is, in which, he is sadly mistaken. You are my only daughter. The Crown Princess of the Night. You will be the Queen of Vampires when I retire. I’d hoped you’d at least settle on someone more… amenable. Someone who delights in giving you everything as much as I do.”

“But he stirs something in me, father.” You didn’t want to say it was because Naoya gave good head. “And he’s always bringing me gifts. Like tonight. He said he has something he wants to show me, and that I won’t want to miss it.”

“There is not much difference between wanting something and pure stupidity.”

“Are you calling me stupid?”

“Far from it, but you will be if you insist on going out, which you will not. I do not wish to wake tomorrow night only to discover I am short of a daughter.”

Naturally, for someone who was used to getting everything you wanted, hearing the word ’no’ was an unusual experience. You weren’t used to it, and you certainly didn’t like it.

Your beaded slippers tapped the cold stone floor with equal persistence. You huffed. “I fail to see what’s so dangerous about this slayer. It’s all merely rumours. Surely if he’s so incompetent, then there’s nothing to be worried about Satoru Go—“

Your father’s answering growl was vicious, causing you to hesitate. The glow of the candelabras caught in all four of his ancient eyes, and you saw that his irises had deepened from a glittering crimson to icy black voids. 

“Never speak his name in these walls.” But Sukuna must have caught your slight flinch, because his tone softened immediately. He sighed, and put down the tome he was reading, finally paying you his full attention. “Ask yourself this, daughter—if there are rumours abound of a singular individual, then is there not some truth to them? Incompetent he may be, but there is a reason he is called the Six Eyes. And if he truly is as lousy as they say, then why have none of our kind managed to survive an encounter with him?”

You frowned. “That doesn’t make any sense. If no vampire has survived the Six Eyes, then who is spreading all these rumours? And how do we know they’re true?”

Sukuna watched you in silence, as impervious as the gargoyle statues carved into the castle’s exterior. His fingernails, sharpened to wicked points, rapped against the intricately carved mahogany desk before him. 

“That is a story for another day, dear daughter,” he said at last, and picked up his tome. “The only thing you need to be concerned of tonight is staying within the castle grounds. I’m certain you will find something to occupy yourself with for one night. Go torture one or two of the gardeners should it please you. But if you do feed on any of them, remember to let Uraume know so we can find a replacement.” 

He waved one of his four hands, signalling that your conversation had come to an end. 

You wanted to argue. Wanted to stomp your foot and demand he put that tome down again. But you resisted. You were smarter than that. Your father might acquiesce to most of your wishes, but he wasn’t a pushover. Whining he could take, but a tantrum you knew for a fact he wouldn’t tolerate. His default mood was already surly, and toying with his temper by showing your own was a bad way to go about it. 

No. Safer to just do it behind his back. 

Which was why the moment you left your father’s study, you announced to your servants you were going to sulk and wished to be left alone, then proceeded up to the castle’s highest tower, and leapt right out the window. 

Your eyes closed, savouring the sensation as you plummeted down and down and down. The thrill of it. And when you opened them again, you saw that the ground had nearly swallowed up the distance. You grinned.

Not yet. Not until the last seconds. 

A rise in your chest. A tingle. A beat? You clutched on to the feeling. A feeling you couldn’t name but could not resist chasing. 

Three…Two…One… the ground expanded around you.

You shifted.

Great membranous wings sprouted out your back, unfurling. Then you were soaring up and away, into the night sky, the cold winter winds beating against your colder skin, and with your back to the moon, you flew further and further away from the cliffside castle you called home, headed for the forest. 

Up here, among silence and the stars and pale, silvery light of the moon—the only light you ever knew—your breaths eased, and you could not help but wonder if this feeling was as close to what the humans described as peace. 

For vampires did not feel like humans did, yet it fascinated you so. That all it took was a beating heart to conjure an unfathomable amount of emotions, and if you dared admit, was the one thing about humans you envied. Because the thing in your chest—if you even had one—had never once moved. It was still when you were born, and would remain so for eternity.

You spotted the clearing where you were to meet Naoya, the midpoint between the castle, the Zenin Estate and the human settlements. But you remembered your father’s warning about the Six Eyes. That Satoru Gojo was on the hunt tonight. Your predator’s vision zoomed in like a magnifying glass, searching through the darkness of the trees below. 

You saw Naoya. He was in his vampire form. The idiot. Every creature of the night knew to hide their true form this close to the human settlements. No one wanted to scare their food away. If word spread that a vampire was skulking about nearby, the towns would go into lockdown, merchants would stop travelling through the forest routes, and the slayers would be deployed in droves. There would be no food for the vampires to hunt. They’d have to live off animal blood for weeks, a poor substitute compared to their usual sustenance. 

And then you realised Naoya wasn’t alone. He was kicking something on the ground. Something small and limp—

A human. 

You descended, your wings angled for a quick landing, diving into the shadows of the forest. The moment your feet touched the snow-covered ground, silent and swift, you immediately shifted into your human form. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” you hissed, not bothering to greet him. 

Naoya turned around, eyes glinting in the darkness. His arms spread out in welcome. “Finally. Took you long enough. It’s not nice to keep your betrothed waiting, princess. I was growing bored and was about to start without you.”

“You’re not my betrothed yet. And is that...“ Your eyes widened at the bloody lump of flesh, unmoving on the dirty snow. 

“Your gift. To celebrate our union.” Naoya grinned, fangs flashing. “Don’t worry, it’s alive. Barely. But still breathing. I’d never feed you expired produce.”

“Naoya, that is a child.” 

“So it is. Females are always so perceptive, aren’t they?” Naoya spared a glance at the prone body. A girl that looked not even past ten years of human age. “Go on. Have the first bite. Or we can do what we usually do—you may feed on it while I feed on that cunt of yours. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, my little slut—”

“We’re not supposed to feed on children,” you cut him off. “It’s against our rules, and the pact my father made with the first mortal king. You know this. Hunting them down this young will only dwindle our supply.”

But Naoya seemed genuinely surprised. “You’ve never tried a child before? And here I am thinking you’re not as innocent as you make yourself out to be.”

You stared at him. “How long have you been feeding on children?”

Naoya shrugged. “Long enough to know they taste better than aged blood. They’re sweeter. Fresher. Like a clear, crystal lake.” He grabbed the child, dragging its body through the slush of snow and earth before dumping it in front of you. “There’s a first time for everything, princess. Try it. You’ll never want go back to sucking aged blood once you do, trust me.”

“No,” you said, firmly. “Return it. Make it seem like an accident. If the humans find out you’ve been hunting their young, the pact will be annulled and the slayers will have free reign to invade our lands. And the child deserves to experience mortal life before becoming our prey.”

Naoya frowned. “I don’t remember you being this… opinionated. It’s unbecoming of you, princess. I think I much prefer that mouth of yours when it’s moaning my name.”

“I’m serious, Naoya. Put the child back where you found it.”

He moved then, like a fault in time, a warping of space, his preternatural speed placing him behind you before you could blink. With him in his vampire form and you in a human’s, your own reflexes were dulled, and the next thing you knew, he had his fist in your hair, his fangs grazing up your neck. 

Naoya licked the shell of your ear. “Don’t play coy, princess. If this is your way of asking me to fuck you before we feast, then it’s better to just beg.”

“I’m not playing around, you idiot.” You tried pushing him away, but his grip on you tightened, sharp fingernails digging into your skin. Good sex or not, you were starting to question why you liked him at all. “Stop. I mean it. Let go of me or else—“

But Naoya was laughing. “Or else? Or else what?”

A rip. He’d torn through the neckline of your dress. Your sleeve split down your shoulder. 

“Admit it,” he was saying. “You like it when I treat you like a disobedient slut. When I shut that mouth up with my—aargh! What the fuck?“

Naoya’s grip loosened, his head snapping around, then down.

There was something white on the ground. Something so mundane yet so out of place in the middle of a forest that it confounded you just as much.

Was that… garlic?

A rustle in the silence. 

A man was standing in the clearing, as if he’d materialised out of blank space like an apparition. The first thing you noticed was his white hair, as white as falling snow. Then his eyes…

“Ah… excuse me, miss,” he seemed to be speaking to you. In one of his gloved hands was another bulb of garlic. “I couldn’t help but notice you seem to be in a bit of a pickle. Might I offer you some assistance?”

The sudden presence of another—human? Yes, he was definitely human. You didn’t before, but you caught his scent now. Smelled the blood flowing in his veins, rich and heady and oh so sweet…

But how could a human have evaded your senses? Even Naoya, in true form, hadn’t noticed the man until he’d shown himself. It baffled you, and apparently Naoya as well, because he was as speechless as you.

You asked the only question that came to mind. “Who are you?”

The man stepped forward, moonlight casting silver lines across his face, pale and young and pretty; illuminating his tall, lithe figure, clad in the simple leathers of a village hunter. 

He cleared his throat. “Well, you see, I’m a vampire slayer. And that there, as I’m sure you are already aware, is a vampire—“ he gestured at Naoya, somewhat carelessly. “I regret to tell you this, miss, but that thing isn’t going to kiss you if that’s what you’re expecting.”

“You’re a slayer?” 

He must have thought you were rendered stupid because he spoke slower this time. “Yes, ah… I’m sure you’ve heard of the occupation. I slay vampires for a living. As in return them to dust. Vanquish them. Kill them, to put it simply.”

“You pelted me with garlic, you fool,” Naoya growled, having recovered from the man’s unexpected intrusion. “Only an imbecile would do that.”

The man’s—slayer’s—eyes, a deep entrancing blue that glowed in the darkness like the heart of a flame, settled on Naoya. “Well, it caught your attention, didn’t it? So I’d say it worked.” His tone hardened then. “And shame on you. Preying on a child and giving such a lovely lady false hope. I don’t tolerate rakes who go around breaking hearts, much less vampires. And it seems you are both.”

But Naoya was laughing. “Oh, you are hilarious. What kind of slayer confronts a vampire without holy silver? It almost makes me want to spare you out of pity, which I won’t, just so you know.”

The slayer merely grinned. “I’m not asking you to, fiend. In fact, I was actually planning on hitting you in the head again.”

His answer only amused Naoya further because he finally released you, red eyes gleaming with newfound excitement, as if he’d found a new sport.

“Is that so?” Naoya bared his fangs, tongue licking the tip. “Because my suggestion is that you’d better run, slayer. Run fast, and run far. I’m feeling generous so I’ll count to ten, and when I catch you, your throat will no longer be attached to your head.”

To your surprise, the slayer laughed right back. “I wouldn’t bother counting if I were you. I might not use swords, but I’ll have you know I’m quite fast.” He crooked his fingers at Naoya. “Come on, try me.”

Everything in your mind snapped into place then. The man’s sudden appearance. That he called himself a slayer. The garlic. That he wasn’t intimidated by Naoya even without a holy weapon. Your father’s countless lectures swam in your head, solidifying into the only plausible conclusion you now could not deny. 

This man—he was no ordinary slayer. 

You spun to warn Naoya. To tell him to run. But it was too late. He’d already moved, and it was like he’d stretched through the clearing in a single step, no longer next to you but where the slayer stood— 

Or had been standing.

You could have sworn upon your entire undead existence that the slayer hadn’t so much as twitched a muscle. But what you saw with your own eyes was irrefutable. He was there one moment, and then he was simply… not. He’d disappeared like a ghost—no, that wasn’t right. He’d swerved, like a gust of wind, and before Naoya’s fangs could bite into nothing, the slayer was already behind him.

“Watch out!” You shouted. 

The slayer must have thought you were talking to him because he was smiling at you. “Not to worry, my lady. I promise you I have quite a lot of experience in handling vampires—“ Then he did it again, moving as the air moved, feinting another one of Naoya’s deadly slashes. “Not as much as other slayers, come to think of it. Perhaps a higher kill count, though I can’t be sure. Still, quality is better than quantity, that’s what Suguru always told me. Then again, he liked to think he was very profound…”

He continued like this, rambling on and on while he dodged every attack Naoya threw at him.  No matter what Naoya did, no matter how many times he tried, clawing and slashing and pouncing, he couldn’t touch the slayer. Not even a brush. And this only incensed him further. 

“You dare play tricks on me?” Naoya growled, furious, but you could tell he was growing tired. His movements were lagging. “No human can possibly move this quickly.”

Perhaps it was your imagination, but the slayer’s impossible blue eyes seemed to glow brighter. “My gratitudes for the compliment. For that, you get a present.”

It took less than a blink—not even—for the slayer’s fist to connect, fingers splayed as he smashed the garlic he’d been holding this whole time in Naoya’s face. Another hand was wrapped around Naoya’s neck in a chokehold, lifting him off his feet for half a second before slamming him onto the ground. 

Naoya was gasping now. The gasps turned into splutters as the slayer’s boot came down on his face, smooshing the garlic into mush.

“Take—her—princess…”

The slayer put a hand to his ear, but eased the pressure of his boot slightly. “I’m sorry, what was that? You know, it’s rude to speak with your mouth full.”

Naoya heaved, one hand struggling to claw at the slayers leather boot, to no avail, while the other feebly pointed a finger in your direction. “S-spare me—you can have her… she’s the princess...“

Your eyes widened, your body growing rigid. 

Oh, that bastard. He would sell you out to save himself. You suddenly regretted you’d ever entertained him as a suitor at all. 

“Princess?” The slayer lifted a brow, but his boot was twisting into Naoya’s face once more as those blue eyes glanced your way, sparking your veins, yet you never felt your blood turn so cold as it did now. 

“I…” Your mind screamed at you to run. To shift into your winged form and hurtle into the sky. But the compounding thought of your father’s words and the sight before you—Naoya flailing in the snow, the slayer’s unnatural speed, those blue eyes… your muscles were frozen in place, as if dreading the thought of moving. 

“My lady, you never mentioned you were royalty,” the slayer said, perhaps a little awestruck. “You should have said so. I would have addressed you with your proper title. I mean, I knew you weren’t from the villages, because I would have noticed if someone as beautiful as you—ah… my apologies, now I sound like a cad. But you are, ah, that is to say, beautiful. Very much so—“ He paused, glancing down briefly. “Excuse me, Your Highness. I’m just going to…”

He stomped on Naoya’s face again. And again. And again. And you watched in horror as a wet crack pierced through the clearing.

Naoya went still.

“Again, I apologise,” the slayer said, finally removing his now bloody boot off your former suitor. “You shouldn’t have to see that. But I should warn you not to go near it since it’s still alive. There are only two proven methods to completely vanquish a vampire—holy silver and sunlight. Don’t be afraid though, I might not have any silver on me but I have a way to make sure this one won’t regenerate before—“

“You’re—“ you found your voice at last. “You’re the Six Eyes.”

The slayer grinned, and it took everything in you to keep from turning on your heels and running as he approached you.

“At your service.” He bowed, then took your hand and kissed the back of it. “And it’s Satoru, Your Highness. Satoru Gojo.” He winked. “Now, let’s get you and that child home, shall we?”

He was prattling again.

“There, all done. I made this one extra deep, so I don’t think it will be able to crawl out any time soon. Well, I guess it could sprout wings, but I made sure to break all its bones just in case. Besides, I doubt it will wake up until sunrise, so it doesn’t matter since it will be fried to a crisp…”

You stared into the mouth of the pit, in which Naoya had been tossed, his body swallowed by darkness. A part of you almost felt bad for him, but then again, he did try to offer you up on a platter to save his own sorry ass. 

The Six Eyes—Satoru Gojo—dusted his gloved hands, cheerfully, as if he’d finished tending his garden and not condemning one of your kind to dust. “You’re very lucky this one’s quite dense, Your Highness. The only reason I managed to track you down was because it was dumb enough to assume its vampire form this close to the borders. And to think, I was about to take a nap and miss out on meeting the most beautiful person I’ve ever—”

“Are there more of these pits around the area?”

“Huh? Oh, yes. Took some time to dig them all,” he said, a little too proudly. “They’re quite effective, if I do say so myself. Helps to keep the vamps trapped since there’s only one of me, and I can’t be out patrolling all the time. I installed spikes at the bottom, too. Holds them in place until either me or the sun arrives, whichever comes first.”

You didn’t know if you were more horrified or impressed with his methods. They were odd, certainly unorthodox. Every slayer you’d encountered previously (and killed, but he didn’t need to know that) treated a silver sword like their third leg, brandishing and poking the weapon in your face, desperate to impale you with it.

But not the Six Eyes. Not Satoru Gojo. Apparently, he preferred throwing root vegetables and digging holes in the ground. 

So this was what the rumours meant about him being incompetent but effective. All this while, you’d assumed he was just some dunce with luck on his side. But you knew better now. There was nothing lucky about that incredible reflex—Naoya’s speed was unrivalled among vampires, but the way Satoru Gojo had so easily taken him down, as if he was swatting a fly… no mere mortal would ever be able to accomplish such a feat.

“I have a question, Six Eyes” you said, trying not to sound as though you were prying. But you had to know more about him. For your own survival, of course.

“Anything, Your Highness. All you have to do is ask.” He’d picked up the child and was gently cradling its mousy-looking body, and the sight of it—of something so fragile, so helpless, in his arms—you couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like if it was you instead. “You are under my protection from now on. Until I return you safely to your home, whatever you wish, whatever you desire, I am at your disposal.”

You would have found it charming, if it weren’t for the fact that you were the very creature he hunted. 

“Are you—“ There was no way around it except to put it plainly. “Are you human?”

He seemed genuinely taken aback by this. Perhaps slightly insulted—no, that was not it. You saw his brows furrow, his smile fall away. Almost as if he was…

“Have I given you cause to be afraid of me?” His concerned tone confirmed it. “Do you distrust my nature? Because I swear upon heaven and hell that my blood is mortal. I slay creatures of the night. I’d never hurt you, Your Highness. Please believe me. May lightning strike me dead if I—“

“Well, it’s just that what you did to Nao—that vampire—I’ve never seen a human move that fast.”

“Oh, you mean my excellent perception.” Like a turning of the page, he was back to smiling. “Why didn’t you just ask? It’s not a secret. Not really. I’ll tell you all about it if you want. Takes an hour to reach the nearest village, so we have plenty of time. I’ll drop the child off first and then escort you back to—ah, which kingdom did you say you’re from?”

You stiffened. “Kingdom?” You pointed in a random direction. “It’s that way.”

“Are you sure? It’s all mountains over on that side.”

“Ah… I’m not sure. I thought it was. I’m not very good at… maps.”

“The closest kingdom that way would be where Poenari Castle is. Come to think of it, I did once hear the princess there was renowned for her beauty, but I’ve never been—

“Yes, that’s the one,” you said, quickly. If he’d never seen the place before, then it would make it easier to fabricate a story until you found a way to escape him. 

And you would have to do it soon. In a few hours, to be precise. Before the sun rose and you were turned to dust.

But for the time being, your immediate problem was Satoru Gojo and his insistence on becoming your knight in shining armour. You were not unaware that you were now probably the only vampire to have survived an encounter with the Six Eyes. A disturbing thought, since you were currently stuck with him, and the only thing saving you was your very, very wise decision to stay in your human form. 

“Great! Then we’d better get moving,” he said, and began leading the way, leaving you with no choice but to follow him further away from the vampire territories. “It’s going to take us at least six days’ travel to Poenari Castle."

You halted.

Six days? You didn't have six days. You didn't even have six hours.

"We’ll stock up on supplies and hire a carriage in the village. Can’t have a princess travelling on foot the whole way—“

“I—I can’t go to the village.”

He stopped, and gave you a confused look. “Why not? Are you tired? Are you hurt? Did that vampire bite you somewhere I didn’t see?”

“It’s just—well, the thing is—“ You racked your brain for any plausible excuse, pulling up whatever you could recall about New Transylvania’s human settlements, whatever your father had told you about them. But all you could remember was that it had its own castle, not so different from your own…

A castle. With a king and a queen. And more importantly, there was a prince…

An idea started to form. 

“Well, you see, I can’t go to the village because I don’t want the prince finding out my whereabouts,” you said before you could regret it. “I’m betrothed to him. I—I ran away. I got lost. A vampire found me. Then you came along.”

You felt a strange hammering in your chest when he didn’t reply immediately. When all he did was just look at you with those bewitching blue eyes, and it was as if he had put you under a spell. Was this what humans felt like when vampires compelled them? Because you couldn’t look away either.

Anger. Hatred. Fear. Regret. Humans were so simple to read, even when they thought they were hiding it. But with the Six Eyes, you only had more questions. Had you convinced him? Did he believe you? Or could he tell you were lying? It only drew you in deeper.

But then he was nodding. “Well, that explains everything,” he said at last. “I was actually wondering what a princess from a far away kingdom was doing in the middle of a forest at night in New Transylvania, but I thought it impolite to ask.” He turned sharply in another direction. “Change of plans. No village. We’re heading this way now.”

You hesitated. “Where are you taking me?”

Satoru Gojo’s smile widened. “To my home, of course. I’m guessing you need a place to hide, am I right? And contrary to what everyone believes, I don’t actually live in the trees.”

You should have just gone to the village. 

Now you were stuck in the dining room of a decaying manor, alone with a vampire slayer, trying not to grimace as a bowl of what looked harrowingly similar to sludge was placed on the long table. Thick and brown and steaming. Not so different from the stuff Uraume fed to the humans in your castle’s pens.

And the smell—it was odious. It made you want to gag. But the last thing you wanted to do was insult the Six Eyes. 

“Is something wrong with the stew, Your Highness?”

Your face must have shown it because he’d stopped stirring his own bowl. 

“No, not at all.” You smiled, tightly. “It’s just that… I’m not very hungry right now.”

Unfortunately, your stomach chose that moment to betray you, a growl echoing throughout the silence of the dining room. 

The corners of his eyes crinkled upwards. He pressed his lips together, as if trying to keep a straight face, and perhaps, for the first time, your cheeks warmed.

“I know it’s not on par with the kind of fare you’re used to," he said. "But I promise you it’s not as bad as it looks. You must have been out in the cold for hours. A little nourishment will make you feel better. At least take a few bites before you retire for the night.”

Bite. What you’d really like to bite was him. You hadn’t fed the whole night, and it didn’t help that his scent was very, very appealing. Such as humans had different tastes in the food they ate, vampires, too, had their own preferences. Your father favoured bitter blood, with a healthy dose of misery and suffering. Naoya—before you knew he preyed on children—always took his blood young, barely cross the coming of age. And as for you—

There was no blood that smelled as exquisite as what was flowing in Satoru Gojo’s veins.

You tried not to think about how delicious his neck looked, and forced yourself to pick up your spoon. You skimmed the surface of the stew, avoiding the dubious chunks bobbing about, brought it to your mouth, and took a very, very tiny sip.

It was horrendous. You were better off eating rat shit.

With every five scoops he took, you made yourself take one, swallowing down each mouthful with so much force that it must have looked like torture, because he was grinning. 

You frowned. “Do you find me funny, Six Eyes?”

He chuckled, and leaned slightly forward. “More entertaining than funny, I assure you, Your Highness. And please, it’s Satoru. Only dead things call me Six Eyes.”

You didn’t miss the irony of it. “Right… Satoru—so, do you live here alone?”

“Not exactly,” he said. “There’s my little witch boy, Megumi. But he comes and goes whenever he pleases. Unless I need him for a job, he mostly boils grass and sells them as love potions in the villages.”

You counted your lucky stars. Apart from this Megumi fellow, the only occupants here were Satoru and the child he’d left sleeping in one of the rooms. That should make it easy for you to escape this creepy estate—and creepy it was, even for an immortal predator such as yourself. Unlike the candle-lit halls of your own castle, this place was the epitome of doom and gloom. Barren. Mottled. Inside, the cold stone walls were thick with shadows, the dusty furniture like forgotten skeletons. The grounds surrounding the manor house were not much better, resembling a graveyard for dead leaves and brambles, surrounded by towering iron fences, affixed with spikes at the top.

Thank Lucifer you had wings. You’d wait until he retired for the night, and then make your escape.

You steeled yourself, and finished the foul stew. You had a couple of hours left until sunrise. If you hurried, you’d be able to reach your castle before you were reduced to corpse dust. 

“Thank you for the meal,” you said, standing. “If it’s alright, I’d like to rest now. Tonight’s… adventures have left me positively exhausted.”

“Of course, of course.” He rushed to his feet, and began leading the way out the dining room and up a creaking grand staircase to a hall full of doors. He stopped at one of them, and opened it, standing aside for you to enter. “The best room for the best—ah… never mind. After you, Your Highness.”

As you squeezed past him, this close, all your thoughts narrowed on how good he smelled, and a particularly delicious spot just below his ear. 

Satoru’s voice lowered, his previously circumspect manner switching like the sudden turning of tides to something that sprung heated coils below your stomach. “You’re staring, Your Highness,” he said, those blue eyes fixed on you. “Do I have something on my neck?”

You regretted flinching. “What? N-no. Nothing. I wasn’t…” your voice trailed off. You cleared your throat, and quickly put as much distance between yourself and him as possible. “Well, good night. And you don’t have to call me Your Highness.”

“Oh?” Satoru leaned his broad frame against the door like a very tempting feast. Your empty stomach fluttered. “Then what should I call you?”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something.” It didn’t really matter. It wasn’t as if you’d be around to hear it. “I’ll, ah, see you in the morning.”

He gave you a smile you couldn’t decipher. “I’ll be waiting, princess.”

When he finally left, you loosened the breath you’d been holding all this while. He might still be lurking around so you couldn’t leave just yet. 

Left with time to kill, you began pacing around the surprisingly lavish room. It had been cleaned out, almost like Satoru had expected to have guests. Perhaps this was where he usually slept, and was courteous enough to relinquish it to you for the night. But he was also courteous enough to kill Naoya, so you should stop thinking about him. 

You didn’t know how long you waited, but you deemed it long enough that he was most likely sleeping by now. The bedroom’s window was too small for you to squeeze through, which left you with no choice but to slowly—ever so slowly—turn the knob and inch the door slightly ajar.

The yawning silence of the hallway greeted you as you peeked out. Darkness had never bothered you—your vision was built for it. You slipped out of the room, wincing as the door creaked shut behind you. 

Your feet made no sound as you hurried past the stained glass arches and down the grand staircase, taking two steps at a time. Thankfully, some of your vampiric abilities were still ingrained in human form—night vision, superior stealth—and you reached the carved double doors of the manor’s entrance without any trouble. 

Your hands reached for the dull brass handles when a loud yawn broke through the silence.

You spun, your chest seizing, and found the child Naoya had almost beaten to death standing by a small archway, looking very much alive.

The child yawned again. “About time. I was getting sick of standing around.”

You frowned. “I’m going for a stroll. Go back to sleep, child.”

“A stroll?” A familiar voice spoke then. A voice that froze your entire body stiff. “In the middle of the night? How odd you are, princess.”

Out of the shadows in the archway, like a spectre that hadn’t been there before, stepped Satoru Gojo.

He smiled. “Would you like some company? I’m wide awake, as you can see, and Megumi here doesn’t mind. We’ll bring him along just in case.”

Megumi? Your eyes darted to the child, who grumbled inaudibly. He knew the child? And Megumi was a… he?

Satoru extended an arm towards you. “So, what do you say, princess? It will be safer with the both of us. Who knows what manner of creature might be lurking in the bushes.” His teeth flashed in the most wicked way. “Creatures like you, for example.”

A heaviness seeped into your muscles, calcifying your bones. You couldn’t feel your legs. Neither could you tear your eyes away from his penetrating blue gaze. 

“You know…” your voice was barely audible. If there was ever a good time for your body to move, it was now. But you were trapped. Paralysed. “You’ve known the whole time.”

“I can never understand why you vampires like to think I’m an idiot. Of course I know.” He lifted a finger. “One, my eyes can see through anything. Excellent perception, remember? And no human alive can be as beauti—“ He stopped, as if he’d almost given something away. “Forget number two. You get my point.”

“If you’re going to explain your whole plan, then hurry up,” said Megumi. “I want to go back to sleep.”

Plan? They had a plan?

“You’re ruining the suspense, darling Megumi. I was going to let her—it—ponder for awhile longer before telling her—it—that we’ve been tracking its movements for quite some time now. Weeks, actually. That everything was fabricated and we used you as bait, and it was no coincidence that you were almost eaten by her former lover, which, of course, I’d never let happen to you, my darling Megumi.”

Megumi scoffed. “Not like she’s going to stay to hear the whole story.” He pointed at you. “See, she’s so bored she’s already leaving.”

You didn’t bother answering and threw open the double doors. There was no besting the Six Eyes in a fight, so the only other option was to run. You had to shift into your wings and get as high up as possible before he could catch you. If there was one thing you were sure of, it was that he couldn’t fly. 

Dark open skies stretched above you, and without hesitation, you called forth your wings. 

Nothing happened. 

You were still in human form. 

A lazy tapping of boots followed behind you. 

“Ah… right.” Satoru shrugged, too casually. “I forgot to mention that we might have put something in your stew. A spell, to be exact. Well, Megumi did—not me. But I told him to. Did I mention he’s a witch? So I wouldn’t bother with trying to flap those wings.”

Your lungs hollowed out, and for the first time, you understood what fear truly meant, and it was consuming.

But you were your father’s daughter. The Crown Princess of the Night. If this was to be your end, you would face it with dignity. You refused to die a grovelling fool.

“Fine. You win,” you spat at him, but stood your ground, holding your head high. “If you’re going to kill me, then just do it.”

Satoru raised a brow. “What? Oh no, no, no. You’ve mistaken me. You’re my esteemed guest. I’m not going to kill you… yet. That would certainly do me no favours with your father. And I do so want to meet him again.”

It dawned on you then—the plan he orchestrated, your capture—the real target had never been you. 

The Six Eyes was after the King of Vampires. 

Your voice turned venomous. There was no point in hiding your true nature. Not anymore. “You really are a fool if you believe my father will be so easily defeated.”

Satoru answered with his own grin. “Oh, I don’t believe. I know. Because I now have, in my possession, the only thing Sukuna treasures most in his entire undead existence. And I have no doubt he’ll want it back… most desperately.” He gave you a mocking bow. “A warm welcome, Your Most Immortal Highness. You’re stuck here with us whether you like it or not, so I urge you to make yourself at home.”

You were hungry. 

There was nothing but rodents. Small mice squeaking in the dim corners of the halls, and big, fat rats scurrying about in the barren larder, picking on scraps of rotten vegetables. 

But you would not stoop so low… not until you had to. Three nights had passed since your last feed, and you knew that the Six Eyes knew vampires could technically survive without blood, though they’d be immensely weakened, reduced to a husk—a withered shell of themselves, like a dried prune. But they wouldn’t die. Not truly. 

He was starving you on purpose. The bastard. And perhaps it was even more wicked that he gave you free reign to wander about the manor estate as you pleased, yet denied you of the very sustenance you craved. 

And worst of all? The most delicious blood you’d ever smelled was flowing in the veins of the very man who held you hostage. It seemed you were not only a captive, but captivated with the thought of biting him.

Your skin was starting to itch. The first sign of withdrawal. You’d never experienced it before—being a princess and all that—but it seemed like you were experiencing a lot of firsts as of late. None of them particularly enjoyable. 

You stomped through the garden, as if the snow you crushed underneath your slippers were to be blamed for your current predicament. Dirt clung to the hem of your dress, torn fabric hanging off and exposing your shoulder to the chilly, midnight air. But you’d rather your own clothes than the unsightly peasant’s sack one of them—the Six Eyes or the child—had left outside your bedroom door for you to change into. 

Not wanting to sequester yourself in the manor and breathe the same air as Satoru Gojo—and his maddening scent—you’d come out to the gardens the moment the sun disappeared, only returning to lock yourself in your room again right before dawn. At first, you’d wondered why you weren’t followed. Surely they’d anticipate you would risk the spikes and try to climb over the fence. Your suspicions were soon confirmed when you realised that the fences surrounding the estate had simply… vanished.

And in replacement was an infinite sea of snow, stretching on and on and around the perimeter of the estate. White and never-ending. That little witch boy must have put some kind of enchantment on this place. Whenever you tried to cross what you remembered was the threshold between the property and the outside world, it was like walking in loops, because you’d just pop back out a few steps behind. 

You wandered through the statue garden, where a collection of stern, moss-covered figures stared down at you, as if they were passing judgement on you for disobeying your father, and now you were paying the price for that stupidity.  

“Searching for stray cats to feed on, princess?”

Satoru Gojo stepped out from behind a faceless statue, as if he’d materialised out of thin air. 

You scowled at him. “What do you want?”

He chuckled. “Not so decorous anymore, are you, princess? I was just dropping by to check on how my lovely guest is faring—“

“I’ll fare better when you let me leave this forsaken place.”

“Come now, it’s not that bad. Haven’t I provided you with every comfort? You have a nice room, you can go about the estate as you please, do whatever you wish. Why, I don’t think I’ve treated any vampire this graciously before—well, not that it ever gets to that point since they would already be dead. Like that lover of yours.”

“Stop calling him that. He’s not my lover,” you snapped. “And if you’re here to merely goad me on, then do kindly fuck off. I don’t wish to spend the rest of my walk listening to your inane drivelling.”

“Still pissy, I see, which means you’re doing more than fine.” He shrugged. “Shame. I was going to offer you some blood, but since you’re so energised, I guess you won’t be needing it.”

“If you’re slicing up rats to offer to me, then you can go feed it up your—“

“Rats? Who said anything about rats? You think I don’t know creatures like you are only sustained with one type of blood?”

“You think I’d believe you would draw blood from a human to feed me?”

“Well, I wouldn’t need to draw blood from anyone. I’d just let you take a bite.”

You couldn’t tell if he was being serious. “And who is this person? A condemned prisoner you bought off the gallows? I don’t drink tainted blood.”

“Heavens, no. I would never be so crude, princess. Not even when I slay you…eventually.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Then what kind of human is it?”

“Only the best kind.” His grin widened. “Me, of course.”

Your throat bobbed, and worse, he noticed. He propped himself against the edge of the statue’s pedestal, and tilted his head aside. 

“This is what you’ve been staring at, am I right?” He traced a finger down the side of his neck, taunting. Unravelling the firm grip you had on your self control from the inside out in a matter of seconds. 

You dug your toes into the sharp points of your slippers, refusing to lose any more composure. “How do I know you’re not lying?”

“Why would I? There’s no reason to. I need you looking alive and well for when your father comes to collect you. That is, after he agrees to my demands, which will take some time. It seems being alive for centuries can turn one dreadfully stubborn. Though, I do have something I’d like you to do for me first…”

 He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a small vial filled with shimmering blue liquid.

“It’s the same stuff we put into your stew,” he said, holding up the vial for you to better see. “The previous spell should be wearing off, and we can’t have you suddenly sprouting wings. I’m going to need you to drink it before you drink me. ”

A bargain. You should have known his offer came with conditions. And could it even be called manipulation if he wasn’t trying to hide it?

Whether you accepted or not, the outcome would be the same. You’d remain stuck here. It was either starve and turn into a prune, or take the potion and feed on him. Whichever you chose, you still wouldn’t have your wings.

Why make it harder, was what you convinced yourself as you trudged over and snatched the vial, uncorked it, and poured it down your throat, all the while glaring at him. 

“There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?” He said, catching the empty vial you flung back at him, tossing it aside. He patted his lap. “Come here, princess. Time for your reward.”

The annoying tug in your chest piqued again, progressing to a thunderous pounding as you approached, and lowered yourself onto him.

This close—touching—the heady scent of him engulfed you. Irresistible. Intoxicating. 

But you weren’t about to let him reduce you to a mewling buffoon. He’d had the upper hand for long enough. You were born an apex predator. You held the uncontested throne at the peak of the foodchain.

And you would show him exactly how you treated your prey. 

You smiled, and placed your hands on him, sliding them down the solid plain of his chest. Your voice lowered to a soft melody. “There’s something I’ve been wondering about, and I think you can help me out with it, Satoru…”

You sensed his pulse quicken, but those blue eyes remained fixed on you in calm amusement. “Oh? Now I’m curious. As I’ve said before, all you have to do is ask. Though it doesn’t mean you’ll get the answer you’re hoping for.”

Your hand moved up to his undeniably stunning face, tracing the sharp line of his jaw. “I couldn’t help but notice that you find me beautiful. Is it true? Do I appeal to you?”

A corner of his lips curved upwards. “Are you trying to compel me, princess? If so, you need not bother. I’ll simply tell you that while I may find you very, very attractive, I will never forget what you are. What you and your kind do to humans. What your true nature is—” the glimmer in his eyes darkened. “Cold. Heartless. A stain on this world. A creature that should be sent back to the deepest pits of the underworld.”

You felt something sharp dig into the side of your waist, and looked down.

Silver glinted back at you, pale moonlight reflecting off the polished blade.

“A knife?” You laughed. “Are you flirting with me? How romantic.”

He wound an arm around you, locking you in place against the blade’s tip.

“Thrilling, no?” He smirked. “Wouldn’t want you sucking me dry the first time when we have so many more nights to spend like this.”

Oh, he was good. Too good. You’d never met a human who resisted your compulsion this effectively, and at the same time, compelled you right back. 

But two could play his game. 

Your hand trailed to the back of his neck, fingers weaving into his soft, snowy hair. “Clearly, Satoru, you have never been bitten before. Because you wouldn’t be saying that to me if you had. Because instead, you’d be begging me to drain you to a corpse.” 

You fisted his hair, and yanked his head aside. Your lips grazed up the length of his delectable neck.

“Are you ready, Six Eyes?” you whispered. “If there’s one thing I can promise you, it’s that this will be your awakening, and your biggest regret.”

That delicious pulse of his raced under his skin. But he merely scoffed, “Do your best, princess.”

You parted your lips, and what was previously blunt canine teeth started to elongate, sharpening into two pin-prick points. 

And finally, your fangs sunk into his flesh. 

The taste of him—it decimated the world around you. There was no before. There was no after. Only the overwhelming high that floated inside and through you. An inexplicable, devastating pleasure that gushed down your throat and drummed through every fibre of your being. 

If such a thing as heaven existed, then it was him. 

A soft groan. His grip on your waist tightened. “This is—fuck….”

You gulped down more of him, helpless to the ultimate bliss that consumed you. The better he felt, the more you wanted. More than this. More than blood. You wanted everything.

All of him.

Still gripping his hair, you slid your free hand back down his chest, and then further down, and down some more, until you felt him—the thick, straining length of him, hard against your palm. 

Another groan escaped him, louder this time, as you rubbed him through the fabric of his breeches. And the sound he made…it unravelled you, just as much as you knew you were unravelling him. You wanted to hear him again. You could hear him forever.

“Don’t...” His voice had deepened to a slow lull as you increased both the pressure of your hand and your mouth on his neck. “Oh god—yes…”

A muffled crunch. Something heavy had fallen on the snow, and you knew it was his knife. Then his hands were on you, ripping your dress in half down the neckline. 

Icy winds kissed your cold skin, and then his hand was on your breast, the other underneath your skirt, dragging up and up and dipping between the apex of your thighs. 

You moaned, a stream of blood leaking down the side of your mouth, as his warm fingers met what you couldn’t hide, sliding up the centre of your slick folds. 

Never—never before had anyone made you lose yourself like this. Not Naoya. Not all your past suitors. And for a human to—how was he even moving? He was supposed to be pliant. Limp. A puddle of mush under your thrall. 

Instead, your moans grew louder as his fingers worked you in broad strokes. Your feeding grew careless, more blood spilling out and smearing around your mouth. 

You would eat him alive. You would—

You released the fastening on his breeches, tugging the strings loose.

His breath hitched. “What are you—“

You unlatched, your fangs receding back into teeth as you found his gaze. And in his eyes, you saw a war. A collision of heaven and hell. Temptation and sin. The unmistakable glaze of lust, and perhaps, something more. 

“Hush, Satoru,” you said, placing a finger on his lips. Licking his blood off your own. “I’m not done yet.”

You pulled away, and bent on your knees before him. You yanked his breeches down further, freeing his cock—thick and flushed and hard enough to ache. It was a beast.

And damn propriety, you needed all of it. Now.

You pressed your lips to his tip, and licked him. Licked at the beads of moisture seeping out his slit, and then took him in your mouth, and sucked.

“God, I—you’re… fuck it.” He let out a low, guttural groan. His fingers dived into your hair. He seemed to have collected enough of himself, because his voice steadied. “You want me this bad, princess? You can have me.”

You felt the rough tug of his fists in your hair, gripping you so tight your couldn’t move on your own accord. Then he was shoving the full length of him down your throat. 

You gagged, constricting around his thickness that filled you entirely. Your hands clutched onto his hips for purchase, eyes shuttering as he manoeuvred your head to pump you full of him, right up to the hilt. 

“I will vanquish you,” he said. “One day. This, I swear. But today, I will do it with my cock.”

In one swift motion, he pulled out. The next thing you knew, you were bent facing the statue, hands on the cracked pedestal as he lifted your skirt, and plunged two fingers into you. 

It was—your mind blanked.

You cried out as he drove into you, so deep, so unforgiving, his fingers curling just right, as if he knew the exact way to break you apart. 

“So wet, princess,” he murmured, breath ghosting your ear. “And all I did was bleed for you.”

You didn’t get the chance to retort. His fingers thrust again, harder, obscene sounds spilling from the tight clutch of your body. Every pump made your knees buckle, every curl of his knuckles tore another strangled moan from your throat.

His other hand slid up your spine, fingers trailing your exposed skin until they closed around the back of your neck, making you arch for him like you existed for nothing else.

He pressed his lips to the shell of your ear. “You’re going to come on my fingers,” he said, voice quiet as the knife he hadn’t bothered retrieving. “And then I’m going to fuck you. Right here. In front of all my stone-faced ancestors. Let them watch your fall from grace.”

You should snarl. You should spit in his face.

Instead, you rocked back on his fingers like a starving creature chasing a high.

Because that was what he was—your undoing. The deadly storm you couldn’t help but be drawn into. 

“Look at you,” he whispered, and there was a softness in his tone that didn’t match with the words he spoke. “Princess of the Night, losing herself on a human’s hand. If there’s ever a sight I shall remember, it is this…”

He shoved his fingers deeper. You gasped as he curved inside you, so perfectly, dragging a sound from your throat you didn’t recognise, and you shattered, a brutal climax consuming you so fully you couldn’t think past the blinding stars in your vision. 

He withdrew his fingers, making you shudder at the sudden emptiness—only for him to grab your hips, drag you back against him, and grind the hard length of his cock between your thighs, sliding along your soaked heat.

You nearly collapsed.

“Say it,” he murmured, lips dragging down your throat from behind. “Say you want me inside you.”

You heard it clearer this time. He might not be fully compelled but the aphrodisiac from your bite was still flowing inside him. But beneath the manic frenzy, hidden behind the veil of his rough words and rough hands, you didn’t miss it… his desire. His desperation. For you. 

So you spoke what he couldn’t bring himself to say, your voice spilling into the night like a confession.

Not a plea. A recognition. 

“I want you, Satoru… I can’t help it.”

A hitch in his breath. A tremor in his grip. A ripple of unseen power, stirring like a beast awakened.

“You—” his voice frayed. “You’re—fuck.”

He couldn’t even finish the sentence as he twisted you around to lift you up, legs straddling him, and backed you up against the statue, pinning you tight against unyielding stone. 

Yours mouths crashed together, a clash of tongue and teeth, the leash barely restraining the both of you snapping at last. Your hands were on him. His hands were on you. A melding of fire and ice, consuming one another with no end. 

And with his tongue filling your mouth, he dropped you down on his cock. 

You moaned into him, feeling him go deeper, and deeper still. Until you felt him everywhere. In your bones, in your breath. In the frantic, traitorous flutter you barely recognised as a pulse. 

You shouldn’t feel like this. You shouldn’t feel at all. Not for a human. Not for a slayer. Not for him. What you thought was hunger for his blood was—

He thrusted into you again, and you lost your train of thought. All that you were narrowed on the way his cock was stretching you out, so exquisitely, that you could only clench harder around him. As though your body had decided on its own that he belonged there.

“Why do you—” Satoru bit out, only to choke on a groan as your body clamped around him again like a vice. “Why the hell does this—why must you feel so fucking good—”

Eyes heavy-lidded, you peered up to find his gaze fixed on you. An incandescent blue that overwhelmed you, his pupil blown wide, hair tousled from your grip, dark red smears painted all over his neck.

And you realised what he already had. That he was ruined for you just as much as you were for him.

“You shouldn’t fit me like this.” His lips brushed against yours, so tender it jarred you. “You shouldn’t fit like you were made for me…”

A crackle in the air. A surge of—something bigger… ancient. Something inevitable—coiling between and around your bodies. Humming under your skin. Vibrating through your blood. Like a thread pulled taut. A door the both of you hadn’t meant to open.

Something binding.

Something was wrong. 

Your kind didn’t pull. Your kind didn’t bind. Your kind didn’t—

Then Satoru was laughing. An incredulous, bitter laugh. “Oh, this is cruel... fate just loves to fuck with me.”

Before you could form a reply, he was fucking into you again. Harder this time. Relentless. A man possessed. Your fingers dug into his back, clawing against his tunic. 

“S-Satoru—ahn!” You cried out his name. Over and over again as he impaled you, each deep, savage thrust obliterating your mind to dust. Ripping your soul from your body. 

Release barrelled through you as he pushed you over the edge. A bottomless freefall that wiped your mind clean of anything save the explosive rush encompassing you in its totality.  Then you felt him, warm and spilling into you with a final thrust. 

But you didn’t let go. Neither did he. Your mouths found each other again, moving in a rhythm of pure instinct, long and slow, deep and searching for the very thing you could not yet name. 

If you could, you would stay like this forever, with him buried inside you and the heat of his caresses against your tongue. Wrapped in his arms until your bodies became one. 

And for the first time, you were not cold. 

Then Satoru was pulling away.

Gently, he set you back down, and picked up his coat you just now noticed was lying in the snow. He threw it around your shoulders and pulled it closed, the heavy fabric settling over your bare chest where your dress hung in tatters.

He stepped back, and released a heavy breath. 

“Go home, princess,” he said. 

You didn’t think you heard him right. “You’re—you’re letting me leave?”

“There’s a vial in your right pocket.” He gestured at his coat around you. “It cancels out any spell’s effects. I was going to use it if you had succeeded in compelling me, but I guess you’ll need those wings if you want to make it back before sunrise. Megumi’s barrier enchantment answers to my will, so you should be able to cross the threshold now. Besides, I’d advice against walking—I dug up a lot of pits around the area.”

You stared at him. 

He was serious. The look on his face confirmed it, for it was a look you could only recognise as utter defeat. After everything—your capture, his plan to lure your father, his repeated threats to kill you—he would just…send you off?

“Why?” you asked.

But Satoru was already retreating. He laughed, as if he couldn’t believe it himself. “Now there’s a question that won’t do you any good if I answer.”

You watched him head back in the direction of his miserable, decaying manor. 

Your feet moved before you could think.

“Wait—“ you called out. Saw him hesitate. “What if—what if I stayed?”

His shoulders tensed, but he didn’t turn around. His reply came too quick. To easily. “My, my, and here I am thinking you’re smarter than this.” He waved his hand, flippantly. “Game’s over, princess. Happy flapping.”

This was it. This was your cue to leave. But instead, you were moving faster, as if there was an invisible string tied around the both of you, connecting you together, and it was pulling you towards him. 

You grabbed his arm, stopping him mid-stride. Satoru’s gaze darted to you, as if he hadn’t meant to but couldn’t help it. 

You reached for his face, your palm resting softly against his cheek.

“If you’re going to lie, Satoru,” you said. “At least look at me while you do it.”

A flicker in his infinite blue eyes, and for once he looked… lost. Like he’d stopped fighting. Not surrender, but acceptance. Like he’d uncovered a terrible truth—a force he knew he could not win.

It was snowing. White flakes drifted down from the sky like a shower of feathers, as quiet as Satoru’s voice.

“Princess...” he said. “I—you’re my—“

The sky boomed. 

Not thunder.

A voice. 

A deafening roar that rattled the stars and shook the lands. The furious roar of a great beast smiting his ire down from the heavens. 

A roar you could not mistake for any other.

“Satoru Gojo!” Sukuna’s menacing bellow echoed with the wind, and the night seemed to grow darker. “You thought I wouldn’t find you first?”

Your head snapped up to the sky, at what you could not see outside Megumi’s enchanted barrier. 

You should be relieved. Your father had come to rescue you. He would kill the evil slayer and take you back to safety. 

You held Satoru tighter. 

Satoru spared one more second—just one—his eyes completely fixed on you, and in that glance, you saw his whole world. Everything he would not show you.

Then his mask slipped back on.

“Huh, daddy’s early,” Satoru said. “Doesn’t sound too happy, either.”

The sky wavered, like the billowing of an iridescent sheet, and began melting as the enchantment over the manor estate broke down bit by bit, the endless snowy plains beyond the threshold dissolving away. You saw the the iron gates, the spiked fences, the forest—

And descending from the sky—a great winged shadow that blotted out the night itself.

The ground trembled as Sukuna, all eight arms and four eyes, landed a few paces from you and Satoru. You also saw the shift in his expression. The cold, immortal fury morphing into a viciousness you had never seen in him before, as he beheld the sight of you and Satoru, bodies pressed up against each other, your hands still on his face.

But your father did not shout or snarl. He spoke, quiet as looming death, and it was worse. 

“You took my daughter. You used her to threaten me. And now you dare defile her?” Both pairs of Sukuna’s crimson eyes narrowed on Satoru. “Have you been so desperate for my attention all these years that you would resort to such unscrupulous tricks?”

Satoru scoffed, and pulled away from you, striding forward. “Well, you’re here, aren’t you? So I’d say it worked out fine. I should actually applaud you for finding me this quickly, and for breaking through my barrier. Now if you have no more use for Megumi, do inform your big, fat blood-sucking bird flying above my property to return my witch to me.”

You father’s mouth sliced upwards. “I see your perception has not dulled with age, Six Eyes. Though it will make no difference after I’m done with you.”

Another figure swooped down from the sky, pale and slender, dropping next to Sukuna. 

“My king.” Uraume bowed, and then did the same to you. “Princess. I apologise for the wait.”

But you weren’t focused on any part of Uraume other than what they were holding. Bound with ropes, a gag in his mouth, was Megumi, dangling off the ground as Uraume held him up like hunted game. 

“Has the Six Eyes agreed to the terms yet?” Uraume asked, flatly. 

“I doubt he has a choice, unless he doesn’t mind me gutting his little witch and feeding its intestines to my hellhounds.”

“Father—“ you started, but cut yourself short before you said something damning. It was bad enough that you were wearing Satoru’s coat, and your father was a man who never missed a thing…and it’s implications. “I—he didn’t hurt me.”

All four of Sukuna’s eyes slid towards you, narrowing slightly, as if he saw right through your words. “We shall talk, daughter. But later. I have a bargain I wish to strike with the Six Eyes.”

Satoru’s laugh was humourless. “Bargain? I don’t recall inviting you over for tea and cakes. I called you here to kill you, King of the Night. To fight. One on one. Slayer and blood-sucker.”

Sukuna smirked. “But the battle has already begun, slayer. And you have already lost. Why do you think my daughter hasn’t tried to run to my side? Are you so obsessed with killing me that your Six Eyes can see nothing else?”

Satoru fists clenched. “You killed Suguru.”

“He burnt my wife on a pyre.”

You froze.

Your father had never spoken about your mother before. All this time, he’d led you to believe you were the product of an affair with a low-born vampire. That he’d abandoned her but took you in and raised you as his heir. You didn’t even know her name, if she was even alive and wandering about New Transylvania while you were growing up in a castle with an army of servants at your beck and call. That she’d died. 

“You’ve been a thorn in my side, and menace to my kind for long enough, Six Eyes. It’s time to end this,” Sukuna said, the tips of his claws growing longer and longer to sharpened points. “Listen well, Satoru Gojo, because I will not be so generous if I have to repeat myself again. You will surrender yourself. Willingly. In exchange, I will not kill your little witch. You will be coming with me to my castle, where you will await your execution in front of all my subjects. Uraume will stay here until I have sent word. You will be dead by then, but the boy will be freed.”

What? Your body went rigid. No… 

Megumi bit out a muffled protest and shook his head violently. 

Your legs moved towards your father. Past Satoru, who didn’t stop you. 

“There’s no need for this,” you said. “He was going to let me go when you arrived. Leave him here. We’ll go back home. He won’t come after us, I promise.”

Sukuna glanced down at you, his gaze softening momentarily. But he said, “I do not wish to perpetuate this blood feud any longer, and the only way this ends is with his death. You should have a clean slate when you ascend the throne.”

“I don’t want you to kill him—“

“Not here, daughter. Not now.”

“But I—he and I… I think he’s—“

“Fine,” you heard Satoru say behind you. He sighed. “Have it your way. But if I see Megumi in hell, I will personally come back as a very annoying ghost and haunt you for eternity, which is a long time for someone like you.”

You spun, a horrible pit forming in your stomach. “Don’t,” you said. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t—I can’t let you—“

But Satoru wouldn’t meet your eyes. Instead, he turned to Megumi, still gagged and bound, and said, “Remember to spell the roses. Don’t let them die.” Then he yawned, and stretched his arms over his head. “Alright, shall we get moving before I fall asleep? It’s been a long night.”

The entire castle was convinced you had gone mad. 

The princess… reading? Surely you were not the same vampire they knew. The only times you’d ever stepped foot in the library was during lessons. Even then, you’d always convinced your tutors to conduct them in the gazebo, or while you strolled around your gardens, half listening to whatever they were droning on about. You had not seen a point in suffocating yourself among stale air and dusty tomes when you could be outside with the moon and stars. 

That dastardly Six Eyes must have switched you with someone else, everyone thought. Their Crown Princess was gifted in many things—lounging, frolicking, taking long milk baths and ordering the servants around—but academics was not one of them. 

So it was no wonder you had everyone perplexed, and frankly, immensely concerned, when you arrived back at the castle and proceeded to lock yourself up in the library every single night without fail. It had reached a point where you’d ordered for all of your meals to be taken there, and for a cot to be set up so you wouldn’t have to make the long trip back to your quarters when your eyes couldn’t stay open any longer. 

Because, for once in your immortal existence, you had work to do. That, and you had to preoccupy yourself with something, anything, to keep you from agonising over the fact that Satoru was rotting away in the dungeons below. 

Your father had given explicit orders that no one was to visit the Six Eyes until the Red Feast, which was to be the night of his execution. Not even to sneer or spit in his face. And no matter what you said, or how you said it, he wouldn’t change his mind. 

But tonight would be different. You’d done your research. You’d combed through every text on humans, on slayers, on the history of vampires, from ancient scripts to tomes heavier than a tombstone to the most obscure spell books, until finally finding a thread to follow. 

Slowly, laboriously, you put the pieces together. Slowly, you’d understood.

And now you would confirm it. 

When you entered your father’s chambers, you saw that the thick drapes were pulled open. He was by the window, back towards you, already dressed in ceremonial attire. The pale crimson glow of the blood moon, hanging low in the sky outside, glinted off the rubies embedded into the crown he wore. 

“We should have that talk,” you said, without greeting. He would have already guessed why you were here.

“It will have to wait.” He didn’t turn around. “The feast has begun. We have guests to entertain. You are to announce your chosen suitor tonight. The Zenin boy is dead, so I don’t expect it will be him. But it still doesn’t relieve you of the duty you must fulfil.”

“You are executing my bonded mate tonight, father. I think I deserve answers before you slice him in half.”

Sukuna stiffened slightly. “Are you certain you want to toss that term around so carelessly? Is this why you’ve taken a recent interest in books? I’d advice you not to trust everything you read.”

“Careless I may have been, but it is the truth. I cannot deny it. The same as I cannot deny an impending avalanche. He is my mate. You know this as well as I. Perhaps better.”

“And what makes you think I know anything about it?”

“Well, you should since you had one before. You had my mother. She was your mate, wasn’t she? Before you lost her. She may still be. I imagine a force this strong would be able to persist beyond death. It would explain why you’re always so sullen.”

“If you are hoping I will be persuaded into rescinding the execution, then I will have to disappoint you.”

“I am not hoping for anything. I swear to you I will do my duty and pick a suitor tonight. But first, I want answers.”

For a long while, Sukuna didn’t speak. Then he faced you, and nodded once. Barely. “Ask your questions,” he said. “And I will answer what befits answering.”

“Mother was human.”

“That is not a question.”

“And so am I. Not fully, but enough to… feel.”

“Still not a question.”

You approached him, peering up at his towering figure. “Those are facts, father. What I want to know is why—why would you deny me what completes my soul when you know what it’s like to have lost yours?”

You might have imagined it, but you thought you saw his expression soften. There and gone in less than a blink. 

“Because it is not what we are designed for,” he said. “You are a vampire, daughter. You have been raised as one, and will continue to be one for eons. Until the world had crumbled to ashes and dust, and still you will prevail. Humans are fleeting. They only serve us one purpose. You’d do well to understand this.”

“But Satoru is not fully human too, is he?”

The corners of Sukuna’s eyes tightened. “I do not know what he is—perhaps a sorcerer, but those have been extinct a long, long time ago. What I know is that he is mortal enough. His life is finite. To be rid of him now is a mercy, before the attachment grows. In this, you should trust me.”

“It is already irrefutable, father.” You took one of his hands in yours. The one he always favoured using to stroke your hair when you were little. “Was my mother burnt for being attached to you? Because the humans—this Suguru—found out she was involved not only with a vampire, but with their king?”

You felt his hand tense. Then his fingers wrapped around yours, gently. 

“Listen well, daughter, because I’m only going to say this once—“ Sukuna sighed, and it was the loosening of a breath you suspected he’d held in for a lifetime. “The last time I saw your mother was also the last time she saw you. We’d agreed that we would keep you away from anything to do with humans other than feeding on them. To have a relationship with your prey will only complicate things for you. But your mother could never stay away for long, so every few months, I’d visit her, and take her here. She would disguise herself as a servant and watch you from afar for a few hours. Then I would bring her back to the village before dawn. But on the last night—before she was condemned to die—a slayer saw her. Saw me with her. I wanted to go after the slayer, but she assured me nothing would come of it. She believed no harm would befall her because she was human. I shouldn’t have listened. That is the story. Satisfied?”

He let go of your hand and began striding out the room. “Come. We want to be fashionably late, but not rudely so.”

You followed after him. “So I’m not wrong. You can feel, too.”

A quiet scoff.

“Stare at something too long, daughter, and you will find it stares back.”

Satoru was brought out in chains. 

You hadn’t spoken to anyone since gracing the court with your presence, and had remained brooding in the throne beside your father’s on the elevated dias. Besides the occasional nod, all you did was stare at the roses in the garden—the customary location for the Red Feast—and the moon crowning the night sky, painted the same shade as the flowers you adored. 

Your mercurial demeanour did not go unnoticed, though no one dared comment on it. Especially in front of Sukuna, lest they wanted to end up staked in front of the castle gates. They must have assumed you were not too thrilled about having to pick another suitor since Naoya was no more. It was no secret that he’d been the closest candidate to becoming the prince consort. 

But the moment the music stopped, you sat up straighter. 

Two guards appeared, dragging Satoru through the hush of the parting crowd towards the dias. Heavy manacles bound his wrists and ankles. He was still in the same clothes from that night, now soiled and marred with dungeon filth, his snowy hair limp and matted against his head. 

It seemed your father had succeeded in making the infamous Six Eyes look as pathetic as possible on his last night alive, at least in appearance. But where he’d lost was in Satoru’s expression, for there was nothing pathetic about the resolve in his blue eyes.

Eyes that immediately, implicitly, found yours as he was made to kneel at the foot of the dias. 

A corner of his lips curved upwards.

“Good evening,” he said, gaze fixed entirely on you. “Nice place you’ve got here—beautiful.”

It took everything in you not to shoot up from your seat and run to him. You were clutching the armrests of the throne so hard that the wood started cracking. 

And the court must have seen it, because they took your reaction as their cue to hiss and jeer.

“He is distressing the princess!” someone shouted.

“Scum!”

“Rot in hell!”

“Kill him!”

“Enough,” Sukuna said. 

The silence that followed was instantaneous. 

Sukuna stood, and approached the edge of the dias in a single stride to peer down at Satoru. Your father had never been one to drag a moment with long speeches, preferring to cut straight to the crux of the matter. In this, he was no different.

“I won’t ask if you have any last words, because they are not important,” he said, cold and imperious. “What matters is that with your death, we shall finally have some semblance of peace.”

Sukuna held out his hand. Another guard appeared, hurrying up the dias with a large case, and from it, your father pulled out a simple longsword.

A sword with a blade of silver.

Gasps escaped the gathered court, more than a few retreating back a few steps. 

Sukuna ignored them, and continued. “You will die tonight, Six Eyes, by the very weapon slayers like you use to kill our kind.” He stepped down the dias. “Guards, prepare him.”

You watched as Satoru was forced to bend over on his knees. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t hear anything past the roaring storm in your head, the pounding in your chest. You tore your gaze from Satoru to the blade your father was raising high in the air, positioned for a clean cut.

“Let’s get it over with,” Sukuna said.

He brought the blade down. 

“Wait!”

The blade halted, inches from Satoru’s neck.

You were standing. 

Your father was looking at you, and so was every member of the court. 

Satoru was looking at you.

You willed your voice to steady, and spoke. “I have decided on who is to be my betrothed, father. I wish to announce it.”

Sukuna frowned. “It can wait until after the execution.”

“No. It cannot.”

Your body was moving down the dias, then in front of the silver sword and your father.

“It cannot wait,” you said, “because I choose to be betrothed to Satoru Gojo.”

The escalation happened gradually. For awhile, the only sound was the wind as confusion washed through the entire court. They weren’t sure if they heard you right, only for realisation to hit like a hailstorm when you bent down and took Satoru’s face in your hands.

Ever so gently, you stroked his cheek.

“You’re right,” you whispered. “You and me—we were planned all along.”

Satoru stared at you, and in his eyes, you saw his ruination. 

His lips parted. “Princess, I—“

“Traitor!” 

Someone had stepped out of the crowd. Naobito Zenin. Head of the Zenin clan of vampires, and Naoyo’s father. 

“The princess is a traitor,” he seethed, jabbing a finger at you. “Now it makes sense. You think I’d accept that my son, a Zenin, would be killed so easily? She must have conspired with the Six Eyes to murder him. How else can a slayer known to be so incompetent kill so many of us? The princess was never captured. She was helping him. This whole time, she was fraternising with the enemy!”

His accusation seemed to embolden the crowd. Cries of protests resounded through the garden, and now that head of the second most powerful vampire family had denounced you in front of the king, the others were suddenly much braver. 

“Is this how you raised your daughter, King of the Night?” Naobito growled. “To turn against her own kind? To betray us for becoming a slayer’s whor—”

But Sukuna’s own growl shook the very cliff holding his castle. 

“You dare slander my daughter, Zenin?” Your father was no longer calm. “Open that despicable mouth of yours again and I will fill your throat with silver.”

Naobito dared laugh. “You will do nothing of the sort. She may be your daughter, but she’s just signed her own existence to dust. Or is our king not familiar with the law he created himself? Vampires are forbidden from fornicating with humans, on pain of death. She may be a princess, but she is not exempted from it.”

“He is my mate,” you hissed.

That shut Naobito up. But for only a second. Then his face morphed into something hideous. “You are smarter than I took you for—using our most sacred law to hide behind. There hasn’t been a bond amongst our kind in centuries, and even if it is true, merely declaring it will not save you and your human.”

“That is not what I’m declaring, you swine piss. You forget I also named him my betrothed.”

“Irrelevant. Our law forbids a human to sit on the throne—“

“God,” Satoru’s voice cut him short. “You vampires bicker more than my dead grandmother.” He was still on the ground, the manacles around his ankles keeping him from standing, but he straighten up as much as he could. “Look, there’s a simple way to solve this. Just do what you were going to do before and kill me. There, settled. Now you can all stop fighting over me. I will die, and the princess can go back to being a princess. Happy?”

“No.” You knew what he was trying to do, and you wouldn’t let him. You faced your father. “I do not expect you to break your own laws for me, father. So I will adhere to them,” you said. “Line six hundred sixty three to six hundred sixty six, passage thirty three, volume six of the First Scripture—if a bond is in doubt, then the bonded has the right to prove it by invoking the Sun Trial, after which the claimed bond cannot be refuted should they succeed.”

Sukuna said nothing while he studied you, mouth drawn in a tight line. But you’d caught it—the slight twitch at the corners, something almost akin to approval. He exhaled, quietly, then glanced at the guards.

“Release the human.”

Naobito’s fangs flashed. “This is treachery. I will not stand for this—“

“It is in our laws,” Sukuna interrupted. “Laws that you’ve been proclaiming to know better than me. Are you going to dismiss them now, Zenin?”

“The slayer is still human, and the princess has still committed treason. If you are too weak to strike your own daughter down, then I will do it for you.”

Sukuna’s eyes darkened, but he did not stoop to Naobito’s taunt. “By all means, kill her if you want,” he said. “But you will have to hunt her down first, in accordance with the Sun Trial. As for the human—“

The manacles around Satoru’s wrists had barely touched the ground when Sukuna stepped forward and, in one swift motion, pierced the silver blade through his stomach. 

Satoru’s eyes widened as he stared down at the blade pulling out of him. Stared at the dark gush of blood, pooling. Dripping onto the snow-covered ground before his own body fell, collapsing.

“No…” Everything in you shattered. “No, no, no…”

You dropped down next to Satoru. You were calling his name. Using your hands to staunch the blood, but it was futile. 

“The Six Eyes has received his punishment,” Sukuna declared. “The Sun Trial is now commenced. The Crown Princess and her mate will have to survive until the next nightfall, after which their bond will be recognised, and their union protected by our most sacred law. In the meantime, all vampires, from any status, will have free reign to hunt them down until dawn breaks.” He tossed the blade aside. “On your feet, daughter.”

You were shaking. You glared up at your father. “I will never forgive you for this.”

But Sukuna only peered down, cold and imperious.

“You do not need to,” he said. “Now run.”

At his words, you moved on instinct.

You shifted. Your wings unfurled. 

Then you were hauling Satoru up into the sky. 

You were going to die. 

“There,” you said, dragging Satoru behind a dense copse of trees. “We can’t stay long. You’re going to bleed out if we don’t get you to the village soon.”

“I’m… fine…”

“You’re dying, Satoru.”

“Dying… not dead…”

Gently, you leaned him against a tree trunk, and crouched down next to him. You tore more fabric off your skirt and added to the blood-soaked wrappings around Satoru’s stomach. 

Satoru winced as you knotted it tightly over his wound. His lips were pale, his breaths shallow and struggling. 

“You should go,” he said, finally stringing his sentences better now that he was resting.

“I’m not going anywhere without you.”

“We won’t reach the village… you know this.”

You did, but you wouldn’t accept it. You pressed your hands against his stomach, applying more pressure. “We’ll find a way,” you said. 

Flying was out of the question. The sky was infested with vampires. The entire court was out hunting for you, and if you so much as flapped your wings, they would surround you and that would be it. 

The only option was by foot. To dart between the cover of the forest, but darting implied you could move quickly, which wasn’t the case given Satoru’s worsening condition.

His eyes were falling shut.

You slapped his face.

“Don’t you dare close them,” you warned him, panicking. “Not now that I’ve carried your sorry ass halfway through this fucking forest.”

A weak chuckle. “A kiss would’ve been better.”

“I’ll kiss you after we’re done with this blasted trial. That way you’ll have something to look forward to.”

“What if… I say please?”

You hesitated, the thing in your chest you now recognised as your heart, twisting.

You leaned in, and brushed your lips against his. 

Satoru caught your mouth, deepening the kiss, and you couldn’t help but part for him. For his tongue to sweep in and claim you, long and slow, tender and painfully desperate.

“Like heaven…” he breathed. 

You stroked his cheek. “We should get going.”

“I think... I’ll stay here.”

“I told you I’m not—”

“Listen…”

“No. I’m helping you up. We’re going to keep moving—”

“I said listen…” He tilted his head up, and you realised then what he meant.

Because you heard it, too.

The lack of sound. No more flapping wings. No more screeching.

The sky was silent. 

Which only meant one thing.

Satoru’s gaze met yours again. “You have to go…”

But you’d known this would happen. Your plan hadn’t been to reach the village, but to get him as close as possible before sunrise. You’d perish, but at least there was a higher chance another human would pass through and find him. 

You steeled yourself, and took his arm. “Come on.”

“Princess—“

“Stop being so stubborn. How many times do I have to repeat that I’m not going anywhere without you.”

“I’m not… the stubborn one here…”

“Move, Satoru.”

But he refused, slumping his weight down further against the tree trunk. 

“I said move!”

“You move…”

“You stupid, stupid fool!” You wanted to slap him again, but then you thought he might just keel over and die just to prove a point. You dropped back down on the ground. “Fine. Stay if you want. So will I.”

He choked out a laugh. “Am I…so irresistible?” 

“You are annoying, that’s what.”

“Come here…”

You let him wrap you in his arms, careful to lean against him where you were sure he wouldn’t hurt. Snow was falling, the shadows of the forest shrinking as you sat with Satoru in silence. You sensed the uneven beat of his pulse slowing. 

“What is it like?” you asked. “The sun?”

“Nothing… compared to you.”

“You have to say that. We are bonded.”

“We don’t have to be… for me to think you’re… beautiful…”

You brushed away the hair on his face, and your fingers continued tracing down his jaw, over his lips, as if memorising very line and curve of the man you were supposed to kill. The human who was supposed to be your prey. The slayer you were supposed to despise. The mortal you were never supposed to give up eternity for.

“Well, Satoru Gojo,” you whispered. “You’ve done it. You’ve vanquished me.”

His breaths were slow, the lids of his eyes heavy. But he smiled. “How cruel of me.”

A pale, golden glow broke through the trees. You stared at it, entranced, watching the snow covering the forest floor shimmer. Watched the skeletal branches of the barren trees lighten, the texture on the barks growing defined. 

You watched the sunlight, and it was everything you’d imagined it to be.

You skin started to prickle. 

Then it was searing. 

You crumpled inwards. Your whimpers turned into cries into screams. It was like being tossed into a flaming hearth. Like having the constant lick of fire against your skin, eating you to the bone.

The pain… it was excruciating. 

You didn’t notice Satoru shifting until he was on top of you. Until the burning ebbed slightly and you found his body curled over your own. In that moment, you realised why he hadn’t wanted to move. With his own broad frame, and the shadows casted by the closely packed trees, he’d created a shield for you.

But light was ever fluid, and it leaked into the crevices of your shelter. Biting. Gnawing. Like the scraping of a candle flame against the bare spots of your skin. 

“Be still,” Satoru breathed. “Or it will… be worse.”

“It hurts…”

“You’ll be alright… you have… me…” He pulled you in tighter underneath him. “Talk to me… tell me something…”

He was trying to distract you, but you couldn’t think past the burning. 

“I’ll go first,” he said. “The night we met… I think I was already in love with you, but I… I couldn’t admit it… After Suguru’s death, I went mad… Megumi… he warned me against it, but I… wouldn’t listen… I sneaked into Sukuna’s castle… and saw you…”

It was too painful to speak, so you just whimpered. 

Satoru continued, “You were in the garden… in a red dress surrounded by red roses… and I think… I made up that plan partly to… give myself an excuse to see you again… to keep coming back…”

He told you about the first time he saw you fly. That he’d almost ran out of his hiding place when he saw you throw yourself out a window, and then almost given himself away a second time when he heard you laughing as you swooped up into the sky. So beautiful. So free. 

He also told you about the first time he saw you feed, and how he realised he could never have you. That he had planted roses in his own garden to remind himself you had thorns. That you were his enemy. That he tried to hate you, everyday, but always ended up failing spectacularly. 

The sunlight was blinding now, seeping through your lids and frying your eyeballs. Your muscles were screaming, your bones were melting, your body a shaking ball of flame beneath him. 

Every time you thought this was it, Satoru would tell you to hold on. Every time you were about to give in and start flailing, Satoru would tell you it was almost over. Just a little while more, he’d say. The sun was coming down, he’d promised. 

Somewhere in between, the agony and the solid weight of his body had melded together, and you could no longer tell one from the other. Time was an unending void, and the lure of death was tasting much, much sweeter.

But then the light began to wane. The scorching brightness behind your eyes dimmed. The flames scorching you alive eased to sweltering to prickling to a cool, winter’s breeze that had you doubting if you were still of this world.

Your eyes squinted open, and the dark veil of night greeted you once again.

“S-Satoru?” you croaked out. 

He didn’t answer. You didn’t remember when he’d stopped speaking, and you were suddenly conscious of his full weight pressing down on you. 

Struggling, you slowly lifted him off you. His body fell limp on the snow, and your hands were on him.

“Satoru,” you shook him. “Satoru, wake up. It’s night.”

Silence. 

“Wake up.”

You shook him harder. 

“Wake up!”

Nothing. 

You stared at him, and there would never be anything more profound than that of your heart shattering. 

“I thought you were beautiful, too,” you whispered, stroking his face. Skin was peeling off your hands like scrolls of burnt parchment, brittle and grey, but you were numb to everything but him. 

You leaned down, and spoke against his still lips.

“Whatever I have been searching for in the skies, I now know it is you.” You kissed him. “Please, come back to me.”

You felt it then. The whisper of a pulse. Barely there. A thread away from snapping. 

He was still alive. 

You didn’t hesitate. Your fingers morphed into claws, tearing into your skin.

Red, dark and fresh, streamed down your palm. You held up his head, parted his lips, and let your blood flow into his mouth, down his throat.

And you waited. For his pulse to stop and the thread of his mortal life to snap, and when it did, the change was immediate.

His fair skin, once the dull, matted tint of a human’s, took on the pale, ethereal sheen of moonlight. His stark white hair was glossier, thicker, the lines of his handsome face sharpening to an incredible definition, and there behind his parting lips—thin and pointed and drenched with your blood—were the beginnings of fangs.

A cough. A splutter.

Blue eyes fluttered awake, peering up at you. And they were now a blue so impossible, it drowned you. 

“So it is done.” 

The voice who spoke did not belong to Satoru, but to the immortal who had appeared, as silent as death itself. 

The night seemed to bend around your father as he stepped towards you.

“The Sun Trial had ended, and so has this ridiculous feud,” Sukuna said, crimson eyes settling on you and Satoru. “You have made your choice, daughter. And now, he will make his.”

Satoru sat up, still dazed. He stared at you, then at Sukuna, then at himself—at the subtle glow of his skin, the new movement his hands made as he turned them in front of his face, at the wound on his stomach, no longer bleeding. His gaze found yours again.

“You—you turned me into—“

“She did you a favour, slayer,” Sukuna said. “You would have died either way—I made sure of it. And you are not a vampire yet until you have fed.”

“I did not ask for this.”

“Then go ahead and die for all I care. Do you really think it is so simple to become one of us? If it was the case, there would be many more of us and less of you.”

Sukuna tossed a vial of red liquid onto the snow.

“A vampire can only turn a human once in their entire existence, and my daughter has, for better or worse, chosen you. I cannot fathom why—she’s always had bad taste in men—but in doing so, you now have a luxury even kings cannot claim.” He gestured at the vial. “So choose. Do your treasure your mortality so much you would die for it, or do you treasure my daughter more than life?”

But your father’s words swam in your head.

“This was your plan all along, wasn’t it?” you said, fixing him with a look that dared him to deny it. “You waited to execute Satoru so I would find a way to save him. You rearranged the books in the library knowing I would come across the Sun Trial and invoke it. You stabbed him with that sword knowing I would choose to turn him.”

Sukuna merely regarded you, calmly, and said, “If you believe I would go to such lengths for you, my daughter, then I will take it as a compliment.” But you saw the tell-tale sign in his jaw. The feather of a twitch. 

There was no point in wringing it out of your father, so instead, you took Satoru’s hands in yours. 

“Despise me if you must,” you said. “Whatever you choose, I will accept it—I will accept it if you take the blood and leave me. I will accept it if you don’t and leave me. But what I cannot accept is not telling you that I love you. I will never stop. You are the shape of my soul, until I am beyond dust. Until time unending.”

Snow fell in the space between you and him. Satoru looked at you, quietly. Completely. For a long while, he didn’t speak. 

Then he sighed. “Megumi’s going to throw a fit.”

Satoru pulled you against him, and like the force that drew you hopelessly together, your mouths found one another, and it was a kiss to end all that was before, and all that would come after. There was only him and you, and two halves of a desperate wish finally becoming whole. 

“My princess,” he murmured against your lips. “You are the cruelest of them all—making me love you for eternity.”

“Do you not want to?”

“I cannot help it.”

You smiled, and kissed him again.

Sukuna cleared his throat. “If you are done slobbering all over my daughter, slayer, then get it over with. I have other pressing matters than standing here and regretting I didn’t separate your head from your body.”

Satoru simply stuck out his hand.

“Then toss the vial over here, old man. As you can see, the princess is clearly incapable of letting me go just yet.”

It was a time of peace, at least for the humans. The legend of the supposedly incompetent yet deadly Six Eyes had become exactly that—a legend. 

New Transylvania had a vampire prince. A prince who only drank donated blood, and only from his jewel-encrusted goblet. A prince who carried a silver sword around, impaling any immortal who dared step foot across the village borders. A prince whom the vampire king received complaints about to no end. A prince who, everyone and the king himself knew, they would be stuck with for the rest of time, because their beloved (unless one wanted to be staked) princess loved him with all her heart. 

And it was glaringly obvious the prince loved her in return, because he made sure to remind everyone of it—the court, the servants, the guards, and any unlucky creature who had the misfortune of hearing them. Every. Single. Night.

“That’s it, princess. God, you’re so fucking tight I’m going crazy,” he groaned as he pounded you against the library stacks. “Go on, let them know who your perfect pussy belongs to.”

“Ahn! Yes! Satoru—fuck—fuck me harder!”

“Who’s cock do you love? Say it.”

“I love Satoru Gojo’s cock!”

It would continue like this for hours, sometimes until dawn, rendering whatever room or hallway the both of you were fucking in completely inaccessible. And if it was out in the gardens, then the castle occupants had the option to stay indoors, or stay outside and have Sukuna pluck out their eyes later. 

Eventually, when even the king’s own ears were staring to bleed, he was forced to hold an intervention with you and Satoru, to establish certain boundaries. Those boundaries being sending the both of you away to torture Megumi instead at Satoru’s estate every fortnight. 

“After you, my love.” Satoru was grinning as he held out a hand.

You took it, and let him help you up the tower’s ledge. Felt his arms winding around your waist, pressing your back against him. 

His lips brushed the shell of your ear. “Shall I catch you?”

“You’re not fast enough.”

“Really? Then I suppose you’ve conveniently forgotten about all the other times I was.”

“Not tonight.” You smiled as you pushed him away, and leapt off the ledge. 

You heard his laughter follow behind.

Wings spread, you soared up high, and chanced a look back.

Only to find him swerving around and in front of you with swift, leathery wings. But unlike your own—the colour of smoke and shadows—his were silvery white, pale as the moon that watched him pull you against him in the air.

He kissed you, deep and slow, like he had all the time in the world. Like the infinite times he did before and the infinite times he would after. 

“It’s not so bad,” he whispered.

“What is?”

A million stars gleamed in his impossible blue eyes. Satoru smiled.

“Forever.”

thank you for reading to the end ilyyy! i originally intended for this fic to be short, but then i caught worldbuilding disease and now it's a whole soulmate arc >.< what do you think? i'd love to know your thoughts ♡

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*** likes and reblogs make my day, but please do not repost this fic or use it with any form of AI. thank you <3

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[madamechrissy]

mdni 18+ - doctor! Gojo (ob/gyn) x fem! reader

gyno! Gojo getting distracted by his patient's coochie (you) inappropriate workplace behavior, breaking oaths, they're awkward lol, fingering, orgasms, spitting, talking you through it, nerdjo, he's shy even knuckles deep inside you <3 (3k)

"Are you comfortable?" Doctor Gojo asks with a friendly smile, washing his hands and looking over his shoulder at you.

Are you comfortable when you're in nothing but an open hospital gown and your feet are in stirrups!? In front of the most gorgeous man you've ever seen!?

No, you're not. You're flustered and embarrassed despite his calm demeanor and how he does everything with ease. You bite down on your lower lip, clutching the little sheet thrown over your lap, nodding.

He dries his hands that you can't help but look at a little too long. Elegant fingers, thick ones that make you blush thinking of going inside you. It's got you swallowing nervously. Trying to remember it's a check up not a damn date.

He's just doing his job, slipping you a little smile, blue eyes glimmering in a myriad of shades. "Latex allergy sweetheart?"

"Huh?" How long are his fingers!?

"Do you have an allergy to latex?" You flush again, shaking your head. "Perfect."

Doctor Gojo sits in front of you, slipping on those gloves and then putting a comforting hand on your thigh. You fucking moan.

You moan.

This is so embarrassing!?

"Sorry," you whisper, shutting your eyes.

"Is it the cramps? I saw you were having some issues with that," he asks softly, white hair falling just a bit over his brow.

"Um. Yes." You have been cramping alot, but this was definitely not that. You try to remember why you're here, looking at him again, almost unable to handle the eye contact. "Really bad ones before my period."

"Scans were all good," he lifts your sheet up and pauses just a moment, eyeing your cunt in what he attempts to do professionally. Yet he can't help but almost spill out how pretty it is, that would not be okay to say, even if he is an expert. "Everything looks great actually."

Yiur thighs clamp shut. He raises a brow. "Sorry!"

"Relax," he gently helps you spread your thighs, blushing himself when he sees you're glistening already. He can't mention it of course but it's dripping between your lips. "Have you had an exam?"

"Of course, just... um... nervous." He hums a bit to himself, parting your folds with soft gloves, you almost moan again, biting down hard. He looks up at you, leaning down just a bit, far too close to your cunt.

You're suddenly so insecure! What if it looks weird to him!? What if he can freaking inhale it, does it smell good? You washed it before coming but what if-

"Take a breath," he murmurs, inspecting your insides and almost whimpering when he sees your hole fucking wink at him. "You're tense, and it'll hurt if you're this tight."

Fuck.

Dr. Gojo just called a patient tight.

"I mean... tight muscles," he's stammering for a moment, you're just too pretty and now you have him nervous. "That's good though, are you um... doing kegals."

You blink.

"Yes? Can you just... tell?" He sighs, trying to remember why the fuck you're here, slipping a finger inside to just the tip, and you clench him over the glove, soaking it.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Yes your muscle response is impeccable," he wants to feel it clenching his tongue, gather all those juices and suck them off his fingers. "Try to relax because for this exam I have to get two fingers inside you. "You're small down there."

"Oh of course," you want to fall off the face of the earth when he pulls his finger back. You feel slippery arousal pouring down your slit, his soft sigh tickling your thigh. "Did you already put that gel stuff on?"

"No," you blush again, so hot your cheeks are on fire, realizing that's all you. "I can but you seem to have a good amount of... natural lubricant."

You're gonna die.

"Want me to grab the cold gel?" He teases, plump lips curling up, you almost ask him to spit on it, but you manage some sense.

"No, it's okay, I trust you," you shouldn't, not when he leans down and spits right on his fingers and watches his own spit move on puffy lips.

He can't do that he's a fucking doctor. How many pussies has he seen!? But the thrill of knowing it's on you had his cock throbbing underneath those purple scrubs, he covers it with his labcoat, watching the bubbles dissolve on your glistening cunt.

"How do you usually loosen up? Don't want to hurt you." You shut your eyes, spreading your thighs more for him.

"Like how do I..."

"You can feel comfortable with me, we need to find out what's making you cramp up too."

"I tense really bad before sex too, it doesn't feel the best."

"Oh..." Satoru eases a finger inside again, curving it up and watching you jerk. "When is the last time you had sex?"

"Like a year or two, I just use my rose - Oh my god!" You cover your face again, eyes rolling back when he crooks those fingers. "Mmh!"

"Don't be shy, masturbation is normal and healthy even. Orgasms are good for you," Dr. Gojo pulls his finger out to watch you drop down onto the thin paper you're laying on, exhaling against the sight. "Clitoral stimulation helps you?"

You nod, gasping when he slips a finger and finds it, the sounds of your wet cunt echoing in the room. "Yes, it does."

"Is it all right if I stimulate it to loosen you up? If not tell me."

You arch your hips, lashes fluttering, it takes a lot for Gojo not to yank off his gloves and fuck into you. "Yes um if you think it'll help?"

"It might," he runs a circle and watches that clit twitch against his thumb, more slick pouring from you. "You do respond well to it. Did your partners do this?"

"No they sucked," Satoru chuckles a bit, and the mood lightens, he acts perfectly professional while he's pressing on your clit, pleasure rushing through you. "That is relaxing."

"I want my patient comfortable," he murmurs, he shouldn't be allowed to look like that and sound like that. Your cunt is spasming when he slips his finger back in, the messy sounds so loud you bury your face. "It's a good thing, when your natural lubricant flows. It means your hormones are doing a good job."

"Oh," Satoru crooks his finger up, eyeing you under snowy lashes then, your breasts rising and falling, thighs trembling. "I do feel um... more... relaxed."

"That's good. You're doing such a good job for me," you're done for, his finger hitting that spot in slick walls, thumb still massaging your jumping clit. "Orgasms can help cramps too, even during your period."

"I can't um touch it during that," You're arching for more, thighs spread so wide, hands damn near ripping the paper underneath you, it tears just a bit and echoes in his impeccably clean office.

"That's understandable but your partner could," you laugh a little.

"None of them would have fucked me on my period - I mean!? Um, stimulated me."

"Some people are squeamish," he starts to ease two inside, you're trembling at the stretch. "It's natural, periods. And it's normal to get cramps, we just have to find a good way to help them."

"I see, ngh!" He pauses at your little moan, juices flowing down his fingers, tall body hunched just a bit over you. "Oh my god I'm so sorry."

"It’s too much for you, sweetheart? Two?"

You nod just a bit, and he sighs, pulling back his hand then.

"You're too tight, that could be why you don't find sex so enjoyable if you're not getting off first - I mean, having orgasms before intercourse."

"That could be um, I'll loosen up so you can do the exam," you hear his glove smack then.

"It may help if I don't wear a glove, are you okay with that? It may help your nerves."

Satoru needs to feel your gummy walls without a dumb fucking barrier. You're blinking at him, seeing him take one off, then the other.

"My hands are sterile," he tries to hide his feral grin, knowing he's fucking depraved for this, but his cock is just leaking too much. "I'll try and you tell me what you prefer."

"Yes, of course," Satoru's fingers brush down your slit into your hole, sinking in - slippery from you, buried to the knuckle suddenly. It feels so good you can't hold back your little whimper, hips bucking up. You feel every line and callous of his thick fingers, cunt gripping him like she's scared he'll leave. "Oh!"

Satoru's cock leaks at the sight of your pussy sucking his fingers in like that, the sight of it so greedy, stretched around his bare hand is too much. His fingers pull back and then insert again, and again, a messy squelch echoing in the room, gossamer swirls of your arousal coating his fingers.

Fuck he's going against every oath he took and looking for more to break.

Is eating out patients not a good method of exam? Surely your taste -

He can't do all that! He shouldn't even be fingering your messy cunt like this, pads of them curving up in that spot that makes you twitch and gush. Your cheeks are flush, eyes rolling back, hips just rolling when he runs a thumb over your clit once more.

"Eyes on me, sweetheart," you barely focus, stretched so full and stuffed more from him than you had been any man. Your lashes flutter at his command, he leans down just a bit as he works you. "There you go, you're loosening up for me. Does it feel good like this?"

Are you having a filthy daydream of the pretty blue eyed doctor, or is he talking you through an orgasm?

"I... um... y-yes," your whisper escapes your lips with a sigh, Doctor Gojo's expert fingers curling up with precision, feeling you spasm and tighten, slick and hot around his digits. You're pulsing already, making him have to palm himself to adjust, before darting his thumb back to your clit. "Mnh... Doctor Gojo, I..."

"Your muscles are responding so well," fuck is everything sexy from his mouth? You're trying not to cum, but failing spectacularly, a dripping wet mess soaking his bare hand, the sounds of his fingers and your needy cunt loud. "Your pussy- I mean, um!? Vagina/vulva ah it's very um... pretty - healthy!?"

Satoru Gojo's glasses fog up just a bit, sweat beading on his brow, he doesn't know what's come over him - but he knows he needs you to cum for him, and he's not stopping until you do. Do you squirt, do you drip, do you get creamy?

Fuck he must know - for scientific purposes, that's why he's a doctor, right? Love of science and medicine?

How many oaths would it break if he were to breed his patient?

"I'm... your fingers ngh they're thick and - I mean!? Thorough! They're so thorough," you're rolling your hips up for every filthy thrust, Satoru leans low and practically inhales you, you feel something wet slap your clit, his eyes feral and black then behind lenses. "F-fuck... I mean!?"

"S'okay, we're - hah - helping the cramps, r-right?" He's scissoring his long fucking fingers in and out of your now sloppy little cunt, your nails press into his forearms, just making him moan softly.

"Yes, helping them, mhm," your eyes roll back in your skull, nails digging in his pale skin and leaving cresenct marks, the sweet scent of your arousal filling his senses, overtaking the sterile alcohol in the room. God if he could bottle your pussy juice he would. "You're s-such an amazing um... d-doctor!"

"Thank you, I t-take my... career... so seriously," he's about to bust in his pants, damn near acting as if he's never seen a pussy before yours, but he's not ever been affected. You're pulsing and tightening down then, clamping his fingers and sucking them inside, teeth clenched. "Remember, eyes on me, sweetheart. For... medical reasons."

Your eyes focus on his, he crooks those fingers up one more time, a mess pouring as he does, and he watches his pretty patient cum on his fingers. You're so loud he has to pull up, slamming a big palm on your cute lips, muffling your desperate cries as he shoves them in fully, heel of his hand massaging your needy clit.

"Mmph!" You're blacking out nearly, hardly able to keep that eye contact, with the doctor whose glasses have slipped down the bridge of his nose, his lips spit slicked. You're gushing down his fingers, louder and louder as he eases them in and out slower, pushing you over the edge again.

"Fuck," he murmurs, cursing at his lack of professionality, leaning back to see just how you cum. "Creamy, fuck."

"H-huh?" Your voice is still muffled, he moans, looking and the milky ring formed at the bottom of his fingers, he almost sinks to his knees with you still in that fucking hospital gown, instead gently easing them out, watching your hole twitch as he spreads your lips.

"Your response to stimulation, it's scientific you see - creaming or squirting."

"Oh, it is?" He feels himself pressing hard against his boxers, leaking through and leaving a wet spot in his scrubs, blush furiously smattered on his cheeks. "Which is better?"

Anything you do.

"They're both healthy responses," he wants to suck his goddamn fingers so badly, but he has already crossed every fucking line known to man, so instead he hovers a moment, wanting to ask about you. who are you, are you single - it says yes on your chart sure, but still. What do you like? Do you play video games?

He's imagining a date right now - him, Doctor Gojo, a man who's all about his business can't stop getting flustered from your pretty little pussy that's leaking your cum still. He turns then, unsure of what to say, as your thighs tremble, your breath quickening.

You feel so embarrased! You're thinking he wanted you to cum, what if he was just... like helping? Examining? You've never even really been to a gyno before! You hastily put a sheet on, looking down nervously as he stands there, fingers still in your slick.

"I'm so sorry!"

"What!? Why? Did you um... enjoy the exam?" He asks, you nod shyly, he is so close to busting he has to do something. "I'll be right back with your uh... results, just hold on, okay?"

He rushes to the bathroom, leaning back and shutting the heavy door, sucking your juices off his fingers and moaning, using his other hand to free his aching cock. God it's hard, sticking to his boxers, he has to tug it free and slowly stroke it, moaning softly.

"Go ask her out," he whispers to himself, with every stroke of his hand, every glide around the thickness he almost stuffed inside you on that patient bed. He can't with himself, what is going on, he's never like this!?

God your taste.

"Maybe we could hah go to a movie?" He practices in the mirror, seeing his disheveled appearance, cock loud with every fwap as he jerks it quickly, trying to finish before he looks more suspicious. He whimpers your name and flutters his eyes shut, picturing your cunt grippin' his cock like a vice, moaning as he cums.

White spurts everywhere, all over his hands, all over the sink, he curses with a shaky breath, cleaning it frantically when he rushes back out, and you're all dressed, holding your purse. He falters, suddenly shy as you tuck your hair behind your ear, the taste of your cunt still coating his tongue.

"I ah... think your cramps could be a lot of tension," he manages to say softly. "And elevated hormones, just a bit too much estrogen, but not enough for concern."

"Thank you so much, um, what should I do for them?"

"Warm compress, a hot bath, ibuprofen," his dick, his mouth, his fingers, god use him. "All of that should help a long with..."

"Orgasms?"

"Y-yes, they can help," you rush off suddenly then, and Gojo curses, pacing back and forth in his office.

God why couldn't he ask you out!? After he sucked your cum off his fingers no less?

Suddenly, Satoru has quite an idea - his fucked out brain thinks so, at least. He sits at his little desk and pulls up his laptop, starting to type notes into your patient portal, smirking as he does. He's sure you're the type to check them, so he wonders if you'll get the code here.

***Patient comes in with an exceptionally tight set of muscles, and was having some trouble with cramping, as well as pain during sex. She was a good girl for me beautiful example of a patient, her responses were so good, she listened to all instructions from the doctor. Her cunt vagina was a pretty shape, color, and had a lovely taste consistency.***

Satoru grins, inserting his phone number throughout the message in little places, heart racing.

God he wonders if you like Digimon or Pokemon? He could handle either, if it meant being with you.

***The patient should come back for more visits to work on relaxing her stupidly tight vagina, she took well to treatment, she should cum come more often to make sure she's comfortable and resolves any cramps in the future. Patient should contact me with any questions are you free on friday? or concerns.***

He's sure you never saw the damn notes when a week goes by, when he gets a call, answering it in the middle of lunch. "Gojo speaking."

"Um... hi... it's..."

"Oh my god!? Hi!" He almost knocks his coffee over, so fucking excited he's grinning, he can't see your nervous blush on the other line, chewing your thumb and taking shaky breaths. "How are you?'

"I'm good, I am uh... maybe insane but, would you like to go out-"

"Yes."

You blink then. "Um, I didn't say where?"

"Anywhere." You giggle, and he throbs from that, sighing and shutting his eyes. "I'll take you anywhere."

"All right, Doctor Gojo I'll send you where to pick me up," you hang up shakily, and Gojo makes quite a loud shout that the entire office hears.

"Back to work, ahem." He says, stepping out, but he cannot keep the smile off his face.

Perverted and cute???? bahaha this was a Patreon idea actually those chats get a little insaneee

[reignpage]

hey, wifey... just checking you still love me <3

Synopsis: frat boy!gojo, your boyfriend, got himself blocked on all of your socials. it was his fault, even he knows that - spamming your girl with dick pics whilst she's studying for an important exam was only ever going to end one way. you've practically forced him to resort to a means of communication he didn't know still existed. and well, he's gonna have fun with it. Warnings: some sexual content, 18+, cursing, college au, can be read as a standalone but is a part of my EdenU au, gojo is dramatic, reader is done with him, reader is goth and female, established relationship, not proofread

From: [email protected] Subject: why do you hate me?

Dear most gorgeous girl in the world,  You’re killing me.  Please unblock me on iMessages, Insta, Snap, Facebook/Messenger, Whatsapp, X (sorry Twitter or whatever liberal agenda you’re on now), Discord, Reddit, Letterboxd, LinkedIn, Spotify, and Tumblr. How did you even know I was stalking you on Tumblr? Do you have a girlfriend sixth sense? Like does your clit tingle when you realise I’m near? Cause my balls speak to me when you’re within a mile radius, like “yeah, boys? you feel her? where? lead the way!” If you gave me a chance, instead of instantly blocking me (heartless meanie), you’d know I am very, very apologetic. I’ll stop spamming you my dick pics, even though you should be honoured to receive reminders of how hard just the thought of your name makes me. Love,  Your sad big-dicked daddy :(((

From: [email protected] Subject: email? really?

Dear Gojo Satoru,  Clearly you can’t take a hint. Let me spell it out for you. I. Am. Busy. Leave. Me. Alone. Unhappily,  Your girlfriend P.S. Do not call yourself ‘big-dicked daddy.’ It upsets me greatly.

From: [email protected] Subject: keep being mean to me please im close

Dear adorable goth baby,  You’re so hot when you’re being mean. I already know you’re frowning in that cute way that makes me want to smother you in kisses and you’re rolling your eyes so hard NGH! I already said I’m sorry.  Please give me another chance. I’m so damn bored I started playing spin the bottle alone in my room. I made out with that picture of you sleeping with drool down your chin. Picture You was even getting handsy. ‘Down girl!’ I said. ‘Bad!’ Stay tight,  Toru (not Gojo Satoru, that’s like a slur coming from you, very triggering stuff) P.S.S. I am your big-dicked daddy tho I’m confused?

From: [email protected] Subject: shut up

Satoru,  I gave you multiple chances when I asked you to stop and give me at least 5 hours to study before we go out for dinner and I entertain you, you giant freaking child. But no, you just had to hound me with your dick, like I was supposed to be dickmatised and persuaded to drop everything at your beck and call.  Fuck, I’m getting mad all over again.  Stop emailing me. You’re gonna see me at 7pm for our date anyways. You can last 4 more hours. Yours not for long,  Girl who just wants to pass

From: [email protected] Subject: my bad bro

Sweetiepie :( I’m sorry.  I thought it was gonna motivate you to work hard. Pwease forgive me. Pwease? Towu is vewy vewy sowwy.  In fact, I’m so so so sorry, I’ll pay for dinner tonight. Scout’s honour. Asking for mercy and forgiveness,  Your boyfriend no matter what

From: [email protected] Subject: dinner? that the best you can offer?

You always pay for dinner. Last time I offered, you damn near wrestled me in the middle of the restaurant so you could get your card out first. We’re still banned from there, remember? Btw, you were never a Scout, don’t play with me.

From: [email protected] Subject: you gotta address me and sign off!

Dear love of my life who doesn’t understand how email etiquette works,  Of course I always pay for dinner — you’re broke and your family is destitute, I remind you lovingly. But even if you were as rich as me, or even richer (which isn’t possible, not to flex), I would still pay every single time. It’s the least I can do for reparations for the violence committed by my gender against yours. Plus, that restaurant sucked anyway — the owner is problematic towards immigrants and the servers don’t even know if the meat is locally and ethically sourced, like hello??? In the big 2025?!? How’s studying going? Do you need a snack or a smoothie to boost you?  I can drop by. Promise I won’t linger. I just didn’t see a purchase on my card for breakfast or lunch. Please don’t starve. If I can’t watch your ass jiggle when I hit it from the back, I’m gonna be devastated.  Yours most sincerely,  Satoru P.S. You have to be a Scout to say Scout’s Honour? Crazyyyyyy

From: [email protected] Subject: so fucking bossy omg

Dear Satoru (happy now?), Please don’t remind me of my family’s shortcomings. You know I like to pretend I came from a normal background. And stop being more woke than me. It’s hot. Studying’s fine, I guess. I think I forgot how to study. I’ve missed a lot of content too. If a certain someone hadn’t been clinging to me so tightly every morning, maybe I wouldn’t be so behind. God, you make my life so hard.  A smoothie and pastry would be lovely, actually. I can’t be bothered leaving my room to get some food. Just drop it off at the door and disappear by the time I open the door — if I see even a glimmer of white hair, I’m going to freak.  Thanks. Love begrudgingly, A girl who’s gonna fail her exam

From: [email protected] Subject: you're not gonna fail

Dear cutie,  I don’t cling to you that hard. You’re dramatic. I wonder where you got that from. And last I checked, we have a safeword you can use anytime to get me away from between your legs if you really wanted to get to class. But I like our game where you pretend you’re not just as obsessed with me as I am with you (I know you get all hot and bothered when I reference Marx, dirty girl) Food’s outside babe. The line was stupid long and I ran into Fushiguro — remember the guy I told you has the highest body count on campus? He’s in a relationship now and he’s so pussywhipped lmaoooo Couldn’t be me. Hoping you’ll stuff your face and get all the brain power you need,  Satoru

From: [email protected] Subject: not impressed

I told you to disappear before I could see you.  You didn’t have to kiss me and hump my leg you animal. My neighbours were NOT happy with the pornographic noises you made, asshole.  Yeah, I remember Toji. Cool dude. Always wearing gym wear no matter the weather and for some reason hates you. Don’t make fun of him for being loyal and loving to his girlfriend. You’re probably so much worse. I envy his girlfriend. She probably doesn’t have to put up with a yapper who spams her with dick pics. Thank you for the food though. Very appreciated. What I didn’t appreciate, however, was the number and the smiley face on my drink. I already told you, if someone tries to hit on you, bark at them and tell them you have a girlfriend you worship endlessly. 

From: [email protected] Subject: EMAIL. ETIQUETTE. COME ON.

Look: Dear angry girlfriend I do in fact worship endlessly and beyond,  I’m sorry I didn’t follow your exact orders but I desperately needed a kiss from my girl. If I don’t get my daily dose, I wilt, like a rose. You know this.  And disrespectfully, f your neighbours. It wasn’t anything they hadn't heard from us before. Sensitive ears ahhh About Fushiguro — he does not hate me. Why does everyone say that?  We’re actually besties. We’re like dumb and dumber, but dumber is him obvi. Plus, once he gets some shots in him, he’s super in love with me. I get more over the clothes action from him than from you lol You never need to thank me for feeding you. I fear that’s like bare minimum. Get those standards up girl. Oh and sorry about the drink. I didn’t even notice. Leave it outside your door and I’ll get you a new one. I’ll even make a scene and call the manager over. Maybe I’ll buy the store and get everyone fired. Just give me the word babe. Yours forever,  Satoru 

From: [email protected] Subject: YOU ARE EXHAUSTING

Dear my sweetest, most frustrating boyfriend, Fine, I’ll forgive the kiss (I might have needed it too). And yeah, f my neighbours because the guy on my left loves playing Doctor Who Season 8 on repeat and on full volume every night like clockwork. It’s not even the best season! Forget about the drink. Just don’t ever go back there again. Number and smiley face aside, the drink is abysmal and tastes like bog water. Pastry is great though. 10/10 You’d really make a scene for me? Yours occasionally,  No longer starving girlfriend

From: [email protected] Subject: awww I knew you loved me really

Dear the Morticia to my Gomez,  I’d make a scene for you at the drop of a hat. I’d serenade you in malls, on campus, in a Michelin star restaurant, and in a lecture. Heck, I’d yell ‘BOMB’ in an airport if you asked me to – just maybe not an airport we frequent. There’s quite literally nothing I wouldn’t do for you. If you didn’t know that already, then I’m not as great of a boyfriend as I thought I was. I will remedy that immediately, my goddess eternal. Obsessedly yours,  Your husband in every way but legally (we can fix that)

From: [email protected] Subject: ugh

Dear Toru,  Stop being sweet. It’s disgusting. Come inside already. I’m done pretending I’m getting anything from the textbooks. I’m only giving myself a headache.

From: [email protected] Subject: woahhhh

You can tell I’m outside???

From: [email protected] Subject: you're loud as hell

I can hear you giggling at my emails, Satoru. You’re probably sitting on the floor, leaning against my door. 

From: [email protected] Subject: just got shivers

Damnnnn are you sure you’re not a witch?

From: [email protected] Subject: well?

Are you coming in or what?

From: [email protected] Subject: yippeeeee

Okay okay, yes I am. LOVE YOU BABY <3

[cloudykumo]

DRILL ME, DOCTOR — SATORU GOJO

dentist! gojo x yandere! reader

summary: listen, you're not saying you're obsessed with your dentist. you're just saying you know his schedule, favorite coffee, shoe size, birth chart, and the exact pattern his eyebrows make when he tells you to "open wide" for him. so what if you booked three appointments this month? it's not your fault they let a man like that put his fingers in your mouth and activate your fuck-or-flight response. 『wc: 11k 』 content/warning: mdni/18+ only, obsession, power imbalance, stalking, you knock your own tooth out to get an appointment, explicit language, eventual smut, fem body reader, fingering, oral m receiving, gojo's dick is too big, choking, spit/saliva play, use of dental instruments, unprotected piv, restraint, mild pain kink, biting, overstimulation, manipulation, plot twist a/n: psa remember to get your regular check up and cleaning done! i got a lil too carried away heh. hope you enjoy ♡

You want to fuck your dentist. There’s no poetic way to phrase that.

But for now, you sit in the waiting room like everyone else. You’re patient. You have to be. He’s worth every second of waiting. You can practically feel the desperation sweating off them.

They’re craning their necks. They’re checking the hallway. They’re fixing their hair in the reflection of the aquarium glass.

Pathetic. They’re all waiting for a glimpse of him.

Dr. Satoru Gojo. Your sweet, oblivious, perfect Dr. Satoru Gojo.

You want to tell them to stop breathing so loudly — it feels disrespectful. Their existence is unnecessary noise. Their bodies clog the space that should be reserved for him and you alone.

None of them know him like you do.

You know the rhythm of his foot tapping against the tile when he’s impatient. You know the little crease between his brows when he concentrates. You know the exact cadence of his voice when he says, “open wider for me.”

So what if this is the third cleaning you booked within the same month?

You told the receptionist your gums were “a little tender”. Your gums are perfectly fine. It’s your sanity that isn’t.

You keep his business card in your pocket, warm with your body heat. The ink is wearing off where your thumb rubs over his name again and again.

He gave it to everyone, sure. But no one keeps it like you do. They don’t whisper to it, don’t fall asleep holding it, don’t kiss it goodnight.

The receptionist calls your name. “Dr. Gojo will see you now.”

Finally.

God, his face — it’s the kind of beautiful that leaves you shaking. There’s no flaw, no wrong angle. Every part of him is exactly where it should be. You hate the idea that anyone else gets to see this. Gets to see him.

He smiles, says your name in that buttery register. He adjusts your chair and guides you back with soft and tender hands. He leans over you and being beneath him like this feels like destiny.

He has no idea what he does to you. No idea how devastating it is to have him this close. It takes everything in you to not reach up and touch his jaw and pull him closer and press your forehead to his and tell him that he belongs to you and no one else and—

“You’ve been taking good care of yourself,” he says.

The snap of latex against his gloved hands is foreplay, and his praise is seduction. Your thighs tense. It’s embarrassing how fast your thoughts collapse.

You love it when he asks you to open up, when he touches you, angles your head exactly how he wants and explore every inch of your obedience. You’ve memorized the exact spot his thumb rests, the amount of pressure on his fingers.

You’re so close to him that you can hear his breathing. You want to ask him what he’s thinking about. You want the answer to be you.

He finishes too soon. You’re not ready. You’re never ready.

He pulls away and gives you a satisfied nod he gives to good patients.

“See you next time,” he says. Next time. Next time. Next time.

And you will. Soon. You’ll make sure of it.

Three months ago

You weren’t supposed to meet him that day.

It was a throwaway appointment — a last-minute cancellation the receptionist squeezed you into because you happened to be nearby. You barely had time to sit before the assistant pushed open the door and called your name.

You didn’t expect anything out of the ordinary from all your previous routine checkups. But when he turned toward you, it was nothing short of extraordinary.

His bright hair caught the light like it was intentionally showing off.

His eyes were so vivid it felt illegal to look into them for more than a second.

Your organ systems forgot they had a job — your lungs, your brain, your heart.

You’d never been disarmed by a person before. You didn’t even think people had the power to do that.

“Let’s get you seated,” he said.

That voice. God.

He adjusted the chair and lowered you gently, explaining the procedure with an intimacy that caught you off guard. The way he leaned close to show you where to rest your head, how his hand ghosted near your jaw without touching yet.

Frankly, it felt inappropriate.

Your body reacted like he’d whispered something filthy. And when you felt him place two fingers under your chin, tipping it up to the perfect angle, your pulse shot upward so fast your vision went blurry.

And while he was rambling on about brushing technique or gum health or something, you couldn't process any of it. Your brain was stuck on one thing, and one thing only: he touched you.

You didn’t leave that room the same person who entered it.

You stood up, nodded politely and thanked him like a functioning adult. You walked out trying to act normal while on the inside, a dangerous thought began to form, one that would only continue to spiral:

He was perfect.

Not just “attractive”, not just “easy on the eyes”.

Perfect.

Perfect in a way that felt targeted. Perfect in a way that felt designed. Perfect in a way that made your body mourn the seconds you weren’t with him.

You replayed his voice all the way home. You replayed his touch. You replayed the way he smiled.

You needed more. You needed him.

Sleep didn’t reach you that night.

The memory of his fingertips brushing your lips resurfaced with humiliating clarity everytime your eyes fluttered shut.

You employed every method possible to forget — you’d roll over, shove your face into your pillow, and try to force yourself to forget the feeling, but your skin remembered.

You had to see him again. Soon. Now. Immediately.

But you couldn’t just show up. You weren’t unhinged — not outwardly. You needed a plan, a reason; a way back into that chair.

You sat down on your desk with renewed purpose, opened your laptop, and before you could question what you were doing, the clinic’s name was already being typed into your browser.

Your motive wasn’t to make an appointment. You were looking for their scheduling structure, their staff rotation, their hours. Any scrap of information you could twist into something useful. But their website was useless. Too clean and too vague.

So you did what any sane, functioning person would do. You called the clinic.

“Hi! Just checking if Dr. Gojo is in today?”

You wrote down the answer. You hung up. Waited a respectable amount of time—you weren’t an animal—then called again. You used a different tone. Different phrasing. Different fake reason.

Another time slot. Written down. Compared. Cross-referenced. It wasn’t enough. You needed data. A pattern. A system.

The spreadsheet grew fast into a color-coded grid;

Green: confirmed work days Orange: probable presence Violet: ambiguous Red: unacceptable absence

Blocks of time were highlighted, circled and analyzed:

He arrived earlier on Mondays. Left later on Thursdays. Took a longer break on Fridays.

Why rely on chance when you could rely on predictions?

Today, your alarm goes off an hour earlier than usual. The spreadsheet predicted an early arrival.

Thursday — Projected Arrival: 7:42 AM.

Last week it was 7:50. The week before, 7:46.

And if your deduction about his caffeine habits (large mocha, double shot espresso, two pumps of sugar, extra foam, less ice) is correct, then today should fall neatly in the middle.

You stand across the street from the clinic with a coffee cup you don’t even plan to drink, pretending to scroll your phone.

The time is 7:45 AM. Any second now.

7:46 People pass. Irrelevant. Noise. Filler. Not him.

7:47:50 You lift the coffee cup to your lips to fake a sip. Your eyes are locked onto the reflection in the glass window across the street — your perfect surveillance method.

7:48:12 There. He’s punctual. Of course he is. He cares about you so much. He’d never leave you hanging.

Dr. Satoru Gojo strolls up to the clinic with his hands in his coat pockets. His hair is obnoxiously bright in the morning light. It taunts every other shade of white in existence.

He’s wearing his spare blue scrub set, the one with the bleach stain on the hem from three weeks and two days ago when he knocked over a bottle on accident. He really should be more careful. Your clumsy boy.

He unlocks the door and disappears down the hall.

7:48:36 — Confirmed.

You mark down the time your notes app. A near-perfect match with your prediction. You understand him better every day.

You should go home and relax now, but then you see her walking straight into his clinic — female, short bob, beige coat, smug little bag.

That’s not right.

He doesn’t have any scheduled appointments now. You know there’s nothing booked in this slot. You checked.

Who is she? What does she want? Why is she here?

This doesn’t make sense. Unscheduled walk-ins are rare. Unscheduled female walk-ins are suspicious.

Does she know him? Is she new? Is she early? Did she call yesterday? Did she call after you checked? Did she lie? Did she flirt?

The receptionist nods and leads the woman toward the hallway. Toward him.

This is fine. It’s totally fine. He’s a dentist, after all. He sees patients. He helps people. It’s his job.

You stare at the clinic door long enough to memorize the exact angle it swings shut after she disappears inside.

You don’t leave.

You tell yourself you’re just passing by, just stretching your legs. You walk as if you’re checking window displays — never mind that the only window worth checking is the one that gives you a perfect side-angle view of his room.

And then you see them.

The woman with the bob is on the chair, chatting with Satoru. You expect her to be annoying, maybe loud—Satoru hated the loud ones—but she’s pleasant.

She’s laughing softly, one hand tucked behind her ear. She looks foolish. Like she’s audtioning for a toothpaste commercial. You think she must’ve had veneers done. No one was born with teeth like that. No one, save for Satoru.

A friend? No — too cheerful. A former coworker? No — not in those shoes. A vendor? No — she didn’t bring any products. A stalk— No. That’s your role.

You watch the bob girl shift her posture, trying to look cuter. Your teeth grind. Then the woman leans in, says something to him, something you can’t make out.

And he laughs.

Your Satoru — your perfectly punctual, perfectly bright, perfectly oblivious reason for existing, is laughing.

It’s not a polite chuckle. Not the forced, professional smile. It was a real, shoulders loosening, eyes crinkling smile. The kind that should only ever be directed at you.

Your mind goes very, very still.

You can’t hear what she said, but you know it wasn’t funny. She shouldn’t be making him laugh. Shouldn’t be making him anything. That expression is yours and yours alone. Your reward. Your discovery.

You’re not jealous. You’re vigilant. You’re careful. She’s one disruption. An anomaly. You’ll handle it.

This is your time slot. This is your schedule.

Your doctor.

Fine. Good. You needed this. People like her will always flutter around him. Let her — temporary little distraction. She won’t matter long. Not when you’re the one coming back soon. Very soon.

You can’t get the image out of your head. Her laugh. His laugh. No. Absolutely not. Everything about that scene was wrong.

You pace down the sidewalk, the morning sun too blinding, the traffic too loud, the world too irritating.

All the while, your brain keeps looping one thought: you need to get inside that clinic. Right now. Before she steals more seconds that aren’t hers.

But you can’t just walk in, or say you forgot something. What would you even pretend to forget? Your dignity? It’s long gone anyway.

And even if you did fabricate some imaginary object, the receptionist would retrieve it in seconds and that bob-headed parasite would go right back to stealing his minutes.

You need something better. A believable reason. A legitimate one. Something that’d make the receptionist pale and scramble, and say the magic words: “We’ll get Dr. Gojo right away.”

Emergency. That’s it. You need an emergency. This is logical. It’s reasonable. This is exactly what any rational person would do if they saw a strange woman hovering around their dentist.

Okay. Think. How does one create a dental emergency?

You could claim a crown fell out; You don’t have one, but they don’t know that.

You could say you felt a crack; Nobody can disprove a sensation over the phone.

You could say you woke up with swelling; “I swear it’s huge,” is such a flexible phrase.

You could even lose a tooth.

Yes. Yes, yes, yes.

You’ll lose a tooth.

It's perfectly convincing. Perfectly harmless — at least, if you plan it right. You read once that if you put it immediately in a glass of milk, the chances of replanting the tooth skyrockets. And whose hands would you trust more than Satoru’s?

Safe hands. Careful hands. Big, warm, gorgeous hands that would cradle your face and say, “Don’t worry, I’m here.”

Your voice will tremble; you can do that on command. Your eyes will water; you’re already halfway there.

They won’t make you wait, they won’t question it. He would never turn away a patient in pain.

And that bob-haired waste of space? She’ll watch him run to you first.

You’ll be exactly where you’re supposed to be. Back in his chair. Back under his hands. Back inside his attention.

You buzz with anticipation and sprint to the nearest grocery store. You check out a bottle of milk and head straight to the restroom, adrenaline singing in your veins, determination settling into your bones. You lock yourself in and grip the edge of the sink.

You ball a wad of paper towels and bite down on them. You’ll need something to stifle the scream. You’re not dumb — you’re not about to sabotage your own plan by having someone rush in and interrupt you.

Okay. Okay, okay. You breathe once, twice, three times.

This is it. This is devotion. This is fate. You whisper, “For Satoru.”

Then you slam into the sink.

Crack.

A sunburst of pain sucks all the oxygen out of you. Your knees knock the side of the stall. You choke on your own muffled cry — a broken, animalistic whimper. Your vision blurs so hard you think you’ve passed out, but you’re still there. The taste of rust crosses your tongue. Then you spit into your palm.

It worked. It fucking worked.

Jagged, red at the root, shining with triumph — your tooth.

You stagger back, dabbing at your mouth. The tissues are still clenched between your teeth now.

It hurts. Oh, it hurts so bad. But it’s sacred.

People only deserve his attention if they’re willing to bleed for it.

You give yourself one minute to practice your act — sixty seconds of dizzy euphoria, staring into the mirror with a mouthful of tissues and blood smeared across your chin.

You look pathetic. It was perfect.

You stumble into the clinic, towards the counter, hands cupping your jaw to really sell it. Your eyes are glossy with unshed pain, voice shaking so sweetly when you plead:

“I—I think something broke. Please… I need to see a dentist right now.”

And just like you dream, she scrambles to pick up the phone, and says the magic words:

“I’ll get Dr. Gojo right away.”

You’re being ushered down the hallway, trembling, clutching your jaw like it’s the most fragile thing in the world. You don’t have to fake the adrenaline; your body is already shaking so hard your teeth (your remaining ones) chatter.

You see the bob-haired bitch scurry out of his room. Good riddance.

The door clicks open. And he’s there.

Your reason, your ruin, your everything: Dr. Satoru Gojo.

His eyes widen with concern the second he sees you curled in on yourself, breath hitching.

“Hey… hey, easy,” he says, unbearably soft, stepping closer, gentler than you’ve ever seen him. “You must be scared. Let me take a look, okay?”

You lift your gaze slowly, letting your lashes tremble, letting your breath wobble. You look small on purpose; crafted yourself into the perfect picture of vulnerability.

You whisper, “It… it hurts.”

His brows knit together instantly. “Aw, sweetheart—”

(Your heart combusts.)

“—I’ve got you. We’ll fix it. I’ll numb the area first, get rid of that pain.”

He dons his surgical gloves with slow, careful movements, retrieving the syringe like he’s trying not to startle a frightened animal.

It does unspeakable things to you.

And when he steps closer and reaches for your chin, you flinch back — deliberately, strategically.

He goes soft all over. “Hey. I promise I won’t hurt you.”

You let your voice shake even more. It isn’t hard. You’re already breathless.

“B-but this is my first time doing something like this,” you say, tiny, terrified. “Please… promise me you’ll be gentle?”

His eyes snap to yours — startled, confused, embarrassed?

He swallows, the tiniest bob of his throat, before he speaks.

“I promise.”

Oh, Satoru. Your darling Satoru. Your beautiful, clueless, perfect idiot.

He leans closer, fingertips tilting your chin, ever so tender and loving.

“Just open wide and relax for me,” he says.

You nearly dissolve into a puddle on the chair. This is your best idea yet. You’ve never seen him care so much about you before, and you want to push the boundaries even more.

He begins to angle the numbing syringe, but you tense up again — intentionally, the picture of sweet, irresistible innocence.

“Hey… look at me.” His voice drops, low and coaxing, “I’ll take good care of you. Trust me.”

You know what he means. You know exactly what he means.

The clinical intention. The rational intention.

But your brain, faithful and deranged, hears something else entirely.

The needle slips into your gum, and the anesthetic floods in, numbing all sensation until the only thing you can truly feel is him, towering above you, looking only at you.

Let her make him laugh. That’s all she’ll ever be — a clown. Let her think that’s enough.

He only speaks like this to you. He said he’ll take care of you. He promised he’d be gentle with you. He’ll make you all better. Only you.

You go home with blood-soaked gauze between your teeth and victory under your skin.

Your tooth hurts, your gums throb, your jaw is stiff; none of that matters.

The compassion he showed and the way he looked at you isn’t something you can un-feel.

You lock the door behind you and head straight to your bedroom. You don’t even bother turning on the lights — the glowing screen of your laptop is all you need.

You sit on the floor, cross-legged, pulse fast as you open your browser.

Dr. Satoru Gojo, you type.

The first results are boring.

Clinic listings, dental certifications, a generic staff bio.

No flavor. No soul.

You already know all this surface-level nonsense. These pages aren’t for people like you — they’re for strangers.

You’re not a stranger.

His personal social media accounts are locked. All of them. Of course they are.

He's private. Someone that beautiful had to be. But privacy doesn’t erase information.

You have to find a way in.

So you discover the cracks:

coworkers with public profiles

relatives who overshare

a cousin who tags him in old photos

family friends who post albums from reunions

a retired teacher who still uploads grainy class pictures from ten years ago

You sit back for a moment, staring at his aunt’s page. Her feed is full of blurry lunches and knitted scarves.

Perfect. You’d be a distant aunt.

You open a new tab. A new account. A new identity. You give yourself a delicate old-lady name, a grandmotherly profile picture, a blurry banner, captions filled with emojis and misspellings, posts about your silly grandkids.

You follow his entire family tree. Then, finally, you follow him.

Your eye twitches with anticipation.

If he declines, you’ll simply try again from a different angle. If he blocks you, you’ll build a new family member.

But if he accepts… if he accepts…

The notification comes instantly.

Satoru Gojo accepted your follow request.

You’re in his world now.

Now that your fake-old-lady-profile has infiltrated his circle, doorways start opening: tagged photos from when he was a teen, comments under his university posts, friends teasing him, coworkers tagging him at events, relatives posting birthday pictures, people mentioning his preferences, old likes he forgot about.

You absorb it all.

You pause at a photo he liked. A woman’s face — the actress, Waka Inoue.

So that’s what he likes. That’s what draws his eye. That’s the shape of his fantasy.

You turn your gaze toward your own reflection in the dark screen. Your clothing is wrong. Your hair is wrong. Your makeup is wrong.

Wrong things can be changed.

You create a single folder — a dossier.

He’ll recognize you the next time you meet him. You’ll become his dream. One perfect piece at a time.

It’s 9:42 on a Sunday morning.

You’re sitting by the window, waiting.

You chose this seat intentionally.

It had the perfect lighting, perfect angle, perfect radius of visibility from the doorway.

A book is open in front of you, pages untouched. You don’t need to read; you only need to look like someone he would want to read beside.

Your reflection in the glass pane matches the blueprint you carved from ten years of digital breadcrumbs: soft waves grazing your shoulders, a delicate blouse draping just right, a muted skirt stopping shyly above your ankles and small earrings that dangled gracefully.

You look like someone meant to be photographed holding his arm.

Two drinks sit on your table — the props in your carefully constructed tableau. An iced mocha (your decoy) and a sparkling water (your actual drink).

And after weeks of monitoring his off-day patterns, you know that on Sundays, around mid-morning, he gets coffee. Always the same shop, always the same route. He doesn’t think twice about routine, so you place yourself in it like a missing puzzle piece.

He walks in wearing casual clothes, glasses slipping down his nose. He looks so disarmingly human like this. Less “doctor” and more “man you’d want to wake up beside.” He’s too adorable, all too unaware of how attractive he is.

He sees you instantly. You knew he would. There’s nothing accidental about this.

“Oh—hey!” he called out. “This is unexpected.”

You lift your head with the sweetest, softest, perfectly engineered surprise.

“Oh! Dr. Gojo! I… didn’t think I’d see you here!”

He walks over, adjusting his glasses, a little flustered.

“Just Satoru is fine,” he says. “You can drop the formalities. We’re not in the clinic.”

A shy blush escapes you, just as you practiced in the mirror. “Okay… Satoru.”

The name sits beautifully on your tongue. He hears it. His shoulders slacken.

“So, uh… what brings you here?” he asks, gesturing around awkwardly. “It’s just that, I’m a regular, but I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

“I just came by for a little weekend treat. This here—” you lift your drink and laugh gently, “—is my guilty pleasure. An iced mocha, double shot espresso, two pumps of sugar, extra foam, less ice.”

His jaw drops. He’s bewildered. Absolutely stunned.

“No way. That’s my exact order.”

Hook.

It’s almost too easy. You nearly grin. Nearly. Instead, you pause, blink, tilt your head.

“Really? A dentist with a sweet tooth?”

“Guilty as charged.” He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s so funny, we’re already matching coffee orders.”

Matching.

You can already hear church bells ringing.

You lower your eyes, feigning hesitation. A pause that suggests you’re a litty shy and a little nervous.

“Actually… I’ve been meaning to thank you. For helping me last time. I’m really grateful, so, if you’re free… would you maybe like to join me?”

Line.

He shouldn’t say yes. You know that, he knows that.

But his eyes do a once-over at you: your pure persona, your demure posture, all sculpted just for him. He sits across from you without another thought.

“Sure. I’ve got time.”

Sink.

Satoru settles into the chair across from you, fingers curling around his iced mocha.

He looks relaxed, surprisingly. As if sitting with you is the most natural thing in the world, even though this is the only time he’s spoken to you off a dental chair.

“So,” he begins, leaning forward a little, “how’s your tooth? Any pain since then?”

You shake your head, and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, offering him a shy smile.

“It’s fine, thanks to you.”

A barely-there pink rises on his cheeks. You note the way he tries to hide it by taking a too-quick sip of his drink, only to wince when the cold hits his teeth.

Cute.

“So, uh… what are you reading?” he asks, hoping to recover, nodding toward the book you haven’t touched once.

You allow your eyes to widen like you didn’t expect him to ask.

“Oh, just some light reading.” You run your finger along the spine. “The Tale of Genji by Murasaki Shikibu — Heian period court intricacies, relationships… It’s dense. I won’t bore you.” (it didn't matter that you couldn’t name a single character if he asked.)

He perks up, intrigued. “No, no — that’s really cool. I’ll admit, I’m a simple man.” He laughs. “I read whatever I can squeeze between work. Only seem to have time for manga these days though.”

“That makes sense,” you say. “I imagine it gets overwhelming. Everyone in the city seems desperate to get in with you.”

He groans dramatically. “Don’t remind me. Yesterday someone even tried flirting with the receptionist to steal a canceled slot.”

What a weak attempt.

“Did it work?”

He snorts. “Not a chance. The waiting list is already a month long.”

You laugh politely at your own downplay, hiding a smile behind your cup. You lower your gaze the way all his favorite actresses do in candids. “Well, you’re really good at what you do — I would know.”

He clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nah, you’re a good patient.”

“How so?”

He shrugs. “You’re easy to talk to, I guess. Most people are either afraid of me or asking me out.”

Don’t let the rage get to you. Just keep smiling.

“Oh? Do they really ask you out?”

He admits with a grimace. “More often than I’d like.”

“I can see why,” you tease.

How daring of you.

He looks down at his drink, embarrassed. He looks stunned, shy even, but he shouldn’t be — not with a face like that.

“I mean,” you add softly, swirling your straw, “you’re kind, smart, good at what you do.” You offer a tiny, modest shrug. “It’s not hard to imagine people falling for that.”

“That’s—wow, uh—thanks.” He laughs nervously and darts his eyes away for a second. “You’re… not too bad yourself,” he adds. “Though I’m sure you’re used to compliments by now.”

Oh... Pull yourself together. Your fingers toy with the edge of your sleeve.

“You think so?”

He nods without hesitation. “Yeah. I’m glad I ran into you today.”

You can practically feel the universe tightening the noose around his destiny. Poor Satoru is a puppet who hasn’t realized he’s on strings. He’s open, comfortable—and dare you say—starting to like you.

Which means it’s time.

You need to leave. Now. Before he gets too comfortable. Before he stops thinking about you.

Because the secret isn’t making a man like you. It’s making him want more.

You wait— Time it, feel it. Sense the exact moment he leans in, a question perched on his tongue—

Then you stand.

The scrape of your chair might as well be a gunshot the way he flinches.

He stammers, blinking up at you, “Ah—do you, uh, need to go already?”

Your heart flutters at the crack in his voice. That small, wounded surprise. You are that good.

“I should, I don’t want to take up your whole morning.”

He sights up straighter, like the chair suddenly isn’t comfortable without you in front of him. His next words come out in pieces, scrambled, “Oh—no, it’s not—I mean, you’re not, um, I honestly don’t have anything to do, so if you wanted to stay, I wouldn’t—”

He’s unraveling. You did that.

It takes everything in you not to let out a victory cry. Instead, you force out a small and meek, “It was really nice talking to you, Satoru.”

You said his name again.

You can see what it does to him.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “It was.”

You gather your things slowly, giving enough time for him to watch you and to process the loss of your presence. You shoulder your bag, one last polite nod before turning to leave.

One step. Two. Three—

“Wait.”

You could kiss yourself.

You turn, looking over your shoulder, eyes wide with perfect surprise. He’s standing now, hand in his pocket, awkward, nervous.

“Um…” His fingers fumble with a folded bit of reciept paper, edges crushed from how tightly he’s been holding it. He steps closer and clears his throat. “This is probably a bad idea.”

You give him your most virtuous look. “What is that?”

He glances aside in embarrassment, “I’m not supposed to do this with my patients.” He hands you the slip of his paper. “My personal number,” he says.

Oh. my. fucking. god.

You wanted to scream, laugh, grab his shirt, kiss him, shake him, sink your nails into the flesh of his heart and carve your initials in it.

“I-I… don’t want to get you in trouble,” you whisper.

He shakes his head immediately. “No, it’s fine. I trust you. Text me if anything happens. Or even if anything doesn’t.”

You close your fingers around the paper, cradling it. You have him wrapped around your finger. “Okay,” you say. “I will.”

Everything worked.

Every detail and carefully chosen word.

Executed to perfection, a masterpiece in manipulation.

Everything is falling into place exactly as you planned.

You can’t text him immediately — that’s what clingy, overeager, sloppy little creatures do.

You aren’t an amateur.

So you set the paper on your nightstand, smooth it flat, and let it sit.

You wake up. You make tea. You replay his laugh while brushing your teeth.

It was nothing short of torture, but you had to be patient. For you are his favorite patient.

Three days is the magic number — an acceptable timeframe.

Three days is when he starts to think of you unprompted.

Three days is enough time for him to be haunted by thoughts of “why hasn’t she texted?”

So you start drafting.

Thank you again for keeping me company.

Too plain. Too empty. Delete.

I really enjoyed seeing you. Hope you got home safe!

You gag. Actually gag. Delete.

Thanks again for helping me last time. You really made me feel better.

Ugh. Terrible. You sound like a Yelp review. Delete.

Hope I wasn’t too much of a bother again.

What the fuck? You want pity? Absolutely not. Delete.

You sit cross-legged on your bed, the light from your phone glowing against your palm like a holy artifact. His number waits in your contacts, untouched: Toru <3

Come on.

You didn’t reengineer your entire personality and reconstruct your wardrobe just to send some lukewarm, baseline-human nonsense.

You want to sound warm yet bold. Funny and a little flirty. You want him to blink at his screen, smile without meaning to, then reread it ten times over.

Is it normal to want to see your dentist again this soon?

Yes. Yes, yes. This is the one.

Harmless on the surface. Playful underneath. Disarming in its simplicity. Suggestive if he wants it to be. Teasing if he reads it twice. A confession if he looks closely.

You cross-reference your spreadsheet and confirm his schedule today: No appointments. Lunch break window. Phone likely in pocket. Brain likely idle.

It's the ideal time for emotional interference — you position yourself like a sniper, and hit send. The message floats away, a little digital bullet aimed straight for his heart.

Then you wait, the way a lion sinks into tall grass. And sure enough—

Your phone buzzes, not a minute later. Not even forty seconds. Thirty-one. He read it immediately.

A laughable little thrill curls through you as you stare at the notification lighting up your lock screen:

Only if your dentist has good bedside manners 😉

Your entire bloodstream vaporizes and reconstitutes itself in the span of a heartbeat. Your stomach swoops so violently you nearly drop the phone. You read it thirty-one times and then another four, just to make sure you weren’t hallucinating or misinterpreting the innuendo.

The wink. The fucking wink.

He could have just said “lol” or “haha”. But he didn’t.

Satoru Gojo winked at you.

Digitally, yes. But it counts.

And not a friendly wink either. Not a “grandma made a pie” wink.

A bedside. Manners. Wink.

You’re dizzy with implications. There are so many. What does “good” mean to him? Gentle? Dominant? Hands-on? Does he think you’re picturing him hovering over a bed with gloves off and voice low? Because you are, now. You are so vividly doing that.

You could still dial this down — send a safe, soft-pedaled emoji or a polite “haha, you’re so silly”. All it takes is your next reply to tip the scales toward cordial or carnal.

But your brain isn’t interested in balance aymore.

No, your brain has already slithered off the rails and is now joyriding straight into his lap. It’s licking the thought of his voice bending low, whispering for you to “open wide” with something other than dental instruments in hand. It’s already imagining his so-called bedside manners without latex gloves — no latex at all, for that matter.

You have all the power now. The invitation is sitting wide open, legs parted, saying: come inside.

Is that so, doctor? Next time, I’ll be better prepared to assess your technique

And when he responds, he bites back, hard:

Bring a notepad. I’ll give you plenty to write about

You nearly let out a sound.

You clamp your thighs together without thinking just to contain the full-body voltage that line delivers straight to your pelvis.

You lie back against the pillows, grinning like a lunatic, fingers hovering over the keyboard, thumbs twitching with indecision.

He wants this. He started this.

But still — you want to measure the next stroke just right.

Fair warning: I have strict standards

You can picture him mentally debating, wondering how inappropriate this is while simultaneously wanting to dive in anyway.

Delivered. Read. Typing…

Fair warning: I never disappoint

God. You sit up. Sit forward. He’s still typing. Another text pings in right after:

You free Friday night?

You swear you stop breathing. You let your head fall back, body sizzling, mouth dry. Then you answer, calm and confident like you’ve practiced before.

It’s a date.

You lock your phone and stare at the ceiling with a slow, consuming smile. The room feels too small to hold the satisfaction inside of you.

He has no idea what he’s just set in motion, but you know exactly what comes next.

Satoru Gojo pulls up in his car and steps out like a wet dream.

White dress shirt, perfectly fitted, rolled just once at the sleeves like he doesn’t even know how pornographic his forearms are. A slim black tie, undone (you’d undo it further).

He leans against his car, wearing a devil-may-care elegance, holding the sexiest bouquet you’ve ever seen.

Red roses were far too generic. He held an assortment of deep wine-colored calla lilies, indigo hyacinth, black dahlia, a single spray of bleeding heart, tied in dark silk. You want to crawl into his lap and purr for it.

You’ve been getting ready since 11:00 for a 7:30 dinner.

It started with a three-step exfoliation.

Then a cooling mask. Then a hydrating mask. Then another to seal the glow.

You tweezed precisely — eyebrows, bikini line, the back of your neck. You moisturzied every inch of your body. Twice. Then oiled it.

You sprayed perfume in strategic places: back of the knees, between the breasts, behind each ear and under your hairline so it would bloom when you played with your hair.

You matched the color of your lipstick to the color of his favorite whiskey. You lined your underwear drawer in the off chance he opened it. You painted your nails a color he once liked on a girl’s post from six months ago.

You wore the dress that made your waist look strangled. You wore the shoes that gave you the posture of a prayer.

And by the time you were done curling your hair, steam emerged from the bathroom like smoke after arson.

But it’s all worth it. He’s worth it.

You had rehearsed the steps you’d take down the stairs earlier so that you’d look like a starlet.

You know how you look. You’ve seen it in the mirror a hundred times already, practiced every expression — wide eyes, coy smile, neck bared just a little more than necessary.

You walk toward him slowly, pretending not to notice how his eyes track every inch of you, from the straps over your shoulders, to the dip of your waist, to the swell of your legs straining beautifully against heels he’ll definitely make you regret later.

“Hey,” he says, offering you the bouquet.

The words taste too good in his mouth. And the way his fingers curve around the stems? You almost moan on instinct.

You take them with trembling control. “They’re stunning.”

“So are you,” he says, eyes dragging down your body and back up. “Do I get to keep looking at you all night?”

It should be illegal the way he says it. So lethal you want to die.

“You better,” you say, curling your grasp tighter around the bouquet. “I got all dolled up just for you.”

You don’t tell him about the playlist you listened to while shaving. Or the way you rewaxed your legs even though they were fine.

You don’t tell him you read six articles on body language to keep your posture effortlessly receptive and just barely challenging.

You don’t tell him you spent twenty minutes making sure your purse contents were both practical and inviting.

You don’t tell him about the notes you made on his favorite wines, his casual turns of phrase, the photo from his stories where you could just barely see the title of the book on his nightstand.

He smiles and opens the door for you. “Shall we?”

His fingers brush your lower back as he guides you into your seat. You’re already soaking, and the night’s only just begun.

The interior of the car smells like him, and the radio hums with ambient jazz, the kind of music people undress to in good movies.

His one hand grips the steering wheel, forearm flexing with each turn. You can’t stop picturing it above your head, fingers gripping the headboard, pinning you down as he sinks inside. You imagine leaving crescent-moon marks in that same arm, clutching him through every thrust.

He glances over. “How was your week?”

“Better now.”

He laughs under his breath, the sound curling around your neck. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

The drive feels like the prelude just before climax — surreal, floaty, skin too sensitive, body tuned too high.

Every passing streetlight reflects against his cheekbones, his lashes, carving his features in gold and shadow. And when his thumb grazes the gearshift, all you can think about is whether he fucks like he talks.

When he parks, you barely register it.

The restaurant is tucked between two blank storefronts: wooden façade, softly glowing paper lanterns flanking the entrance, barely visible signage in elegant brushstroke kanji.

He kills the engine and turns to you.

“Ready for the best meal of your life?”

You let your smile drag out slowly, lip catching on your teeth. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

The maître d’ greets him by name and leads the way to the sushi bar. You glide onto the dark leather stool by his side, close and together, no barriers. You sit, crossed legged, spine perfectly postured, dress kissing your thighs with every shift.

The chef bows low and welcomes you in soft Japanese. He works in silence before you, each slice of fish a performance. The entire meal is a private show, course by course, a slow unveiling.

“This one’s from Niigita,” Satoru says, pouring sake into your cup. “It’s supposed to open up as it breathes.”

“We have that in common.”

He smiles, and that little twist in his lips has your toes curling in your heels.

The first dish arrives. The tuna gleams beet red, accompanied by fresh wasabi and smoked soy.

You watch him out of the corner of your eye as you lift the first piece to your lips, fatty tuna so soft it collapses like butter. You moan (not by accident).

“Holy shit,” you say, hand over your mouth. “I think I just saw god.”

Satoru raises an eyebrow, pleased. “And here I was hoping you’d say that after dinner.”

You chew slowly. Swallow. “You know what they say — save the best for last.”

He watches your lips, then lifts his cup. “Amen to that.”

And so it goes. Bite after bite, poured drinks and conversation. You match him beat for beat — his tastes, humor, quirks.

When he references his favorite manga, you recall the exact line that comes after that. When he talks about enjoying late-night walks, you describe the exact route that just happens to mirror the one in his tagged photos.

He rests one elbow on the bar. “If I asked you what you really thought about me after our first appointment…”

“Which version do you want to hear? The censored or unfiltered version?”

He grins. “Both.”

“Mmm. I think I’d rather show you than tell you.” You pause, lowering your lashes. “But I will say this — I hated the girl who came in after me.”

It's a bold move, but you want him to know. And every time you speak, he looks at you longer.

Another dish arrives. Amberjack, kissed with yuzu zest. He lets you steal his when you eye it too long.

Between courses, you joke about food crimes, admit your secret obsession with absurdly niche documentaries and “coincidentally” drop the title he tweeted about last year as if you didn’t spend nights combing through his feed.

Then his hand brushes your knee, barely a graze, but to you, it’s a spark in a dry field. Your entire body stills under the table, tightly coiled. You want him all over.

“You’re kind of perfect, you know that?”

You feel heat. The final thread of restraint snaps. You place your chopsticks down carefully. You turn toward him, half-shifted on your stool, your leg brushing his.

“I don’t want dessert,” you say.

He raises a brow, smirks. “No?”

“No.”

He blinks once, registering, then leans in. “My place?”

It's so tempting — to feel the silk of his bed, his scent on the sheets and the way his furniture looks when he’s distracted and naked.

But not there, not yet.

You want him in the room where it started, where you first imagined what his hands would feel like if it weren’t covered with latex. You want to feel it raw.

You shake your head. “The clinic.”

Then a laugh, sharp and hot. “Seriously?”

Your eyes are unblinking, unapologetic.

And that’s it. No hesitation. He’s already reaching for his wallet, throwing down enough cash to cover every dish twice over. The chef bows and the staff whispers in polite reverence.

He doesn’t question it again, just takes your hand, leads you to the car, and starts the engine. Your mind is already in the chair, already naked under fluorescent lights.

You glance at him as he pulls out of the lot, hand on the wheel, other hand casually resting between you like it isn’t dying to move. You want to grab it. Put it where it belongs. On you. In you.

His shirt is tight enough across the shoulders that you imagine splitting it open. You want to ruin it, ruin him. You want to press your tongue to his wrist and claim his pulse.

You want his tie around your neck. His name in your mouth. The taste of his skin. You want to be so deep in his thoughts that even his dreams wake up blushing. You want to unzip his spine and live inside him.

You imagine what he’ll look like when he loses control. What his voice will sound like when it breaks. You’ll memorize it, bottle it up, stitch it into your brain, ingrain it in you forever.

He turns the corner, the sign for the clinic glows blue and white in the distance.

Tonight, you go back to where it all began.

Satoru unlocks the front door without a word.

You follow him in after him, traced in his shadow — a devout thing.

He flicks on the examination light and the dental lamp explodes in surgical clarity. It blooms overhead in a cold, perfect cone. A goddamn interrogation spotlight on you, the suspect.

You expect him to smile like before, warm, casual, amused. But he doesn’t.

He shuts the door with his foot. A sharp thunk. The lock clicks behind you like a cell door.

His eyes roam the room, then you. His jaw is set. The muscle in it ticks once.

He’s… different.

You noticed it in the car too — the way his fingers drummed the steering wheel like he was holding back. Now, you’re not sure he is.

He tosses his tie onto the counter, sending metal instruments clattering as the silk brushes them. The tray rattles, a staccato little foreshadowing.

“You want the chair,” he says.

Not a question. Not an offer.

You nod.

He gestures. “Go on.”

The vinyl is cool against the back of your thighs as you sink into the seat. Your dress hikes up slightly — a detail he absolutely notices. He reaches for the control panel, but doesn’t immediately press anything. His hand hovers, then he turns to you.

“You’re not who you say you are, are you?”

Your mouth goes dry. Your heart lurches.

How…

He presses a button.

Beep.

The chair reclines a few inches.

“You called the receptionist asking for my schedule, didn’t you?”

… does he know?

Beep.

Lower.

“You pretended to be someone else everytime.”

You should speak. You should deny it.

Laugh. Cry. Run.

Beep.

Back further, your hair spilling over the headrest, your body opening under the cone of clinical light. The angle is suggestive without even trying. Vulnerable in a way that makes heat curl deep inside you.

He pulls on a pair of gloves—one, then the other—snap, snap in punctuation marks.

“When you showed up at the coffee shop on my day off, I knew I didn’t just run into you.” He tugs the gloves down snug. “You don’t even drink coffee.”

He looks directly at you.

“You even knocked your own tooth out.”

The accusations echo all around you.

He knows — all of it.

The obsessive anlaysis of his calendar. The half-dozen “wrong number” calls. The morning stakeouts and the lies you spun, stacking one on top of the other until the only truth left was you wanted him.

In any way, at any cost.

Your hand finds the metal tray beside you by accident. Instruments tremble with a jarring, metallic trrrring. Satoru watches you react, watches every tremor.

He brushes along your jaw, trailing it. “Do you have any idea how fucked up that is?”

You nod. There’s nothing left to say.

“You should be arrested for the shit you pulled.”

His gaze drops to your hands, trembling on the edge of the armrests. Without breaking eye contact, he reaches to the tray beside you and plucks up a pair of sterile elastic tourniquets, the kind used to stabilize an arm for blood draws.

“I used to imagine you on your knees,” he says, “in my waiting room after hours, tongue out.”

He loops the first thick band around your right wrist and the armrest, cinching it tight with a practiced flick. You can’t breathe. You don’t try.

“Wondered if you thought about me, if you touched yourself after appointments.”

Your left wrist is next — another pull, another sharp snag, binding you helpless. The bands stretch enough to give the illusion of freedom, but no more; every movement meets resistance.

“Sorry darling, can’t have you flailing.”

Your chest heaves, your pulse thunders. He watches the panic spread beautifully across your features.

He adjusts the headrest—click—cradling your skull in his palms. His thumbs rest behind your ears. His face is close now, framed by the halo of the dental lamp, eyes bright and impossibly blue.

His glove grazes your lower lip; not a kiss but not even remotely professional. It was enough to set your entire body on fire, every nerve alight under the cold, white brilliance of the exam lamp.

“Tell me,” he says, “is this how you pictured it?”

“Not even close,” you manage.

He leans in, and your back arches under the light. You’re open. Caught. Laid bare on sterile vinyl beneath the weight of guilt. His mouth is so close now you feel his breath.

“You’re insane,” he murmurs, brushing his gloved thumb over your trembling bottom lip. “But so am I.”

You don’t dare to close your eyes. You want to see everything. Because he saw everything. Because he wanted it too.

“Open wide,” he commands.

You do. But not your mouth. Because he’s not your doctor tonight.

Your legs part and his gloves squeak as he drags a hand over your inner thigh. “You didn’t think I would find out? That you wouldn’t be caught?”

He doesn’t give you room to respond, reaching behind you—another click—the chair groans and tilts further back, until your legs slide open wider under gravity, posture collapsed and defenseless beneath him.

“Look at you,” he breathes, taking in the sight. “My lovely stalker in the flesh.”

The metal tray at your side clinks again as he pulls it closer. He reaches for the suction wand.

“Are you sure you can handle me?”

You’d crack your jaw for him. You’d dislocate your ribs to make more room for him. He’s your addiction and this chair is your confession booth.

You whimper—yes, yes, yes—but he’s already dragging the tube down your throat, past your lips. He doesn’t push far, just enough to press down your tongue. Satoru watches you as you gag around the suction, your throat fluttering under the pressure, eyes glossy.

“So eager,” he teases, and the sound of it, the sound of him, is too much. He slides it back out, obscenely slow, and it glistens with spit. “Messy little thing.”

He grabs the tray again, rips gauze from the sterile stack, and stuffs one square into your mouth, watching your lips stretch around it. He pushes two more in, then another wad, just to see how far you’ll let him go.

“Let’s keep the noise down, yeah?”

Your muffled whimper vibrates through the gauze, helpless and needy.

He traces with his gloved knuckle, trailing higher and higher up your thigh with maddening slowness, hovering near where you need him most.

His other hand wraps around your jaw, tilting your head up until your eyes lock with his, blue and burning.

“Don’t you dare look away.”

You couldn’t if you tried.

The dental lamp floods straight into your pupils, washing everything else to shadow. You blink against the brightness, tears gathering from the intensity, from the humiliation of being exposed in the most unholy posture. And he loves it.

He spreads you open with two fingers, exposing your wet, swollen folds to the light. The lamp overhead catches every glisten, every twitch. You try to lift yourself up into his hand, but the elastics bite into your wrists, forcing you to take every torturous second at his pace.

The first touch is barely a touch — the rubber pad of his index finger nudges directly over your clit. A soft push, a slow circle.

The gauze stuffed into your mouth squelches with spit as you sob around it, teeth sinking into the cotton until your jaw aches. He drags his other gloved thumb over the corner of your lip, smearing the saliva that leaks out.

“Mmm, such pretty sounds,” he hums, slipping deeper. “You’re dripping all over my chair. I could ruin you. Right here, right now.”

He waits there, buried to the knuckle, doing absolutely nothing. Your body clenches helplessly around the intrusion, trying to pull him deeper. You whimper into the gag, wrists twisting uselessly against the rubber restraints.

He laughs and lowers his face again until his lips brush your ear.

“You want more?”

A pause.

“Beg.”

You choke on your own breath, air, tears, spit, need, trying to form any sound that resembles a plea. His finger crooks suddenly, finding the spot instantly. Your ragged, gagged cry spills out of you in a confession.

“There’s your little problem area,” he murmurs, delighted.

He strokes it again. Harder, controlled, devastating. Your vision whites out at the edges and your hips thurst upward in broken, jerky movements, driven entirely by instinct.

The his thumb joins in.

The rubber presses directly on your clit, pushing the wet folds apart around his hand. You damn near convulse — your legs spread wide for him and he thursts in deeper, spreading his fingers apart.

He fucks his fingers in harder, faster, pushing you right to the edge, and then — he withdraws; abruptly, completely, leaving you gasping and choking against the gag, body trembling, thighs slick and open in the cold air.

He steps back and pulls off his gloves with two sharp snaps, tossing them to the tray.

“You look pathetic,” he says.

You wanted to show him just how much.

Your wrists strain against the armrests; you want to touch him, claw him, hold him, anything. Your teeth clamp down around the gag, a muffled snarl erupts low in your throat. Your legs kick out, shaky and half-controlled, but enough to make him grab the armrest and pin you down. His expression flashes from amusement to delight.

“Well, well, look who’s come out to play,” he sings, climbing onto the chair, caging you beneath him.

You buck beneath him again in defiance, and the vinyl screeches under the violent movement. He grabs your throat, holding it with steady pressure, asserting that he can collapse your air at any second.

“You want to challenge me?” He rests his forehead against yours, so close to you that your tears spot his cheek. He pins your wrist with one hand while the other slams your hips down against the chair. “Then fucking challenge me.”

You can’t talk. So instead — you spit the gauze at his face. It hits his cheek, wet and dripping.

“Well now,” he murmurs, brushing your spit down the curve of his own jaw with two fingers. “If you’re going to act like a little monster… I suppose I’ll have to handle you like one.”

He fists his hand in your hair and drags your head back, baring your throat, forcing your mouth open. The restraints creak as your body curls up instinctively toward him, needy and feral.

He kneels on the chair, looming above your pinned body, and drags his cock out — flushed in deep red, heavy and thick enough that your lips part instinctively in disbelief.

“Oh,” he laughs, breath hitching. “You want a taste?”

He taps the head against your lower lip, smearing pre-cum all over, and presses forward to stretch your mouth around a shape substantially bigger than you were ready for.

You try to take him. You really, really try.

But your jaw strains. Your throat tightens. Your lips can’t stretch enough to get past the head before your throat spasms in a futile attempt to open wider.

“What’s wrong?” he taunts, grip tightening in your hair until your scalp burns. “You were so bold a moment ago.”

He nudges forward another inch, forcing your mouth wider, guiding it to the very edge of what it can handle until drool leaks down your chin.

Tears spill from the effort, your neck is strained against the headrest. He watches you struggle, eyes darkening as he watches your jaw quiver around the stretch. Your tongue presses helplessly against the underside of his cock, trying to coax him deeper.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he groans, “if you can’t even take me in your mouth—”

His free hand curls around the base of his length, pressing harder against your lips, pushing a broken whimper from your chest.

“—how the hell,” he pants, “are you going to take me in that tight little cunt?”

You suck harder, jaw screaming, threatening to tear itself apart. You want to swallow him whole, bury him deep, prove that you’re built to take him everywhere.

Satoru smirks down at you, lust-drunk and wicked. “Want to try again?”

You nod frantically, mouth open in a trembling “O”. You think, clear and loud enough for your own mind to hear it:

Yes. Yes, please. Break me on your cock. I want everything you’re about to do.

His eyes gleam like he hears it.

Then he yanks your hair back and shoves himself against your tongue again, harder this time, enough to make your throat seize. You try again, desperate, shaking, gagging on air as you fight to fit around him. He watches you choke on the attempt and loses his goddamn mind.

“Fuck — you’re killing me.”

He leans back, cups your cheeks with both hands, and spits straight into your mouth. A vulgar, wet rope of saliva landing on your tongue and coating your throat.

“There,” he growls, grabbing his cock and smearing his spit across your lips, down your tongue. “Open wider.”

Your throat tries to open. But when he pushes in that inch too far, your gag reflex punches back and you choke hard enough to jolt your entire body, a broken, wet sound that shakes your chest.

“Agh—enough. Enough.”

His voice is ragged, crackling with need. He drags himself out of your mouth and grabs your waist, lifting your restrained body off the backrest with a snap of strength that steals your breath.

He shifts position so fast the chair squeals under him. One moment his cock is pressing at your tongue, the next it’s slapping wetly against your dress, dragged down the centerline of your body, leaving a slick trail of spit on the fabric.

“It’s going in somehow,” he hisses, “if not your mouth, then—”

But he doesn’t finish. Your body reacts before he does. You want to take over, to redeem yourself.

Your hips snap foward, dragging yourself along his cock as he slides it down. Your nails claw for leverage even with your wrists bound.

You tilt yourself, angling your soaked cunt toward him with intent so clear, your entire body trembles as the head nudges your swollen entrance. You strain for contact, cunt pulsing around nothing as you try to drag him into you without permission.

The sight of you trying to mount him while bound, gagged, ruined with tears and spit and slick — he falters, and he jerks forward like he can’t help it. He drops his weight onto you, cock pressed flush to your dripping entrance.

Your chest heaves against him, wrists twisting violently until the elastic bites deep into raw, flaming flesh. It hurts. It thrills. The pain is proof.

“You want it that bad?”

You nod, frantic and wild.

His hand flies to the tray, sending metal rattling. He picks up a scalpel and holds the blade between two fingers, angled toward the rubber binding you.

It slides under the tight band, then—snap—your raw wrist springs free, shaking violently with relief. Thin red marks carve around the skin, swollen and tender, baring evidence of how hard you fought for him.

Good.

Let them stay. Let them bruise and scar.

You earned them.

He drops the scalpel with a clatter, pressing his cock hard against your slit again, smearing slickness over both of you.

Your freed hands fly upward to grab him, nails sinking into his shoulder, dragging him down with a desperation so sharp it borders on violent. Your fingers make their way to thread into his hair and yank him down to your lips.

“Take it properly this time,” he rasps, voice shredded.

“Doctor’s orders,” you oblige, wrapping your legs around his waist to push him in, the head of his cock catching and sinking a fraction of an inch inside your dripping heat.

He slams forward and your body shatters open around him — a shock of pain, a flood of head, a gasp that turns into a moan that turns animalistic. You dig further into his back, dragging warpaths of red down his skin as he sinks further into you.

Finally. This is what you fought for. What you bled your wrists for.

Satoru groans, both of you shivering under the sheer violence. You meet his thrust with a force that makes the chair recline a full inch backward.

His eyes widen. “You’re—” Another thrust. “—trying to take control.”

You bare your teeth in a delicious grin. Then you flip him.

It’s messy, graceless—a snarl, a shove, a twist of your hips and wrists and weight—and suddenly he’s on his back in the chair, stunned, breath gone, cock still buried inside you as you straddle him, thighs clamped around his hips.

You slam yourself down. Hard. He chokes on his own moan.

“Oh—fuck—” His fingers stab into your waist, leaving craters.

You grind down, lifting and dropping your hips in brutal, punishing strokes, using his body like you’re built for it, like he was made to beneath you, inside you, ruined by you.

Your hands push his shoulders down, pinning him with a strength you didn’t know you had. You're taking your revenge.

The chair rattles violently. The light overhead swings in its arm. You collapse your weight onto him, breasts sliding against his chest as you slam down again, again, again, chasing the pleasure.

Satoru’s face contorts, eyes rolling back and mouth falling oepn, hands clutching you so hard you know you’ll bruise. “You’re going to—fuck—you’re going to break us both—”

You whisper against his ear, voice ruined: “Shut up.”

Then you bite him.

His body jerks so violently his cock slams deeper, hitting a place that makes your vision split into stars. He grabs your hair, yanking your head back, exposing your throat.

“Insane,” he moans. “You’re fucking insane—”

His hand between your shoulder blades pulls you tighter. Your nails rake his chest. Your hips pound down and his breath comes out in shuddering, broken gasps.

You slam down. He cries out. You do it again.

He arches up into you, bucking like he’s trying to escape and bury himself deeper at the same time. You grab his throat and angle him to look at you as you take everything he has.

Your mind is a cathedral of obsession. He’s yours now. You’ll ride him into the grave. You’ll drag both of you into ruin. You slam down so hard the tiles begin cracking under the chair.

“That’s it,” he chokes. “That’s—god—fuck—”

Then he snaps.

He sits up in a single violent moment, arms crushing you to him, mouth on your shoulder, your throat, biting, sucking, marking you with his brand.

You moan, throat raw, as he thrusts up into you from below. Your cries start to shake. Your legs go numb. Your mind falls apart. You claw at his hair, panting into his ear, “Don’t stop.”

He shakes, gripping you like a man drowning. He slams up into you at the same moment you slam down onto him, and the collision rips into a full-body convulsion that arches your spine off his chest and sends your nails carving across his back.

Your throat goes silent for a moment, too much pleasure to even make a sound, before the cry finally tears free, a raw, keening note of release. Your cunt clamps around him so hard he nearly folds with you.

He drags you down on his cock, burying himself so deep the air punches out of him. He stutters, then grinds in ragged and broken thrusts as he groans a low, wrecked sound into your throat, biting into it as he pours into you. You feel blood rising under his teeth — and you almost come again from that alone.

Your legs give out. Your arms tremble intensely. Your body collapses against him, twitching, spasming, clenching with aftershocks so intense it would break the Richter scale.

“Fuck… fuck… stay right there… don’t move… don’t—”

You don’t listen — you shift instead. And you feel it: the soft, hypersensitive throb of him still inside you, your slick leaking down over him. You feel him groan into your neck.

“No—no, sweetheart, don’t—”

Again. You want it again. You want to make sure he can’t walk anymore. To make him delirious.

So you roll your hips again and you kiss him. His lips part on instinct, and you swallow his breath, tongue pushing into his mouth, messy and wet, teeth clashing.

You grind down again and his moan breaks in half. “Fuck—don’t—god, I’m still—”

“I don’t care.”

You kiss him slow, sealing him. His hand slides up your back with a gentleness so at odds with the brutality of what came before that it steals your soul. His mouth lingers under yours, open, wanting more, wanting you.

Every risk you took to get you here worked.

Your obsession made him yours.

His chest rises against yours in one long, shuddering breath. And when you pull back, his voice cracks open against your lips in a low, hoarse murmur:

“… come here, I’m not done yet.”

[madamechrissy]

Boss Gojo x reader - mdni

"You'll belong to me, for the entire month," your boss Satoru Gojo murmurs, leaning down and tilting your chin up, those azure eyes darkening as you look up at him. "And I'll take care of your debts, plus I'll give you an extra fifty thousand for yourself. Sound good, sweetheart?"

You don't understand, why would someone that looks like Satoru Gojo need to 'buy someone' for the month? What kind of insane kinky shit is this man into? "Just.... stay with you all month in your mansion and get all those medical bills covered? That seems too good to be true."

"You'll have to do anything I want," he walks around you then, his dress shoes clicking along the hardwood floor. His long fingers dance along your neck, lifting your hair off your back and leaning down, lips against your ear. "That's the agreement."

He's gotta be into some freaky ass fifty shades shit.

Maybe worse!?

"You'll enjoy it all, being at my mercy," he chuckles, the sound deep and warm, making your thighs press together. He seems to notice though, walking back around until he's between your thighs, you lean back in your chair, biting back a gasp. "Do you agree?"

You're gonna regret this, huh?

"Yes," you say softly, Satoru's thumb brushes your lower lip, exhaling and grinning all cute, like he's a sweet boy and not some sadistic freak. "I agree."

When your wrists are bound, tight ropes knotted and pressing in, and he has you bent over his bed that night, you wonder what you got yourself into - promising him anything he wants. The first smack of his palm on your bare ass made you wetter than you thought, so wet his cock could easily slip in.

"Look at you, takin' it so well," he praises softly, before smacking you again, groaning and spreading your ass cheeks, watching the slick pool down your puffy lips. "Perfect, hah I knew you would be."

Your cunt is abused from his hands and his leather belt smacking you over it until you're trembling, arching for more even when tears sting the back of your eyes. Especially when he's jerking ropes of cum all over the curve of your back, decorating your skin with white, you want him to slide his cock in, biting back a plea.

He licks every bit of that network of milky cum up with a long pink tongue, not even fingering you, not fucking you, no he just licks his own cum from your pretty body and moans as he does. Littering you with marks from his mouth, from his teeth, sucking every drop up like it's the most delicious thing he's ever drank.

He's chuckling when your ass - covered in whelps and raised hand prints - jerks just a bit, wrists pinned behind your back. He leans over you, heavy body weighing you down, your clit throbbing with need from just hearing his breathy pants, from feeling his tongue everywhere.

"Open," you gasp and he pours his come in your open mouth with a filthy trail of spit, grinning with saliva coating his lips. "Thatta girl, swallowing my cum like a good little slut, hmm?"

You half expect him to have you suck him, to fuck you - fuck you almost want to, but he simply unties you, rubbing your wrists gently. Fingertips gently drag up through your your drippy, swollen folds for just a moment, humming as if pleased.

"Let's cuddle," you blink in confusion, his cum still coating your tastebuds, letting him clean you up before tugging you close, your body aching from the lashings he dealt you, walls pulsing around nothing. "Tomorrow we'll start actually doing what I want."

You gasp. "Then what was that!?"

Satoru chuckles, tugging your naked body against him and sighing, wrapping an arm around your waist. "That was nothing, sweetheart, now you promised me anything. So that means I get to snuggle."

Who the fuck was this man?

this is for @vivicaaas2 she's like my muse, you should thank her for Dopamine too <3 now i wanna write this hehe

[veejiez]

❝ SHE'S ABOUT TO GRADUATE WITH A DEGREE IN SLUTOLOGY! ❞

ㅤ⋆ ──── professor GOJO SATORU

Going through ovulation week hell? Boys your age just don't know how to fuck you? Need someone older, more experienced? — No worries! Your astrophysics professor can show you how a real man should treat a woman — and his dicking-down's so powerful it can magically turn that F into an A, too! Err, of course... isn't he the one who deliberately curated an assignment based on your weaknesses in the first place? Oopsie. Was this all just an excuse to fuck his sluttiest student into her place? Duh! You were getting too cocky, after all. Now remind him, baby, who's the real prodigy here?

wc ──── 16k (30-ish pages, kindly throat it to the base thx)

cws ──── strictly NO under 18s. smut with plot. professor x student trope. age gap (Gojo 30s, reader 20s). he kinda totally falls in love with you (oops). cocky Gojo vs cocky reader. solo m. masturbation. clothed dry humping. breast play. hair pulling. fingering. spanking. a few pussy slaps your honor. protected to unprotected sex. rough sex. praise & degradation. dirty talk. multiple orgasms. creampies. name-calling: good girl, slut. pet names: babydoll, sweets, etc. breeding kink. big dick shenanigans. ovulation nonsense. marking his back. aftercare because he's a real man. angst but it's resolved. gets a bit emotional. fluff ending.

an ──── Behold, my love letter to my wifey @sweethearticism. You might need a drink and snacks for this one, and if you survive Professor Gojo's big dick exam lmk what you think 💗💋 and sorry that it took so long lol!!

MORE ME ⋆ P.TAGLIST

ㅤ⋆

The man’s gone pale when he sees you clip-clopping across campus, ducking before you can even catch his silhouette in your peripherals.

It’s quite funny, really — you’d think a man like that would fear nothing. But even the strongest has his weakness. And Satoru’s kryptonite? One feisty, petite A-Grade princess... who happens to be his student.

It’s 8:30. He’s already choked up, hidden away in the bathroom, stooping low to reach the sink. The way he’s cupping the water to his mouth, you’d think he’d just been through a traumatic event. But nah. That’s not the case.

It’s 8:35. Got to stretch his legs on the green expanse of the quad. A group of students are puffing and passing, the stench of weed wafting his way and causing him to curl his nostrils. He gives them a scolding look.

It’s 8:45. He’s running hot and darts off to his car — the moment the door shuts, he’s whipping his cock out for a quickie. Hissing through gritted teeth, a few brisk strokes is all it takes to bring him to orgasm.

The fact that he just came using his own underwear as a cum-collector? Ew, foul.

But you know what’s worse?

That he came to the image of you; figure folded into a mean mating press underneath him, moaning obscenities as your cunt clenches his cock.

That’s what he saw flashing in his mind about 0.3 seconds before he exploded like Mt. Vesuvius.

Heaving a disappointed sigh (directed towards himself), Satoru brushes his wispy bangs off his tacky forehead and fwips down the visor to check his pretty, pale visage.

Yep, getting older all right. But still handsome.

Oh, and also he looks like he just ran a marathon in 5 minutes. Or was it 3? Well, he’s gonna be late to his 8:30 class either way.

His cheeks are heavily flushed and shimmery with sweat, heart hammering beneath his ribs. Chest rising and falling with each heavy breath.

It’s 9:00 AM on the dot and he, my friend, is late for his own fuckin’ lecture so he hurries back across campus with a shuffling gait, lookin’ like a comic book character with the way he’s trying to force his pearl-knit sweater to cover up his very obvious commando-mode situation down there.

Students await Mister Never On Time, all cooped up in that stuffy, warm lecture room.

Satoru stills for a moment outside the door, staring at the inscribed plaque mounted upon it: Prof. S. Gojo, PhD. Astrophysics.

This is the part of his day where he — still a bit flustered and disoriented — completely shifts gear into who he’s expected to be (a god damned professor); poker face, suave and silky as satin, with an iconically perpetual smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa.

Daddy long legs, striding into his lecture room, so slowly, so dramatically; like a diva claiming the spotlight.  His pretty ski-slope nose upturned, the professor’s air is so serious — what with his polished Oxfords clacking against the cold floor and rimless glasses pushed high upon that nose bridge — that a few sighs are released from students who find him intolerably pompous.

But the worst part is when he opens his mouth.

Because the sound of his crisp rasp alone could wake a vampire from slumber.

“Morning, everyone.”

Yes, that’s all he says. No apology for being late, because it gets repetitive when said every day, y’know?

He’s trying so hard not to search out the face of his favorite post-grad, because wouldn’t that be making it a little too obvious?

Satoru drawls, “Boy do I hope you’re all in a very good mood today,” he thwacks his palm down on a stack of papers sat on his mahogany desk, “because I’ve got your graded papers right here — and grading these put me through The Five Stages.”

There’s that sneering grin twisting on his face. You see it everyyy fuckin’ morning.

He’s a prodigy, a self-proclaimed intellectual.

And what does one typically want to do with intellectuals?

That’s right, throttle them.

But you... oh, you’d rather throttle him between your thighs. Or so you whisper as much to your best friend, who suffers every morning at your side during Satoru Gojo’s lecture — because she would much rather just throttle the self-proclaimed intellectual’s neck.

Once your gaze is on him, it’s over; you’re not focused on anybody else for the entirety of the lesson.

In whispers, your friend scolds you.

“Stop it.” she hisses.

“Stop what?” you hiss back.

“Checkin’ him out like he’s the fuckin’ deli special.”

You soften your face in amusement, fingers toying with your pen.

“Mm, what I’d give to have a taste of his meat.”

She groans, palming one side of her face, “Please, mon amie salope, this comes from the bottom of my heart: drop out.”

Just as you laugh, a pair of woman-killing blue eyes flash your way, lingering for far too long.

The pause, one hand smoothly sunken in his pants, of his toned torso makes something tick beneath your ribcage and without realizing, you’re nibbling the tip of your pen.

Satoru continues, apologizing for the deviation, “... where was I? Ah, never mind, you wouldn’t appreciate my metaphor — none of you probably even know who Dostoyevsky is. But I guess, that’s why you’re in my class and not Professor Nanami’s... ha-ha.”

The way he drops that laugh, it rouses a lot of stifled sighs. Not only does this room of sleep-starved academics have to endure Satoru Gojo’s spirit-breaking assignments by night, but also his holier-than-thou monologues.

Sickening. Just watch him pace the length of the blackboard, like he’s a god in your life. But the only semblance he bears to the man upstairs is his sadism when he tests you.

ㅤ⋆

Cours terminé.

Satoru’s sifting through his desk, letting out an oddly cute, boyish yawn and scratching at his sharp-edged undercut. You love it when he does that. How he so fuckin’ erotically drags his hand up to meet the fluff of moony-white, there’s something about it—

“—that just makes me wanna do tricks on it.”

“Hey babyface?” your friend lilts her voice, “Remind me next time to bring a bottle of wine and a corkscrew so I can shove a fuckin’ cork in that mouth of yours.”

“I’d much rather you shove something else in my mouth.”

You’re cackling. She looks like she’s rethinking this whole ‘best friends’ label, and you’re cackling.

She can hardly tolerate it, yet you continue.

“God, he moves like a cat. Just watch him.” you admire.

Massive hands pushing up each sleeve of his white shirt up, revealing the veiny daddyish masterpiece that are his forearms. Upon one arm, he perches the papers. Tongue poking out, he swipes the pad of his thumb across it — oh, beautiful. He gives you too much fuel for that deranged imagination of yours.

He’s working his way through the aisles, sometimes needing to blow his wispy white bangs out of his angelic blues. You’re observing him with thighs clenched tight.

Since he’s mostly just a small thing pacing the length of a blackboard most of the day, you tend to forget just how large he is.

The way the breadth of those shoulders tapers off to that leg-lockable waist, to those long, long legs of his — should be illegal, don’t you think?

But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t hate his haughtiness.

The swanky style, feline gait, how he upturns his nose to those he deems ‘sub-par’ students (AKA, anyone who achieves lower than an A) — it’s gut-churning even if he is an Adonis.

It’s like he’s living in shades of cool, like he’s royal blue and heavenly gold and everyone else is just the dried-up, murky corner of an artist’s palette.

There’s nothing in his controlled appearance that reveals anything about his morning antics, but fuck does he feel paranoid because underneath those tailored pants he’s not wearing anything. If you flirt too hard with him today, he might just honestly kick you out of his classroom (seriously).

And just when he’s clenching his jaw in fear at the thought of popping a boner for you, whose voice does he hear rippling down from the top seats?

“There’s no way I’m not gonna jump his bones.”

Your friend sighs at you, resignedly, “Please, get a hold of yourself — he’s like, thirty-something.”

“Yum.”  you lick your lips, “I’ve always had a taste for men who are older. It’s always been, ’s no surprise...”

His stomach tightens at hearing this.

He doesn’t need to glance your way to see that you’re making eyes at him, because he can feel the imprint of the hearts you’re burning into his skin, pretty baby. You make it too damn obvious.

You’re watching his every movement very, veryyy closely.

The stale lecture room air carries the hushed tones of your friend’s voice, then yours, right over to Satoru. What? No, no; he’s not straining his ears, or anything. He just happens to overhear this.

“This isn’t you; it’s the ovulation demon speaking.” quivers your friend.

To which you reply, “Yah, and it’s whispering for me to spell my name on his dick.”

She looks like she’s about to cry from the embarrassment of being your friend.

You hiss, “—Sorry, but where is the sign saying ‘do not ride the professors’? They should put it up on Geto’s and Nanami’s office walls, too.”

“My girl!” she cries out, “Please, please drop out!”

“As if! I’m gonna graduate with a degree in slut-ology. Ha!”

My my, could you make it any more obvious? You silly thing. Gonna work him up again and it’s not even lunch break yet.

Gojo Satoru’s heard just about enough of your crazy talk to start blushing just a little. How endearing, you’re just like he was in his peak years at college — getting straight-As and his dick wet. The familiarity he finds you could almost make him feel something under those pretty pecs.

But Satoru catches himself right before your words take root in his glass heart; he tells himself to straighten the fuck up and obeys the whip of his own self-discipline.

He’d never make himself late to his own lecture just because he had to get off ’n cum with you on his mind. Gaslighting? Um. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m telling you he would never ever do that, and he didn’t.

Head bowed as he assumes that elegance, Satoru’s snuffed out his crazy hormones by now and is no longer going through the male version of ovulation. He’s quite fine, thank you.

Swiftly, composedly, he distributes the graded papers while whistling a soft tune on his lips.

“—And this is the behavior of a cum laude student?” croaks your friend.

“Oh yeah, I’m gonna cum laude all over him.”

Satoru stops whistling.

He inspires a deep, deep breath.

Your friend just barely contains her own laughter, but the squeak she lets out before she manages to clap her hand over her mouth is just enough to garner some disturbed looks from students.

His pale face turns in your direction.

An enigmatic, Mona-Lisa smile tugs at his rosy lips. And then, just as smoothly, he turns away and continues.

Paper down, “Good job.”, onto the next. Paper down, “Keep it up.”, continue. Lips pulling thinner as he repeats the gesture over and over again — like a mantra, the professionalism miraculously calming whatever movement’s going on beneath his belt. Sure, a little hard. But not enough for it to be obvious — right? Oh god.

Nothing escape’s a slut’s eyes, does it?

You’ve snatched your friend’s cat-eyed Dolce & Gabannas off her nose, now peering at him from over the rim, catching on the slight — very very very slight — outline of what he’s packing under those pants.

“It’s not a joke anymore… I think I’m hot for teacher.”

His breath is caught in his throat right as he’s delivering a praising remark to another student.

You can hear him clear his throat, can see him briefly tug down his shirt like he was trying to cover up a little situation.

One click — two, three —of his sharp polished shoes until they finish making a path to your desk. Three. He was three steps away, and you had the audacity to say that?

Yeah, push those fuckin’ sunglasses up your nose. To shame, honestly.

Was it fun, to get a man hard in his own lecture room? And you call yourself prestigous.

He stills at the edge of your desk, air seemingly freezing around around him. He’s casting that strange, quivering gaze over you — the one that makes you squirm in your seat, the one you can’t make sense of no matter how many times he bears it down at you like you’re supposed to be able to decipher it. The fucker. He’s presenting himself like a theory for you to figure out.

How can such cold eyes make you feel so warm? More curiously, what kind of thoughts laid behind them?

“Girls, don’t you think it’s a little bit rude to talk behind someone’s back?” Professor Gojo greets professionally, setting each paper down carefully, first your friend’s and then yours.

Your friend decays into ash and dust besides you. How mortifying.

But never mind that.

You look down at your paper.

96 out of 100.

And there, you feel that familiar leap in your chest, the one that only academic validation can make you feel — and you daresay it feels better than resolved daddy issues.

Upon drawing your gaze up, you meet with a pair of violent blues peering over rimless glasses.

Not a word of praise leaves his lips.

Instead, he just winks at you.

Ah fuck. There it is. The spark before the fire. That dangerous lurch of the stomach — warning you that your fantasies will become reality if you don’t tread carefully.

But you’re an idiot.

So you blurt out to him:

“Mm, this was too easy Mr. Gojo! Are you losing your edge?”

Your friend stomps on your foot beneath the desk. It’s quite possible that heaven won’t see your arrival, with the way her side-eye alone is trying to drag you to hell.

But his reaction?

A wicked smile that has the power to make yours falter.

Something in his air shifts. Like, your words just angered the tectonic plates under his chest to move and gnash over each other.

“Sorry, who’s the prodigy here?” he returns jokingly — ‘jokingly’.

You laugh nervously, backtracking. “Kidding, kidding! Um, I just meant—”

He interrupts, “—don’t get too cocky now. That’s my job, sweets. You keep studying hard. Would pain me to see my most promising student fall from grace ’cause she got too big for her boots, hm?”

That’s what he leaves you with, before smoothly disappearing. Your breath is fucked up, heart rate spiked like you just got thrown out of a high-speed car on the god damned highway.

Fuckfuckfuck what have you done? — I don’t know. But you did something, flipped a switch, triggered a cataclysmic event — all because you can’t keep your damn mouth shut for one moment.

He hands out the last few papers to students with a cheery whistle on his lips — but the melody haunts you this time.

Your friend steals back the sunglasses off your face, needing to hide behind something after that — whatever the fuck that was. A quicktime event you clearly failed.

“I can’t believe you fuckin’ said that to him!” She croaks, distraught. “Are you crazy!”

You mutter back, “Ow, by the way.”

“Well-deserved!” She whispers, sliding even further down her seat, looking out for Gojo Satoru as if he’s the boogeyman.

“He’s scary as shit. How can you find him hot!”

“Dilf.”

“… why am I friends with you…”

Something alights in your eyes.

“But did you hear that? He called me ‘sweets’...” you feather. “Oh, my uterus!”

Your friend bangs her palm on the table as she wails; “Please, dropooout!”

ㅤ⋆

He’s alone in his office.

Rather, alone with it.

In his ribs, it’s thumping. And in his pants, it’s throbbing.

Satoru’s tie is slackened around his collar, hanging low, the tail dipping into his crotch as he assumes the most egregrious posture a spine has ever known.

He widens his legs, lazing back in that kinda tacky, sumptuous chair of his.

His pretty white hair is tousled, sticking up at the back, not like he’s been playing with it but rather abusing it out of sheer horny frustration.

It wasn't just your best friend who was done with your slutty nonsense, but him, too.

Because tell me, how do you think he feels fighting off a boner in the middle of his own classroom?

It's not like when he was in his teens, having a simple crush on a girl that fades within a week. Not like his twenties, either, when he couldn’t care less about the girl’s name — only her tightness, her eagerness to please him.

This is different.

Is it the taboo? Your appearance — you’re hotter than the rest, is that it? Maybe it’s the way you squeeze your thick hips and thighs into the tiniest clothes. How you make your cleavage a little more pronounced when you walk past him on campus. Th-the way you say his last name with the smallest hint of sluttyish disrespect.

Or, maybe just the simple fact that you’ve got a thing for older men?

—Fuck.

The thumping and throbbing just got harder.

His cock is testing his willpower right now. Letting off steam twice in one day is really not his style, but today’s one of those days.

He’s considering it, grasping at the rigid outline, tightening his jaw. It’s a bit iffy, you know, because he’s never actually jerked off in his own office.

ㅤ“I’ve always had a taste for men who are older.

“Fuck.” Satoru chokes under his breath as he remembers your words.

Something snaps — oh, it’s his willpower.

Yeah, it’s definitely the fact you’ve got a thing for older men.

Satoru starts gently palming at his bulge, cock aching under the stimulation.

“Fuck, hah, ah-ah... hah.”

Oh... well, that’s not good, is it? A little teasing over fabric shouldn’t feel this good, shouldn’t have him leaking precum.

Nutty is a flavor professors often come in, sure, but Satoru’s a whole fucking bag of macademia nuts; only he could be getting it up for the girl who just so casually insulted him in his own classroom.

“Ugh, pretty girl... affecting me like this even when you’re not here is unfair.” he curses you under his breath.

He purrs as he palms at his cock harder, breath hitching.

The sensitivity is making his head spin, because fucking hell it never usually feels like this even when he’s in a hormonal crisis.

That rush cascades down his body, and suddenly there’s a clinking noise sounding through his empty classroom as he’s whipping off his belt.

Spreading his legs and leaning back in his chair, tugging that looong zipper all the way down in a moment of haste, Satoru’s got the front of his pants flayed open and his heavy cock slapping hard against his tense abdomen.

Et voilà.

The man can’t resist admiring his own cock — but come on now, is it not a bit much to give himself a taste-test? Maybe it’s because he’s too deep in his fantasy of you swirling your soft tongue around his mushroomy tip, letting his precum be your new lip-gloss.

Purrs turn into throaty, masculine groans as he begins bullying his fist up and down his leaky cock.

His ministrations soothe the ache, but it’s not enough; he needs something more than his hand, something tighter, sluttier... an A-grade pussy with a bad record of amateurish one-nighters, a sweet thing that he could teach a thing or two to — it is his job, after all.

But you know, sometimes even prodigy like him could be enlightened by the right kind of woman. And old dogs can still learn new tricks, right...?

Could you slut him out?

Are you dirtier than him?

Those rumors that the boys of his classroom whisper about amongst themselves; are they true or are you really just a sloppy amateur, who’s never gotten fucked how she deserves?

It's too much.

The sensitivity, how heavy and tight and full his balls feel — and now he’s blabbering dirty talk under his breath.

Remember what I said about nutty professors? Yes, well, only a true nutbag like him could be dirty talking to himself in his own vacant classroom... to fantasies of his own fuckin’ student.

“Fuck, fuck... like that; such a good girl.” he feathers, glowering at his fat cock, imagining your face under it, “Like being a good girl f’me, don’t you?”

With brisk strokes, he pumps his hand along his throbbing length, other hand coming down to cradle those heavy, perfect balls.

“Just like that and I’ll cum — don’t you want it as badly as I do, b—aaaby?”

Faster, faster, he’s pumping his cock towards a way better orgasm than the hasty one this morning. Jaw slacking, he shifts his legs around. Satoru’s hips buck into the air, stomach blooming with butterflies and a smidge of guilt right before he cums.

“Fuck, fuck! Gonna cum...!”

There we go — he moans your name like it’s just been waiting to spill over his bottom lip.

Hot ribbons of white spill out his flushed tip as he milks his orgasm out for all it’s worth. Rivulets of cum roll down his shaft, over his knuckles, thick and gooey and god so pungent and a total waste of his virile seed, in his opinion.

“Ugh, fuck.” he groans, head thudding against the padded back of his chair.

It’s crazy, how the post-nut clarity hits him almost instantly. He blows his dampened bangs out his eyes, but they don’t budge; how’s he working up such a sweat on his forehead and he’s not even in it yet?

Wait.

‘Yet’...?

Satoru lets out a chuckle, releasing his drooping cock from his grasp.

Tissues and hand sanitizer stashed in his drawer find themselves hastily pulled out as he carefully cleans up his sin.

“And this is the behaviour of a PhD?” he jokes to himself, “I’m about as bad as that cum-laude.”

ㅤ⋆

Satoru needs to take a few steadying breaths to cleanse his mind after... uh, such vigorous activities unbecoming of an intellectual.

He’s unzipping his leather briefcase, stealing his carefully prepared bento out of it, trying not to focus on the whole situation happening in his pants.

But he’s not hungry.

In fact, he’s got a bellyache.

You’re his nightmare. His headache. His wet dream.

His head feels like it could pop if he lets another thought of you squeeze into it — there’s no fuckin’ space, you’ve hoarded all of it.

Shit, at this rate, it feels like you puppeteer him.

Satoru lets out a grunt, stressing a hand over his face and running it over his silky bangs.

God, how pathetic — it’s like he’s a student of these halls again, too distracted by his own horniness to focus on anything else.

Satoru rubs his hand across his mouth. His lashes quiver, eyes shutting. The weight of a meager four hours of sleep comes down over him like the final hammer.

Is he losing his edge?

Oh, fuck.

—Is he?!

Heart like a panic alarm in his chest, Satoru’s eyes flash open.

The drawer of his desk smacks open, massive hand fishing out a tiny notebook.

It’s a special notebook; bound in leather, a dog-eared page in the middle of it which details two things;

Your name.

And your weaknesses.

Maybe you don’t think you have any areas to improve on, but just like Gojo Satoru, even the top student has a kryptonite.

And yours is... gonna be question 12. He’s decided.

But hey, how thoughtful is it of him to remember your favorite mathematician is Gauss, huh? Kind of sweet, honestly. He’s gonna make you hate him.

Now, is it fair, to design a test specific to your weaknesses? No. Potentially illegal, even. He can’t just draw a red circle around one particular student, bend her over and absolutely rail her, can he?

That’s unfair.

But you’ve been unfair to him all year.

And there’s two things Gojo Satoru loves in life; orgasms, and karma — both he prefers to deliver with his own hand.

Besides, it’s your fault if you choose to fuck around instead of study for an upcoming test. And he told you, oh so long ago, that this question would rear its ugly head again.

Click click, his pen jots down a few notes before he’s moving onto his laptop.

Face alight with the blue glare, rimless glasses reflecting back the contents of a word document that would soon become the test that he hopes will give you a real mind-fuck.

ㅤ⋆

“Ah… ah!!”

“More… more…!!”

Eyes pinched shut, your legs looped around the slim waist of a pretty boy from accounting.

He was just barely grazing your favorite spot… ignorant to how your walls cried out for more. Maybe, just maybe, you hoped, if you squeezed even tighter around his cock, then it would finally feel better.

Okay, sure; it kind of helped. You could feel the subtle tingle of an orgasm building up, albeit a lame one.

You’re focused on chasing it out, but then—

“Cumming!”

“Huh?” your eyes blinked open.

Already?

The boy on top of you lets out a long groan, stilling inside you.

You’re hiding your disappointment with practiced ease while he heaves a satisfied sigh and withdraws — a little too quickly, like, what is this, a drive-thru?

The ceiling looks bleak, and so does the outlook for your pussy because she is not cumming tonight unless you run back to your dorm and charge up your vibrator.

This is agony.

You’re considering asking him to help you orgasm, untiiil you see just how quickly he slips out of bed and goes to discard the condom in the trash — the way he did it, without even looking at you, just… gave you the biggest fucking ick of your life.

God, why did it feel like he threw you in the trash instead of the condom?

No post-sex cuddles. No orgasm for you – yeah, ’cause his is all-important… and yours? Optional.

He huffs, clearly exhausted after giving it his pathetic all for about… eh, seven minutes? No foreplay. Just male orgasm & French exit. Bravo, you thought bitterly.

This guy, he put so little effort into pleasuring you, and then he had the audacity to ask;

“Was I good?”

—without even looking in your general direction, as he was too focused on dressing himself.

“Yeah.” You blatantly lied, throat aching, “Good.”

Even your pussy constricted in disappointment — because what were you actually fucking doing? Was being everybody’s girl worth it? No, let me tell you; it wasn’t, it never could be, and you knew that from day one. Because men, or at least college boys, fucked like they only just recently learned how to use their dick.

Because sex for them was just that – for them. Pullup, unzip, swipe their cock through your folds, enter like it's a drive-thru, finish, pullout, zip-up. No thank yous to your hardworking pussy, no foreplay, no praise, and most importantly – no orgasms for you.

And now? It’s you and the ceiling, baby. You, the ceiling, and the regret of giving one more measly broccoli-haired boy a chance.

Defeat evident on your face as you dress up, you mutter an excuse and tell him a swift goodbye.

“Are you mad at me, or something?”

“Let me tell you something; you better make lots of fuckin’ money one day, otherwise no bitch will tolerate that needle-dick. Good-fuckin’-bye.”

Those are the last words he hears out of you before you wrench the door shut.

A hatred for men pools in your stomach as you traipse across campus to the women’s dorms — but the reason it hurts even more is because you know it’s not true; someone’s out there who can make you cum, make you feel cared for, make you feel real exhiliration. But you just haven’t had the fortune of meeting him yet.

Shit, how’d you end up in a sleazy boy’s bed the night before your assignment was due, anyways?

Well, because this is what transpired between you and your best friend about two hours prior:

ㅤ“What crack was Gojo smoking when he wrote these questions? This shit’s impossible!”

ㅤ“I don’t get it, aren’t you always going on about how easy everything is?”

ㅤYou shake your head, “Ha-ha, maybe he took my comment personally—”

ㅤ“—yeah, ’think maybe you should have held ya fuckin’ tongue?! The man’s making our lives a living hell for it, clearly. This is just like first year all over again.”

ㅤ“—you say that like it’s actually my fault! The old man’s just showing off ’cause he’s self-conscious. ㅤOh, fuck it! I look too good tonight to stay cooped up like this — I’m going to Cole’s.”

ㅤShe groans in disgust, “You’re choosing Cole’s six-incher over me? I’m appalled.”

ㅤ“Six and a half.” You correct.

ㅤ“The half makes no difference, sweetie.”

ㅤ“Whatever. Anyyyways… if you figure out the answer to question twelve, can you—”

ㅤ“Absolutely not! Do it yourself, Miss Perfect. Anyways, be safe and go enjoy yourself.”

ㅤ“Thanks, I will.”

—You didn’t.

Worse. You arrive back to a pitch-black dorm room, your roommate seemingly long abandoned the assignment, giving up right in the middle of question twelve.

You sit down at the desk, hearing her soft snores as she sleeps, and stare a long, dewy-eyed stare into the paper as if trying to will it into answering its own questions.

This wasn’t an assignment. This was an atomic bomb to the mind. Voluntary torture — no, paid-for torture. You put money down on this shit.

Above all, this paper was a reminder; a reminder that Satoru Gojo is a prodigy, that he’s above all you fuckin’ dweebs and you better remember it.

The marks where you had viciously erased show the ghost of horrendously incorrect answers. You skim through the paper, not really thinking about its contents. How can you? Your pussy is clenching with a familiar disappointed ache in its walls, one you’ve grown so used to by now. Is it weird to say that it feels like your uterus cries sometimes? Because right now is one of those times.

Well, boys may suck but you know what doesn’t? Technology.

One thing that stays true is that vibrators are a girl’s best friend.

So you creep across the room and pull open the night stand drawer, hand scouring amongst your panties looking for the soft, grey pouch.

The plum-colored egg-shaped toy is beautiful in every way, but most of all because it’s a stealth weapon — and boy, do you use it as such against your clit.

Writhing under the thick of your blanket, you roll the vibrator over and over — but your clit’s gone sleepy and the damn toy’s not fully charged, so it’s vibrations are pitifully weak.

Then, like the universe itself is writing the comedy into your life, it goes dead.

A groan escapes your throat.

Well, maybe this is a sign.

You tuck the useless thing under your pillow and then bring Gojo Satoru’s atomic bomb assignment to the comforts of your bed, poising the pencil at question fuckin’ twelve.

ㅤ⋆

Good morning? No. Bad morning. You’ve got 0 orgasms and ovulation week hormones surging through your blood. Plus, the papers have been graded. And you know damn well that you bullshitted your way through question twelve.

The sun is glaring. The birds are annoying. And worst of all; Satoru Gojo has had a much too cheery whistle on his lips since the start of this lecture. Just what the fuck is he so happy about? Oh but god, he looks so bleary-eyed and cute today, plus his hair is perfectly tousled, so how can you hate him? You can’t.

You’re sat in your seat, talking shit with your friend.

When she makes a grimace, Professor Gojo can almost guess what you’ve just said — speculating his dick size, maybe? Or wondering if he’s hiding abs underneath his shirt? Maybe you wanna tug on his tie? Have his babies?

Just look at the slutty little giggle you let out when you catch him staring.

Yeah, babydoll, can't wait to see those glossy lips make a nice O shape for me.

Once again, he’s handing papers out to students. This time, heavily praising each one for their hard work.

He’s creeping closer towards your desk, looking a little too edible with that snatched waist and those thick biceps squeezed into a tight black turtleneck.

Your friend lets out a groan, and Satoru can just barely make out what you’ve said.

“I’d happily have blue-eyed mini-Gojos running around my house if he’s packing nine inches.”

“Nine inches! Girl, nobody can take nine inches.”

“Speak for yourself!”

How sweet, so you are speculating his size. But what was that — um — thing you said that eluded to him giving you his babies? I think he might have nearly had a heart attack because of that.

The murmur of his voice instantly snaps your attention away from the horrendous dirty talk you’ve been subjecting your friend to.

“Girls, what did I say about yapping?” He drawls, something different in his voice — smugness? But he’s always smug. This sounded… far more amused than usual. Like he was trying not to break.

“Sorry, sir.” you feather.

He slides your friend’s paper across the table, then places yours down with an even more firm thud of his fingertips — as if he was saying something.

Eye contact.

It stuns you dumb this time. Satoru's cologne meets your nose, invades your lungs, travels south.

He smiles too sweetly at you; something’s off.

“Better luck next time.” he whispers, disappointment pretentious on his tongue.

You look down at your paper.

Your stomach drops.

ㅤF—

ㅤSee me after class :)

Your mouth drops into a delicious O-shape.

Ah, well fuck, if that isn’t the most satisfying thing he’s ever seen...

“… what the fuck?” you breathe, so fucked up on seeing that F that you zone out for a solid minute.

You look up in panic, but find no blue eyes — the fucker’s left you gaping there, like an idiot, and continues handing out the rest of the papers in silence.

He strides down back to his desk, so fast you can’t even get his attention, but you do clip a frame of his face.

Was he fuckin’ smirking?

Oh, just what the fuck is going on here?

You’re rereading his squiggly handwriting over and over, unable to accept that this has actually happened to you.

There has to be some mistake, right? Is this someone else’s paper?

Nope.

That’s your name at the top, that's your handwriting, and that's your four year A—grade streakbroken.

It’s his fault.

The blue-eyed bitch is evil. Diabolical. Heinous. Impossible. What was he even trying to prove with an assignment this hard? What made it all worse is how he treated his class like it was the top gun of the school. They were the elite, and among them the best of the elite used to be you. Um, bitch, not anymore! Crown stolen. And he revels in it.

“This shit was hard, I can't believe I actually passed. What’d you get?” your best friend asks.

But you don't even hear her, too busy glaring at your professor — you could swear that he looks like he’s holding back from snickering.

This isn’t possible. No way. No fucking way.

ㅤ⋆

You waited until everyone left the classroom, telling your girl that you'll see her later for lunch if you don't end up going to jail for murdering your professor instead.

The nerve she had to ask “What, not hot for teacher anymore?”

Inspiring a deep, deep breath, you piece together your shattered confidence by reapplying a thick layer of lipstick. Top lip, bottom lip, compact mirror snapped shut.

And then you go in for the kill.

Satoru loves watching you walk over to him; he relishes in the sight of your thighs and breasts violently jiggling as you bring your pretty little body his way.

“Sir.” You begin roughly, trying hard to soften your voice. “Sir, I think there’s a mistake with my paper.”

Satoru tilts his head, feigning confusion.

“Oh? Whatever do you mean? Let me take a look. Mm. No, no that’s right.”

“What the f—um. Sir, I just… I don’t — hnn, um...” you struggle.

Satoru patiently waits for you to speak, in the same way that a cheetah watches its wounded prey try to escape what’s coming.

Leaned back in his big smug chair, he laces his fingers together.

“I just don’t understand, you see.” You continue, close to splitting the fucking paper down the middle. “Hah, ummm, because I’ve never gotten anything below an A—grade before.”

Satoru leans forward, lips parting to speak.

And fuck, his voice has never sounded this deep, this taunting — just the first word has you beyond humiliated.

“What, lost your edge, baby?”

Your mouth hangs open.

“Huh?”

Oh no, he almost breaks into a smile.

And it's not just him that's about to break; so are you. And he's just trying his best to bring you to that climax.

“This — this was deliberate.” your voice quavers.

Mm, there it is. Why does revenge kinda make him hard?

He cups a hand to his ear, “Hm? Sorry, can you repeat that? I’m a little hard of hearing.”

“Don’t act dumb. I—I know exactly what you’re doing.”

His lips spread into a dirty smile that makes a heat pool between your thighs.

“What exactly am I doing, sweets? Tell me.”

“You failed me on purpose!” you accuse.

He nearly laughs, leaning back into his chair. His voice lowers into a smooth rumble.

“Aw, angelface — this is a very serious accusation.”

Shit, all his little nicknames are getting to you. You’re clinging to composure by a thread.

“Y—you know it’s true!”

“And are you sure this grade isn’t a result of you spending more time daydreaming about your professor fucking you, instead of actually studying like a good girl should?”

You're dumbfounded. Rendered speechless. Wildly turned on.

Satoru just marvels at your dumbified state. Truly, it makes his heart lurch.

He’s sure your anger could rip apart tectonic plates, but it’s got nothing on him ’cause he’s on top of the world.

Those violent blue eyes feel like they’re cutting right through you.

“Got nothing more to say, do you?”

“Mother—fucker.” you blurt.

“Bite me, baby.”

Suddenly, you’re climbing over his desk and biting his nose.

Hard.

Teeth sinking into cartilage, like you’re gonna bite the tip of his nose right off.

Satoru’s chair groans loudly as he recoils backwards, sheer shock on his face at first.

Nothing has ever caught him off-guard quite like that. He’s had girls slap him for being a jerk, yes, more times than he can count — but this? Getting his pretty little nose bitten? That’s a first.

You release his nose from between your teeth, face close to his, knocking a few things off his desk.

He looks at you with wide-blown eyes.

Ass poised in the air, wet panties hit with cool air, clit all puffy and annoyed, and hot pink rage all over your face. And him? Cock twitching in those tight, tight suit pants.

And then he bursts out laughing.

“Ha-ha, wow. Wow, you’ve really got some attitude, huh? Crazy slut.”

“Fuck. You.”

“Come over here and fucking do it, then.” He challenges, voice pure fucking ice.

Your eyes flit between his parted lips and his tie — right before knuckling up on the satin, reigning him into a kiss. That action alone makes him so fucking horny it honestly takes all his strength just to refrain from stripping you bare and fucking you on his desk.

Melding your lips together, he lets out a low growl. Satoru meets reciprocates the passion, moving his wetted lips roughly over yours.

If a kiss could kill, shit, well... both of you would be dead right now. It was violent — have you ever made out with a man like this? No, and he can feel it in the way you tremble under him.

“Fuck!”

“Mhm, get on my lap.”

“Ooh — I hate you.”

And yet, you crawl right into his lap.

“Then why are you wet for me? God, look at you, just a little kiss has got you all fucked up.”

You moan, “Don’t act l—like you’re any better; you’re hard, s—so hard…”

“Yeah, see what you do to me? H—ahhh, baby, easy; I’m not going anywhere.”

You’re dizzy on his dirty talk, beginning to dry hump him like you’re feverish for it.

Feeling your tiny pussy glide over the outline of his pulsing cock pulls groans from the back of his throat, makes him roll his head back.

“Fuck, there you go — fuuuck, what’re you so horny for? Way too fuckin’ young for me, y’know. ’s just that fact alone enough to turn you on?”

You whimper, rutting against his lap like you’re in heat, clit buzzy and already close to cumming. Cock so hard against you, you can only imagine how good it would feel to get stretched out by it.

“S—shut up and take my bra off.” You huff.

He nearly rolls his eyes — like what’s so fuckin’ funny?

You’re in shock with what ease this man can unclasp your bra and practically tear up your shirt to free those pretty breasts.

“Mm, perfect all over, aren’t you?” he murmurs, “Why are your girls lookin’ at me like they want my lips on them?”

“O—oh—! Ah, fuck! Mmm! Please, sir, fuck!”

He’s got a mouthful of your breast, tongue swirling around your perky nipples, other hand disappearing for a moment until it lands harsh on your ass.

“Ow!” you moan, inching closer to orgasm with each swipe of your pussy over his outline.

“—bad girl; that’s for not studying for the test I so thoughtfully fuckin’ wrote for you.”

“Mmm! Do it again, please.”

“Aw, look at that, my most prestigious student likes getting her ass slapped — is that it? Like it when someone older plays with your pretty body like this?”

“Yes! Nn!” you mewl, clit buzzing beneath your soaked panties.

He knows what he’s doing. He’s been watching you closely, how your hips quicken like you’re—

“Gonna cum all over my lap just like this, b—aaaby?” he looks at you through his wispy bangs, lips forming a lopsided smirk.

“Yes, please! Let me, please? I need it so bad, your cock feels so good against my clit.”

He doesn’t reply, only crashes his lips back on yours with fervour and grabs hold of your hips.

“Cum for me.” He growls into your mouth, roughly biting at your bottom lip.

“C—cumming, professorrr!”

He slips in the opportunity to tickle his ego.

“That’s right — remind me, baby, who’s the real prodigy here?”

“You are, S-S-S-Satoru!”

“Fuckin’ right, baby. Don’t forget it.”

What a smile that put on his face.

He moans at the feeling of you cumming hard in his lap, pussy flush against his cock totally soaking through his pants to his cock.

“Good girl, good girl — can’t stop cumming, can you? Is it that good?”

You nod weakly, eyes hazed over and mouth agape with a bit of drool at the corners. You look downright possessed by the ovulation monster, twitching on his lap like this.

Satoru’s cock throbs, as he swirls his his up into you.

“Oh my god, I wanna fuck you so badly — ah, cummin’!” he confesses.

Grabbing two handfuls of your soft breasts, Satoru rolls his hips up into you. His eyes roll back into his skull right and he lets out a throaty moan before spilling all his mature seed hot cum under his pants.

You feel the warmth and wetness spread under you, the scent driving you nuts.

He grits his teeth, balls tensing and relaxing with each pump until it’s all let out.

It’s hard to explain how it makes you feel, watching an older man cum under your clothed pussy like this. Is it pathetic? Well, with how tousled his white hair is… yeah, kind of. But he’s beautiful when he’s catching his breath.

“I—I wanna fuck you, too.”

“Fuck. As if that wasn’t obvious. You really are a crazy little slut, you know that? Who cums this hard on their professors lap?”

“Says you!”

It’s cut short there, because he’s kissing you again.

Brushing those rough, calloused palms over your breasts, like he’s apologizing for holding onto them for dear life while cumming.

You’ve kissed so many boys before. Spin the bottle at stupid sleepovers. In the closet of your best friend’s bedroom. Been pinned against the wall, kissed hard, fucked hard — in the backseat, in the bathroom of the dive bar. Never a single orgasm, never a real feeling behind those empty gazes boys have served you.

And when you’ve parted from this kiss, you see the mess you’ve made. Half the things on his desk were knocked over. Your lipstick was smudged across his cheek like a sin he can’t wipe off.

He can taste you on his lips and tongue, feel his cum wet in his pants, trapped in the heat of his afterglow.

Finally, he talks — voice a hot murmur over your swollen lips.

“How about this, baby; if you can slut me out, I’ll turn that F into an A.”

ㅤ⋆

There’s a bassy pounding beyond his ribcage — deep and low — accompanied by the occasional stutter of his breath and tense swallow. He’s sitting taut in the driver’s seat of his car — waiting — one hand resting atop the steering wheel, the other twitching on his thigh.

One glance at his wristwatch — 5:45 PM — then another, as if a second glance might will it into ticking faster towards the next hour. The two of you agreed on meeting at 6 PM.

For the next few minutes, Satoru’s staring into the depths of the visor’s mirror, a horror of aged blue springs staring back at him. The distant honey-glow of the campus streetlamps barely illuminate his face, yet he can see the slither of age lines showing on his once young face. It fucks him up; the fact he’s been watching his youth slip away.

Does he still look handsome, even when his face is as heavy as it is now? With the way the skin between his pinched brows wrinkles so acutely, right now it feels more like the latter.

1989... I’m getting old.

“Oh fuck me!”

A knocking at his passenger seat window startles him right out of his contemplative silence.

And there, appearing like beauty materialized from darkness, is your soft face — bearing neither frown nor smile, only a quivering brow and dark glint in your eyes.

He rolls down his window.

“You scared the shit out of me.” he scolds softly.

“Well-deserved.”

He’s attentive, gaze rolling over you in the small moment of quiet.

The difference between you and Satoru is like night and day.

You’re all lacy and ribbons and pink and Dior gloss, but him… he’s white shirt and sleek black leather Oxfords and 18-carat on the wrist and Sauvage dabbed at the neck.

He raises his gaze to meet your eyes.

“You get all dolled up just for me, sweetheart?" he asks.

“Mmmaybe…” you purred back.

He grins, leaning just a bit closer.

“I’m flattered… such a good girl, aren’t you?”

He notes how that makes your bottom lip tremble a little.

“Why don’t you save the praise for later, when I’ve earned it, mister.”

His heart makes a funny beat.

“Hah... sure. Hop in, babyface.”

Baby blues follow your figure as you swiftly round the hood of his car, making way to the other side. He opens the door for you from the inside.

“Hm, are you going to be this chivalrous when you fuck me?” you quip.

“You’ve got quite an edge today.” he notes.

“I wonder why. Maybe it has something to do with my professor failing me on purpose.”

A soft chuckle falls from his rosy lips, “Hah, oh sweetheart,” he turns the key, warning lights and the radio coming on. “thanks for the laugh, I needed it.”

“So you’re not even denying it? Was this all part of some grand scheme of yours to get in my pants? Y’coulda just fuckin’ asked.”

His voice hardens; you feel it like a caress between your thighs.

“First of all: it’s harder than that. Second of all: it’s your fault for not applying yourself, babyface. Had you focused on your weak spots instead of your sweet spots, you wouldn’t have failed. But you were too busy getting your pretty brains fucked out to study, weren’t you?”

Shit.

You blush a little, lowering your head.

“Aw, is someone ashamed? How cute.”

The engine rumbles to life. For a split second, he looks so much younger than he really is in this dim lighting.

“Whatever...” you mumble.

Satoru flashes a smile at you, large hand coming to caress on the rise of your thigh, “And to answer your question: yes, I will.”

A warmth pools between your legs, feeling those butterfly-like contractions. Satoru notes how you squirm under his touch, smirking to himself before he withdraws his hand — it’s pathetic how you immediately miss the warmth.

That jawline could cut diamond. Wispy white bangs messy, hanging just over his brows, angel blues quivering behind those rimless lenses.

Your heart beats wildly. Skin flushed, breathing ragged.

He’s just maneuvered into reverse gear when you suddenly leap on him for a kiss, connecting your lips with him in frenzy, your hands flying at the collar of his shirt.

He comes right off the clutch, stalling the car.

“Mmf, shweetheart,” he mumbles into your mouth, prying your tightly fisted hands off his collar, “Behave.”

“But I want to kiss you so badly.” your pout — oh, it has his heart.

“We’re in a parking lot.”

“I don’t care; I want you.”

“And you can have all of me,” he whispers against your lips, “when we’re not in a position to be caught, okay? Control yourself.”

With the aftertaste of your kiss haunting his tongue, he restarts the engine from the stall and heads off to his home.

ㅤ⋆

The heavy door clicks closed behind Satoru.

You’ve always known he was rich, but entering the foyer overwhelmed you in a way that you never have been before.

It’s not just the Parisien chandelier glittering above you, but the taste of old money in the air that honestly makes you feel unworthy to even present yourself in a place of such taste.

Gojo Satoru is an expensive man — a spoiled, proud-faced one at that.

He’s curious as to why — out of all the splendour you could find in a mansion — that you choose to linger on the most boring part of it all; the vase of flowers sitting on the centerpiece table.

Then he learns why.

“Fake flowers? How tacky.” you scoff.

His heart throbs fondly at your insult, “I know — I hate them, too. I would much rather have you on it.”

“—Huh?” you stutter, feeling him close behind you, extending his hand.

He tips over the ornate vase like it’s worth nothing, letting it crash to the ground into a million pieces.

“Oops, ’m so clumsy.”

“You’re crazy!”

Before you can let out a laugh, before you can even turn to face him, he’s arching you over the table and giving a hard smack to your ass.

“Oh! Professor—”

“—please, call me Satoru.”

Your breath hitches at the feeling of his thick fingers slotting between your plush lips.

Satoru’s lips spread into a smile, “Oh...? Feels like somone ruined their panties already.” he notes, “Is that how much you feel for me? ’m so flattered.”

“Satoru—” you moan out softly, letting him tease your aching pussy.

“—moan my name like that in my ear.”

So you do, “Satoru, you’re so fucking arrogant — it’s no wonder you don’t have a partner.”

Well that earns one sharp slap to your pussy.

Satoru gets all up in your ear, “And where’s yours, little slut?” he growls, “Let me guess, ’think you’re too good to belong to just anyone, right? Just a spoiled princess trying to resolve her daddy issues by fucking older men.”

His palm aggressively kneading between your thighs, other hand coming to yank a fistful of your hair.

“Don’t act like you fuckin’ know me!” you snap.

“Right back ’atchya, darling.” he retaliates hotly.

He’s got you bent over like this — back arched — on the center table of his mansion’s foyer, upon which once sat a pricey vase but is now just shards scattered across marble.

“Kiss me!”

“Where’s your manners?”

“Please!”

Eager lips come crashing down on yours, nearly knocking the wind out of you. Molding his mouth to yours, one massive hand wringing your jaw open so he can slither his tongue inside and the other nimbly pushing aside your panties.

The way your slick instantly coats his fingers has you blushing ear to ear, and him grinning against your parted lips.

“Fuck — oh you reaaally like me, huh?” he whispers into your mouth, “Hah, ’guess ’m gonna see just how waterproof a Rolex is.”

“Do you ever stop talking!”

Your legs shudder as he teases the length of your slit, spreading your juices everywhere.

“What, are you sick of my voice already?” he coos, fingertip coming threateningly close to your clit, “That’s too bad, ’cause I never shut up.”

“A fact that p—probably attributes to you being single. AH!”

Another sharp slap to your pussy — well, if she wasn’t awake before, she is now.

Satoru lowers his voice to a dangerous purr, “I’ve definitely gotta do something about that attitude of yours, ’s getting on my nerves.”

One thick finger slips inside you with little resistance, your walls eagerly accepting the intrusion.

“Oh, fuck—mmh!”

“Look how she sucks me right in — what a good girl.”

Your legs shudder softly as he carefully explores inside, the ease with which he does it making his experience gap between him and boys your age very evident.

He coos at your ear, “Relax, bambi. If you shake this much from a little teasing, then I’m honestly quite worried for you.”

He’s stroking at your walls like he’s looking for something, when suddenly you clench them around his fingers tight and purr out.

“Looks like I found someone’s sweet spot, huh? Must feel like a world record for you.” he whispers, eyes observing the way your mouth just falls open when he starts pumping his finger in and out. “Mm, feels good?”

“—ooh, sooo good!! More, please!”

His wispy white bangs are sticking to the side of your face until he pulls his face away to get a better look at the state you’re in.

“More? Oh, ’cause one’s not enough for you, hm? My little slut’s so greedy, she’s already wanting to be stretched out, is that it?”

You nod frantically, hardly in a position to retaliate when he’s got you so close to orgasm like this. But you need more before you give into it, to feel stuffed full.

But you should have realized by now; he likes to keep you on your toes by throwing curveballs — like when he compiled an assignment out of your biggest weaknesses.

He slides his finger out, then completely disorients you by suddenly kneading your clothed breast with his free hand.

“Who’s a good girl?” he purrs in your ear.

“M-me!” you squeak.

“Uh-huh. That’s right,” he smirks, continuing his rough fondling, “and you’re gonna take whatever I give you, however I give it?”

“Yessir!”

“Such a good girl — that’s what I like to hear.”

Why does all this feel like a diversion tactic? — because it is.

Just when your head is all full of being called a good girl so many times by your professor, he seeks out your very puckered, hyper-sensitive clit and bullies it.

“Fuck!” you hiccup, “ ‘m cummingcummingcumming!!!”

Mister Blue Eyes ’n Prodigal PhD behind you is smiling so hard when you announce this, genuinely shocked at how he hasn’t even stroked your tiny clit for more than three seconds but you’re already spasming through a damn-near full-body orgasm.

“Aw, a little bit of manhandling made her cum like a virgin.”

Pussy spasming, tingling with post-orgasm sensitivity, another sharp slap landing on it.

Suddenly, you hear a sucking sound behind your ear — and find that Satoru’s pointedly sucking your juice off his finger.

“Mmm,” he hums thoughtfully, “You’re so sweet... want a taste?”

Not giving you time to respond, he shares the taste of you in a dirty, heavy kiss.

“Mmf!”

Never before now would you ever have thought that a kiss alone could give you a post-orgasm orgasm, but it does. It’s subtle, just a quake up and down your trembling limbs.

The heat of his cheeks fans yours as he flushes hotter, your sweet breath got him feeling alive in his mouth. Satoru moans into your mouth. Your heads spins.

You gasp when he releases you, practically panting against his parted lips. Shit, has anybody ever kissed you like that?

“Tell me,” Satoru begins, taking a hold of your hips, “how many orgasms do you get through in a week? ’cause right now, my hunch is telling me it’s close to zero.”

“Well, I—I’d have more if men were not so fucking incompetent!”

Satoru lets out a good laugh. “I love your witty comebacks, sweets,” he speaks, “but you’ve been fucking with stupid boys, not men. Let me show you the difference.”

Roughly, he’s spinning you a 180 right into the warmth of his puffed-out chest.

Your gaze falls below his belt.

He’s quick, too quick for you to keep up with; by the time you’re registering the fact he has a raging boner in his pants, he’s already hugging you into a rough kiss again and grabbing handfuls of your ass.

He almost feels bad for you.

No, scratch that, he totally feels bad for you.

He feels like he needs to compensate for all the lousy men you've endured up until now.

You're not a virgin, not even close, but you may as well be, 'cuz none of those losers ever really fucked you; they used you.

But none of that matters now; all those lousy faces are a blur in your mind, their names long forgotten, because the only person that exists right now is Gojo Satoru.

Three words, one command, is all that leaves his lips;

“Strip for me.”

ㅤ⋆

There’s a crime scene of clothes scattered down the upper halls; the tatters of a torn blouse precede a bra — flung carelessly — which hangs from the ornate wall light, a belt once snaked around narrow hips is now abandoned along with its black suit pants.

Like a trail, it leads to a door, beyond which there emits the sounds of muffled moans and a low murmuring of two voices.

An athletic torso arched over a petite frame, torn-open XL condom wrapper tossed aside, the clear signs of manhandling showing on the disarray of the room — a knocked-over chair? Entire duvet curled on the floor? What happened here is only known to the two animals fighting on the bed.

Two pillows are strewn across the room as if a playfight occured. The black sheets you’re trapped on have already shifted off the corners —owed to the man currently bowing over you, who took great pleasure in showing off his strength when he was shoving and pinning a giggling, wriggling little you down.

Heat ripples in waves off his body. There’s a raggedness in his breath, like he’s been puckered against another pair of lips for the past hour.

One massive hand wielding his cock, so heavy as it’s sliding through your slicked folds.

He catches on your entrance, eliciting a choked noise out of you. The skin creases under his baby blues, like he’s amused.

“Biiig stretch, babydoll.” murmurs Satoru through pouty, swollen lips.

Your heart skips a beat as he eases his tip into your inviting walls.

Satoru releases a broken moan from his chest.

“Ugh, fuck — are you sure you’re not a virgin, sweets? ’cause it feels like it.”

“I-I’m really not.” you stutter out, tears forming at the corners of your eyes as you watch him inch in and out, diving just a little deeper each time.

Satoru hisses through his teeth, “So you’re just a tight young slut, hm? — stop smiling, you’re gonna give away that degradation kink of yours.”

He bucks his hips forward, thrusting his cock in to stretch out your tiny hole even more.

“Fuck!” you cry out, “Uhng, y-you should warn a girl before you — ahh, fuckfuckfuck!”

“Well, weren’t you the one begging me to manhandle you earlier? Little miss ‘decorate me in bruises’ — all talk, just like in class.”

A series of soft grunts fall from his lips as he begins thrusting.

One, two, three — seven. In just seven hits and you’re KO’d.

Satoru lets out a proud sigh when you gush around his length.

“Ahh-hh—hn! Fuck!” you quaver.

Satoru eases out a little, “You okay?” he asks softly, stroking at your cheek.

“Yes!” you sniffle.

“N’aw, crying already? Keep it together, girl. You’re not getting that A-grade ’till you slut me out.”

ㅤ⋆

A newly torn condom wrapper sits next to a Rolex on the night stand. To the right, the bed’s shuddering halts for a moment, the sound of sheets shuffling

Two hands grapple your ankles, folding your tender body into a tight, sweaty mating press.

“You can gimmie one more, can’t you?”

“No waaay! ’impossible.”

“Ha-ha.” he chuckles the same boyish chuckle as he always has, “Be a little more ambitious, darling.”

Your knees are squished against your breasts, pussy weeping around his girth as he continues his relentless thrusts.

He ogles your shuddering breasts, quaking legs — the orgasmic face beyond them. Ah, god, what he’d give to put a baby in a girl like you. A sweet, ovulating, young slut. But he pushes the thought away — like that’s going too far.

“I caaan’t! I really can’t, ’m gonna go crazy! Your cock is too fuckin’ fat.” you babble, close to another orgasm the moment he starts shaking his hips again.

“Then it you’re gonna have to kiss that A-grade goodbyeee~” he sings.

It’s like those words lit a fire inside you.

No fucking way.

No fucking way have you taken it this far just to leave empty-handed afterwards.

Firstly, there’s no way this crazy little situationship will survive and that’s a fact. This is your one and only chance with Gojo Fucking Satoru.

Secondly, you’re getting that A-grade even if it means being a little fucking crazy.

The sound of obscene squelching and plapping ricochets off the walls as Satoru’s hips meet yours with each thrust. He’s like a demon. Thumb greeting your sensitive clit, rubbing expertly. Tensing muscles, wispy white bangs sticking to his forehead.

“Cum for me, just like th—"

“—nuh-uh, ’wanna do it raw.”

His hips stutter. Smile falters.

“Huh?”

“Please.”

“No way, darling.”

“Why not?”

“Because there’s no way I’m gonna be able to pull out of a tight little slut like you.”

A smile creeps across your hazy expression.

“What, lost your edge, old man?”

His mouth hangs open, cock throbs angrily.

“C’mon, don’t you wanna be the first to ever creampie such a tight, young slut? I th-thought we were trying to slut each other out here.”

He rolls his head back, mutters an exasperated “fuck” and slips himself out.

“And are you on — ”

“No. I’ll take Plan B.”

“Fuck.”

He says it not because he’s worried about anything you think he’s worried about — because a good girl like you will always take plan B the day after. Rather, he’s worried that he’s gonna...

ㅤ⋆

Something was throbbing low in his ribcage when he felt your buttery soft walls melt around him.  Tight, wet, velvety — clinging to him with that ‘get me pregnant’ grip.

“Fuck, you feel s-so good, clinging to me like such a good girl...” he purrs.

Condom discarded somewhere in the sheets, your legs up in the air crybaby style, his form slippery and hot and dripping with sweat as he snaps his hips to meet yours, heavy milky balls smacking into your puckered hole, his thick muscular thighs starting to feel the burn.

You’re dewy-eyed, voice reaching a crescendo each time he hits a perfect stroke, legs quivering under him, lips bitten raw.

He’s more focused than he was earlier, eyes narrowed at your body taking it all in; how you shake for him, how you mewl out. As a prodigy, of course he’s quick to learn your tell-tale signs.

“That’s it, cum for me. Fucking soak me in it.” he groans, bullying your clit as you tense up and cry out.

Your scent is hitting his nose. That glow on your face, your pert nipples, how your breasts look so full and nearly radiant... wait a fuckin’ god damn minute —

“—are you ovulating?” he asks.

Sweat-damp face so close, pushing your legs way too far back.

No answer. But your silence and blinking bambi eyes say it all.

Satoru groans. His cock throbs harder, stiffly presses against your wall, curvature digging right into the spot that’s been abused for the past hour.

“I-it’s fine! I’ll take plan B.”

“No, no, don’t stress yourself, angel. I’ve got good pullout game.”

“But—” you can’t finish, because he’s lifting his hips and letting them slam into you.

“—fuck! That’s deep!” you cry out.

“Yeah? Tell me where you feel me.”

“R-right there.”

You feel his fat tip exploring deeper, like he’s trying to make a point — who else has been this deep in you? Nobody. And he knows it; your untried walls give it away.

Satoru presses his palm down your tummy, making you feel the bulge.

“Mhm, I’m riiight here.”

He thrusts again, only this time slower and hard-hitting. Your breasts shudder with each successive stroke, hiccups and nonsensical babble escaping your pouty lips.

Satoru’s grunting heavier and heavier, enjoying the bliss of being balls deep in a girl whose pussy actually seems to appreciate his size; she milks it right, doesn’t whine or complain or jump off — ohhh never mind, there you go.

“Nuh-uh, no running from me,” he croons, forcing your hips to meet his pulls a sob from your chest, “You said you wanted it, now take it. Every inch.”

“B-but ’s too much!” you slur, “I can’t think straight like this!”

“N’aw, but could you ever?”

Ankles dangling over his shoulders, too fucked-out to retaliate, the only thoughts swimming in your head are how big he is, how you’re fucking an older man, how you’re practically milking a good grade from his cock. It’s all too much.

Satoru’s driving into your weeping hole, grunting a lace-soft mantra of your name.

All he can focus on is how you grip him, how his balls feel fuller and tighter than ever before like he’s gonna burst and drain them in your fertile pussy. He’s beginning to thrust slower, each stroke sloppier than the previous, lazy.

“Oh, fuck. Watch me,” he commands, grabbing at your neck, calling out your name and hanging onto each syllable like it’s the only prayer that’s gonna get him into heaven after a sinful fuck like this.

“Don’t take your eyes off of me or I’ll stop.”

“Yessir!”

You peek into his baby blues, he spreads your legs open and glares right back.

His eyes are hot on you, cock buried so deep that you feel his perfect balls squish against you and it just makes a switch flip in your brain.

He’s been crazed for your cute moans this whole time, sure — who wouldn’t be turned on by a soft-to-the-touch woman whimpering and whining underneath them like a small, sweet little bunny? But now those moans start sounding a little more real — like a heavy-hearted goddess, like a nymph in orgasm, sighing and letting it out raw, gutteral.

It’s just different.

He thinks he might be a little bit in love — but only in the safe space of bedsheets. He’s lightyears ahead, thinking about how he’s going to have to break your little heart, as he looks down at your sopping little face so pretty an orgasmic with your mouth hung wide open.

Trembles along your walls, his cock dragging through you like a demon, sucking him to the base of his cock and somehow, your pussy still thinks she’s not getting enough of him.

His tip kissing your cervix is what sparks your sudden ovulation fever, and suddenly you need it bad.

Nails, red, poised on his back raking down and leaving crimson marks on his pale skin.

You’re in control of every inch of him for a split second, and it just takes one tiny thing to push him over the edge.

“Put a baby in me!”

“—fffuck!”

Satoru’s voice strains, hips stutter, abs tense up.

Just like that, Satoru’s grinding his hips into you with desperation, orgasm ripping through him, pumping his potent cum so deep inside you while holding you closer than he’s probably ever held anyone else.

You can feel a warmth spreading deep inside you.

“Stay still and take it.” He grunts, voice hoarse.

You’re pinned under his heavy muscles, nowhere to run.

Oh. Fuck.

Nobody’s done like him before. No one has held you in place as tightly as Satoru when he’s cumming so hard, so desperately that it’s almost pathetic how much he wants and needs you in that moment.

Breathless, muscles sore from his over-exertion, Satoru nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck and hides it there as he comes down, grunts fading out into soft sighs as he tries to catch his breath with you.

Satoru’s breath is shaky, his hair tousled to knots. He lets out a few heavier groans, like he’s just got his life force sucked right out — and he did, in a way, by a—

“Crazy little slut.” he swears, cracking a lopsided smile.

Satoru’s eyes can hardly open any wider than a slight bit. Jaw slacked, grip on your body loosening, he withdraws from the comforts of your neck and looks down, watching as he glides his cum-coated cock out of your weeping hole.

A tired laugh escapes his lips when he sees how your tummy bulge disappears the moment his cockhead isn’t pressing all the way inside.

“Hah, fuck — took me like such a good girl, huh?”

The fact your professor just creampied you doesn’t fully register until you look down; you watch him withdraw, tip catching on your entrance, and see creamy white decorating the length of his shaft.

White bangs wet against his forehead, sweat beading off his flushed cheeks, the maturing wrinkles between his scrunched brows — he’s so pretty, wonder what it would be like to have his babies.

It looks like even he’s taken aback by the fact his cum is leaking out your sore pussy. Or rather, that his student just slutted him out and gave him a new kink.

“ ‘put a baby in me’ — were you trying to give me a heart-attack or an orgasm there?”

“I’m sooo sorry...! I got carried away!” you apologize dozily.

“Hah... sure ya did, princess. Got so carried away that you wanted to me to get you pregnant.”

Satoru’s not looking at you, but at the rivulets of cum flowing out your tired hole.

Breath stuck in his throat, heartbeat rushing in his ears, he slowly pushes his cum-coated cock right back into you.

“I really can’t go a-again...” you croak tiredly.

“Relax, baby, I’m just enjoying the mess I made of you.”

Teasing just the tip of his slowly softening cock in and out of your hole, enjoying the creamy mess – how could he not? He’s a dirty boy. Of course he obsesses over these tiny things. The stretch, the gooey white wring that’s formed around the base of his cock.

“Princess stuck in the afterglow, huh?”

You blink at him, feeling rearranged. It’s like you’re trying to bring back your thoughts after he fucked them right out of your head.

You look at him shyly. Satoru widens his toothy grin at you, runs one hand through his drooping bangs.

He withdraws his cock, whimper escaping his lip as his tip catches on your tight entrance once more.

“You’re so cute.”

His cock droops tiredly.

“I feel like you jus’ fucked me into graduation.”

He playfully taps your ass, “Yeah, I’m so proud of my little slut.” he jokes, “Earned your degree in slut-ology.”

ㅤ⋆

"Fuck,” he smiles, “We made a real mess, huh, sweetheart? C'mon, let's get cleaned up."

He gives a gentle smack to the side of your thigh.

"N-need... in a minute… w’nna enjoy being messy." You groan, lazy in your afterglow, quietly obsessing over how his creampie feels – how you feel claimed, as cheesy as it sounds.

He chuckles. “M’kay, doll.”

Weird how you could cum again just from hearing his laugh alone.

Satoru sniffs out the air, like there’s a joke in it.

“Smells like WAP in here. What? Why are you cringing at me!? — that was funny! You should know that song, you’re young. Young people listen to that stuff. Stop laughing at me, you little slut!”

You groan like you’re wounded, tears forming in your eyes, hiding from his cringe in the sheets, “Old man jokes and you’re not even forty yet!”

Satoru grins stupidly, itching at his undercut. “Heh.”

You're too sore to move. Hair all crazy. Skin between your thighs all sticky.

But Satoru? He's sprung to life, whistling, bouncing off the bed and across the room and sliding into his Calvin Klein's and...

It's just nice to listen to him, to watch him, as he's half-naked and breathing heavy, after he's fucked you silly.

You're curious about his every movement, watching him with fascination through droopy eyes.

So that's how his muscles flex when he moves, that's how sculpted his ass is, that's the way he moves after a good fuck — flits about like a busy bird, exact opposite to his smug smooth slowness in the classroom. It almost seems like it was all a persona to you, now, as you observe him in such an intimate setting. He’s so energized, so unserious — playful without the I’m-better-than-you edginess.

It was such a contrast to the man you’ve known that you began to wonder.

Who was Gojo Satoru, really?

You’re so close to figuring him out, like he's been a theory itching the back of your mind, when suddenly you're snapped back to reality.

"Hydrate."

He shoves a bottle of water into your face, taunting it in front of you, until you prop yourself up on your elbows and take it.

It’s the bottle he always drinks from in class. You take desperate gulps.

Your heart made a funny beat right then.

Did his orgasm enlighten you? Yes, but it wasn’t just that.

How he continued to enjoy your company, to care for you after the whole ordeal, that is what shocked you. It shocked you into deep, contemplative silence — once Satoru noticed, he got worried that he had fucked you a little too hard.

So he softened himself, guard completely down for the woman splayed naked on his bed.

"Hey," he spoke to you tenderly, blue eyes fixed on your state, "You okay? Not too sore, I hope?"

“A little bit… well, a lot… but I like the feeling. I mean, not ‘cuz I’m a masochist, or anything — well a little bit, but I mean! You know! It feels good because you did it… you know what I mean?” you babble.

He looks at you like you’re the strangest girl in the world. Like you’re a theory he can’t figure out; a truly enigmatic woman.

“Can I use your bathroom?” you ask.

“Absolutely not.” He returns sarcastically, “I’ll creampie a woman… but bathroom-sharing? Gross.”

He leans in to give you a kiss to your forehead, a brief stroke to your hair — the act of affection unknown to you before now. It fucks you up a little bit.

“Such a good girl for taking me so well. I know I’m a bit… intense. But you did really good, considering. Looked good while getting ya brains fucked out, too.”

You blink at him, a mixture of astonishment and wonder in your eyes. He’s so nice.

See, you’ve always known that there was a man out there capable of bringing you to orgasm, but one who cared about you? That was something that you had long accepted didn't exist.

But oh... he’s real.

And he exists right in front of you.

And he’s your professor.

And this is an affair that can’t last.

So why not indulge completely in it, while it lasts?

“Join me for a bath?” you give him your best pleading eyes.

Satoru looks at you hesitates for a moment before agreeing.

“U-um, and I’m too sore to stand. Can you—”

“—carry you, right?” he completes.

“Please?”

“Come here.”

ㅤ⋆

The lights are a dim honey-glow. A NASA sticker is stuck to the mirror over the sink — did he put it there? How dorky.

Muscles soothed by the warm kiss of a bath. Satoru’s scooping a handful of bubbles, gazing at them contemplatively.

“I like bubbles,” he begins, “it’s one of my favorite things in physics.”

Then this man proceeds to go on a full bubble-ramble. You don’t really listen, rather, you’re focusing on how oddly cute it is when he’s going on an enthusiastic tangent. It’s in his voice; he speaks with a quirky passion that only a physicist could speak with.

It’s the first time you’ve ever heard him talk without that pretentious edge, which he always has in the classroom. He doesn’t even sound like a professor; he sounds like a little kid explaining the plotline of his favorite TV show. How can you not marvel at him?

Bubbles get scooped up and smushed between his big hands, over and over again, as he rattles on.

Satoru notices how your attention has wavered, and stops mid-sentence.

“Sorry. Am I boring y—”

“Please, you could never. Continue. What about Bernoulli’s theorem?”

That something throbs in his ribcage again. This time, it feels all-consuming. He’s radiant with affection right then, glowing like a god-damned light bulb.

Satoru shakes his head. “No, no; if I continue we’ll be stuck in this bath all night.”

“Oh yeah, and I definitely wouldn’t want that.” you chuckle, swirling at the bathwater.

Why, oh why, does that laugh of yours make him want to hold you, squeeze you?

Shit, he can’t help it now.

He’s fawning over the fact he creampied you, okay? It makes a dorky smile curl on his lips.

Yes, you’re going to take plan B tomorrow because you’re too responsible to get pregnant with your professor’s baby — but what’s the harm in him basking in the idea of letting this creampie get you pregnant?

Something’s quaking in his ribcage.

“Look who’s glowing — what are you so happy about?”

“Nothin’...”

He shrugs and doesn’t elaborate.

In fact, he quickly changes topic.

“Wanna know a kinda gross secret about me?” he teases.

“Tell.”

“Have you ever read Napolean and Josephine’s letters?”

“No?”

Satoru pauses before explaining, “In one of them, he writes; ‘home in three days, don’t bathe.’ And I’ve always remembered it like it’s a Bible quote — Sex isn’t supposed to be a clean act, it’s gross — but endearingly so. Is that weird?”

“So you like the stinky sex smell? I bet you were the type of kid who smelled your fingers after scratching your ass.”

He groans, “What the hell! Ugh, you don’t get it...”

“I’m pulling ya leg, prof.”

Satoru lets out a laugh. A genuine, baby blue laugh, from the bottom of his chest. It causes his dimples to appear. It puts every other laugh you’ve ever heard to shame. It’s pure, boyish — makes you want to protect him.

Then there’s that twinkling in his eyes. Something eluding to who he is underneath all those layers he shells himself inside.

There’s something about you. With others, he could identify why he loved them. It wasn’t even hard. Their body, their mind, their soul. But it was usually one out of three that he loved. But you? He liked you in that cosmically incomprehensible way. You’re making him scramble his brain more than he did for his PhD thesis.

When you wash your hair, a fondness throbs in his heart. When he watches you rolling soap over the hills and valleys of your body, the feeling only grows.

He’s eyeing out your lips… leaning in for a kiss… a kiss outside of sex?

Fuck, what am I doing?

He goes a little loopy… gliding his lips over yours, so soft and wet with your breath mingling with his and god, it’s the smell of your sweet breath that gets to him.

Fuckfuckfuck, what am I doing?!

And that’s when it strikes.

He hardens his expression. He leaves your lips although he’s aching for more. He scratches out his feelings before they even stand a chance.

You can feel it, having been a professional for years at sensing the subtlest shift in someone’s demeanor.

Now, you know it’s over before it’s even begun, yet you linger; determined to leave him with a mark he can’t scrub off — one longing look into his eyes, a deep and unashamed stare that pierces right through his veil and scratches the very surface of his soul.

Fuck.

ㅤ⋆

By Monday, you feel like you’re about to go crazy.

Everything you do, from dressing to brushing your teeth to texting your friends to applying two highly emotional layers of mascara — it’s all done from the third perspective as you’re too busy replaying that night with Satoru Gojo. The sex. The post-sex kisses. The bath... fuck, the bath — what the fuck was that all about?

You took meticulous care with your make-up —lip-liner making your lips look oh so kissable, lashes all curled up to the sky.

But he takes no notice and walks right past you the moment he enters his 9:30 lecture. Late. Hair a mess. Suit tie crooked. Eyes puffy. Head held low.

No wink. No nod. No nothing.

He’s like a ghost.

He ignores your hand when you raise it in class.

Your stomach drops.

No, you’re the ghost.

ㅤ⋆

Now, by lunchtime, you’ve completely lost it.

Food is the last thing on your mind when you feel so violently sick to your stomach with wretched desire for a man you never intended to fall in love with, let alone over one good fuck.

It was supposed to be a bit of raunchy fun, you know? Ha-ha, I fucked my professor — the trump card to any secret-sharing contest. Few people could top something as crazy as that.

You’re stomping across the student union hall, fuming, rubber soles of your sneakers thumping hard against the blue waxed floors, muttering madly under your breath, fingers clawed around your phone, as you try one more time to dial Gojo Satoru.

“Answer, motherfucker…”

He hasn’t answered your calls, texts, nothing.

You fix your gaze on the ground. Why are you wandering campus like a lost lamb? Has Gojo Satoru really got you so fucked up that you linger outside the arts department building? You hate three boys from this place, and somehow you’ve found yourself nearby.

Bees are feasting on the fallen blossoms.

Students are crawling about campus, crossing the quad, lingering by the second-hand bookstore. The world feels like it’s spinning harder than it ever has before.

Not you. You’re idling there, awkwardly, having a staring contest with the bees, sipping thought after thought trying to soothe yourself.

Just what the fuck was this? A one-nighter? Like intended? Like promised? Hell no!

One more time, you pull out your phone, for the first time so zoned out from the people around you when before you used to peacock around in hopes for a few cheap stolen glances. Now you’re not even bothered by the attention of those pussy-hungry amateurs because you have something bigger on your mind — someone bigger — it’s an all-consuming rage and lust for—

ㅤ⋆

Satoru gently pries your small hands off his shirt.

“Babydoll, what are you giving me those big eyes for? You’ve got what you wanted, a pretty little A-grade, now we’re over—”

“—no way!” your voice trembles.

So cold, so cruel, yet candy-sweet in his voice. He’s masking. You’re trying to feel out the feelings trapped under his skin.

But he just won’t let you get through to him, no matter how much it tugs at his heartstrings to see your eyes well up with tears.

“Listen; you’re my student.”

“—yet you call me ‘babydoll’!”

His lips twitch in annoyance.

“—and I’m way too old for you—”

“—yet you creampied me!”

“Hey, keep y’fuckin’ voice down!” he hisses, giving a paranoid scope of the area.

Satoru plants to rough hands on your narrow shoulders and looks you dead in the eye.

“You’re such a sweet girl, and I had a really good time with you.”

“Don’t gimmie that drivel! I want to know what it really meant to you! I-I want to know that I meant more to you than just ‘a really good time’, that I’m more than just a ‘sweet girl’!”

His voice hardens, it sears you, “You’re being childish. Now listen to me; after graduation, you’re going to forget I even exist. Don’t get hung up on someone like me—”

“—but I’m in love with you.” you cut him off.

“Fuck.”

He runs a hand over his mouth and breaks the eye contact for the first time. Suddenly, he looks much more pale-faced; like you just sliced through his middle, reached up and gutted him.

Satoru’s searching

“Are you in love with me?” you ask desperately, eyes so dewy that it tugs his heart strings.

“It’s late. Go home.” is all he replies with.

Your stomach twists, twists, twists — with all the violence of all your affection.

But Satoru turns away from you, the heel of his shoe clicking on the bricked pavement.

The fucker is walking away from you? Nuh-uh.

“Fuck you, don’t you leave me here!”

Your words stop him in his tracks.

He sways a little before facing you with a guilty smile.

It’s that smile, how it lifts his cheeks, announcess his dimples and agelines, that just shreds you to pieces.

Rosy lips part to speak;

“Baby, have you ever considered that maybe I want to be the sting in your heart? That maybe I’m a sick fuck, who loves to lodge himself into girl’s hearts like a thorn? I’ve been everybody’s favorite boy before, I’ve been the lover they’d kill for, I’ve been through all that shit. I’m not letting it catch me off-guard again. Now, goodbye.”

Rendered speechless, he leaves you to spin in the riptide of his words as he walks away.

Pulse in fingertips. Breath heavy and broken. One hot little tear escapes those baby blues but it’s not like you can see it, nor did you catch even a glimpse of how he really felt.

ㅤ⋆

Livid, you sought out your best friend. Unfortunately, good company can’t heal the fresh wound that has just been carved into you.

“Fuck Satoru Gojo.”

She pauses her cigarette at her lips and gives you a long look. Funny, how her face slowly recoils inwards until she makes a double chin.

“Nah. Tell me you didn’t.”

Your silence says it all.

She stresses, smacking her forehead with her palm.

“Yah! My god, no! Augh, why! Of all the bad decisions you could have made...!”

You go quiet, curl your mouth into a funny pout and look away. My. Why aren’t the flowers lovely in spring? Look at ‘em.

“You’re insane, possibly even clinically so! First you start the year off fucking that loser from the arts department, then abandon me on study night to fuck Needle Dick, and now our fuckin’ professor! God, you know, when I met you in first year, you weren’t like this at all—”

She continues crucifying you despite the fact you’re clearly not listening.

The day is coming to an end. You’re not one to smoke, but a shitty day like this really calls for it. Eyes vacant, fixed on the man in your mind, lips aching with need.

Suddenly, your phone vibrates in your pocket.

Your heart pains — please be you please be you please be you.

ㅤ✉️ 1 NEW — S. GOJO

ㅤSee you in the parking lot in 5.

Your breath comes out ragged, heart rate spiking at the notification.

“—what slutty demon possessed you to do something so immoral, so unhinged—where are you going!?”

“See you tomorrow!”

“Don’t just leave me hanging here, harlot! Explain yourself!” she cries out. “You deserve fuckin’ better than these rotten men, you know that!? Oh for fuck’s sake... there she goes.”

Her chest caves in as she releases a sigh of defeat, watching as your silhouette disappears around the corner.

ㅤ⋆

He’s idling around his car in the vacant staff parking area, hands in pockets, with an enigmatic expression on his pallid face.

Your legs stutter at the sight of him. He stands so limply, like a wilted flower — it’s not normal.

Just a moment before those troubled eyes discover you, he rolls his head back on his shoulders and lets out a suppressed sigh.

He shapes up the moment he sees you there, poor posture correcting itself.

It's so not normal, to see him appear so tousled, so unlike himself.

He watches as you warily approach him, watches every step you take without breaking eye contact.

“Oh, professor — what happened to your principles? Too horny to care now?”

He doesn’t answer, just nibbles his bottom lip and bears a stern look down at you.

Mary Janes and Oxfords, facing one other. Barely a foot apart. Two heartbeats, throbbing beneath the surface.

Taboo, secrecy — it’s all nipping at the corners of the air enclosing the two of you. The parking lot may be vacant, but that doesn’t matter; this tryst, this rendez-vous, is so fragile, so delicate, that even the appearance of a ghost could cause the two of you to scram. The fear of being found out is enough to raise the goosebumps on your skin.

Satoru’s lips part, but it’s like his thoughts disperse the moment he opens his mouth — so he closes it again. He swallows thickly, eyes all over the place, hands digging a little deeper into his pockets.

It’s awful how it feels like the sky is watching; birds eavesdropping, rustling trees mocking him before he can even get his first few words out.

“Okay. So. Listen.” never have you heard him staccato like this.

He’s awkward.

Satoru Gojo’s being awkward.

It shocks you to your core, not just because of its abnormality but because you’re the one who caused it. You’re the little worm wriggling in his heart right now, disrupting even the very flow of his thoughts.

He heaves a sigh, like he’s frustrating even himself.

Your silence is just making it worse. The throbbing in his ribcage. The memories of your kiss, of your breath alive in his mouth.

His eyes flit between your lips and the environment. Never your eyes. He can’t handle looking into them right now.

A small ‘fuck’ falls from his lips, one hand stresses over his mouth right after.

“Cat caught your tongue?” you mock.

“Listen,” he emphasizes,

“—you’re not really saying much, so how can I?”

“Oh don’t be a smarty-pants.”

“Well I learned it from you...” you sass.

Satoru inhales sharply.

Then, he proceeds to make one big mistake that breaks his resolve — he looks into your eyes.

Satoru’s mouth melds to yours, feverishly hot.

“Profesh’r.” you mumble into his mouth.

He breaks from the kiss, sparing you one ragged breath.

“It’s Satoru.”  he corrects.

“Mmf!”

He reconnects his lips with yours, locking you into the kiss.

Spine scolding him for kissing a short girl, he arches way down just to kiss you — see how he completely ruins his posture for it?

Two hands cupping your cheeks, he releases the littlest of whimpers against your puckered lips.

Satoru’s stealing the breath right out of your lungs until you’re rendered dizzy, gone nearly limp in his tight embrace. It kills him to feel how perfectly your body slots against his own.

His crazy kiss leaves the two of you gasping against each other.

“Sir.”

“I’m sorry.”

No excuses, no words — he’s stunned by his own actions. Honestly — he didn’t expect to kiss you at all; he wasn’t planning it, in fact, he told himself to refrain. But lo and behold, even Gojo Satoru has a weakness...

Never has a kiss felt so meant to be. Is it because he’s experienced, or because you fit to him like his favorite sweater? God, I don’t know. But there’s an air of sin hanging heavy above you after it, one that encourages you to do it again and again and again.

His chest is heaving, lips quivering, hands trembling — reckless thoughts running rampant behind those heavenly blues.

“Who knew,” you begin. He holds onto your every word, “that the prodigy has one weakness; a woman. Ha-ha...”

“You think this is funny? You’ve ruined me.”

“I’ve ruined you?!”

“Yes, you’ve ruined me. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I can’t cum — without thinking of you. It’s like you’re a god-damned parasite in my brain. A curse; you’re a curse!”

“And this is coming from the same cocky fucker who made an assignment based on his own student’s weaknesses t—to get in her pants instead of just asking to fuck like a normal person would!?”

“Fuck y—”

“—you really have lost your edge, professor.”

“You little slut.”

“Bite me.”

The next thing you know, the tip of your nose is clamped between sharp teeth.

“Ow!” you yelp.

“Karma.”

“And you called me a crazy slut!”

“Because you are.” he sneers.

“Hardly, compared to you.” you retort.

Heat of the moment, his lips find themselves on yours again, wet tongue swiping at your lower lip — why deny it? You want him to consume you, after all, isn’t that right?

“I hate you.” you mumble into his mouth.

He pulls away, palm cupped at your cheek.

“—that’s not what you were saying earlier, my baby.”

“Don’t get all affectionate now! What you said hurt, asshole!”

“I’m sorry.”

You can’t believe it. His voice is thick with sincerity. Those eyes are pleading.

“Come home with me ’n you can hate me in the bedroom all you want.”

It’s hot, coming off his tingling lips in a moment of raw honesty.

“The bedroom?” you chuckle, choking up a little, all your bitterest memories washing ashore in your mind, “And what happens afterwards?”

Satoru thumbs a tear off the corner of your eye.

“—afterwards, I’m gonna yap your ear off about bubble physics.”

“Hah.”

Why now? Why would you meet a man like him only now? Worse, one ten years older than you. Worse fuckin’ yet, your professor.

You’re blubbering, unable to form a proper sentence.

Just say yes — that’s what his eyes seem to beg for.

Like chivalry has any power of persuading you, Satoru opens the passenger car door. Invitingly.

Your heart’s hammering in your chest, edge dulled as he towers over you.

“Fuck.” you feather, “Alright, checkmate; you win.”

Satoru’s lips spread into a triumphant smile. The dull ache in his chest subsides, his muscles relax, the moment you slip your divine little form into the passenger seat.

an ──── Excuse the errors. My keyboard is a bit broken, so if you see double-up or missing letters... no you didn't 🙂 Also, this fic is the girthiest fic I've ever worked on; the wordcount kind of railed me from all angles, so there are probably a lot of overlooked mistakes even though I did try to weed most of them out.

I worked on this for a few short months, but then had to revise it completely after finding plotholes. I'm still not sure about the academic plot points. Personally, I love physics (at a distance) and have a thing for physics students/professors (lol) — they're accidental poets and I could ride them like a carousel while they tell me all about quantum this-that. If you study physics, I love you, nerd, c'mere 💋

ㅤ⋆ 𝖛𝖊𝖊𝖏𝖎𝖊𝖟

A flirty thank you to all who enjoyed reading this, and a cheeky kiss to those on my permanent taglist!

@sweethearticism ㅤ@svgebaskets ㅤ@jiyuu-zou ㅤ@cupidstraceㅤ@hayzeywayzey ㅤ@criistaii ㅤ@its-darkoverhere ㅤ@afera22 ㅤ@paintedperidot ㅤ@marixxelj ㅤ@sumasweets ㅤ@kittygizmo ㅤ@aelaweala ㅤ@c1trusbubbless ㅤ@chiiv0 ㅤ@rawmantizenㅤ@st4rtrait ㅤ@man1cslut ㅤ@smokypanpan ㅤ@famousdestinyland ㅤ@justhereforficslmao ㅤ@mxtcha-lvr ㅤ@roserae527 ㅤ@satorus-slut ㅤ@magical-bunny-girl-exe ㅤ@angelgh0ulz ㅤ@all-with-angel ㅤ@saltycandysalad ㅤ@edgyficuselastica ㅤ@will-0-w ㅤ@edgyficuselastica ㅤ@zyklion ㅤ@saltycandysalad ㅤ@yukiii09 ㅤ@veilofsixeyes ㅤ@mikemsmm ㅤ@thirtykiwis ㅤ@wcke6 ㅤ@ororosdaughter ㅤ@winkii ㅤ@newlifenewfight ㅤ@yuppie2002

... and other sweeties 💋

@thestealcrowalt ㅤ@brkenmelodies ㅤ@yongama2space ㅤ@djarinslovermain ㅤ@bbgurll ㅤ@crimsonqueen398 ㅤ@strychnynegirl ㅤ@r4inwrld ㅤ@hayzeywayzey ㅤ@h3artoffir3 ㅤ@grveyardbabyy ㅤ@ripmornings ㅤ@star-mimi ㅤ@brattyzanny ㅤ@c1trusbubbless ㅤ@clownreaderi ㅤ@kaoshirooo ㅤ@gale-ig ㅤ@myhellomi ㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤI do not allow the copying/plagiarizing/reposting/translation/AI training (etc) of my works. Please don't steal what I've worked hard to create.

[alygator77]

mine to see—oh baby, you can't hide from me

✗ pairing. invisible man! satoru x fem! reader

he said he’d protect you. promised he’d keep you safe. but is it love… or obsession? because there’s blood on the floor, shadows at your door—and as the past claws through the cracks of your new life, you realize: oh. some things never change.

✗ tags/warnings. DARK CONTENT!! nsfw 18+, obsessive/yandere gojo - he's literally so down bad for you. cocky nerdy/scientist gojo. psychological horror. stalking. voyeurism. masturbation. unsafe sex. somnophilia. dubcon elements. invisibility kink. past domestic abuse and emotional manipulation (with suguru). creampie. breeding kink with a hint of baby trapping? degradation and praise. belly bulging. blood/gore. murder. mentions of body disposal. bit of humor and angst too.

✗ a/n. this story is inspired by the psychological horror movie, the invisible man. but if you've seen the movie don't fret! satoru isn't toxicly abusive in this. he is entirely unhinged in the best ways tho, lol. anyways, enjoy this crazy ass fic! 🙂‍↕️

also, pls check out more fics from kiss me killer! here - hosted by my wonderful moots @joemama-2 and @gojosoups !

✗ w.c. 9k

‘You ever leave me, and I swear to fucking god… I’ll destroy everything you love.’

The words have lived in your head for years—stitched between every thought, every gesture, every quiet thing you do to keep the peace. They hum under your skin when the house settles, rattle in your skull with each tick of the grandfather clock down the hall—a metronome for your hesitation.

Because you told yourself you’d move from this bed an hour ago. And yet, a stillness drapes over your skin, creeping up your throat with icy hands, seeping into your chest, curling between your ribs—waiting.

What the fuck are you waiting for? Just follow everything exactly as planned. You’ve rehearsed this in your head. Six nights in a row. You can do this…

Right?

With a shuddering breath, you carefully turn your head to the side, taking in the sight of him—dark hair spilling across the pillow, lips parted in slow, measured breaths. His arm’s draped over your stomach like a claim, cradling you against the mattress.

Like you’re his to love. His to keep.

But you know better.

Peace is never peace with Suguru Geto.

A car passes outside, headlights sliding across the curtains, bleaching the room in white, and you can hear your pulse in your ears, nausea coiling tight in your gut. Because, shit—

…are you really doing this?

‘Aww… wanna test me? Okay, fine. Do you want your sister to lose her fingers, or her eyes first? It’s your call, babygirl.’

There were sirens that night. He swore he hadn’t meant to go that far—that it was your fault for making him prove himself.

And maybe, part of you still believes that. After all, you’re the one who whispered your plans of leaving him—dragging her into this.

…but what else is left to take?

Move.

Carefully, so carefully, you inch toward the edge, hip by inching hip. Every treacherous creak of the frame is a scream in the dark—because one wrong move, one wrong breath, and you’re done for. Right back at the beginning.

“Mmm…”

His voice stirs like a ghost—making you freeze. Hands trembling. Static building under your skin.

‘Try it… I’ll drag you home by your hair you little bitch. No one loves you more than I do, understand?’

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck—

You try to swallow down the knot in your throat, and gathering your courage, your feet welcome the floorboards with a final sweep of your hip.

Cold air hits your skin as the sheet slides from your waist. The wood creaks as you rise, splinters whispering under your soles. And with fumbling fingers, you grasp for your salvation. A duffel—buried, hidden underneath the frame.

This is it.

Right. You can do this. It’s just as Satoru told you—exactly as planned. It carries the weight of everything you prearranged with him. You’re counting down the seconds to freedom, hoisting the strap earnestly over your shoulder until—

Thud!

Contents spill out from where the zipper was undone—shoes, clothes, toiletries—

Nonononono—shit.

You drop to your knees, snatching at everything like it’s a confession, heart pounding, eyes burning. The zipper catches, fabric snagging until you desperately tug it closed. That voice echoes again—

‘Let’s see… for every second you’re gone, how about I take another thing you love, hm?’

Creak!

The house stops breathing with you. Your body trembles, cautiously peering from the corner of your eye, where a shadow moves—stretching against the sheets, sighing through teeth as he stirs back to sleep.

…it’s fine. You’re fine. God, relax. The pills—god, the pills. You crushed them into his drink. You watched him swallow it hours ago. He should be out cold… should be.

But as he stirs again, the bed creaking underneath him, even you don’t trust chemistry. Not with Suguru Geto. So, you don’t waste another second—repositioning the duffle’s strap as you slip through the bedroom door.

Silence hums like an exposed wire—the strap biting into your skin, burning like his grip used to while you maneuver the estate. And now, you run. The hallway stretches like a tunnel as your feet scurry towards the stairs—one hand on the rail, heart hammering in your chest.

You slide through the kitchen, faint light glowing under the range hood; past the study, where the window welcomes sight of the property’s guest house.

That house…

Satoru’s house.

It comes into view as you stumble outside, just as the night hits you in full. And chasing the ghost of freedom, you run, run , run—the bag thudding against your back, crickets hissing like static, damp grass clutching at your ankles.

Freedom.

But why does the lawn between the two houses stretch longer than you remember? It’s an endless, open vein of darkness. Close. Yet so far. You’re panting, tears building, threatening to spill—because if you can just make it to that guest house—to him—the ghosts will finally leave you alone.

With clouded breaths, you climb the steps—towards the warmth of the porch light glowing, left on. For you. The deck creaks as you approach the door, and with chattering teeth, you knock. Fast. Frantic.

…

Silence.

Shit. What's taking so long? Where is he? What if he’s not here?

You glance over your shoulder, knocking again.

Does Suguru know? Fuck—what if he’s known all along? Did he get to Satoru? Is he playing you? Is he—

Click!

Your thoughts are interrupted as the hinge creaks; a wash of light spilling from inside the hall. And there he is—leaning in the entryway, one hand braced above his head. He’s like an angel. Your savior, your whole heart. Beautiful. Draped in nothing but low-slung sweatpants and sleep.

“Hey, sweetheart…” Satoru says quietly, jaw clenching. “You’re late.”

His hair’s a tousled mess—snow-white strands falling into the irises of his eyes—impossibly blue eyes that find you instantly. They glimmer, reflecting in the moonlight, tracing every inch of you; from your bare feet, to the bruise blooming on your collarbone.

Despite how his brows furrow, there’s a tenderness flickering beneath the exhaustion, etched in his expression. A reluctant sigh puffs into the cold air as he straightens, hands burrowing into his pockets. And your heart stutters the moment his lips part, finally asking the question you’ve been forever dreading:

“Guess I have no choice… ready to die tonight?”

ONE YEAR LATER

“Run sequence 3B again. Let’s overlay the thermal thresholds from yesterday’s test.”

Satoru exhales through his nose, fingers already moving. “Really?” he mutters, removing his glasses. As he flicks them off carelessly, his cerulean eyes narrow, hardening with disbelief. 

“It’s only been a day," he continues. "The last suit malfunctioned on thermal, I need more time, brother. It’s going to fail. Do you want it invisible, or just expensive?”

Behind him, Suguru’s footsteps echo on the lab’s vinyl floor. “You’re the genius brother, aren’t you?” he chides, smooth and smug. “So… make it both.”

Of course, both. It’s always both—with Suguru.

And Satoru, for all his brilliance, had never learned how to tell him no.

With swift, long fingers, Satoru repositions his glasses to the bridge of his nose, before clicking against the keyboard. The screen bleeds blue light against the tired lines of his face, with code spilling across the console—but Satoru doesn’t bother to look up. He knows the system better than he knows himself.

“Engaging phase shift,” he mutters. And a low hum fills the lab as he clicks multiple switches upward. “Thermal overlay in three… two…”

The chamber crackles. There's a mannequin centered in the testing alcove, and Suguru’s grin curls deviously as light bends, shimmering in waves through woven filament mesh.

“Matrix holding at 91.7 percent…”

With the hum deepening, the mannequin flickers—fading briefly. Suguru steps closer to the glass. “More,” he demands, and Satoru sighs, turning the intensity up. “92.1…”

Engines echo, and you can hear it now—a faint ticking, the scent of burning fabric. “92.7…” But there’s a strain in the core, glowing too bright. Veins pulse beneath the mannequin until—

Snap!

The crack is earsplitting, ricocheting through the lab. It's followed by a burst of white static and a flare exploding at the chest rig. With an inevitable break, the mannequin lurches in the harness, smoke curling toward the vents. And just as anticipated—

“Failed…” Satoru sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “I told you…” he mutters, already typing the diagnostic across the keys. “It’s a thermal bleed. The matrix destabilizes past ninety-two percent transparency and—”

“Excuses,” Suguru says, circling the test bay. His reflection ghosts across the glass as he stalks, footsteps echoing. “You’re telling me that you spend all this time chasing science, but the second something burns, it’s inevitable?”

Satoru purses his lips. “That’s how experimentation works, Suguru,” he says tightly. “Trial, error, and—”

“Failure,” Suguru finishes, almost gently. He stops beside him, peering down with a tilt of the head. “You mean failure, brother. And you know I don’t approve of failure. It’s been a year, how long is this suit going to take?”

His tone is light, but warning simmers beneath it. Satoru’s head lifts, the lab light striking his face at a harsh angle, catching the electric blue of his irises—turning them near-silver.

…this is how it’s always been.

There’s always a lesson tucked beneath Suguru’s words—a threat. Some cruel, invisible line he dares Satoru to cross, just to see if he will. And Satoru, no matter how many lines he’s drawn, has never managed to walk away from any of them.

“I’m building physics…” he says evenly. “Not fantasies.”

At that, Suguru shifts, turning toward the chamber. The scorched mannequin hangs limp in its cradle, the suit’s chest plate still aglow with fading heat.

His hand lists, fingers brushing the glass. “You call it fantasy…” Suguru murmurs, almost to himself. “But this suit—it isn’t fantasy, brother. It’s my… inevitability.”

Satoru tenses—he already knows where this is going.

“Brother…”

“This project—” Suguru turns, a chilling smile curling up his lips. “It’s proof that what’s unseen… can still exist. Just like her.”

With an exasperated groan, Satoru flicks off his glasses again. “Brother…” he exhales, blue eyes swimming with grief, almost pleading. “Not this again… she’s dead, Suguru. Do you not recall how I spent weeks keeping your name out of a homicide investigation? You need to accept it. Please.”

But Suguru only laughs—soft, joyless.

“Dead?” the violet hue of his eyes darkens. And with a tilt of his head, he studies Satoru—considering. “Let’s see… why was I drugged then, hm? And if she really died that night… why do I still dream of her?”

It's a conversation they'd had many times. An eerie silence settles between the brothers during their standoff, but Satoru remains composed, brows furrowing in faux desperation. Then, with a turn of his heel, Suguru returns to the glass.

“She’s out there. Hiding…” he murmurs, breath fogging as he leans in, gaze locked on the mannequin. “And when I find her…?”

The smile returns. Quiet. Terrible.

“I’ll still be here. Watching.”

‘LOCAL WOMAN DIES IN ESTATE FIRE.’

Satoru skims the headline glowing on his phone—an article he could recite by heart. The body was unrecognizable—charred to a crisp, too damaged for the naked eye. But the dental records matched, and so did the blood type.

News traveled fast. The coroner claimed it a tragedy. Suguru alleged it accidental. Authorities called it heartbreaking. But Satoru? He called it… convincing. And that was all it had to be.

Exhaling through his nose, his gaze scans the lab.

No signs of anyone…?

Perfect.

His thumb swipes to a different tab—a live video feed blinking into view. It’s a secret window he holds, peering into a secluded cabin swallowed by forest. And there you are. Peaceful. Curled on the bed.

His baby blues flick to the data below the video—biometric vitals synced from the surveillance system.

Pulse: 82. Breath: 14/min. Body temp: Normal.

No signs of elevated stress.

“Good girl…” he rasps, already palming himself through his slacks.

The feed reflects in the lenses of his glasses as you move across the screen. Once you reach for the hem of your shirt—

Oh.

He's leaning forward, ocean eyes darkening at the plush spill of your breasts. They jiggle as you tug the fabric off, with cold air hitting your perky, pebbling nipples.

“Mmm… lucky me,” Satoru whispers, pressing harder into the bulge beneath his belt.

God, you’re perfect.

He’s watched you like this a hundred times. Long before your “death.” Back when Suguru still called you his. At dinners. At parties. Within the walls of that sprawling, suffocating estate.

Satoru saw it all. Heard it all.

And he’d jerk off to it more times than he could count—your sweet, breathy moans. He’d be in his room, panting, groaning, sliding his slick hand all over his throbbing length. Emptying his load, spurting messy streaks of creamy cum to the thought of you, again and again—picturing your mouth around his dick. Picturing tearing Suguru’s throat out with his bare hands.

Oh. Shit. Maybe not that last one?

…maybe.

The office chair creaks as he leans back, stroking lazily over his pants while you stand. When you bend over, your shorts slide down your ass, dropping to the floor, and he swallows hard, throat bobbing.

Fuck.

There they are—those sweet, lacy panties.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he groans, unbuckling his belt with a trembling hand. “Now I have to…” The clink is loud. Risky. But his cock is already out—thick, flushed, jutting straight up, oozing a glimmering string of precum just from the sight of you.

And he’s playing a very… dangerous game right now—doing this in the lab.

But someone has to keep you safe. Someone has to watch. He wants to protect you.

His fingers curl around his shaft. “Ahhh… what are you up to… hm?” and he's entranced—groaning from the jiggle of your tits, the sway of your hips. He strokes from base to tip, shuddering as more spurts of creamy pre dribble down his swollen head, coating his knuckles in slick.

You’re his favorite fucking pastime.

Maybe… it’s become less about protection, and more about possession.

“My sweet girl… mnh…” with loud wet schlicks, Satoru's ragged breaths echo through the lab. He leans further back in the chair, pretty lips dropped in an 'O', captivated by you while he faps faster—like a horny pervert.

He shouldn’t be doing this. Not here. Not now.

If Suguru knew…

But Satoru groans, curling his palm over his fat head, squeezing it, rolling it. Maybe that’s what makes this better. He loves defying Suguru.

This has been his prison for years—watching, hiding, lying under his brother’s nose. Because really, that’s the only freedom Satoru has—isn’t it?

Scowling, Satoru lifts his hand, spitting into it before he drops it back down to his flushed, twitching cock. Suguru’s the only family he has, and he controls everything. Who they hire. Where the money goes. Whose names are signed in ink.

Hell, even who Satoru’s allowed to fuck.

“Fuck… that's it… mnh…” he whines, balls jiggling with every stroke as he watches you. God, he wants to fuck you so bad. Suguru didn’t treat you right—always controlling you, controlling Satoru—just as he does to all things that bastard claims to “love.”

Sometimes—he wants to put a bullet in his brother’s skull.

Fuck. No. Wait. He’s not a killer. He’s not like Suguru.

…right?

The thought fades as you slip into a familiar satin nightgown; the one he sent you, anonymously. “S-Shiiit…” he’s whimpering, body tensing, thumb rolling across his weeping head is lazy circles.

Oh, you naughty thing.

You know, don’t you? Know it came from him. You must. That’s why you wear it for him. And that thought makes his heart full and his dick even harder. You want him too, don’t you?

‘Satoru…’ you looked up at him with pleading eyes that night—the night he helped you fake your death.

You were so delicate; trembling, lip quivering. He wanted to kiss away every tear that fell onto your pretty face.

‘This is goodbye…’ you choked out, brows furrowing in sorrow. ‘I can’t thank you enough… what you’ve done for me. So… please. If you’ve ever cared for me, let me go. Suguru can’t know. I can’t see you again… it’s too risky.”

He bites his bottom lip in desperation, holding back more pathetic sounds, fapping harder—because… 

It’s not fair.

He does care.

He loves you.

That’s why he’s risked everything. Why he doctored the data. Lied through his fucking teeth. Why he’s told Suguru, countless times, the suit is failing—too volatile—when in truth, it’s ready. Hidden. Safe. The prototype is in the guesthouse, locked away and waiting for its first trial run.

“Mine..." he growls, pumping hard. "My sweet, pretty girl… you’re mine…” and the wet slick of his gliding hand rises as his release builds—filthy, obscene sounds echoing off the sterile lab walls. 

He's gonna bust.

"T-That's it baby..." he’s whimpering as you stretch, the gown clinging to your curves. "Sucha good girl... m'almost... fuck—fuuuck—" and with stuttering hips, he's thrusting up into his fist, chasing it, chasing you until—

Cum spills everywhere, erupting from his pulsing tip, shooting hot and creamy ropes that stripe across his clenched fist, his wrist, even the edge of the console. He's groaning through every spurt, and the lab lights buzz softly overhead, video feed flickering for a heartbeat before steadying again.

Utterly spent, Satoru slumps in his chair, chest heaving, hand twitching. Eyes fixed to the screen. To you.

And here’s the thing—

You said, you can’t see him ever again…

But… that doesn’t necessarily mean he can’t see you. 

Right?

He has to.

It’s a suit that erases presence. That sees without being seen. And he plans to use it. To make sure you stay safe. To make sure you stay his.

Oh. Maybe… obsession runs in the bloodline.

knock. knock!

The sound barely breaks through the hum of morning—birds chattering, leaves rustling against the cabin’s side. You’re groaning in bed, tangled under a slew of sheets. One arm is slung over your face as another sharp knock! follows, and with a tired whine, you fumble for your phone on the nightstand.

5:53 a.m.

God. Too early for anyone normal.

But clearly not for Jake.

knock, knock, knock!

Reluctantly, you drag yourself out of bed. The sheet slips off your thighs as you shuffle toward the door, still half-asleep and wearing the navy nightie Satoru gave you. Rubbing your eyes, the handle clicks open only to see—

“Good morninggg!!!”

Your UPS driver, grinning wide—too wide—practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. You blink, startled—not because it’s him (he’s the only person who ever shows up out here), but because no one should be that chipper during this ungodly hour.

“Special delivery~” he sing-songs, holding up a small parcel. His gaze flicks from your face… then somewhere lower. “Did I wake ya sleepin’ beauty?”

Wake you?

You blink at him, deadpan. Your hair’s a mess, your legs are cold, and your nipples are basically waving hello, pebbling from the morning breeze.

“Um… yeah,” you squint, lifting a hand to shield your eyes from the glare. “You realize it’s like… six a.m., right?”

“Yup!” he chirps. “Just figured I’d get a head start.” And when he hands you the box, your fingers brush—his lingering just a second too long. “Pluuus… didn’t want this one sittin’ in the truck all day. Says it’s fragile.”

…fragile?

Looking down, you glance at the label.

Vitamins.

…

“Uh-huh…” your brow lifts, skeptical. It’s not exactly a ticking time bomb. But he just flashes a knowing grin—like it might sell the excuse—and hums,

“Fragile stuff.”

You’re tucking the box under your arm, shivering from the crisp breeze. And his eyes are still on you… or more accurately, on the thin satin clinging to your chest.

Oh.

Suddenly, you feel bare—acutely aware of the way it presses into every dip and curve. You wish you’d grabbed a damn sweater.

“Right… well…” you shift, subtly angling your body, the box becoming a shield.  “Thanks. But next time, you can just leave it, yeah?”

As if on cue, the thin strap of your nightie slips down, exposing more skin. His eyes follow, throat bobbing.

“Sure…” he murmurs, lips curling slow. “I just… uh, figured it’s important to make sure everything’s okay out here. You’re pretty far from town, y’know? What gives?”

Tilting your head, your spine straightens. Okay… he’s giving you the creeps now. You don’t need anyone inquiring why you’re so far off the grid. Suguru’s still out there somewhere.

So, your polite smile sharpens at the edges.

“I manage fine,” you say sternly, tugging the strap back into place. But he doesn’t look away, doesn’t back off. “Yeah?” he hums, inching closer. “Betcha do…”

There’s something different in his tone now—lower, slower, like he’s savoring the words. His boot echoes on the wooden patio. Then another. Shifting instinctively, your back brushes the edge of the doorway.

“Must get reeeeeal quiet out here,” he continues, voice dipping like it’s some shared secret. And cradling the box tightly against your ribs, your fingers curl hard around its edge.

“…I like the quiet.”

“Yeah, sure,” he chuckles, taking a final step. When he stills, his eyes flick down your body, slow. “But it’s gotta get a little… y’know. Lonely.” With a smirk, his hands shove into his pockets, drawling. “S’pose a pretty girl like you’s gotta get creative now and then… keep yourself company… jus’ sayin, I wouldn’t mind—”

CRACK!

Without warning, the sound explodes like a gunshot—making you flinch, making a bird's wings flutter sharply, taking off in a nearby tree. Jake whips around, eyes wide, landing on his truck. And the shock melts into confusion.

Because there—nestled in the center of his spider-webbed windshield—is a fist-sized rock, glinting in the center of the shattered glass.

“W-What…” he breathes, stumbling back a step. “What the fuck—?!” and staring at the wreckage, you’re both momentarily speechless.

The forest stills; silence ringing loud, birds quieting, wind whispering—a sense of unease creeping through the space, curling up your spine. Because…

Do rocks fall from the sky?

“D-Did y’see that?!” Jake turns toward you again, mouth agape. “Was that—was that some kinda animal? Or... fuck—” he’s already descending the porch steps in a rush, one foot after the other in a clumsy half-sprint, muttering—

“Shitshitshit—my boss is gonna fucking kill me—what do I—”

whump!

Before he can finish, he’s going down. Hard. And the impact is ugly—face-first into gravel, blood smearing across his palms in a desperate effort to catch himself—groaning.

You shift the box in your arms. “Uh… you okay?” and Jake pushes himself up with a grunt. “Yeah… fuck… I just…”

But he doesn’t finish. Doesn’t meet your eye. There’s a beat of silence. The air feels… heavier. Still. Leaves rustling in the wind.

“…Jake?”

Turning his head, it’s like he’s listening for something—watching the trees, holding his breath. Then, shaking it off, he stumbles the rest of the way to his truck, half-limping, fingers fumbling for the door handle.

“Anyways, just—uh—lemme know if you need anything,” he mutters. “See ya around...”

And you nod as he slams the door—engine growling to life. The tires crunch over gravel, and you watch the truck until the taillights vanish into the trees. Gone.

Satoru saw red. He wanted to take that rock and slam it right across ‘Jake’s’ skull.

He’d fantasized about it the second he saw that shitty little truck roll up that gravel road. The second he heard his voice rise up from the porch, polite and chipper—like this man, this filth—had the right to even look at you.

Because, the gall?? The fucking audacity?!

‘Aren’t you lonely…?’

The words gnawed at him. Crawled in under his skin.

…maybe you were. Fuck—were you?

That thought—that truth—made something dark and wet unfurl inside him. He's watched you for the past year... and you don't touch yourself much.

From where he stood now, silent and invisible in the cabin’s corner, he could see you. Watched as you set the box on the counter. Poured yourself a glass of water with shaking hands. Rubbed at your arms like the chill had settled beneath your skin.

You looked so… delicate. So soft. So goddamn pretty.

And that nightie…

He swallows down a growl, trying not to let you hear as he palms at his growing cock through the suit. God, it’s not fair. He shouldn’t even be this painfully hard, not after how hard he’d already cum earlier, before arriving—fisting himself to the sound of your pretty voice on a random voicemail you left him years ago.

You moved across the cabin with a sleepy grace, padding across the wooden floors until you dropped on the bed, pulling your laptop open. The screen glow washed your skin in soft, pale blue. And Satoru could see your reflection in it—your brow furrowed; lips pursed in thought as you typed.

He tilts his head, a lazy, dangerous smile pulling at his mouth.

…what are you typing pretty girl? Why do you look so serious?

But as he creeped closer, the words on your screen came into focus and—

Google: vibrators for beginners

Satoru nearly choked on his own spit.

Oh.

Oh, baby.

He swallowed another groan, shuddering with restraint to just pin you to the bed, rip your clothes off and fuck you raw—right now.

Because you think a fucking toy is going to help? That some cheap little silicon thing could even come close to what he could do to you? Shit. The idea that you were in here, Googling how to fuck yourself?

Great. That asshole was right.

You were lonely. You were aching.

You’re navigating through the sex site, and just as the mouse hovers over 'Check out,' your hand moves—quick and dismissive—slamming the laptop shut with a groan as you bury your face in your hands, flustered.

Oh…. you poor, sweet thing.

God, it almost made him scowl. Because the thought of you curled up in bed, alone, fingers trembling as you tried to fill that sweet little cunt with something plastic and cold, something that wasn’t him.

No.

He’d make you feel so much better. Make you cry for it. Beg for it.

Taking a step closer, the air bends around his breath as he watches you, unseen—observing you tuck yourself under the blankets, trying to disappear from sheer embarrassment.

“Ridiculous…” you whine, muffling your face in the pillows, feet kicking against the mattress. “Ughhh… what am I even doing…?”

And something raw flickers in Satoru’s chest. Something protective, something…

Feral.

You deserved to feel good.

Miraculously, Jake never showed up at your doorstep again.

You’d love to think he finally learned how to just leave the damn package without ringing the bell at the ass crack of dawn—but more likely? His route changed. Or maybe he finally picked up on your extremely subtle cue of: not interested.

Still… it’s weird.

Because right around the time he vanished, you finally worked up the courage to order yourself a sex toy. Something small. Non-threatening. Beginner-friendly. A modest step toward reclaiming your sanity—one quiet, battery-powered orgasm at a time. Just a little pink peace offering from the gods of pleasure. But every time your inbox cheerfully announces:

Re: Thanks for shopping with us! Your delivery has arrived!

Nothing.

Just a sad, empty porch.

…what the hell?

The first time, you brushed it off (okay… maybe it’s delayed?) The second time, you thought, porch pirate?(Wait… porch pirates? Where? In these woods? Pfft. Unless the deer unionized, who the fuck is stealing your silicone rabbit?)

Ugh. By the third, it started to feel personal. Like the cosmos slapped a divine chastity lock on your fucking doorstep, tossing the key into the void.

C’mon now… it’s not fair. You weren’t asking for much. Right?!

So, you reached out to customer service (…bless their underpaid souls). They were sweet. Apologetic. Sent a replacement. Then another. Tossed in a free packet of lube for your troubles, which somehow made everything worse. (Cool. Now you had the lube… and nothing to lube.)

No package. No toy.

Poof. Vanished. Every goddamn time.

Fuck. At this point, you’re starting to think Jake’s out there somewhere, laughing his little UPS ass off with a growing collection of sex toys—holding them hostage like a pervy Santa Claus in the seventh circle of postal hell.

Is he that petty? Did he see “PleasureTech LLC” printed on the label and decided you don’t deserve happiness?

God. Clearly—clearly—the universe has decided you don’t get to cum.

Which is rude, honestly. But what’s weirder? It’s not just the mail.

Lately, things have been… off.

It’s little things. Doors creaking open even when you know you closed them. Furniture shifting—chairs nudged a few inches left, cabinet doors half-cracked open. There was a blanket you swear you left folded on the couch, and it’s now draped over the armrest. Plus, a coffee mug’s sitting in the sink that you don’t remember using.

But clearly, it’s nothing. Cabin brain. Isolation hallucinations. The natural byproduct of living in the woods for a year with no one but your anxiety, your leftover trauma for company, and the lack of a mind-shattering orgasm.

Hell, you’re so horny, sometimes you imagine hearing Satoru’s voice… hearing his pretty moans…

Yeah, you’re losing it.

Satoru’s not here. He agreed you’d never see him again. He helped you vanish. Gave you everything: a new name, a remote cabin in the woods, an untraceable phone, and enough prepaid cards to keep you fed and clothed until you die of boredom.

Your brows furrow.

God… you miss him. Miss him so much, that apparently, you’re hearing him in your head. Surely, you need to get out more… and you could leave, sure. No one’s stopping you. Except the fact that out there in the real world, Suguru still exists. And if he finds you?

No thanks. You’d rather take your chances with horniness and a haunted cabin.

Which says a lot. Probably too much.

A vibrator would’ve helped though. Just sayin’.

Satoru feels like an asshole for denying you your toys. He knows it’s selfish. Knows you’ve spent hours refreshing that 'delivery confirmed' email, wondering where the fuck they could’ve gone.

And look. It’s not like he wants to be the villain in your personal pleasure saga, but god—it’s the principle. Okay?! He just… can’t let you have that. Can’t stand the idea of something buzzing between your thighs, making you sigh, making you arch, making you cum—without it being him.

It’s pathetic. Cruel, even.

Because it’s not like he can fuck you either. Not when you don’t even know he’s here. Not when you can’t seehim. Touching you while invisible?! Shit. Even he has a line, and that would shatter whatever thin, flickering morality he’s still pretending he has left.

So no—he doesn’t touch you.

But himself? Oh, that’s fair game.

Which is why his zipper’s undone, cock bobbing, hanging heavy from his suit. (And of course he designed the prototype this way—why wouldn’t he? He’s nothing if not a man of incredible foresight and terrible self-control.)

He tells Suguru he’s running diagnostics. That the suit’s overheating. That the quantum lattice needs recalibration. (It doesn’t.)

What he really does is sneak off into the woods, fire up the prototype, and find you—every day.

Now, wet schlicks echo in the dark cabin while he’s looming over your sleeping form like some, horny, panting ghost. Only his dick is visible while he languidly strokes it—imagining your lips stretched wide, drool slipping down your chin as you choke so sweetly on him.

“My good girl…” he croons, hips twitching as he inches closer. “Wanna stuff that pretty mouth full of cock…” his thumb smears the weeping tip, groaning. “Fuck your throat ‘til you're crying all over me… mnh…”

And you’d look so perfect—eyes wide and glassy, drool slicking down your chin as you gag on every prodding inch. He’d shove all of it down, feeling your muffled moans against his shaft while he devours you equally—tongue buried in your sweet little cunt, slurping and lapping at your folds.

While his hand moves faster, your lips part in a sleepy sigh, and he's biting back every filthy groan threatening to spill from his lips, because it's so fucking unfair.

It would be easy—so easy, to kneel over you, weight dipping into the mattress as he slaps and rubs his cock all over your pretty face—guiding that sweet mouth open and finally letting you choke on it. He's lost in that fantasy until—

"N-No..." you sob in your sleep, making his hand still mid-stroke. With furrowing brows, you whimper, "P-Please... don't... Suguru..."

And it's like a bucket of ice dumps over him at the sound of that name. Satoru heaves, eyes wide, taking in the sight of your trembling form, of the small, broken sounds escaping your lips. It guts him because—

That asshole…

He hates seeing you like this, so he's immediately dropping to his knees, whispering reassurance. "Hey, hey..." and cradling your face, his thumb brushes your cheek reverently. "Baby... sweetheart, what's wrong? Hm? You okay?"

But you’re whimpering, head turning, hands clutching the blanket tighter as if fighting off something only you can see. And when Satoru sees the tears sliding down your temple—that’s it. He’s immediately rising.

“Shhh…” the mattress dips under his invisible weight as he crawls in behind you. “Hey, hey, hey now…" he murmurs, voice breaking. "What’s goin’ on, love?” 

But you just keep trembling. Keep choking out broken pleas of “Stop…” and “No…”

And damnit… 

Satoru hesitates for a long moment before finally deciding—

Fuck it.

Finding the seam of his suit's mask, he's tugging it off, letting cool air flood his damp skin when he rips it away—thrown aside like it never mattered.

Vivid blue eyes drink you in. Your body curled and shaking. Your breath ragged. He's equally wrecked, sweat clinging to snowy hair, plastered to his forehead. But without another thought, he pulls you into him.

At first, your body jerks from the contact—but he gathers you gently against his chest, arms wrapping around your middle, one leg between yours, his face burying into your hair. And the tremors ease as he's cooing. 

"Shhh... you're okay... please don't cry..." with soft lips, tracing shushing kisses along your shoulder. "M'here... s'okay. It's a dream, baby. Just a dream..."

God... you smell so good. He's missed feeling you. And as your heartbeat slows, your breath evening—his chest aches with longing, because… 

You really are so, alone.

And despite how much you’ve suffered, still—your being here is proof. You keep fighting, don’t you?

He loves you so much.

Your breath slows, stabilizing. "That's it..." Thumbs rub your hips, fabric bunching beneath his fingers. His breath shudders before pressing a reverent kiss below your ear. "That's my good girl..." he rasps, all honey and ache, placing another at the slope of your shoulder. 

But the second you sigh, soft and slurred... 

“Satoru…”

It stops his breath cold.

Because your voice—sleepy, trembling—saying his name like a secret, like it belongs to you??

His dick gives an encouraging jerk in response, oozing against the curve of your ass, making him choke on air.

Oh. Shit.

He didn’t even think. His dick’s still out—bare, visible—hardening once again, just from the sound of you, the press of you. He needs to move, but—

You're moving first. A soft moan slips from your lips as you shimmy back, ass wiggling perfectly against his cock. And he grits, "Oh, ffffuck..." forehead dipping to your shoulder with a shudder.

Panting, blue eyes flick down, at the sight of his fat cock jutting against your perfectly plush ass, with gooey precum dripping from his slit… making a puddle all over your thin, lacy panties. The sight makes him shake.

This is bad. Real bad.

He’s gripping your hips, trying to find his morality. “Wait… fuck…” he whispers a whine, voice cracking with restraint. “You’re killin’ me baby. I can’t—can’t do this…”

But even as his brain begs him to stop, his hips jerk forward in a slow rolling push. Ok… so, maybe, just one thrust? He thinks. Mnn... one more? And the bed’s creaking beneath you as he ruts against the soft give of your body, entranced in the way your ass molds to him, burying his cock in the enticing fat.

It’s addicting.

“Mnnh… yesss...” he hisses, eyes fluttering shut. You’re sleeping peacefully while he humps you like a sinner—biting his lip to keep quiet, holding your hips steady. “M-m'sorry.… so sorry... feel s’good…”

And soon, each lazy grind turns harder, needier. He’s leaking all over your panties because he can’t stop imagining it—how your cunt would feel if he just slipped inside, if he filled you up raw, if you woke up while he was already balls-deep, flooding you with cum.

But nonono—get it together! 

Control yourself, Satoru!! 

Just as he stills, heaving, swallowing, finally gathering what's left of his sanity—you shift again, and now he's trapped. Because oh, you... you naughty thing. 

His drooling dick becomes sandwiched between your plush thighs, feeling your hot, slick dripping from your soaked little cunt, drenching your panties, drenching him and—

Satoru Gojo sees stars.

"Oh god, s-sweetheart..." he chokes out, voice strangled. "Y-you're not helping... nngh..." and giving in, his hands push underneath your nightie, exploring—groping your tits as he cups them greedily.

Soft, sleepy moans leave your lips as his thumbs brush your nipples, his face burying into your neck while he grinds against your clothed clit. 

He’s fighting every urge to break you on his dick, because it’s so pretty, those sweet, desperate sounds. He knows. You poor, poor thing… you need it so badly, don’t you? Even in your dreams.

“Oh baby…” he nips gently at your neck, hips twitching, dick jerking, spurting more dribbles of precum. “Fuck, I can’t stay away from you…”

“Want…” the words escape you in a whimpering slur, eyes still closed, brows furrowing. “Mnh… S-Satoru…” 

And that does it. Something snaps within him. 

It’s something primal. Something dark. Something… filthy.

He’s yanking your panties to the side like they’re in the way of salvation. “Oh, babygirl… m’right here—fuck—right here…” and as his blue eyes take in your puffy little cunt, wet and hot and waiting—he’s gone. 

Fingers run through your glistening folds, and the sweet little mews slipping from those dreamy lips fill him with smug satisfaction.

“Awh… my needy girl…” he hums against your ear, low, taunting. “What’s this… hm?” and with shuffling sheets, his dick lines up to your pussy. “It was so… mean of me to hide your toys…” he groans, circling his head around your tiny hole. “B-but… I’ll make it up to you… yeah? J-just lemme… mnnnh—"

The words are breaking into filthy moans as the swollen tip of his dick stretches into the tight, suctioning heat of your soaked pussy—just the tip, barely an inch. Because right as he’s doing it, he realizes what he’s doing.

Fuck—what the fuck is he doing?!

This is the line he said he wouldn’t cross. But now your sopping cunt is dripping all over him, clenching like it already knows him—and every ounce of reason goes straight to his dick.

No… he has to stop. It’s not right. Despite how much he wants to take you, claim you, ruin you on every thick, aching inch of him.

But before he can retreat, you’re already stirring against him, mumbling whimpers—and now, panic rolls in.

Oh fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.

He’s realized now—you wake up? He’s fucked. Utterly fucked. Because his mask—

He left his mask off.

Great. He didn’t mean to go this far. He just wanted to comfort you, stop you from crying. But now, his face is visible, his cock is out, and you’re waking up with your legs spread while he’s here, shooting precum into your tiny hole.

Abort!

“Mmm… w-wha—” you murmur, lashes fluttering. And Satoru holds his breath while you blink down, disoriented, freezing at the sight of—

…a dick?

Nestled between your legs? Flushed, thick, twitching? You can feel it pulsing there, throbbing faintly, radiating heat against the mess slicking your folds, breaching an inch in your velvety walls.

There’s nothing else.

No body. No shadow. Because Satoru’s face is buried where you can’t see it, and the rest of his body remains invisible. Your brows furrow in sleepy confusion, and in your horny, half-lucid mind, the only explanation that makes sense is—

Oh.

The universe finally decided you get to cum.

A miracle. A gift from the gods. A manifestation of divine will sent straight to your pussy.

“It’s here…” you gasp, grinding slightly, testing the weight, the stretch, and Satoru chokes, hands gripping your hips like a lifeline. 

Don’t do that. God don’t do that. He’s gonna lose it.

“Anhh…” but as you slide down to the hilt, his body jolts, biting his lip, muffling his moans. Your cunt swallows him whole, and rocking your hips, you breathlessly moan: 

“F-Fuck… it came…” squelches echo as your sweet juices coat him. “M-my toy finally came…” 

Toy?

Satoru snarls; now you’re asking for it.

Driving forward, he grips your hips bruisingly, and he’s gone. Thrusting into you like a man possessed, pounding you like you’re his toy.

“Bad fuckin’ girl—ahhh—fuck, baby…” he pants, unhinged, bullying your touch-starved cunt. “You want your…mnh.. t-toy? Naughty slut… this what you want? Ugnn…”

The bed creaks, headboard slamming the wall as his cock pistons in and out of you, wet and obscene. And you’re a mess—gasping, whining, pliant beneath him. Every thrust rocks through you, your tits bouncing, ass clapping back against him.

“Ffffuck… look at you,” he groans, watching where he rams into you, hungry eyes admiring your jiggling ass. “Needy little thing—take it—take it like that, that’s it…”

You don’t know what’s happening—something unseen fucking you senseless, and clearly, you’re loopy, conjuring Satoru’s voice. Whatever it is, you’re just thanking the universe for granting you with the privilege of finally being fucked.

Satoru’s cock pistons in and out of your soaked, trembling heat, and he can’t stop watching. Watching the way your belly bulges, watches the way your pussy drips, squelching with each thrust. It’s like you were made for him to hump into, made for him to breed. His balls are slapping against you, churning with a thick load that he’s aching to release. Because the image of you—

Round and pregnant? 

Perfect.

You’d be his, forever.

He doubles up. “Gonna fuckin’ fill you up, baby,” and rasping, his thrusts grow sharper, meaner. “And you’re gonna fuckin’ take it, right? Gonna—mmnh—put a baby in y-you…”

The bed is shaking, and an invisible pressure pins you still—grasping your tit with one hand, rubbing tight circles along your clit with another. You moan, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix with each brutal roll of his hips, and finally—finally—release crashes through you.

“F-Fuck—fuck—I’m—cumming—”

While your cunt sucks him, he bites your neck, snapping into you relentlessly as your body convulses. Slick pours out of your tiny hole, creamy and hot, coating his cock in a white ring—and Satoru shudders, laughing breathlessly into your throat.

“Ahhh—there it is—there’s my angel… fuckin’ milk me—yeah, good fuckin’ girl—”

Nonsense is babbling out of your overstimulated and wrecked mind, but Satoru keeps going. Panting, grunting, whimpering. “Shit—s-shiiit—" He’s chasing his own release, cock pistoning wildly inside your spasming cunt until he chokes out—

“M’gonna—fffuck yes—take it—!"

And then it hits—thick spurts of hot cum flooding your cunt, filling you to the brim. He’s groaning through gritted teeth, spilling deep, holding you still as his body convulses with each pulse—warm, messy, claiming.

When he stills, the bed creaks, the sound of your combined panting filling the air. An oozing warmth spreads between your legs, and blinking down at your abused little hole, that dick is buried inside you—creamy cum leaking, pushing out from the sheer amount, dribbing down the slowly softening shaft.

Oh.

Do toys… cum?

The invisible weight pressing against your body begins to release—but… the sound, the feel of panting breath, it’s warm and real—ghosting the side of your throat. And turning your head slowly, that’s when you see them.

Vivid, electric blue eyes, half lidded, staring back at you.

Oh shit.

Maybe you have lost it. Conjuring the head—and the dick—of the man you love out of thin air? You really do need to get out more.

But when he stammers, “U-Uh… I-I…” snowy lashes fluttering, caught between guilt and disbelief. You realize you might not be as crazy as you believed.

“Hi sweetheart…” he whispers, brows softening in tenderness. “Please don’t panic. I—uh… I can explain?”

A storm of emotions unraveled after reuniting with Satoru—relief, disbelief, confusion, and something darker. Twisted. Addictive.

Because yes, a part of you knew you should be concerned. The man had been watching you, shadowing your every move, hiding in plain sight. He’d stolen your sex toys, scared off your UPS driver, sabotaged your pleasure, and lived like a ghost in your home.

But the other part of you—the part that still flinches at the memory of Suguru’s voice, the bruising grip of his fingers, the way he made you question your own sanity?

Nah. You’re not afraid of Satoru.

Compared to Suguru, Satoru’s an angel. He would never hurt you. He’d go to hell and back for you—tear down the world with his bare hands if it meant keeping you safe. He already has.

And Suguru…?

Well, after your “death,” Satoru filled you in on the aftermath. How Suguru’s been spiraling—dangerous, volatile, unraveling. And for once, you were grateful for the isolation. Grateful you’d laid low. But as fear crept in… along with worries that Suguru would catch out, Satoru only pulled you closer, whispering promises like a prayer.

‘He won’t find you. I’ll make sure of it. You’re safe… I promise.’

And you trust him. 

It’s risky, this game you’re both playing. But you’re not mad… not really. You’ve yearned for him too. If anything, you’re flattered.

And, truthfully? A little turned on.

So now, there’s a delicious thrill you feel every time he leaves the cabin. You feel a bit… bolder. Because let’s be honest—he deprived you. Stole your orgasms, left your toys malfunctioning and useless, all while he could’ve been inside you. Ruining you properly. Marking you as his.

So yeah… maybe he deserves to suffer a little. Juuust enough to make him squirm.

And you do make him squirm.

It becomes a game—stretching naked in the cabin, fingers dancing up your thighs, moaning his name like a challenge. You know he’s watching. You know he’s listening.

And he is unforgiving.

Sometimes you feel him before you see him—warm breath at your neck when you’re alone by the window. A door left ajar. The air shimmering behind the wardrobe.

Other times, he’s punishing.

Shoving you to your knees in the hallway, fist tangled in your hair as he fucks your throat. Or bending you over the kitchen table, plates clattering as he pounds into you from behind, growling filth against your ear.

“Bad fuckin’ girl… teasing me…” he snarls, hand cracking against your ass. “You wanna act like a slut? I’ll treat you like one.”

And you love it.

You’ve become his obsession, his punishment, his sanctuary.

And he’s become yours.

Even in his absence, you ache for him. He clings to you like static—like smoke—like the phantom touch you can never shake.

So tonight, you wait. Sitting by the fireplace, curled on the couch as rain beats heavy outside, rattling the windows. The clock ticks slow, and he’s late. Longer than usual. But… he’s always busy. Always overworked. Always pushing himself too hard for your sake.

Despite that reality being nothing new, you still can help but think—

It’s not… fair.

He’s given you freedom. Protected you. 

And surely… he deserves that freedom too. Doesn’t he?

You sigh, tracing idle circles on your knee. And that’s when the door creaks open, making your lips curve into a smile. Because finally—finally—he’s here.

“’toruuuu…” you croon, tilting your head back against the couch. “Took you long enough. I missed you…”

…

Silence.

There’s only silence as the fire pops sharply beside you, a log splitting open with a hiss. The rain seems louder now—thicker, heavier against the windowpane.

But you wait.

“…Satoru?” you call again, a little louder, lighthearted. “C’mon, I—” you force a laugh, shaking your head. “I—um… really just need you to hold me tonight. Please?”

Nothing.

Glancing at the door, it’s open—barely. A thin gust of wind pushes through, rustling the curtains. And your brows furrow… because there’s no shimmer of light, no distortion in the air, none of the subtle static you’ve learned to recognize when he’s cloaked and near.

Just… quiet.

A kind that makes your skin prickle, that makes a chill crawl up your spine as you straighten in your seat—eyes scanning the shadows of the room.

And that’s when you see it. Near the door, water drips. A soft, steady beat on the wooden floor. A puddle, spreading. Rain trailing in thick ribbons from the threshold.

Ah. He is here. 

He must be soaked from the rain.

But why is he fucking with you tonight? Usually, when you tell him you’re not in the mood, that’s all it takes for him to stop.

“…‘toru?” you murmur, rising to your feet, stepping closer. “God… there you are. You could’ve—”

BANG!

The door slams shut, rattling the frame and you jump. Your heart’s in your throat as the wooden floor creaks, heavy footsteps echoing closer.

And then a voice—low, taunting. Familiar but off. Like it’s, twisted.

“Missed me, sweets?”

Everything goes downhill from there. You swear you’re going to die. Not quickly. Not painlessly. Not even violently.

But slowly—like a rot that starts in your mind and eats its way out, strip by strip, until nothing’s left but a girl you don’t even recognize anymore.

“Awhh… see?” Suguru croons, like this is some warm reunion and not a fucking home invasion, “I’m right, aren’t I? You did miss me.”

The coffee table crashes into your leg as your feet scramble back, slipping on the rug. The force makes your mug shatter—porcelain and tea and panic all over the floor while your heart beats through your ribs.

“D-Don’t—don’t come any closer—” you cry, arms raised. “Go away, Suguru. P-Please, just… leave me alone.”

But begging never worked on him. Not when it counted. And you know—deep down—you’ve never been safe from him.

“Oh, babygirl…” he clicks his tongue, mock disappointment curling across his smile. “What’s this, hmmm?” his boots thud, slow and steady. “You’ve gotten so jumpy. Satoru should’ve known…” he drawls, though there’s a sour twist to his voice now. “Hiding you wouldn’t work forever.”

The footsteps stop, and you freeze—breath caught, eyes darting around the room—measuring distance, weighing your options.

A lamp. The drawer with the scissors. A window. The door.

It’s quiet. Still.

Too quiet.

Then he lunges.

With desperation, you shove the coffee table toward him, glass sliding and crashing. He catches it mid-motion—snarling, sending it skidding aside as you bolt for the counter.

A weapon. You need a weapon.

Fingers fumble for something, anything. A bottle, a plate, god, you don’t care—anything to use. But he’s fast. Too fast. Because he grabs your hair, pulling you down, making you cry out. And you’re fighting like your life depends on it—screaming, kicking, flailing in an attempt to find him, to push him away.

“Fucking brat…” he hisses, dragging your body by your hair across the floor. “Thought you could get away from me? Why do you keep making me have to do this?”

You twist, flail, your hands clawing at the floorboards—anything to slow him down. And with sheer luck, your elbow slams backward, landing square against his gut. He grunts, loosens for just a breath—

And you run.

Adrenaline carries you, bare feet slapping against wood as you pant, sprinting down the hallway. You don’t look back. You can’t. Hell, you don’t even know if he’s right behind you or not. But as you throw yourself into the bedroom, slamming the door shut with force, his boot wedges into the frame right before it closes.

“Fucking bitch!” he roars, hurling his body at the door as you press your entire weight against it, sobbing, bracing with your shoulder and palms, shaking like a leaf. “I’ve loved you!! I’ve always fucking loved you!!”

The doorknob rattles violently. The hinges shriek—and you try, desperately, pushing back with everything you have.

“Come onnnn, sweetheart~” he croons through the narrow slit, voice syrupy and warped. “You know you can’t hide from me forever. I just wanna talk—just wanna see you, that’s all.”

You’re going to die.

“Stop! Please—just stop!” you sob, voice cracking. “You fucking did this,” he snarls, and the door lurches open, inch by inch, fingers slipping through—because he’s strong. Too damn strong. You brace for it to give way completely until—

Gurgling. 

Wet. Deep. A choking sound, followed by a staggered breath—then—

Stillness.

The pressure against the door falters, and you freeze—hands trembling on the knob as a series of dull, meaty thuds echo from the other side of the wood.

Again… then again… then again…

Something thumps. Slides. A final, wheezing exhale—and then—

…

Quiet.

A silence so complete, it roars in your ears—broken only by the relentless hammering of rain on the roof, the thundering pulse in your ears, and the soft, squelching noise of something being dragged across the floor.

You don’t breathe. Don’t move.

Because who—what—is on the other side?

Please… let it be—

With a shuddering breath, you reach—turning the lock. The door creaks open slowly, inch by inch, hinges groaning in protest as you peer into the hallway—eyes wide, bracing for the worst, bracing for him to lunge again. But instead—

Satoru.

He stands just beyond the threshold, drenched in rain and blood. Hair plastered to his forehead, white strands dripping crimson. His chest heaves and his eyes are wide—wild—but focused. Crystal blue and sharp enough to cut.

At his feet, the invisibility suit lies, half-shattered, wires sparking weakly across Suguru’s twisted body. A knife glints faintly in Satoru’s hand, flicking under the hallway light.

You’re stumbling forward. “S-Satoru…” voice quivering. A relieved exhale squakes out of you, and the knife slips from his hand, clattering to the floor. “H-Hey,” he rasps, voice raw, torn. “It’s… it’s me.”

Before you can think, you’re moving—crashing into his chest. He catches you like instinct, like gravity itself, his arms wrapping around you so tightly it almost hurts. You feel the tremor in him, the way his own breath shudders. 

“I thought—” your voice breaks. “I know.” His lips press to your temple. Fingers weave into your hair as he holds you close. “I’m sorry. So sorry… I tried to come sooner.”

Shaking your head, you press your face further into his soaked shirt, clinging to him like he’s the only thing tethering you to this earth.

His grip tightens. “I… didn’t mean for this to happen,” he whispers, voice unsteady. “But I couldn’t let him have you. Not again.”

As the words rumble against you, your breath trembles—and pulling back, your eyes flicker down to Suguru’s lifeless body. The color draining from his face.

A man that made your life a living hell. Dead.

You’re… free?

And Satoru—both of you.

Free.

“…what do we do with him?” you whisper. 

Satoru doesn’t answer at first. Rain drips from his jaw, tracing down the curve of his throat, pooling where blood still clings to his collar. His shoulders rise and fall slowly, like he’s remembering how to breathe.

And when he finally—finally speaks—the simplicity of the words, the truth of the words… make you blink.

“Oh… it’s fine…” he murmurs softly. “I’ll just… uh. Bury him next to Jake. Yeah?”

a/n. thanks for checking out this crazy ass fic! this was a real challenge for me. like... way, WAAAY out of my comfort zone, aha. but it's fun to try something new and somno is like... my guilty pleasure 🙂‍↕️ don't be judging meeee 😭 happy kinktober ya'll. also, m'sorry to my suguru girlies with this one 💕

[indiewritesxoxo]

god complex

satoru gojo's on top of the world - but all he really wants is to be on top of you!

synopsis: childhood crushes don't die easy. even when they grow up to become a curse user with his own compound of devoted followers. gojo moved on. you moved away. spent years shoving down his memory until it became second nature. you never realized all it would take was a phone call from an old friend to rip open all your old wounds and return you to the life you left behind. but when it looks like gojo's next target is the school, you don't exactly have a choice but to come back. can you stop gojo? or will you fall under his spell too?

pairing: cult leader!gojo x sorcerer!reader

wc: 11.5k

content: mdni. angst and smut and fluff, au where gojo defected instead of geto, YANDERE!GOJO, obsession, light stalking, protective/possessive gojo, he might be crazy but he is CUTE!, emotional hurt/comfort, heavy pining, childhood crush to lovers, falling in love with someone you KNOW is terrible, messy/conflicting feelings, mentions of murder, nightmare, blood/death, they want each other bad, piv sex, semi-public sex, use of pet names (mostly baby, sweetheart), fingering, creampie

a/n: this was a commission for the lovely @cantarcantar !! the Gojo art above in the middle is by @/to00fu !!

The last time you saw Satoru he'd been smiling. 

One of those big, cheesy smirks, leaning in to press a clumsy kiss on your cheek. You had scrunched up your nose, your fingers pressed against his chest when he said something that made you laugh. 

You couldn't remember what it was anymore. Just that fuzzy feeling he always left you with, a friend you always wished would turn into something more. 

It never did. 

A childish hope. A teenage crush. A pointless dream that was crumbled and discarded – and not even by a curse. Just grinded into dust and ash by the system you’d both been born into. A society that didn’t give a shit if you lived or died, only that you worked and gave and bled for them until you did.

But he never bled. Never crumbled. Never cried. 

You wondered if that was why he did it. If things would've changed if you had been there with them on that mission instead of overseas on an inconsequential one of your own. 

Instead, you find out through a single-page letter from Nanami that the only strongest special grade sorcerer at Jujutsu Tech had slaughtered civilians instead of curses after something went wrong. 

The girl they were supposed to protect ended up with a bullet in her head.

But she wasn't the only one who ended up dead. 

The details were sparse. You didn't want to know them anyway. 

Didn't want to spoil the image you had of Satoru in your head, the boy who'd buy you ice cream and offer to lick anything that dripped down on your hand just to hear you giggle. 

Nanami’s letter ended with him leaving sorcery, suggesting you do the same. Satoru was a wanted man now – and not just by you. He had abandoned all of you to start a fucking cult. Ijichi had followed him, something you were sure Satoru dragged him into. But Suguru and Shoko stayed. 

You thought about coming back. About walking those halls that had to feel empty and barren without the sound of Satoru’s laugh. At the prospect of teaching and training whoever would come next – if he hadn't burned down the entire system by then and the school along with it. 

But you couldn't bring yourself to. 

Couldn’t drag yourself there if he wasn't waiting for you.

You missed a call from him once. Not on purpose, but you didn't know if you'd actually answer if you had seen it in time. Stared like you could will Satoru to call back, but he didn't. 

If he had, would you have gotten an explanation? 

An invitation? 

You tried not to think about it – or him. 

Only took missions out of the country. Declined all the requests from the higher-ups about returning. Insisted on sticking to handling the lesser curses in countries with next to no sorcerers of their own. Flying from place to place, never settling, never staying. 

His phantom seemed to follow you everywhere you went. Whispers of a white-haired man constantly making their way back to you, finding flowers by the door of your hotel rooms, little gifts and trinkets with no return address. 

You tossed most of them. But on your birthday one year, there was a light blue box left outside your window. A pretty necklace inside – and a note on top. 

Four words. 

I miss you sometimes. 

You hated him. You seethed over the fact that you felt the same. Loathed that some part of you was his – would always be. 

You never even shared a real kiss. Hadn't even done anything more than holding hands once or twice. Maybe that was why his memory never rotted. Why you heard of him massacring people and still pictured the cute boy calling out your name across campus. 

Was he sitting on some throne now? Would he say your name the same? 

Life had a way of changing with or without you there to see it. Taking on a new shape, twisting everyone you used to know into strangers.  

You could wonder all you wanted. You couldn't do anything about it. 

And yeah, even if it had been more than a couple years since you'd actually seen any of them, you automatically answered his call when Suguru’s name flashed across your phone.  

He had always been stronger than you too. Steadier. Able to take on a mantle that had never been meant for him. 

“Urgent,” he said. “For the students,” he muttered. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. 

You should've hesitated. Put together it was a mistake from that alone. 

He was the only one who really mourned Satoru like you did. 

But you listened, biting your lip as he informed you of his current situation – that Satoru had tried to recruit Nanami, had mentioned some scheme, a grand plan that involved the school. He was worried for his students. 

And if Suguru was worried, so were you. 

Really thought, if Satoru wanted, he could turn the entire country into a clean slate. Wipe the page until it was blank. Start over under his terms.  

The only reason he hadn't was probably because he'd be bored if he did. 

No one ever wanted to divulge all the dirty details, but you had heard how much the number of curses had started to dwindle back there – along with the population. 

Still, you hadn't expected what Suguru wanted you to do about it. He'd been hesitant to even ask, exhaling like it hurt to say. 

“Could you join his cult?”

“Excuse me?” 

You were still on the next plane back. 

It was supposed to be simple. Safe. Come back using him as an excuse. Wait for Satoru to make contact after you arrived – and pretend to show interest in his cult, listen to his latest spiel and piece together what he was planning. You'd tell Suguru, he'd stop it, and the most important part was getting the fuck back out before Satoru could take it out on you. 

“Why don't you do it?” You had grumbled on the phone, like you weren't already dragging out your suitcase and shoving your stuff in it.

“One of us will probably end up killing the other.” 

“What makes you think he won't kill me?” You huffed at him. Suguru laughed, like you should already know the answer. 

“Some things don't change.” 

He warned that Satoru would be watching when you landed. That he would know the second you stepped foot back on soil he considered his territory. 

But you didn't think he'd be at the fucking airport waiting for you. Holding up a sign with your name on it, as if his tousled white hair didn't already stick out in the crowd. His sunglasses traded in for a blindfold, not even giving you a hint of those blue eyes you still dreamed of sometimes. 

Smiling at you like you weren't staring frozen at him, unable to take a step when the ghost of your past finally caught up to you. Taller, broader, all grown up. 

Muscles stacked on his previously lanky frame, his jaw even sharper, canines somehow pointier as he waved to you. Half of you had expected him to be all dressed up – wearing something traditional, old-fashioned, a reflection of the new him. Maybe some new version of his uniform. But he was dressed nearly normal – a casual button-down that clung to his arms and chest, dark pants. As if he was waiting for a date. 

But hadn’t you done the same? Stared at your clothes splayed out on your bed and picked out a dress instead of sweats despite being well fucking aware you’d be stuck on a plane for hours in it? Just in case he’d show up? 

He walked over when you couldn't (wouldn't?) – his infinity still active when he wrapped you in a hug. An invisible barrier still separating you after all this time.

“Been a while, huh?” He murmured into your hair. 

He ruffled it, his huge hand still finding excuses to touch you. 

You looked at him, and everything in your chest pulled tight, all those words you practiced on the plane dying in your throat. 

A million times, a thousand nights, you imagined this moment. What you would do if you saw him again. What you would say after so much silence. And it all shriveled up, turned into something so small you couldn't even hold it anymore with just a single stupid smile from him. 

“What are you doing here?” You asked instead, your voice surprisingly hoarse, raw. 

There was a brief second where his sharp jaw clenched, lips pressing in a thin line of disappointment before he recovered. Satoru switched to a pout, leaning in and invading your personal space when you'd never be able to do the same to his. 

“Don't tell me you didn't miss me,” he murmured, an edge underneath it. As if you could hurt him when he hurt you first. He reached out, touched the necklace dangling down from your throat, fingertips brushing against the polished blue gemstone. “You're wearing the necklace I gave you.”

“I'm supposed to meet with Suguru in an hour,” you excused, pulling back from him, glancing around the bustling bodies for some gap to slip through.

You knew he'd chase you. Hell, the plan hinged on him pestering you about joining him instead. But your heart was still pounding when you walked away, waiting for his voice, his steps, his hands. Hyper aware of his stare – even if it was technically hidden under a blindfold. 

He grabbed ahold of the hem of your dress, and you stopped. 

“You didn’t come back for him,” he spoke softly. And for a guy who had thrown his hope for the future away years ago, there was still some in his voice now. 

“I did,” you lied. 

Satoru scoffed, and the bitterness in it left a sour taste in your mouth too. Dripped down your throat and choked you up. It was kind of ridiculous, but your first instinct was to comfort him, grinding your molars to stop yourself from reaching out to touch him. 

“Hear me out,” he murmured, not letting go. “Come see my compound.” 

Compound. 

Of course. Right when the slightest crack in your shield formed, he had to remind you of who he was now. 

What his world was like. 

That he didn't call the dorms his own. Didn't have an apartment like a normal twenty-something year old guy. Didn't even call his former family estate his home. 

He belonged to a compound. A cult. 

You squared your shoulders, stood up straighter as you sucked in a breath. 

“You haven't even said sorry,” you pointed out. You wanted to shout at him. To scream that he left you. Left everything. 

And yeah, this was what you were here for. He was. But it was fucking infuriating that he thought he could just waltz back in with a cute smirk and saccharine words and thought you'd just fall into place beside him. 

“The only thing I'm sorry for is not taking you with me,” he murmured, tilting his head to the side like it would make you believe he could still be sincere. 

“Yeah, right,” you scoffed this time, turning your head away from him. 

You had a feeling that even if Satoru didn't have his six eyes technique, he'd still be able to see through you. 

“One hour,” he repeated, softer this time.

For a few seconds, you contemplated what your answer would have been if you weren't here on a mission. If it had nothing to do with Suguru or students. If it was just you and him.  

“Fine.”

He grabbed your hand – and teleported you there. 

Wrinkling the fabric of reality around him until you were both standing somewhere new. 

You blinked. Knees wobbling and stomach churning as your brain struggled to catch up with what your eyes were seeing. Your suitcase clattered to the ground, and someone was already scrambling to pick it up.

The main entrance hall of some fancy estate, cold, tiled floors sparkling and spotless, a few people pausing from where they were milling about to immediately bow at Satoru’s presence. 

As if he was a god. 

You guessed he was the closest thing on earth to one. 

“Greetings, Master,” one of them murmured, reverent. Just another disciple for someone you used to worship too. 

You could practically hear the capitol M in his tone. 

Satoru didn't even look down.

His eyes were fixed on yours behind his blindfold, like he was searching for approval in them. 

What were you supposed to say? That you liked how he decorated the place? 

“So?” He expectantly asked, holding his arms out. 

He was proud of what he’d done. You were terrified of it. Of this new him. But there was an undercurrent of something darker stirring inside you. One you couldn’t quite pinpoint. Not quite full-throttled anger or nostalgia.

An intense discomfort that burned in your veins when he was this close and you couldn’t pretend he didn’t exist anymore. Forced to acknowledge the facts you’d been running as far as you could from for years. 

Satoru Gojo was not the boy he’d been. Not the one who left you behind. Not the one who you dreamed of a first kiss with. 

Satoru Gojo was a man. One who could commit murder with a single flick of his finger. One who might have his schedules stacked full of slaughtering and stealing. 

Because he was the strongest. 

And everyone else had to fall in line. 

That meant you too. 

“Fifty-nine minutes,” you muttered, as if you meant it. You didn’t know if it was meant to be a trap, if he would actually even take you back to Suguru if you wanted to go, but you weren’t leaving. 

Satoru snagged your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world, fingers interlaced with yours. Some crude imitation of being teenagers again, tugging you down twisting halls even when you struggled to keep up with his long legs. 

“My room’s this way,” he hummed, and your face flushed. Was a sentence really enough to make you blush at the stupid implication? 

“If you think I’m-” You started, but your breath hitched mid-sentence and you stopped yourself. 

“I just have something for you,” Satoru huffed, almost offended at your assumption he was being crude. 

You wanted to point out you really didn’t know each other anymore. That you had no idea what to make of this new him. One wearing a face you used to adore. 

Turned into something cold and sharp, where you weren’t certain if saying the wrong thing might end with your blood splattered on the walls or cut down on the spot regardless of Suguru thinking he might still harbor a sweet spot for you. 

“What is it?” You murmured, but he just grinned again, pink lips curling up as he suddenly pushed open a heavy wooden door. 

You knew it was his room almost immediately. 

Could smell him in the air. His cologne, his shampoo, both still the same. Pretty wallpaper plastered around you, something in soft shades of blue and white that made you think of clouds. Of spring. 

He didn’t have a digimon collection anymore. No photos hanging up or posters lining the open surfaces. But you recognized a few things of a life you both walked away from. A pen you once gifted him sitting on top of the dresser. Dried flowers behind glass that you once collected with your former classmates. The book you had been reading before his last mission. You had left it in your old dorm, but you guessed he had come back for it at some point. 

There was a screen door on the wall opposite of you – the only other exit point that looked like it led out onto a balcony. 

“Satoru,” you said his name, and it nearly killed you. Just getting the syllables out when it felt like someone had stuffed your throat with cotton. 

You never thought it would be this hard. That such simple things would practically rip your heart out of your chest and remind you of the huge goddamn cavity he had carved out of you. 

“I wrote you letters,” he breathed, brushing his thumb over the back of your hand. You had forgotten he was holding it, and now it was suddenly the only thing anchoring you. “A lot. I just, I never got the guts to send them.”

He pulled you forward, pulling open the top left drawer of the dresser – just for it to be stuffed full of thick envelopes. Some were aged, starting to fade and curl around the edges. Others were almost new, the ink still dark and clear. 

You stared at the stacks of them. All sealed. All signed.

His sloppy handwriting addressing every single one to you. 

“Why?” You asked, even though you knew. 

“I was scared you’d hate me,” he honestly answered. 

Him, scared? Of all the things he’d done, of all the things he could do, and still, it was you he was nervous around. 

“Why would you care how I feel?” You heard yourself ask, reaching out to graze your fingertips over the closest envelope. 

You wished you could see through it. Read his mind and the words he hid from you. 

“Because I've been in love with you since I was fourteen,” he casually said, slinging his hands in his pockets like it had always been that simple. 

He couldn't un-say it. You couldn't un-hear it. 

“You shouldn't say that,” you warned, like you weren't right there with him. 

“I thought you wanted the truth,” he challenged. 

You wanted to know whatever the fuck he was planning so you could get out of this country as soon as possible. To drown out this memory with alcohol or cigarettes or anything that would dull this awful ache in your chest. 

“Is that why you wanted me here?” You stiffened, ignoring what he said. “To tell me you love me?” 

You missed the memo where love somehow equated murder. 

“I want you to stay,” he admitted, reaching out to cup your cheek. You almost leaned into it, only stepping back at the last second. His lips turned down in brief disappointment, but he shook it off. “With me. Not Suguru.” 

He still said his name the same. Cheerful, with that constant hint of competition that hadn't died. 

“So you can show me how nice it is when you don't give a shit who lives and who dies?” You dared back, swallowing hard before forcing yourself to continue. “So I can worship you like all those morons out there do?”

He cracked a smile, and you couldn't stand it. Dark tension crackling between you, thick and suffocating, threatening to smother you with just a flash of his pretty canine teeth. 

“I wanna worship you,” he flirted. Satoru was full of shit. But the way he said it had you second-guessing all the boundaries you promised yourself on the way here you wouldn’t cross. “But as long as you’re alive, you’re here, the rest doesn’t really matter to me.” 

He emphasized it, as if he wanted to make sure you understood what he actually meant by that. 

But if he was really so willing to let the rest of the world burn, why had he left you behind to begin with? 

“I don’t believe you,” you muttered. A weak defense. 

“You will,” he replied, plucking out a big stack of letters and holding them out for you to take. 

You reluctantly glanced down at his pale hands, even larger than you remembered, thick veins sticking out as your gaze slowly shifted up to his face. You missed his eyes. Wanted to ask him to take off the blindfold, to let you see him again, but even just the intimacy of taking the letters from him felt like too much.

Like all it would take was breaking the seal to sign your soul over to him. 

But you were still grabbing them from him, holding your breath until it hurt while he exhaled. 

“I set up a room for you next to mine,” he admitted. “If you want to read them now. Or, if you’re hungry, I could order food, or-” 

“I want answers,” you murmured. “Not the princess treatment.” 

“Why can’t I give you both?” 

You both knew why.

The longer you stayed, the harder it would be to leave him.

And still, you ended up letting him show you to a room that had clearly been planned to be yours far fucking longer than a few days. Everything was to your taste. A wallpaper you were pretty sure you’d seen and admired in another country on the rare occasion you went shopping, ornately decorated, items that looked like they had been carefully been picked out with you in mind. Thin curtains floating in the breeze to a sliding door you were pretty sure connected to the same balcony as Satoru’s. 

Someone had left your suitcase sitting in the middle of the room. 

“What if I decide to make a run for it?” You wryly asked, leaning against the door frame as Satoru stood out in the hall. 

He laughed. Time stopped. 

The world revolved around him after all, and all it took was that sound to make another piece of you shatter. 

“If you want to go see Suguru,” he hummed, daring you to actually do it. “I’ll escort you myself.” 

Funny how he didn’t mention anything about letting you go. Or letting you leave. 

 You shut the door in his face. 

Even when you knew he would just stand there waiting on the other side. 

His footsteps faded back in the direction of his room, but they returned before long. And then he slipped another letter under your door. And another. And another. 

You sat in front of it, slowly collecting them with the rest of the ones he already gave you, sorting them into stacks based on how old they looked. He didn’t date them, so you knew there were probably a few out of order. By the time he finished, you stared at all the proof you were left with that you hadn’t left his thoughts either. 

The first one you opened was the oldest. The corner was torn. The ink aged. Hesitation in every letter. 

The sorry you wanted was there. A hundred of them. Asking you for understanding, for acceptance. That he just wanted a world where he didn’t have to be the backbone to it. That he couldn’t stand the idea of seeing your body under a white sheet someday too. 

Of you being the one he lost on a failed mission. 

That all those assholes who carved the rules into stone should be the one suffering the consequences. 

You wondered how much he truly believed that. Or if he had just snapped when he slaughtered those people – and sunk into this idea that he couldn't be redeemed. Convinced himself there wasn't any coming back. 

He was fine being a monster if it meant he would save the rest of you from becoming one. 

That was still who Satoru was. 

You spent an entire night pouring over his words. Questions he never asked you. Confessions he never got the chance for. There were clues, updates sprinkled in the pages. Talks of having to dispose of elders and acquiring sorcerers for his cause. 

But mostly, it was all about you.

You weren't sure if you should be concerned at how the addresses listed were surprisingly accurate to where and when you stayed over the years. Or at how many times he admitted taking a break from his duties to come check on you. Waiting outside hotels and restaurants and watching to make sure you were safe. 

You fell asleep with one still in your hand, curled up on the soft mattress in the middle of reading him casually confiding that he had contemplated breaking into your hotel room to watch you sleep, to remind himself that you were still breathing. 

But even when you saw him the next morning, you couldn't bring yourself to call him on it. 

Couldn't bring yourself to ask to leave either. Just trailing a step or two behind him while he went about his new duties. Which was mostly ignoring his own members, delegating tasks and driving Ijichi crazy. 

Ordering all your old favorite meals for lunch and dinner, dragging your chair right up next to his, sitting with his face propped up in his hands and pestering you about what you'd been doing without him. 

“You sure you don't already know?” You retorted, picking at the food on your plate. 

Satoru laughed, leaning in like you weren't taking a cheap shot at him basically stalking you since you'd been gone. 

“Forgive me for being worried about you,” he hummed, dramatically huffing as his energy enveloped you. Close enough his nose was almost touching yours, his blindfold a little lopsided, still covering his eyes even if it was crooked. 

You reached up, about to fix it, but his infinity was still up – and your hand fell back down. 

“Is that what you want to call it?” You asked, biting down on the inside of your cheek until you could taste blood. 

His lips twitched down into a frown, but he was still quick to recover his casual smile. 

“I tried to forget about you,” he admitted, as if it was a defense. 

You felt an ugly twist in your stomach – a selfish part of your brain thankful that he failed. That he couldn't forget about you either. 

You pushed your plate forward, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand as you stood and started towards the door. 

“I think I'm done.”

But two weeks later, you were still there. 

Snooping when you could, eavesdropping on conversations between his cult members discussing everything from birthday plans for him to cleaning schedules. Unable to get more information than the fact they were concerned that he needed to go to the fucking dentist considering his sweets intake. 

Returning back to your bed every evening, still stuck sleeping one room over from him. Staring at the ceiling and listening to him try to talk to you through the wall, calling out your name while you rolled away from him. 

Suguru kept calling. Texting you and asking where you were. If you were with him. 

Nothing that would look suspicious if Satoru stole your phone. 

But you couldn't convince yourself to find an answer when you weren't sure what you were going to do with your time here. 

The weight of Satoru’s stare only got heavier by the day. 

You’d wake up with something by your door. Sometimes breakfast, still warm. Usually candy or clothes. Your favorite was a book he had already annotated, notes and stupid stick figures scribbled in the margins. 

Drawing goofy faces and making dumb jokes like he wasn’t delegating and bossing around his very own minions on the other side of his compound. 

Sometimes, you wondered what his real goal here even was. He hadn’t told you. Not really. Just spoke of vague ideals, of a brighter future, like he wasn’t just doing this because he was bored. Because he didn’t believe in anyone outside of himself. 

He was paving a new path on top of the bodies of weaker men. 

You pulled open the door to the balcony one morning, finding him already leaning against the railing, in a loose hoodie and sweatpants, watching the sun slowly rise above the thick treeline surrounding his compound. 

With that stupid fucking blindfold still on, of course. 

“Are you happy?” You heard yourself ask. Folding your arms across your chest and staring at his broad shoulders.

“Are you?” He returned the question, like your answer would determine his. 

“No,” you muttered. The last time you were actually happy, it had been with him. 

He sucked in a sharp breath, and you watched his jaw lock as he glanced back at you. 

“I should've just taken you with me,” he muttered, but it sounded mostly like he was talking to himself. 

You both had regrets you learned to live with. Yours was loving him. Sometimes you wondered what your world would look like if it had been Suguru or Nanami you had fallen for. Would you be happier? Able to wake up without guilt churning in your stomach and bleeding through all your thoughts? 

“Did you get what you wanted here?” You swallowed hard. 

“You’re all alive,” he shrugged. “You're here.”

You wanted to tell him that you would’ve still been here if he had stayed. He destroyed your life when he wrecked his. 

What did it cost? How many innocents died for your life? 

You knew you should be disgusted. Distraught at his casual callousness. 

But you were just as selfish as him. 

And you couldn't deny how he made your heart flutter even if it was horrible. Well aware of how wrong the heat pooling in your stomach when he gestured for you to join him was, patting the railing of the balcony like he’d been reserving the spot for you. 

“Is that supposed to be enough?” You murmured, scared to look inside yourself and see if it really was. 

“It is for me,” he answered, and it hung in the air like all those other awful truths you'd been denying. 

Your life was worth a million others for him. 

Maybe a better person would've shouted at him for it. Told him it wasn't fair and that you never asked for that. 

But you just stood there and stared out at the pretty landscape below with him. Existed with the knowledge that if he was going to hell, you were probably booking a one-way ticket in the seat beside him. 

Because even if you hadn't committed his crimes, you didn't care that he had. At least, not in the way you should. 

You stood stiff, shivering in the early morning breeze, but Satoru stripped off his hoodie, the shirt underneath riding up to reveal his defined abs underneath, just a hint of his thick white happy trail. 

He pulled it over your head, tugging it down while you shoved your hands through the holes. It was a little awkward, a little stilted. Still getting the hang again of being whatever this was with him. 

You could feel his eyes lingering on you behind the dark fabric, maybe committing the image to his memory. 

“Are you hungry?” He eventually asked, cocking his head to the side.

That was how it went. A charade of him trying his hardest to take care of you while all your painstakingly crafted barriers were dismantled one by one, reminding you how much you still cared for him. 

Even if you were scared of what that meant. 

Sharing meals, watching the sun set, attempting to sneak into his sermons. He tried to keep you out of them – insisting he didn't want you to see that side of him – but you still waited outside the doors to eavesdrop, not that you ever heard much other than a handful of sharp sentences that sounded more serious than anything else you'd ever heard from him.

It was hard to even imagine that cold voice even leaving his mouth, not when the cruelest thing he'd ever said to you was that he thought your favorite movie was boring. 

Sometimes he'd let you tag along to his training, but that was mostly just an excuse to get you underneath him. Pulling off his shirt and claiming it was too hot, ignoring your scoffs with suggestions of you stripping down too. Teasing you into sparring with him so you didn’t get ‘rusty’. As if there was ever a world where you would go against anyone as strong as Satoru – or one where you would ever win against him.

He'd pretend to let you get a few hits in, or give you the upper hand long enough so you'd end up pinning him down. 

That was why you really accepted his stupid scheme. Just for a chance to touch him, for the few fleeting moments he turned his technique off and you could feel his skin again. 

Cling to his warmth with your forearm holding his wrists down, rivulets of sweat dripping down the dips and ridges of his toned chest when he sucked in heavy breaths. 

Judging by the cute blush on his cheeks, it had nothing to do with actual exertion. 

Before you could call him on it, comment on how hard his face was flushed, he flipped you over, catching both of your own wrists in a single massive hand and pressing them into the mat. 

It was unfair how beautiful he was. 

How fast he had your heart racing, pulse pounding in your ears and drowning out the sounds of the rest of the world until it was just you and him intertwined. His knee pressed between your thighs, keeping them spread open. Barely using a fraction of his strength and still rendering you immobile. 

“Nice try,” he murmured, and you were reminded just how much deeper his voice was. Your muscles tensed, glancing down instinctively at the shape of his lips. 

But then he was standing up, holding out his hand for you to use. Pulling you up to your feet too, tucking a sweaty strand of hair behind your ear. 

“I need a shower,” you huffed at him, forcing yourself to step away first. 

It was getting harder to every day.

You switched the water to cold back in your bathroom, letting it pelt your skin like it could wash him off of it. 

But you couldn’t even escape him in your sleep. 

Dreaming of his fingers, his face. Of his hands caressing your cheeks, of his lips pressing a line of kisses down your stomach below your belly button, stopping just shy of a sky blue pair of panties. 

His blindfold slipped off – but it wasn’t those eyes you missed so much waiting for you. 

Just darkness. The kind that threatened to suck you into it, drag you in until you were drowning in the swirling depths of it. 

You screamed, or maybe shouted, scratching at his shoulders to pull him off of you, but his body didn’t budge. Not when your nails couldn’t scrape his skin, didn’t get past the invisible barrier of infinity that was pressing down on you. 

But then his head snapped to the side, his brows scrunching together like he heard some sound. You saw a shadow move – and realized it was Suguru, some new manifestation of the guilt that had been gnawing at you for weeks. 

Betrayal burning in his stare, accusation he didn’t get to verbalize because with a single flick of Satoru’s fingers, he burst. 

Blood splattering the walls, bits of him sent flying over every surface as you shrieked. 

But then someone was shaking you awake, sturdy hands on your shoulders, a panicked voice saying your name as you tried to blink and reconcile reality from your nightmare. Satoru was there, begging you to realize it was just him. 

“Sweetheart, you’re fine, it’s okay, I’m here,” he murmured softly, and you crumpled forward. Leaning into his chest, letting him wrap a strong arm around you. Sucking in harsh breaths, straining to get any air in your lungs as you realized there were damp streaks down your cheek. He brushed them away with a free hand before holding your chin to keep your attention on him. “Breathe, baby.” 

You forced yourself to focus on him, on his pretty blue- 

Eyes. 

Satoru had forgotten his blindfold. 

You stopped breathing. Lungs lodged in your throat as you stared at him, feeling like you were really seeing him for the first time in years. Getting lost in the way the moonlight streaming in glimmered in the sea of blue, shining so pretty as they pierced through you. 

No one else ever really made you feel seen like he did. 

Never would. 

There was only one Satoru Gojo – and he was in your bed, wiping away your tears and whispering that he would never let anything happen to you. 

The subject of your dreams and the stuff of your nightmares. 

A little voice in the back of your head told you to scramble away from him, but your body was gravitating towards him, burying your face against his collarbone. Seeking his comfort like it was second nature. 

Curling up by his side, letting him stroke your hair while you sniffled and calmed down, caught up in his voice and his warmth and the idea that some new line has been crossed now that he was letting you see him too. 

When you woke up in the morning, he was still there. Still holding you close, limbs tangled together as he rested his chin on the top of your head. Somehow, he sensed you stirring, his palm pressing flat on the base of your spine to keep you there. 

“Morning,” he murmured, as if it was the hundredth time you'd been in this position. Or rather, as if you had hundreds more to look forward to. 

“Don't you have, like, duties?” You yawned, but you weren't trying to wiggle free. 

“You seem to forget that I make the rules around here,” he wryly chuckled, one of his long fingers tracing a small shape in your skin, edging just underneath your shirt. “We can sleep in.”

“Lazy,” you grumbled under your breath, but your eyes were fluttering shut again, threatening to doze off. 

But Satoru said something he shouldn't. 

“We wouldn't get to do this if we were just sorcerers,” he mumbled, and your throat went dry. “One of us would have a mission to go to, or students to take care of-”

He was still talking, but you had to bite your lip to stop yourself from commenting that he didn't care if all your old friends had to put up with that instead. 

You had a feeling he'd say it was their choice – like this one was his. 

“Go back to sleep, Satoru,” you softly said, just so you wouldn't have to think about it harder. 

His words were still on your mind a handful of hours later though. 

Lingering under the surface when he convinced you to eat lunch with him outside for once. A picturesque picnic splayed out in the grass of a garden no one seemed to frequent on the condition he took his blindfold off again, surrounded by blooming flowers in shades of white and blue. You supposed he had one of his members set it all up. 

You wondered if they felt like servants – but they were always happy to help him, to do whatever it was he ordered. You could sense traces of cursed energy from most of them, but no one ever dared to speak to you for more than a few short sentences before scurrying away. 

Satoru offered you sandwiches, cut-up fruits on pretty platters, relaxing as he rambled on about something that happened a few months ago. Some silly story about Ijichi attempting to ask for a girl’s number and failing. For a moment, it felt like a date.

“It's nice here,” you accidentally said, just talking out loud as you looked past him at the sprawling grounds. 

“You think so?” He grinned, giddy at your approval. 

“Thanks for letting me stay,” you mumbled, glancing away from him as you sorted out the stuffy feelings clouding your judgment. “For now.”

There was still supposed to be a life waiting for you outside of here. One you had put on hold for this. 

Although, you were starting to consider the chance that your life had been on hold before. How long had it been since you had felt this content? 

You looked back at him, and you couldn't think straight.

When the sun struck him just right, long white lashes fluttering as he tilted his head back, he didn’t feel like Master Gojo. 

He was just Satoru. 

Just the same guy who loved sweets and shitty jokes and sneaking his hand into yours, lacing your fingers together and squeezing while you still pretended your friendship was platonic. The grass swayed in the breeze, his sturdy fingers gracefully plucking a wildflower that managed to sprout and poke out next to the picnic blanket. He leaned over, holding it out for you to take. 

When he caught you staring though, saw the look in your eyes, he grinned, one corner of his mouth crooking higher than the other side as he tucked it behind your ear instead. 

“For my girl,” he murmured softly. 

You should say no. That even if you were here, you weren’t his. 

But it had never really mattered how far away you ran, you had always belonged to him. He’d taken your heart with him – and you’d just been borrowing time without it. 

“Stay with me,” he murmured, his hand cupping your face, thumb drawing a line over your cheek. “Not just for now.”

“I-” You started, but you couldn’t finish. 

“No more missions,” he hummed. “No more blood. No more death.” 

For you, maybe. 

But what about everyone else? 

“Toru,” you whispered. The nickname fell from your lips, and then his were suddenly on yours. Capturing you in a heated kiss, mouth warm and soft as he tried to make up for the years you'd both been missing this. 

You could still taste the strawberries he'd been eating on his tongue. 

Sweet. 

You were kissing a killer. You knew it, but you were still sifting your fingers through his soft hair, still tugging him closer and sucking on his bottom lip. Gasping into his mouth when he laid you flat on the blanket, pushing all the food out of the way so he could have his way with you. 

Slipping his tongue between your lips, dragging it over the ridges of your teeth and exploring your mouth. Sweeping over your canines and moaning into you like he was savoring the moment. 

His hands were all over you. Infinity discarded in favor of your heat, the rest of the world forgotten in heated kisses. Palms dragging over your hips, up your waist and all the way to your breasts. Squeezing and groping and greedily grabbing as much of you as he could. 

Satoru had never been a patient man. 

You broke the kiss first, pulling back to breathlessly blink at him, craning your neck up to glance around the gardens. 

“What if someone-”

“They’ll have to pry me off of you,” he muttered, his mouth moving down your throat. Planting firm kisses down your throat to your chest before pulling your breasts free from the sundress you’d worn for him today.

Gasping at the breeze grazing over your nipples before his warm fingers dragged over them. One corner of his lips curling up in a smirk at the stunned expression on your face.

“Or out of you,” he teased, just to make your breath hitch as he rolled your nipple between two thick digits. 

Satoru had waited years for this – you both had. 

And maybe it was the clouds reflecting in his eyes, the sky or the sun, or the curve of his mouth when he smiled, but you were sick of acting like you didn't want him just as badly as he wanted you. 

“Just kiss me again,” you murmured, tugging him back down. 

And he did. Until you were both running out of air, until your lips felt swollen and bruised, until your head was fuzzy enough with his fevered affection you weren't sure where he started and you ended. Limbs tangled and locked as you slipped a hand underneath his shirt, while his own fingers kept mercilessly teasing your nipples. 

The shame somehow made it hotter. Set a certain warmth underneath your skin, burned brighter with every whine and whimper he stole from you. 

“You were worth the wait,” Satoru whispered conspiratorially, the air surrounding you practically vibrating with his energy. 

He was shoving your dress up, bunching it around your hips and hurrying to peel your underwear down your thighs. A new flicker of embarrassment soared through you at the realization of how exposed you’d be if anyone happened to walk by, but you couldn't bring yourself to care when he was lifting both your thighs up and over his shoulders. 

Planting a kiss on your clit instead, messy, open-mouthed, tongue dragging over the sensitive bud while you let out a fresh cry of his name.

Everything with him was heightened. Teeth scraping over your skin in taunting little sucks. Nipping at you while his thick fingers spread you open, splintered you. You felt every drag against your walls, every twitch and throb as he devoted himself to proving how much he'd been dreaming about you in your absence. 

How much he ached to be in you. 

You pulled at his hair, scraped at his scalp, arching your back off the ground as you tried to stifle your moans.

But every sound you made just spurred him on more, made him pump his fingers in faster, suck on your clit harder. 

Everything inside your chest pulled tight, pressure just continuing to build and mount and twist as he painted pretty patterns over your sensitive bud. Fingers curling inside you as you edged closer, waiting for some relief as you chased the friction. 

“S-S’toru,” you slurred out his name, stumbling over the simple syllables as you squirmed in his hands. 

He pulled off your clit with a filthy pop! before grinning at you. 

“Yeah, sweetheart?” He casually asked, like his lips weren't glossy with your slick and his saliva. 

You couldn't find the words, just weakly whining and trying to buck your hips up, writhing underneath the weight of his body. 

He clicked his tongue though, shaking his head and sending a jolt of electricity down your spine at the sheer intensity of his stare when it settled on your face. 

Freezing on instinct, like some mouse that just realized it was caught in a cat’s paw. 

“Tell me what you want,” he slowly said. Ordered. Commanded.

He wanted you to admit it. 

To shed the shroud of decency you'd been hiding behind. 

“I want you.”

And there was no going back. 

He was tugging down his pants, and your mouth watered at the sight of his cock so swollen and sensitive for you. Slightly curved, thick veins throbbing as pre-cum leaked from the tip. 

He didn't have to say he wanted you back – that was proof enough. 

It didn't matter how much you shouldn't or how awful you were for it, but you were automatically spreading your thighs further, allowing him to angle himself right between your slick folds as you interlaced your fingers with his one free hand. 

He pressed it into the picnic blanket beneath you, squeezing your hand as the first few inches slid in. He didn't bother with a condom – and you couldn't bring yourself to ask him to put one in anyway. 

In a fucked-up way, you wanted to feel him. 

Clinging to the intimacy of it, the closeness in having him stretch you out and stuff you full. Relishing in the way he dragged it against your walls, reveling at being the object of his affection. At being the one on the altar, the only person worth worshipping in a world where almost everyone he met bowed down to him. 

Your fingers pressed into his tendons, the soft grass crunching underneath the combined weight of your bodies beneath the blanket, but all your focus was on Satoru’s face. How intently he was looking at you, holding eye contact with each slow thrust.

Purposely making you writhe, making you wait for him to pick up the pace, wiggling your hips in a weak attempt to drive him in deeper. 

Nothing was ever good enough for a guy like him. 

Satoru didn't just want your confession. He wanted you to beg. Preferably even crawl. 

But you refused, tilting your chin up higher, acting like you were content how it was. Playing the long game with him even now. 

He needed you and you needed him. Nothing either one of you could ever do would change that. The connection was twisted and tangled and terrible – but you wouldn't trade it in for anything else. 

For anyone else. 

Although every second that dragged by, each moment the breeze rustled the leaves and the flowers and the birds overhead chirped, you were reminded of the fact you were out in the open.

His cock nestled into a certain sweet spot, and he felt the way you shuddered at it, grinning as he dragged his tip back over it in infuriating strokes. 

“Sato-”

His hand clamped down over your mouth, muffling your moans as the voices of few of his cult members floated by. Probably on the trail that wrapped around the field, casually chatting about something your fractured brain couldn't process, too distracted by the searing stretch of him splitting you open. 

“Don't want them to hear now, do we, baby?” He murmured in your ear, slowly pulling out just to shove back in. 

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, barely managing to stifle your own hiss at the pressure. The heat started to roll around in your stomach, the warmth spreading into the rest of you as he suddenly picked up his excruciating pace. 

From soft and steady strokes to rough ones, ruthlessly rutting into you with one palm over your mouth and another squeezing your own. It wasn’t sloppy, even when it was fast. Every thrust was painstakingly precise, like he knew exactly where to hit to make you whimper. Tears were starting to form in the corner of your eyes, but you couldn’t quite decide if it was from the sheer pleasure – or rather some emotion you weren’t able to shut down. 

Lust or love or lingering heartache all rolled up into one tightly coiled ball of need. 

He grinded into you harder, moving the hand covering your mouth from where it was covering your lips down to the small bud between your thighs. It was aching, demanding his attention, and he was eager to give it. 

Rubbing maddening circles over it, devouring all of your squirms with that stupidly handsome smirk of his. But you could see it in the twitch of his brows, the squint in his eyes, how tightly he was grinding his molars, that he was close too. 

A wet tear rolled down your cheek – and he leaned down to lick it. 

Dragging his tongue over your skin, salt on his tastebuds as he suddenly groaned. And then he was abruptly massaging you faster, practically begging you to cum with just his fingers over your sensitive nerves and his warm breath on your neck when he buried his face against your collarbone. 

You didn’t know which one of you came first. 

So enveloped in him, in his frantic thrusts and his fevered fingers, in the faint kisses being left along the inside of your throat, you were lost in the sudden snapping tension and the weight of the relief. Washed away with the pleasure, wrapped up in it tight, and then he was pulling out at the last second, warm ropes of cum sputtering out on his hand – and some catching on the hem of your shoved-up dress. 

But it didn’t really process. Didn’t stick out in your brain. 

You didn’t know how long you laid there. With him half on you. With the wind on your skin, watching it catch in his hair as his dazzling stare settled contentedly on you. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he softly said. Dragging a thumb over where his cum had started to dry on your skin before grabbing a napkin and starting to clean you up. 

Touching you with a gentleness you were unaccustomed to, a tenderness that no one else would ever be able to match. As if even something as simple as wiping your skin was an act of worship.

It scared you almost more than the sex did. 

You were in too deep. 

The signs had all been there. Big, bold ones practically proclaiming that every step forward was leading you to quick sand. And you still treaded on, disregarded how dangerous it was until you were buried up to your neck in him. 

Someone called his name. 

“Gojo-sama!” A servant was shouting, calling out to him, and he groaned. Fixing your dress first before he shoved his dick back in his pants, pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

“I’m late for a meeting,” he admitted. 

“Oh,” you breathed. “Okay.” 

You watched him walk away, stared at how he paused to pop another strawberry in his mouth before striding back towards the path. 

Where were you supposed to go from here? 

What were you supposed to do? 

Your feelings for him didn’t change who he was. And you didn’t even know if you wanted to. 

Could you really just ignore what he did? The things he was going to do? 

You pushed off the blanket, glanced around all the flowers and greenery as you tried to shove down all those questions you couldn’t answer. And in the corner of your vision, peeking behind the basket with more food, there it was. 

Satoru forgot his blindfold. 

You picked it up, felt the soft fabric in your hand as you sighed and stood. 

Satoru probably needed it back. Wobbling on sore legs while you walked the trail back to a side door, following the path through long halls where his residual energy was the strongest. 

It didn’t take long to find him. 

The door was even open. 

He was distracted though, surrounded by a handful of members you’d seen around. Fellow sorcerers, ones you’d pieced together that he recruited over time. Ones that were sick of the system you were all stuck in too. 

Except for one stranger – a man in a stiff suit, one that didn’t fit very well, too long in the wrists, too short on his ankles. His eyes flitted over to you, walking over before anyone else did. 

“You’re the girlfriend, right?” The man smiled, and you numbly nodded. The girlfriend. Was that what you were? “He talks about you a lot.” 

Your heart fluttered, and you were about to ask what he said. 

But then you could feel the sharp shift of energy in the air, already aware Satoru was staring at you before the man next to you did. He turned after a second, looking back at your boyfriend before humbly starting to speak. 

“Greetings, Gojo-sama,” he smiled, bowing down and-

His head wasn’t there anymore. 

Something sticky was on your face, and when you reached up, your fingers grazed over a wet streak on your cheek, pulling it back just to find it stained red. 

You were shaking. Starting to tremble as you stepped back, knees threatening to buckle as familiar footsteps slowly approached. And then Satoru was cleaning your face with his thumb, pulling something out of your hair with a soft scoff. 

“Disgusting fuckin’ monkeys can’t even die right,” Satoru muttered, and it felt like you were gutted. Insides scooped out, left hollow at the sinking realization that this was who he is.

He’d never been a man. 

Never been a mortal. At least not in the way the rest of you were. 

“Don't cry, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice automatically softening into something sweet. 

“You-”

You couldn't say it. Couldn't look down at the body by your feet.

Someone else was scurrying over, already starting to clean up his mess. 

“Thank you, Gojo-Sama,” another voice whispered, and he just waved his hand. As if it was nothing. 

He had said it himself though, hadn’t he? 

The rest didn’t matter. 

“He used to be the principal at one of the other schools,” Satoru was only speaking to you, keeping your attention on him. Offering a justification you hadn’t asked for. “You wanna know how many young sorcerers he assigned to cases they couldn’t handle? How many of us died because of them?”  

You could call him a hypocrite. 

Tell him that there wasn’t really an us when he was the one perched pretty on the top of the food chain. 

But all you did was stare.

Anchor yourself in his presence. It was the only comfort you’d ever really known – even when he was the reason for your distress. 

“Go take a bath,” he murmured, ruffling your hair. “I’ll be there soon.” 

The other members were watching you, waiting for some reaction. You didn’t know if they were expecting your reverence or repulsion. 

Instead, you just left. 

Turning on your heels to walk out, the hole in your chest growing bigger by the second as you replayed the same five seconds over and over again in your head. The man’s voice, the splatter. How calmly Satoru cleaned you – and the cruelty he was capable of. 

You didn’t know why you went to his room instead of yours. 

Why you were searching for solace in the scent of his cologne, in the reminder that he was still a human instead of a monster. 

Looking around all his belongings, his still wrinkled bed, the photo he had hidden of you in the top drawer of his nightstand. Wondering if you were just as fucking awful as him when you found it underneath a brand new box of condoms. 

A folder. The bold letters with the familiar lettering of the school you both called home once. You knew what you should do. What Suguru had been counting on you to do.

Flip it open, sneak photos or skim over every dirty detail of Satoru’s plan. Call him how you had promised to before. 

But you couldn't. 

The idea of selling Satoru out was impossible. A new imaginary and impenetrable barrier stopping you from snagging it and sneaking back to your room. It would be nice if it was real. If you had anything other than your brain to blame for doing the bad thing. 

You had to force yourself to reach out, everything inside you screaming at you that you shouldn't when you picked it up. 

It took only a second to figure out the top sheet inside was a stolen itinerary. Ijichi’s handwriting scribbled at the bottom with a note you struggled to decipher. 

I know you wanted to deal with the higher ups later. However, it appears they bumped up their meeting to discuss putting a bounty on her. 

On you. 

Great. 

More bodies to pile up. 

Satoru had just killed a guy. And if you stepped outside, someone else might kill you. 

You were completely and utterly fucked. Had been from the start. From the first moment you saw Satoru really, when he had stolen your heart with his stupid laugh. 

You flipped through the rest of the pages, each one just another brick dropped in your gut, stacking up on top of each other as you read more. 

He was planning to murder all the higher-ups. One clean sweep. 

Had a whole list of who would inherit what, how things should be run, plans that had been put into motion far before you ever booked your plane ticket. 

But the students would be safe. You would be safe. 

And a little voice had already started to whisper, why should you care then? 

What was so wrong with him taking care of men who sent your fellow sorcerers on suicide missions all the time? 

You shoved the folder back. 

Returned to your room and drew a bath. Locked the door behind you like Satoru would listen to the message you were sending for space. 

To your surprise, outside of knocking and asking to speak to you, he didn’t barge or teleport in. Just called out that he’d be waiting for you when you were ready to talk. 

After you were clean, dressed in an outfit he’d bought for you, you listened through the wall for any sign of him shuffling around. Luckily for you, Ijichi came knocking on his door, distracting him enough that you slipped out of the sliding door to the balcony. Hopping over the railing and rolling onto the dusty grass below where the evening was just starting to blend into night. 

Half-jogging onto the closest trail, this one through heavier trees as your bare feet scraped against the loose gravel. 

You hadn’t really thought about what you were doing. An impulsive decision to get some air, although even out here, none seemed to reach your lungs. 

It was cooler than you expected. A brittle chill sending a shiver down your spine and goosebumps trailing down your arms as you walked down the winding path. 

You gave it five minutes before Satoru showed up. Until he was popping in on the crunching leaves and throwing his arm around your shoulder. You wouldn’t shrug him off this time. Maybe let him pull you in for a hug, let him reassure you that it was fine no matter how far from it every part of this really was. 

Something shuffled ahead, and your head snapped up to the dark outline of someone ahead through the treeline. 

You hesitated. Some deep-rooted instinct freezing you in place as you squinted, tried to discern the swirls of cursed energy when Satoru’s basically drowned everyone else’s out. 

But then you heard your name, and you knew. 

Suguru had come back to search for you. Probably hanging on the outskirts of the property to avoid detection. 

He started jogging, but you didn’t move. Couldn’t get yourself to take so much as a step – although you weren’t sure if you’d go to him or run away. 

What were you supposed to say to him?

That you overheard Satoru’s plans and you wouldn’t sell him out? Make him promises that he’d be safe and the kids wouldn’t get hurt and hope he’d leave without doing anything stupid?

He stopped right in front of you, and it didn’t need to be said for you both to know where you stood. Whose side you were on. 

“Suguru,” you said his name, and he could tell from that alone that he wouldn’t be leaving with what he wanted. 

Dark eyes bore into yours, holding you hostage. His jaw locked, and you loathed how little he was probably thinking of you now. 

You failed. 

“He got to you,” he practically spat out, his voice low and lethal. 

You couldn’t tell him Satoru always had you. 

“You should go.” 

Honestly, whether it was a month or a week ago, you never would have considered that Suguru would be the one between the two who would actually kidnap you. 

Or that it wouldn’t even last longer than half an hour. 

It was a blur, being thrown on one of his curses, arguing with him over the sound of the wind as he brought you somewhere safe. He tied your wrists together when you tried you use your own cursed technique against him, scoffing under his breath and calling you brainwashed for buying into Satoru’s bullshit after you defended him. Trying to convince you to tell him anything other than to stop fucking worrying. 

Two minutes after he landed, in the middle of what looked like nowhere, standing in an empty parking lot and pointing fingers at each other, the world went black. 

You thought you were about to pass out – until you realized someone had just blocked out your view of the world. 

There was a crunching sound, some snickering, and then the loud voices of Satoru and Suguru shouting at each other. Suguru made a strangled sound of surprise, of pain, and you panicked. 

“Stop,” you tried to call out, and Satoru’s presence was suddenly beside you. 

“Hold on,” Satoru grumbled, his voice uncharacteristically cold. “I’m taking you home.” 

“Don’t hurt Suguru,” you softly requested, and he made a disgruntled sound. 

But your wish was still his command. 

And in a second, you were home.

The blindfold fell around your neck, his fingers brushing against your face. You squinted up at him, straining against the ropes around your wrists while he casually sliced them off. You were back in his bedroom – his own sliding door still open, the curtain covering it swaying with the wind.

“Sorry,” Satoru chirped, shrugging his shoulders as your restraints hit the floor. “Worried you might see something else your pretty little brain can’t handle.” 

You tried to scowl at him, but even that fell short when he was looking down at you. 

“I didn’t tell Suguru anything,” you defensively said, lips pushed together in a pout. 

He kneeled down next to you, humming appreciatively. 

“I know,” he purred.

“Then why-” 

“He touched you,” he murmured. 

“He thought he was saving me,” you pointed out.

“Do you want him to save you?” Satoru cocked his head to the side, feigning curiosity when the truth was already hanging in the air. 

“No.” 

That was all he needed to hear. 

He had you pinned against his bed in a handful of seconds. Your clothes half-shredded, barely taking the time to discard his own as he left kiss after kiss across your body. 

“Mine,” he muttered, repeating it under his breath like a mantra. 

His, his, his. 

You couldn’t deny it anymore. 

“Should I start calling you Gojo-Sama too?” You replied back in a soft voice, sifting your fingers through his silky hair as his teeth sank into your bare chest. Possessive. Hungry. 

“Please,” he groaned. Gripping your body like you’d finally declared it as part of his property. 

You were home after all. 

How long had you been drifting from city to city, country to country, running from someone who was waiting for you all along? 

“You know you can call me whatever you want,” he added, about to slip one finger inside just to test how slick you were only to discover you were soaked. 

“Yeah?” You found yourself smiling when he bit back a curse and hurried to line his cock up. "Gojo-Sama."

He let out a filthy moan, finger crooking as he shivered.

You liked his desperation.

You loved him. 

He was flawed, fucked-up, but the feral gleam in his eyes when he clenched his jaw and pushed his cock inside you lit a match inside you no one else would ever be able to reach. 

“Sometimes,” he murmured, half-delirious, drunk on the same desire that left you dizzy. Babbling while the stretch of his dick dragging against you seared. “I used to find your hotels. Lean against the door and try to convince myself to knock. To confess that I was in love with you and beg you to come back with me.” 

“You should've,” you muttered, breath hitching as he buried himself inside of. Letting go of the last shreds of decency. Of morality.

Here he was, openly admitting to stalking you, and the only feeling you found inside yourself was attraction. Adoration.

“W-what?” He stammered, genuine surprise in his hoarse voice. Straining just to keep his thrusts steady, brilliant blue eyes searching your face. 

You dragged your nails back down his back, earning another low moan that bordered on feral at the pain mixing with the hot pleasure. No one else got to do this. 

No one else got him. 

“You could've fucked me,” you continued, whispering softly as you craned up to kiss the corner of his mouth. “I would've just thought I was dreaming.” 

Satoru’s eyes rolled back, that pretty lump in his throat bobbing as he tried to contain his coming orgasm. 

“Fuck, sweetheart, you can't just say that,” he hissed, body shaking as you smiled at him.

“I dreamt of you all the time,” you promised, letting go of his shoulders to stroke his hair. He pulled out, like it would stop him from cumming early, his leaking cock resting on your stomach. Throbbing while his stare burned through you.

You were tired of telling yourself you weren’t in love with him. 

Tired of lying. 

You wrapped delicate fingers around his cock, feeling the veins pulsing underneath your fingers before you guided it back inside you. Lips parting as he slowly pushed himself in, struggling and straining to keep himself from snapping. 

“I fantasized about us,” you whispered again, your own breath catching as he suddenly came hard, warm ropes of white spilling inside you before you could cum too. He was already apologizing, hissing out that he hadn’t meant to, promising that he’d make up for it with his mouth until he was hard again. 

You giggled at the idea he'd just be eating his own cum back out, grinning and relaxing as you hooked one of your thighs over his shoulder, glancing down at his cheesy smile at your acceptance. 

Some dreams did come true. 

a/n: commission info is here for anyone interested <3 reblogs/comments are greatly appreciated angels!! hope everyone enjoyed!

[joemama-2]

did you know i’m utterly insane? — freaktober '25

synopsis — Getting hired to be Satoru Gojo's new secretary was not what you envisioned at all. He says weird things, he feels too invasive, and for some odd reason, acts as though you’ve been his for years. You try to brush him off, but his charm and precision leave you uneasy, like a predator circling prey. You try to play it safe around him, until one night when you stumble into his penthouse and find him with blood on his hands.

tags/warnings — smut, death, blood, killing, sex with a dead body in the room, dubcon, creepy gojo, crazy gojo, killer gojo, unprotected sex, creampie, fingering. art by nada_ge on twitter. dividers by @/ strangergraphics & @/ hyuneskkami. pic edited by my lovely @/ redrrem 😭😭💕.

wc — 8.7k

a/n — this fic is part of my freaktober event i'm hosting with the lovely @redrrem & @for-ests! check out the event here for upcoming entries! <3

Gojo Satoru has never been one to lose his cool in front of others. He’s always calm, composed, and some might say freakishly clean. It was strange, to say the least.

You’d only recently been hired as his personal secretary. The first corporate job you’ve had after years of working shitty part-time retail. Safe to say, you were extremely fucking nervous. The opportunity was like a golden ticket to something bigger, not to mention the pay. 

You were briefly informed of your boss during your interview and onboarding process. You won’t lie to yourself that you didn’t find it strange that you’d be meeting him over dinner. Your first official day was tomorrow, and you got an email last week from the man himself with a date, address, and a small note that said:

“Dress formal.”

When you got to the address, you found out it was a rooftop bar and restaurant. From the architecture alone, you knew it was pricey, celebrity pricey. The kind of pricey you could not afford at the moment, but your boss was already here. You couldn’t make a bad first impression.

That mantra kept repeating itself in your head, even as the man sat across from you, dressed in an iron-pressed, dark blue suit, sipping his water. White hair styled neatly, the dim lighting making his eyes much more…blue. It was almost scary. No, it was terrifying. 

But you couldn’t let him know that. Unfortunately for you, Satoru was already aware of the way your hands kept shaking, even when held together in your lap. Your moves were fidgety, barely even making a dent in your plate, and smiling like your life depended on it. (it did.)  He expertly hid his analyses behind a cool, charming smile. 

The waiter interrupts to refill your water, and for a moment, you’re grateful for the distraction. But when he leaves, Satoru tilts his head, studying the untouched food in front of you. 

“Not much of an eater?”

You shake your head. “Oh, sorry. Um—just not that hungry tonight, I suppose.”

He hums. “That’s fine. I like my girls light. Easier to hold down.” 

Your throat tightens, eyes widening as they shoot up to meet his. His grin widens like he’s just told a harmless joke, chortling. “Kidding, kidding. I like to make jokes. Don’t you like jokes?”

You wanted to say, not jokes like that. But all you offered was a measly chuckle, paired with a shrug. “Uh–I mean…sure. Yeah, jokes are nice. I like bosses whom I can joke around with.”

His smile grows, sharp and deliberate, like he’s just gotten the confirmation he wanted. “Good. Because I like assistants who can take a joke.” His tone lowers, smooth and syrupy. “Who can take me.”

You shift in your chair, skin prickling under his gaze. The skyline twinkles behind him, warm city lights against the cold steel of his eyes. There’s something about the way he’s looking at you—like he’s not really listening to what you say, but memorizing how your lips move when you speak. 

Nervously, you pick at the cuffs of your button-up blouse, clearing your throat.

“I’ve read your file,” he states, nodding along. “Background, school, family history. Nothing of much substance, but I guess that’s why I like you.”

Your stomach twists at his words, the way he reduces years of your life into a neat little folder, a handful of bullet points that mean nothing to him.

“I—uh, I didn’t know you’d be so… thorough,” you manage, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

Gojo swirls his water like it’s wine, those sharp eyes never leaving your face. “Of course, I was thorough. I don’t like surprises. And you,” he points the rim of the glass toward you, “are far too valuable of an investment to leave anything up to chance.”

Your throat feels dry, and the liquid in front of you suddenly unappealing. “Right. Makes sense.”

He leans back in his chair, relaxing in a way that looks casual but feels deliberate. Calculated. “It does, doesn’t it? You don’t get to where I am by simply trusting people at face value.” He shrugs, his voice dropping to a low drawl. “Besides, I like knowing things. It keeps people honest.”

You nod, though the knot in your gut tightens.

“And honesty,” he continues, tapping his glass against the table, “is something I expect from you. I don’t like lies. I don’t like games. If you’re mine, I expect full transparency.”

You blink, unsure if you misheard. “Yours?”

His smile doesn’t falter, doesn’t so much as twitch. “My employee. My assistant,” he clarifies, though the pause between the two words feels intentional. “Don’t tell me you’re already nervous about commitment?”

You laugh, brittle and hollow. “No, of course not.”

“Are you nervous?”

“I—No—”

“Fail. Didn’t I just tell you I value honesty?” He tsks, chiding you like you’re a child.

Your lips purse into a grimace, shoulders drooping slightly. “...Yes, I am nervous. I care a lot about this opportunity, and I just want to prove to you that it wasn’t a mistake to hire me.”

“That’s better,” he says, his voice a velvet drag across your nerves. “I don’t like false modesty. I like truth. Raw, ugly, vulnerable truth.”

The way he says vulnerable makes your stomach tighten. He leans forward, elbows sliding closer across the table, until he’s just barely on your side of the space. His cologne—clean, sharp, something expensive you can’t name—hits you like a wall.

“You want to impress me?” His head tilts, his smile softening around the curves, but his eyes are dark. “Then don’t hide. Don’t play at being something you’re not. I hate that. People who hide things from me…” His eyes narrow slightly, like a camera lens focusing, “…they tend to regret it.”

You swallow hard, unsure how to respond. He’s grinning like this is still friendly, but you feel pinned, like a butterfly under glass.

“Sir, I’m—I’m not hiding anything. I just—”

“Good.” He cuts you off smoothly, tone snapping like a silk ribbon. “Then we understand each other.” He sits back again, lifting his water to his lips. The tension in your chest loosens a fraction, but only a fraction.

For a moment, silence stretches between you, filled only by the hum of the city below. You can feel his eyes on you, heavy, cataloguing every shift in your expression. Then, with unnerving casualness, he says—

“I don’t like being disappointed. People who disappoint me… don’t tend to last long.”

“In the company?”

His laugh is smooth, ringing a little too sharp in your ears. “In general.”

You almost choke on your saliva, nodding flustered. “R-Right.”

“And tomorrow,” he adds, tone brisk again, “you’ll come to the office by eight sharp. No later.” He pauses, letting his gaze linger a beat too long. “And wear something pretty. Feminine. I like to be proud of what’s mine.”

The word mine hangs between you like a blade.

You nod, because what else can you do? “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” He folds his hands neatly on the table, his cufflinks catching the soft glow of the city lights. The quiet stretches, filled only by the faint hum of jazz music from the rooftop speakers. Your fork scrapes against porcelain as you push food around your plate, pulse hammering in your throat.

Gojo watches you, unblinking, that pristine smile never leaving his lips.

“Eat,” he says softly, like a suggestion—but you hear the command in it. “You’ll need your strength for tomorrow.”

You glance up at him, uneasy. “For work?”

He tilts his head, letting out an amused huff through his nostrils. “That too.”

From that day onward, you grew to know what it was like to work directly under a man like Gojo Satoru.

First, he enjoyed routine. 

He thrived on it. Every morning, you were expected to arrive at the office by eight sharp, not a minute later. His coffee had to be prepared exactly the same—two sugars, oat milk steamed to 145 degrees, stirred counterclockwise. Not that he’d ever written it down; you simply learned after the first time he looked at you over the rim of his cup and said, “Try again.”

He had his schedule memorized down to the minute, and so you had to as well. If a meeting was at ten, you’d better have the notes on his desk at 9:58. He didn’t need them—he rarely needed anything—but he liked to see you scramble, liked to watch the way your hands trembled as you placed papers in front of him.

Second, he was unnervingly clean. His office was pristine, as if no one had ever worked there. Papers were always squared, pens aligned in a perfect row. The glass walls gleamed, his desk shone, his suits were pressed without a wrinkle. You never once saw a hair out of place, a fingerprint on the glass, a stain on the marble floor. It was almost inhuman.

And god forbid you set a pen down at an odd, 45-degree angle. He almost had your head for that the first and last time you did so. 

Third, he blurred lines. Often.

The first week, he “insisted” you join him for lunch. The second week, it was dinner. By the third, he was sending a car to pick you up on mornings when you were “looking too tired to walk.” He’d text you at midnight with “work questions” that always devolved into him asking what you were wearing, if you were alone, and if you thought of him before you fell asleep.

And always, always, he used the word mine.

“My assistant.” “My secretary.” “My girl.”

He never asked permission, never asked what you wanted. He simply decided, and you fell in line, because the alternative was unthinkable.

It was around the fourth week that you started to wonder if this was really just a job.

Because Gojo Satoru didn’t look at you like a boss looks at his employee. He looked at you like a man staring at his next meal.

Fifth and finally, he liked dresses. Skirts, too, but dresses felt more fluid to him. 

“More complete,” in his own words. 

You learned this after the third time he sent you home to change. He never raised his voice, never scolded you like a boss might. He just gave you that same immaculate smile, gestured toward the door, and said, “Try again. I’ll wait.”

The first time, you thought he was joking. The second, you realized he wasn’t. By the third, you stopped fighting it.

Every morning, you checked your reflection twice before leaving the house. Hemlines not too long, not too short. Fabric fitted, but not cheap. And without fail, he noticed. He’d glance up from whatever he was doing the second you entered his office, eyes dragging over your frame like he was taking inventory.

“Better,” he’d murmur. Or, “That one’s my favorite. Spin for me.”

And you did. Because what else could you do?

It wasn’t just the clothes, either. He started dictating colors, textures. “Red suits you. Wear it next week.” Or, “That shade of blue makes your eyes dull. Burn it.”

At first, you told yourself it was harmless—just an eccentric boss with peculiar tastes. But deep down, you knew better. Gojo Satoru didn’t make suggestions. He made rules. And each one he handed down wrapped tighter around your throat.

You never knew which version of him you’d get. Sometimes, he was playful, teasing, and indulgent in his attention. Other times, his gaze was so sharp, so clinical, it felt like he was dissecting you right there in the middle of the room.

“Why were you speaking to Takuba from Sales?”

His sudden question causes you to pause, setting his coffee down on his desk, careful not to let it get too close to his documents. You turn, hands folded behind your back.

He’s sitting on the couch against the wall, legs propped up against the cushions. Sporting his usual dark sunglasses, a number two pencil in his right hand, and on his lap is a crossword puzzle. You glance down briefly, making out the words bones and meat before he clears his throat.

You blink back up to his shaded eyes, his head tilted down while he continues to focus on his puzzle. “I’m sorry?”

“I asked,” his voice lilts upward like he’s testing you, “why you were talking to Takuba.” He fills in a square with a steady stroke of the pencil. “Tall. Bad tie. Ugly teeth. You laughed at something he said. What was so funny?”

Your mouth goes dry. “It was—he was just telling me where the new shipment forms were. I—he made a joke about something. That’s all. Just work-related stuff.”

“Mm.” The sound is skeptical, lazy, drawn out. He fills in a word on his crossword, as if this conversation requires no effort at all. “Work-related.”

“Yes,” you say firmly, though the way your voice pitches betrays you. “That’s all.”

Another pause. The pencil scratches across the page. His jaw ticks.

“You don’t really strike me as someone who laughs at spreadsheets.”

Your lips part, but no words come out. You don’t know whether to laugh nervously, apologize, or walk straight out the door. His sunglasses tilt upward, and even though you can’t see his eyes, you feel them burning into you.

“Do you enjoy his jokes that much? Well, I don’t exactly like that.”

You fidget. “Sir, with all due respect—”

The pencil snaps clean in his hand. He sets it down on the crossword with calculated calm, then folds his hands together over his knee, smiling like nothing at all happened.

“With all due respect,” he repeats softly, “you’re not understanding me. If I say I don’t like something, then it stops. Simple.” He gestures casually to the coffee on the desk, like this whole exchange was nothing. “Now, be a doll and fetch me a new pencil. Sharpened.”

You stand frozen, pulse pounding in your ears. His smile doesn’t falter. It never does.

And with awkward silence, you walk to his desk, opening the bottom drawer, and grabbing a pencil for him. He watches as you sharpen it, indulging in the tense silence. When you come back over to hand it to him, his fingers brush yours. 

“Come over tonight. I’d like to discuss some things.”

—--

Your first time stepping foot into your boss’s penthouse felt like you were stepping into dangerous territory. Invading something that felt way too close to personal. Glancing around, you can’t help but notice just how put-together everything looks. 

Clean, sleek lines. Black leather, chrome, glass—all expensive, all soulless. Not a single thing out of place. Not a smudge on the marble countertops, not a crease on the rugs. Even the books on his shelves look untouched, arranged by size and color instead of use.

It doesn’t feel like anyone actually lives here. It feels like a showroom. A curated life.

“Take your shoes off,” Gojo calls lightly from the kitchen, where he’s uncorking a bottle of wine with practiced ease. His voice is smooth, teasing, but the command in it is sharp. You toe off your pumps carefully, lining them up by the door because you already know he’ll notice if you don’t.

“You like it?” he asks, watching your eyes roam the apartment.

“It’s… elegant,” you admit. The word feels inadequate. The place is stunning, yes, but also unnerving in its sterility. The view from his place is nice, eyebrows raised in awe. 

“Sorbet?” you hear him question, looking over your shoulder to find him holding a small pint of ice cream in his hand.

“Oh, sure.”

You walk over to his couch and carefully sit. He sets the pint down on the coffee table, a spoon beside it.

“Go on,” he urges softly, “Try it.”

You take a tentative bite, the tartness coating your tongue. “It’s good,” you manage, trying to sound casual.

He smiles and nods. “Good girl.”

Once again, he’s calling you that damned pet name. You glance toward the massive windows, the sprawling city lights below, trying to focus on anything but the suffocating presence at your side. From your peripheral vision, you notice him walking back to the kitchen. 

“You know,” he hums lightly, almost conversational, “I don’t usually bring people here. Too private. Too dangerous.”

Your spoon pauses midair. “Dangerous?”

His smile doesn’t falter. He opens a drawer, examining a roll of duct tape. “Mm. Not for me.”

The words hang heavy, their meaning unmistakable. To divert your attention, you glance back down at your ice cream and continue eating. “What’s the tape for?”

“Oh, you know. Just need to…tape something.” He shrugs you off lightly, opening a cabinet that you can’t see the compartments of. “So, do you feel fulfilled working for me?”

Your spoon clinks softly against the pint, hand trembling despite your best effort to steady it. The air feels thick, heavy with something you can’t quite name, and yet you can.

He looks almost boyish there in his kitchen—white shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, pale forearms corded with lean muscle. Too boyish for the way your stomach twists at the thought of what he means to tape.

“Fulfillment,” you repeat, the word brittle on your tongue. “I mean… It's a good opportunity. The pay is fair, and you’re thorough.” You hope the last word passes as a compliment, though it tastes like ash in your mouth.

He chuckles, low and amused, like he can taste your fear from across the room. “Thorough. That’s a polite way to put it.”

He sets the tape down with a quiet tap, closing the cabinet, then slides open another drawer. The gleam of metal catches your eye. Knives. All aligned by size, sharp and gleaming under the soft kitchen light.

“Do you like it?” he asks, picking one up, testing the weight in his hand like a conductor with a baton.

Your heart stutters. “The… knives?”

“The job.” His smile widens as he tests the edge of the blade with his thumb, a bead of red welling up before he licks it away, lazy and deliberate. “Though the knives are nice too.”

Your throat tightens. You grip the spoon harder, as if the tiny piece of silverware could protect you. “I—I like the job, yes.”

He nods in appreciation, putting the knife back and closing the drawer. “Well, I’m glad my guidance has brought you to that state.”

Your eyes look back down at your ice cream, slowly melting. You force another bite down, even though the taste has gone sour in your mouth.

Outside of your vision, Gojo’s movements are quiet—too quiet for a man his size. The faint sound of something metallic shifting, and then silence.

“You know,” his voice floats toward you, conversational, smooth, “you’ve been good for me.”

Your lips part, unsure how to respond, spoon clinking nervously against the glass pint. “Thank you. I—I try to do my job well.”

“No,” he interrupts softly. “Not just the job. You.”

A prickle runs down your spine.

You hear the faint click of a mechanism. He’s behind you now, close enough that you catch the faint scent of his cologne—sharp, clean, chemical. Your gaze stays locked on the half-melted sorbet, throat dry, heart hammering.

Gojo lifts his arm. You don’t see it, but he does: the sleek steel body of a nail gun, one finger brushing along the trigger. He raises it slowly, deliberately, until the cold muzzle hovers just inches from the back of your head.

Still, you don’t notice.

Instead, you fumble for words. “I’m glad you think so. I’m just grateful for the opportunity.”

His smile slowly drops. “You’re special, you know that?” His tone, although syrupy, is dripping with warmth that feels like a trap. “Not like the others.”

The nail gun presses forward, the slightest ghost of pressure against your skull. 

Your spoon clinks against the table as you set it down with trembling fingers. “If that’s all you’d like to discuss, I—I should probably get going soon. It’s late and—”

“Put it in the cup,” he cuts you off swiftly.

You jolt just the slightest, quickly placing the spoon into the empty cup, fingers pressed together. 

There’s a beat of silence. Gojo studies the curve of your neck, the way your pulse flutters beneath fragile skin. His finger curls against the trigger, slow, indulgent.

And then—he exhales, chuckling low, and pulls the gun away.

The pressure disappears. He straightens, hiding the weapon behind his back as though it never existed. “Of course. Don’t let me keep you.”

You force a shaky laugh, mistaking his amusement for charm. Rising from the couch, you brush your skirt down with clammy hands. “Thank you for allowing me over. And the sorbet. It was nice.”

Gojo tilts his head, a gleam in his eyes. “We’ll do it again. Soon.”

As you step toward the door, you don’t notice the faint dent in the nail gun’s chamber. How close you came to never leaving. Little did you know, the next time you’d visit, is when shit really hit the fan.

You come by again a few nights later. He’d texted you—no, summoned you really—with a vague reminder that you’d forgotten your scarf the last time you left his place. And because it was expensive, because it had been a gift, and because some part of you didn’t want to risk him showing up at your door instead, you relented. 

The penthouse was silent when you let yourself in. Too silent. You expected the faint hum of jazz he sometimes played in the office, the low mutter of his television, anything. Instead, the air felt sterile, wrong.

Then you noticed it: the entirety of his furniture covered in sheets of plastic wrap, gleaming faintly under the recessed lights. The couch, the rug, even the walls had a shine to them, like someone had been preparing for renovations. Or a crime scene.

The air smelled faintly of bleach. You scrunched your nose as you ventured deeper into the penthouse. Your heels stick slightly as you move forward, the sound too loud, too sharp against the silence.

Then you see him. And your heart drops, freezing in place.

Gojo is standing behind Takaba, who sits on the couch, blissfully unaware of the morbidness about to take place behind him. Gojo’s dressed in a clear protective coat buttoned neatly over his suit. His hair is slicked back. In his hands—an axe, polished to a mirror’s shine, the steel catching the light.

Gojo tilts his head, the way he always does when he’s pretending to be curious. His voice is calm, almost gentle. “Do you like Huey Lewis and the News, Takaba?”

You hear the confusion in Takaba’s voice. “Huh? What—?”

But Gojo doesn’t wait for an answer. He launches forward with a manic grin, the axe arcing high before swinging down in a perfect, brutal strike. The sound is wet, sharp, final. Blood spatters across the plastic wrap, dripping down in neat little lines that glisten like paint on glass.

You clap your hands over your mouth, a strangled noise escaping before you can stop it.

Gojo hears you.

He straightens slowly, dragging the back of his hand across his cheek, smearing a streak of red beneath his sunglasses. His chest rises and falls, the protective coat spattered with crimson like an artist’s canvas.

Then—he smiles.

“Oh,” he says lightly, as if you’ve just caught him trying on one of your sweaters. “You’re early.” 

He ejects the axe from Takaba’s neck, the other man pressing a hand to his gushing wound, blood spraying out. He slumps forward, falling face-first onto the ground. Gojo tilts his head at him. “Mm. Messier than I pictured.”

You step back, eyes wide as saucers. “Gojo—” 

“Satoru,” he corrects, facing his body towards you.

Your heel catches on the plastic, ripping it. His eyes dart down to the imperfection, narrowing. Your chest is heaving, your hands trembling as they clutch at your chest. “You—you killed him,” you rasp. “Oh my God, you—”

Gojo tilts his head, amused. “Killed him?” He taps his temple with one finger. “No, sweetheart. I saved you. He was a distraction. A pest.” 

You shake your head rapidly as his smile deepens. “No—I—I don’t—you don’t—”

Your words tangle in your throat, coming out as a broken rasp, panic rising. The smell of copper fills your nose now, overpowering the bleach, cloying and heavy.

Gojo steps toward you. Slow. Deliberate. The axe dangles loosely from one hand, still dripping, leaving little dark droplets across the pristine plastic. You can see the glint of his eyes, pale and electric, locked on you.

“You don’t get it,” he says softly, almost a whisper. “You walk into my world and think you can just—what? Do what you’d like? Bring pests with you?”

He stops a foot away, tilting his head again. He smells like blood and soap and expensive aftershave.

You stumble back another step, legs like jelly. 

“Do you know how long it took me to set this up?” he murmurs, gesturing to the room with a sweep of the axe, as if showing off a painting. “All for you. For us.”

Your hands fly up defensively, palms slick with sweat. “Satoru—don’t—don’t come any closer—”

He laughs, sudden and sharp, the sound bouncing off the sterile walls. “You’re shaking,” he observes. “Cute.”

The axe lifts, not high enough to swing, but high enough for you to see your own distorted reflection in the blade. His other hand comes up and cups your cheek with a tenderness so at odds with the weapon that it makes your stomach lurch. His thumb drags across your skin, smearing a streak of Takaba’s blood along your jaw.

“Don’t be scared,” he croons. “I’d never hurt you. Not you. You’re…” his voice dips, eyes flicking to your lips, “…perfect.”

Takaba lets out a wet, choking gurgle somewhere behind him. You flinch; Gojo’s fingers tighten just a little against your face.

There’s a beat of silence, barely being able to process what you just witnessed. Your eyes ring, body trembling like a leaf. You peek over at Takaba’s body, blood oozing out into a large puddle. A look at Satoru’s face shows no remorse or guilt. And that terrifies you.

You turn and sprint before you second-guess yourself, running as fast as you can back to the front door. Your hands, slippery from sweat and shaky from the adrenaline, make it hard for you to open the door. 

You cast a glance back over your shoulder for only a second before weaving to the side with a scream. 

His axe had barely missed you. 

He groans in annoyance, jaw ticking. You fall on your ass, scrambling back against the plastic-wrapped floor. Using the time he takes to remove the axe from the door, you manage to find your footing and rush off into the kitchen. 

Your heels slip against the polished tile as you careen into the kitchen. The scent of copper follows you, clinging to your hair, your skin. You almost lose your footing again on a slick patch but grab the marble counter for balance, chest heaving.

Behind you, Gojo’s voice drifts down the hall, low and sing-song, as if calling for a dog. “Don’t run. It’s rude to run when someone’s talking to you.”

The sound of his shoes crunching against the plastic echoes closer. Slow. Unhurried.

You wrench open a drawer, fingers fumbling across silverware until you find the handle of a knife. It’s too small—pitiful, really—but you grip it anyway, the blade trembling in your hand.

Gojo appears in the doorway, silhouette haloed by the recessed lights of the hall. His clear protective coat is streaked crimson now, droplets sliding down like rain. He leans casually against the frame, the axe resting on his shoulder.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks, voice soft and curious. “I invited you here, remember?”

“Stay back,” you choke out, brandishing the knife. “I’m serious—s-stay the hell back!”

Gojo tilts his head. Then he laughs, low and delighted. “You’re adorable when you’re scared.”

He steps into the kitchen. One step. Two. The plastic covering the floor crinkles under his shoes.

“Takaba was nothing,” he says conversationally, as though you’re still on the couch together. “He was a cockroach. I thought you’d be happy I got rid of him.”

You tighten your grip on the knife, heart hammering. “You’re fucking insane.”

That makes his smile widen. “Finally,” he says. “You’re starting to see me.”

His free hand lifts in mock surrender as he closes the distance. The axe dangles lazily from his other hand. He’s between you and the door now.

Pathetically, you slice at the air with the knife, causing him to lean back casually to avoid it. Stepping around to the other side of the kitchen counter. 

Your knuckles are white around the knife’s handle. It shakes in your grip, betraying you. Gojo notices, and it makes him outwardly laugh. He twirls the axe idly like a baton, the blade catching the overhead light in gleaming arcs.

“C’mon,” he croons, “you’re not really going to use that on me, are you? You’d cut yourself before you cut me.”

You try to inch sideways along the counter, keeping distance between you. “Stay back,” you repeat, voice cracking. “I swear—”

He sets the axe down with a soft clunk against the marble island between you, as if to prove he’s harmless. Then he leans forward, resting his palms on the counter, blood smearing against the pristine surface like fingerpaint.

“I’ve been patient with you,” he murmurs. “I thought you’d understand. That you’d… appreciate what I’ve done for you. All of this?” He gestures around the kitchen with a lazy sweep of one hand. “The clean slate. A life without distractions. All for the perfect woman.”

“I don’t want this,” you hiss, your voice trembling. “I don’t want you.”

That stops him for a heartbeat. His smile doesn’t falter, but something in his eyes flickers—an electric, dangerous flash. “Don’t,” he says softly, “say that.”

“You’re my boss, you fucking psycho!”

“Forbidden love, baby. Say it right.”

“It’s called insanity!”

You dart for the far end of the kitchen, hoping to get around him, but he moves faster—far faster than you expect. In a blur, his hand closes around your wrist before you can even raise the knife. The blade clatters to the floor. He twists your arm behind you, pinning you to the counter. His body is warm, solid, his breath against your ear like a hiss.

“Don’t run from me,” he whispers. “You’re not supposed to run from me.”

You struggle, your voice breaking. “L-Let me go—!”

He presses closer, the edge of the counter biting into your hips. “You’re shaking again,” he notes, almost amused. “Do you know what you look like right now? Like prey.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. His grip tightens. He slides his other hand up from your wrist to your throat, not squeezing—just holding, thumb pressing lightly under your jaw, tilting your face back so you’re forced to meet his eyes over your shoulder.

Then, for a moment, the mask slips. His voice dips lower, a whisper against your skin. “I wouldn’t hurt you. I can’t hurt you. You’re the only thing I…” He trails off, biting down on whatever word he almost said.

His jaw clenches, having an internal battle with himself. The tendons in his neck are taut as if he’s trying to swallow something down. Just one twitch of his hand and it would be over.

Instead, he leans down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You make me lose control,” he whispers, and the confession is almost pained. “You make me forget the rules.”

Your pulse races against his palm, each frantic beat betraying you. He drags his nose along your jawline, inhaling, smearing another streak of blood against your skin.

You thrash weakly, but he presses harder into your back, pinning you between the counter and his body. “Stop fighting me,” he says, tone dipping low, dangerous. Then softer: “You’ll only make me want you more.”

His free hand slides down, tracing the curve of your hip, your thigh — unhurried, as though this has always been inevitable. You choke back a sob. “Satoru—what—”

“I told you this before,” he interrupts, nipping at your earlobe, “say my name like you mean it.”

The knife still lies useless on the floor, a few feet away, glinting in the light. He notices your eyes darting toward it and laughs quietly, pressing his hips against you so you can feel him, already hard. “Oh no,” he croons. “You don’t get to leave. You get to stay right here and make this worth it.”

He nudges your legs apart with his knee, his hand splaying over your stomach, holding you firmly against him. His voice is silk and razorblades. “You think I’d kill for you and not fuck you after?”

“Mngh! Y-You’re fucking crazy!” You writhe, hips pressing back against him in the process. He groans low in his throat, biting the inside of his cheek.

“Yeah,” he agrees, hand tugging on the edge of your dress. “You’re about to feel how crazy I am.”

Your protest only makes his grin sharpen, teeth flashing as he drags the hem of your dress higher, bunching it around your waist. Cold air ghosts over your thighs, followed by the burning press of his palm kneading into your ass.

“Look at you,” he rasps, grinding against you from behind, the hard line of his cock straining through his slacks. “Cursing me out while you melt in my hands. Pathetic little liar.”

You buck against the counter, trying to wriggle free, but every shift of your hips only makes you brush against him harder. He growls, the sound vibrating through his chest, and his hand clamps over your hip, pinning you so hard into the marble that it steals the air from your lungs.

“You think you hate me?” His mouth crashes to your neck, sucking into your exposed skin. “Your body knows better.”

The sharp drag of his teeth makes you cry out, a choked sound that twists into something softer when his fingers slip between your thighs, pressing against the damp heat through your underwear. He chuckles darkly against your skin, his breath hot and ragged.

“Already wet,” he taunts, fingers rubbing a slow, punishing circle. “After watching me split that idiot’s skull open. You’re just as sick as me.”

His slow ministrations make your heart jump, a heat pooling in your lower stomach. This is wrong. So, so fucking wrong. “I’m not—I’m not.” 

He scoffs and punishes you with a hard circle to your clit. A surprised squeal leaves your lungs, gripping the edge of the counter with both hands. Instinctively, your hips buck into the counter, an attempt to move from his expert fingers. 

The more he focuses on your clit, the more you feel your panties dampening with an embarrassing amount of slick. Your breath forms warm puffs of air against the counter, finding your reflection with just how clean it is. Or was. 

His low chuckle rolls over you like smoke, curling under your skin. “You’re not what?” he murmurs, pressing harder, dragging his fingers in lazy, punishing circles over your clit until your thighs tremble. “Not wet? Not mine? Not enjoying this?”

You squeeze your eyes shut, nails digging into the marble, but the reflection staring back at you in the countertop is damning—pupils blown wide, lips parted, cheeks flushed. You can hear your own wetness when his fingers drag lower, teasing the seam of your entrance.

“Liar,” he breathes, voice gone hoarse. “You’re dripping.”

He pulls his hand away just long enough to hook his fingers into your panties, tugging them down your thighs in one impatient motion. They stick for a second against your skin, soaked through, before he flicks them aside, his palm immediately returning to cup you bare.

You let out a choked sound, somewhere between a whimper and a curse, as two of his fingers slide through your folds, slow enough to make you twitch, not enough to give you relief. He groans low, like a man praying.

“Fuck…” he hisses against your ear, pressing his chest to your back, his cock hard and hot against the curve of your ass. “You feel like sin already.”

His free hand snakes up to your throat again, tilting your head back so he can see your face, eyes glossy, your lips trembling. “Aw, look at you,” he whispers in admiration, his nose brushing your temple. “So beautiful. So filthy.”

You feel disgusting streaks of blood stain your neck. Finally, his two fingers slip right inside, and he audibly groans at your warmth. 

The noise he makes is guttural, like the sound’s been dragged out of his chest against his will. His fingers sink into the knuckle, stretching you open with a deliberate slowness that makes your eyes roll back. The marble beneath your cheek is icy, but your body feels like fire, nerves sizzling as his blood-slick hand pistons lazily in and out.

“Christ,” he hisses, curling his fingers just right, watching your reflection jolt against the counter. “You’re gripping me like you’ve been waiting for this. Can’t wait to feel you around my cock.”

Your jaw trembles. You can still smell copper, still feel the tacky streaks on your neck where his bloody coat brushed you, and the filth of it twists something deep in your belly.

His fingers scissor inside you, stretching, relentless, until you’re whimpering into the counter, your nails squealing against the marble as you claw for something to hold onto. Every thrust of his hand punches another broken sound from your throat, and he eats it up, his breath hot and ragged against your cheek.

“Yeah—listen to that,” he groans, curling his fingers again just right, the wet squelch of your arousal echoing in the sterile kitchen. “That messy little cunt’s telling the truth even if you won’t.”

Your legs shake, muscles burning from the effort of holding yourself upright as he wrecks you with just his hand. His free hand presses at your throat again, pinning you against the counter like you’re nothing but prey caught under his palm.

“Say it,” he snarls, rutting his cock against your ass with each pump of his fingers, his composure unraveling with every second. “Say you’re mine or I’ll fuck you until you can’t say anything at all.”

Still, you manage to barely shake your head. “...N-No—fuck—ngh!—fuck you!”

His head tilts at the sound, a slow, deliberate movement that makes your stomach twist. A smile spreads across his face, white teeth flashing under the dim light, his fingers never stopping their slick, obscene rhythm inside you.

“Oh?” Gojo breathes out, the sound vibrating against your ear. “You’re still talking back?” His hand tightens around your throat. His eyes gleam like blue ice. “Cute. Say it again.” He curls his fingers inside you, slow and cruel, until your breath comes out as a broken sob. “Go on,” he murmurs, voice low and sharp. “Tell me to fuck off while you’re shaking like this. Tell me you don’t want it.”

You squeeze tight around his digits, breath growing shallow. Before you can protest anything else, your release hits you like a ton of bricks. Oozing onto his fingers, shamefully. 

“Ohhhhh,” he lowly mutters, his pace unstoppable, even as you coat his fingers white. Finally, he slips his fingers out of you. Your knees almost buckle when he pulls out, your cunt clenching around nothing, dripping down your thighs. The obscene slick sound of his fingers leaving you echoes in the sterile kitchen, and then he’s holding them up in front of your face, glistening, streaked with your release and faint traces of blood.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, pupils blown wide, lips curling into something feral. “You came all over me.”

He drags the wet digits across your lips, smearing you with your own slick before shoving them past your mouth. The tang of yourself coats your tongue, warm and humiliating. “Suck,” he orders softly, but there’s no mistaking the steel in his tone. When your lips close around him, his eyes, a shiver rolls through his lean frame. “Fuck. Good girl.”

The moment he pulls his fingers free, wet and shining, his other hand is already working his belt loose. The clink of the buckle, the rasp of the zipper—it all happens in seconds. With no warning, he easily manhandles you over to the living room, tossing you onto the couch like you weigh nothing.

Takaba’s dead body is lying on the ground in front of you, the dread of what the fuck exactly is happening catching up to you. But Satoru reels you back in by pushing your face down into the plastic-covered cushions, angling your hips up to meet his crotch. His thick cockhead rubs against your glistening pussy. 

“Eyes on me,” he mutters, but he doesn’t even give you the chance to look. One large hand presses between your shoulder blades. His other hand drags the fat head of his cock through your slick folds, slow enough to smear your arousal all over himself, slow enough to make you tremble.

“You feel that?” His voice is low, steady, terrifyingly calm in contrast to the chaos around you. “That’s real. This—” he grinds forward, the blunt crown nudging your entrance, “—this is the only thing you need to be thinking about right now.”

He slides in just an inch, enough to stretch you open around the tip, enough to make you gasp. His fingers tighten at your nape, thumb stroking the back of your neck almost tenderly as his cock pushes in deeper, inch by inch, until the stretch burns and your thighs quiver.

The dead weight on the floor, the smell of blood, the sound of plastic crinkling under your palms—none of it goes away. But Satoru’s hips roll forward again and again, his cock splitting you open, and his low, pleased noise curls against your ear.

“Fuck… you take me so well.” His breath hitches; he draws back and drives in again, harder, until your knees slide forward from the force and the couch legs screech against the floor. “Keep squeezing me like that. Just like that.”

You can feel the slick mixture of your release and the faint copper tang of blood dribbling down your thighs, the obscene wet sound of him filling you over and over. Each thrust drags you further down the couch until you’re sprawled across it like a rag doll.

Each thrust pulls a moan from you. His palm suddenly flashes down and slaps your ass so hard you swear you feel the skin there swell and blister up. Your nails dig into the plastic, making half-crescent indents.

“Ngh! Ah!” 

He stops full force. 

Gojo’s chest rises and falls steadily, no hint of the urgency you’re feeling. His grip on your hips is unrelenting, like he’s welded you to the spot, but his eyes? His eyes aren’t even on you. They’re on the couch.

A sharp smile curls across his lips. “You’re scratching it.”

You whine despite yourself, breath catching as you slowly lift your head from the cushions. “...What—”

“You need to be careful.” His voice drops lower, a warning disguised as a purr. He leans down, chest pressing against your back, one hand smoothing over your hip while the other pries your claws gently but firmly from the leather. “Or else you’ll rip through the plastic and ruin it.”

You blink, disoriented, sweat dripping down your temple. 

“Italian leather. Limited run. Imported. You wouldn’t understand.”

Any words of confusion you had die on your tongue when he grabs your wrist and pins it against the cushion, his grip deceptively tender. “Just because I’d kill for you, doesn’t mean I’ll allow you to taint my things. What kind of person are you?” He breathlessly laughs. 

The sound is light, casual, but his hand on your wrist is iron. You try to tug free, but it doesn’t budge. His other hand slides slowly down your spine, tracing sweat-slick skin, almost affectionate.

“But I’ll forgive you,” he whispers, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You’re just so gorgeous when you’re good for me. I don’t want to see you acting like some—what’s the word—careless little brat.”

Your chest heaves against the cushion, anger and embarrassment tangling with the dizzying arousal you don’t want to admit. “Wait, this isn’t—”

He cuts you off with a sharp snap of his hips, burying himself so deep you choke on a gasp. “Shh. Don’t ruin the mood.”

The grip on your wrist loosens, only to snake higher, threading your fingers with his and pressing them into the leather like he’s forcing you to feel its smooth perfection. “You feel that? Untouched. Flawless. Just like I want you.”

Your head spins. He’s not looking at you like a man with a woman—he’s looking at you like an object to be owned, polished, and maintained.

“You know,” he hums, lips dragging lazily along your jaw as his thrusts pick up again, harder, sharper, making your knees quake against the couch, “most people would kill to be in your position. I hire you, I’m respectful, treat you good, and now, fuck you until you can’t breathe.”

His teeth graze your neck, biting down just enough to sting. “And all you have to do…is behave.”

Your eyes flutter shut, a moan slipping past your lips before you can stop it.

He chuckles, low and triumphant, pulling back just to watch the flush rise to your cheeks. His voice is velvet and steel all at once: “Good girl. See? I knew you’d understand.”

Your walls tighten around him. So much so that he moans out loud, head tipping back. He uses one hand to push a few stray ivory pieces out of his crystal eyes, continuing his relentless pace on your poor cunt. He breathes hard, smiling to himself. When his head tips back down, they land on the beautiful, shimmering skyline in front of him. 

A hum slips from his mouth, although all he’s focused on is his reflection in the ceiling-to-floor windows. “God,” he exhales, watching the way his broad shoulders flex, the way his hips piston forward with smooth, perfect rhythm. “Look at me.”

You blink, sweat dripping down your temple, dazed and breathless. “Wh…what?”

“Not you,” he says lightly, still staring at the reflection, his voice catching on a groan as your cunt tightens around him. “Me.”

Your stomach twists, but the way he drives into you leaves no space for thought, only broken moans. He smirks at his own image—flushed cheeks, hair messy but still flawless, jaw tight with pleasure.

“Fuck, I’m beautiful when I’m inside you.” His laugh is breathless, almost giddy, like he’s drunk on himself as much as on you. His hand slips from your hip to your throat. He grips it and forces your neck up. It’s an awkward, and somewhat uncomfortable angle he has you in. Then you realize, he’s forcing you to look at his reflection too, the glass reflecting him pounding into you, sweat running down his temples. “See? Don’t we look perfect?”

Your lips part, but no words come out.

His grin sharpens, leaning down until his lips brush against the shell of your ear. His cock twitches, pressing a soft kiss to it. “That’s why you’ll never leave me. You can’t. We’re made for each other.”

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the morbid environment. 

Each crack of his hips against your ass cuts through the silence of the apartment, mingling with the faint creak of the couch and the sickening stillness of the body on the floor. Wet, lewd sounds echo obscenely in the space—slick flesh meeting slick flesh—until it almost drowns out the hammering of your heart.

The rhythm is relentless, each thrust a punishing strike that jolts your body forward, your cheek grinding against the cold plastic. The air reeks of iron, of sex, of violence. Every movement feels like it shouldn’t exist here, like it’s desecrating the room itself.

Satoru leans over you, his chest pressing flush against your back, his breath hot against your ear. Slap. Slap. Slap. The sound ricochets off the walls, making the room feel smaller, tighter.

“Perfect,” he breathes, his tone disturbingly gentle as his cock buries to the hilt inside you, stretching you to the brink. “Even in hell, you’d still fuck me like you were made for it.”

Another sharp thrust makes the couch legs squeal against the floor, and your body bucks helplessly beneath him. You can see your reflection in the gleaming black surface of the window—your now tear-streaked face, his broad figure looming behind you, Takaba’s unmoving body on the floor.

“This is what we look like together,” he vocalizes, hips still slamming into yours, his voice ragged with a mixture of arousal and mania. “Maybe—” he chuckles, “Maybe I’ll even promote you if you keep your mouth shut, and your legs open. Would you like that? Hm?” He emphasizes his mocking words with a particularly sharp thrust.

“Fuck!” you moan out, the familiar coil tightening in your gut, sensing your second orgasm rapidly approaching. “O-Oh, oh—ah—mngh! I—!”

“Cum, cum, cum, baby,” he pants, fingers tightening around your hips. His hand leaves your throat to weave messily through your hair and push your face back down. His head tips back, Adam’s Apple bobbing with his own oncoming release. “Yes, yes, yes, yes…”

Your body convulses around him before you can even stop it—white-hot pleasure exploding from the base of your spine and radiating through your limbs. It’s blinding, humiliating, an orgasm ripped from you with every brutal thrust of his hips. Your fingers claw at the plastic-covered couch, slipping uselessly against it as your cunt spasms, milking him. A loud cry rips from your lungs. 

Satoru groans low in his throat, the sound dark and animalistic. His hips stutter once, twice, before he slams himself into the hilt, cock pulsing deep inside you. His grip in your hair tightens, keeping your head down as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, breathing hard and hot against your ear.

“Good girl…” he hisses, almost like a laugh, the sound edged with something manic. “Good fucking girl—so tight when you’re scared…”

Finally, you feel it. The warmth spilling inside you, thick and unmistakable. He stays there for a moment, still twitching against your walls, riding out his own release while your body trembles beneath him, overstimulated and slick.

The apartment is silent except for the sound of your ragged breathing and his slow, shuddering exhales. Takaba’s body still lies motionless on the floor, the plastic beneath you creaking with every tiny movement.

Finally, he drags his hips back, his cock sliding out of you with a wet sound. A streak of his cum runs down the inside of your thigh as he pushes your dress up further, staring at what he’s done like he’s admiring a painting. “Beautiful,” he gasps. 

“...sa…” You swallow hard, throat dried out. Your limbs feel useless, your mind even more so. “Satoru…” 

A smile creeps up his lips, cheeks flushed a glowing red. He reaches a shaky hand down to move sweat-ridden hair from your face. Tilting his head at your fucked-out expression. He can’t help but bite his lip. 

“Now,” he says softly, thumb brushing your lower lip, smearing a mix of blood and your drool. His cock is teasing your sore hole. “You want that promotion, baby?”

a/n — i feel like im coming out of retirement with this fic. 😭😭😭 i'll be honest, i'm not very confident about this piece and i def could have done better, but i've already spent hours on it (sobs) 🥲🥲🥲. i hope you guys enjoyed rlly enjoyed this and pls stay tuned for the rest of the entries!

ps: to all my patient readers out there, i thank you deeply. i have a few more oneshots coming out before i'll work on my long fics. l&l will be updated first, wooop! love you guys <3 💕💕💕

[lumieros]

WANT U LIKE THAT ! ‎ ‎ — s. gojo

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ pairing . . . brother’s bestfriend! gojo x f! reader

▬▬▬ IN WHICH, Satoru Gojo has two secrets. One, it’s only his room being renovated, not his parents’s entire mansion. Two, the “annoying little sister” of his bestfriend has always been the silent, furious center of his entire universe.

Now that he’s your temporary roommate, your plan is to survive without murdering him. His plan is to ruin yours. The line between hate and something far more dangerous is as thin as the wall between your bedrooms when stolen glances and touches linger longer than intended, one obsession is traded for another, and your decade long muse is demanding to be seen as something more.

❀ contents ⦂ mdni. 16k wc. college au. slowburn. forced proximity. one-sided enemies to lovers. reader has freckles. banter. mean gojo (as a kid). artistic obsession. artist!reader and photographer!gojo. tattoos. mentions of piercings. sexual tension. whole lot of fluff. smidge of angst. eventual smut. reader is a virgin. p in v. praising, cunnilingus, unprotected sex. again, 18+ so mdni or skip the smut.

a/n ⦂ it was genuinely the most fun i’ve had in a while writing this fic, brainstorming ideas with friends at 4am & extensively searching photography & art terms, this fic is lowk the pinnacle of my skills </3 i only hope that whoever has the patience to sit through the 15k wc will enjoy the journey as much as i did !! <3

The first time Satoru Gojo breaks your heart is when you’re six and he’s nine, boy meets girl, girl meets trouble— and the weapon is a dandelion.

You’d found it growing in the cracks of a pavement, a stubborn little sun against the grey. To you, it was gold. It was beautiful. And for any reason that your six years old heart couldn’t articulate but felt with every fibre of your being, you wanted him to have it.

Satoru has been Suguru’s extension for as long as you can remember. He was nine, all scabby knees and a shit-eating smirk already too sharp for his face. He was perched on your backyard wall, waiting for Suguru, looking bored.

You marched up to him in all childish innocence, the dandelion soft in your dirt smudged hands like a peace offering, “see what I found! Here!”

Satoru spared it one glance, looking down and unimpressed. He didn’t take it, “That’s a weed”, he said, with the condescending tone of a child who’s never been told he’s wrong, “it’s what left when a flower dies. It’s ugly.”

Your heart is crushed. “But—”

“You can keep that to yourself,” He doesn’t give you the time to continue. And before you could pull your hand back, he leans in and blows— a precise, sharp puff of air. The delicate dandelion seeds erupted from the stem, a white chaotic cloud scattering in the summer air and Satoru grinned, pleased with his demolition. He pointed to the few seeds stuck to your cheeks, “See? Just a weed.”

You didn’t cry. Not that he would wait around to see that either. You just held onto the empty stem in your hands, it was left as a reminder of what you meant to Satoru Gojo. The message was received as clear as he’d carved into your skin with little care. What you think is beautiful, I find worthless. What you give me, I will destroy.

It was a lesson he would spend the next decade enforcing.

Satoru was around almost every weekend, and every time he made it his life’s mission to make your life miserable. It was always Suguru and Satoru, Satoru and Suguru. They’d spend entire days building a fortress of boyhood you were never quite allowed to enter. And it was fine, you knew your brother loved you. Fighting with Satoru as a rival for Suguru’s attention was okay. It would’ve been okay if Satoru wasn’t always intent on making his presence painfully annoying and loud.

Years and years went on with the same rhythm, you may have built a tolerance to Satoru but not quite a liking. He was always the “ugly extension” of your Suguru who jabbed at your insecurities and took your things and snacks without asking and always wanted to be better at everything.

When Suguru moved away for college, he would room with Satoru. And now you were completely out of the picture.

That was okay too, in a decade you had built your own passion for art and skills that Satoru could never better even if he tried.

In your first year of college and Suguru’s last, your parents wanted to move back to the countryside, and Suguru came back to live with you. It’s been peaceful and steady. You don’t see Satoru much. They still hang out— Instagram stories and posts, gaming sessions and calls. But you’re just not bothered to keep tabs on it.

And yet, you ought to think you didn’t deserve this surprise.

The sound of the doorbell was an inconvenience. The sight of Satoru Gojo on your doorstep, all in his untouched glory— a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, that same old “better than you” grin on his face, and his parents’ sprawling estate presumably too empty for his taste.

He was taller, of course. Not just taller, now having to slightly duck his head under your doorframe, but broader. The world had stretched him out. The lanky, sharp elbowed frame you remember has filled out with a solid, confident build of a man who still believed the universe rearranged itself for his convenience. His white hair was a deliberately messy masterpiece, and his sunglasses were perched on his head, leaving those piercing, knowing blue eyes utterly unobstructed.

Satoru Gojo is at your doorstep with a duffel bag you know doesn’t belong to Suguru, there is no way he’s here to—

“Hey Dots, well, roomie, look at you,” he said, his voice a deeper, richer version of the one that had haunted your childhood, “all grown up and still frowning at me. Some things never change, huh”

He winks at you.

Dots. Yeah, he hasn’t forgotten the damn nickname. Of course he hasn’t.

Like a very Satoru Gojo thing to do, he didn’t wait for an invitation, stepped past you into the hallway, his shoulder bumping yours on purpose. He smelled like expensive cologne and arrogance.

“You’ve grown into a proper slenderman yourself,” you really can’t be bothered to hide your very annoyed smile, all the more emphasized in a mocking attempt to look welcoming.

“Ah, feisty,” he grins, throwing the bag on the couch as if he owns the place, before throwing himself too, legs sprawled out like a cat with a Cheshire grin to match. You wish he tripped, “I like it. You can finally say something without stuttering with me”

He’s asking to be punched.

“Sugu around?” He asks, looking around the place to scan, probably looking for things he can jab about.

“He’s your best friend, you tell me.”

He turns to you, and for a three seconds that his gaze falls on your mouth, you think out mouthing an insult, “Right, forgot,” he taps his glasses, “you’ve always been the prickly one, my favourite.”

The drag of syllables on the favourite has you rolling your eyes. “Can’t say the same, seriously, what are you doing here? Sugu won’t be home till night.”

“I’m your new roommate. For a few weeks.” his eyes did that scanning thing again, and you felt a ridiculous urge to cross your arms over your chest. “My place is being de-germed or something. Sugu offered sanctuary. Don’t worry, I’ll try not to track too much privilege on the carpets.”

Oh. Absolutely. Just what you were missing in your life. Can’t wait for Suguru to come home and poison his coffee.

The boy who had been nothing but a spoiled dandelion-blowing, pudding-stealing, name-calling jerk your entire childhood, is now a man still, if not more, annoying, standing in your foyer and staring at you like you’re the interesting one. You had this stinking, terrifying feeling that he was going to tear apart your life again. He’s no longer just trouble. He’s chaos wrapped in the figure of a now well built man with a pretty face and sly tongue, a thunderstorm daring to be acknowledged.

“Oh please, are your other mansions not big enough? Are all the 5 star hotels books with no place left for you? Ask them nicely and they might let you crash for free. There’s really no reason—”

You protest, because he doesn’t need to live here. He’s got every privilege one could possibly have in the palm of his hands, he doesn’t need to be here.

But of course he cuts you off, old habits die hard, “—but where’s the fun in that? Something tells me you really missed me Dots.”

He’s reminding you that he’s been keeping score, “I have a name, you jerk.” you’d rather be in any other room except with him.

Yeah. The war was on.

“Yeah, but Dots really holds the memories, doesn’t it?” His grin was all innocence, a weapon he’s mastered, “I was nine, you were six. I remember you were barely taller than my knee.” One quick shift of his gaze from your feet to your eyes again was his way of saying “you’re not anymore.”

“Yeah, I remember you had the emotional intelligence of a rock. Some things really don’t change.”

You scoff, turning away in a retreat you think was strategic. The kitchen won’t have any of his obnoxiousness. You really need some strong caffeine to accept the reality of having to share your space with him.

Satoru’s footsteps followed, a lazy confident rhythm against floorboards. He leaned in on the counter, eyeing your movements. To him, your annoyance was probably just background music.

“So,” he begins, “what does grown up Dots do for fun nowadays? Still drawing those monsters?”

Your hand stills on the mug. So he remembers them too, the “little monsters” were your first foray into character designs and he has mercilessly compared them to “blobs with emotional problems.”

“I’m an art student,” you announce, keeping your back to him, “not that you could know the difference.”

“Ouch, a direct hit”, a soft laugh follows the sound of fridge door opening, “still like your coffee tasting like depression?”

“You’re the one who puts enough sugar to put a horse to sleep, you don’t get to say anything.”

“You know how I like my coffee?” You can practically hear his grin, “Then you can make me one.”

You finally turn to him, in utter disbelief at the audacity of this tall hunk of arrogance. Satoru is holding a milk cartoon, looking pleased with himself. “I’m not making you your fucking coffee. And you don’t have to worry about mine either, how do you know that anyway”

“Suguru mention things”

The idea of Suguru casually mentioning your coffee preferences to you Satoru felt like an utter betrayal, “its none of your business.”

Satoru takes this chance to step closer, and you want to instinctively step back. But that would mean allowing him to take more space than he should be, to allow him to cower you into a corner in your house, and to hell with that.

“Not if I’m making it,” he simply takes the mug from your hands, “you’re welcome.”

He lets his fingers finger brush your knuckles, the warmth lingering treacherously on your skin.

“No thanks, I don’t wanna be poisoned.”

“You wound me.” He says with a disgustingly dramatic pout that doesn’t look ugly on him.

But you let him— watch him, stunned into silence, as he moves around your kitchen with an infuriating familiarity, scooping the grounds, pouring the water. He did it all wrong, of course— clumsy and rushed, a rich boy who’d never had to do a thing for himself. But he was trying, or he was performing the act of trying, which for Satoru was probably the same thing, you reckon.

It was an outrageous display of casual intimacy which you don’t ever remember sharing with him.

He handed you the mug, a smirk to proud to pair. It was too light.

“Uh, I think there’s a bit of coffee in your sugar.” you say flatly, taking one sip.

“It’s called flavor, Dots,” he blinked, the picture of a self proclaimed superiority, “you can thank me for introducing you to the good things in life. Sugar, for example.”

It was the dandelion all over again. He’d taken something you wanted, performed the act of giving it, but delivered a hollowed out version, stripped of what made it yours. He was re-establishing the old rules on new terrain.

You don’t throw it in his face. You don’t even sigh. For what it’s worth, at least he didn’t compromise on the caffeine.

“Good things are simple,” you take deliberate sips of the overly sweet coffee, “unadorned and unassuming, unlike your personality.”

For a fraction of a second, his smirk faltered. It was there and gone so fast that you might have imagined it, replaced by a new, more interested glint in his eyes. You hadn’t cried at six, and you wouldn’t sputter now.

Satoru leaned forward, bracing his hands on the counter on either side of you, caging you in. “You’ve gotten better at this,” he murmured, voice a low, approving hum, “I’m really liking it.”

“I didn’t do it for you” you ducked under his arm, taking the coffee with you as you walk away.

To you, he’s a ghost from your most awkward memories, but he’s wearing the face of a man who makes your heart do stupid, frantic things in your chest. And you hate every second of it. The whirlwind of confusing emotions Satoru Gojo is capable of inciting in you hasn’t changed, but you’ll make sure you won’t be the only one suffering. This isn’t a reunion, it’s an ambush. And you have the sinking, terrifying feeling that you are completely, utterly unprepared for it.

Even so, the war was on, and you drew first blood.

The next morning dawned with Suguru’s apology hanging in the air. He’d truly thought Satoru’s arrival would be a surprise. A surprise.

The word echoed in your head, a stark reminder that your brother had long forgotten your deep seated dislike for Satoru’s presence. And frankly, you’d thought you’d forgotten it, too. Out of sight, out of mind. But now he was here, a walking, talking reminder. Your new plan was simple: avoid him. Don’t engage. If he tries to push your buttons, remember Suguru’s blessing: You can hurt him in any way.

You claimed the living room as your studio, spreading your art supplies across the coffee table in a deliberate act of territorial dominance. You were working on a series of concept sketches— dark, twisted tree roots— qand needed to focus.

The focus lasted approximately seven minutes.

Satoru emerged from the guest room, his hair a spectacular mess, and beelined for the couch. He didn’t ask, just flopped down, taking up three—quarters of the space, and flipped on the TV with a blare of morning news.

You gripped your charcoal pencil tighter, “do you mind?”

“Not at all,” he said, not looking away from the screen, “make yourself at home.”

You sighed, already tired. “I am home. And working.”

“Then work.” he gestured magnanimously at the sliver of table in front of you, “Don’t let my awesome presence stifle your creativity, maybe it’ll inspire you.”

He offered his best smile, something the poets would call charming and artists like you would kill to make a muse of.

“I’m drawing roots. Dark, gnarled, parasitic things. Remind you of anyone?”

“You could be drawing me, you know,” he said, leaning back with his elbow lazily resting on the couch. “Art majors in our college pay me all the time to be their muse.” and he winks at you.

Of course they do. “You wish. I don’t have time for you right now, I’ve to finish my assignment.”

Said assignment— a series of studies on structural roots, gnarled and grounding—was failing spectacularly. Satoru was a disruptive presence, the constant rustle of his movements, the background noise of the TV, all low grade irritants.

Yet, his presence was the very thing fueling the betrayal of your own hand. The charcoal had a mind of its own, and that mind was obsessed with the loose limbed catastrophe sprawled beside you. The root on your page was beginning to curve in a dangerously familiar way, starting to look less like bark and more like the line of a collarbone. You gripped the charcoal pencil tighter, your knuckles white.

“You’re breathing too loud,” you muttered, not turning around.

The rustling stopped. The scent of his expensive cologne— a scent you could now connect to wet earth after rain and a musky softness— shifted with the air. Like everything about Satoru, it was determined to be acknowledged. You could feel his attention shift, a physical weight settling between your shoulder blades.

“I’m breathing loud?” His voice was a low, amused rumble. “You’re the one grinding your teeth. It’s like listening to gravel fight.”

You finally glanced over your shoulder, a sharp retort on your lips, and it died there.

The late sun caught him in profile, gilding the sharp line of his nose and the defiant sweep of his white hair. He had one arm draped over the back of the couch, and the position stretched his tshirt tight across a chest that was no longer that of a lanky boy, but of a man.

He was bathed in a warm luminescence. Your artist’s eye, against your will, traced the sharp cut of his shoulder blades down to the ridges of hard muscle roping the length of his biceps.

Suddenly, a memory hit you with the force of a physical blow: you, at nine, perched on the garden wall with a similar sketchbook, a crayon instead of charcoal in your hand, filled with the same, desperate desire to burn the image of a twelve year old Satoru glowing in the setting sun after a day of collecting bugs with Suguru. The familiar, aching loneliness of being the perpetual observer tightened the same, old strings of your heart.

He tilted his head, and his eyes— a shocking, crystalline blue even in the warm light— met yours. The smirk you loved to hate had melted away, replaced by a warm, unguarded smile under the sun’s magic. His gaze wasn’t teasing. It was cataloguing. It traveled from the determined set of your shoulders, down the line of your arm to your charcoal smudged fingers, then back to your face, lingering on your mouth for a heartbeat too long before finding your eyes again.

He’s looking at you the same way you just caught yourself looking at him.

The realization was a bucket of cold water. You’re not nine anymore. You’re not moved by fickle sceneries or childhood ghosts.

“You’ve changed,” he said, his voice quieter now, the lazy tease gone.

The words felt dangerously honest. “So have you,” you managed, your own voice softer than you intended. “You’re… bigger. You take up even more space now.”

A slow, real smile touched his lips. “And you’re not a little kid hiding behind Suguru’s legs anymore.” He let his head tilt back against the couch. “Confidence looks good on you, you know.”

Is that a compliment? A real one? Is Satoru Gojo even capable of that? You would have questioned him, pulled apart his words to find the hidden barb, if not for the violent buzzing of your phone on the table, shattering the moment.

Wait— what moment? There was no moment.

You flinched, grabbing it. It was your project partner. “Do not make moaning sounds, I’ll seriously end you,” you mumbled the threat, standing up too quickly and retreating to the kitchen, your heart hammering a frantic, confused rhythm against your ribs.

Satoru only threw up his hands in mock surrender, a laugh on his pretty lips, “promises, promises.”

You silently thanked your project partner for calling at the right time, the weird, unwelcome tension in your stomach from just moments before already starting to diffuse. It wasn’t worth the attention, you told yourself firmly. He’s not worth the attention.

.

.

.

Satoru waited until he heard the low murmur of your voice from the kitchen. Then he moved.

He was at your spot in three silent slides, his eyes falling to the open sketchbook. He expected the roots, or the same original character designs. Something abstract, or just the structural anatomy of a dandelion. He knew whatever you’d draw, it was your way of holding onto it.

He did not expect to see his own jawline emerging from the tangle of one, or the unmistakable curve of his shoulder blended into the trunk of another. He absolutely did not expect to see a series of questionable angles of his mouth and lips twisting, the moment before a smirk, the subtle bump on his lower lip from a fall as a child. #Catalogue of Annoyances.

It wasn’t a typical collection of handsome portraits. It was a dissection.

He did not expect himself, even as the last thing he’d ever see in your sketchbook.

But the most damning thing was the hand— his hand, the one with the scar— a series of movements rendered with such painstaking, intimate detail that it felt less like a drawing and more like a caress.

The scar over his knuckle from a fight with an older boy he’d won at the cost of a bruised lip. From the precise length of his thumb next to his index finger, to the subtlety of his other hand caressing the ring on his thumb— a habit he remembers in rare moments of caffeinated anxiety. The way his pinky finger bends from when he broke it playing basketball.

Then the next page, a full page drawing.

You had captured the precise way his white hair fell over his collar, the subtle, vulnerable dip of his head, the faint, almost invisible sunburn from a day spent outside a week ago. The detail was so intimate it felt like a violation. This wasn’t a drawing done from a few feet away; this was the view of someone who had spent a lifetime walking behind him.

Scrawled in the corner was a caption: “Figure 11: The Unseen Atlas.”

This was the view you’d had for over a decade. Him, walking ahead with Suguru, always turned away, always moving forward while you trailed behind. You hadn’t been drawing his face because you’d rarely seen it directed at you with any real, unguarded attention. You had been drawing his retreating form, the symbol of his constant, careless exclusion.

And you could’ve drawn anything in the world. But it’s him. It’s really him. In a way he would’ve

never expected to be mesmerized by anyone.

Satoru is used to being observed and admired and desired. He’s been a muse many times before.

What he’s not used to is feeling so seen. So mercilessly stripped of every defense and exposed like a hand drawn moment caught in time.

He was so absorbed in the violation, in the feeling on pressed old pages filled with him, he didn’t hear you return.

“What are you doing?!”

Your voice was sharp with panic. He jerked upright, spinning to face you. And for the first time in his life, Satoru was caught completely off guard. There was no smirk, no smooth recovery. His eyes were wide, his lips slightly parted. A faint, unmistakable flush crept up his neck, staining his pale cheeks a soft, rosy pink.

You surged forward and snatched the sketchbook from the table, clutching it to your chest like a shield. The panic on your face mirrored the shock on his.

The two of you stood there, frozen in a silent standoff. The air was thick with the unsaid again. He just stared at you, his blush deepening, the usual arsenal of wit and arrogance completely failing him. He looked… young. Awkward. And for the first time ever, you held all the power in a room with him, and it was terrifying.

“I—” he started, then stopped, running a hand through his hair. “you— you see that?”

“See what?” you deflected a little too fast, your voice tight.

“The scar. The way my finger bends.” He gestured vaguely, still flustered.

You hugged the sketchbook tighter, your own face heating. “It’s an artist’s job to see things.”

He was quiet for a long moment, just looking at you, the blush slowly receding but the soft, stunned expression remaining. The dynamic had fractured. The teasing god had been rendered human, and he was looking at you like you were the deity.

Finally, he let out a slow breath, and a small, genuine smile touched his lips— nothing like his usual razor edged grins. This was softer, much warmer.

“Been that obsessed with me?”

Curse that wretched mouth of his.

“Please, this was time pass. Just a way to fill up the empty pages. As an artist, you have to be able to draw the ugly too, if you wanna get better at drawing the good.”

You lay your defenses. Satoru Gojo will not get a rise out of you from now on. Not over your own passion. Your own art.

“Hehe,” a painfully childish laugh, “you know,” he said, his voice soft, almost wondering, “when you were fourteen, you used to bite the end of your paintbrush when you were thinking. You had this tiny little gap between your front teeth back then. It’s gone now.” He gestured to his own teeth. “I noticed when it closed up.”

“So what,” you said that faster than you intended. Satoru shakes his head.

The admission was so quiet, so unexpected, it stole the air from your lungs. He hadn’t just been teasing you all those years. He’d been watching, noting and remembering.

You didn’t know how to deal with this version of him. The one who blushed. The one who admitted to paying attention.

He seemed to gather himself then, the moment of raw vulnerability passing. He shoved his hands in his pockets and took a step back, giving you space. The tease returned to his eyes, but it was different now. Softer. Acknowledging the new ground between you.

“Guess we’ve both been paying a little too much attention, Dots.”

Then he does the only decent thing he’s ever done for you.

He leaves you alone to give you space.

Satoru has struck back in this war.

Suguru, in his eternal, misguided role as peacemaker, declared a “family trip” to the bulk mart. “It’ll be fun!” he said, a man living in delusions. But he truly meant no harm and all peace.

The embarrassment hasn’t left the air for you. It wasn’t the sharp, defensive kind you felt with the sketchbook. This was a slow, creeping warmth, a feeling of being utterly and painfully seen.

And as you walked the aisles, the reality of your sketches hit you with a new, terrifying force. For years, drawing him had been your outlet. A safe, silent way to process the confusing storm of feelings he stirred in you— the resentment for how he made you feel small, the desperate, aching want for him to really see you, not as Suguru’s little sister, but as you. The crayon, then the charcoal, and the paper— all were a barrier, a way to hold the unattainable Satoru Gojo at a safe distance while secretly pulling him closer.

Now, that barrier was gone.

Every time he reached for a high shelf, your mind supplied the memory of sketching the exact line of his arm. When he laughed at something Suguru said, you remembered the careful study you’d done of the way his eyes crinkled. He was no longer an abstract subject. He was a living, breathing man, and your secret, clinical observations now felt like an intimate invasion.

You had documented him, and in doing so, you had confessed everything.

“You’re quiet,” Satoru noted, falling into step beside you as Suguru debated paper towel brands ahead. His voice was low, for your ears only.

“Just thinking,” you mumbled, focusing intently on a pallet of canned beans.

“About the structural integrity of kidney beans?” he teased, “or about how you know the exact number of freckles on the back of my neck?”

You stumbled, your shoulder bumping into a tower of soup cans. He caught your elbow with a grip, firm and steadying. The contact was electric, a jolt that went straight to your core. You yanked your arm back.

“I don’t,” you lied, your voice tight, eyes absolutely refusing to meet his.

“You do,” he said softly, a tone you’d previously call mocking if you couldn’t distinguish the fondness behind it. “Page fourteen, bottom right corner. A study of the nape of my neck, titled ’Figure 19: Sun Exposure.’ You even counted them. It was seventeen.”

“Oh my god, shut up,” you say through gritted teeth, hoping the edge in your voice will keep his attention away from the red heat crawling on your cheeks now, “you’re wasting oxygen. Some miserable tree out there is making up for it with its life.”

Satoru chuckled, running his pinched finger and thumb over his lips in a gesture of zipping up, would’ve been cute if you didn’t feel so murderous.

You weren’t just embarrassed that he’d seen the sketches. You were exposed because he understood what they meant. They weren’t just drawings. They were a diary of your obsession, and he was reading it aloud.

Suguru came back then, holding two different giant packs of toilet paper. “Okay, which one is the better deal? Satoru, you’re the math genius.”

Satoru didn’t look away from you. A slow, soft smile, one that held no mockery, spread across his face. Ugh, painfully dashing.

“You know what, Sugu,” he said, his eyes still locked on yours, “I think I’m all out of genius today. Let’s just get both.”

He finally broke his gaze, turning to your brother, but the moment lingered. You stood there, surrounded by the mundane reality of a grocery store, feeling more seen and vulnerable than you ever had in your life. The outlet was gone. The barrier was broken. And you had no idea what to do now that the boy you’d always drawn from a distance was standing right in front of you, seeing right through you.

Suguru, noticing your complete silence and the deep blush that had been burning on your cheeks this whole time, finally looked properly concerned. “Hey,” he said, his voice gentle. “Are you feeling okay? You look… really embarrassed. Did he say something to you?”

Before you could even open your mouth to deny it, Satoru leaned in closer. His expression shifted from that soft understanding back to pure, unadulterated cockiness, his eyes glinting with the thrill of the chase.

“Yeah, Dots,” he repeated, his voice a low, challenging tease that was meant for you and you alone. “You embarrassed?”

The white haired freak was gonna torture you for the rest of his days.

.

.

.

The car ride home from the mart was silent. Suguru, sensing the strange new energy but misinterpreting it as a successful truce, hummed along to the radio. Must be nice living in a world of rainbows.

You stared out the window, the ghost of Satoru’s words— “you even counted them. It was seventeen”— echoing in your mind.

He didn’t try to engage you. He just sat in the passenger seat, occasionally glancing at you in the rearview mirror. Each time your eyes would meet for a fractured second before you both looked away, the air in the car growing heavier and electrified.

Back at the apartment, the dynamic had irrevocably shifted. The war was over, the scales tipped unfavourably to one side. But no peace treaty had been signed. You existed in a state of tense, hyper aware coexistence.

Later that night, you found yourself drifting back to the kitchen, pulled by a primal need for a glass of water— or maybe just a moment of quiet in the dark, a few square feet of space that didn’t feel charged with his new, overwhelming presence.

And of course, by some divine, cruel joke, your plan to avoid him shattered instantly. Because he was there. Of course he was.

Leaning against the counter as if he’d been waiting, a half empty glass of water in his hand. And he was shirtless. The sight was so absurdly Satoru that you froze in the doorway, your tired brain shortcircuiting. The pale expanse of his torso was a stark landmark in the dark, and you hated the way your eyes, against your will, traced the line of his shoulder, the dip of his collarbone, the way his sweatpants sat low on his hips.

In the faint glow of the fluorescent light from the refrigerator which, Satoru, of course, had not closed, you could make out the inked patterns just below the curve of his collarbones. You could get a better look and see what it really is if you stepped a few paces closer to him, but you absolutely do not want to do that.

You could try narrowing your eyes in hopes of a better vision, but then again, why would you want to do that and give him something to poke you with again?

A sound of pure exasperation escaped you, “Ugh”

He turned, the movement fluid. A flicker of genuine surprise lit his features before it was smoothed over by that familiar, infuriating amusement. You forced your gaze to remain fixed on a point just past his shoulder, refusing to let it wander.

“Jumpscare,” you said, your voice flat.

His signature grin was a little slower in the quiet dark, a little less sharp. “Enjoying the view?”

You just wanted your water. It was too late for witty comebacks or sharp tongued defenses. He wouldn’t take you seriously anyway, he’d just twist it, turning your annoyance into a game you didn’t know how to play. The thought of it sent a confusing, unwelcome thrill through you that you were too tired to confront.

“Yeah, sure,” you sighed, the word laced with a resignation you felt deep in your bones

“Miss me?” he joked, voice stripped of its performative edge. Just something to fill the silence.

“Uh huh, couldn’t sleep,” you rolled your eyes— took more effort than it used to, your own voice soft.

He was looking at you, shrugging, but with a quiet, unnerving focus. “I could always sing you a lullaby, try asking nicely,” Satoru chuckled, a vibrato of sound spilling against the air, smoothening into a sweet baritone, almost singsong.

“Just stick to photography, yeah? Don’t find more things to terrorise us with.” you sigh, “and put on a shirt, you weirdo.”

“Ahah,” he says, eyes sparkling with a glint of a child ready to talk about his favourite topic, before his hands picks up the tshirt lying on the couch, “you know, started photography because I was terrible at drawing.”

The admission surprised you. You stayed silent, not quite asking him to continue, but a gesture that gave him space to talk.

“I could never get the lines right. Not like you,” he gestured vaguely in the direction of your room, where your sketchbook was hidden. “A camera, it captures the truth, but it’s a liar, too. You can crop out the messy parts. You can choose the angle. You can control the narrative,” he met your eyes, “what you do? It’s the opposite. You don’t crop. You don’t hide the messy parts. You seek them out. You find the story in the scar tissue.”

Your breath caught. He understood. He truly understood what your art was about.

“You were right, I guess, ” he continued, his voice dropping, “about the two-in-one shampoo. About the pudding cups. About all of it” he let out a short, self deprecating laugh, “It’s kinda insulting, how right you’ve always been.”

Oh.

This was the side of Satoru always hidden from you. Not the arrogant asshole, but the boy who was terrible at drawing, who noticed when a gap in your teeth closed, who felt exposed not by a camera, but by a charcoal pencil.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you whispered, “for a photographer.”

A real, gentle smile touched his lips, one that unknowingly mirrors your own. He’d been doing that a lot, or you were just seeing him differently— it was becoming your favorite thing.

He pushed off the counter, but not towards the door. He took a few steps that closed the distance between you, stopping when he was far too close, the heat from his body a palpable force. The sincere smile you wore seconds ago was contorting into a nervous one. You should’ve put your hands against his chest to keep the distance, you shouldn’t have taken a step back to give him more space to cover. Now, your back was against the counter, with nowhere to retreat.

“Got a good look at it?” he asked, gaze intense and a slurry smile to pair, dropping pointedly to his own chest where the dark shape of the tattoo was now obscured by the thin cotton of his shirt.

“At what?” you deflected, crossing your arms over your chest.

His grin widened. “My ink. You were staring hard enough to burn a hole through me earlier. Couldn’t make it out, could you?”

“I wasn’t trying to, you were in my way. I was just looking at the fridge,” you lied, voice steadier than you felt.

“Uh huh,” he hummed, “it’s a secret,” he breathed, leaning in just a little closer, “but you’re an artist. You appreciate fine line work, don’t you?” his eyes scanned your face, then drifted down your body in a leisurely, appraising sweep that made your skin prickle. “You could try some as well. I think you’d suit it.”

His hand came up, and for whatever reason you’d make sense of later— you let him. He didn’t grab you, didn’t make a sudden move. He simply let his fingertips come to rest on the bare skin of your thigh, just above the hem of your shorts. The contact was a jolt of pure lightning, his skin treacherously warm against yours.

“You’re not my stylist,” you said, a sharp inhale betraying your calm tone.

“Just thinking out loud,” he murmured, his voice a low, contemplative rumble. His fingers began a slow, idle journey upwards, tracing a path along your skin. The touch was feather light, a maddening graze that sent shivers in its wake, his palm was a brand of heat as it slid higher and up the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh. “A small one. Right here,” he tapped his finger, “maybe something delicate. A trail of ivy.”

His fingers paused, his thumb brushing a slow, deliberate circle.

“Or,” he continued, aquamarine eyes darkening as they locked with yours. Then his head dipped, and you felt the soft exhalation of his breath, then the near silent brush of his lips against the hollow of your throat down to the curve of your collarbone. Your head fell back against the cabinet with a soft thud, an even softer sigh threatening to spill from your lips. “A piercing. Right here— a simple silver barbell.” His words were a vibration against your skin. “I’d feel it every time I kissed you there.”

Then he moved his head up, angling it perfectly into the crook of your neck, lips just a breath away from the sensitive akin. You fought back the urge to close your eyes shut, or to swallow. “I’ve never seen collarbone piercings before,” was all you could blurt to distract yourself from the feverish onslaught.

Satoru hummed against your skin, you can practically feel his smirk, “I could show you so much more.” he says, and the soft exhale of his breath on your neck has your body reacting in a way you didn’t think was possible, “i could give you so much more.” he continues, and you let him— daring to see how far he’d go if you let him.

A full body shudder wracked you. “You’re getting awfully ahead of yourself,” you breathed, hands gripping the edge of the counter behind you for support, and knuckles white.

“Am I?” he asked, his fingers flexing high on your thigh, pressing just a bit harder, a promise and a threat both. “I’m just appreciating . An artist considers their canvas, don’t they?” His other hand came up, not touching you, but bracing on the counter beside your hip, caging you in completely.

His gaze swept over your face, lingering on the bridge of your nose, your cheeks. “What about right here? A tattoo, a little constellation of stars,” His thumb stroked your thigh again— a slow, hypnotic rhythm. “I could connect them for you.”

“You’re insane,” you managed, voice barely a whisper now. The warmth of his palm was branding you through the thin cotton of your shorts, his proximity an intoxicating mix of expensive cologne and pure, unadulterated Satoru.

“Maybe,” he murmured, his face so close you could feel his breath ghost over your lips. His gaze dropped to your mouth, lingering there until yours parted involuntarily, “but you’re still here. You’re not running.”

He was right. You were pinned, not just by his body, but by the raw, magnetic pull of him, by the scent of his skin and the searing heat of his touch mapping your thigh.

“So,” he said, voice just a low vibration that went straight to your core, “what do you think? Feeling adventurous?”

Your mind was a blank slate, wiped clean by the sensation of his skin on yours, the phantom feel of his lips on your throat. All you could do was look up at him, your wide eyes meeting his burning blue ones, and give a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of your head. Not in denial, but in sheer, overwhelmed surrender.

A slow, triumphant smile spread across his face. “That’s what I thought.”

He didn’t move for a long moment, his hand a brand on your thigh, his gaze holding yours captive. The air crackled with everything unsaid, every unfulfilled promise his touch had made. You could feel the frantic beat of your own pulse under his palm.

Then, with a final, deliberate stroke of his thumb that made you shiver, he pulled his hand away. The cool kitchen air hit the spot he’d been warming, a sudden loss that felt like a physical ache.

He took a single step back, giving you just enough space to breathe but not enough to break the spell. His eyes, still dark with intent, crinkled at the corners.

“Think about it, Dots, maybe you could design me something new. ” he’d winked at you with a boyish charm, voice nothing but a low, intimate rumble. He turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving you leaning against the counter, your skin still buzzing from his touch, your mind racing with the phantom sensation of his hands and the imagined weight of silver against your throat.

The war was far from over, but the battlefield had just become infinitely more dangerous.

The name— Dots, the one you’ve wanted to rid yourself— didn’t feel like a jab this time. It was a key turning in a lock you’d kept sealed for over a decade.

The kitchen around you blurred, and for a dizzying second, you were eight years old again.

It was the first day of summer vacation, and the sun had already begun to paint its tiny, brown freckles across your nose and cheeks. You’d noticed them in the mirror that morning, a new sprinkling you weren’t sure you liked.

Satoru, eleven and already a giant in your eyes, had cornered you in the kitchen. He’d leaned in, his head tilted, his blue eyes sharp and dissecting.

“Whoa,” he’d gasped, voice full of a clinical, unkind curiosity. “Your face is all… dotted. Like someone flicked a paintbrush, did you?”

He’d poked your nose, hard. “You’re like a little connect-the-dots puzzle. Hey— Dots. That’s you.”

The name had stuck. For years, “Dots” was his primary weapon. “Move it, Dots.” “Hey, Dots, you’re blushing. Can’t even tell with all the… you know.”

It was a constant, cruel reminder that your face was not your own, it was a public canvas for his commentary. You’d spent years trying to scrub them away, hating the sun, mastering the art of the downward glance.

The memory shifted, sharpening into another specific agony. The Friday afternoon pudding cup ritual. Your mother bought the four packs: one for each of you. And every Friday, without fail, Satoru would steal yours.

He wouldn’t just take it. He’d perform a whole production. He’d snatch it from your hands, hold it high above his head as you jumped for it, and then eat it in three large, deliberate bites, never breaking eye contact. The final act was always the same: he’d place the empty, hollow cup back on the counter directly in front of you with a soft, definitive clink.

Suguru would always have a cup saved for you, so itt was never about the pudding. It was about the principle. It was a weekly lesson in powerlessness. A reminder that what was yours could be taken by him, consumed, and the evidence left for you to clean up.

You blinked, the memory releasing its grip. You were back in the present, your knuckles white around the glass of water. Setting the water glass down, you crossed the room and pulled the fridge door open. The bright, sterile light spilled out, illuminating the shelves.

And there they were.

Not just one or two. A full, unopened four pack of the chocolate pudding cups. Your chocolate pudding cups. They were placed neatly on the middle shelf, right at eye level, impossible to miss.

You just stared.

Was it Suguru? It had to be. It was the kind of mundane, thoughtful thing he’d do, noticing you were out of a snack and quietly replacing it. A simple, brotherly gesture.

But then your eyes traced the presentation again. They weren’t tucked away. They were centered, desplayed. It felt less like a grocery restock and more like a… presentation.

And that’s when the real conflict hit you, a dizzying car crash of past and present. Because your mind, still raw from the memory of Satoru’s smug grin as he ate your pudding, should be rebelling. But it wasn’t. Instead, it was replaying the heat of his palm on your thigh, the possessive stroke of his thumb, the low rumble of his voice suggesting constellations he could trace with his mouth.

The boy who had stolen from you was now offering. And the truly terrifying part wasn’t the audacity— it was the way your body responded. The same resentment you’d worn as armor for over a decade was melting under the memory of his searing touch. You could still feel the ghost of it, a brand that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with a shocking, undeniable pull.

He wasn’t just blurring the lines. He was systematically dismantling the entire mapping of your childhood resentment, and he wasn’t using force. He was using the memory of his proximity, the phantom sensation of his fingers and presence slithering past your defenses like smoke and leaving you unalarmed. All it left was the searing possibility that this was his way of saying: I see you differently now.

And the most frightening thought of all whispered through you: So do I.

If this was his peace offering, it was working. Because looking at those pudding cups, all you could think about was the man who put them there, and the traitorous, thrilling hope that he was as undone by this new tension as you were.

Getting a wink of sleep wasn’t possible that night.

.

.

.

Suguru’s idea of “a fun outing” was, as always, questionably sane. But a retrospective on perceptual art at the city’s modern museum was, you had to admit, a tempting distraction from the tectonic shifts happening within your own apartment.

After 30 minutes of trotting around, the trio moved through the white walled galleries, a study in contrasts. Suguru was the thoughtful observer, hands in pockets, genuinely engaging with each piece. You were the analyst, your artist’s eye dissecting technique and composition.

And Satoru… he was a critic unleashed, his commentary a lazy, brilliant torrent that was equal parts insufferable and illuminating.

You all stop before a large canvas, an optical illusion depicting a large, endless staircase. ‘ Ascension without Summit. ’

“It’s a clever trick,” Suguru muses, “but there’s no real depth.”

Satoru snorted, not even bothering to look properly. “It’s forced perspective. A cheap parlor trick. Like using a wide angle lens to make a room look bigger. Isn’t it just a flat lie?” He glanced at you, a glint in his eye. “Your brain knows it’s a dead end, but your eyes keep trying to find the focal point. It’s pathetic, really.”

“Okay, geniuses” you rolled your eyes, but a smile threatened your lips. He wasn’t wrong. “Move on to the next.”

The next piece: a vast, pristine white canvas with a single, small, red dot in the center. ‘ Cardinal. ’

Suguru sighed. “Now this is just lazy.”

“Lazy?” Satoru shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “It’s a crop. The artist just framed out everything else.” He turned his head toward you. “It’s what you do when your subject is so strong, anything else in the frame is noise. That dot? That’s the only thing in focus. The rest is just… not important. It’s like saying “I can make you stare at a red dot for 5 minutes and you’ll feel something deep.”” His eyes held yours for a moment too long. “And Sugu’s staring at the dot. So I guess it’s working.”

Your heart did a stupid, little flip. He was talking about photography, but he was talking about you. About your sketchbook, where he was the only subject in focus.

The centerpiece was next, surprisingly not crowded at all.

It stood in the middle of the room, commanding the space: a massive, perfectly polished sphere of obsidian. It was dark, profound, and reflected the entire gallery in a warped, dreamlike panorama.

‘ Narcissus’ Echo. ’

Suguru nodded, impressed. “Now this is something.”

Satoru circled it slowly, his own reflection elongating and compressing. “It’s a 360—degree fisheye lens. The worst kind. Distorts everything at the edges, makes a mess of the proportions.” He stopped, his warped image staring at your warped image. “It’s the most honest shot in the place. No retouching, no good angles. Just a raw, bad, panoramic shot of how twisted things really are.”

Suguru hummed, background noise to you. To you, moments seemed to stretch endlessly. Under normal circumstances, up until 3 days ago, you would’ve been incredibly annoyed at Satoru’s lazy dissection of art, in the way he effortlessly interprets it— arrogant genius just spilling out because there really isn’t anything he’s bad at. And he has to make an outrageous declaration of it.

But now, under these circumstances, it has simply left you awestruck.

Suguru’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it and sighed. “It’s mom. I have to take this. Don’t… touch anything.” He gave Satoru a specific, warning look before stepping away.

The moment Suguru was out of earshot, the energy shifted. The buffer was gone.

Satoru didn’t move, just kept looking at your reflection in the sphere. “See? We look like aliens. Or melted candles.” A lazy grin spread across his face in the warped stone. “Kinda suits us, don’t you think?”

“Speak for yourself,” you narrowed your eyes, though it didn’t hold its usual bite. “It’s just a warped reflection.”

“Nah,” his voice dropped, losing its teasing edge, becoming simple and direct, like weighed down by an unseen and unexplainable weight in the air that becomes evident every time you two are left alone, “it’s the shot before you fix it. This is the raw file. Everything else is just, good editing,” his eyes, in the reflection, locked onto yours. “This is what’s left when you leave it untouched.”

The air grew thicker, charged. The hushed murmurs of other patrons faded into a distant hum. There was only the sphere, and the two figures within it.

Satoru took a slow, deliberate step closer, his reflection swelling, his warped hand coming up to trace the outline of your warped cheek in the stone. You followed his movements silently,

“What would happen,” he whispered, his voice so low it was almost a vibration in the air between you, “if I touched this version of you? The one that only exists here, with me?”

You couldn’t breathe.

A direct challenge. He was asking permission without asking.

“You’re breaking the rules,” you breathed, hoping he heard the subtext you intended, “it clearly says to not touch and to keep your distance.”

A tender but dangerous, beautiful smile spread across his face in the reflection. No amount of obsidian warp could ever tarnish it,

“Hmm,” he hummed, the endearment a shock to your system, silently whispered like a scandalous secret, “think I don’t wanna care anymore.”

And then he did it.

He leaned in. Not to you, but to the sphere. With a shocking, quiet certainty, he pressed his lips to the cold, hard surface of the obsidian. He kissed the exact spot where your warped, impossible mouth was reflected.

It wasn’t a peck. It was a statement. A claim, a promise sealed not on your skin, but on a distorted image of it— a testament to his desire for the raw, unedited truth of you.

He held it for a heartbeat, then pulled back, leaving a faint cloud of his breath on the stone that briefly obscured your image.

A security guard shifted his weight by the door, his eyes narrowing.

Satoru didn’t flinch. He simply turned, shoulder brushing yours as he walked past, heading toward a bland landscape painting as if he’d already forgotten the universe shattering thing he just did.

He left you standing there, your real lips burning as if they’d been touched, the ghost of his kiss cooling on the black mirror in front of you. The challenge had been issued. And he’d left you with the silent, screaming question: what are you going to do about it?

The living room was a cathedral of quiet concentration. The golden hour light streamed in, thick and honeyed, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air like forgotten prayers. Your final project— a series of root studies exploring foundation and hidden strength— was nearly complete.

You were adding the last, microscopic textures to a gnarled oak root, your entire being poured into the tip of your charcoal pencil. This was your sanctuary, a space where you had control.

The sanctity was breached not with a sound, but with a shift in the atmosphere.

You felt him before you saw him— a change in the air pressure, a subtle warmth that had nothing to do with the sun. Satoru drifted into the room and sank onto the far end of the couch without a word, a photography book in hand. He was pretending to read, but you could feel the weight of his attention like a physical touch on the back of your neck. The silence between you was no longer empty; it was full, charged with everything left unspoken since the museum, since the pudding cups, since the shattering of your sketchbook’s privacy.

You tried to ignore him, to lose yourself in the intricate lines of your drawing. But your hand, which had always been so sure, betrayed you. The root began to curve with a familiar, arrogant sweep, its end starting to look suspiciously like the line of a jaw you knew too well.

Nah— not happening again.

“You’re sighing,” he stated, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room.

“I am not.”

“You are. It’s the little frustrated huff. You’ve done it since you were twelve and couldn’t figure out your algebra homework, “ he turned a page in his book, not looking at you, “the problem can’t be that hard.”

“The problem is the distraction,” you retorted, finally glancing at him.

He met your gaze over the top of his book, and the connection was a live wire. The easy tease in his eyes was a veneer; beneath it was something warmer, more curious. “Maybe the distraction is the point.”

He dog-eared his page— a habit you knew infuriated Suguru— and set the book aside. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and just watched you work. It wasn’t an invasion, it was an immersion. He was studying you with the same intensity you had once reserved for him.

After a long, quiet moment, he reached out and plucked a stray sheet of high quality drawing paper and a fresh charcoal pencil from your toolkit.

“Hey—”

“Relaaaaax, I’m not defacing your masterpiece.”

His voice was soft, almost a whisper. “Just… making one of my own.”

Satoru began to draw, gaze flicking between you and the paper. But he wasn’t looking at your face, not exactly. He was looking at the space around you. The silence stretched, becoming a tangible thing, woven with the sound of two sets of breathing and the twin scratches of charcoal on paper. It was the most intimate sound you had ever heard.

After what felt like an eternity, he held up his sheet.

And your breath caught.

It was a study of negative space. He had captured the perfect, empty shape framed by the curve of your shoulder and the fall of your hair. The elegant void between your arm and your waist. The air your silhouette displaced in the world. It was your presence defined not by your form, but by the emptiness you left behind. It was a confession— an acknowledgment that your absence would now be a palpable thing to him.

“See?” he said, voice hushed and reverent. “You have a shape, Dots. A specific, important shape. You’re not just there. Hard to ignore I’d say.”

The kindness, the sheer seeing in that gesture, the fragile softness of his voice and haze alike— it all undid you. It was more intimate than any touch could have been. You looked from the drawing— a testament to his perception— back to his face, and found him watching you with an expression so open it was almost painful.

You’re caught speechless. Back and forth between deciding to spur a series of snarky remarks, or say something outrageously grateful.

“I thought you said you couldn’t draw.” You settle on changing the topic.

Satoru raised his eyebrows, “Couldn’t yeah, you think I was gonna live with that?”

The smirk resurfaces. You try to hate it, but it’s just not possible anymore.

“Show me,” he murmured, his eyes dropping to the closed cover of your main sketchbook. The one that held your soul, “…please? Please.”

The “please” was his undoing, and yours. It was so un-Satoru-like in the most mundane way possible, so vulnerably sincere.

Your throat tightened. You had to say no, no matter how much he pleaded. You shook your head, a barely perceptible movement, “Not happening.”

He didn’t push, didn’t get angry. He simply accepted it, albeit with a dramatically enforced pout, a faint shadow of disappointment crossing his features before it was replaced by a new, determined softness.

“Then draw me again,” he said, voice regaining a sliver of its old playful charm, “draw me like one of your French girls.”

Satoru fucking giggled, striking an absurd, dramatic pose on the couch, eyes never losing their intense focus on you, just weighed down with a performed intensity for the pose.

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you, and he laughed along with you. A shared, tender joke.

But it died quickly under the weight of his gaze that still pressed. The tease was a gateway to something more.

He relaxed the pose, expression turning serious, his voice barely a whisper, “No, seriously. Draw what you’re scared of.”

You knew. Of course, you knew. You had drawn every part of him you could safely observe— his hands, his mouth, the vulnerable nape of his neck, the frustratingly perfect line of his back as he walked away.

But you had never, ever drawn his eyes. To do that was to admit you were drowning in them. To acknowledge that this was no longer a study, but a surrender.

Satoru saw the panic and the understanding warring in your face. He held himself perfectly still, an offering. Piercing blue eyes, usually so full of mockery and mischief— were now deep, clear pools of unwavering patience and intent.

“Go on,” he breathed, the words nothing but a soft caress in the space between you, “draw my eyes.”

He didn’t look away. He gave you everything, holding your gaze with a terrifying honesty.

“I’ll follow,” he promised.

And to you, the tension broke. I’ll follow. Two words that rewrote fifteen years of history. He was no longer the boy walking ahead; he was the man asking to be led, to be seen, to be captured by you.

With a hand that trembled, you slowly, deliberately, closed your finished project folder. You opened your sketchbook to a pristine white page. When you looked up, and his gaze was right there, waiting— deep, endless, and full of a quiet storm.

You put your charcoal to the paper. And as you began the terrifying, beautiful work of mapping the universe in his eyes, he kept his promise. His gaze remained locked on yours, following every breath, every flicker of your lashes, every subtle shift in your expression. It was the most profound silence of your life, a silent conversation more intimate than any kiss, a confession etched not in words, but in the quiet, shared act of finally, truly, seeing each other.

When the final line was drawn, you lowered your charcoal, hand trembling not from effort, but from the sheer emotional toll of the act. You had done it. You had captured his eyes— not just their shape and color, but the startling intensity within them, the focused softness he had reserved only for you in that moment.

For a long time, neither of you moved. The connection held, a taut, silent thread between your gaze and his. The world outside the living room had ceased to exist.

Slowly, ever so slowly, a smile touched his lips. It wasn’t triumphant or teasing. It was awed.

“Can I see?” he asked, voice hushed.

Your instinct was to snap the book shut, but the raw honesty in his eyes forbade it. You gave a single, shaky nod.

Satoru moved with a deliberate slowness, shifting from the couch to kneel on the floor beside you. His proximity was a wave of warmth, shoulder just a hair’s breadth from yours.

You held the sketchbook out between you.

He didn’t say a word. He just looked. His eyes scanned the page, tracing every line you had drawn of his own gaze. You saw his adam’s apple bob as he swallowed.

“Wow,” he breathed, the word full of reverence. He finally tore his eyes from the page to look at you. “You… you see this? When you look at me, you see this?”

You could only nod, your throat too tight for words, “Surely it’s not the first time someone drew your eyes.”

His gaze was a physical weight, he shook his head as if you said a really dumb thing, “It’s the first time you drew them, that’s what matters to me. No one else,” he whispered, “not even close.”

Satoru reached out, his movement infinitely slow. His fingers came to hover just beside the sketchbook, his pinky finger gently brushing against the hand that held it. The contact was a jolt of pure lightning.

“You’re shaking,” he observed, his voice low and thick.

“So are you,” you whispered back, noticing the faint tremor in his own outstretched hand.

A soft, disbelieving laugh escaped him. “Yeah,” he admitted, “I am.”

The air was so thick with unsaid things it was hard to breathe. His eyes dropped to your lips, and your to him. The pull in the air was only growing stronger, and the moment you felt the air shift with the imperceptible movement of his shoulder dipping forward, your lips parting in resigned welcome— the sharp sound of a key turning in the front door lock shattered the silence like gunfire.

You both flinched apart as if scalded. You snapped the sketchbook shut, your heart hammering. Satoru pushed himself back onto the couch, grabbing his book, the picture of nonchalance. But the faint flush on his neck betrayed him.

Suguru walked in, dropping his keys in the bowl. “Uh, what’s up? You two are quiet.”

“Just reading,” Satoru said, his voice impressively steady.

“Finishing my project,” you added at the same time, your voice embarrassingly breathy.

Suguru looked between the two of you, his brow slightly furrowed. “Uh huh, well, I’m ordering pizza. The usual?”

“Yeah,” you both chorused.

Suguru’s frown deepened slightly before he shrugged and headed for the kitchen.

The moment he was gone, your eyes met Satoru’s across the room. The intensity was still there, but now it was laced with a shared, frantic secret. He didn’t smile. He just held your gaze, and in his eyes, you saw a promise and an apology.

The moment was gone, but the shift was permanent. The slow burn was no longer a smolder, it was a flame, carefully guarded, waiting for the next gust of wind to set everything ablaze.

.

.

.

The front door clicked shut behind Suguru, leaving the apartment in a sudden, heavy silence. He had muttered something along the lines of forgetting his thesis in the library along with a string of curses before leaving. And Satoru had vanished into his room the moment the pizza boxes were empty, a retreat that felt charged, not casual. You were left alone in the living room, the ghost of his near kiss still humming on your skin.

Then you remembered— your art history paper. It was due by midnight, and you needed to print it. Suguru’s printer was out of ink. A knot of dread and something else, something thrilling, tightened in your stomach. There was only one other option.

You padded softly to his door, the hallway floor cool under your feet. You knocked, a quick, nervous rap.

“It’s open”, his voice was muffled.

You pushed the door open just enough to see him. He was sitting at his desk, back to you, scrolling through his phone. The room was surprisingly neat, dominated by the large monitor on his desk.

“Hey,” you started, your voice sounding small. “Suguru’s printer is dead. Can I…?”

Satoru swiveled in his chair, face unreadable for a second before he nodded. “Yeah. Sure. It’s all set up”, he gestured to the laptop on his desk, “password’s the same as before”

He stood, stretching, and you caught the faint, now familiar scent of his cologne. “Gonna grab a drink, knock yourself out.”

He brushed past you in the doorway, a brief, electric contact, and disappeared down the hall towards the kitchen.

The room felt different without him in it. It felt like his space, and you were an intruder. You sat in his still— warm chair, the leather sighing under your weight. Opening his laptop, typed in the ridiculous password — ‘iamthehonoured101’ — and found the printer queue. You sent your file, the soft whirring of the printer in the corner a comforting, normal sound.

As you went to close the browser, a folder icon on his desktop caught your eye. It was labeled simply, almost clinically: portfolio_new.

Curiosity, that fatal, clawing thing, got the better of you. He did it to your sketchbook, it’s fair enough.

It wasn’t cityscapes. It wasn’t wilderness. It wasn’t random memories captured with Suguru or his family.

Alright. Guess what.

It was you.

Ooookay…. Dozens, maybe hundreds of images filled the screen. Your breath is quite literally knocked out of your lungs.

This wasn’t a random collection. It was a study, a catalogue. Just like your sketchbook.

There was a series of you laughing, your head thrown back, caught in a moment of unguarded joy you didn’t even remember. Another of you focused on your sketchbook, the tip of your tongue caught between your teeth, the light from the window haloing your hair. A close-up, almost abstract shot of the freckles across your nose.

But the one that made your heart stop was the one taken from the living room couch. You were asleep, curled into a ball, your face soft and peaceful. The composition was perfect, the lighting tender. It was the photographic equivalent of your drawing of him sleeping. It was just as intimate, just as stolen.

He saw you. Not as Suguru’s little sister, or an annoyance, or a challenge. He saw the quiet moments. The peaceful ones. The beautiful ones.

The door creaked.

You slammed the laptop shut, spinning the chair around so fast you got dizzy.

Satoru stood in the doorway, holding a glass of water, his eyes flicking from your horrified face to the closed laptop and back. The casual ease from the kitchen was gone, replaced by a frozen stillness. The air was sucked from the room.

He knew. He knew exactly what you’d seen.

The parallel was perfect, devastating. You had seen his soul in your charcoal lines. He had seen yours through his lens.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t blush or look away. He just stood there, completely exposed, his secret laid bare between you. The hunter, caught in his own trap.

Slowly, he walked forward and set the glass of water down on the desk next to the laptop. His knuckles were white.

“Find what you were looking for?” he asked, voice low and rough, stripped bare of all its usual armor.

You couldn’t answer. You just stared up at him, the world tilting on its axis once more.

This time, you were both the artist and the muse. Both the thief and the treasure. And in the silent, charged space between you, the only thing that was clear was that the game was over.

Something real had begun.

The silence in his room was a physical thing, heavy and suffocating and determined to be acknowledged. You could hear the frantic beat of your own heart, a wild drum against your ribs. The images from his laptop were burned onto the back of your eyelids. Him, standing frozen in the doorway, knew it.

“Why?” the word tore out of you, sharp and broken. All the confusion of the past few weeks, the whiplash from his teasing to his tenderness, boiled over. “Why are you doing this? All those years… you were a jerk. A complete and total jerk. You called me names, you stole my puddings and ate it in front of me just to watch me get mad. You touched all my insecurities and made a joke out of them, and now… now you have a folder of pictures of me like some… some precious thing? Am I a plaything to you? Is this just a new game?”

Your voice cracked, betraying the hurt you’d carried for over a decade.

Satoru didn’t flinch, he just watched you, blue eyes dark with an emotion you couldn’t name.

Then, he took a step forward. And another. Until he was standing right in front of you, so close you could feel the heat coming off his body.

“No,” he said, his voice low and rough. “It’s not a game. It was never…”

Slowly, so slowly it made your breath catch, he raised his hand. His fingers, trembling just slightly, came up to your face. They didn’t grab, they didn’t poke. They brushed, with a shocking tenderness, across the bridge of your nose, tracing the path of your freckles.

You flinched, the old insecurity surging up. “Don’t— I know,” you whispered, turning your face away, your cheeks burning, “they’re just dots to you”

His hand stilled, then gently cupped your jaw, forcing your gaze back to his. Maybe because he couldn’t find it in him to look you in the eyes, Satoru let his head drop on your shoulder, yet the intensity there was overwhelming.

“They’re not dots,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, a flitter against your neck laced with a painful sincerity, “I was a stupid kid. A stupid, fucking kid who didn’t know the word for “constellation”, I’ve been trying to map it my entire life.”

The air left your lungs in a rush. Constellation.

You were blushing furiously now, the heat spreading down your neck. You had to fight back, to cling to the familiar ground of your resentment,

“You stole my pudding cups, my favourites,” you accused, your voice weaker now, losing its fight.

A sad, almost ashamed smile touched his lips, you felt it against your skin, the movement of his lips burning soft pecks, white tuff of hair tickling, “it was the only way I knew how to get your attention without breaking the rulesm”

Satoru raised his head up and leaned in closer, his forehead almost touching yours. His confession hung in the space between you, pathetic and profound.

“It’s really that stupid,” he murmured, his breath ghosting over your lips, “a kid, being mean to the one thing he couldn’t have. Because if I was nice… if I let myself be nice to you— I would have ruined everything. Suguru— I…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. The truth was finally out, naked and raw. All the years of cruelty, a desperate, clumsy armor for a crush he thought was forbidden.

When he lifted his gaze to finally meet yours, his other hand came up, framing your face, with a touch impossibly gentle. You were surrounded by him, by his heat, his scent, his devastating honesty. The last of your defenses crumbled mercilessly.

“You’re just an idiot,” you breathed, but there was no venom left, only a shaky, disbelieving wonder.

A real, genuine smile broke through his pained expression. “Yeah,” he agreed, his voice thick with emotion, “I know.”

And then, finally, he closed the last inch of space between you, and his lips met yours.

The kiss wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t supposed to be.

His lips were soft, yet insistent, moving against yours with a hunger that stole the air from your lungs. His lips were everywhere, surrounding your mouth with a wet warmth. It was a kiss that tasted of fifteen years of unsaid words, of stolen glances, and the bittersweet relief of a truth finally set free. A low, ragged sound vibrated in his throat, a mix of desperation and triumph.

His hands, which had been so tenderly framing your face, began to move. One slid back, his fingers tangling deep in your hair, tilting your head to a better angle, claiming you completely.

The other hand drifted down, his palm a hot brand through the fabric of your shirt, sliding from the curve of your waist to the small of your back. He pulled you flush against him, and you felt the hard, solid line of his body, the frantic beat of his heart echoing your own.

You were drowning in him. The scent of his cologne, the taste of him, the feel of his hands— it was an overload that shortcircuited every thought except one— more.

Your own hands, which had been frozen at your sides, came to life. They crept up, fists clenching in the soft cotton of his tshirt, holding on as if he were the only solid thing in a spinning world. A soft, helpless whimper escaped you, swallowed by his mouth.

He took the sound as an invitation. His tongue swept against the seam of your lips— a bold, asking stroke. You opened for him without hesitation, a final surrender.

When he broke the kiss, both of you panting, foreheads resting together. His blue eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with a sincerity that clashed starkly with his lips now swollen with sin and desire.

“See?”, Satoru breathed, voice a raw, wrecked thing. His thumb stroked over your kiss-swollen bottom lip, “Not a game. Never was, and never, ever will be.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. He leaned in again, but this time his mouth left a trail of searing, open mouthed kisses along your jaw, down the sensitive column of your throat. Hands growing bolder, the one in your hair tightened its grip, a gentle, possessive anchor. The other slid from your backside, around your hip. His fingertips brushing the sensitive skin of your lower stomach, just under the hem of your shirt. The touch was electric, a promise of things to come, and you shuddered against him, your body following his lead— yielding, wanting, finally allowing itself to feel everything it had been denied for so, so long.

Your lips are swollen from the kiss when he pulls back, breathing hard, eyes blown wide and hungry. Sweat beads at his temples, strands of his white hair sticking to his skin, but he doesn’t notice— he’s staring at you like you’re something holy. His thumb drags across your cheekbone, rough pad catching faintly on your skin, before he ducks back down and kisses you there. Then lower, along your temple, then the bridge of your nose.

His mouth lingers on every freckle like he’s making tally marks with his lips. His voice is rough when it breaks through between kisses.

“God, I used to make fun of these ’cause I didn’t know what else to do with myself,” he admits, the sound almost a growl against your skin, “couldn’t tell you I wanted to kiss them. All of them.”

The confession burns hotter than his mouth, and you whimper, hands twisting in the cotton of his shirt. The sound makes him grin— crooked, unrestrained— and he tips his forehead against yours once again, your breaths tangling into a hot mess between your lips. Then he sits back just enough to yank his shirt off, fabric sliding over his shoulders in one swift motion.

Your breath catches hard.

His chest is lean, all smooth lines of muscle, skin flushed faint pink. But your eyes are pulled elsewhere, caught fast: ink, etched across his collarbone. The tattoo you couldn’t properly see that day— a dandelion, its delicate head blowing apart like caught in a phantom wind.

Your throat tightens. The memory slams into you— summer air, your hands shoving a dandelion under his nose, an offering your innocent self made to bridge gaps, his laughter as he called it a weed and blew the seeds away. You’d never forgotten his dismissal.

But now— “You… got that?” your voice cracks.

His grin falters into something softer, almost shy. “Guess it stuck with me. I wanted to keep it, wanted to keep you.” His hand finds yours, warm and steady, guiding your palm to the tattoo. His skin is hot under your touch. He presses your hand flat against it. “Go on. Make a wish now.”

Your chest aches, but the words tangle and vanish before you can say them. He doesn’t wait— his mouth finds yours again, hungrier, urgent. This kiss tastes different: less hesitation, more claim.

You barely notice when he shifts, pushing you back against the mattress. The sheets bunch under your shoulder blades as his weight settles over you heavy and grounding.

His hands skim your sides, tentative but desperate, until they catch at the hem of your shirt. His eyes flick up, searching, dark and asking, “Tell me to stop, I will.”

Instead, you nod, heart in your throat, and lift your arms, “don’t want you to.”

Satoru drags your shirt off slowly, gaze catching like a flame on bare skin. His lips part when your bra comes into view, and his breath stutters audibly. “Fuck,” he mutters, voice thick, and almost reverent, “been dreaming about this.”

He doesn’t rush. His mouth is everywhere, covering you like worship. He maps constellations out of freckles with the drag of his lips, your collarbones, your sternum, your stomach. Every kiss sears, every brush of his mouth feels like a tentative stroke of an artist mapping his heart’s desire on his favorite canvas— and it leaves you trembling. “Gonna kiss every one,” he promises, voice muffled against your skin, “make sure you never forget how perfect you are.”

By the time he strips you fully, your nerves are frayed and your body is thrumming. Goosebumps trail in the wake of his touch. When he spreads your thighs, settling between them, the coarse hair of his legs brushes your softer skin, making you shiver. His tattoo brushes the inside of your knee as he shifts lower, lips hovering.

“Nervous?” he asks, thumb stroking your trembling hipbone.

“A little,” you admit, voice small and throat dry.

“Good.” His smirk cuts sharp, but his eyes stay soft. “Means you care. I’ll take care of you, y/n, just trust me.”

And then he lowers his head.

The first flick of his tongue has you jerking, back arching off the mattress. The sensation is molten, wetter and hotter than you’d imagined. He hums low, pleased, the vibration traveling through your cunt. His tongue works slow at first, tasting, teasing— then hungrier, lapping like he’s been waiting years.

“Fuck, you taste so sweet,” he groans into you, words hot against your skin, tongue flicking kittenish licks at your clit, “Gonna make you come on my tongue before I even fuck you baby, you want that?”

Your hands fly into his hair, gripping tight, dragging desperate sounds out of your throat. He groans when you tug, burying deeper, alternating between sucking your clit and sliding one slender finger inside. He stretches you carefully, curling them just right until your thighs spasm around his head.

He pulls back briefly, lips and chin slick with you. “Look at you,” he rasps, eyes flashing. “Never let anyone touch you before? Saving it all for me like a good girl.”

“G-Gojo—”

“Satoru,” he corrects through a mouthful of cunt, “Say it baby, say Satoru.”

“Satoru—!” you cry out when he inserts another finger in, a sweet kisses presses into your inner thigh. Satoru relishes in the sweet mess he’s making out of you.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” He thrusts his fingers deeper, curling hard until you cry out, “say my name, only mine.”

It’s too much— it’s so much more than anything you could’ve ever imagined, and not enough at the same time. You break on his mouth with a sob and a violent shudder, climax tearing through you. Your thighs tremble around his head, nails scratching his scalp, but he doesn’t let up. Satoru only groans into you, drinking everything you give until you collapse, gasping.

He doesn’t leave you a moment’s reprieve. He kisses back up your body, mouth hot and messy, tongue tangling with yours so you taste yourself on his lips. Freckles get pecked in passing, neck, jaw, cheeks, until he reaches your mouth again.

“Ready?” he murmurs, breathless, making quick work of his pants and boxers, rutting his cock against your thigh. He has your thigh thrown over his shoulder, with a tenderness that has your body resigning to him. The heat of it makes your stomach clench. He’s flushed, precum slicking the head, smearing against your skin.

You nod, but nerves flutter sharp through you. He notices instantly. His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking soft as he guides himself down. “We’ll go slow. Promise i’ll be gentle, just sit with me, yeah? let me in.”

The push is slow, agonizing. The blunt head nudges into you, stretching untested walls. Your gasp breaks sharp, nails clawing his back. Pain burns, spreading, and you cling harder.

“Breathe,” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth, then softer, dotting along your cheek, kissing every freckle he can reach, “I’ve got you baby, fuck— you’re so tight, my perfect girl.”

Your nails are digging deep into his back, and somewhere in the back of your mind you think you should apologize, but then Satoru grins with the flex of his back muscles under your touch.

He bottoms out, hips flushing to yours. He’s shaking, every muscle strung taut, but he doesn’t move. His forehead drops to yours, panting. “Tell me when, sweetheart.”

The ache melts into heat slowly, your walls clenching around him to accommodate him, and when you nod, he exhales ragged, like he’s been drowning.

The first thrust is shallow, measured. Then another, deeper. Pleasure strikes bright like stats in daylight, your moans spilling unchecked.

Satoru loses composure quickly. His voice cracks, rough with restraint and hunger. “Fuck— been waiting to ruin you for years. My girl. My sweet little virgin. No one else gets this.”

Your walls flutter, and his smirk sharpens. He grabs your wrist suddenly, pressing your palm flat against the inked dandelion over his heart. “Hold onto me, right here, don’t let go.”

He builds a rhythm— slow at first, then harder, rougher, deeper— dragging filthy words out of himself between kisses. A string of saliva connects your lips when satoru pulls back to let you breathe, “needy little thing. So fucking good for me, g’na make you cry on my cock baby”

Tears collect on your eyelashes, and Satoru feels the overwhelming urge to wipe them should they ever spill.

Your head tips back, overwhelmed, but his fingers grip your chin, forcing your gaze on him.

“Eyes on me, sweetheart. Wanna see who’s fucking you.”

You break, sobbing his name, climax snapping through you. Your body clamps around him, and he groans ragged, hips jerking. “Fuck—” he gasps, spilling himself inside you, rutting deeper and deeper as the orgasm settles.

Satoru mutters a string of curses, sighing deeply into the crook of your neck. He hasn’t even pulled out completely, too busy with peppering your skin with as many marks as he can. As if making up for the time lost in trying to restrain himself before.

After, he stays inside you, trembling, forehead resting to yours. “You okay?” he whispers, thumb brushing away a stray tear.

You nod weakly, not being able to form words in your haze.

He grins faint, smug but tender, pressing one more kiss to your nose. “Freckle count went up by twenty,” he murmurs. “Pretty sure I added them myself.”

You roll your eyes, but melt anyway when he kisses you again, the nectar of the universe tasting sweet on his lips, his snow-coloured hair becoming a beautiful disheveled mess tangled in your fingers.

You stay like that for a long time, minds taking vacation in the warmth of your bodies melding together and ghosting over you bodies like a second blanket.

It began with the small, seismic shifts in the apartment’s atmosphere.

Suguru, a man who prized peace and order, felt it first— a new frequency humming in the air, a secret language spoken in glances and accidental touches.

It started subtly. A new, unspoken game of cat and mouse began in the apartment, with Suguru as the increasingly perplexed cat.

The plan was simple: act normal. For two people whose entire relationship was built on a foundation of chaotic banter, it should have been easy.

It was not.

It started at the convenience store. The three of you were at the slurpee machine.

“Don’t tell me you’re getting that radioactive red cherry again,” Satoru said, his voice dripping with mock disdain as he positioned himself at the blue raspberry spigot.

“Rich coming from someone who likes the flavour that tastes like a cleaning product,” you shot back, your hand hovering over the cherry lever, “it’s literally the color of a sad swimming pool.”

“It’s the color of awesome,” he corrected, filling his cup with the electric blue liquid, “This has personality. Yours is just… red, basic.”

“It’s a classic! You’re basic. ”

Suguru finished paying for his black coffee and watched the two of you from near the hot dog roller, his expression unreadable, “Are you two finished? Or do you need to file formal complaints about each other’s life choices?”

You both fell silent, shooting each other one last, heated glare before turning to pay— a silent agreement to continue this cold war elsewhere.

The truce held until you were all in the car. Suguru drove, you were in the back, and Satoru, who had always been the one riding shotgun when Suguru driver, had suddenly slid into the backseat next to you, claiming the passenger seat was “getting too much sun”

It was 6pm, twilight breaking through.

For a few minutes, the only sounds were the hum of the engine and the aggressive slurping of Slurpees.

Then, Suguru’s eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror. He frowned.

“Okay,” he said, his tone casual. “Why are your tongues purple?”

The question landed in the quiet car with the subtlety of a grenade.

You and Satoru froze, straws still in your mouths. Your brains, which had been blissfully occupied with sugar and secret thigh brushing, screeched to a halt.

Satoru yanked his straw out, “Why wouldn’t it be?” he blurted out, a little too defensively.

“Yeah,” you chimed in, your voice tight, “it’s a slurpee, that’s… what they do.”

Suguru’s skeptical gaze in the mirror was sharper than a razor. “You,” he said, nodding at you, “Cherry. Red.” He then nodded at Satoru, “You. Blue Raspberry. Blue. You didn’t get a purple one. You hate each other’s flavors”

The air was sucked from the car. The truth— that you’d ducked behind a tall shelf of motor oil, grabbed the front of Satoru’s shirt, and kissed him with a desperate, sugary intensity until your individual flavors had swirled into one incriminating shade— was a physical force pressing on your chest.

“ ...so what are you suggesting…” you coughed and laughed awkwardly, completely missing the point of his deduction.

“YEAH WHAT ARE YOU SUGGESTING? IT’S NOT LIKE WE MADE OUT OR ANYTHING!!!”, Satoru added because it was obviously the right thing to say.

You turned to him with the horrified face of a person in utter disbelief.

Suguru’s eyes narrowed. He let the silence hang, thick and uncomfortable, “I wasn’t gonna suggest anything,” he said, his voice dangerously slow and deliberate.

Silence. And the synchronised sound of gulping.

Suguru’s eyebrow inched higher, “I was going to ask if you, I don’t know, finally acted like normal people and tried a sip of each other’s drinks ”, he sighed, “but you know what, I don’t really wanna know anymore”

The second incident followed shortly after. Movie night.

The dinner table feels like a battlefield. Suguru, your unwitting general, has taken his seat next to you, a bastion of obliviousness. Satoru is in the chair in front of you. The opening credits of some action movie are rolling, but you’re not seeing any of it. Your entire world has shrunk to the space under the coffee table.

Then you feel it. A nudge against your bare foot. It’s not an accident. It’s a question.

Don’t you dare, you think, curling your toes. He’s right there. Suguru is right there.

Another nudge, more insistent this time. Satoru’s big toe presses against your arch. It’s warm. A shiver runs straight up your spine. This is so stupid. This is so juvenile. Your heart is hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape. Against your better judgment, you uncurl your toes and press back.

A silent, secret war begins. A gentle press of his sole against your ankle. A retaliatory poke from your toe. He traces a lazy circle on your instep, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to stop a completely inappropriate sound from escaping. This is insane. You are losing your mind over toes. You’re so focused on the game, on the electric current running between your foot and his, that you don’t notice the movie has hit a quiet, dialogue heavy scene.

Suguru clears his throat. The sound is like a gunshot in the quiet room.

“Satoru.”

“Yeah?” Satoru’s voice is a little too casual.

“If you’re trying to give me a foot massage,” Suguru says, his eyes still glued to the screen, “you’re doing a terrible job, please fucking stop."

Oh my god. The toe that was drawing patterns on your foot freezes, then retracts so fast you feel the air move. You yank your own foot back, tucking it safely under you. The spell is shattered, replaced by a wave of pure, unadulterated mortification. He thought it was him. Satoru was massaging Suguru’s foot.

“Your feet looked… tense,” Satoru mumbles. It’s the weakest, most pathetic excuse you have ever heard in your life.

“My feet are fine,” Suguru replies, not even bothering to grant him a glance. He picks up the remote and turns the volume up, “Let me watch the movie in peace.”

You just sit there, burning up with a mixture of humiliation and a strange, giddy relief that you weren’t the one caught.

On the third day, the tension had become a physical ache. It’s a low grade hum under your skin, a constant awareness of where Satoru is in the apartment. You decide to do laundry, a suitably mundane and solitary task. You’re in the small laundry room, sorting whites from colors, the rhythmic thumping of the washer a comforting sound.

The door clicks open behind you. You don’t have to turn to know it’s him. The air changes.

“Hiding?” Satoru’s voice is soft, close.

“Working,” you correct, not turning around, focusing very hard on a sock. “It’s a novel concept. You should try it.”

He doesn’t reply. Instead, his hands settle on your hips, his touch gentle but firm. He spins you around slowly until you’re facing him, backed against the vibrating dryer. The room is small, cramped. He’s everywhere.

“Satoru,” you whisper, a warning. “Suguru is—”

“—in his room, with his noise canceling headphones on, probably listening to a podcast about the migratory patterns of arctic terns,” he finishes, his hands sliding from your hips to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, “We’re safe.”

This is a terrible idea. This is how people get caught. But his chest is solid against yours, and his eyes, in the dim laundry room light, are so, so blue. He dips his head, his nose brushing against yours. “Missed you,” he murmurs, and the words are so simple, so devastatingly honest, that all your resolve melts.

“You saw me at breakfast,” you breathe, your hands finding their way to his shoulders.

“A lifetime ago.” His lips are inches from yours.

The laundry room door swings open.

Suguru stands there, a single, lonely dress sock in his hand. He looks from Satoru’s hands on your back, to your faces, which are undoubtedly flushed and guilty, to the pile of sorted laundry.

Your pointed elbow hits hard into Satoru's ribs, with more force than intended due to the urgency of the scene. A pained yelp leaves his mouth which you ignore all too easy, "M-My shoulders are fine! I told you I didn't need any massage."

Suguru stands poker faced, pointing to the sock in his hand. He is much too tired for this, "If you find the other one, let me know."

The door clicks shut. Satoru is still coughing from pain.

By day four, Suguru was panifully exhausted.

The air in the living room was thick enough to chew, and the strategy had devolved from “subtle indifference” to “performative hostility.”

This, it turned out, was a catastrophic miscalculation.

Suguru was ensconced in his favorite armchair, a book open in his lap. He hadn’t turned a page in twenty minutes. His attention was fixed on the scene unfolding on the floor around the coffee table, where you and Satoru were engaged in a fiercely competitive game of Scrabble. Or, more accurately, a fiercely competitive performance of one.

“Taking your time, I see,” you snipped, tapping your nails on the floor. You aimed for a tone of bored impatience, but it came out shrill and overly invested.

“Genius can’t be rushed,” Satoru retorted without looking up from his letter rack. He was trying to sound aloof, but the set of his shoulders was rigid with tension.

Suguru’s eyes traveled from your strained face to Satoru’s clenched jaw, and then returned to his page. He said nothing.

Satoru, finally seeing his opening, moved and laid down his tiles: H—A—T—E. He placed the ’E’ directly on a double word score square.

“Sixteen points,” he announced, a smug, brittle smile plastered on his face. He leaned back, crossing his arms, “Let’s see you top that.” The subtext— Look how little I care about you!— was practically screaming through the room.

Your heart hammered against your ribs. This was your chance to prove your own feigned indifference. You studied your letters: S, L, O, V, E, and a blank.

A brilliant, idiotic idea bloomed in your mind. It was so clever, so perfectly a secret message hidden in plain sight.

You reached out, your fingers deliberately steady. First, you placed the S at the end of his word, turning HATE into HATES.

“Plural,” you said, your voice a low, faux saccharine purr, “multiplied effect.”

Satoru’s smug smile tightened.

Then, you began building down. Using the very same ’E’ from HATES as your starting point, you laid down L, then O, then V, and finally another E.

LOVE

The board now presented its undeniable, poetic truth. HATES, horizontally, on a double word score, directly adjacent to LOVE, vertically, the two words locked together.

You looked up, meeting Satoru’s gaze with a challenge in your eyes. “Fifteen points for ’LOVE’. Plus the eight for ’HATES’. Twenty three total.” You let a slow, cold smile spread across your lips. “You’re done, Gojo.”

For a single, suspended second, the room was silent. Satoru’s face went on a journey. The forced smugness evaporated, replaced by confusion as his brain processed the board. Your hopes of having delivered the final hook to establish animosity was crushed as you looked at the furious shade of crimson blooming on Satoru's pale cheeks, and his lips pressed to a thin, trembling line.

Seriously? He was blushing from the word LOVE on a scrabble game?

Click. The soft, precise sound of a book closing was like a gunshot in the quiet room.

Suguru didn’t sigh. He didn’t ask or say anything.

He simply placed his novel on the side table and stood up. The floorboards creaked under his weight as he walked the three paces to the coffee table.

He pointed first at HATES. Then down the vertical line of LOVE.

His eyes moved from your face, now pale with dread, to Satoru’s, which was a mask of guilty panic.

He looked at the two of you, and sucked in an exaggeratingly deep breath. You gulped and braced yourself.

“Get a room,” he said finally, voice flat and utterly drained, “I’m going for a walk. A long one.”

He didn’t wait for a response. Simply turned and grabbed his keys from the bowl by the door, muttering a simple, “And hide your hickeys properly by then, for fuck's sake”, and left.

You and Satoru sat frozen, gaping at each other like idiots. The two of you were alone, surrounded by the wreckage of your charade, the words HATES and LOVE staring up from the board as the most obvious, hilarious, and catastrophic love letter ever written.

It’s over. You both know it. The charade is too exhausting to maintain.

A giggle bubbles up in your chest, then another, and soon you’re both laughing, really laughing, the sound free and unfettered for the first time in days. Your foreheads fall together, and between the lingering warm kisses that Satoru plants on your lips, he whispers, “So I can finally sleep over in your room tonight right?

©2025 LUMIEROS — the quality of my writing was trashed towards the end ngl. the smut wasn’t really the main focus so I kept it pretty vanilla, this fic was more character driven for me.

i wrote the first draft on my phone because i’m stupid and in the three times I edited this, it went from 11k to 16k, the longest fic i’ve ever written so pls be kind slowburns are not my forte </3 also if there are any grammatical errors pls ignore cus ts had me biting my own fist with how torturous it was to edit.

[lumieros]

WANT U LIKE THAT ! ‎ ‎ — s. gojo

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ pairing . . . brother’s bestfriend! gojo x f! reader

▬▬▬ IN WHICH, Satoru Gojo has two secrets. One, it’s only his room being renovated, not his parents’s entire mansion. Two, the “annoying little sister” of his bestfriend has always been the silent, furious center of his entire universe.

Now that he’s your temporary roommate, your plan is to survive without murdering him. His plan is to ruin yours. The line between hate and something far more dangerous is as thin as the wall between your bedrooms when stolen glances and touches linger longer than intended, one obsession is traded for another, and your decade long muse is demanding to be seen as something more.

❀ contents ⦂ mdni. 16k wc. college au. slowburn. forced proximity. one-sided enemies to lovers. reader has freckles. banter. mean gojo (as a kid). artistic obsession. artist!reader and photographer!gojo. tattoos. mentions of piercings. sexual tension. whole lot of fluff. smidge of angst. eventual smut. reader is a virgin. p in v. praising, cunnilingus, unprotected sex. again, 18+ so mdni or skip the smut.

a/n ⦂ it was genuinely the most fun i’ve had in a while writing this fic, brainstorming ideas with friends at 4am & extensively searching photography & art terms, this fic is lowk the pinnacle of my skills </3 i only hope that whoever has the patience to sit through the 15k wc will enjoy the journey as much as i did !! <3

The first time Satoru Gojo breaks your heart is when you’re six and he’s nine, boy meets girl, girl means trouble— and the weapon is a dandelion.

You’d found it growing in the cracks of a pavement, a stubborn little sun against the grey. To you, it was gold. It was beautiful. And for any reason that your six years old heart couldn’t articulate but felt with every fibre of your being, you wanted him to have it.

Satoru has been Suguru’s extension for as long as you can remember. He was nine, all scabby knees and a shit-eating smirk already too sharp for his face. He was perched on your backyard wall, waiting for Suguru, looking bored.

You marched up to him in all childish innocence, the dandelion soft in your dirt smudged hands like a peace offering, “see what I found! Here!”

Satoru spared it one glance, looking down and unimpressed. He didn’t take it, “That’s a weed”, he said, with the condescending tone of a child who’s never been told he’s wrong, “it’s what left when a flower dies. It’s ugly.”

Your heart is crushed. “But—”

“You can keep that to yourself,” He doesn’t give you the time to continue. And before you could pull your hand back, he leans in and blows— a precise, sharp puff of air. The delicate dandelion seeds erupted from the stem, a white chaotic cloud scattering in the summer air and Satoru grinned, pleased with his demolition. He pointed to the few seeds stuck to your cheeks, “See? Just a weed.”

You didn’t cry. Not that he would wait around to see that either. You just held onto the empty stem in your hands, it was left as a reminder of what you meant to Satoru Gojo. The message was received as clear as he’d carved into your skin with little care. What you think is beautiful, I find worthless. What you give me, I will destroy.

It was a lesson he would spend the next decade enforcing.

Satoru was around almost every weekend, and every time he made it his life’s mission to make your life miserable. It was always Suguru and Satoru, Satoru and Suguru. They’d spend entire days building a fortress of boyhood you were never quite allowed to enter. And it was fine, you knew your brother loved you. Fighting with Satoru as a rival for Suguru’s attention was okay. It would’ve been okay if Satoru wasn’t always intent on making his presence painfully annoying and loud.

Years and years went on with the same rhythm, you may have built a tolerance to Satoru but not quite a liking. He was always the “ugly extension” of your Suguru who jabbed at your insecurities and took your things and snacks without asking and always wanted to be better at everything.

When Suguru moved away for college, he would room with Satoru. And now you were completely out of the picture.

That was okay too, in a decade you had built your own passion for art and skills that Satoru could never better even if he tried.

In your first year of college and Suguru’s last, your parents wanted to move back to the countryside, and Suguru came back to live with you. It’s been peaceful and steady. You don’t see Satoru much. They still hang out— Instagram stories and posts, gaming sessions and calls. But you’re just not bothered to keep tabs on it.

And yet, you ought to think you didn’t deserve this surprise.

The sound of the doorbell was an inconvenience. The sight of Satoru Gojo on your doorstep, all in his untouched glory— a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, that same old “better than you” grin on his face, and his parents’ sprawling estate presumably too empty for his taste.

He was taller, of course. Not just taller, now having to slightly duck his head under your doorframe, but broader. The world had stretched him out. The lanky, sharp elbowed frame you remember has filled out with a solid, confident build of a man who still believed the universe rearranged itself for his convenience. His white hair was a deliberately messy masterpiece, and his sunglasses were perched on his head, leaving those piercing, knowing blue eyes utterly unobstructed.

Satoru Gojo is at your doorstep with a duffel bag you know doesn’t belong to Suguru, there is no way he’s here to—

“Hey Dots, well, roomie, look at you,” he said, his voice a deeper, richer version of the one that had haunted your childhood, “all grown up and still frowning at me. Some things never change, huh”

He winks at you.

Dots. Yeah, he hasn’t forgotten the damn nickname. Of course he hasn’t.

Like a very Satoru Gojo thing to do, he didn’t wait for an invitation, stepped past you into the hallway, his shoulder bumping yours on purpose. He smelled like expensive cologne and arrogance.

“You’ve grown into a proper slenderman yourself,” you really can’t be bothered to hide your very annoyed smile, all the more emphasized in a mocking attempt to look welcoming.

“Ah, feisty,” he grins, throwing the bag on the couch as if he owns the place, before throwing himself too, legs sprawled out like a cat with a Cheshire grin to match. You wish he tripped, “I like it. You can finally say something without stuttering with me”

He’s asking to be punched.

“Sugu around?” He asks, looking around the place to scan, probably looking for things he can jab about.

“He’s your best friend, you tell me.”

He turns to you, and for a three seconds that his gaze falls on your mouth, you think out mouthing an insult, “Right, forgot,” he taps his glasses, “you’ve always been the prickly one, my favourite.”

The drag of syllables on the favourite has you rolling your eyes. “Can’t say the same, seriously, what are you doing here? Sugu won’t be home till night.”

“I’m your new roommate. For a few weeks.” his eyes did that scanning thing again, and you felt a ridiculous urge to cross your arms over your chest. “My place is being de-germed or something. Sugu offered sanctuary. Don’t worry, I’ll try not to track too much privilege on the carpets.”

Oh. Absolutely. Just what you were missing in your life. Can’t wait for Suguru to come home and poison his coffee.

The boy who had been nothing but a spoiled dandelion-blowing, pudding-stealing, name-calling jerk your entire childhood, is now a man still, if not more, annoying, standing in your foyer and staring at you like you’re the interesting one. You had this stinking, terrifying feeling that he was going to tear apart your life again. He’s no longer just trouble. He’s chaos wrapped in the figure of a now well built man with a pretty face and sly tongue, a thunderstorm daring to be acknowledged.

“Oh please, are your other mansions not big enough? Are all the 5 star hotels books with no place left for you? Ask them nicely and they might let you crash for free. There’s really no reason—”

You protest, because he doesn’t need to live here. He’s got every privilege one could possibly have in the palm of his hands, he doesn’t need to be here.

But of course he cuts you off, old habits die hard, “—but where’s the fun in that? Something tells me you really missed me Dots.”

He’s reminding you that he’s been keeping score, “I have a name, you jerk.” you’d rather be in any other room except with him.

Yeah. The war was on.

“Yeah, but Dots really holds the memories, doesn’t it?” His grin was all innocence, a weapon he’s mastered, “I was nine, you were six. I remember you were barely taller than my knee.” One quick shift of his gaze from your feet to your eyes again was his way of saying “you’re not anymore.”

“Yeah, I remember you had the emotional intelligence of a rock. Some things really don’t change.”

You scoff, turning away in a retreat you think was strategic. The kitchen won’t have any of his obnoxiousness. You really need some strong caffeine to accept the reality of having to share your space with him.

Satoru’s footsteps followed, a lazy confident rhythm against floorboards. He leaned in on the counter, eyeing your movements. To him, your annoyance was probably just background music.

“So,” he begins, “what does grown up Dots do for fun nowadays? Still drawing those monsters?”

Your hand stills on the mug. So he remembers them too, the “little monsters” were your first foray into character designs and he has mercilessly compared them to “blobs with emotional problems.”

“I’m an art student,” you announce, keeping your back to him, “not that you could know the difference.”

“Ouch, a direct hit”, a soft laugh follows the sound of fridge door opening, “still like your coffee tasting like depression?”

“You’re the one who puts enough sugar to put a horse to sleep, you don’t get to say anything.”

“You know how I like my coffee?” You can practically hear his grin, “Then you can make me one.”

You finally turn to him, in utter disbelief at the audacity of this tall hunk of arrogance. Satoru is holding a milk cartoon, looking pleased with himself. “I’m not making you your fucking coffee. And you don’t have to worry about mine either, how do you know that anyway”

“Suguru mention things”

The idea of Suguru casually mentioning your coffee preferences to you Satoru felt like an utter betrayal, “its none of your business.”

Satoru takes this chance to step closer, and you want to instinctively step back. But that would mean allowing him to take more space than he should be, to allow him to cower you into a corner in your house, and to hell with that.

“Not if I’m making it,” he simply takes the mug from your hands, “you’re welcome.”

He lets his fingers finger brush your knuckles, the warmth lingering treacherously on your skin.

“No thanks, I don’t wanna be poisoned.”

“You wound me.” He says with a disgustingly dramatic pout that doesn’t look ugly on him.

But you let him— watch him, stunned into silence, as he moves around your kitchen with an infuriating familiarity, scooping the grounds, pouring the water. He did it all wrong, of course— clumsy and rushed, a rich boy who’d never had to do a thing for himself. But he was trying, or he was performing the act of trying, which for Satoru was probably the same thing, you reckon.

It was an outrageous display of casual intimacy which you don’t ever remember sharing with him.

He handed you the mug, a smirk to proud to pair. It was too light.

“Uh, I think there’s a bit of coffee in your sugar.” you say flatly, taking one sip.

“It’s called flavor, Dots,” he blinked, the picture of a self proclaimed superiority, “you can thank me for introducing you to the good things in life. Sugar, for example.”

It was the dandelion all over again. He’d taken something you wanted, performed the act of giving it, but delivered a hollowed out version, stripped of what made it yours. He was re-establishing the old rules on new terrain.

You don’t throw it in his face. You don’t even sigh. For what it’s worth, at least he didn’t compromise on the caffeine.

“Good things are simple,” you take deliberate sips of the overly sweet coffee, “unadorned and unassuming, unlike your personality.”

For a fraction of a second, his smirk faltered. It was there and gone so fast that you might have imagined it, replaced by a new, more interested glint in his eyes. You hadn’t cried at six, and you wouldn’t sputter now.

Satoru leaned forward, bracing his hands on the counter on either side of you, caging you in. “You’ve gotten better at this,” he murmured, voice a low, approving hum, “I’m really liking it.”

“I didn’t do it for you” you ducked under his arm, taking the coffee with you as you walk away.

To you, he’s a ghost from your most awkward memories, but he’s wearing the face of a man who makes your heart do stupid, frantic things in your chest. And you hate every second of it. The whirlwind of confusing emotions Satoru Gojo is capable of inciting in you hasn’t changed, but you’ll make sure you won’t be the only one suffering. This isn’t a reunion, it’s an ambush. And you have the sinking, terrifying feeling that you are completely, utterly unprepared for it.

Even so, the war was on, and you drew first blood.

The next morning dawned with Suguru’s apology hanging in the air. He’d truly thought Satoru’s arrival would be a surprise. A surprise.

The word echoed in your head, a stark reminder that your brother had long forgotten your deep seated dislike for Satoru’s presence. And frankly, you’d thought you’d forgotten it, too. Out of sight, out of mind. But now he was here, a walking, talking reminder. Your new plan was simple: avoid him. Don’t engage. If he tries to push your buttons, remember Suguru’s blessing: You can hurt him in any way.

You claimed the living room as your studio, spreading your art supplies across the coffee table in a deliberate act of territorial dominance. You were working on a series of concept sketches— dark, twisted tree roots— qand needed to focus.

The focus lasted approximately seven minutes.

Satoru emerged from the guest room, his hair a spectacular mess, and beelined for the couch. He didn’t ask, just flopped down, taking up three—quarters of the space, and flipped on the TV with a blare of morning news.

You gripped your charcoal pencil tighter, “do you mind?”

“Not at all,” he said, not looking away from the screen, “make yourself at home.”

You sighed, already tired. “I am home. And working.”

“Then work.” he gestured magnanimously at the sliver of table in front of you, “Don’t let my awesome presence stifle your creativity, maybe it’ll inspire you.”

He offered his best smile, something the poets would call charming and artists like you would kill to make a muse of.

“I’m drawing roots. Dark, gnarled, parasitic things. Remind you of anyone?”

“You could be drawing me, you know,” he said, leaning back with his elbow lazily resting on the couch. “Art majors in our college pay me all the time to be their muse.” and he winks at you.

Of course they do. “You wish. I don’t have time for you right now, I’ve to finish my assignment.”

Said assignment— a series of studies on structural roots, gnarled and grounding—was failing spectacularly. Satoru was a disruptive presence, the constant rustle of his movements, the background noise of the TV, all low grade irritants.

Yet, his presence was the very thing fueling the betrayal of your own hand. The charcoal had a mind of its own, and that mind was obsessed with the loose limbed catastrophe sprawled beside you. The root on your page was beginning to curve in a dangerously familiar way, starting to look less like bark and more like the line of a collarbone. You gripped the charcoal pencil tighter, your knuckles white.

“You’re breathing too loud,” you muttered, not turning around.

The rustling stopped. The scent of his expensive cologne— a scent you could now connect to wet earth after rain and a musky softness— shifted with the air. Like everything about Satoru, it was determined to be acknowledged. You could feel his attention shift, a physical weight settling between your shoulder blades.

“I’m breathing loud?” His voice was a low, amused rumble. “You’re the one grinding your teeth. It’s like listening to gravel fight.”

You finally glanced over your shoulder, a sharp retort on your lips, and it died there.

The late sun caught him in profile, gilding the sharp line of his nose and the defiant sweep of his white hair. He had one arm draped over the back of the couch, and the position stretched his tshirt tight across a chest that was no longer that of a lanky boy, but of a man.

He was bathed in a warm luminescence. Your artist’s eye, against your will, traced the sharp cut of his shoulder blades down to the ridges of hard muscle roping the length of his biceps.

Suddenly, a memory hit you with the force of a physical blow: you, at nine, perched on the garden wall with a similar sketchbook, a crayon instead of charcoal in your hand, filled with the same, desperate desire to burn the image of a twelve year old Satoru glowing in the setting sun after a day of collecting bugs with Suguru. The familiar, aching loneliness of being the perpetual observer tightened the same, old strings of your heart.

He tilted his head, and his eyes— a shocking, crystalline blue even in the warm light— met yours. The smirk you loved to hate had melted away, replaced by a warm, unguarded smile under the sun’s magic. His gaze wasn’t teasing. It was cataloguing. It traveled from the determined set of your shoulders, down the line of your arm to your charcoal smudged fingers, then back to your face, lingering on your mouth for a heartbeat too long before finding your eyes again.

He’s looking at you the same way you just caught yourself looking at him.

The realization was a bucket of cold water. You’re not nine anymore. You’re not moved by fickle sceneries or childhood ghosts.

“You’ve changed,” he said, his voice quieter now, the lazy tease gone.

The words felt dangerously honest. “So have you,” you managed, your own voice softer than you intended. “You’re… bigger. You take up even more space now.”

A slow, real smile touched his lips. “And you’re not a little kid hiding behind Suguru’s legs anymore.” He let his head tilt back against the couch. “Confidence looks good on you, you know.”

Is that a compliment? A real one? Is Satoru Gojo even capable of that? You would have questioned him, pulled apart his words to find the hidden barb, if not for the violent buzzing of your phone on the table, shattering the moment.

Wait— what moment? There was no moment.

You flinched, grabbing it. It was your project partner. “Do not make moaning sounds, I’ll seriously end you,” you mumbled the threat, standing up too quickly and retreating to the kitchen, your heart hammering a frantic, confused rhythm against your ribs.

Satoru only threw up his hands in mock surrender, a laugh on his pretty lips, “promises, promises.”

You silently thanked your project partner for calling at the right time, the weird, unwelcome tension in your stomach from just moments before already starting to diffuse. It wasn’t worth the attention, you told yourself firmly. He’s not worth the attention.

.

.

.

Satoru waited until he heard the low murmur of your voice from the kitchen. Then he moved.

He was at your spot in three silent slides, his eyes falling to the open sketchbook. He expected the roots, or the same original character designs. Something abstract, or just the structural anatomy of a dandelion. He knew whatever you’d draw, it was your way of holding onto it.

He did not expect to see his own jawline emerging from the tangle of one, or the unmistakable curve of his shoulder blended into the trunk of another. He absolutely did not expect to see a series of questionable angles of his mouth and lips twisting, the moment before a smirk, the subtle bump on his lower lip from a fall as a child. #Catalogue of Annoyances.

It wasn’t a typical collection of handsome portraits. It was a dissection.

He did not expect himself, even as the last thing he’d ever see in your sketchbook.

But the most damning thing was the hand— his hand, the one with the scar— a series of movements rendered with such painstaking, intimate detail that it felt less like a drawing and more like a caress.

The scar over his knuckle from a fight with an older boy he’d won at the cost of a bruised lip. From the precise length of his thumb next to his index finger, to the subtelity of his other hand caressing the ring on his thumb— a habit he remembers in rare moments of caffeinated anxiety. The way his pinky finger bends from when he broke it playing basketball.

Then the next page, a full page drawing.

You had captured the precise way his white hair fell over his collar, the subtle, vulnerable dip of his head, the faint, almost invisible sunburn from a day spent outside a week ago. The detail was so intimate it felt like a violation. This wasn’t a drawing done from a few feet away; this was the view of someone who had spent a lifetime walking behind him.

Scrawled in the corner was a caption: “Figure 11: The Unseen Atlas.”

This was the view you’d had for over a decade. Him, walking ahead with Suguru, always turned away, always moving forward while you trailed behind. You hadn’t been drawing his face because you’d rarely seen it directed at you with any real, unguarded attention. You had been drawing his retreating form, the symbol of his constant, careless exclusion.

And you could’ve drawn anything in the world. But it’s him. It’s really him. In a way he would’ve

never expected to be mesmerized by anyone.

Satoru Gojo is used to being observed and admired and desired. He’s been a muse many times before.

What he’s not used to is feeling so seen. So mercilessly stripped of every defense and exposed like a hand drawn moment caught in time.

He was so absorbed in the violation, in the feeling on pressed old pages filled with him, he didn’t hear you return.

“What are you doing?!”

Your voice was sharp with panic. He jerked upright, spinning to face you. And for the first time in his life, Satoru was caught completely off guard. There was no smirk, no smooth recovery. His eyes were wide, his lips slightly parted. A faint, unmistakable flush crept up his neck, staining his pale cheeks a soft, rosy pink.

You surged forward and snatched the sketchbook from the table, clutching it to your chest like a shield. The panic on your face mirrored the shock on his.

The two of you stood there, frozen in a silent standoff. The air was thick with the unsaid again. He just stared at you, his blush deepening, the usual arsenal of wit and arrogance completely failing him. He looked… young. Awkward. And for the first time ever, you held all the power in a room with him, and it was terrifying.

“I—” he started, then stopped, running a hand through his hair. “you— you see that?”

“See what?” you deflected a little too fast, your voice tight.

“The scar. The way my finger bends.” He gestured vaguely, still flustered.

You hugged the sketchbook tighter, your own face heating. “It’s an artist’s job to see things.”

He was quiet for a long moment, just looking at you, the blush slowly receding but the soft, stunned expression remaining. The dynamic had fractured. The teasing god had been rendered human, and he was looking at you like you were the deity.

Finally, he let out a slow breath, and a small, genuine smile touched his lips— nothing like his usual razor edged grins. This was softer, much warmer.

“Been that obsessed with me?”

Curse that wretched mouth of his.

“Please, this was time pass. Just a way to fill up the empty pages. As an artist, you have to be able to draw the ugly too, if you wanna get better at drawing the good.”

You lay your defenses. Satoru Gojo will not get a rise out of you from now on. Not over your own passion. Your own art.

“Hehe,” a painfully childish laugh, “you know,” he said, his voice soft, almost wondering, “when you were fourteen, you used to bite the end of your paintbrush when you were thinking. You had this tiny little gap between your front teeth back then. It’s gone now.” He gestured to his own teeth. “I noticed when it closed up.”

“So what,” you said that faster than you intended. Satoru shakes his head.

The admission was so quiet, so unexpected, it stole the air from your lungs. He hadn’t just been teasing you all those years. He’d been watching, noting and remembering.

You didn’t know how to deal with this version of him. The one who blushed. The one who admitted to paying attention.

He seemed to gather himself then, the moment of raw vulnerability passing. He shoved his hands in his pockets and took a step back, giving you space. The tease returned to his eyes, but it was different now. Softer. Acknowledging the new ground between you.

“Guess we’ve both been paying a little too much attention, Dots.”

Then he does the only decent thing he’s ever done for you.

He leaves you alone to give you space.

Satoru has struck back in this war.

Suguru, in his eternal, misguided role as peacemaker, declared a “family trip” to the bulk mart. “It’ll be fun!” he said, a man living in delusions. But he truly meant no harm and all peace.

The embarrassment hasn’t left the air for you. It wasn’t the sharp, defensive kind you felt with the sketchbook. This was a slow, creeping warmth, a feeling of being utterly and painfully seen. A feeling of being utterly and painfully seen.

And as you walked the aisles, the reality of your sketches hit you with a new, terrifying force. For years, drawing him had been your outlet. A safe, silent way to process the confusing storm of feelings he stirred in you— the resentment for how he made you feel small, the desperate, aching want for him to really see you, not as Suguru’s little sister, but as you. The crayon, then the charcoal, and the paper— all were a barrier, a way to hold the unattainable Satoru Gojo at a safe distance while secretly pulling him closer.

Now, that barrier was gone.

Every time he reached for a high shelf, your mind supplied the memory of sketching the exact line of his arm. When he laughed at something Suguru said, you remembered the careful study you’d done of the way his eyes crinkled. He was no longer an abstract subject. He was a living, breathing man, and your secret, clinical observations now felt like an intimate invasion.

You had documented him, and in doing so, you had confessed everything.

“You’re quiet,” Satoru noted, falling into step beside you as Suguru debated paper towel brands ahead. His voice was low, for your ears only.

“Just thinking,” you mumbled, focusing intently on a pallet of canned beans.

“About the structural integrity of kidney beans?” he teased, “or about how you know the exact number of freckles on the back of my neck?”

You stumbled, your shoulder bumping into a tower of soup cans. He caught your elbow with a grip, firm and steadying. The contact was electric, a jolt that went straight to your core. You yanked your arm back.

“I don’t,” you lied, your voice tight, eyes absolutely refusing to meet his.

“You do,” he said softly, a tone you’d previously call mocking if you couldn’t distinguish the fondness behind it. “Page fourteen, bottom right corner. A study of the nape of my neck, titled ’Figure 19: Sun Exposure.’ You even counted them. It was seventeen.”

“Oh my god, shut up,” you say through gritted teeth, hoping the edge in your voice will keep his attention away from the red heat crawling on your cheeks now, “you’re wasting oxygen. Some miserable tree out there is making up for it with its life.”

Satoru chuckled, running his pinched finger and thumb over his lips in a gesture of zipping up, would’ve been cute if you didn’t feel so murderous.

You weren’t just embarrassed that he’d seen the sketches. You were exposed because he understood what they meant. They weren’t just drawings. They were a diary of your obsession, and he was reading it aloud.

Suguru came back then, holding two different giant packs of toilet paper. “Okay, which one is the better deal? Satoru, you’re the math genius.”

Satoru didn’t look away from you. A slow, soft smile, one that held no mockery, spread across his face. Ugh, painfully dashing.

“You know what, Sugu,” he said, his eyes still locked on yours, “I think I’m all out of genius today. Let’s just get both.”

He finally broke his gaze, turning to your brother, but the moment lingered. You stood there, surrounded by the mundane reality of a grocery store, feeling more seen and vulnerable than you ever had in your life. The outlet was gone. The barrier was broken. And you had no idea what to do now that the boy you’d always drawn from a distance was standing right in front of you, seeing right through you.

Suguru, noticing your complete silence and the deep blush that had been burning on your cheeks this whole time, finally looked properly concerned. “Hey,” he said, his voice gentle. “Are you feeling okay? You look… really embarrassed. Did he say something to you?”

Before you could even open your mouth to deny it, Satoru leaned in closer. His expression shifted from that soft understanding back to pure, unadulterated cockiness, his eyes glinting with the thrill of the chase.

“Yeah, Dots,” he repeated, his voice a low, challenging tease that was meant for you and you alone. “You embarrassed?”

The white haired freak was gonna torture you for the rest of his days.

.

.

.

The car ride home from the mart was silent. Suguru, sensing the strange new energy but misinterpreting it as a successful truce, hummed along to the radio. Must be nice living in a world of rainbows.

You stared out the window, the ghost of Satoru’s words— “you even counted them. It was seventeen”— echoing in your mind.

He didn’t try to engage you. He just sat in the passenger seat, occasionally glancing at you in the rearview mirror. Each time your eyes would meet for a fractured second before you both looked away, the air in the car growing heavier and electrified.

Back at the apartment, the dynamic had irrevocably shifted. The war was over, the scales tipped unfavourably to one side. But no peace treaty had been signed. You existed in a state of tense, hyper aware coexistence.

Later that night, you found yourself drifting back to the kitchen, pulled by a primal need for a glass of water— or maybe just a moment of quiet in the dark, a few square feet of space that didn’t feel charged with his new, overwhelming presence.

And of course, by some divine, cruel joke, your plan to avoid him shattered instantly. Because he was there. Of course he was.

Leaning against the counter as if he’d been waiting, a half empty glass of water in his hand. And he was shirtless. The sight was so absurdly Satoru that you froze in the doorway, your tired brain shortcircuiting. The pale expanse of his torso was a stark landmark in the dark, and you hated the way your eyes, against your will, traced the line of his shoulder, the dip of his collarbone, the way his sweatpants sat low on his hips.

In the faint glow of the fluorescent light from the refrigerator which, Satoru, of course, had not closed, you could make out the inked patterns just below the curve of his collarbones. You could get a better look and see what it really is if you stepped a few paces closer to him, but you absolutely do not want to do that.

You could try narrowing your eyes in hopes of a better vision, but then again, why would you want to do that and give him something to poke you with again?

A sound of pure exasperation escaped you, “Ugh”

He turned, the movement fluid. A flicker of genuine surprise lit his features before it was smoothed over by that familiar, infuriating amusement. You forced your gaze to remain fixed on a point just past his shoulder, refusing to let it wander.

“Jumpscare,” you said, your voice flat.

His signature grin was a little slower in the quiet dark, a little less sharp. “Enjoying the view?”

You just wanted your water. It was too late for witty comebacks or sharp tongued defenses. He wouldn’t take you seriously anyway, he’d just twist it, turning your annoyance into a game you didn’t know how to play. The thought of it sent a confusing, unwelcome thrill through you that you were too tired to confront.

“Yeah, sure,” you sighed, the word laced with a resignation you felt deep in your bones

“Miss me?” he joked, voice stripped of its performative edge. Just something to fill the silence.

“Uh huh, couldn’t sleep,” you rolled your eyes— took more effort than it used to, your own voice soft.

He was looking at you, shrugging, but with a quiet, unnerving focus. “I could always sing you a lullaby, try asking nicely,” Satoru chuckled, a vibrato of sound spilling against the air, smoothening into a sweet baritone, almost singsong.

“Just stick to photography, yeah? Don’t find more things to terrorise us with.” you sigh, “and put on a shirt, you weirdo.”

“Ahah,” he says, eyes sparkling with a glint of a child ready to talk about his favourite topic, before his hands picks up the tshirt lying on the couch, “you know, started photography because I was terrible at drawing.”

The admission surprised you. You stayed silent, not quite asking him to continue, but a gesture that gave him space to talk.

“I could never get the lines right. Not like you,” he gestured vaguely in the direction of your room, where your sketchbook was hidden. “A camera, it captures the truth, but it’s a liar, too. You can crop out the messy parts. You can choose the angle. You can control the narrative,” he met your eyes, “what you do? It’s the opposite. You don’t crop. You don’t hide the messy parts. You seek them out. You find the story in the scar tissue.”

Your breath caught. He understood. He truly understood what your art was about.

“You were right, I guess, ” he continued, his voice dropping, “about the two-in-one shampoo. About the pudding cups. About all of it” he let out a short, self deprecating laugh, “It’s kinda insulting, how right you’ve always been.”

Oh.

This was the side of Satoru always hidden from you. Not the arrogant asshole, but the boy who was terrible at drawing, who noticed when a gap in your teeth closed, who felt exposed not by a camera, but by a charcoal pencil.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you whispered, “for a photographer.”

A real, gentle smile touched his lips, one that unknowingly mirrors your own. He’d been doing that a lot, or you were just seeing him differently— it was becoming your favorite thing.

He pushed off the counter, but not towards the door. He took a few steps that closed the distance between you, stopping when he was far too close, the heat from his body a palpable force. The sincere smile you wore seconds ago was contorting into a nervous one. You should’ve put your hands against his chest to keep the distance, you shouldn’t have taken a step back to give him more space to cover. Now, your back was against the counter, with nowhere to retreat.

“Got a good look at it?” he asked, gaze intense and a slurry smile to pair, dropping pointedly to his own chest where the dark shape of the tattoo was now obscured by the thin cotton of his shirt.

“At what?” you deflected, crossing your arms over your chest.

His grin widened. “My ink. You were staring hard enough to burn a hole through me earlier. Couldn’t make it out, could you?”

“I wasn’t trying to, you were in my way. I was just looking at the fridge,” you lied, voice steadier than you felt.

“Uh huh,” he hummed, “it’s a secret,” he breathed, leaning in just a little closer, “but you’re an artist. You appreciate fine line work, don’t you?” his eyes scanned your face, then drifted down your body in a leisurely, appraising sweep that made your skin prickle. “You could try some as well. I think you’d suit it.”

His hand came up, and for whatever reason you’d make sense of later— you let him. He didn’t grab you, didn’t make a sudden move. He simply let his fingertips come to rest on the bare skin of your thigh, just above the hem of your shorts. The contact was a jolt of pure lightning, his skin treacherously warm against yours.

“You’re not my stylist,” you said, a sharp inhale betraying your calm tone.

“Just thinking out loud,” he murmured, his voice a low, contemplative rumble. His fingers began a slow, idle journey upwards, tracing a path along your skin. The touch was feather light, a maddening graze that sent shivers in its wake, his palm was a brand of heat as it slid higher and up the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh. “A small one. Right here,” he tapped his finger, “maybe something delicate. A trail of ivy.”

His fingers paused, his thumb brushing a slow, deliberate circle.

“Or,” he continued, aquamarine eyes darkening as they locked with yours. Then his head dipped, and you felt the soft exhalation of his breath, then the near silent brush of his lips against the hollow of your throat down to the curve of your collarbone. Your head fell back against the cabinet with a soft thud, an even softer sigh threatening to spill from your lips. “A piercing. Right here— a simple silver barbell.” His words were a vibration against your skin. “I’d feel it every time I kissed you there.”

Then he moved his head up, angling it perfectly into the crook of your neck, lips just a breath away from the sensitive akin. You fought back the urge to close your eyes shut, or to swallow. “I’ve never seen collarbone piercings before,” was all you could blurt to distract yourself from the feverish onslaught.

Satoru hummed against your skin, you can practically feel his smirk, “I could show you so much more.” he says, and the soft exhale of his breath on your neck has your body reacting in a way you didn’t think was possible, “i could give you so much more.” he continues, and you let him— daring to see how far he’d go if you let him.

A full body shudder wracked you. “You’re getting awfully ahead of yourself,” you breathed, hands gripping the edge of the counter behind you for support, and knuckles white.

“Am I?” he asked, his fingers flexing high on your thigh, pressing just a bit harder, a promise and a threat both. “I’m just appreciating . An artist considers their canvas, don’t they?” His other hand came up, not touching you, but bracing on the counter beside your hip, caging you in completely.

His gaze swept over your face, lingering on the bridge of your nose, your cheeks. “What about right here? A tattoo, a little constellation of stars,” His thumb stroked your thigh again— a slow, hypnotic rhythm. “I could connect them for you.”

“You’re insane,” you managed, voice barely a whisper now. The warmth of his palm was branding you through the thin cotton of your shorts, his proximity an intoxicating mix of expensive cologne and pure, unadulterated Satoru.

“Maybe,” he murmured, his face so close you could feel his breath ghost over your lips. His gaze dropped to your mouth, lingering there until yours parted involuntarily, “but you’re still here. You’re not running.”

He was right. You were pinned, not just by his body, but by the raw, magnetic pull of him, by the scent of his skin and the searing heat of his touch mapping your thigh.

“So,” he said, voice just a low vibration that went straight to your core, “what do you think? Feeling adventurous?”

Your mind was a blank slate, wiped clean by the sensation of his skin on yours, the phantom feel of his lips on your throat. All you could do was look up at him, your wide eyes meeting his burning blue ones, and give a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of your head. Not in denial, but in sheer, overwhelmed surrender.

A slow, triumphant smile spread across his face. “That’s what I thought.”

He didn’t move for a long moment, his hand a brand on your thigh, his gaze holding yours captive. The air crackled with everything unsaid, every unfulfilled promise his touch had made. You could feel the frantic beat of your own pulse under his palm.

Then, with a final, deliberate stroke of his thumb that made you shiver, he pulled his hand away. The cool kitchen air hit the spot he’d been warming, a sudden loss that felt like a physical ache.

He took a single step back, giving you just enough space to breathe but not enough to break the spell. His eyes, still dark with intent, crinkled at the corners.

“Think about it, Dots, maybe you could design me something new. ” he’d winked at you with a boyish charm, voice nothing but a low, intimate rumble. He turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving you leaning against the counter, your skin still buzzing from his touch, your mind racing with the phantom sensation of his hands and the imagined weight of silver against your throat.

The war was far from over, but the battlefield had just become infinitely more dangerous.

The name— Dots, the one you’ve wanted to rid yourself— didn’t feel like a jab this time. It was a key turning in a lock you’d kept sealed for over a decade.

The kitchen around you blurred, and for a dizzying second, you were eight years old again.

It was the first day of summer vacation, and the sun had already begun to paint its tiny, brown freckles across your nose and cheeks. You’d noticed them in the mirror that morning, a new sprinkling you weren’t sure you liked.

Satoru, eleven and already a giant in your eyes, had cornered you in the kitchen. He’d leaned in, his head tilted, his blue eyes sharp and dissecting.

“Whoa,” he’d gasped, voice full of a clinical, unkind curiosity. “Your face is all… dotted. Like someone flicked a paintbrush, did you?”

He’d poked your nose, hard. “You’re like a little connect-the-dots puzzle. Hey— Dots. That’s you.”

The name had stuck. For years, “Dots” was his primary weapon. “Move it, Dots.” “Hey, Dots, you’re blushing. Can’t even tell with all the… you know.”

It was a constant, cruel reminder that your face was not your own, it was a public canvas for his commentary. You’d spent years trying to scrub them away, hating the sun, mastering the art of the downward glance.

The memory shifted, sharpening into another specific agony. The Friday afternoon pudding cup ritual. Your mother bought the four packs: one for each of you. And every Friday, without fail, Satoru would steal yours.

He wouldn’t just take it. He’d perform a whole production. He’d snatch it from your hands, hold it high above his head as you jumped for it, and then eat it in three large, deliberate bites, never breaking eye contact. The final act was always the same: he’d place the empty, hollow cup back on the counter directly in front of you with a soft, definitive clink.

Suguru would always have a cup saved for you, so itt was never about the pudding. It was about the principle. It was a weekly lesson in powerlessness. A reminder that what was yours could be taken by him, consumed, and the evidence left for you to clean up.

You blinked, the memory releasing its grip. You were back in the present, your knuckles white around the glass of water. Setting the water glass down, you crossed the room and pulled the fridge door open. The bright, sterile light spilled out, illuminating the shelves.

And there they were.

Not just one or two. A full, unopened four pack of the chocolate pudding cups. Your chocolate pudding cups. They were placed neatly on the middle shelf, right at eye level, impossible to miss.

You just stared.

Was it Suguru? It had to be. It was the kind of mundane, thoughtful thing he’d do, noticing you were out of a snack and quietly replacing it. A simple, brotherly gesture.

But then your eyes traced the presentation again. They weren’t tucked away. They were centered, desplayed. It felt less like a grocery restock and more like a… presentation.

And that’s when the real conflict hit you, a dizzying car crash of past and present. Because your mind, still raw from the memory of Satoru’s smug grin as he ate your pudding, should be rebelling. But it wasn’t. Instead, it was replaying the heat of his palm on your thigh, the possessive stroke of his thumb, the low rumble of his voice suggesting constellations he could trace with his mouth.

The boy who had stolen from you was now offering. And the truly terrifying part wasn’t the audacity— it was the way your body responded. The same resentment you’d worn as armor for over a decade was melting under the memory of his searing touch. You could still feel the ghost of it, a brand that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with a shocking, undeniable pull.

He wasn’t just blurring the lines. He was systematically dismantling the entire mapping of your childhood resentment, and he wasn’t using force. He was using the memory of his proximity, the phantom sensation of his fingers and presence slithering past your defenses like smoke and leaving you unalarmed. All it left was the searing possibility that this was his way of saying: I see you differently now.

And the most frightening thought of all whispered through you: So do I.

If this was his peace offering, it was working. Because looking at those pudding cups, all you could think about was the man who put them there, and the traitorous, thrilling hope that he was as undone by this new tension as you were.

Getting a wink of sleep wasn’t possible that night.

.

.

.

Suguru’s idea of “a fun outing” was, as always, questionably sane. But a retrospective on perceptual art at the city’s modern museum was, you had to admit, a tempting distraction from the tectonic shifts happening within your own apartment.

After 30 minutes of trotting around, the trio moved through the white walled galleries, a study in contrasts. Suguru was the thoughtful observer, hands in pockets, genuinely engaging with each piece. You were the analyst, your artist’s eye dissecting technique and composition.

And Satoru… he was a critic unleashed, his commentary a lazy, brilliant torrent that was equal parts insufferable and illuminating.

You all stop before a large canvas, an optical illusion depicting a large, endless staircase. ‘ Ascension without Summit. ’

“It’s a clever trick,” Suguru muses, “but there’s no real depth.”

Satoru snorted, not even bothering to look properly. “It’s forced perspective. A cheap parlor trick. Like using a wide angle lens to make a room look bigger. Isn’t it just a flat lie?” He glanced at you, a glint in his eye. “Your brain knows it’s a dead end, but your eyes keep trying to find the focal point. It’s pathetic, really.”

“Okay, geniuses” you rolled your eyes, but a smile threatened your lips. He wasn’t wrong. “Move on to the next.”

The next piece: a vast, pristine white canvas with a single, small, red dot in the center. ‘ Cardinal. ’

Suguru sighed. “Now this is just lazy.”

“Lazy?” Satoru shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “It’s a crop. The artist just framed out everything else.” He turned his head toward you. “It’s what you do when your subject is so strong, anything else in the frame is noise. That dot? That’s the only thing in focus. The rest is just… not important. It’s like saying “I can make you stare at a red dot for 5 minutes and you’ll feel something deep.”” His eyes held yours for a moment too long. “And Sugu’s staring at the dot. So I guess it’s working.”

Your heart did a stupid, little flip. He was talking about photography, but he was talking about you. About your sketchbook, where he was the only subject in focus.

The centerpiece was next, surprisingly not crowded at all.

It stood in the middle of the room, commanding the space: a massive, perfectly polished sphere of obsidian. It was dark, profound, and reflected the entire gallery in a warped, dreamlike panorama.

‘ Narcissus’ Echo. ’

Suguru nodded, impressed. “Now this is something.”

Satoru circled it slowly, his own reflection elongating and compressing. “It’s a 360—degree fisheye lens. The worst kind. Distorts everything at the edges, makes a mess of the proportions.” He stopped, his warped image staring at your warped image. “It’s the most honest shot in the place. No retouching, no good angles. Just a raw, bad, panoramic shot of how twisted things really are.”

Suguru hummed, background noise to you. To you, moments seemed to stretch endlessly. Under normal circumstances, up until 3 days ago, you would’ve been incredibly annoyed at Satoru’s lazy dissection of art, in the way he effortlessly interprets it— arrogant genius just spilling out because there really isn’t anything he’s bad at. And he has to make an outrageous declaration of it.

But now, under these circumstances, it has simply left you awestruck.

Suguru’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it and sighed. “It’s mom. I have to take this. Don’t… touch anything.” He gave Satoru a specific, warning look before stepping away.

The moment Suguru was out of earshot, the energy shifted. The buffer was gone.

Satoru didn’t move, just kept looking at your reflection in the sphere. “See? We look like aliens. Or melted candles.” A lazy grin spread across his face in the warped stone. “Kinda suits us, don’t you think?”

“Speak for yourself,” you narrowed your eyes, though it didn’t hold its usual bite. “It’s just a warped reflection.”

“Nah,” his voice dropped, losing its teasing edge, becoming simple and direct, like weighed down by an unseen and unexplainable weight in the air that becomes evident every time you two are left alone, “it’s the shot before you fix it. This is the raw file. Everything else is just, good editing,” his eyes, in the reflection, locked onto yours. “This is what’s left when you leave it untouched.”

The air grew thicker, charged. The hushed murmurs of other patrons faded into a distant hum. There was only the sphere, and the two figures within it.

Satoru took a slow, deliberate step closer, his reflection swelling, his warped hand coming up to trace the outline of your warped cheek in the stone. You followed his movements silently,

“What would happen,” he whispered, his voice so low it was almost a vibration in the air between you, “if I touched this version of you? The one that only exists here, with me?”

You couldn’t breathe.

A direct challenge. He was asking permission without asking.

“You’re breaking the rules,” you breathed, hoping he heard the subtext you intended, “it clearly says to not touch and to keep your distance.”

A tender but dangerous, beautiful smile spread across his face in the reflection. No amount of obsidian warp could ever tarnish it,

“Hmm,” he hummed, the endearment a shock to your system, silently whispered like a scandalous secret, “think I don’t wanna care anymore.”

And then he did it.

He leaned in. Not to you, but to the sphere. With a shocking, quiet certainty, he pressed his lips to the cold, hard surface of the obsidian. He kissed the exact spot where your warped, impossible mouth was reflected.

It wasn’t a peck. It was a statement. A claim, a promise sealed not on your skin, but on a distorted image of it— a testament to his desire for the raw, unedited truth of you.

He held it for a heartbeat, then pulled back, leaving a faint cloud of his breath on the stone that briefly obscured your image.

A security guard shifted his weight by the door, his eyes narrowing.

Satoru didn’t flinch. He simply turned, shoulder brushing yours as he walked past, heading toward a bland landscape painting as if he’d already forgotten the universe shattering thing he just did.

He left you standing there, your real lips burning as if they’d been touched, the ghost of his kiss cooling on the black mirror in front of you. The challenge had been issued. And he’d left you with the silent, screaming question: what are you going to do about it?

The living room was a cathedral of quiet concentration. The golden hour light streamed in, thick and honeyed, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air like forgotten prayers. Your final project— a series of root studies exploring foundation and hidden strength— was nearly complete.

You were adding the last, microscopic textures to a gnarled oak root, your entire being poured into the tip of your charcoal pencil. This was your sanctuary, a space where you had control.

The sanctity was breached not with a sound, but with a shift in the atmosphere.

You felt him before you saw him— a change in the air pressure, a subtle warmth that had nothing to do with the sun. Satoru drifted into the room and sank onto the far end of the couch without a word, a photography book in hand. He was pretending to read, but you could feel the weight of his attention like a physical touch on the back of your neck. The silence between you was no longer empty; it was full, charged with everything left unspoken since the museum, since the pudding cups, since the shattering of your sketchbook’s privacy.

You tried to ignore him, to lose yourself in the intricate lines of your drawing. But your hand, which had always been so sure, betrayed you. The root began to curve with a familiar, arrogant sweep, its end starting to look suspiciously like the line of a jaw you knew too well.

Nah— not happening again.

“You’re sighing,” he stated, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room.

“I am not.”

“You are. It’s the little frustrated huff. You’ve done it since you were twelve and couldn’t figure out your algebra homework, “ he turned a page in his book, not looking at you, “the problem can’t be that hard.”

“The problem is the distraction,” you retorted, finally glancing at him.

He met your gaze over the top of his book, and the connection was a live wire. The easy tease in his eyes was a veneer; beneath it was something warmer, more curious. “Maybe the distraction is the point.”

He dog-eared his page— a habit you knew infuriated Suguru— and set the book aside. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and just watched you work. It wasn’t an invasion, it was an immersion. He was studying you with the same intensity you had once reserved for him.

After a long, quiet moment, he reached out and plucked a stray sheet of high quality drawing paper and a fresh charcoal pencil from your toolkit.

“Hey—”

“Relaaaaax, I’m not defacing your masterpiece.”

His voice was soft, almost a whisper. “Just… making one of my own.”

Satoru began to draw, gaze flicking between you and the paper. But he wasn’t looking at your face, not exactly. He was looking at the space around you. The silence stretched, becoming a tangible thing, woven with the sound of two sets of breathing and the twin scratches of charcoal on paper. It was the most intimate sound you had ever heard.

After what felt like an eternity, he held up his sheet.

And your breath caught.

It was a study of negative space. He had captured the perfect, empty shape framed by the curve of your shoulder and the fall of your hair. The elegant void between your arm and your waist. The air your silhouette displaced in the world. It was your presence defined not by your form, but by the emptiness you left behind. It was a confession— an acknowledgment that your absence would now be a palpable thing to him.

“See?” he said, voice hushed and reverent. “You have a shape, Dots. A specific, important shape. You’re not just there. Hard to ignore I’d say.”

The kindness, the sheer seeing in that gesture, the fragile softness of his voice and haze alike— it all undid you. It was more intimate than any touch could have been. You looked from the drawing— a testament to his perception— back to his face, and found him watching you with an expression so open it was almost painful.

You’re caught speechless. Back and forth between deciding to spur a series of snarky remarks, or say something outrageously grateful.

“I thought you said you couldn’t draw.” You settle on changing the topic.

Satoru raised his eyebrows, “Couldn’t yeah, you think I was gonna live with that?”

The smirk resurfaces. You try to hate it, but it’s just not possible anymore.

“Show me,” he murmured, his eyes dropping to the closed cover of your main sketchbook. The one that held your soul, “…please? Please.”

The “please” was his undoing, and yours. It was so un-Satoru-like in the most mundane way possible, so vulnerably sincere.

Your throat tightened. You had to say no, no matter how much he pleaded. You shook your head, a barely perceptible movement, “Not happening.”

He didn’t push, didn’t get angry. He simply accepted it, albeit with a dramatically enforced pout, a faint shadow of disappointment crossing his features before it was replaced by a new, determined softness.

“Then draw me again,” he said, voice regaining a sliver of its old playful charm, “draw me like one of your French girls.”

Satoru fucking giggled, striking an absurd, dramatic pose on the couch, eyes never losing their intense focus on you, just weighed down with a performed intensity for the pose.

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you, and he laughed along with you. A shared, tender joke.

But it died quickly under the weight of his gaze that still pressed. The tease was a gateway to something more.

He relaxed the pose, expression turning serious, his voice barely a whisper, “No, seriously. Draw what you’re scared of.”

You knew. Of course, you knew. You had drawn every part of him you could safely observe— his hands, his mouth, the vulnerable nape of his neck, the frustratingly perfect line of his back as he walked away.

But you had never, ever drawn his eyes. To do that was to admit you were drowning in them. To acknowledge that this was no longer a study, but a surrender.

Satoru saw the panic and the understanding warring in your face. He held himself perfectly still, an offering. Piercing blue eyes, usually so full of mockery and mischief— were now deep, clear pools of unwavering patience and intent.

“Go on,” he breathed, the words nothing but a soft caress in the space between you, “draw my eyes.”

He didn’t look away. He gave you everything, holding your gaze with a terrifying honesty.

“I’ll follow,” he promised.

And to you, the tension broke. I’ll follow. Two words that rewrote fifteen years of history. He was no longer the boy walking ahead; he was the man asking to be led, to be seen, to be captured by you.

With a hand that trembled, you slowly, deliberately, closed your finished project folder. You opened your sketchbook to a pristine white page. When you looked up, and his gaze was right there, waiting— deep, endless, and full of a quiet storm.

You put your charcoal to the paper. And as you began the terrifying, beautiful work of mapping the universe in his eyes, he kept his promise. His gaze remained locked on yours, following every breath, every flicker of your lashes, every subtle shift in your expression. It was the most profound silence of your life, a silent conversation more intimate than any kiss, a confession etched not in words, but in the quiet, shared act of finally, truly, seeing each other.

When the final line was drawn, you lowered your charcoal, hand trembling not from effort, but from the sheer emotional toll of the act. You had done it. You had captured his eyes— not just their shape and color, but the startling intensity within them, the focused softness he had reserved only for you in that moment.

For a long time, neither of you moved. The connection held, a taut, silent thread between your gaze and his. The world outside the living room had ceased to exist.

Slowly, ever so slowly, a smile touched his lips. It wasn’t triumphant or teasing. It was awed.

“Can I see?” he asked, voice hushed.

Your instinct was to snap the book shut, but the raw honesty in his eyes forbade it. You gave a single, shaky nod.

Satoru moved with a deliberate slowness, shifting from the couch to kneel on the floor beside you. His proximity was a wave of warmth, shoulder just a hair’s breadth from yours.

You held the sketchbook out between you.

He didn’t say a word. He just looked. His eyes scanned the page, tracing every line you had drawn of his own gaze. You saw his adam’s apple bob as he swallowed.

“Wow,” he breathed, the word full of reverence. He finally tore his eyes from the page to look at you. “You… you see this? When you look at me, you see this?”

You could only nod, your throat too tight for words, “Surely it’s not the first time someone drew your eyes.”

His gaze was a physical weight, he shook his head as if you said a really dumb thing, “It’s the first time you drew them, that’s what matters to me. No one else,” he whispered, “not even close.”

Satoru reached out, his movement infinitely slow. His fingers came to hover just beside the sketchbook, his pinky finger gently brushing against the hand that held it. The contact was a jolt of pure lightning.

“You’re shaking,” he observed, his voice low and thick.

“So are you,” you whispered back, noticing the faint tremor in his own outstretched hand.

A soft, disbelieving laugh escaped him. “Yeah,” he admitted, “I am.”

The air was so thick with unsaid things it was hard to breathe. His eyes dropped to your lips, and your to him. The pull in the air was only growing stronger, and the moment you felt the air shift with the imperceptible movement of his shoulder dipping forward, your lips parting in resigned welcome— the sharp sound of a key turning in the front door lock shattered the silence like gunfire.

You both flinched apart as if scalded. You snapped the sketchbook shut, your heart hammering. Satoru pushed himself back onto the couch, grabbing his book, the picture of nonchalance. But the faint flush on his neck betrayed him.

Suguru walked in, dropping his keys in the bowl. “Uh, what’s up? You two are quiet.”

“Just reading,” Satoru said, his voice impressively steady.

“Finishing my project,” you added at the same time, your voice embarrassingly breathy.

Suguru looked between the two of you, his brow slightly furrowed. “Uh huh, well, I’m ordering pizza. The usual?”

“Yeah,” you both chorused.

Suguru’s frown deepened slightly before he shrugged and headed for the kitchen.

The moment he was gone, your eyes met Satoru’s across the room. The intensity was still there, but now it was laced with a shared, frantic secret. He didn’t smile. He just held your gaze, and in his eyes, you saw a promise and an apology.

The moment was gone, but the shift was permanent. The slow burn was no longer a smolder, it was a flame, carefully guarded, waiting for the next gust of wind to set everything ablaze.

.

.

.

The front door clicked shut behind Suguru, leaving the apartment in a sudden, heavy silence. He had muttered something along the lines of forgetting his thesis in the library along with a string of curses before leaving. And Satoru had vanished into his room the moment the pizza boxes were empty, a retreat that felt charged, not casual. You were left alone in the living room, the ghost of his near kiss still humming on your skin.

Then you remembered— your art history paper. It was due by midnight, and you needed to print it. Suguru’s printer was out of ink. A knot of dread and something else, something thrilling, tightened in your stomach. There was only one other option.

You padded softly to his door, the hallway floor cool under your feet. You knocked, a quick, nervous rap.

“It’s open”, his voice was muffled.

You pushed the door open just enough to see him. He was sitting at his desk, back to you, scrolling through his phone. The room was surprisingly neat, dominated by the large monitor on his desk.

“Hey,” you started, your voice sounding small. “Suguru’s printer is dead. Can I…?”

Satoru swiveled in his chair, face unreadable for a second before he nodded. “Yeah. Sure. It’s all set up”, he gestured to the laptop on his desk, “password’s the same as before”

He stood, stretching, and you caught the faint, now familiar scent of his cologne. “Gonna grab a drink, knock yourself out.”

He brushed past you in the doorway, a brief, electric contact, and disappeared down the hall towards the kitchen.

The room felt different without him in it. It felt like his space, and you were an intruder. You sat in his still— warm chair, the leather sighing under your weight. Opening his laptop, typed in the ridiculous password — ‘iamthehonoured101’ — and found the printer queue. You sent your file, the soft whirring of the printer in the corner a comforting, normal sound.

As you went to close the browser, a folder icon on his desktop caught your eye. It was labeled simply, almost clinically: portfolio_new.

Curiosity, that fatal, clawing thing, got the better of you. He did it to your sketchbook, it’s fair enough.

It wasn’t cityscapes. It wasn’t wilderness. It wasn’t random memories captured with Suguru or his family.

Alright. Guess what.

It was you.

Ooookay…. Dozens, maybe hundreds of images filled the screen. Your breath is quite literally knocked out of your lungs.

This wasn’t a random collection. It was a study, a catalogue. Just like your sketchbook.

There was a series of you laughing, your head thrown back, caught in a moment of unguarded joy you didn’t even remember. Another of you focused on your sketchbook, the tip of your tongue caught between your teeth, the light from the window haloing your hair. A close-up, almost abstract shot of the freckles across your nose.

But the one that made your heart stop was the one taken from the living room couch. You were asleep, curled into a ball, your face soft and peaceful. The composition was perfect, the lighting tender. It was the photographic equivalent of your drawing of him sleeping. It was just as intimate, just as stolen.

He saw you. Not as Suguru’s little sister, or an annoyance, or a challenge. He saw the quiet moments. The peaceful ones. The beautiful ones.

The door creaked.

You slammed the laptop shut, spinning the chair around so fast you got dizzy.

Satoru stood in the doorway, holding a glass of water, his eyes flicking from your horrified face to the closed laptop and back. The casual ease from the kitchen was gone, replaced by a frozen stillness. The air was sucked from the room.

He knew. He knew exactly what you’d seen.

The parallel was perfect, devastating. You had seen his soul in your charcoal lines. He had seen yours through his lens.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t blush or look away. He just stood there, completely exposed, his secret laid bare between you. The hunter, caught in his own trap.

Slowly, he walked forward and set the glass of water down on the desk next to the laptop. His knuckles were white.

“Find what you were looking for?” he asked, voice low and rough, stripped bare of all its usual armor.

You couldn’t answer. You just stared up at him, the world tilting on its axis once more.

This time, you were both the artist and the muse. Both the thief and the treasure. And in the silent, charged space between you, the only thing that was clear was that the game was over.

Something real had begun.

The silence in his room was a physical thing, heavy and suffocating and determined to be acknowledged. You could hear the frantic beat of your own heart, a wild drum against your ribs. The images from his laptop were burned onto the back of your eyelids. Him, standing frozen in the doorway, knew it.

“Why?” the word tore out of you, sharp and broken. All the confusion of the past few weeks, the whiplash from his teasing to his tenderness, boiled over. “Why are you doing this? All those years… you were a jerk. A complete and total jerk. You called me names, you stole my puddings and ate it in front of me just to watch me get mad. You touched all my insecurities and made a joke out of them, and now… now you have a folder of pictures of me like some… some precious thing? Am I a plaything to you? Is this just a new game?”

Your voice cracked, betraying the hurt you’d carried for over a decade.

Satoru didn’t flinch, he just watched you, blue eyes dark with an emotion you couldn’t name.

Then, he took a step forward. And another. Until he was standing right in front of you, so close you could feel the heat coming off his body.

“No,” he said, his voice low and rough. “It’s not a game. It was never…”

Slowly, so slowly it made your breath catch, he raised his hand. His fingers, trembling just slightly, came up to your face. They didn’t grab, they didn’t poke. They brushed, with a shocking tenderness, across the bridge of your nose, tracing the path of your freckles.

You flinched, the old insecurity surging up. “Don’t— I know,” you whispered, turning your face away, your cheeks burning, “they’re just dots to you”

His hand stilled, then gently cupped your jaw, forcing your gaze back to his. Maybe because he couldn’t find it in him to look you in the eyes, Satoru let his head drop on your shoulder, yet the intensity there was overwhelming.

“They’re not dots,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, a flitter against your neck laced with a painful sincerity, “I was a stupid kid. A stupid, fucking kid who didn’t know the word for “constellation”, I’ve been trying to map it my entire life.”

The air left your lungs in a rush. Constellation.

You were blushing furiously now, the heat spreading down your neck. You had to fight back, to cling to the familiar ground of your resentment,

“You stole my pudding cups, my favourites,” you accused, your voice weaker now, losing its fight.

A sad, almost ashamed smile touched his lips, you felt it against your skin, the movement of his lips burning soft pecks, white tuff of hair tickling, “it was the only way I knew how to get your attention without breaking the rulesm”

Satoru raised his head up and leaned in closer, his forehead almost touching yours. His confession hung in the space between you, pathetic and profound.

“It’s really that stupid,” he murmured, his breath ghosting over your lips, “a kid, being mean to the one thing he couldn’t have. Because if I was nice… if I let myself be nice to you— I would have ruined everything. Suguru— I…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. The truth was finally out, naked and raw. All the years of cruelty, a desperate, clumsy armor for a crush he thought was forbidden.

When he lifted his gaze to finally meet yours, his other hand came up, framing your face, with a touch impossibly gentle. You were surrounded by him, by his heat, his scent, his devastating honesty. The last of your defenses crumbled mercilessly.

“You’re just an idiot,” you breathed, but there was no venom left, only a shaky, disbelieving wonder.

A real, genuine smile broke through his pained expression. “Yeah,” he agreed, his voice thick with emotion, “I know.”

And then, finally, he closed the last inch of space between you, and his lips met yours.

The kiss wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t supposed to be.

His lips were soft, yet insistent, moving against yours with a hunger that stole the air from your lungs. His lips were everywhere, surrounding your mouth with a wet warmth. It was a kiss that tasted of fifteen years of unsaid words, of stolen glances, and the bittersweet relief of a truth finally set free. A low, ragged sound vibrated in his throat, a mix of desperation and triumph.

His hands, which had been so tenderly framing your face, began to move. One slid back, his fingers tangling deep in your hair, tilting your head to a better angle, claiming you completely.

The other hand drifted down, his palm a hot brand through the fabric of your shirt, sliding from the curve of your waist to the small of your back. He pulled you flush against him, and you felt the hard, solid line of his body, the frantic beat of his heart echoing your own.

You were drowning in him. The scent of his cologne, the taste of him, the feel of his hands— it was an overload that shortcircuited every thought except one— more.

Your own hands, which had been frozen at your sides, came to life. They crept up, fists clenching in the soft cotton of his tshirt, holding on as if he were the only solid thing in a spinning world. A soft, helpless whimper escaped you, swallowed by his mouth.

He took the sound as an invitation. His tongue swept against the seam of your lips— a bold, asking stroke. You opened for him without hesitation, a final surrender.

When he broke the kiss, both of you panting, foreheads resting together. His blue eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with a sincerity that clashed starkly with his lips now swollen with sin and desire.

“See?”, Satoru breathed, voice a raw, wrecked thing. His thumb stroked over your kiss-swollen bottom lip, “Not a game. Never was, and never, ever will be.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. He leaned in again, but this time his mouth left a trail of searing, open mouthed kisses along your jaw, down the sensitive column of your throat. Hands growing bolder, the one in your hair tightened its grip, a gentle, possessive anchor. The other slid from your backside, around your hip. His fingertips brushing the sensitive skin of your lower stomach, just under the hem of your shirt. The touch was electric, a promise of things to come, and you shuddered against him, your body following his lead— yielding, wanting, finally allowing itself to feel everything it had been denied for so, so long.

Your lips are swollen from the kiss when he pulls back, breathing hard, eyes blown wide and hungry. Sweat beads at his temples, strands of his white hair sticking to his skin, but he doesn’t notice— he’s staring at you like you’re something holy. His thumb drags across your cheekbone, rough pad catching faintly on your skin, before he ducks back down and kisses you there. Then lower, along your temple, then the bridge of your nose.

His mouth lingers on every freckle like he’s making tally marks with his lips. His voice is rough when it breaks through between kisses.

“God, I used to make fun of these ’cause I didn’t know what else to do with myself,” he admits, the sound almost a growl against your skin, “couldn’t tell you I wanted to kiss them. All of them.”

The confession burns hotter than his mouth, and you whimper, hands twisting in the cotton of his shirt. The sound makes him grin— crooked, unrestrained— and he tips his forehead against yours once again, your breaths tangling into a hot mess between your lips. Then he sits back just enough to yank his shirt off, fabric sliding over his shoulders in one swift motion.

Your breath catches hard.

His chest is lean, all smooth lines of muscle, skin flushed faint pink. But your eyes are pulled elsewhere, caught fast: ink, etched across his collarbone. The tattoo you couldn’t properly see that day— a dandelion, its delicate head blowing apart like caught in a phantom wind.

Your throat tightens. The memory slams into you— summer air, your hands shoving a dandelion under his nose, an offering your innocent self made to bridge gaps, his laughter as he called it a weed and blew the seeds away. You’d never forgotten his dismissal.

But now— “You… got that?” your voice cracks.

His grin falters into something softer, almost shy. “Guess it stuck with me. I wanted to keep it, wanted to keep you.” His hand finds yours, warm and steady, guiding your palm to the tattoo. His skin is hot under your touch. He presses your hand flat against it. “Go on. Make a wish now.”

Your chest aches, but the words tangle and vanish before you can say them. He doesn’t wait— his mouth finds yours again, hungrier, urgent. This kiss tastes different: less hesitation, more claim.

You barely notice when he shifts, pushing you back against the mattress. The sheets bunch under your shoulder blades as his weight settles over you heavy and grounding.

His hands skim your sides, tentative but desperate, until they catch at the hem of your shirt. His eyes flick up, searching, dark and asking, “Tell me to stop, I will.”

Instead, you nod, heart in your throat, and lift your arms, “don’t want you to.”

Satoru drags your shirt off slowly, gaze catching like a flame on bare skin. His lips part when your bra comes into view, and his breath stutters audibly. “Fuck,” he mutters, voice thick, and almost reverent, “been dreaming about this.”

He doesn’t rush. His mouth is everywhere, covering you like worship. He maps constellations out of freckles with the drag of his lips, your collarbones, your sternum, your stomach. Every kiss sears, every brush of his mouth feels like a tentative stroke of an artist mapping his heart’s desire on his favorite canvas— and it leaves you trembling. “Gonna kiss every one,” he promises, voice muffled against your skin, “make sure you never forget how perfect you are.”

By the time he strips you fully, your nerves are frayed and your body is thrumming. Goosebumps trail in the wake of his touch. When he spreads your thighs, settling between them, the coarse hair of his legs brushes your softer skin, making you shiver. His tattoo brushes the inside of your knee as he shifts lower, lips hovering.

“Nervous?” he asks, thumb stroking your trembling hipbone.

“A little,” you admit, voice small and throat dry.

“Good.” His smirk cuts sharp, but his eyes stay soft. “Means you care. I’ll take care of you, y/n, just trust me.”

And then he lowers his head.

The first flick of his tongue has you jerking, back arching off the mattress. The sensation is molten, wetter and hotter than you’d imagined. He hums low, pleased, the vibration traveling through your cunt. His tongue works slow at first, tasting, teasing— then hungrier, lapping like he’s been waiting years.

“Fuck, you taste so sweet,” he groans into you, words hot against your skin, tongue flicking kittenish licks at your clit, “Gonna make you come on my tongue before I even fuck you baby, you want that?”

Your hands fly into his hair, gripping tight, dragging desperate sounds out of your throat. He groans when you tug, burying deeper, alternating between sucking your clit and sliding one slender finger inside. He stretches you carefully, curling them just right until your thighs spasm around his head.

He pulls back briefly, lips and chin slick with you. “Look at you,” he rasps, eyes flashing. “Never let anyone touch you before? Saving it all for me like a good girl.”

“G-Gojo—”

“Satoru,” he corrects through a mouthful of cunt, “Say it baby, say Satoru.”

“Satoru—!” you cry out when he inserts another finger in, a sweet kisses presses into your inner thigh. Satoru relishes in the sweet mess he’s making out of you.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” He thrusts his fingers deeper, curling hard until you cry out, “say my name, only mine.”

It’s too much— it’s so much more than anything you could’ve ever imagined, and not enough at the same time. You break on his mouth with a sob and a violent shudder, climax tearing through you. Your thighs tremble around his head, nails scratching his scalp, but he doesn’t let up. Satoru only groans into you, drinking everything you give until you collapse, gasping.

He doesn’t leave you a moment’s reprieve. He kisses back up your body, mouth hot and messy, tongue tangling with yours so you taste yourself on his lips. Freckles get pecked in passing, neck, jaw, cheeks, until he reaches your mouth again.

“Ready?” he murmurs, breathless, making quick work of his pants and boxers, rutting his cock against your thigh. He has your thigh thrown over his shoulder, with a tenderness that has your body resigning to him. The heat of it makes your stomach clench. He’s flushed, precum slicking the head, smearing against your skin.

You nod, but nerves flutter sharp through you. He notices instantly. His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking soft as he guides himself down. “We’ll go slow. Promise i’ll be gentle, just sit with me, yeah? let me in.”

The push is slow, agonizing. The blunt head nudges into you, stretching untested walls. Your gasp breaks sharp, nails clawing his back. Pain burns, spreading, and you cling harder.

“Breathe,” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth, then softer, dotting along your cheek, kissing every freckle he can reach, “I’ve got you baby, fuck— you’re so tight, my perfect girl.”

Your nails are digging deep into his back, and somewhere in the back of your mind you think you should apologize, but then Satoru grins with the flex of his back muscles under your touch.

He bottoms out, hips flushing to yours. He’s shaking, every muscle strung taut, but he doesn’t move. His forehead drops to yours, panting. “Tell me when, sweetheart.”

The ache melts into heat slowly, your walls clenching around him to accommodate him, and when you nod, he exhales ragged, like he’s been drowning.

The first thrust is shallow, measured. Then another, deeper. Pleasure strikes bright like stats in daylight, your moans spilling unchecked.

Satoru loses composure quickly. His voice cracks, rough with restraint and hunger. “Fuck— been waiting to ruin you for years. My girl. My sweet little virgin. No one else gets this.”

Your walls flutter, and his smirk sharpens. He grabs your wrist suddenly, pressing your palm flat against the inked dandelion over his heart. “Hold onto me, right here, don’t let go.”

He builds a rhythm— slow at first, then harder, rougher, deeper— dragging filthy words out of himself between kisses. A string of saliva connects your lips when satoru pulls back to let you breathe, “needy little thing. So fucking good for me, g’na make you cry on my cock baby”

Tears collect on your eyelashes, and Satoru feels the overwhelming urge to wipe them should they ever spill.

Your head tips back, overwhelmed, but his fingers grip your chin, forcing your gaze on him.

“Eyes on me, sweetheart. Wanna see who’s fucking you.”

You break, sobbing his name, climax snapping through you. Your body clamps around him, and he groans ragged, hips jerking. “Fuck—” he gasps, spilling himself inside you, rutting deeper and deeper as the orgasm settles.

Satoru mutters a string of curses, sighing deeply into the crook of your neck. He hasn’t even pulled out completely, too busy with peppering your skin with as many marks as he can. As if making up for the time lost in trying to restrain himself before.

After, he stays inside you, trembling, forehead resting to yours. “You okay?” he whispers, thumb brushing away a stray tear.

You nod weakly, not being able to form words in your haze.

He grins faint, smug but tender, pressing one more kiss to your nose. “Freckle count went up by twenty,” he murmurs. “Pretty sure I added them myself.”

You roll your eyes, but melt anyway when he kisses you again, the nectar of the universe tasting sweet on his lips, his snow-coloured hair becoming a beautiful disheveled mess tangled in your fingers.

You stay like that for a long time, minds taking vacation in the warmth of your bodies melding together and ghosting over you bodies like a second blanket.

It began with the small, seismic shifts in the apartment’s atmosphere.

Suguru, a man who prized peace and order, felt it first— a new frequency humming in the air, a secret language spoken in glances and accidental touches.

It started subtly. A new, unspoken game of cat and mouse began in the apartment, with Suguru as the increasingly perplexed cat.

The plan was simple: act normal. For two people whose entire relationship was built on a foundation of chaotic banter, it should have been easy.

It was not.

It started at the convenience store. The three of you were at the slurpee machine.

“Don’t tell me you’re getting that radioactive red cherry again,” Satoru said, his voice dripping with mock disdain as he positioned himself at the blue raspberry spigot.

“Rich coming from someone who likes the flavour that tastes like a cleaning product,” you shot back, your hand hovering over the cherry lever, “it’s literally the color of a sad swimming pool.”

“It’s the color of awesome,” he corrected, filling his cup with the electric blue liquid, “This has personality. Yours is just… red, basic.”

“It’s a classic! You’re basic. ”

Suguru finished paying for his black coffee and watched the two of you from near the hot dog roller, his expression unreadable, “Are you two finished? Or do you need to file formal complaints about each other’s life choices?”

You both fell silent, shooting each other one last, heated glare before turning to pay— a silent agreement to continue this cold war elsewhere.

The truce held until you were all in the car. Suguru drove, you were in the back, and Satoru, who had always been the one riding shotgun when Suguru driver, had suddenly slid into the backseat next to you, claiming the passenger seat was “getting too much sun”

It was 6pm, twilight breaking through.

For a few minutes, the only sounds were the hum of the engine and the aggressive slurping of Slurpees.

Then, Suguru’s eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror. He frowned.

“Okay,” he said, his tone casual. “Why are your tongues purple?”

The question landed in the quiet car with the subtlety of a grenade.

You and Satoru froze, straws still in your mouths. Your brains, which had been blissfully occupied with sugar and secret thigh brushing, screeched to a halt.

Satoru yanked his straw out, “Why wouldn’t it be?” he blurted out, a little too defensively.

“Yeah,” you chimed in, your voice tight, “it’s a slurpee, that’s… what they do.”

Suguru’s skeptical gaze in the mirror was sharper than a razor. “You,” he said, nodding at you, “Cherry. Red.” He then nodded at Satoru, “You. Blue Raspberry. Blue. You didn’t get a purple one. You hate each other’s flavors”

The air was sucked from the car. The truth— that you’d ducked behind a tall shelf of motor oil, grabbed the front of Satoru’s shirt, and kissed him with a desperate, sugary intensity until your individual flavors had swirled into one incriminating shade— was a physical force pressing on your chest.

“ ...so what are you suggesting…” you coughed and laughed awkwardly, completely missing the point of his deduction.

“YEAH WHAT ARE YOU SUGGESTING? IT’S NOT LIKE WE MADE OUT OR ANYTHING!!!”, Satoru added because it was obviously the right thing to say.

You turned to him with the horrified face of a person in utter disbelief.

Suguru’s eyes narrowed. He let the silence hang, thick and uncomfortable, “I wasn’t gonna suggest anything,” he said, his voice dangerously slow and deliberate.

Silence. And the synchronised sound of gulping.

Suguru’s eyebrow inched higher, “I was going to ask if you, I don’t know, finally acted like normal people and tried a sip of each other’s drinks ”, he sighed, “but you know what, I don’t really wanna know anymore”

The second incident followed shortly after. Movie night.

The dinner table feels like a battlefield. Suguru, your unwitting general, has taken his seat next to you, a bastion of obliviousness. Satoru is in the chair The opening credits of some action movie are rolling, but you’re not seeing any of it. Your entire world has shrunk to the space under the coffee table.

Then you feel it. A nudge against your bare foot. It’s not an accident. It’s a question.

Don’t you dare, you think, curling your toes. He’s right there. Suguru is right there.

Another nudge, more insistent this time. Satoru’s big toe presses against your arch. It’s warm. A shiver runs straight up your spine. This is so stupid. This is so juvenile. Your heart is hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape. Against your better judgment, you uncurl your toes and press back.

A silent, secret war begins. A gentle press of his sole against your ankle. A retaliatory poke from your toe. He traces a lazy circle on your instep, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to stop a completely inappropriate sound from escaping. This is insane. You are losing your mind over toes. You’re so focused on the game, on the electric current running between your foot and his, that you don’t notice the movie has hit a quiet, dialogue heavy scene.

Suguru clears his throat. The sound is like a gunshot in the quiet room.

“Satoru.”

“Yeah?” Satoru’s voice is a little too casual.

“If you’re trying to give me a foot massage,” Suguru says, his eyes still glued to the screen, “you’re doing a terrible job, please fucking stop."

Oh my god. The toe that was drawing patterns on your foot freezes, then retracts so fast you feel the air move. You yank your own foot back, tucking it safely under you. The spell is shattered, replaced by a wave of pure, unadulterated mortification. He thought it was him. Satoru was massaging Suguru’s foot.

“Your feet looked… tense,” Satoru mumbles. It’s the weakest, most pathetic excuse you have ever heard in your life.

“My feet are fine,” Suguru replies, not even bothering to grant him a glance. He picks up the remote and turns the volume up, “Let me watch the movie in peace.”

You just sit there, burning up with a mixture of humiliation and a strange, giddy relief that you weren’t the one caught.

On the third day, the tension had become a physical ache. It’s a low grade hum under your skin, a constant awareness of where Satoru is in the apartment. You decide to do laundry, a suitably mundane and solitary task. You’re in the small laundry room, sorting whites from colors, the rhythmic thumping of the washer a comforting sound.

The door clicks open behind you. You don’t have to turn to know it’s him. The air changes.

“Hiding?” Satoru’s voice is soft, close.

“Working,” you correct, not turning around, focusing very hard on a sock. “It’s a novel concept. You should try it.”

He doesn’t reply. Instead, his hands settle on your hips, his touch gentle but firm. He spins you around slowly until you’re facing him, backed against the vibrating dryer. The room is small, cramped. He’s everywhere.

“Satoru,” you whisper, a warning. “Suguru is—”

“—in his room, with his noise canceling headphones on, probably listening to a podcast about the migratory patterns of arctic terns,” he finishes, his hands sliding from your hips to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, “We’re safe.”

This is a terrible idea. This is how people get caught. But his chest is solid against yours, and his eyes, in the dim laundry room light, are so, so blue. He dips his head, his nose brushing against yours. “Missed you,” he murmurs, and the words are so simple, so devastatingly honest, that all your resolve melts.

“You saw me at breakfast,” you breathe, your hands finding their way to his shoulders.

“A lifetime ago.” His lips are inches from yours.

The laundry room door swings open.

Suguru stands there, a single, lonely dress sock in his hand. He looks from Satoru’s hands on your back, to your faces, which are undoubtedly flushed and guilty, to the pile of sorted laundry.

Your pointed elbow hits hard into Satoru's ribs, with more force than intended due to the urgency of the scene. A pained yelp leaves his mouth which you ignore all too easy, "M-My shoulders are fine! I told you I didn't need any massage."

Suguru stands poker faced, pointing to the sock in his hand. He is much too tired for this, "If you find the other one, let me know."

The door clicks shut. Satoru is still coughing from pain.

By day four, Suguru was panifully exhausted.

The air in the living room was thick enough to chew, and the strategy had devolved from “subtle indifference” to “performative hostility.”

This, it turned out, was a catastrophic miscalculation.

Suguru was ensconced in his favorite armchair, a book open in his lap. He hadn’t turned a page in twenty minutes. His attention was fixed on the scene unfolding on the floor around the coffee table, where you and Satoru were engaged in a fiercely competitive game of Scrabble. Or, more accurately, a fiercely competitive performance of one.

“Taking your time, I see,” you snipped, tapping your nails on the floor. You aimed for a tone of bored impatience, but it came out shrill and overly invested.

“Genius can’t be rushed,” Satoru retorted without looking up from his letter rack. He was trying to sound aloof, but the set of his shoulders was rigid with tension.

Suguru’s eyes traveled from your strained face to Satoru’s clenched jaw, and then returned to his page. He said nothing.

Satoru, finally seeing his opening, moved and laid down his tiles: H—A—T—E. He placed the ’E’ directly on a double word score square.

“Sixteen points,” he announced, a smug, brittle smile plastered on his face. He leaned back, crossing his arms, “Let’s see you top that.” The subtext— Look how little I care about you!— was practically screaming through the room.

Your heart hammered against your ribs. This was your chance to prove your own feigned indifference. You studied your letters: S, L, O, V, E, and a blank.

A brilliant, idiotic idea bloomed in your mind. It was so clever, so perfectly a secret message hidden in plain sight.

You reached out, your fingers deliberately steady. First, you placed the S at the end of his word, turning HATE into HATES.

“Plural,” you said, your voice a low, faux saccharine purr, “multiplied effect.”

Satoru’s smug smile tightened.

Then, you began building down. Using the very same ’E’ from HATES as your starting point, you laid down L, then O, then V, and finally another E.

LOVE

The board now presented its undeniable, poetic truth. HATES, horizontally, on a double word score, directly adjacent to LOVE, vertically, the two words locked together.

You looked up, meeting Satoru’s gaze with a challenge in your eyes. “Fifteen points for ’LOVE’. Plus the eight for ’HATES’. Twenty three total.” You let a slow, cold smile spread across your lips. “You’re done, Gojo.”

For a single, suspended second, the room was silent. Satoru’s face went on a journey. The forced smugness evaporated, replaced by confusion as his brain processed the board. Your hopes of having delivered the final hook to establish animosity was crushed as you looked at the furious shade of crimson blooming on Satoru's pale cheeks, and his lips pressed to a thin, trembling line.

Seriously? He was blushing from the word LOVE on a scrabble game?

Click. The soft, precise sound of a book closing was like a gunshot in the quiet room.

Suguru didn’t sigh. He didn’t ask or say anything.

He simply placed his novel on the side table and stood up. The floorboards creaked under his weight as he walked the three paces to the coffee table.

He pointed first at HATES. Then down the vertical line of LOVE.

His eyes moved from your face, now pale with dread, to Satoru’s, which was a mask of guilty panic.

He looked at the two of you, and sucked in an exaggeratingly deep breath. You gulped and braced yourself.

“Get a room,” he said finally, voice flat and utterly drained, “I’m going for a walk. A long one.”

He didn’t wait for a response. Simply turned and grabbed his keys from the bowl by the door, muttering a simple, “And hide your hickeys properly by then, for fuck's sake”, and left.

You and Satoru sat frozen, gaping at each other like idiots. The two of you were alone, surrounded by the wreckage of your charade, the words HATES and LOVE staring up from the board as the most obvious, hilarious, and catastrophic love letter ever written.

It’s over. You both know it. The charade is too exhausting to maintain.

A giggle bubbles up in your chest, then another, and soon you’re both laughing, really laughing, the sound free and unfettered for the first time in days. Your foreheads fall together, and between the lingering warm kisses that Satoru plants on your lips, he whispers, “So I can finally sleep over in your room tonight right?

©2025 LUMIEROS — the quality of my writing was trashed towards the end ngl. the smut wasn’t really the main focus so I kept it pretty vanilla, this fic was more character driven for me.

i wrote the first draft on my phone because i’m stupid and in the three times I edited this, it went from 11k to 16k, the longest fic i’ve ever written so pls be kind slowburns are not my forte </3 also if there are any grammatical errors pls ignore cus ts had me biting my own fist with how torturous it was to edit.

[sweethearticism]

──── HE ATE MY HEART ₎ა ˙˖

♡ 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟏𝟒 :: 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐋 𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐑!𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 𝐗 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐔𝐓𝐎𝐑!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 ⌗ blackmail, dacryphilia, creampie

it's only been a few days since you fucked the man you're trying to put behind bars. but here he is, showing up with a bouquet and that charming smile. you have to tell him that it was just a one time thing, even if your heart and body couldn't care less about protocol. but. . . he doesn't seem to appreciate your answer. did you think it was just about the sex?

⌗ wc : 5.7k

ᝰ.☆ cws : serial killer au :: violent descriptions ( nothing graphic ) :: obsessive satoru :: blackmail(ish) :: dacryphilia :: creampie :: fingering :: penetrative sex :: rough sex :: messy sex :: multiple orgasms :: cervix fucking :: degradation :: unprotected sex :: recordings :: choking ( hand/bicep ) :: dumbification :: degradation :: overstimulation :: satoru is down bad

ᝰ.☆ sweetheart : i've been waiting for this all of october eek!

There were three forms of justice. Distributive, retributive and restorative.

But what the hell was this?

Your legs ached. Each strained muscle throbbed with a reminder of your sin. You abandoned the counter and disregarded your manners as you dragged yourself from the kitchen to the foyer. Whoever rang the door at 8pm would have to deal with your nightgown. Self respect was hurled out the window a few nights back, and she struggled to creep back in.

Certificates lined the hallways. Your degrees and masters of Law and Prosecution that once peered at you with pride for one of Japan's best. For the woman who put titles like Gaikan Tecchisen and Jihei Endonka behind bars.

Now loomed with disdain dripping from their ink. They mocked you. Had Lady Justice taught you nothing? To turn the blind eye and not take the law into your own hands.

You did more than that. You fell into his hands. The best met the presently most notorious.

They called him The Ripper's Successor.

A prolific serial killer. Accused— no. You refused to give him the benefit. Alleged, accused, any other description that shifted the blame or hinted to even a sliver of possibility that the man was innocent was nonsense.

Twenty five.

Twenty five women, dead. Many would say 'at least it's only twenty five' or 'compared to others?'

Jack the Ripper only murdered five. Not even a quarter of this— so why was he named one of the world's worst? His methods. His manners. The malice alone mounted to malevolence not many could match. His identity was never confirmed, but you imagined his eyes were those same cold flames that stared at you from across the court room.

Gojo Satoru kept the brutality and quintupled the number.

Detective started calling them 'carnage scenes' rather than crime scenes. You stomached a lot in criminal law, but hunched over your desk late night with images of his mangled messes strewn across files had your morning's coffee mixing with bile.

A madman. A mastermind. A monster.

And you frolicked right into his den. With your head held high and pride in your stare. For what? Because your old law school rival was now sitting in the accused's stand? Because the man who once competed with you tooth and nail was now digging his claws into blood?

Did you even care about nostalgia and sentiment? Or was it all about laying that rivalry to rest? Showing him, who dropped out of law school, that you won in the end? That you could win in the end?

Or was this really about your own, hollow justice?

Whatever it was. There were no alibis. You found yourself on your back for a killer. Those hands that smeared in blood and tormented his victims smoothed over your skin and worshipped every inch. He wasn't tearing open your insides, but he was inside you. Carving. Claiming.

You knew better than to answer the door so late yet you twisted the knob anyway. Half-hoping some new happy-go-lucky serial killer waited to put you out of your misery.

You were only half-right. Maybe.

Instead of blades and blood there were. . . blossoms?

Roses, to be precise. Blood red and beautiful. With a pale head of white hair and dark shades poked above. The night air was cold— but it was those eyes that froze you.

Satoru Gojo. Utilising his wealth and reputation privileges that kept him out of custody. At your doorstep. His light blue dress shirt rolled up over his elbows and paired with black slacks. With a bouquet in his hands and that dashing smile that won over the jury.

His gaze traced shivers down your body as he trailed crystal blue eyes from your head to toe. You regretted even choosing this nightgown over your pyjamas in the first place.

"You look good tonight," he winked. Another thing that wooed the jury. Clever as the devil and twice as charming.

He leaned over and kissed your cheek like it was his right. You couldn't react. Torn between hurling back into the safety of your apartment or clawing past him into the dead night.

Maybe it was audacity. Maybe it was curiosity. But you stood still.

He liked that, judging from his grin. "I got you these." He presented the roses, but whether it was a gift or a weapon, you couldn't decide.

"Probably should have started with bouquets before backshots, huh?"

Was he joining your certificates in their mock-fest now? Your heart twisted with your lip and you rose your head with rebuttals turned to daggers on your tongue—

But then you saw his eyes.

Blue. So blue. And soft. So soft it ached. Like bluebells rather than blades. He was genuine.

And that shattered the anger into fear. Cold, cutting fear.

Somewhere in that psychopathic mind, at some point in this blood trail, it clicked for Satoru that he had the right— no, the duty, to stand at your doorstep with flowers.

Like he wasn't a prolific serial killer, but just Satoru.

And you weren't the prosecutor, but simply his.

His long forearm propped on the doorway. His hip followed. A casual charm that only confirmed the dangers of that cocky grin now presenting as a warm smile. He leaned into you like he expected something. Something you'd already bruised his lips with.

"So I was thinking maybe take-out? Unless you wanna go out. I can wait for you to get dressed—"

"Gojo, what do you think you're doing?"

His smile froze.

Crooking his head, he chuckled. "Gojo? What happened to 'toru' baby?"

Baby. Bouquets. Why doesn't he just go ahead and call you beautiful while he's sat it? Like him being here doesn't break half of the laws and protocols you've both already battered.

Your stare chilled the night and his spine, it seemed, by the way he slowly stood straight. The flowers drooped in his hold.

"What? You don't like roses?" A puppy. He was a pouting puppy rather than the next notorious serial killer. "I just thought. Y'know. I'd be a good boyfriend and—"

There went the bile and coffee again. With a touch of venom.

"Boyfriend?"

You hissed and struck him silent.

In what world, in what twisted fantasy and darkest crevice of his mind, did he think you were anything more than a defendant and a prosecutor? Than a pair of hunters and monsters?

In which possible outcome did he see your hand in his stained, sinful, bloodied one?

"Is that what you think we are? Are you listening to yourself?" You didn't dare step over the threshold but your palm burned for his face. His stupid, perfect, handsome face. Instead you shot it to the door.

"What we did wasn't only breaking every protocol in the book, but also—" Every shake morphed into a sneer. Into wider eyes and clenched teeth as you gripped the door. To steady yourself? Or for safety?

"A one time thing."

You swore the door splintered. You swore his gaze shattered. But you stood firm as the night engulfed the moon and the flutter your heart dared. You filled his silence with haste.

"I'm your prosecutor and you're still a killer. I don't know what impression I left on Friday, but it shouldn't have happened."

The flowers wilted.

"So lose this address before I call the cops."

Your ears and heart roared. Blood rushed to your fingertips that curled on the door and swiped quick. Ready to shut out the night and him. Close this chapter of red ink and scarlet threads.

His foot trampled fate.

It stopped the door and your heart. It wasn't the night's chill that stabbed into your nerves and bound your muscles— but his teeth.

When he reared his head around the door and peered down at you over his glasses. Not a grin, not a smirk. . . a smile. Blazed by the blue devils that were his eyes. Sharper than any blade and colder than any corpse.

"Quite the tone for someone with more to lose than me."

Petals spilled to the floor and dragged with the wind. In the midst of your horror you registered the crinkling cellophane.

"What're you—"

His shoulder wedged between the door and you shrunk back. "Oh come on baby, we've got history now. Conflict of interest, remember?"

The bouquet struck the floor as your back hit the door. It was a blur. The night cast out leaving you locked in your apartment. A shout ripped from your throat but muffled when a large hand clamped your mouth.

Like another clamped your wrists. Above your head. Against your door. Helpless. You were helpless to the tower of frost loomed over you.

Satoru zeroed in.

"Sssh. Don't need the neighbours to hear our little lover's quarrel."

Your wide eyes still had the audacity to narrow your brows. Whatever pride was in you, it knew nothing about fight or flight. He tutted, "What?" and impended closer. His lips brushed on his knuckles. Eyes steeled on yours.

"Would you rather me say: don't want the neighbours to know that The Ripper's Successor found his twenty sixth?"

His bladed voice carved a pit in your gut. Your heart plummeted. Your pride finally understood flight. No, fear.

He jerked.

Not forward, but back. Then he laughed. A rumble from the depths of his stomach, and from hell, you're sure.

"Oh, cute. Did I scare you?"

His head crooked in a predatory curve. "I could never hurt you. Not you. Not physically, at least." A hard knee lodged between your legs and pinned your heart back to your ribcage.

"Your reputation though? Probably."

He freed your wrists and slipped his hand into his pocket. Your hands learnt fight quickly and shot for his shoulders. But before you could clamber or claw— they cramped. As a phone pressed to your ear and,

"Satoru! F-Fuck, fuck, Satoru please. More, need more— angh, please toru."

The colour drained from your face. If only to burn into a flush as your loud, needy moans merged with a blatant wet and lewd slapping poured into your ear. Crawling down to your heart and leaking heat into your stomach.

The audio was clear. Crystal. A broken record of slutty keens and gruff, take it's. And oh, you sure as hell took it that night. Your thighs quaked at the memory of his palms fisting them back.

Satoru's voice cut through the haze against your other ear.

"Wouldn't want the judge getting ahold of this, would we, sweet thing?"

At last he withdrew, but you weren't going anywhere. Pinned to the door with nothing but his stare and sharp grin.

When the world stopped spinning and your pounding heart screamed, you finally mustered your words and choked. "What do you want from me?"

He didn't answer. His hand did. Dropped to your thigh and brushed beneath your nightgown. His thumb stroked your skin. As if it could coax away the fact you were being blackmailed by the very man you vowed to put behind bars.

"Well, if it's just about the sex for you, why don't I remind your body why it loves me?"

He didn't voice his other thoughts, but his knee grinding up into your centre did. Since your heart forgot me already.

Somewhere in the haze, you willed your hands to his shoulders. You'd call it a shove, but your strength splintered under the familiar friction sparking over your nighttime, cotton panties.

"We can't," your breath hitched as your body betrayed you. You searched for dignity in the creases of his shirt as your fingers curled in. "This— it's wrong."

"Then why are you so wet?"

Further rebuttals were stolen by his lips. Satoru wasn't just a murderer, but a thief. He snatched your discipline, snatched your body, your heart, and now? Your mouth. A crash of wills and wants, of needs. The want to shove him away, the need to cling to him. It all blurred into the fever of his lips.

How could a cold killer's lips burn so hot?

Teeth and tongue wrested. He kissed you like he was trying to prove a point— or maybe he didn't need to. Maybe the way you throbbed against his knee was enough. Maybe the flutter of your pulse beneath his hand viced on your throat was all he needed.

Your lungs burned for him as his hand squeezed. Not cruel, but a cradle. Angling your head and driving it into the door while his tongue dominated yours.

His thumb stroked your jugular. Skilled. Scourged. One squeeze. All it would take was one squeeze and you would be his forever.

In all the way you couldn't offer.

Another thumb stroked on your stomach. You considered a blade. Brutality. Instead there was a brush. His hand slipped beneath your nightgown and cupped your cunt in a grind. Your hips eagerly followed.

You whined against his mouth, his laughed into yours.

Those chuckles traced down your neck and seared your skin with smooches. Smudging his smugness over your pulse that thrummed for him. A dull sting blotched at the junction of your shoulder and you clawed at his.

"Remember this?" He fanned the fading hickey. "This was when I had you. On my couch. As mine." Two fingers slithered a stroke on your clothed slit. The damp fabric stuck to him as he slotted into it and dragged it on your sensitive folds. You arched into him. So willing. So wanting. Even when your mind wailed with shame.

His lip's heat blossomed the hickey back to life. Ironic, wasn't it? Those same hands that dragged others to death stirred you to life. How you wished sickness pooled in your gut. Sickness, shame— anything but that sizzling warmth.

Fingers slipped up to your clit and circled. He chased your throbs with cruelty and caressed your throat with kisses as a whine gathered on your tongue. You hated how you bucked for him.

The wet fabric stretched to the side as he pushed it. Cold blues met you over his shades. "Hold them to the side for me pretty."

The whine melted into a protest. "I—"

Shnap!

Your cunt and clit quivered at the slick snap-back of cotton. The bastard smiled.

"I said. Hold them to the side."

The trembles in your fingers obeyed as you pulled the fabric aside and displayed to him what was already his. Slick, dripping and so, utterly his.

His fingers swiped through your folds and your chest stuttered at the familiar contact. Fuck. How could someone you hated burst such heat within you? How could only a finger. A single finger. Stir your insides to clench. To weep as another sunk in to the knuckle.

Embarrassing. It was embarrassing how you squeezed around two fingers like a welcoming, wanton hug.

"Still so tight—" his hiss paired with a filthy grind against your gummy walls. Your loud whine encouraged his eager strokes into your silky centre. He angled a curl just right and you shattered at the seams. Bucking, whimpering, all for him.

"— and sensitive."

Oh you're more than sensitive. You're sweltering. Splintering in all your control and slipping into that state that was far from the pretentious prosecutor you were known for. Notorious? More like needy when in the palm of his hand.

Despite yourself, you yearned for more. To see what he did to you. Your head crooked and your eyes glossed at the messy scene of his fingers pumping and juices splattering over your thighs. Droplets strung to your nightgown. More evidence for this crime scene he's turned you into.

Thunk.

Your head pinned back to door. Throat bobbing with messy moans under his cold palm as he shoved you back and squeezed. Gaze ever as sharp with a silent, eyes on me, as his fingers scissored.

Knuckles knocked into your slit with kisses as his hand sped. Bicep strained against the blue of shirt as he put his entire arm into making you squirm and splash the floor. Your arousal dripped down his wrist in nasty heat. Igniting a fire in his obsessive eyes and husked laugh.

"Y'know. I wanted to take you out somewhere nice. Hold your hand. Kiss you over a dinner."

He smooched your ear with a smile and sang sins to it as the pads of his fingers milked that one, stunning spot that burst stars before your eyes. You broke into a mewl.

"Sator— hngh."

His thumb flicked up into your clit. Fondling the nub so it wept along with you.

"Should have known that a prosecutor desperate enough to fuck her case was just a slut."

His grunt cut your lobe. A rumbled growl mimicked claws for nails that bit into your throat. You wheezed, whimpered, yet still wanted. Even when you choked and cowered under the storm of his gaze. It hardly swayed the tempest of his thrusting fingers.

He swarmed your face. Leaving nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Nowhere to escape the sticky pleasure smearing between your thighs and shooting up your spine as he finger-fucked you.

A grin split his face. "But that's fine. Cause I'm just sooo good at fucking this pretty pussy, aren't I?"

Filthy and fervent, his lips crashed a smooch to yours just as his fingers come-hithered. Grinding into your weakness and humping his calloused palm on your quivering clit.

Hot, sick bliss coiled in your tummy. Knees bucked. Eyes fluttered as a shock tore through your very being. Shaking. You were shaking in his hands all over again as you sobbed into mouth and stained his palm in your sticky sin.

Fuck. Cumming already? For him, a killer?

What a slutty prosector indeed.

"S'toru," you choked and frantically bucked into his unfaltering hand. Loud, wet shlicks joined the crude cacophony spinning your head. Paired with his croon and cruel taunts.

"Huh? What's that baby? Can't hear you over my sweet sweet girl." He moaned into your lips and hunched over your quaking body. Accentuating his sweet, messy girl with nasty strokes and angles.

A third finger shoved and stretched you out. Disregarding your shaky knees and whimpered keens as you scrambled for stability on his shirt ruined by your nails. The pistons didn't stop. Pounding and pummelling into your gooey centre that oozed with your still-trickling cum. Egged on by his firm palm rubbing furiously on your swollen clit.

"I— f-fuck, fuck wait, I'm gonna—" Hot flushes harassed your trembling body as you rode his frantic hand and spluttered into his saliva. "Wait wait wait— mngh! I can't-!"

"Can't?" He huffed, his hand on your throat shoved your jaw back so your neck arched with the rest of your body. He grinned amidst the strings of your messy spit.

"Thought you liked creaming for me? Thought it's what your best at?"

He shoved knuckles deep and bullied your clenching walls until the quivered bliss burst into a second wave. Far more devastating, destructive, as you squeezed your wobbly thighs around his hand and sobbed into his smothered kisses.

"I hate— I hngh— I hate you, I hate you." You choked.

"Liar." He cooed.

As you sprayed his hand and soaked his silver watch. Your body quaking, breaking, as you limped into the door and clawed down his chest with whining hiccups. At last he freed your lips in exchange for your throat.

There was something so stunning. Something so sinful. So shameful. About giving yourself to him again. Shaking, sobbing, but simply his as you crumbled into him just like that night.

Phantoms haunt your mind and pulse your oversensitive cunt. You're broken for a killer. Not once, but twice. Trembling on legs that'll carry you through court tomorrow and staring into haughty eyes that'll mock you from the bench.

You lost. Again.

And the worst part? You didn't care.

Dizziness ebbed as salty musk brushed your lips. Your eyes batted to behold his sticky fingers smearing your parted lips and pushing to your tongue. His free hand squished your face into it. Another reminder of his easy dominance over you.

"Taste what I do to you," he whispered.

You whined, and obeyed. Taking his messy fingers and suckling on the evidence. The gooey testament to how he's ruined you for anyone else.

Satoru angled your head and shoved his fingers further. Until you drooled around his knuckles and choked at his sinister strokes to the back of your tongue.

His cloudy eyes shut as he ground into your thigh with a thick, hot bulge and heavy groan. The image of you shaking, shattered and slobbering all over his hand while you sucked on his fingers and stared up at him all teary, must have struck a depraved chord within him.

God. You weren't just a mess.

You were a fucking masterpiece.

His. Masterpiece. None of those murders came close to this magnum opus.

Cold lips smooched your sweaty temple and his hand clambered on your waist. If you were desperate? He was depraved.

"I could love you so good." His whisper was reverent. Like a shaky prayer as his kisses trailed to your scalp and he breathed in your hair. His bulge throbbed and you sworethat he shuddered.

"But you don't want gentle. Want it hard. Want it rough, huh?"

There was nothing reverent nor holy about the way his hands harassed your hips and whirled you around. Cramming you into the wood and squishing your hard nipples into it. You yelped— then hitched as an agitated hand bunched your nightgown while another jostled behind you.

His buckle smooched the heat of your ass, then slipped away. Zip.

Your eyes gaped with your mouth as a familiar shlap! vibrated your soppy pussy. A throbbing, angry head nudged on your clit like a crude, miss me? then dragged to circle your slit.

His shoes nudged under your heels and his knees cramped into yours. His body trapped you into a claustrophilic cage as his hands roughed down your sides and squeezed on the fat of your ass as his feral breaths heaved on your ear.

Trapped. You're trapped. Perhaps not as his twenty sixth— but as his one and only slut.

"You're only my sweet girl when I'm ball's deep."

Protests died on you tongue. Your pussy agreed with every word in devout clenches and spasms around his cock. Pushing through minimum resistance and lodging into your thrumming walls like it was his second home. Inch, by agonising inch— while you clawed on the door and cursed how your cunt for how much she missed him.

God, he wasn't just big, he was fucking all-consuming. Stretching your poor slit around his girth and bullying into a nasty smooch on your cervix. Stuffing every nerve and crevice so when you squeezed, cum dripped over his balls.

You mewled. He moaned. Braced himself on your hips like they were his salvation as your knees wobbled and throat bobbed with whines. It hardly stopped you from grinding down and bucking back into him.

His breath hitched, then huffed. Did his lungs burn as your soul did?

A muscled arm curled around your neck and wrenched you back into him. Curving your spine and angling your ass into a plush, flushed shove on the last few inches your cunt took in greedily.

"Damn," he gritted and rolled his hips. Meshing into yours and grinding his pre-cum slick tip into your cervix. Giving her a little taste of what's to come. You whined into his arm and limped like a ragdoll. A pretty girl for him to pound. Just like back then.

"Yeah, that's it baby. There's the girl who loves me."

Wet clicks swirled with your needy moans as his hips humped on yours. Thrusts shallow and heavy on that tender spot, yet hurried and filthy. As if the greedy bastard was already starving for another of your shattering orgasms.

As if leftover cum wasn't splashing over his balls as he fucked you senseless in seconds. As if your poor pussy wasn't spasming and sopping with every wet slap and rabid grind.

Satoru's nose dug into the crook of your neck. He groaned into your pulse and suffocated on your scent as he fell into a wild rhythm. The arm around your waist dug his nails on your thigh. Another claim. While the one flexing around your throat choked out your pitiful whines.

The door shook under the weight of your fervent fucking. Thumping the wood on the doorway and surely suspicious to anyone who walked on by. In a moment of clarity, you buried into his elbow tried to muffle your sin.

"Mngh— mff, toru—"

If only to splutter drool as you're jostled back. His muscled arm dug into your throat as a warning and damn-near strangled your keen as he slipped out to the tip then rammed back to your lonely cervix.

He knocked you back into biting teeth and blinding thrusts. Forcing pitiful cries and pleasured sobs through your foyer with lewd, dirty pummels against your ass. Your mouth's not the only thing drooling all over him.

"Uh-uh pretty let 'em hear. Don't piss me off." He sneered, nose nudging into your cheek stained with tears. But you heard his sharp grin. Felt it. It's as if he was begging you to do just that. Give him an excuse to bully your quivering cunt more.

In this moment you weren't prosecutor and killer. Nor two silly law students rivalling over grades. No— you were raw, filthy lovers devoted to this sick pleasure. To his cock reminding you. Wrecking you for all you're worth and your pussy clinging to him like she never wanted him to leave again.

The hand digging crescents on your thigh snapped between them. Knuckles wedged your aching clit and rubbed it into a spasm. Until your tears spilled and spit strung with your cry.

Still, like a slave to pleasure, you ground back into him as heat shot you higher— and higher— so that all you knew was his damn name.

Satoru fucking Gojo. The Ripper's Successor. The man buried balls deep and wrecking Japan's best's brain.

Your pride burst like a dying star as you clawed on his arm and arched into his cock.

"I hate— you, I hate you," you sobbed, like it'd mean something. Like your tears could hide your whines. Hide the insatiable squelch of your convulsing cunt.

And he laughed.

All he did was laugh.

That haughty, hellish rumble as he slumped into your body and mouthed on your hair. Slamming, and slamming, and slamming your heat into a creamy mess.

"Fucking hate me all you want."

He snickered. Delirious. Devilish.

"We both know— fuckk— both know this cock's worth losing your job over."

And the way you sloshed a sticky ring around the base and nursed the vein on his underside? Seemed you agreed. In mind, heart, body, and throbbing, twitching pussy.

He abandoned your clit for your thigh. Fucking you back into him with foul grunts dripping poison and pleasure into your ear canal. His balls slapped harder. Wetter. Full and throbbing until he meshed into you with one final ram— and shattered too.

Thick, white ropes frothed up your insides and left you gasping for air. For dignity. For pride. Instead all you got were his moaning, whining lips as he humped you full of his cum.

His tongue wrested yours. Damp white hair sticking to your forehead as his bicep kept your head wrenched towards him. A damned reminder that no matter how hard you tried, where you ran, wherever you hid— you were his.

The moment you stepped into Criminology, LAW 604.

The minute you strutted into the court room.

The second you stood at his doorstep.

"See that?" He yanked out his still hard, still throbbing cock to give your pussy a wet smack. "Filthy little thing agrees."

Grabbing you by the hair, he scuffled your over shaky and scrambling limbs. You're shoved over a drawer in your foyer. Knocking over a vase so it shattered like your incisive mind. Now a mush of bliss and him. Him, him, him.

Satoru plunged into your cunt that was already gaping and whining for him again. Smooching assurances back to your cervix and battering it in a wild, lewd fuck.

Rhythmic slapping of hips and filthy, moist smacks of his balls against your soppy folds merged with the delirium of pain and pleasure. Overwhelm sparking over your bent body. Tits squished. Ass rippling. Legs dangling and wrenched open by a firm hand while another ensnared your face into the wood.

Your eyes eyes fluttered and rolled, nails digging into polish in a desperate attempt at stability. As your body spiralled and squirmed under his heavy pounds.

"Sat— fuck— t-toru, torruuu," you drooled. "Can't. I can't cum— can't cum again! Please— ah!"

His hips mashed your ass, angling to drag into that devastating spot that slacked your jaw and wretched a sob from the back of your throat.

"Cann'tttt! S'too much, ohgod."

Thwack! Your thigh burned with your eyes as he doubled over you. Fingers pressed into your scalp and a taunting laugh dripping into your ear. "Pussy's telling on ya baby. Says she wants another."

Another smack, this time to your clit. He wrangled the oversensitive nub into cruel circles, and pinched to pitch your pathetic little cry.

What else could your poor, fucked-out self do? Other than arch. Shove your hips back so you suffocated on his cock and sang his name to your certificates. If they were disappointed before? They're disgusted now at the so called 'best prosecutor' getting her guts rearranged by the man she should have locked behind bars months ago.

Every pummel. Ever pound. Ever sick taunt and cruel clit tug numbed your senses to the intense harassment of your nerves' dignity. You crumbled into a mess of sobs and spasms. A stupid slut losing grasp on when one orgasm started and another stopped.

Endless. Limitless. A void of bliss he's dragged you into with his claws and pinned you down with his blades. Until you bled out in a pool of his obsession, and your moral neglect.

Nimble fingers snatched your jaw and whirled your head around. Your breath hitched, cunt clenched as he flattened his tongue on your face and swiped a tear-streak, rumbling a chuckle.

"Sorry 'bout that baby. Just s'fucking pretty 'n slutty," he slurred. As drunk on your pussy as you were dizzy on his dick.

His caught your throat again. Squeezing that warning back into your veins. One second too long. Just one. And you'd be his forever.

He rammed until he stuffed you full again, then shallowed into a deliberate, constant pound on your cervix. Fucking the tender muscle like he loathed its existence and loved it all the same. Your mix of creamy essence oozed and splattered both of your thighs.

Your breath caught. His devolved. Into animalistic pants and low whines merged with yours.

"Tell me you hate me."

"I h-hhh— hate you."

He jerked you back and chewed on your ear as the sloppy slaps crescendoed.

"Tell me you need me!"

"I neeeeeed, angh, need you, need you s'bad toru."

You keen into the musky air like it'll justify your plea. The raw, unadulterated need and yearn for Gojo fucking Satoru whose cock you nursed like a lifeline.

His hand scrambled around and flushed to your tummy, pushing on the bulge he embedded which strangled moans from the both of you. Another hot surge tore through your nerves and forced your body to go limp. Slumped on him as you spasmed and squirted.

His head dropped into your neck. Hulking arms hugging you into his feral pounding as his pace met blistering heights. His voice ripped through. Ragged, wrecked.

"Now— fuckfuck— now. . . say you fucking love me while I cream my pretty prosecutor filthy."

A crumble of wills. A collision of stars. You burst into one another and clawed for each other's heat as the world ruptured.

"I love you! I love you, I love youIloveyouIlove— fuck Satoruu I love youuu."

He stuffed you full through your sobs. Splattering your walls and squirting the remainder from the sheer force of his frothing. Filling, and filling, and filling until your pussy was nothing more than a sloppy mess of him.

"Fuck— fucking, take it," he choked and rutted in desperate staggers. "Take it. Take every drop. 's all yours. All mine. Fucking mine."

You long since fell limp under his blissed-out rambles. Your body and mind exhausted from the assault of love, lust and loathe.

All you could muster were sniffling cries and hiccups as Satoru collapsed into your quiver. Overstimulated and over-fucked, but still pitifully humping back into his twitching cock.

"You're so. . . beautiful when you're broken for me."

He rasped as his trembling fingers nudged your face back to him. The last surge of feralness pressed into your mouth and wrestled with your tongue as you both fragmented through your fading highs.

The kiss was so much more than a show of dominance. It was a claim. A warning. Of tongue and teeth, of morals and obsessions. A filthy testament of the web you're tangled in— and his snare you never wished to flee. Who cared if his hands were drenched in blood? They were still his.

He told you from the start. You were his. He was yours.

Saliva strung as he withdrew. That reverent look pooled in his glossy eyes as he squished your face and dragged his tongue over your tears again.

"Sweet girl," he shuddered. Raw and broken. "Don't you ever fuckin' think those twenty five could keep me away from you. Don't you ever—" his voice shook. "Think anything in this fucking world could keep me away from you. Protocol, prison, to hell with it."

His words were both a promise and a threat. Both an oath and a blood vow. And the worst thing was?

Your heart fluttered.

"I'll always crawl back to you." He strangled. "Always. I'll always baby I fuckin' promise."

His hips rolled into yours. A slow sway stuttered into a grind. You whimpered.

"S-Satoru— please."

"Sssh, shhh, sweetheart." He peppered kisses over your face as his humped you through the excruciating pleasure of being completely his and the shame that came with it.

"Not done with you. Wanna see you limp in court tomorrow."

© 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒔𝒎. no plagiarism or ai training authorised. divider: @/dollywons. art cred: sakimichanmale (twt)

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[indiewritesxoxo]

the aliens are cumming!

gojo's out of this world!

synopsis: you never asked to trade sleeping in your bed for sleeping on a cold cot in a spaceship. never imagined you'd become an alien's favorite species to study - or his favorite to fuck either. he might not want to cage you like the rest of them, but then again, keeping you captive wouldn't be so bad, would it? for science, of course.

pairing: alien!gojo x f!reader

content: mdni. smut. porn with plot. slight dubcon. yandere!alien gojo, abduction, probing, examination kink, being strapped down to a table, lube, everyone loves true form sukuna but have we considered gojo with four arms and two dicks?, dumbification, gojo is basically an alien with a porn addiction and a human fetish but he's got cute antennas too, yearning, he's OBSESSED, nipple sucking, fingering, double stuffed, penetration in both holes, unprotected anal and piv sex, creampies

Gojo wanted you the second he saw you.

Technically, he shouldn't have even been in the lab. Technically, he wasn't even a researcher. Technically, he had stolen the security card once he saw that they abducted someone new to conduct their standard blood tests on.

Humans were a hot commodity.

A resource to utilize, something to use like, ah, how did they say it? Lab rats? Something less sentient, more animalistic. A lesser version of them, but with biology similar enough to study.

His kind had never cared about human history. Couldn't be bothered to learn about their culture. Flat-out disregarded the notion an inferior species like that could even really have any.

Satoru simply disagreed.

They didn't care to hear him out either. Kept up the archaic practices under the bland excuse of conducting studies for boring stuff like medicine and science.

It was supposed to be cut and dry. Abduct. Drug. Test. Drop back off.

Humans never noticed.

Waking up the morning after back in their own bed, completely clueless, chalking any memories up to nothing more than a weird dream and moving on with their little lives.

But Gojo had been fascinated by the funny creatures for as long as he could remember. Collected trinkets and snuck their stuff back to his room when they were brought on board. Managed to sneak in and ask a few about what Earth was like while they were still dazed.

He'd only been on the planet once. It was meant to be a brief expedition, to stake out some potential subjects before returning to their spaceship, but he couldn't help himself.

That was where he obtained his prized possession.

Something you humans called porn.

He had permanently borrowed an odd-looking rectangle, purely because it was shiny and fit underneath his shirt when he got beamed back up, using their far more advanced technology to sift through the files to find something that failed to satiate his curiosity. Instead, it sparked an entirely new kind, staring rapt at the screen in his room as video after video of humans mating played out in positions he hadn't thought possible.

Using different holes and sticking body parts in places he was pretty sure they weren't supposed to be, panting and moaning and sweating on camera while they came. And they seemed to do that a lot.

Gojo studied their creativity. Their commitment to pleasure - the rituals they'd perform, the exchange of sex as a form of currency, the fabled pizza guy and the females proclivity to get stuck in dryers.

He even stitched together his own lingerie, even if his fingers ends up bloody by the end of it.

Sex up on the spaceship was boring. Solely for procreation purposes. He'd been rejecting potential mates for years, people who just wanted his position as the future heir to their conglomeration for power.

And yeah, maybe they weren't so civilized, but he was starting to think humans had something right.

After all, their genitalia was sorta like theirs. They could be having this much fun too!

If everyone wasn't so stuffy about everything and insisted on following 'protocols' all the time.

But they'd see just how right he was soon - especially now that he had a test subject of his own.

This was not a nightmare.

You thought it was, at first. Convinced this had to be a strange dream, something your brain concocted after a couple bad horror movies.

Strapped down to a table? Without a single fucking memory of how you got there?

What else could it be?

But you could feel the cool air brushing over your peaked nipples, touch the smooth surface under your palms, blink and squint at the too-bright lights lining the spherical ceiling. Legs held up, fastened in stirrups.

Still, your first conclusion wasn't extraterrestrial. No, you were sure you'd been abducted by some serial killer, kidnapped and taken back to a makeshift dungeon designed to drive you crazy.

Straining against cool metal, squirming and splayed out like a science experiment for anyone to see.

"Hello?" You called out, only getting the faint echo of your own voice back to keep you company.

No one answered. But you couldn't crane your neck to check and see if you were being ignored.

You felt like you were being watched.

Small bumps trailing over your skin when you shivered, an annoying little itch grating at your nerves and insisting you weren't alone.

Still, you wouldn't have guessed what - or technically, who - was with you.

Not until the footsteps.

They were wrong. The pace was just off, some imperceptible thing making your heart race that you couldn't quite place. Were they too close together? Too far apart? Too heavy? They were accompanied by more odd noises, your brain struggling to process it, like listening to a foreign language on the radio, picking apart bits and pieces and trying to make sense out of them.

"Who's there?"

It felt like a cheesy horror movie. You could hear yourself half an octave too high, all pitchy and petrified, but you couldn't control it. Couldn't stop yourself from shivering as you were surrounded by shadows.

Your chest heaved. Your wrists strained. But before you could scream or shout, something sharp pricked your neck, and you were almost instantly paralyzed.

Not fully, but your muscles went from fighting to faintly twitching, but they didn't respond to your brain's demands to move. You could still look around, still could twist and turn your head as much as the collar around your neck allowed.

You were terrified for the worst.

Of being touched, your skin splayed or torn while you could do nothing but stare at the blank walls.

But instead, they just watched.

Something cold grazed against your skin, but it was little more than a faint trail along your leg. A few more pricks in your arm, like they were taking blood samples.

Then they left.

Whatever they were.

The silence was somehow worse. Waiting for them to return. Waiting for some horrible fate to befall you.

Just when you were on the brink of hyperventilating, a few tears pricking at your lash line you couldn't wipe away, you heard them again.

One of the creatures whined, the cold contraptions keeping your thighs spread only pushing them further apart when you tried to move again, muscles still burning through whatever was numbing your body and keeping you mostly frozen from the neck down.

The other one replied in that strange language, and you couldn't comprehend what the fuck they were saying, but it sounded cold. All clinical and curt.

A door shut. And those strange steps came back. These were lighter though, quicker.

A pair of blue eyes were suddenly above yours, bright and intelligent, deep enough to drown in. Unnatural white lashes fluttering, narrowing as he studied your reactions. But it was hard to focus on him when the world felt all foggy, only able to process everything in broken pieces. You tried to recount what was in front of you.

Fading footsteps. Faint beeping. Cold restraints on your wrists. White walls.

And him.

You figured you were really fucked when you had the distant thought some cute guy had to pulling some cruel prank on you. Even though you could only see him from the shoulders up, it almost looked like he was wearing a Halloween costume. His skin practically shimmered, like some strange movie-style special effect, a soft shade that didn't make sense to your addled brain, antennas sticking up in his tousled white hair.

But then something warm brushed against your cheek, moving your hair to the side and sliding something inside your ear, readjusting for a moment.

"Can you understand me now?"

You nodded, as much as you could given the cold collar around your throat keeping your head down on the table.

"Good," he beamed at you, flashing teeth that were mostly human - even if his canines were too sharp for your liking. "I made that myself."

"W-who are you?" You managed to speak, still breathing too fast, trying to glance around again. "Where am I?"

"You can call me Satoru," he earnestly answered, but he paused, blinking as if he hadn't expected you to ask that. "We're on a spaceship."

"Uh-huh," you dryly replied, throat constricting as you tried to consider the chance he was telling the truth and that you weren't on a reality tv show one of your friends signed you up for.

"I'm being serious," he pouted, leaning down to look even closer at you.

His eyes were starry, speckled and swirling, magnetic, pulling you into his heated stare. His breath was cold against your skin, making you shiver and retreat back. But the metal slab you were on was even chillier, stealing all the oxygen from your lungs.

He looked less human up close. All his features were just slightly wrong, the kind of pretty and perfect that people would have to get plastic surgery and pay years worth of their salary to weakly replicate.

But he looked at you like you were the most captivating thing he'd ever seen.

"A-are you going to probe me?" You didn't realize you actually believed him until you heard the question leave your lips.

You were kinda hoping he'd laugh, assuage your fears. But he just tilted his head to the side considerately.

"Would you like me to?" Like he was your fucking gracious host, happy to oblige his guest's whims and wants.

"Um, what?" You stared. He smiled.

"I could use my fingers, or one of those, how do you call them, dil-" He began offering, and your head was spinning at the concept that aliens knew what sex toys were.

"You don't have to," you interrupted before he could finish, and you were pretty sure he was disappointed.

His little antennas drooped, his bottom lip twitching into a down-turned frown.

"Why am I here?" You changed the subject, unable to break eye contact with your new...acquaintance?

Were you about to be alien livestock? Spliced apart? Stuck in this stasis on this freezing slab forever?

"Research," he grinned again, those sharp blue eyes trailing south, his stare dragging over your exposed body. Antennas shooting straight up, subtly twitching with what you were starting to think was arousal.

"Research?" You echoed, holding your breath, heat coiling inside your stomach at his intensity. At how transfixed he was, tracing your outline and mapping it out just with his greedy gaze.

"I'd like to study your pleasure," he murmured, a not-very-subtle emphasis on the last word, his voice low.

Your brain was buzzing. Nerves electrified at the prospect of how your definition of pleasure might differ from his.

But the fear had dissipated, or maybe just coiled into something more dangerous. Desire.

"Can I touch you?" He hesitated, and you had to stop yourself from gawking. Mouth parting as you tried to figure out if he was actually asking for consent in this situation.

"D-do you want to?" You felt like you were just returning his question, a weak attempt to discern his intentions.

Part of you had started to reconsider the possibility you were dreaming before he chuckled, and your pulse pounding in your ears convinced you once again this was real.

Spread open in stirrups in front of your strange alien abductor.

But it wasn't apprehension or anxiety pumping through you anymore. It was anticipation, staring down a cliff and preparing to fling yourself off of it after his mouth curled up in a cute smirk.

"More than anything."

God, he made it sound like foreplay.

You bit your lip, tasted the hint of blood and iron on it, before making what was probably the stupidest decision of your life. You nodded.

His antennas were vibrating when he reached down to press his palm against your cheek, cupping your face. Soft, like a boyfriend would. Humming and exhaling as he smiled. His eyes didn't crinkle, no little lines etched by his lips, tiny details that stood out and made you shiver.

"I'm going to examine you first," he murmured, and you didn't know exactly how his lungs worked, or if he even had any, but it sounded like his breath hitched. His chest straining to hold it in, hold himself together as his hand traced over the cool metal of the collar down to your chest.

He used both hands.

Grabbing both your tits, not exactly groping, but squeezing hard enough to feel your skin and tissue underneath squish and shift, pure delight dancing across his face.

It was the weirdest breast exam you ever had.

Soft fingers, free of callouses, free of prints, danced over your nipples, making small stars over them.

You assumed he didn't know what he was doing. That maybe this was his first time touching a human. Or maybe a woman at all.

But then he pinched, ripping a raw gasp from your throat as you blinked up at him in surprise.

Satoru hadn't stopped though. Only emboldened by the sound he pulled from you, twisting and tweaking just enough to send sparks down your spine, heat simmering inside your stomach, unable to even squirm when he leaned down, deciding that touching wasn't enough.

He wanted a taste of you.

His tongue was rougher than you imagined, dragging over your nipple with even more fervor. You tried to crane your neck, but it didn't offer enough space for you to see his face, just those pretty blue antennas bobbing above the sea of white while he licked and lapped.

Straight-up sucking on your tits, teeth grazing against your sensitive nipples as he continued to knead into your chest.

You wished you had panties on, anything to hide how wet he was making you, thighs damp and unable to even close them to hide how hot you unfortunately found it.

Satoru pulled off with a filthy pop! before turning his attention back to you, pretty pink lips shiny with saliva as he pouted. "How come there's no milk?"

"Milk?" You gaped, the question coming out shaky, still catching your breath as you stared at his piercing blue eyes.

"Am I not doing it right?" He quizzed, running a finger back over your nipple before pinching again, only stoking the flames he'd set.

You hadn't realized how horny you were until you had to put together enough brain cells to form a coherent sentence, stumbling over your thoughts as you tried to get the words out, "T-that only happens when a girl is like, pregnant."

His brows scrunched together, processing this new interesting bit of information.

"I see," he nodded, as if it was now obvious to him. But he still applied more pressure, like he had to double check. As if he was doing some mental calculation to figure out how to induce it.

One of his fingers trailed down, past your mid-riff and over your belly button - although he did pause to press on that too, just to see if it'd do anything. When it didn't, he kept moving south. He walked around the bed, out of your sight again, both hands settling on your splayed-out thighs.

They were bigger than anyone else's you'd ever been with before. Soft and massive, sinking into your pliable muscles, humming with approval as he just stared.

You were self-conscious, trying to get your weakened muscles to shift when you heard a faint clutter. Your brain tried to do the math.

There were two hands on your thighs - so what the fuck was grabbing stuff?

It wasn't until the third hand slipped between your folds, spreading them even further apart so a fourth could spread something slick over it, that you figured out what was happening.

He had four arms.

And he was more than happy to put all of them to use.

You were already stuck. Already exposed. But he seemed intent on exploring every inch of you for himself, taking his time to drag his palms over the expanse of your body while that frustratingly gentle fourth hand slowly rubbed his palm over your entrance. Massaging in what you guessed was lube, although it made your brain feel even fuzzier. Your senses heightened, tuned into some new frequency, each subtle swirl threatening to make you shiver.

"You're pretty," he complimented, and all the warmth in your chest flooded your face, flushed as you strained to keep yourself from squeaking.

Not being able to see him was a special kind of torture. You wanted to see his face. Study what kind of face he was making when he was drawing such delicate patterns over your skin, murmuring at the little blemishes and marks on them with interest.

One of his fingers moved up, poking at your clit with just enough force to make you jolt. Well, as much as you could given how tight the restraints were, and how little your muscles would let you move with whatever his fellow aliens had put in your system.

"How did that feel?" Satoru curiously asked, circling around it, careful not to touch it again, but obviously amused by your reaction.

"G-good," you murmured. Your voice broke though, cracked when a stray thumb suddenly slipped between your slick folds, fresh goosebumps running down your flesh as he dipped in your wet warmth.

One word - and he was pulling his thumb out to push a full finger in.

It was longer than it should've been, thicker. Swirling lazily around, pressing against your walls like he was testing how much it could stretch.

If that was a finger, you didn't know how you'd fit his cock.

"I-I-" You started, struggling to breathe, struggling to think when you felt something else trying to slot in next to the first.

"Mhm?" He drawled, daring you to tell him more, hanging off every little sound he tore out. You might've managed to murmur that you didn't know how much more you could handle, but then you were being speared open, mean fingers digging into your thighs to pin them down against the freezing table.

The next noise he dragged out of you was feral. Some filthy moan, one that echoed off the walls and came from the back of your throat.

It felt like he was trying to stuff his fucking fist in there.

"S'too-" You whined, but you couldn't even finish. Trying to crane up again, desperate to see what he was doing.

"That's only two fingers," he murmured, experimenting out what it'd take to make you split, scissoring with steady strokes, like he was counting the seconds between each one in his head. "You can take it."

Confident, cocky, slowly increasing the pace, fingering you fast, eventually finding that sweet little spot at the back, crooking them cruelly and chuckling at the lewd squelches of your cunt.

"Look at you," he purred, and you didn't think you'd ever heard anyone sound so pleased. "Every part of you is perfect."

"Mm, S'toru," you slurred his name, eyes rolling back, thighs starting to tremble before he pulled his fingers back out, and you heard the distinct sound of him sucking them clean, moaning himself at the taste of you on his tongue.

You felt empty. Hot. Your skin burning, your body begging for him to keep going, all your thoughts drifting incoherently as you tried to drag out some sensibility from the recesses of your mind. But everything was too cloudy, barely clinging onto what was left of your rationality as one of his hands pressed down on your clit, rolling his palm over it, applying just enough pressure to make you croon.

Whining, all pitchy and weak, fingers forming a fist as you squirmed.

"You need more?" He teased, and you were already nodding, hips trying to move to entice him.

When it came down to it, you supposed you were just another animal, devolving down to your most basic instinct when the right stimulation came along. Depraved.

You felt him shuffle before you saw him, heard the creak of the table as his broad body climbed on top of you.

His hands shifting, one on your hip, one grabbing one of your tits, fully groping you now before he reached up with another to brush your hair back.

You were a little scared to think what he might be doing with the fourth one.

But his eyes were on you, and you were lost in them. Immediately sucked into the shimmer of them, even when the blue was almost swallowed by his blown-out pupils.

"Both my cocks are much bigger than the average penis size on your planet," he proudly proclaimed, something thick and wet nudging back between your thighs.

"Both?"

Too late.

The stretch burned. Each ridge practically engraving itself, leaving an imprint inside you as he slowly dragged along your walls. Pushing past the first ring of resistance with a throaty groan of his own, embarrassingly loud, his sharp jaw locked as he forced the last few inches in.

"That's my girl," he moaned, leaning down to kiss you to swallow your squeak, your guts being rearranged before he had even pulled back out to start fucking you properly.

Where the hell had he even learned to talk like that? Know how to make the butterflies in your stomach somersault?

And really, how on Earth (or in orbit) were you somehow nodding along to the idea of being an alien's girl?

"Told ya you can take it," he murmured between breaths, sucking on your bottom lip messily, biting hard enough you were pretty sure it might be bleeding. But you were too far gone to care, mindlessly agreeing in whimpers.

"Mm, mm," you tried to speak, but nothing more would come out, eyes rolling back when you felt a new pressure pushing against your puckered hole.

He paused though, pulling back enough to wink at you, white lashes fluttering as one of his hands let go of you to reach out and fumble for something on the other table you couldn't see. "Almost forgot."

You didn't get a chance to ask what before he was rubbing more of that lube there, shuddering at the almost slimy feeling on your skin.

Apprehensively, you tensed, but then he started fucking you, and you forgot to even breathe.

Only able to take and take and take, when he started stretching your ass out with a finger while he pumped your cunt full. It didn't feel like a normal cock - and not just because of its size. It was almost ribbed.

It didn't hurt, but it was the kind of intense that was impossible to ignore. Grinding deep against your womb, coaxing you into crying his name when his cock rubbed against all those spots he mapped out earlier.

Your mouth was watering, but he kept kissing you, testing how it felt to press his lips against the corner of your mouth, across your cheek, even down your jaw.

And when he started pushing his other cock in?

Your mind melted. Reason dissolving until the only thing left inside you was him.

You had never even done anal before.

But here you were, letting an alien stuff both your holes past the brim, his cocks big enough you could feel the pressure building and building, only separated by the thin wall of your anatomy.

Satoru was toying with your tits again, like stress toys made specially for him, all the overstimulating sensations mixing together and mounting, heightening each other until all you knew was his hands and his mouth and his cocks. Rewired by how good it felt to be played with, how right it felt to be stretched and split open.

You didn't even sound human anymore, Satoru devouring every single one of your devastated whimpers, encouraging more with delicious whispers that left you arching your back as much as you could off the table.

He bottomed both cocks out, and you thought you might die. Pain? Pleasure? Both?

And then he was back to rubbing more of that lube over your clit, thighs trembling and body quivering as he soothed you through it.

"You wanna cum for me, sweetheart?" He purred, and you could've climaxed from the cute smirk curling up on his lips, his perfectly sculpted face and those pretty patterns he was busy pressing against your swollen bud.

He pulled his fingers back right as you were about to crest over it, chuckling when you let out a huff.

"Say my name again."

"Toru, p-please," you were begging. Unable to move your wrists, to tether your fingers in his hair or claw at his shoulders, giving him your best set of puppy dog eyes.

He seemed to already see you as his pet.

"Well," he hummed, thumb returning to rubbing you again. "When you say it like that."

With one mean circle, Satoru dragged you over the edge - and dropped you into the ocean of him. White (and blue) blurred your vision, your body shuddering as you desperately cried his name, his thrusts somehow lazy and rushed, burying both his cocks in you and moaning at how hard you clenched down on them.

"S'fucking tight," he hissed, but he was right there with you, cumming hard and fast inside you too, hot spurts of it coating your insides as he throbbed inside you.

Your skin was still warm when he pulled out, your muscles sore and tense, body exhausted as you blinked up at him.

"That was fun," he grinned. "Ready for round two?"

Gojo couldn't have created a better specimen himself.

You fulfilled his every fantasy - and then some.

The research department found him two hours later, grumbling about getting locked out of the lab just to find the culprit readjusting a homemade vibrator with clinical precision to your clit.

His new favorite subject not quite passed out yet, cumming for the twelfth time, weak whimpers rolling out, a mess between your thighs and covering the clinic table.

You were drunk on him, delirious since orgasm six, nodding along to all his suggestions, pressing kisses to his skin every time he was close enough, not even straining against the cuffs or collar anymore. Just accepting all that he threw at you.

He checked off twenty items from his bucket list so far already - but he still had about a thousand more to go. Tying you up, fucking your mouth, pressing your thighs up to your chest, bending you over on the desk so he could role play as your boss. Walk you around on all fours around the spaceship and show his newest prize.

"This is unacceptable."

Blah blah blah.

He wasn't listening to whatever they were complaining about. All he was thinking about was new ways to explore your body, how much more research he was dying to do.

He hadn't stopped touching you, refusing to budge, your eyes rolled back and pretty little gasps panting from your lips as he turned up the setting on the vibrator.

"You cannot have sexual intercourse with our test subjects," snapped one of the higher-ups, scoffing at him with that annoying little chitter.

Gojo resented that he said subjects.

It wasn't plural. He only wanted you.

"Why not?" He retorted, shrugging his shoulders.

"It's unethical," Suguru chimed in, leaning against the wall, like he wasn't watching your cute disoriented face scrunching up mid-climax.

"You kidnap them without their consent," Gojo pointed out. They didn't get to say no to him. It was his family's funding that supported their expeditions - covered the fuel costs to beam their unsuspecting test subjects up. "At least she consented to this."

One of the directors of the lab grimaced, all of them exchanging looks while Suguru snorted behind them.

What did humans say?

Checkmate.

"Sweetheart."

Someone was nudging you, a weak noise leaving your mouth, a keen whine as you blinked up at the bright lights. Waking up from a wet dream into a weirder reality, squinting up at Satoru's familiar face.

You felt the clamps unlock, thick fingers grazing against your throat before the collar was finally off.

He helped you sit up, your limp body moving like jello, thighs sore, no strength left to stand as you fell into his chest.

"They said I could keep you," he excitedly murmured, cradling you against him. He ruffled your hair, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead before nuzzling your nose.

Keep you?

It took a few seconds to set in, your body sluggish as he already started rambling off plans, promising you pretty toys and a soft bed to sleep in, saying that you how cute you'd look all dressed up, how fun life together would be when you got to have sex all the time.

Maybe being an alien's pet wouldn't be so bad.

indie's kinktober