Summary: The Gojo Clan has been trying to encourage Satoru to wed and have an heir for years, to no avail. After many failed plots, they've settled on hiring a matchmaker to find him a suitable woman. Much to everyone's dismay.
Warnings: Use of Y/N, Cursing Mentions of (Arranged) Marriage, Mentions of Children
Word Count: 5.2K
Masterlist | Series Masterlist
MATCH 0
Satoru Gojo, the man who could not be moved.
Satoru was a lot of things. At the top of that list, to many people, he was the strongest. And by default, that made him the head of the renowned Gojo Clan. He didn’t spend much time at the estate, avoided the elders like the plague, and ultimately left most of his clan leader duties to people who actually cared about that stuff.
If Satoru doesn’t want to do something, he won’t. It’s as simple as that. It’s not like anyone can make him, he’s not bound by the rules of society the way ordinary people are. There’s no one on this planet that can keep him in line, not a soul that can hold him accountable. Truly, the world should be eternally grateful that, against all odds, Satoru Gojo is a good man at his core.
Unfortunately, being the amazing person he was, caused a lot of problems. The problem that was at the top of that list right now was his clan’s insistence that he marry someone and produce an heir. At first, they’d been far more picky, trying to trap him into meetings with the daughters of other major clans, aiming to form a historic alliance. But at the realization that they were at the mercy of the strongest, they started hoping that throwing any woman at him would be enough. Much to their dismay, Satoru had not been receptive any attempts at marriage, arranged or not.
He didn’t have much free time, busy saving countless lives and all. Where the hell would he find time for a wife? Much less for the nuances of dating. And even if he did have time for dating, Satoru is well aware that most women aren’t interested in him for much outside of the power he wields. As a sorcerer, a clan leader, a god amongst men. Finding someone who liked him for who he was, who liked Satoru Gojo, would already be a hassle. But convincing them to be with him? That would be the real kicker.
Try dating a guy who is absent almost 24/7. See how it goes. Answer: not well.
Women aren’t interested in an absentee husband, for good reason. As such, Satoru had long since accepted that he’s going to die alone. Too bad, so sad. His clan, on the other hand, rejects this reality and has taken to scheming like life is a goddamn hallmark movie.
Their most recent ploy is seated at his desk, his work desk, at Jujutsu Tech.
A young woman swings her legs back and forth, examining his sunglasses like they’re the most interesting thing in the world. She’s dressed rather professionally, like something out of a TV show or magazine. “Where’d you get these?” She asks, looking up at him. She dawns her own pair of sunglasses, dark enough that he can hardly see her eyes through them, not technically at least.
With the six eyes, he sees everything, after all.
“Somewhere you can’t afford.” He replies cooly, offering her a sarcastic smile as he steps past her to reach into his desk drawer, grabbing the manila folder he’d come for in the first place before being so rudely interrupted. Truly, he didn’t have time for whatever nonsense this was. He wasn’t particularly sure how she tied back to his clan, but he was certain they’d sent her.
She sighs, rather dramatically, in response. Swiveling around on the desk to face him as she puts the glasses down on the wood. “You’re a hard man to find, Satoru Gojo.”
“Am I?” He responds wryly, rather uninterested in wherever this is going. He slams the drawer shut a bit too aggressively. “See yourself out.”
Unfortunately, she does not. Hopping off the desk when he starts walking towards the exit to follow after him. “I’m afraid I don’t get paid in full unless we have a full conversation, so I’ll have to pass.”
He scoffs, stopping at the doorway to look back at her. “What? Another escort? Seriously where do they keep finding you guys—”
She blinks, “excuse me?” She looks at him, rather incredulously. “No, I’m not an escort.” Comes her response, scowling a bit. “I’m a matchmaker.”
For a second, Satoru just stares at her in disbelief. Because, as it currently stands, it’s looking like the Gojo Clan had reached an all time low in terms of desperation. They’d tried a lot of things to find him a woman, but a matchmaker was a whole other league. This woman’s whole job hinged on finding him someone he’d be compatible with. Though, she’d only be successful if he actually cooperated. The chances of cooperation are astonishingly low though. Surely, everyone involved is aware of how moronic this plan to get him a wife is.
“Huh?” Is what he responds with.
She scrunches her nose, “usually my clients are aware I’ve been hired.” She responds, reaching into her purse and pulling out a binder. She’s not looking at him anymore, opening the binder and flipping to the first page— is that a picture of him? Who the hell was this woman?
“Probably because I didn’t hire you.” He narrows his gaze at her. “Listen lady—”
“My name is Y/N. Y/N L/N.” She corrects, finally looking back up at him. “Professional matchmaker. I was hired by your clan to help you find an ideal match as clan leader.”
The way she puts it, you’d think this was simple as ever.
He looks at her, unamused. “So you’ve said.” Satoru rubs his temple, clearly annoyed as he looks back down at her. Though she can’t see the irritation in his gaze because of the blindfold, it comes off him in waves as he speaks. “I’m not interested in your service. You can leave.” Curt as ever, Satoru is turning on his heels to finally get back to his work.
And… she’s hot on his tail, the click of her heels sounding through the hallways. He’s honestly a bit impressed she’s able to keep up because those things do not look comfortable. “I’m contractually obligated to provide you this service.” Comes her response. “I don’t get paid unless I provide you with bare minimum service.”
He inhales sharply, “doesn’t really sound like my problem, does it?” He grumbles, rounding a corner. Since when did this school get so big? He swears it was not always this size.
“I’m going to make it your problem.” She responds, sassy as ever. Who did this woman think she was? What a hassle. “I could get sued. You can spare five minutes—”
He stops suddenly in the middle of the hallway, and she bumps straight into his back. In those few moments, she makes a couple of observations about Satoru. First of all, objectively speaking, he’s physically attractive. He has the type of looks that would’ve served him if we was a model in another life, an ethereal appearance about him with white hair and allegedly piercing blue eyes. Second, also related to his physical appearance, he’s well-built— broad shoulders, solid body, this is a man whose body is his weapon. Third, on the subject of weapon, she feels no warmth from him. It’s like touching a solid wall when she bumps into him, its his cursed technique, the one that makes him so special.
The final observation she makes is that something about him feels distinctly wrong, like the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, her stomach twists, chest tightens. She’d felt it, the moment he’d entered her vicinity, and she’d assumed it was the wealth of cursed energy he produced. But being this close to him now, she wonders if it’s something else entirely.
How curious.
“How much?” He asks, reaching into his pocket and turning around to face her. “I don’t have a lot of cash on me, but I’m sure a wire transfer will do.” He opens his wallet, flicking through the wealth of yen he carries on him, a couple of black, metal credit cards that she’s sure hold the weight of the world visible as well.
“Pardon me?” She responds, exasperated by his behavior.
“How. Much.” He repeats the words, slowly, like she’s stupid. “The legal fees. Your contract. All that stuff. I’ll pay it. Just get out of my hair after.”
She blinks, once, twice. Her expression turning sour. “Do you know how long legal proceedings last?” She asks, incredulous as she stares at him. “Beyond that, the blow to my reputation? I happen to be a very successful matchmaker.” She scowls at him, adjusting her grip on her binder.
“Enough money can fix both those problems.” Is his response.
For a few seconds, she just stares at him. Narrowing her gaze, surprised by the amount of audacity this man possesses. Though, admittedly, she shouldn’t be. Because people weren’t kidding when they said he was on another level. Y/N doubts she would care much for anything if she was like him.
“I don’t want money.” Is her flat response, rubbing her temple in an effort to diminish the headache this man is giving her. “I already got paid half of what I’m owed. What I want is to maintain my career and lifestyle.” She says simply, flipping her binder open again. “Which is very easy to do if you commit to doing the absolute bare minimum that my matchmaking contract requires.”
Satoru considers her for a moment, considers the entire situation. Despite what she says, he’s sure he could buy her off. He suspects she’s underestimating the amount of money he’s willing to spend. Beyond that, he could almost certainly scare her off. Though tormenting random civilians isn’t exactly his favorite pastime. It’s not her fault that his stupid clan is trying to get involved in his love life again. But outside of all of that, a small part of him thinks that she really won’t stop following him around until he relents. She certainly seems tenacious.
The path of least resistance seems to be getting a professional matchmaker.
It can’t be all bad either. The more he thinks about it, the better it sounds. This woman will set him up with all the eligible bachelorettes of Jujutsu society, most likely from esteemed families and important lineages. It sounds like the perfect opportunity to ruin his clan’s reputation with said families and discouraging anyone in Jujutsu society from every trying to court him again. Yes, this could be an excellent opportunity for finally killing all the hopes and dreams of the elders by absolutely humiliating his clan.
Satoru can spare some time on an amusing side quest of sorts. And besides, there’s something interesting about the little matchmaker before him. Something that his eyes, the special ones, have identified that he hasn’t yet deciphered.
“Fine.” He says simply. “What do I need to do?
A consultation and ten dates (matches, as his beloved matchmaker calls them) are the items stipulated in the contract. The consultation entails sitting Satoru down and getting all his information. It ranges from things as simple as height, hobbies, likes and dislikes. All the way to his attachment style, his preferences in a partner and his aspirations in life. From there, as Y/N described it, she’ll find a few suitable matches, they’ll review them on paper together, and if he sees one he really likes— it’s a date.
At the consultation stage, Y/N typically tells her clients to be honest, but realistic. If you know you aren’t perfect, you can’t expect a perfect partner, something has to give. Compromises must be made in the art of matchmaking, that’s just how it is. But… Satoru is not her typical client. Because on paper, he’s perfect. His requests simply can’t be outlandish, because when you’re a high value match like Satoru, you can make whatever demands you want.
High value isn’t a strong enough term actually. He’s a once in a lifetime match. Assuming you disregard his rather petulant personality— he has the makings of a very desirable partner.
The only obstacle between Y/N and all the information she needs to actually start the matchmaking process is Satoru’s need to overcomplicate everything. For what should’ve been an email with a longwinded form for his personal profile and partner preferenes, he’s managed to drag her out of her home office to some random cafe near Jujutsu Tech he wanted to try. She tried to get the information out of him about a dozen other ways, but Satoru doesn’t have many close friends she can interrogate about his innermost thoughts and dreams. Most people say the same thing when asked about him.
He’s the strongest.
She knows that. He knows that. Everyone knows that. That is not what she’s looking for. She’s looking for some ounce of vulnerability in the impenetrable shield that is his infinity, something that will tell her what he wants and needs from a person meant to be his life partner. Maybe she shouldn’t be taking her job so seriously— because he’s clearly not very interested in the service she’s been paid to provide, she could probably toss him at a couple random women and call it a day. But a part of her is taking this as a challenge.
Y/N is pretty sure she can help Satoru Gojo find love, it’ll just be a bit of a struggle. But she’ll get the information she needs, even if she has to pry it out of him. Admittedly, she’d tried that, over the past two weeks she’d followed him around like a lost puppy, poking and prodding. He hadn’t been the most cooperative. But she’d learned a bit about him, the man behind the myth.
Not enough for a full profile though. Which is why she is here, in this stupid cafe, finally
She tugs her coat on tighter around her person, pushing her sunglasses up her nose, she pushes the door to the cafe open. It’s cute, sure, has some sort of cat theme going on. But that’s not really what draws her attention, instead, she finds herself drawn to the head of white hair on a tall body at the middle of the store— staring rather intently at a menu.
She’s a bit surprised to see him dressed in more casual clothes, though it suits him far better than a blindfold and those Jujutsu Tech robes. The sunglasses of his she’d been toying with are stark on his face, a coat that probably costs more than the building, a nice sweater and some jeans. Yeah, Satoru definitely could’ve found a woman without a matchmaking service, so how the hell did they wind up here?
“Having fun staring?” He’s not looking at her, and she’s quickly reminded that he doesn’t need to. Though he turns to look at her as he speaks, social conventions and all. There’s an amused look on his face as he tilts his head at her, gaze flickering over her person.
She has cursed energy. Most people do. But she has too much to be plain human, which means she must be a sorcerer with a cursed technique. Though, she clearly hasn’t used it yet because Satoru would’ve seen it by now, the fluctuations in her cursed energy.
“Not particularly.” She responds wryly, stepping closer, she peers over him to see the menu. “What was so interesting to you that you wanted to have our meeting here?”
He only shrugs, eyes darting over the menu. “I heard their sweets are some of the best.”
Satoru, she quickly realizes, has a sweet tooth. A very, very, very aggressive sweet tooth that he indulges in heavily. Because he ends up buying two full flights of sweet drinks and pastries. One of said flights ends up being for her, because he simply insists she must indulge in the cafe’s best.
She has yet to touch her flight, her focus on her laptop and the very empty profile.
“Okay.” She breathes out, “let’s try this again. Tell me about yourself.”
He leans back against his seat, taking another bite of the cupcake he’d gotten. “What about me?” He sighs contentedly at the flavor of the cupcake, an almost criminal amount of icing on top of it.
Y/N shrugs, looking up at him, to her surprise— he’s staring at her pretty intently. Or at least, she thinks he is. It’s kinda hard to tell behind the sunglasses. “Anything. Your hopes, dreams, aspirations, hobbies.” She gestures vaguely. “Start anywhere.”
Satoru huffs, instead opting to sip the drink she’d watched him double the sugar amount of. The barista looked incredibly alarmed and concerned for his health. “Are these the things people will care about?” He asks, a partially genuine question. He finds it hard to believe many people in the upper echelon of Jujutsu society care for hobbies. “Cursed techniques are typically more of interest for sorcerers.”
“Well, I know what your technique is.” She responds simply, it had been one of the only things she had already known when filling out his profile. Though it wasn’t really necessary, his name was more than enough for identifying his technique to the average person.
“I don’t know yours.” He says, leaning forward, his behavior a bit catlike as he looks at her.
The look she gives him is rather unimpressed. “Who said I have one?”
He looks at her like the cat who got the cream, a grin spreading on his face. “C’mon, I thought you knew my technique?” He reaches up to tug his glasses down, and she’s met with the intense blue eyes she’s heard so much— the six eyes that allow him to see everything. But outside of his technique, they really are as beautiful as people say. A vibrant, icy sort of blue. The kind that normally can’t be achieved naturally and yet, there they are, staring her down from across the table. His gaze is analytical, like he’s trying to figure it out himself. “Tell me and I’ll answer some of your silly questions.”
She finds herself drawing her attention to the flight of drinks before her, reaching out to pick a random one, she lifts it to her lips and takes a sip. Sighing, a bit annoyed, she elects to indulge him. “I can see threads.” Is all she says, shrugging. “Nothing interesting.”
Satoru tilts his head, now intrigued. “Threads?” He repeats.
“Your likes?” Is her response, disregarding his question.
He hums, “digimon.” Then, he shifts in his seat. “How do the threads work?”
She blinks, once, twice. Digimon? Isn’t that some decades old cartoon? Okay, maybe she was wrong. Evidently, this man is a fucking geek. Or is nerd the more accurate term? She wasn’t 100% sure, but she can definitely see why he wasn’t pulling women left and right if the one thing he likes is Digimon, She looks at him a bit incredulously, “digimon?” She repeats, though he doesn’t seem particularly interested in elaborating, more curious about what it is that her technique can do.
“Threads?” He matches her intonation, clearly awaiting further explanation.
She huffs, leaning back agains the seat, her gaze returns to her laptop— on which she only types ‘digimon?????’ in the likes category of her rather lengthy form. At the rate they’re going, she suspects they’ll need four more sweet flights from this cafe before she has all the information she needs to generate a sufficient match pool. Though the thought of his sweets obsession has her typing that down as well. Two things, what a great start.
“Threads.” She asserts, quickly realizing he wants more detail. “I can see them, I can sever them. That’s about it. It’s pretty boring.” She shrugs before attempting to redirect the conversation back to him. “Isn’t digimon just a worse version of pokemon?”
A scandalized look dawns his face, “first of all: absolutely not. Digimon is easily the superior card game and overall content.” He scrunches his nose in disgust at the mere thought of Pokemon being better, waving off her statement. “Anyways, back to the threads—”
“Not back to the threads.” She immediately cuts him off. “Back to you.”
He pouts, actually pouts, throwing his head back with a dramatic sigh. “That’s boring.” He responds, “let’s go question for question.” He insists. “I get to ask you something and in exchange I’ll answer one of your little questions.”
She finds herself staring at him for a second, gaze narrowed, “fine.” Clearly, this was the only way to get him to cooperate.
He beams at the realization he’s worn her down, “perfect.” Satoru sits up like this is the most interesting thing he’s heard all week.
“So, what’s your favorite color?”
She scrunches her nose. “Not going to ask about the threads?”
He tilts his head at her, “is that your question for me?”
A wry smile, clearly he likes to exploit technicalities, that could be difficult. She looks at the array of sugar before her once more in an effort to distract from his pestering. Selecting a pastry at random to try. “I like red.” She responds simply. “What are your hobbies?”
He sips his stupidly sweet drink, contemplative. “Don’t have any. I’m naturally pretty good at everything.” It’s true, he is ridiculously good at everything. Everything he tries at least.
She blinks, clearly a bit surprised, pausing her typing and looking up from her computer. “Nothing?” Her brows furrow. “You clearly like sweets. Do you bake? Visit pastry shops?” She attempts to supply him with an answer.
He shakes his head, “nah. I don’t really have the time for that.”
“Make time.” She responds, looking at him incredulously. “Hobbies are important. Especially for people in high ranking, time consuming positions. They help with stress management.” They’re also a crucial part of a compatible couple. Hobbies give people a way to blow off steam, a mutual point of interest, a life outside their partner. Hobbies are an absolute necessity and this man has none? That’s not gonna fly.
Satoru looks rather amused by that comment. “Is that how you’d classify me? High ranking?”
“It’s how I’d classify your job.”
At his, he pauses. Because Satoru had never really considered sorcery a job, it was something he did. Sorcery was who he is. It consumes almost all his time. Now, there’s this random woman telling him sorcery is just a job.
“Huh.” Is all he says, contemplative, and for once— quiet.
She finds it a bit concerning if she’s honest. But she elects to put him out of his misery by filling the silence instead of letting him dwell on whatever thoughts are currently settling into his head. “What’s your taste in women like?”
His focus returns to the conversation at hand with her question, another pout dawning his face. “I haven’t asked my question.” It almost sounds like a whine.
She folds her arms. “You asked if I’d classify you as high ranking, I answered.”
He blinks, then grins, as if pleased she’d outwitted him. “Fair enough.” Satoru finds himself leaning forward in his seat. “My taste in women? You interested?” She does not look amused, which has Satoru sighing exaggeratively. “Tough crowd.” He rubs a hand over his jaw. “Haven’t thought about it much. Maybe someone passionate, dedicated?”
Y/N hums, typing up what little information he offers as well as a couple guesses to what his type might be like. Satoru takes her silence as an invitation to ask his question. “What’s your hobby?”
This was going to be a long day, she concludes rather quickly. Though she begrudgingly answers each of his questions, much to his delight. In kind, she always asks one of her own. Back and forth. It’s not long before she’s managed to fill out the vast majority of her match form, a myriad of details on his likes, dislikes, hobbies. Her findings are rather minimal though, as it sounds like the main thing he does with his time is…. be a sorcerer. A bit of a sad existence, she thinks, but ultimately to be expected from the strongest the world has to offer.
As depressing as some of his responses may be, Satoru indulges in this entire meeting. It’s not often he has free time, much less time that isn’t spent being pestered by the elders— the knowledge that he’s meeting with a matchmaker seemed to soothe their concerns though. Jujutsu society was rather eager for him to marry and reproduce after all. It’s fun, to go out and try something new. The sweets are delicious, as expected, flavor combinations he’s never tried before that leave him feeling content. Beyond that, it’s been a while since Satoru had spoken to someone… new. Admittedly, he had never gone out of his way to interact with others unless they’d piqued his interest, and well, this woman had piqued his interest quite a bit.
It’s entertaining. But, all good things must come to an end. If he’s honest, he doesn’t even realize how much time has passed until she’s shutting her laptop, offering him a smile. “Great.” She chirps, clearly in a much better mood now. “I’m gonna compile a profile for you and then I’ll start reviewing possible matches.” He can already picture it too, he’s sure all this information will be printed and sorted into her little binder in a matter of days.
“We don’t review them together?” He asks, tilting his head. “That sounds a bit counterproductive.”
She shrugs. “It’s part of the service, I screen through possible matches and scrap the ones that won’t work at all. Then we review the possible contenders. Prevents wasted time.”
He hums, nodding along slowly. “When?”
She considers it for a moment, “I’ll try to get it done this week so that I can send you the matches for review.” She packs her laptop back into her bag.
A frown finds its way onto his face at that, and he shifts in his seat, pulling out his phone. “Here, put your number in.” When she looks at him, confused, he adds a swift, “to send me the matches.”
At that, she nods. How sensible of him. What a pleasant surprise! She immediately starts typing her number in while he beams like he’s just won the lottery. “Once they’re done I’ll give you a call and we can set up a time to meet.” He takes his phone from her grasp and sits up, coming to a stand. And for a second, she gawks at him. Had she not just said that— “see you soon.” The words come out like a croon, he’s clearly pleased with himself.
Speechless. She’s been rendered speechless by this man’s audacity. Truly, he breaks all conventions of how her matchmaking service is supposed to work. Though she really shouldn’t be surprised, at least he’s cooperating.
As he walks off, she vaguely wonders if he even has a car— she’s pretty sure she’s heard rumors that he can fly, so there’d be no reason to have one… Though that’s not the primary thought on her mind, instead, she finds herself tipping the edge of her sunglasses down, her gaze fixated on him as she contemplates activating her technique: Red String of Fate. It’s not a very useful ability, especially in combat applications, so being a sorcerer had never been in the cards for her. The most she could probably do is track someone down if they truly didn’t want to be found. Not that she’d been particularly interested in that life. Instead, Y/N’s ability allowed her to see the strings of cursed energy that connected people to other people and things.
The threads themselves varied in vibrancy, density, and quality among other things. With each variable representing a different aspect of whatever relationship she bore witness to. All strings typically came in shade of red, save for binding vows, which were always gold. The ability to perceive binding vows certainly had it’s own implications for the capability of her cursed technique, though everything comes at a cost, binding vows are not something to be trifled with.
Just because she can sever the threads, doesn’t mean she should. She learned that long ago.
Instead, her cursed technique lended itself to more emotional applications. Which is why being a matchmaker had been a relatively easy choice. Through the threads, she can determine the compatibility of two parties, the strength of their relationship, the depth of their emotions.
In Jujutsu society, you wound up at Y/N’s door in search of a soulmate, a suitor or closure. She’d found that not everyone has one, another half. Among the rich, those that do have so-called soulmates often forego any relationship with anyone several steps down the social ladder. Instead seeking out maximum compatibility among those on the same level. While some come to have bonds severed entirely— a rarity, people don’t like to let go.
In all her wisdom, it is now, as Satoru’s back is to her person, that she activates her technique. She watches him freeze, clearly aware of what she’s just done, he whips around almost instantly to meet her gaze from the distance. Well, it had been foolish to hope he wouldn’t notice, someone as sensitive to cursed energy as he is.
Satoru Gojo, she finds, is a very lonely person. He has few threads connecting him to others, she could probably count them on one or two hands. Outside of the quantity of threads he possesses, it’s the quality that really leaves her speechless.
One string is a bright, vibrant red— it hangs on by only a thread, incredibly taut and stretched to the max. This particular thread is thicker than most she’s ever seen. She can only guess what that was like, a relationship with so much depth and intensity, torn apart by something almost unforgivable. Though, Satoru evidently still had the capacity to forgive whoever it was that had wronged him, even if he didn’t realize it. The other threads aren’t much better, as sparse as they are. They vary in vibrancy and quality, but never in breadth.
Satoru Gojo, the man who cannot be moved, is loyal to a fault. Worse, he has known heartbreak like no other. The kind that weighs on you each day, the kind you see in everything you do. Inescapable, unforgettable, and somehow forgivable because the depth of that relationship is something few people get to experience.
It’s not something she’d expect from someone like him. He’s been put on a pedestal since birth, touted as the honored one. A one in a trillion possibility at his existence, and there he stood. Arrogance and entitlement were to be expected, in fact, he seemed to tout those traits often. But she knew the truth of it all.
Humans lie, the strings don’t. The threads tell a story, one that only Y/N sees. One that puts a person’s life into perspective, that gives her insight into who they truly are. At the end of the day, Satoru is as human as everyone else, because his strings don’t tell a story of strength. They tell her he’s weak.
Perhaps this match process would be more interesting than she had previously anticipated.
feel free to tip ☕️ — always appreciated, never expected 💛
Note: honestly pretty proud of this! had a lot of fun writing it. very excited for it to be a series. hopefully people enjoy!
8:10PM - Try as you may, you can't pick a fight with him
Nanami Kento is incredibly frustrating as a partner. As toxic as it sounds, sometimes you just want to fight. And Nanami will never indulge you. He’ll sit on the couch, watch you pace back and forth, complaining about something absolutely nonsensical. You have no real reason to be mad, there’s just that itch in the back of your mind to argue with your perfect boyfriend. But, the less Nanami engages, the more annoyed you get— because who let this man be so goddamn calm! It’s downright infuriating.
Even worse, you are well aware of how wild the words leaving your mouth are, and for some reason, he isn’t even flinching. In fact, he’s nodding along like what you’re saying makes perfect sense. Sipping from his cup of tea, removing his glasses and putting them on the table. He hums and nods along to indicate he’s listening, watches you gesture your hands wildly as you pace back and forth in your living room.
He never lets it get too far though. At a certain point of your rant, Nanami will wordlessly rise from his seat. He’ll step over to you, one hand coming to your forearm to gently cease your pacing back and forth. The other coming to cup your chin, gentle, but firm enough that your attention is on him and your words have trailed off. Nanami isn’t a loud man after all, he’s not obnoxious or obscene. He’s mature, and with his maturity comes a quiet sort of dominance. The type that commands attention and obedience with actions rather than words.
Naturally, it’s super hot.
“Dove.” He murmurs, thumb rubbing over your chin. “Why don’t we go out tomorrow night? Consider it my apology.”
Nanami is well aware of how odd it is that he’s apologizing when he really hasn’t done anything wrong. But he knows better than to disagree, and while he might find it a tad annoying that all these accusations are thrown at him about once a month, he finds pleasure in knowing how easily he can calm you. His own relaxed demeanor is a tad contagious when it isn’t pissing you the fuck off. The way he regards you with a quiet sort of reverence is enough to silence any complaints you may have had.
Everytime, without fail, you look up at him all doe-eyed— puff out your cheeks a little in pretend annoyance. It’s silly how you pretend to consider his offer, sighing wistfully before agreeing. “I suppose we could.”
He ducks down, kisses the corner of your mouth, rewarding your compliance with affection. “Wonderful, I’ll make arrangements.” And then he stares, gaze flicking over your face. “Is there anything else I need to apologize for?”
Sure, Nanami is a tad irritated by your monthly desire to argue with him, but he can’t say he doesn’t enjoy it a bit too. That way you look up at him all dumbfounded when he acts all sweet on you despite how irrationally you behaved. It’s so easy to shut you up, you melt under his affection and he finds it almost endearing.
So, when you shake your head no, he only smiles. Leaning down to kiss your lips, his hand sliding to your nape— your eyes flutter shut and you meet him half way. Hand coming to his arm as a content sigh leaves you. Once again, he rewards your newfound calmness with his gentle affections.
“Perfect.” Is all he says when he pulls back. “Tomorrow then.”
Masterlist
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Summary: The Gojo Clan has been trying to encourage Satoru to wed and have an heir for years, to no avail. After many failed plots, they've settled on hiring a matchmaker to find him a suitable woman. Much to everyone's dismay.
Match 0 (Coming Soon)
Teaser
Women aren’t interested in an absentee husband, for good reason. As such, Satoru had long since accepted that he’s going to die alone. Too bad, so sad. His clan, on the other hand, rejects this reality and has taken to scheming like life is a goddamn hallmark movie.
Their most recent ploy is seated at his desk, his work desk, at Jujutsu Tech.
A woman swings her legs back and forth, examining his sunglasses like they’re the most interesting thing in the world. She’s dressed rather professionally, like something out of a TV show or magazine. “Where’d you get these?” She asks, looking up at him. She dawns her own pair of sunglasses, dark enough that he can hardly see her eyes through them, not technically at least.
With the six eyes, he sees everything, after all.
“Somewhere you can’t afford.” He replies cooly, offering her a sarcastic smile as he steps past her to reach into his desk drawer, grabbing the manila folder he’d come for in the first place before being so rudely interrupted. Truly, he didn’t have time for whatever nonsense this was. He wasn’t particularly sure how she tied back to his clan, but he was certain they’d sent her.
She sighs, rather dramatically, in response. Swiveling around on the desk to face him as she puts the glasses down on the wood. “You’re a hard man to find, Satoru Gojo.”
“Am I?” He responds wryly, rather uninterested in wherever this is going. He slams the drawer shut a bit too aggressively. “See yourself out.”
Unfortunately, she does not. Hopping off the desk when he starts walking towards the exit to follow after him. “I’m afraid I don’t get paid in full unless we have a full conversation, so I’ll have to pass.”
He scoffs, stopping at the doorway to look back at her. “What? Another escort? Seriously where do they keep finding you guys—”
She blinks, “excuse me?” She looks at him, rather incredulously. “No, I’m not an escort.” Comes her response, scowling a bit. “I’m a matchmaker.”
For a second, Satoru just stares at her in disbelief. Because, as it currently stands, it’s looking like the Gojo Clan had reached an all time low in terms of desperation. They’d tried a lot of things to find him a woman, but a matchmaker was a whole other league. This woman’s whole job hinged on finding him someone he’d be compatible with. Though, she’d only be successful if he actually cooperated. The chances of cooperation are astonishingly low though. Surely, everyone involved is aware of how moronic this plan to get him a wife is.
Summary: Steve gets nightmares, and the sleep deprivation has really been getting to him. So, Y/N takes care of him.
Warnings: Use of Y/N, Mutual Pining, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, Mentions of Death, Potential S5 Spoilers, Cursing, Sharing a Bed, Nightmares
Word Count: 4K
Masterlist
Steve gets nightmares.
It’s silly, he thinks. Even when everything is said and done, he’s waking up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, panting. His mind scattered as he searched his bedroom for an enemy that wasn't there— because the only enemy that remains now is the one in the mirror and the one in his mind.
It’s hard. As the crawls draw on, his anxiety only intensifies. Because what happens if— when they do find something? Sure, there’s a plan. But everyone knows that nothing ever goes to plan, not when you’re facing an interdimensional force. They’re only human. Steve is only human. And for some reason, he feels alone in the utter terror he feels when he goes to sleep. He’s sure that the others get them too, the nightmares. But no one ever mentions it.
The lack of sleep has been getting to him. And on today’s crawl it’s abundantly obvious to Y/N.
He’s been irritable. Steve and Dustin’s relationship was already a bit rocky since Eddie’s death— but this was different. Typically, Steve had a bit more restraint, he was the adult after all. Most of the time, he knew better than to pick fights with a teenage boy. But right now, he was downright snappy. Arms folded as he leans against the van, sideyeing the rest of the group as he waits for Dustin and Y/N to load into the van so they can prepare to start tracking Hopper’s journey in the Upside Down.
Unforunately for Steve, Y/N can see through the irritation, all the way to the exhaustion that has found it’s way to his very core. The deep seated sense of tiredness that he carries with him, like a burden heavy on his shoulders.
“Get in the passenger seat.” Is all she says, opening the driver’s side door.
Steve blinks. “Excuse me?” He straightens his posture, pushing off the van. “I drive. I’m the driver.” His words are insistent as he watches her take a seat, getting comfortable in the van.
The eye contact is a bit intense, like a staredown between two unmoving forces. “Not today.” She responds simply, and the look in her eyes tells him she’s not letting this go. “Passenger seat. Now.”
Dustin watches the exchange, looking back and forth between the two. He finds himself feeling a bit unnerved by it all. They don’t fight, not that he’s ever seen at least. In fact, Dustin has always been a bit confused by their relationship. He’s never really had the courage to ask what exactly went on between them, but a part of him knew it was a bit more than friendship. You don’t look at friends the way Steve looks at her. Though Dustin was unsure if this was just some sad unrequited love story or not.
But he knew one thing for certain: she spoke and Steve obeyed.
Begrudgingly, like a toddler throwing a tantrum and grumbling under his breath, Steve dragged himself to the passenger seat. Slamming his door and all. Y/N looks to Dustin and gestures for him to enter the back of the van, “you got it handled, right?” She has a sweet sile on her face as she speaks to him. Always one to care for the kids (although they’re teens now, she can’t find it in herself to see anything but the baby-faced tweens she once knew).
Dustin only nods.
Y/N gets settled into the driver’s seat, adjusting the seat and the mirrors. She doesn't particularly enjoy driving, in fact, she hates it. Being Steve’s passenger princess is the highlight of her life, but right now— Steve evidently needs the passenger princess treatment. Though she’s unsure as to what exactly is wrong with him, she’s well aware that something is bothering him. The bags under his eyes certainly don’t go unnoticed either.
She’s reaching into the back of the can, tugging a stray blanket from under the rest of the mess back there and throwing it in his face. Steve acts like he’s been personally attacked, shoving the blanket off of himself. “The hell?” He grumbles, shifting in the passenger seat to glare at her.
She glares back, Steve relents. He always relents when its her.
“Alrighty, let’s go.” She chirps simply, starting the van and their aimless drive.
Crawls are pretty boring most of the time. There’s always that underlying sense of anxiety, the what if? But typically, aside from a sense of impending doom, nothing happens. Instead, they spent around 90 minutes just driving in circles with near dead silence. And it’s easy to grow drowsy. The van is nothing if not consistent, slow, steady and stable.
So, Steve falls asleep. He fights it for a while. His head lolling forward as he drifts off, only for him to jump in his seat— shake his head in an effort to get rid of the sleepiness— and stare at the road in an effort to remain alert. But eventually his soft snores fill the vehicle, blanket strewn messily over his lap. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest as he breathes.
Dustin quickly realizes that this was all part of Y/N’s master plan, and concludes that Steve is not pathetic and in a state of sad unrequited love. No, the feelings seem rather mutual.
The crawl time elapses, ending with the dejected sound of Joyce’s voice and the promise for more the next time around. Hopper returns safe and sound, once more leaving them no closer to success.
With a sigh, Y/N turns back to look at Dustin. “I’ll drop you off, alright?” She says, her voice hushed.
Once again, Dustin only nods. But he finds himself compelled to stare at the way she adjusts the blanket so it drapes over Steve’s shoulders. Gently shifting his head so that he doesn’t get that odd pain in his neck when he eventually wakes. It's the type of care that makes you pause, the type of love that leaves something to be desired.
As promised, she drops Dustin off. Pulling up to his house and waving goodbye to him with a soft smile. She waits for him to get inside, sighing as she looks back to Steve, who is still passed out. Her brows furrow a bit at the sight, it’s endearing— seeing him asleep and at peace. But knowing that the reason he’s knocked out in the back of a van is because he evidently hasn’t been sleeping… that’s not particularly reassuring.
She sighs, starting the van’s engine and turning the radio on now that the crawl is over— she picks a calmer station to listen to. Quiet and soft, determined not to disrupt Steve’s sleep as she starts driving towards the desolate Harrington House. It must be lonely, his parents had been out of state when the quarantine began and couldn’t re-enter Hawkins— not that it would’ve mattered if they had. Steve’s parents had never been the most present.
How scary, to be all alone in such a big house.
It’s not long before they arrive, she pulls into the driveway, unbuckling and shifting in her seat to gently shake his shoulder. “Steve.” She murmurs his name quietly, trying to rouse him from sleep. She mumbles his name a couple more times, gently shaking him before he begins to stir. His eyes flutter and as consciousness finds him— he jumps in his seat, shaking his head and clearing his throat.
“I’m— I’m up— I’m up—” He looks around, a tad disoriented, probably still half asleep as he looks to Y/N. “The crawl?”
She only shakes her head. “All done.” Comes her response. “You slept through another uneventful evening.”
Steve sighs, letting his head fall back against the car seat. “Great.” He breathes out, sitting up and looking at her. He pushes the blanket off his person, folding it up carefully. “Thanks.” He says quietly. “For letting me sleep.”
“You clearly needed it.”
He rubs the back of his neck, a tad remorseful. “I was an ass. Sorry.”
She waves it off, “it’s fine. You were tired.” Her gaze returns to the Harrington house. “I can drop off the van tomorrow, you should rest.” She assures him.
Steve frowns, shaking his head as looks at her, almost incredulously. “Nah, I got it. My car is still at the station anyways.” He unbuckles from his seat, as if on autopilot. Mentally, he’s still half asleep, which is the only reason why his next words even leave the deep dark corners in the back of his mind.
“You can just stay the night.”
There are a million other options Steve could have proposed if he actually cared about delivering the van back to the WSQK Radio Station himself. He could’ve offered to drive her home and then come back to his house, dropping off the van tomorrow. He could’ve driven there right now if he really wanted to, grabbed his car and came home.
Instead, he asks Y/N to stay the night.
She tilts her head at him, pausing for a moment as she considers him, his offer. Clearly unsure if this is a polite offer that any normal person would know to reject or something more genuine. Naturally, she plays it safe and assumes the former. “I don't want to impose—”
Immediately, he shakes his head. “You aren’t.” He insists, pausing. “I—I want you to stay.” And when her answer isn’t an immediate yes, he clears his throat. “Unless you don’t want to. I can drive you home. Or you can drive. In the van. Whatever you want.”
And god, he feels awkward having asked at all. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He just had to open his big dumb mouth. It’s entirely selfish to crave her presence, to ask her to stay. But he does it anyway, a bit desperate to have someone by his side tonight.
Lucky for him, she’s never had any complaints about indulging him.
“Okay.” She breathes out simply. “Sure— sure, that should be fine.” She murmurs softly.
He lets out a sigh of relief, offering her a sheepish smile. “Yes?” He shifts in his seat. “Great— cool. Cool. Perfect.” The words tumble out of his mouth before he has much of a chance to stop them.
Then he just looks at her, a bit expectant. Clearly waiting for her to step out of the car first before he follows, because he really wants to make sure she actually plans to stay the night. Thankfully, she gets the picture, pushing her door open and stepping out of the car. Her legs feel a bit sore, having driven for so long. She stretches her arms above her head while Steve exits the vehicle, his own legs feeling like jelly after almost 2 hours of sleep.
He quickly heads to his front door, making sure she follows as he unlocks it swiftly and pushes it open. Y/N has been over before, it’s nothing new. Same oddly perfect foyer, perfectly organized living room, hardly a semblance of evidence that someone lives here aside from Steve’s jacket over the back of the couch and the shoes he just kicked off by the entrance. She follows suit, shrugging off her hoody and kicking off her sneakers before her gaze begins to dart around, curious as ever.
She’s been to his home before, but everytime she visits, she swears that she notices something new. Today, it’s the fact that in the absence of his parents— the house is distinctly Steve. In small ways, but it’s there. Some of his clothes strewn around, shoes at the entryway, blanket thrown haphazardly over the couch.
Steve himself, is looking at her, a bit unsure of how to proceed. He really hadn’t anticipated getting this far. “You can sleep in the guest bedroom.” He offers.
“You didn’t ask me to stay over so that I could stay in the guest bedroom, Steve.”
At that, his face flushes and he’s immediately shaking his head like she’s got the complete wrong idea. Surely she can’t believe he expect her to hook up with him or something?! He panics at the thought, god, this is going terribly. “I did not invite you just to—”
“Don’t be so perverted.” She swats his arm, scowling at him. “That’s not what I mean’t, weirdo.” Her own face has warmed at the implications of his words. She grows quiet, looking away from him, a tad embarrassed now. “I meant the fact that you clearly haven’t been sleeping. You want company, don’t you?”
It makes perfect sense. If she was having nightmares, unable to sleep, having someone at her side would help her sleep. Knowing there’s some real at your side brings a sense of security like no other. And that feeling of safety is scarce these days. So, she gets it.
If possible, Steve’s face reddens further. “I—” He contemplates denying it, but quickly realizes any efforts to pretend thats not what he wanted would be fruitless. He practically deflates, evading her gaze. “I mean, that would be nice. But I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable or anything.” Comes his quiet admission.
She shakes her head, waving off his concerns. “I wouldn’t have agreed to stay if I wasn’t willing.”
He swallows, nervous now. Why is he nervous? It’s fine. This is what he wanted. Now, he just had to not fuck it up, he can manage that. “Right.” He breathes out. “Right. Sure. C’mon we can go to my room. I’ll give you a change of clothes and stuff.”
This time, she follows him up the stairs, watching him carefully. As they enter his room— Steve immediately goes to rummage through his dressers in search of something for her to wear. Settling on a shirt of his and some basketball shorts.
“Thanks.” She says when he hands it to her. She parts her lips, closes them. “I—” She purses her lips, and Steve listens intently, like he always does. “It’s just me.” Are the words she settles on. “You don’t have to be nervous or anything. I can still leave if—”
Immediately, he’s shaking his head. Cutting her off, “no, no, no. No, that’s not what I want at all.” He says, the words tumbling out of his mouth quickly. “Sorry, I just— you can be really forward.” He breathes out with a laugh. “Which is good. It’s really good. It helps.” Steve quickly adds, clearing his throat as if that will fix the tight feeling he has in his chest. “I’m glad you’re here. Really.”
Y/N nods, offering him a small smile. “Alright.”
Admittedly, Steve can’t help but feel a bit.. Awkward. His relationship with Y/N has always been odd to say the least, the type of undefined that leaves you wondering if maybe it’s all one sided and you’re deluding yourself. It’s the ambiguity of it all that leaves him nervous. Steve has never been one to do things halfway. And this moment, here and now, having her in his bedroom, getting ready to sleep in his bed. There’s no ambiguity there, no halfway, it’s not one of those things he can play off because it’s not something friends ever do.
They’re close, they always have been. Having known each other since they were kids, she’d moved out of Hawkins with her family for a few years but they’d ended up moving back midway through high school— where she’d connected with her former childhood friend who’d been in the midst of being the school’s resident douchebag.
It’d taken a while to return to a point of friendship that resembled that of when they were kids. And ultimately, things weren’t the same, they couldn’t be. They were older now, and things were different.
Steve vaguely wonders if it’s his fault they’ve ended up in this odd in between territory. Y/N had been there to witness his many (somewhat pathetic) attempts at winning back Nancy’s affections. Perhaps the anxiety that he was the guy who’d never get over his ex is what held them here, in a place where they touch and talk in a way that’s just outside the boundary of friendship, but never crossing the line of something more.
He’s drawn from his thoughts when the bathroom door opens to reveal her, now changed into his clothes. It would be a lie to say it doesn’t make his chest tighten— to see her in his clothes.
“You gonna change?”
Right, he should do that. Steve finds himself nodding rapidly, grabbing his own pajamas. “You can make yourself comfortable.” He gestures to his bed, which he finds himself scruntinizing at this point in time. He should’ve organized his room more earlier today, but then again, he hadn’t realized this is where he’d end up.
She watches him disappear into the bathroom, looking to his bed. She can feel her own face warm at the idea. Okay, she and Steve had hung out plenty of times. On this very bed! It was completely innocent, the only difference was that they’d be sleeping.
So, why the hell did this feel almost criminal?
She tries to push those thoughts away, peeling back the covers, she adjusts the pillows a bit to her liking. Soft. It’s really soft. Which makes sense, Steve’s family has the money for stupidly comfortable silk sheets and pillows. She finds herself collapsing back into the plush of his bed. Her eyes fluttering shut, exhaustion seems to wash over her as she finally finds herself somewhere comfortable. While crawls were typically uneventful, that didn’t change the fact that driving around aimlessly for almost 2 hours was tiring.
A soft laugh is what disrupts her comfort, her eyes fluttering open as she shifts to look at Steve— clearly amused by the sight of her so comfortable on his bed. “Comfortable?”
She flips him off.
He only laughs again, rounding the bed, he slips under the covers with only a mere moment of hesitation. And Steve really does make his best effort to keep a respectful distance, stiff as a board as he fluffs his pillow a bit. Trying to occupy his hands and his mind.
“Lights?” Is all she asks.
Steve only nods as he reaches over to his nightstand to shut off his light, leaving the room in almost total darkness save for the moonlight that streams in from between his curtains.
She shifts a bit in an effort to get more comfortable. Trying to find a way to fill the silence, because she’s not necessarily ready to sleep yet, not with the countless questions weighing on her mind. At the top of that list is what exactly has been keeping him up at night— though she’s sure it’s the nightmares. She doesn’t have any idea past that.
Well, there’s no time like the present.
“Haven’t been sleeping?” Her voice is soft, a bit tentative as she broaches the topic. Unsure how receptive he’ll be to her prodding.
Steve swallows at the mention of his very obvious insomnia. “Not particularly well.” Is all he offers her, laying down on the pillow, he sighs. Feeling the exhaustion wash over him in waves.
She hums softly, shifting a bit on the bed to face him more directly, “wanna talk about it?” It’s a simple offer, he doesn’t half to. But she knows Steve, she knows that he let’s things like this eat him up inside, let’s them build and build. If he doesn’t get it out, he’ll never sleep.
A part of him really doesn’t want to talk about it. Half of the time, he wakes up without a clue of what had been plaguing his nightmares. Not that he needs to remember. He knows what he’s dreaming about, he knows what he’s scared of.
“It’s just— nightmares, y’know.” His response is hushed, a secret for only the two of them.
“I know.” She murmurs back, just as quiet. “All of this is scary. It makes sense. After everything.” Their lives certainly aren’t normal, they haven’t been for years now. To experience what they had and come out of it without nightmares would be scarier.
He huffs, a bit frustrated, tries to meet her gaze in the dark. “It feels like no one else is scared of this stuff.” He pauses, opening his mouth, closing it. “I dont— I don’t know if I’m just a coward or—”
“You’re not.” She responds immediately, cutting him off. “I don’t think I know anyone braver, Steve.” She sighs, brows furrowing a bit. “Nobody wants to talk about this stuff, it makes it real.” She tries to explain, pursing her lips and reaching out blindly until her hand finds his, she intertwines their fingers hesitantly. “I don’t think any of us sleep well anymore.”
He’s quiet for a moment, nodding slowly. “I guess.” He breathes out. “I just—” His voice cracks and he grimaces at the sound. “I don’t know. I feel so weak.”
She squeezes his hand. “You and me both.” She murmurs. “But we’re only human, Steve. It’s okay to be weak.”
He huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, I suppose that’s true.” A sigh, he looks at her, the moonlight framing her face in a way that’s just right. “Thanks for staying the night.” He says it quietly, because he really is grateful. He hasn’t even fallen asleep yet but a part of him already knows that this will probably be the best night of rest he’s gotten in a while.
“Course.” She responds softly.
For a moment he just stares at her. His eyes darting over her face as he absorbs her words. Taking in the sight of her. Eventually, hesitantly, he reaches out, hand coming to hover over her hip. “Can I…” He trails off, unsure of how to express what it is he wants.
Close. He wants to be closer. Wants her in his arms. Wants to feel her against him, something real. He wants so badly, a part of him thinks it hurts.
She nods, a wordless response. She shifts closer and his hand slips to her back to tug her further against him. Her body molding against his and finding comfort in his warmth.
“Better?”
“Better.”
She hums softly, pressing her face into his chest. Steve leans forward to press a kiss to her forehead. “Thanks.” He repeats quietly.
She doesn’t respond, simply pressing a gentle kiss to his jaw. “Goodnight, Steve.”
Steve, to his own surprise, sleeps through the night for the first time in weeks. He awakens to the sunlight glaring through his curtains, straight in his face. Rolling over to try and hide from the burning light, he’s quickly reminded he has a visitor when his face winds up against something solid. His eyes open, half lidded and blurry, he quickly realizes he’s found sanctuary from the brightness against Y/N’s back. Content with this realization, he grumbles sleepily, simply pressing his face further against her to hide from the daylight. He shifts slightly, to get a glimpse of her before he goes back to sleep.
She’s still asleep, her hair splayed out around her, the steady rise and fall of her chest. She’s curled up on her side, face buried into the pillows. Her lashes kiss her skin as she sleeps and she just looks beautiful. That’s the only word to use, the only one that’s appropriate for how she seems right now.
Steve, for the first time in a while, finds that he feels at peace.
He could certainly get used to this.
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Note: hope this ate. if not, i will be embarrassed
Synopsis. Research on the Herwi clan of Pandora is both sparse and sacred. Current reports claim the existence of an icebound Na’vi residing in the bitter sub-zero mountains of Pandora: snow-white and unforgiving, as elusive as the fleeting snowflakes. Though physical evidence of these people are so far non-existent, and so are the eyewitnesses alive to tell the tale.
As a scientist on Pandora, you have only one goal: to prove the existence of the Herwi clan. As olo’eyktan of the Herwi clan, Gojo Satoru has only one goal: to make you his mate.
Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!scientist!reader, Na’vi!Gojo, Avatar AU, based on James Cameron’s movies, snow Na’vi, hidden tribes, snowy setting, scientific research, Shoko cameo, plot, culture, Na’vi language (translations at the end), Eywa, YEARNING Gojo, fated mates, size differences (he’s 11 feet), oraI (f + m rec.), standing oraI, pússydrúnk Gojo, fìngering, bíting, spìtting, cervìx kìssin’, trying to fit, he’s BIG big, feraI Gojo, tummy buIges, pressing down on it, MANHANDLlNG, matíng presses, monsterf-ing (Na’vi), rough s, stopping you from running, p sIapping, p talking, dúmbifícation, chokíng, cIit pinching, he’s slightly lNSANE, slight bréeding, mentions of kids, overstím, creampíes, cúmfIation, cúmpIay, bonding, happy ending, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 15.2k
A/N. This one’s to all the lovely babygirls who’ve been begging for this heheh, I lob you all <33
“Satoru of the snow—once the ice disappears so shall your name.” One amongst the elder members of the Hunt sighs.
Gojo Satoru was a phantom figure before them. He led the way—towering and lithe. Long ivory hair dancing in the flurry. Bioluminescent freckles upon skin such a pale blue that it was practically white. Even amongst the Herwi, Gojo stood out.
Their olo’eyktan. Their leader.
He cuts a pathway through the wind and snow, carrying the carcasses of several snow beasts that he’d hunted himself. They rested upon his strong shoulders - the group’s largest catch, as always - and Gojo was unyielding to the howl of Pandora’s highest peaks. These mountains were a crown upon the young Na’vi’s head.
The elder clicks his tongue, “Do you not believe it is time for this clan to see our olo’eyktan mated-”
“So let the snow melt.” Had it been anyone but Gojo Satoru, then these words would be lost to the snowstorm. “But I shall forever remain waiting for my mate.”
“But the absence of a tsahìk-”
“Mawey- do slow down.” For not the first time since their trek started, Gojo is turning his head behind him. He might have been a firm leader, but he wasn’t unfair. He watches the Herwi hunters that extend from his feet to far beyond hills of ice and frost - some middle-aged and weathered by the snow already, some fresh-faced and cold with the eagerness to prove themselves. Following them were six-legged canines they called txeylan—powerful hinds pulling sleds piled high with hunt. “The younger ones are having trouble keeping up.”
Gaping, the elder looks between his leader and the younger members near the middle of their group. Flanked by older Na’vi. “But- but olo’eyktan-”
He’s looking up at the irritated sky, “I will see no further talking.”
Though there is an easy smile across his face, the elders know not to cross him. Senior in age—only age.
They bowed their heads and looked away above all because he is their leader, but below that - deep, deeeeeep below what their prides would allow them to ever admit - because they knew he was stronger. The strongest.
The heir born of a blizzard, Satoru of the snow.
It was said he opened his eyes during the coldest night of that year. Ice-blue. Bitter blue. Like the pools of crystallized water that the Herwi people would dance their celebrations upon - and that night they held the longest celebrations to date. Arms in arms and singing songs. And giving thanks and giving the young his first taste of snow.
And though the position of olo’eyktan had an aspect of inheritance to it either way, it was undeniable that the world had just borne their future leader.
He’d grown up taller than other Na’vi his age. Stronger. Stormy flurries wherever he stepped, and a blizzard himself.
There almost seemed to be a gap between him and everyone else.
Gojo had been sixteen when he was officially granted the mantle of ‘The Strongest’ by the clan. It was only about time, and only because of the elders’ reluctance that it’d taken this long.
And now it was impossible to say whether he was more loved or respected as a leader: the more boisterous of the younger Na’vi certainly loved him, the elders couldn’t stand him, the ones of mating age just couldn’t get enough of him. Though it was all for naught.
In all the twenty-eight years that he’d sifted through these snows - in all the ten years since he’d come of age - Gojo hadn’t so much as looked at another with a degree of infatuation.
Not for a lack of propositions- in fact, if you asked his attendants then they’d tell you that Gojo had a surplus of propositions. At least five Na’vi would stroll up the familiar pathway to his underground hut, calling out sing-song wishes to braid his hair, to walk amongst the ice glaciers together, to mend his fur clothes.
Hopefuls.
His attendants were ordered to send them all away with a gift from the olo’eyktan and a firm rejection (though, Gojo finds that that certainly didn’t deter them…)
They just didn’t seem to understand why such a suitable young Na’vi seemed to be waiting…watching…for something even he himself didn’t seem to understand. Always turning his blue eyes to the skies, ever since he was a child, always, always-
Gojo stops in his tracks.
One of his arms raises to halt the procession behind him.
The Na’vi hunters freeze.
The Na’vi hunters let their tails swish.
The txeylan sniff the air.
Gojo’s long pointed ears twitch in every direction before resting in a single direction up ahead - where the belly of the snow seemed to swell with something. Something that the recent snowstorm had swallowed.
“Olo’eyktan…” One of the younger Herwi behind him whispers. “What is it?”
“Mawey. It might be a dead snow beast.” He hisses, though he knew that wasn’t right. It wasn’t uncommon for even the creatures of these terrains to be bested by nature. But something about the figure in the snow was…different from the hounding things they hunted. Much more delicate, much more scrunched in on itself.
Gojo keeps his hand held high in the air and passes on his hunt to the nearby clansmen. Still holding onto his bow and arrows, he edges closer. “Ì’awn- the clan stays here while I investigate.” Leaving no room for a word edgewise.
The wind whips his long hair and kuru as the Na’vi steps closer. And some maddened part of him almost feels that it was as though Eywa, their goddess, herself was trying to get him to stay away.
But an even madder part of him wanted to get closer—needed to get closer.
He was being drawn in.
Making not even a single noise with his padded feet, he’s crouching down before the unmoving figure and using his long skeletal fingers to wipe away those dredges of snow.
Away from a face—
He gasps.
The rest of the Herwi startles behind him, “What is it- what is it, olo’eyktan?”
“Is it a snow beast? Must we commence the rituals-”
“Cease! Are those fingers it has-”
“Five?”
But Gojo doesn’t answer their queries, instead he’s silently pressing his ear to the swell of the body’s chest and—ba-dump!
Listening to that faint heartbeat.
He’s not sure how this little human was still alive, and he pulls back to look at them- the first he’s ever seen. Gojo has already heard the whispers from other Na’vi clans, of these aliens named mankind whom had settled upon Pandora a few years ago.
He’s heard about humanity’s wits, their machinery, their greed.
He’s heard of the way they’ve hurt his people.
But he’s never seen one up so…close. Were they all this small? How could something so small be so destructive?
Gojo tilts his head down at you and runs one of his cold indexes down the side of your masked face, did they all look so hurt by the cold? He can’t imagine that it didn’t hurt- after all, the only reason that the Herwi had managed to reside in these mountains for hundreds of years was because of its harsh environment. Not human nor animal nor Na’vi wanted to be here—but Gojo always loved this place, as did his people.
He wondered whether it was such passionate love or hate that drew the little human in his arms to climb such peaks. To come this far.
He can’t help but lean down and scoop the human up into his arms.
“O-olo’eyktan what is the meaning of this-”
“Fnu- shhhh.” Gojo responds in his native language, “She’s resting.”
The olo’eyktan carries the human all the way back the treacherous path to his clan huts.
And every time he looked down, he could see the way that smaller body fell and rose with each faint breath. He could see the flying of human-made coats that did nothing to fight off the cold of Pandora. He could see the pen and notebook stuffed inside it as if they were the most precious treasure of all.
He can see you.
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Day #1 in the Herwi village:
Woke up in what seems to be the healer’s hut, a wide insulated space that is more or less steeped into the underground with a berth of the entrance AS (above snow). Capped dome on top. Walls are composed of wooden planks on the interior flanked by compact ice from the outside, decorated in the thick furs of what appears to be snow beasts. Long book shelves. Kindling lantern of something bioluminescent and emitting heat. Shockingly warm inside. Vents are present but small to prevent an excess of thin air. Separate storage spaces and areas for examination, implications of advanced surgery and medical procedures taking place far beyond what we humans can understand.
Though Herwi healing techniques seem to be similar to that of other Na’vi clans (particularly the Omaticaya) in terms of relation to Eywa and natural resources, it must be noted that Herwi healing makes prominent use of ice for anti-inflammatory and vessel constricting methods.
Sparse presence of herbs and more emphasis on pressure points (for a copy of the Herwi circulatory system diagram see Page 8…), though the olo’eyktan reassures that there are a multitude of flora endemic to the Pandoran heights.
The olo’eyktan seems particularly eager to give a tour?
With your eyes blinking open…you think you’ve died and gone onto whatever there was afterwards.
It would’ve been just like you to meet your demise during the pursuit of your research- the higher-ups at your laboratory predicted the same thing. The last thing you remember before blacking out was feeling faint - weeks of hiking up this arduous peak and you’d run out of your provisions a few days ago, surviving on only melted ice to fill your belly. At least, until the sudden threat of a snowslide had resulted in you abandoning your tent and bags behind for escape.
From then on it had only been: you, your pen, your notebook with your research, your translator, and your burning passion to find the Herwi.
It was no surprise that you didn’t last long.
But you suppose you just didn’t expect the ‘afterwards’ to be a blue, blue summer sky.
Oh—how you missed the cloud-frothed ocean of blue down on Earth. It was never quite the same on Pandora, and you’re just beginning to wonder whether heaven was really home-
“Yawne, txen?”
Before your muddled mind realizes that this really wasn’t your sky after all.
What you were looking up into were the eyes of a Na’vi warrior.
He’s leaning his overlarge body above yours, and you’re pressing yourself flatly against a mattress—one that was made of copious amounts of furs and the softest spun wool to make you feel as though you were floating up on the clouds.
But the farther you’re getting, the more he dwarfs you with his curious peering.
Closer.
And the only thing you can do is look up into his handsome blue face- the lightest of blues you’ve ever seen.
Now, you have to start this off by saying that every single Na’vi you’ve seen was beautiful—every single one of them.
But you don’t think you’ve ever seen someone like him before: long white hair, blue eyes almost like a Metkayina, and glowing spots scattered like snowflakes across his cheeks. Heavy eyelids. Taller than your average Omaticaya. Perhaps a bit bulkier, as well.
If you tilted your head just past his looming figure then you could take in the tufted fur clothing he wore, slightly more coverage than of Na’vi from the more tropical areas; with patterns of rosettes peaking out wherever his skin was exposed and dotted like a fainter version of a snow leopard’s. From your own planet.
But you were not on your own planet.
Far from it.
You’re realizing with a jolt that he was one of the Herwi clan-
“Are you…” And though you’d dreamed and wished and hoped for this day for so long—right now you find yourself absolutely speechless. “Are you- fuck.”
To which he only beams- “Nga lu rusey- oh, nga lu rusey.” His pearly white teeth are on full display, one little dimple crinkling at the edge of his smile. He just looks so handsome like this that you almost lose your breath- no. It must be the hypothermia that’s getting to you. It must be. And if you didn’t know any better then you’d have said that he almost sounds utterly relieved—“Oe'm lefpom. Txen? Lu nga txen? Tsal pung?”
Before he can say anything more, you’re digging in your coats- or at least attempting to. It doesn’t take long for you to shuffle behind the thick blankets and realize that you weren’t wearing those humanly thin layers you did when climbing up the mountain. Well-fitted for the Earth’s cold, but not for the harsh ever-winters of Pandora.
Instead you were wearing…a thick woolen coat?
Much too large on you- almost comically so. It had sleeves that reached a few feet past your fingertips, draped down to your toes, and enough space that you could hide at least five of you inside it.
No translator.
No pen. No notebook-
He sees this smaller figure fluttering about worriedly and tilts his head curiously, “‘Upe lu nga fwew?” Before handing you your notebook and pen from a table behind him.
“Pardon? Ah- thank you so much—!” You beam at him, and he beams back. But looking into his blue eyes once more, you feel a sudden sense of helplessness wash over you. “But I’m sorry, I still can’t understand you.”
At this the Na’vi furrows his pale brows - you’re not quite sure whether he knew what you were saying, but he seemed to have picked up on your emotions. Nudging his large face against yours with a purring sound, “Yawne? Oe'd tìng aynga.”
And a part of you somewhat melts- “I said I really can’t- hahah.” You half-heartedly try to push his incessant face away with a laugh, taking particular delight in noting how happily his tail was swishing. Fluffier with more fur than you’ve observed on other types of Na’vi, also covered in pretty rosettes that swayed to and fro.
It’s right now that you wished you had the patience to stay behind and immerse yourself more in the Na’vi language lessons your laboratory had provided. Most scientists didn’t even go out into the field until they were experts - but you were too antsy, too greedy to know. Something seemed to have called you here whether it cost you your life.
Given you’d picked up on some phrases here and there, but it seems that the Herwi had a different accent from the clips played in those listening tests. Slightly softer, slightly more of a whisper.
Like the breath of winter, his words cooled your mask and heated up something entirely different inside of you. “Oe pey ngim krr.”
Before you know it, the Na’vi clasps both your hands in his—and you’re startled by just how large they are, just how cold. You’re analyzing the way his pale fingers hold your own as if it was all that was tender in the world.
Intertwining.
“Ngim krr.” He looks at you with those azure eyes seriously, opening up the palm of your right hand and touching his to yours. Palm against palm. Breath against breath. “Nìt'iluke.”
You get the feeling that you were missing something very important- “I’m sorry I really wish…I’m so sorry to ask any more of you- I really am. But have you happened to see my translator anywhere?”
“Tìnga’prrnen?” He cocks his head in confusion, trying to mouth the word.
“Erm- yes?” Hoping that he understood you, “My translator—” You emphasize the syllables- “It’s a little device to understand you-”
You’re gesturing between the two of you- and you swear you see the light blue Na’vi pale. “Tìnga’prrnen? Oe?”
“Yes?” You knew that ‘oe’ referred to oneself.
He balks- maybe you were getting through to him? “Nga new ne kanom oe tìnga’prrnen-”
“Skxawng.”
Before he’s suddenly cut off by a hard smack to the back of his head- and you’re looking up just in time to see another Herwi Na’vi enter the hut. The dimorphism between this particular strand of Na’vi wasn’t anything too prominent, you find - both were tall, both were pale, both had long tails and rosettes scattered across their agile bodies.
The only real difference was that the one at your bedside was more rugged, with even more pure-white beads woven into his hair. Though that you could chalk up to their separate duties within the clan.
She walked inside as though she owned the place, throwing her long loose hair behind her shoulder. She doesn’t even flinch as she shuts the other man up—as she brings out a black earpiece from behind her and hands it to you. “I believe this is yours. It was dropped in the rush outside.”
“O-oh!” You’re surprised to find that it was none other than your translating device. Taking it gratefully, “Thank you so so much.”
“Don’t mention it.”
At your baffled expression - as far as you knew, the Herwi were the last remaining uncontacted clan of Na’vi, with no knowledge of humankind nor their many languages. “I learned your language from my books-” Gesturing around her - you were right to assume that this was her hut, filled to the brim with ointments and books. Mostly of Na’vi origin, but you could spy a few in English and Japanese. “-sent by friends in the Omaticaya. I find your human stories are…quite amusing.”
“I see.” You breathe.
She gestures at herself, “Ieri Shoko of the heart.” Then at the male Na’vi member, “Gojo Satoru of the snow. I apologize for him, he is our olo’eyktan- also the one that found you.”
“So you’re my saviour.” You’re looking towards him- Gojo once more. He catches your eyes and looks away with a pale blue hue dusting his face. “Irayo nga.” Giving your thanks (one of the few phrases you could speak with complete confidence).
You’re looking towards him- He shudders, “Oe ke ronsem tsonta lu tìnga’prrnen.”
As soon as he’s saying it, Shoko smacks her hand on her forehead- and you wonder what exactly he means.
So without further ado, you’re fixing the earpiece onto yourself.
“Idiot.” Shoko’s turning back to Gojo, “You know that’s not what she meant?”
Gojo crosses his arms and huffs- “I’m just saying I wouldn’t mind if it’s for her-”
“Not even Eywa could make that happen.”
“Getting preg-”
“Hello?” Testing—and if the way both Na’vi jerk their heads to you in slight surprise is anything to go by, then you’d say that the translator was working rather well. It was less an earpiece that translated and more a device to target that part of your brain that communicated and understood foreign languages.
Allowing you to both understand and speak in the dialect of the Na’vi - an invention by yours truly, of course. You’d (as close as) perfected it just last year for this expedition. “Can you understand me?”
Gojo stares at you with wide blue eyes.
With his pretty lips parted.
With his tail swishing back and forth.
“I see y-”
“We understand you.” Shoko nudges him roughly in the ribs, “I apologize if we’re a bit startled- it’s the first time we’re seeing a human in person.”
“I could’ve guessed that.” You giggle, flickering your eyes over to the starstrack Na’vi. Though you were equally as such. Somehow you speaking in his language just seemed to make him…“But I want to emphasize that I come in peace- I just want to learn as a scientist, not even my laboratory knows exactly where I am. And I intend to keep it that way.”
Shoko crosses her arms and looks gravely at you, “What do you want?”
“To learn. To research you and your people.” You look between them both, “To confirm the existence of the Herwi clan has been a dream of mine for a long time- not for the papers or the accolades, but because I just wanted to know you.”
“And how can we trust you?” Shoko says, getting nudged by Gojo afterwards.
“I won’t reveal anything you don’t want me to.” Determination dripping in your tone, “Not even if they kill me for it.”
They appraise you, and it’s silent for a beat before Shoko looks at Gojo.
And Gojo nods.
Shoko shoots you a barely-there smile, “Well…human, what do you want to know?”
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.
.
After you woke up, it was after a long talk and almost three or so hours later that you’d gotten up- Shoko and Gojo had both rushed to your side. Waving them off, you’d attempted to shrug off the coat and hand it back to Gojo - long since realizing that it was his - but he’d almost been offended by the gesture.
Refusing.
He’d kept a hand behind on the small of your back to steady you with every step climbed towards the entrance. And once you were out- you could practically feel the storm freeze around you.
Colder than cold.
The Herwi looked at you with fear.
They stopped in their tracks and didn’t even look to breathe until Gojo had followed right after. And standing beside him like that, you’d been made too aware of the drastic height difference between you two. The average Na’vi was about nine to ten feet tall, though by the look of it the Herwi of the snow were much larger than their oceanic counterparts—slightly thicker, with limbs that were long and covered in sparse fur to protect them from the cold.
The Herwi average was about ten feet, you’re finding.
Though Gojo stood at a proud eleven feet (11’1 as you come to interrogate out of him more precisely later on) and rested his hand gently upon your shoulder. They had faint scars on them that marked him as a warrior, and you could feel the slight callouses send shivers across your coat-swathed body. His tail curled around your thigh.
You don’t think you even came up to his stomach-
“My people…” He announced in booming Na’vi. “-as some of you may know from the hunt today, we have a guest.”
You shift at the stares.
“More importantly, my guest. And we will make her feel welcome like family.”
“Family?” The whispers came.
“But she is one of the sky people…”
“Part of the family is…but if the olo’eyktan says so…”
“I’ve never seen him so casually touchy with someone before-”
“Shhhhhhh!”
“I understand if you are scared, and to those who wish it- you are free to leave and never interact with her while she is here.” Though none of them do move. Fixated. “But to those who aren’t, I urge you to share the beauty of our culture.”
To which you’d gulped before introducing yourself as you had to Shoko and Gojo.
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Day #2 in the Herwi village:
The governing system of the Herwi is quite reminiscent to that of other clans - made up by a singular olo’eyktan or olo'eykte, accompanied by a tsahìk (though Gojo assures proudly that he is not mated as of writing this), and a council of clan elders that act as an advisory board.
Most decisions are made solely by the wisdom of Gojo himself, though large choices require a vote from the council as well as his people. Such requisites are rare, however, as it seems the olo’eyktan’s impact extends to the non-council people in such a way that they trust him with everything. (For more on the lovely reception and the sheer popularity of Gojo Satoru see Page 11…)
Governing seems to be harmonious if a little quietly tense in regards to certain elders that disagree yet are ultimately obeisant to their olo’eyktan.
This scientist in particular caused a little stir in the Herwi leadership once a research visit was proposed by the olo’eyktan to the rest of the elders. Though initial reactions had been reluctant, after a terse discussion, ultimately six moons had been granted to collect all appropriate research (due to be checked by the elders prior to leaving). No more. No less.
Six moons should be more than enough!
Shoko might have let it slip that it was Gojo who used his privilege as olo’eyktan to convince the council…and he wasn’t too happy that they’d granted you merely six moons (five days if you’re counting the first night there) to stay here. He wanted to gawk at this new human more, you supposed.
But you were so very grateful to each and every one of them either way - even those wizened elders who scowled at you suspiciously wherever you passed. Though even glares seemed sweet when you were living your dream, hm? And it best be believed that you were taking advantage of every single second you had with the clan - every single second.
Because this was exactly what those cigar-smoking higher-ups had laughed at you for.
They thought you were chasing a myth.
The Herwi people had been so gracious as to offer you an empty hut, despite Gojo’s fervent insisting that you take his and he can simply tough it out in the cold outside-
And the next day you were up early- perhaps a little too early for the olo’eyktan who’d apparently tracked your trail and followed you around for an hour. Before he finally managed to stop you in the middle of your field study - helping out a young Herwi mother take care of her crying toddler, whilst learning about Herwi childcare techniques - and raised his bag full of food.
Breakfast.
You’re smacking your hand against your forehead as you’d completely forgotten - not quite out of the ordinary for when you got too immersed in your work. But it was different when you had someone seeking you out to take care of you…
And so after sharing the abundance of breads and berries and soups (far too much for but the two of you) with the Herwi mother and child, the two of you sit outside her hut and admired the view of the village. The soft half-sun that melted across the capped peaks, a buttery layer of light that was not even half as bright as on Earth.
But somehow gentler.
Gojo’s raising one berry to his lips before- “Ah…” His mouth drops when he takes a glance at you- more accurately, at your masked self. And he’s stopping in his movements, “Excuse me for just a second, beloved.”
“Oh? Of course.”
You watch as he’s standing up and sprinting light-fast towards the edge of a great steaming lake in the horizon. His figure’s crouching down and cupping his hands in the sparkling water, bubbling with fury. Gojo brings it up to his face and whispers a mantra that you couldn’t quite determine. Not from where you were sitting.
Before carefully bringing it right up to you- “Drink, beloved.”
He gently leans down to let his fingertips meet your mask.
And you’d had no option—you consider it for science, though a part of you knew you didn’t have to linger your lips so much on his cold skin- but you lift your mask up and drink it.
Once the water floods your throat, you knew something was different.
Your lungs quiver.
Once.
Twice.
And you’d found yourself able to breathe—
Breathing on Pandora.
“How did you…” As you gasp, Gojo reaches out and removes the mask off of you completely. He’d let the earpiece stay on, of course, but lightly grazed his cold digits against the shell of your ear and made you shiver. “I don’t even know what to say- thank you. I didn’t even know this was possible—no other Na’vi clan let alone a mere human has discovered a way to let us breathe normally on Pandora.”
“For you. Lake Yapay.” Gojo says, large hand still cupping your face. “It steams great billowing heat in the day, and freezes by night. Here in Herwi, we use its water to expand our lungs during snowstorms.”
And you want to write it down- you know you should, but the pen in your fingers won’t move. Or more accurately, your fingers won’t move.
He continues, “This land is alive and works in mysterious ways. It has worked for you, beloved, as I knew it would.”
“Thank you again, olo’eyktan.”
“Satoru.” He interjects.
“Satoru.”
He smiles as if it meant the world.
And so your feast commences.
“You have to remember to eat.” Gojo says to you as he scoffs down a sweet paste made of ice-blue berries, “How will you brave the winter storms otherwise? Of course, I will protect you—and yet still.”
“Well, I sure hope I survive six more nights for my research then, hm?” You joke.
But you hadn’t expected Gojo’s face to darken, for him to shake his head. “It’s not fair.”
“Pardon?”
“Six more nights…” And you hadn’t exactly expected him to be so…invested in your research - you admit that you would benefit more from a longer period of studying the Herwi, but you were ready to take what was given. He looks down at the glaring snow and whispers—more to himself. “It’s not fair. I will correct it.”
“Correct?”
“Oh?” And you look from him to the village straight ahead, “Well, I’d be happy either way, Satoru.”
Just then that little Na’vi you’d been helping to watch over before comes waddling and giggling out of the hut to hold onto you- and you pick her up readily.
Gojo took one look at the two of you and shivered.
Shivered.
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Day #3 in the Herwi village:
Hunts are an imperative part of the Herwi lifestyle—not only is it how the people are nourished, but it’s a social activity, it’s a coming-of-age activity.
As aforementioned, hunts are commenced and led by none other than the olo’eyktan. A large group of Herwi warriors shall trek across the icelands in one unit, and it was quite interesting to note that most of the younger hunters are positioned in the middle where they are less likely to get injured during such a trip.
It is in the middle of their hike that Gojo will alert when the group is to split up: Snow beast hunters and snow marine stilts. Divide and conquer seems to be the only strategy that somehow tames such an unforgiving environment, and Herwi marine-hunters seem to be picked from the most patient of warriors. They carve out a hole in the middle of frozen bodies of water (never Lake Yapay, this divine body is never harmed) and each positions themself atop a tall icicle beside it to escape prowling beasts and currents. Crouched and ledged atop one, the sheer core strength and balance is divine once they cast their lines and wait.
On the other side of things, we have the Herwi beast-hunters. Using a large variety of weapons, the most popular is noted to be the bow and arrow - used by the olo’eyktan himself. They stalk in the cold white billows of snow with not even a single shiver, they lay in wait for hours, they tire their prey out.
And nevertheless this scientist found today’s hunt rather interesting…
The third and fourth days had passed by in much the same fashion - except for the slight tweak in your routine that included opening your hut door and finding the olo’eyktan standing there every single morning.
Always with food, always with a smile, always with some interesting niveous flower for you to press into your notebook. Then afterwards the two of you would set out to help you interview the Herwi people of all ages and backgrounds, to take samples, to explore the natural fauna, to even join Gojo on one of his Hunts on the third day.
They admitted that they didn’t focus on hunting as much as they normally did on that trek, too enamored with this strange little human that had showed up one day and had their olo’eyktan glued to her side.
You interviewed hunters and elders (well, the ones that didn’t ignore you completely or were on the verge of cursing you out until they caught their leader’s eye) until your mouth hurt. And Gojo had taken you into the best spot with natural Pandoran fauna, making you jot down notes until your fingers cramped.
Once the sun was beginning to set and the Na’vi were getting ready to head back to their village for the night, you’re taking the opportunity to interview some of the young hunters. Gojo was off in the distance making up for the slightly lowered hunt by ice-spearing more snow beasts. And you were more than happy not to distract him while he took care of his olo’eyktan duties- after all, the other hunters were nice. Never having seen a human before, they’d been more than happy to answer your questions.
Ribbing each other, guffawing as they answered, placing their hands down on you and ruffling your head from above.
Almost as if you were a plaything- and you admit it was in the name of science, you didn’t mind it too much until a particularly boisterous hunter about Gojo’s age had kept swatting at you no matter how many times you politely moved away. Until he’d caught you on the scruff of your coat and tried to lift you up—
You hear the sound of bones breaking before you realize what it is.
Whipping your head behind you in an instant to see that Gojo was behind the other hunter and pulling his hand hard enough that you hear other Na’vi cry out.
He lets go of you, of course, and you watch with widened eyes as Gojo then bandages his fellow Na’vi’s arm himself. Though you note that he doesn’t apologize.
Gojo didn’t leave your side for a single second after that.
That night after the dinner by the lake, Gojo walks you to your hut and sleeps outside in the bitter cold- no matter how much you tried to get him to take up the bed inside. He’d insisted.
After mating, he’d said.
You wonder whether your translating device was malfunctioning…
(See Page 26 on Herwi possessiveness…).
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Day #4 in the Herwi village:
Beads.
A well-known part of Na’vi culture, one of the most recognizable, perhaps. The scientific community has written long and extensively on the importance of bead-sharing in the Omaticaya clan, however, this scientist shall be the first to detail the beauty of how this tradition extends to the Herwi clan.
According to the artisans of this village, beads aren’t fashioned through molten stone or seeds or clay—given the availability of such in this environment. Rather, they’re made with snow.
Never-melting snow.
Yes, the design of hona beads from snow is a practice unique to the Herwi clan. Broken off from the hardest icicles growing at a peak of Mt. Hoet said to touch the sky, not only is it a treacherous passage to get to those specialized bits of ice, but the process of making the beads finds itself just as arduous. These icicles are then welded into delicate beads and dipped into the waters of Lake Yapay at night, letting them soak and then carried to freeze at the highest peak once more.
This process is repeated until the beads are as hard as diamonds on Earth- perhaps even harder. Never-melting. Never-breaking. Never-forgetting. Though not too hard so that the Herwi will be unable to carve unique patterns and symbols special to themself. Rinse. Repeat.
Though the clear meaning of such is ambiguous, it is most certainly a way of showing appreciation - as one would have to love someone very much to do this, no?
It was on your fourth day amongst the Herwi clan that Gojo didn’t show up with a beautiful flower or trinket from the terrain- instead, he’s bounding up to you with a string of beads and knotting it against the side of your face.
Pushing it back and taking you in with it.
Without a question.
“Satoru, did you…” You’re holding the line of beads up to the sunlight and watching the little patterns glimmer. They were slightly frosted and flurried like the smallest of snowglobes, “Did you make this for me?”
And you swear they had the most intricate design of clouds on them, swirling and tumbling.
“Of course.” He smiles proudly. “Us Herwi are taught how to design our very own hona beads ever since we were children, and as Na’vi coming of age we walk up the path to make the first one for ourselves…as adults we make one for our family or…” Mates.
“And this- god, I need to…write about this but I can’t even imagine how long this would’ve taken.”
“Four days.” Gojo cocks his head and looks down at you- and that brilliantly confident grin of his plasters across his face once more. “For most it takes four years, but for you I did it in four days.”
“Oh, they’re just amazing.” You run a hand down the ice-cold globules, “Thank you, Satoru.”
He holds your hand as he leads you out into the village.
Gojo tells you that night to wear those very beads to the clan dinner - once a week (at the very least) after a particularly successful Hunt, the Herwi people will get together for a massive feast. You’d heard excited whispers about it from the public you surveyed, and it seems that the olo’eyktan had chosen tonight.
Night had begun to fall, and you were dragged playfully by some younger girls straight to the edge of this vast frozen lake. Past snow-capped huts that stuck out of an even more snow-capped ground like eager heads, and ice-jeweled trees and frozen rivers and pathways lit with bioluminescent algae trapped in lanterns of ice.
It was a world in frost.
Where Na’vi had gathered with their families, their friends, their food—all in an array of tables that circled the crystallized body of water like a wedding ring.
Under the snowy night sky they communed.
“You are wearing my- I mean your hona beads.” Gojo had beamed as he eventually caught up with you and guided you himself. He led you by hand again - even though you weren’t exactly quite sure why…at least it kept you from being toppled over by the other tall Herwi rushing to snag their own seats. “You look beautiful with them, beloved.”
And you weren’t quite sure what to say- though the bubbling pit at your stomach certainly wanted you to tell him something. Instead you divert the topic, “You hunted today as well, yes? Is there anything here that you hunted?”
To which he looks at you with a rather cocky smile, “Beloved, I have hunted more than half of the feast tonight. Trust that you will enjoy it.”
And you might have joked about him being presumptuous- but you really did enjoy the feast.
Under a star-studded sky and glimmering lanterns that twinkled like the freckles upon Gojo’s face, he led you to the very head table that no other Na’vi dared touch. It was rather obvious that this one was meant for the olo’eyktan himself, but what was curious was when your seat had been placed right next to his.
Perks of being a special guest, you suppose?
Shoko was beside you and shot you an amused smile, before preening for another Herwi next to her with a scar that ran across her face and half-braided hair.
“Utahime.” Gojo had whispers in your ear, “Shoko’s mate.”
“Ah- I see!” Pen quivering in your hand, you’re jotting down your observations in your notebook under the table. “Perfect. I’m quite curious about the mating rituals of the Herwi, you see. Do you suppose I’d be able to ask them some questions later on in the night?”
“Don’t ask them questions- ask me.” Gojo huffs. Brows furrowing. Lower lip jutting into a pout.
He leans over and wraps his arm around the back of your chair. Squirming, “O-oh…but you’re not mated yet, are you, Satoru?”
“Nope!”
“Right…” But then how could you ask him about mating if he wasn’t—nevermind.
Because just then the group in charge of cooking for the clan had rounded the tables and begun placing their most savored delicacies on top of them. Meats upon vegetables upon berries that you’d seen growing naturally across the mountainside they lived on. It was steaming hot and everything that you could dream of.
Whether you didn’t like meat, whether you didn’t like vegetables- there was always something there for you.
Most of the richest dishes were allocated around the olo’eyktan and your single table, stuffing the surface to the brim until you had to squeeze next to Gojo for space. Of course, he didn’t seem to mind. Perhaps too busy piling his place with the sweetest treacly milks and frozen desserts that he could reach.
After dinner came the dances.
It happened every night after the community dinner when everyone - full and satisfied by then - would start humming and chanting their ancient hymns. Echoing into the sleepy snow and the ever-young night, someone would pull out two snow beast-skin drums by then. Thumping away to the songs of the snow.
Children ran off and made snow-prints and snow-fights in the mountains of powder. Family members would begin drowsily feeding each other and insisting they eat more. Others traced their own hona beads and promised they’d make ones for the one they love.
More would punch small holes through the frozen lake and bring the water up to their mouths, of which a sudden blow would make the water freeze and scatter out into the air in twinkling snowflakes. Emulating the stars themselves.
Snow-breathers.
They’d sing, they’d sound, they’d show off and then…the first mated couple would walk onto the middle of the frozen ice.
Then the second.
The third.
The fourth and the fifth and the sixth-
What a way to end the night, love warming the cold air and couples twirling around each other with their tails intertwined. Usually, you’d be content to clap and attempt to sing along—
But then Gojo stands up- and you almost believe he was ready to leave the table altogether…until he’s reaching his hand out to you.
You.
And you look around in slight surprise- almost as if expecting someone to materialize right beside you and take Gojo’s hand instead. But the only thing you’re getting is Shoko’s approving nod from next to you, before she lets herself be dragged by Utahime onto the frozen lake.
And so you’d danced.
Rather an interesting sight considering the height difference, you admit—but it was beautiful. Gojo scoops you up into his arms with one steadied underneath you, the other holds one of your hands in his.
So much larger. So much more powerful.
And yet so gentle.
He twirls you around to the music and you laugh at the wind stinging your face.
“Satoru, you’re going to drop me—”
“I should rather die than drop you.”
“But- but what of the other Herwi that will be mistaken?” You ask then, already sensing the envious looks that were thrown your way.
“There goes my dream of being tsahìk, I’m almost sure of it now-”
“But I haven’t been able to try my luck with the olo’eyktan yet-”
“Oh shush, girl! You seriously think any of us had a chance?”
You look into his handsome face, eyes trained on you despite all the whispers and disturbance amongst his people. Only you. “You won’t be able to find a mate this way.”
Something unreadable in his blue eyes, flickering with fire from the tables and something else entirely. “Perhaps I don’t want one.”
“Well that would be entirely your decision.” You place your hands on his broad shoulders, flexing as they move you around with ease. “But it seems in Herwi tradition, the olo’eyktan is wont to take a mate.”
He raises a white brow, “And who should you believe must be my mate then?”
You didn’t quite know how to answer that.
Averting his eyes- and those of the Na’vi staring at you two. “W-well, Herwi has many fine women and men. Reykol is the best singer.”
“I do not want Reykol.”
“Tìtaron is a good hunter.”
He pulls you closer, “Yes, she is a good hunter. But I am better, and I do not care for Tìtaron.” Reaching up one hand to brush away the snowflakes that had begun dusting your face, “I believe I have already been fated to. Even before I was born, I have already chosen.”
You swallow, “Who, Satoru?”
He only smiles.
“Who?”
But he does not answer, you’re twirled around once more and the moonlight catches your dangling beads.
“Is that…”
“Surely our leader isn’t saying what we think he is saying-”
“But look at him, he looks so…happy.”
You turn your head to catch the fact that most of the Herwi were looking at you, whispering behind their hands. In hindsight, you think that perhaps it was not a coincidence that they ogled you - and particularly the hona beads that you’d been gifted. Not a coincidence at all.
You wore his signature because you were his.
And they all knew you were his.
.
.
.
Day #5 in the Herwi village (the last day):
Leaving tomorrow, a perceptive scientist may notice that there is only one thing missing from this comprehensive research into the Herwi clan.
The source of Eywa.
As a deity to all Na’vi people, her influence seeps into the songs and prayers of even the highest terrains on Pandora. Into the healing. Into the well wishes. Into the belief system of a people so accepting and harmonious that their tree of Eywa does not need to be visibly present for her will to be carried out.
But as for where she resides here…
Your fifth and final day was less research and more saying your goodbyes to all the friends you’d made in the Herwi clan. You’d be leaving first thing tomorrow, before the sun even rose, according to the sternest of the elders.
Gojo hadn’t met you outside your hut that morning, and you’d idled away the time packing and repacking your bag of samples and books. Thrice, before you started to believe that he might not come after all.
But that was alright, ultimately believing that he’d show up later on in the day, you visited all the healers, the hunters, the dancers, and the chefs. The mother and toddler you’d grown close to on your first day here, and even a stray elder that had sought you out to bow goodbye.
All the young Na’vi and the old Na’vi.
All the Na’vi that had come to not fear you and the Na’vi that had found you endearing at first sight.
They’d warmed up to you since you first came here. They gave you gifts, each of them, and your heart ached as you thought of leaving.
Goodbyes were always painful - but perhaps one most of all. Gojo.
He still hadn’t met you by the end of your route, and you’d circled the village about twice by the time you were done. He was nowhere to be seen.
It was almost as if he’d disappeared into thin air.
It was with a heavy pit in your stomach that you started to head back to your hut—your last dinner with the Herwi people would be in a few hours. Afterwards, Gojo had previously arranged for you to be accompanied by some of the clan’s best warriors on your trek down.
You just thought that’d include him.
Perhaps you could sleep it off until the final dinner- and you were shutting the door just behind you…
Before sounds a hurried, hasty knock—
You open the door to see the olo’eyktan of the Herwi tribe.
Panting. Covered in snow.
“My apologies, I have spent the day clearing the pathway for us.” Gojo huffs out, leaning against your door frame with one hand. The other reaching out to you—“Come with me, beloved?”
.
.
.
The Herwi source of Eywa was inside an ice cave.
One that would get blocked when the goddess herself did not wish to be seen, one that Gojo had torn through layers of packed ice to burrow a pathway for the both of you. He’d carried you all the way to the gaping mouth of blue ice and ghost snow.
Closing in on you like arms of rime beckoning you to the tree of Eywa. The Tree of Winter.
The cold embrace of a mother.
One you were still not quite sure whether you were allowed to see—but Gojo knew he wanted you to see. He saw you.
At the end of the cave was an ice column about eighty feet tall and naturally formulated to look like the winding branches of a tree. Dripping to the ground in phantom white snow, each one delicate and graduating from white to blue. There almost seemed to be a glowing aura about it.
Clear mirrors making up the tree’s vines. Honed tips of the icicles rising from Pandora and stabbing down towards it. The top of the tree reached where the cave roof was hollow, beaming a circle of light from the skies that donned Eywa in innocent pink.
You gasped at the white snowsprites that bounced off of the tree and onto your two bodies.
Where Gojo stand with his back straight, his meaty thighs spread—pearly white teeth biting down to stop himself from fucking moaning at the feeling of your mouth sliding up n’ down his hot cock.
While you were standing.
You didn’t even have to get on your knees.
His eleven foot figure loomed above you, one hand on the back of your head and the other pumpin’ his furious erection. Your maw slips down his puckered tip and he shivers- bucking ever-so-slightly and hitting the back of your throat dead-on—
And yet he wasn’t even fully bottomed out.
He wasn’t even fully bottomed out.
The sudden realization makes you claw at the sides of his blue skin with a whine- direct vibrations that make the puckered tip lodged inside your mouth twitch. He’s sploshing out even more syrupy pre like he couldn’t stop it.
He’s not even trying and it’s already so much, cascading like a waterfall down the front of your chin.
“Now- hah, now.” One of Gojo’s prolonged fingertips reaches out to smear away the slippery sheen across your face- at least, that’s what you think he’s doing.
But instead you’re feeling him curve his rude digits between your lips and push those dewy droplets inside. Shovelling his cock just a little bit deeper, “S’not good to waste it, beloved. Open your mouth and take it all like a good girl, yes?”
“Mmmpf-” A damn miracle that you could get out that much sound in the first place. You’re pulling off to answer, and Gojo jerks his hips a lil’ to chase your damp mouth. “You’re saying you want me to take it all—?”
He shivers, leopard-like tail twitching. “Yes.”
And right before your very eyes, you can see his shaft throb even bigger.
Harder.
The prettiest bluish-pink on his tip, one with a divot that leaks out a line of precum. You’re following it with your dazed eyes- before the next thing you’re seeing is a close-up of it.
Gojo has his massive hand plastered to the back of your scalp and is pushin’ your head in, digging his dripping wet tip against the back of your throat. With a groan, the Na’vi pins you to him and hammers out a few sloppy thrusts of his cock.
Again and again.
Slurp after slurp—
“Gonna take it all- hah- my entire cock inside that pretty mouth, yes?” He’s cocking his head to the side and asking down at you sweetly. And he might look all in control, but Gojo’s voice fucking breaks at the very end of his sentence.
Right in synchronization with the way you were draggin’ your sizzling tastebuds down the veiny sides of his erection. Just the cutest tongue that was eagerly lapping up everything he was giving—“Doesn’t matter if you’re a lil’ human, you’re gonna take the leader’s biiiiig cock, aren’t you?”
Removing yourself from his thickened tip with a wet pwah! “Y-you’re really serious about the-”
“Yes.”
And he’d apologize for cutting you off later- hell, he’d grovel at your feet if he has to. But right now all Gojo can think of doing is holding onto the back of your head and strollin’ his thumb down the column of your throat. The olo’eyktan can feel that fat cylindrical intrusion where his cock was pumping in and out- and he’s sliding his fingertip dooooooown that bulge. “Aren’t you a scientist, beloved?”
“Y-yes?”
“Then aren’t you curious about just how far a human can take Na’vi cock?”
“Well…” You blubber out, “I guess so-”
“Then consider it for your research.” With each syllable he’s cutting your breath off by thudding his cockhead against the roof of your mouth. “Then just fucking- haaaaah—” And you’re finding that the pre Na’vi cock exuded was actually rather sweet- almost like honeydew flooding up your mouth n’ being slid all round by the intrusion of his shaft. “-take it.”
“Mmmpf—ngh.” Tears were streaming down your face by now, wetting your cheeks and making the Na’vi wipe them away with his thumb.
“Don’t cryyyyy—” He’s airily calling out, almost nothing like the level-headed Na’vi you’d met before. “Big girls don’t cry. Don’t worry- m’gonna give you all of my cock, beloved.”
“S-Satoru-”
But each of your broken yowls were being bullied back in with his bludgeoning wet tip, bruisin’ away its splitted end anywhere and everywhere.
He swabs into the tiniest nooks and crannies inside your mouth with his sheer size, leaving your knees utterly weak where you were still standing. He’s holding your head up to his cock- “C’mon- feel.”
You peer up at him in confusion.
“Feel for your research.” Fluttering his long pale lashes down at you, a sultry smile spreads across his lips. “How many loooong thick inches you’re being given. How many veins are filling ya up. How many times I hit the back of yer throat like this-”
A shuddering slam right where you were most tender. “Please-”
“M’helping you with your- fuck, research.” He chuckles down lecherously, “By shutting that smart human mouth of yours up.”
“Fuck-”
“Feel it- just feel.”
He thrusts so hard that his heavy ballsack smacks! against your chin, “Feel the way that lil’ mouth of yours can barely even take me. Feel how fat my balls are with cum just for you. Count them? Wanna calculate the girth?” Until it was stinging a permanent girth on your skin, rubbed raw with impact. “Feel the way I- ngh, bruuuise your throat n’ those sensual lips until anyone that talks to you knows I’ve been here.” He’s babbling on stupidly by now, eyes falling more n’ more half-lidded by the minute. He’s holding on tightly to your restless head and shoves- “Feel the way I fuck my mate—”
Gojo trails off as if shocking himself, and you’re snapping your teary eyes up to him with a muffled- “What?”
But you don’t know whether it’s on cue, you don’t know whether it’s the startle of being caught- but Gojo’s slamming his cocktip way past the back of your throat and cumming.
Oozing out hot dollops of cum that take over your pretty mouth.
Shaft throbbing furiously. Balls twitching like no other. He throws his head back and squelches straight down your throat, and you can feel the thickness of it plug up your voicebox.
So sweet.
So much.
And you’re not sure whether it’s a Na’vi thing or it’s a Gojo thing that he’s cumming so much in one go.
Loooooong miry stripes that trickle down the sides of your mouth- he leans down and pushes them back between your lips with one of his thumbs. Ivory sap constantly leaking down onto your tastebuds, he feels the heady slip n’ slide of his cock against those wads of cum. “Fuh-fuck…”
And then he’s not moving, merely clasping the back of your head and bringing you firmly up against his slender pelvis.
Your nose rubs against the tufts of white on his abs before you realize that he’d just bottomed-out—just once, like he’d promised.
And it was enough to send you reeling, feeling the pushback of his swabbin’ tip. Pouring out even more heady liquid every time he was draaaaging down your velvety tongue.
The tip of your tastebuds flicks his sensitive slit just right and you can feel him pulse deep inside. “Feel me in there?” Gojo’s groaning from above. “Feel how much I ache for you. Feel the volume of my cum- are you counting it?”
“I-I—”
But evidently your half-sob wasn’t enough.
And the Na’vi is reaching down and pinching your nostrils together with his free hand. “Ah ah- focus on your research, beloved.”
And you’re struggling uselessly against his mean action, to which Gojo watches with a predatory gaze at the way you huff n’ sputter. And he has the audacity to snicker-
“I really can throw you around like a ragdoll, huh?”
It’s as if the realization had just struck him and he’s shuddering.
It almost feels like ages before he’s finally pulling away with a loud plop!
An excess of your cum was leaking out of your maw and threatening to drip onto the floor- “Tch, this is a sacred place, my human.” He’s rasping out—swipin’ up the frothed white cum as if he wasn’t absolutely desecrating you. Pushing those clingy wads between your maw.
He then guides his honed tip to glide across your lips, gluing your lips shut with all his seed.
And Gojo can’t help but admire you- peering up at him with his towering height. All covered in his syrupy slick and speechless, unable to talk even if your voicebox had been left intact.
He smiles, tail swishing happily to and fro. “My human.” Gojo leans all the distance down to kiss you upon your sopping wet lips. “My m- pretty human. My pretty human…”
But you don’t have enough sense at the moment to ponder too long on his little slip-up before he’s bending down close with his hoarse mouth against the shell of your ear.
Making you feel so sensitive.
“-did ya get enough research yet?”
And then he’s good on his other promise: throwing you around like a ragdoll.
Before you know it, Gojo’s thundering down onto his knees upon the frozen floor - taking you right along with him. He grabs his fur coat from a little ways away and makes you rest down on top of it. With ease.
Back flat on the coat. Legs spread high in the air.
Twisted around the back of Gojo’s neck and locked in place-
“Satoru-” You look around the Tree of Winter that only seems to glow even brighter, the snowsprites buzzing. “-are you sure we should be doing this h—oh.”
Gojo doesn’t say anything - he doesn’t have to.
He’s merely unhinging his jaw and letting his loooong pinkish tongue drip out. It was glossy with ravenous saliva, thick at the base, and curved at the tip. The end of it dripped tantalizingly with spittle- almost torturously.
Achingly needy.
There was an almost feline quality to it that made your thighs clench.
“N-nevermind.”
The only thing you’re managing to get out before Gojo had his tongue stuffed against your wet core and swabbin’ away until you saw white—“M-mmmpf.” His mouth was just so large that he could engulf your pussylips with a single bite, honed canines grazing the outer edge of your cunt while he kisses inwards. “My pretty mate- my tasty mate.”
It’s almost as if he was pussydrunk already.
With just a single slurp of his curvaceous tongue glidin’ up and down your slit, Gojo has his blue eyes rolling to the back of his head and his hips bucking. Wildly. “Why didn’t Eywa tell me that you’d taste so good-”
“Oh my—” Your back arches while his thickened fingertips come between your legs to pinch your puckered pussy into his mouth. Pushing you against him even more - greedy. “Shit, it just feels so-”
Smack!
And without a single warning, Gojo has his roverin’ fingertips slamming down on your pussy. Straight on top of your slit where your clit was hidden, it sends shockwaves of both pain and pleasure up your spine.
You’re gasping and staring down at him-
“Now now, no cursing- be good before Eywa, hm?” That damn hypocrite - and you could see it in that sultry smile of it. Gojo was getting off on the way you’d squirm your cunt restlessly against his face, sighing into the way he starts fucking your pussy once more. “Or else m’not gonna eat this pretty pussy of yours out, ya hear?”
You gape, “That’s not fucking fair-”
Smack!
“What was that, beloved?”
“I said—”
Smack!
Smack!
Smack!
Until Gojo’s leaving your pussy raw and needy, and even then he wasn’t done with you- he has the audacity to purse his plump lips and spit. Spit. Letting the sharp strike of saliva make you shiver—
“What was that?” He asks you in such a breathy tone, such a ruined tone. Gojo spoke like if you told him you needed him right now then he would simply shatter.
And you can only gulp at the state that he was in - you’ve researched Na’vi during times of high pressure, during battles, during their coming-of-age ceremonies. But never had you met one that simply seemed so…feral. “I-I’ll be good, Satoru.”
He smiles like he’s been wanting to hear those exact words for years.
Fingertips jittering with excitement, he then reaches for your intertwined ankles with his tail.
Locking them in place, Gojo murmurs. “Good…” Before he’s getting ready to dive straight back into your sweetened cunt once more, “Because you better not run-”
And you don’t get to ask just what might constitute you running from his mouth. His tongue.
You don’t get to ask just what it meant when he looked at you with that dark inkling of something carnal, as if he was about to devour you whole.
You don’t get to ask anything, in fact, and whatever questions were already in your throat burst into a zillion pieces at the feeling of him pushing his tongue inside your hole. Properly.
Not lapping away coquettishly on your outer cunt, not slurpin’ up all your treacly juices.
Gojo had his tastebuds stuffed inside your entrance and was draaaaagging them all across every orifice inside of you. Thrusting his entire length in and out at a rapid pace, you could feel the edge of his chin hitting your base with every movement.
Inside and out.
Inside and out.
But the sheer speed of him wasn’t even the bit makin’ you the most dizzy- see Gojo’s Na’vi tongue was something amazing. Something incredible.
Just so large and lavish that it was stretching your walls out like never before.
“P-please-” You don’t think you’ve ever felt anything like this- the way that Gojo’s textured tongue would mold against your walls, the way he’d pinpoint even the tiniest orifices with his flexible tip, the way he’d expand and contract his tongue purposefully. Until you saw white. Bucking—“Please it just feels so-”
“Where’d ya think you’re going?”
And the slur in his voice makes you pause- “Wh-what…?”
The last thing you’re managing to get out before Gojo tightens the rude grip of his fingertips on your pussylips. And the other one of his hands holds onto your waist to haul you back down onto his mouth- you hadn’t even realized that you’d been edging away in sensitivity.
“Didn’t I tell you not to run?” Spankin’ those rugged fingertips of his down on your clit once more. You get the feeling that Gojo’s meanly choosing your clit because he knew that’d make you clench ‘round his tongue even more. “Don’t run. Don’t even move.”
“You’re just so fucking- ngh, big and you expect me not to move?” You wail out in indignity.
“Well, who told you to fuck a Na’vi warrior?” He’s countering, those half-lidded eyes of his twinkling with humor. “Better yet- who told you to fuck the olo’eyktan-”
And you suppose you had no explanation for that.
Especially not even Gojo was pumping his thickened tongue into you so fast that any and all explanations in your throat start to dissolve. Instead being replaced by the most pathetic whines and groans as he keeps fucking your pussy greedily.
As though Gojo was a man parched.
Because your wettened pussy was more refreshing to him than the waters of the lake- and if he could, he’d have his head stuffed between your legs every second of the day. Simply slurpin’ up every dewy droplet that escaped out of you, Gojo catches even those tiniest of wads.
Slipping his looooong tongue inside—you’re driven damn near mad once he slithers his length in and grazes your g-spot.
Hips bucking, eyes snapping open. “H-how did you even manage-”
“Ah ah—” His familiar tut, and soon enough you’re glued back down onto his pretty mouth again. Gojo doesn’t even need to try to ease you pliably back onto his face no matter how much you try to run- but oh, it was just so fun to watch your sultry surprise. The way you only got wetter when he manhandled you. “So this is that cute lil’ g-spot human have, hm? I thought it was just something in Shoko’s anatomy textbooks.”
“You- you read her textbooks…” You ask.
“All day and all night.” Gojo replies with a smirk, his ears twitching as he hears the quickening of your heartbeat. “Only Eywa knows how much I’ve touched myself imagining this.”
“Oh—”
It hits you like a flash of lightning- and so do the sudden swipes of Gojo’s tongue reaching your sweetest spots. Thud-thud-thud-thud he’s ricocheting against your bundle of nerves rapidly, making it echo like your own heartbeat in your ears. Thud-thud-thud-thud—
“Shit-” And suddenly you understand- you thought you understood before? But no, now you understand why Gojo had been telling you not to run away initially.
“Don’t run.” He warns.
Because all you’re feeling are the large stripes he’s licking up your slick walls, and the only thing you can think of doing is bucking. Rutting. Reaching for his lips wildly- though your body moves torturously as if you didn’t know whether you wanted more or to run away—“Shit.”
“Don’t run.”
But how could you not run from it? How could you not even move when Gojo had your body teased n’ toyed with till absolutely no end?
He was hammerin’ his tongue against your g-spot furiously—and you were sure by now that he has the exact pattern of his tastebuds bruised right on that area. Shapin’ your velvety walls to his tongue, Gojo dives in just so animalistically.
And you can’t help but buck. You can’t help but arch your back. You can’t help but reach your hand out and attempt to grab onto something- anything for dear life.
Again and again. “Shiiiiit is it even allowed to feel this good-”
But the Na’vi leader merely stops your hands with his own, folding them neatly into his hair. Holding onto his clammy scalp- “As Eywa wills it.” He smiles and your cunt’s just so sensitive by this point that you can feel the exact degree of curvature of his grin. “Which reminds me…”
And for your profanity you’re getting three more direct spanks, “Shit-”
One more.
Before you feel him then twist his fingertips on your throbbing clit and pinch- “Ya reeeeally can’t be a good girl f’me, huh?” Gojo asks you with a smile, though there was a hint of something in his voice that reminded you why exactly he was the olo’eyktan of such a large clan. “Look at you—”
“Sh-shit, that feels so-” But he isn’t listening, and you’re fighting the heels of your feet against his broad back.
“Look at you.” He’s tightening his tail on your ankles and dragging you back down. He’s spitting down through clenched canines, every single word sending sparks up to your hazy brain. Barely even working by this point, surely. “Swearing. Squirming. Moaning like a slut and trying to escape- as your leader, I should punish you, beloved.”
“No more pussy spanking—” You whine, “Just makes me so sensitive…”
“I’m not talking about pussy spanking, beloved.” To emphasize his point he gives just a light tap on your sensitive nub once more.
It leaves you shaking to wonder just what else he has in store for you- though you don’t have to let your mind grapple in the dark for too long. Because in absolutely no time - just a few more vulgar thrusts of his tongue - you’re feeling the sudden plump intrusion of something slender at your hole.
It certainly couldn’t have been his tongue, because you knew what that ridged texture felt like.
It certainly couldn’t have been Gojo’s cock, because you’d tasted that and you knew he had a much larger circumference.
So that left only one option—Gojo had your pussylips spread apart and your entrance gulping up every inch of his fingers. They just looked so stark with their blue color disappearin’ into your hole, and Gojo’s increeeeedible length making you feel so full.
Two of them were all that were shovelled inside- and yet he was already stretching for your very cervix on his first thrust inside. He scours the spongy end of your pussy then slides back out—in and out, in and out, in and out.
Each time his knobbly joints push against your g-spot and left you crying-
“Feel my fingers inside you?” Gojo rasps ruthlessly, his mouth wrapped around your throbbing clit. Groaning at the way you grow even wetter- Na’vi senses were strong, and he could smell the impending orgasm on you. “Feel the way I reach for your- hah, womb all inside? Feel the way I can fuck a baby in you so easily?”
“Yes-” You answer to them all, “Yes yes yes yes—”
And before you can say anything more, his powerful tail hauls you down. Bashin’ in even deeper with his plush fingertips. “Feel the way I’ve found eeeevery cute spot of yours? Feel the way I know your pussy inside and out?”
“Yes- fuck.” And you don’t even care if you’re ‘punished’ any more for breaking Gojo’s stern rules. Gojo himself was slamming his knuckles red and raw against your cunt, fucking his human’s tight pussy. “Fuck, I’m gonna-”
“Feel the way m’making you mine—?”
“Satoru, m’gonna cum-”
“Note it down in your research.”
And then you’re exploding straight into your high - and you know it’s the best you’ve ever had.
Your eyes fall shut and the only thing you’re seeing behind them is pure black with stars of white, pulsing against your bleary vision in time with the furious throbbing at your cunt. Little zaps of pleasure shoot all the way down to the tips of your toes every time he’s moving his maw across your core. Sharp. Sensitive. He’s wedged between your legs and lappin’ up each pulse.
Sluuuuurp—!
Long, aching drags of his tongue. They’re roverin’ over the most sensitive spot of your clit, meanwhile his fingers were glazed in slick n’ fucking you stupid already.
Gojo thrusts you through your high as if he was angry at you. As if he can’t get enough. As if he’s losing his damn mind and you n’ your pussy are the only reasons why-
It takes you only a minute more for your wave of bliss to taper out, fully riding through it.
And then only another minute more for you go from fucked straight to overstimulated by a few more of his rovering thrusts. He swabs your g-spot once more and you think you’re bawling- “S-Satoru, I’m already done-”
But he doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even seem to hear you.
In fact, you couldn’t sworn that he was grabbing onto your right thigh with his free hand and keeping himself plastered even more into your cunt-
“Satoru—!” You’re calling out helplessly, “Satoru, I’m already- ngh, done-”
“Mhmmmm?” Muttering something wet underneath his breath, and you have to strain your ears to actually hear him. Breathy. Panting. “Research- fuck! More…”
“I can’t even- oh.” It was almost dangerous just how potent he was with his mouth and fingers, and before long your thighs were starting to shake with sensitivity. Causing you to grab onto his scalp even tighter and-
“O-oh.”
And accidentally tug on the long braid of white hair thrown over his shoulder—his kuru.
Did that manage to…
Your breath hitches, and you’re reaching out to graze your fingers down his kuru once more-
“Fuh—fuuuuck.” Gojo throws his head back in a voice that almost sounded like a whimper, his slick lips quivering. His skin covering in goosebumps. His erection throbbing from where you could spy him. His entire large body shakes with the zaps of hypersensitivity going down his spine, “D-don’t think you know what you’re getting into, beloved…” His murky breath clouds out in front of him.
“You sure?” You challenge - what a privilege it was to see him break.
The olo’eyktan grits his teeth—-“I’m warning you…”
But when were you ever one to listen to warnings?
Without thinking much of it, you tighten your hand ‘round his kuru and tug—
And then he’s on you in a split-second.
He’s not even moving- he’s grabbing onto your hips and bodily puuuulling you right back down till your cunt lips kiss his cock. He’s pushing your legs up until your kneecaps hit your tits. He’s hunching his entire body forwards and-
“Sh-shit.” Your eyes widen, “Satoru, did you just-”
“Yes.”
Just you teasing his kuru is enough to make Gojo spuuuurt out in creamy wads of cum once more, coating the outer part of your pussy in a thick layer. It feels hot and wet on top of you, streaming down to drench the coating. Before he’s swervin’ his swollen tip inside and fucking you-
No hesitation. No preparation.
You’re getting what you deserved, and that was to be fucked like an absolute anima by the Na’vi.
“You don’t know what you’ve done.” He’s spitting- straight into your hotly opened mouth. Those sharp canines of Gojo’s nipping at your bottom lip, “You don’t know what you’ve done- you don’t know what you’ve done-”
“Shit, shiiiit—Satoru.” Moaning out his name like a broken record player. He’s bullying out harsh semi-thrusts against your cunt that leave you scrambling for breath- just shovin’ his puckered tip inside, just tasting the inside of your pussy with his cockhead, just trying to fucking fit.
“Sayin’ my name like that and you don’t even fucking—” Before Gojo feels your soppy walls clench tightly ‘round him, and his lips part a little before racing down and spitting on your cunt. “Fucking fit.”
“You say that like it’s so easy-” You sob out.
He was pistoning his hips into you ferally.
The only thing he was doing was stretchin’ out your cute hole a few times, just so big that you’re being push-push-pushed up the fur coat you were splayed out on-
A hand at your throat.
“Don’t. Fucking. Run.”
And you don’t have the chance to tell him that you weren’t actually running and in fact it was just his roverin’ hips forcing you upwards- but before you could do that, Gojo’s already rendering you speechless with his cock.
He’s grabbing an even tighter restraint of your neck.
He’s manhandling your entire body down like he’s crazed.
He’s juuuuuust barely managing to squeeze in a sultry inch of two of his massive length- the mere sensation of that in itself enough to send your mind bursting into a heap of stars. It was almost numbing on your lower half, to have this much of him fitted inside you.
Stuffed inside you.
Throbbing inside you.
And it seems that the only one more affected by that fact wasn’t you - it was Gojo Satoru himself. Head falling into the crook of your neck. Tail flinching as it now wraps around your right thigh. Mouth parting with an agonized groan.
“F—fuck.” He’s echoing out hollowly into your ear, “Fuck, you’re so fucking…tight.”
Gojo spits out the word as if it was the very reason the olo’eyktan was shattering right about now. And almost on cue, those sopping wet walls of yours clench ‘round his tip and makes the Na’vi yelp—
“Fuck, don’t do that.” He’s shuddering through his sloppy strokes, his split-ended tip filling you up with dewy precum. “Fuck, don’t do that unless you want to be taught what happens when you pull on the kuru of a Herwi like me, little scientist.”
“What happens?” You ask innocently.
“S’why I’m telling you to fucking—oh.”
Just a few more pulsating clenches of your cunt, and Gojo shivers as though he’s being held hostage by your wet walls.
He bears his canines and snarls at you in the way you’d seen Na’vi do when they want to signal, to intimidate, to mate.
But you stare up at the olo’eyktan of the Herwi clan with determination.
And he’s giving you one final probe-
“I’m going to get you fucking pregnant.”
He breathes out against the shell of your ear, almost like the last whisper of his sanity before Gojo stares into your wide heart-eyes—and he’s reeling his hips back to plunge.
Uncaring how unready your poor entrance was.
Uncaring how your tiny human body shakes underneath his larger one.
His fat cock swipes between your glittery folds and puuuuushes against the instinctual restraint of your hole, all the way until you start to tremble- and he knows he can’t push any more. He knows he can’t break you.
He’s fighting back every sudden primal urge in him that just wants to fuck you all the way inside- and furiously pumps his solid inches back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Keeping a hand always on the top of your stomach for when he’s feeling his hard globular tip push upwards.
Gojo was just so big that he could feel himself sinking in from the outside-
“And that’s not a promise, beloved.” Gojo’s pale brows furrow as his cockhead starts swabbin’ even deeper after each thrust, “That’s not a promise- that’s not even a challenge-”
“Th-then—?” He’s pushing doooown on your overstuffed core and you find it hard to breathe, both pressures from between your legs and from Gojo pushing on your cylindrical tummy bulge was just…
The olo’eyktan grins when he watches his cute lil’ human struggle to take his entire cock, the bluish hue of it spreading apart your thighs. He reels his slender hips back in quite the long drag—before ultimately hammering- “It’s an oath. Before Eywa.”
A divine oath.
Added to the fact that Gojo was slamming his ruddied tip into you with each syllable- and you could never forget about the sheer size difference. The way that it helped him bend over you and fold you in half as though nothing but a lawnchair—your ass was cleanly dangling off the floor with how much Gojo was bending you.
A mating press. The meanest one you’ve ever seen.
You’re hit with the sudden inclination that you weren’t about to walk out of here any time soon.
And Gojo seems to be doing well on that fact- he hadn’t completely bottomed-out yet, but he was still drilling into you with such fervour. Streaking his cum from before across every inch of you, a layer of white that you feel from the inside.
Feverish cocktip swabbin’ all the way at the back of your cervix, full balls smacking your cunt.
Every time he was hurtling his hips forwards, it almost felt as if the ground beneath you was trembling.
It almost felt as if he was hitting each of your geysering spots without even needing to try. Just so big that the veiny sides of his cock rubbed n’ dubbed up against those orifices unfairly.
It almost felt as if you were losing it-
“So I think you’ll have a loooot of fuckin’ research, beloved.” Gojo snickers, his tail flicking you playfully. And at this point you’re not even sure what the conversation was about, just knowing that it was the background music to the lecherous thwacking of his hips on yours.
So hard that you could feel the wads of his high from before glazing your insides. Dripping all the way near the rim of your cunt before being pumped back inside.
He pushes down on top of that bulge once more and watches you whine, “I almost don’t want to, mmm, ask what it’ll be about…”
“Ohhh, y’know—” Gojo trails off airily, something shaky in the back of his tone that sends shivers up your spine. It makes you almost content to know that you’ve gotten him so pussydrunken- but then again you weren’t too far behind. He tilts his head to the side and looks at you through partially closed eyes, smiling. “-human-Na’vi babies.”
And it’s with that that Gojo finally - finally - drills his cock all the way to the hilt.
Bottoming out.
His breath catches at the realization.
Blue eyes widening. Mouth watering.
It feels so different to have your hot innards surrounding him entirely- and fuck, Gojo wasn’t even sure whether a human like you would be able to take all of him. But it seems that you really were made for him, yes? Every curve and edge of you. Every bit of your cunt that he gives an experimental buck into, before pumping inside like a madman-
Pounding you into the smooth ground of the celestial temple.
It feels like you’re being thrust into heaven itself because of the way he was so big, big, big—all the way from the purple-ish tip that was zig-zagging your walls, to the oversized tummy bulge he was fucking into you, to the way he had you folded. Manhandled.
Gojo’s only lasting a few strokes before he’s crushing you to him so hard that it almost hurts- “Right here—right here.” The hand atop your stomach pushes down where his ruby-red tip was kissin’ and kissing at your womb. “You’re gonna have a lot ta research about fucking- ngh, getting bred by the fucking olo’eyktan. A lot to research about carrying my next heir, yeah?”
“Yes…” Arching your back into him.
“And then here—” That very hand now drifts down to the in-betweens of your pussylips and rubs his thumb over your clit. He’s drawing little circles and hearts on top of your sensitive nub that makes you wrack with pleasure, “Yer gonna have to research giving birth to such a biiiig baby, beloved.”
You shiver at the thought, mostly excitement.
And he purrs as he rubs his cheek against the sweaty crown of your head, “But s’okaaaaay- I’ll help you through every step of it, beloved. My mate.” The Na’vi’s staring down at you lovingly, fucking you filthily. “M’gonna breed you all full, okay? You might just have to research more about Na’vi phenotypes- heh.”
You can only nod. “Please…”
And before you can dwell too long on that last particular word—mate—he’s continuing. “And then you don’t have to worry ‘bout a thing- I can take care of eeeeverything. I’ll wash our kid. I’ll dress our kid. I’ll feed our kid. I’ll do everything and anything just please-”
“Y-yes?” Your voice cracks.
And he winks down at you almost mischievously, “Let’s do some research together on when I’ll be able to breed you all full of my cum next, hm?”
And with only a few more vicious thrusts, you’re feeling your second wave of pleasure tonight take over. You knew it’d been bubbling inside your veins for some time now- and right now it almost felt as if that euphoria was overflowing.
Overspilling.
Just like the gushing wads of slick that drivel over the front slit of your cunt and leave you so wet that you feel like a waterpark. Just rhythmic bursts of your high that leave your body loose and limp, shaking a bit every time that Gojo’s cockhead plummets inwards.
Head muddled.
Eyes rolling to the very back of your head.
This might just be the best orgasm of your entire life, and your wave of pleasure is looooong and drawn-out with how many times Gojo thrusts his cock in to fuck you through it. “Shit, Toru—”
Again and again and again.
Each time hitting the target of your g-spot dead-on and watching as you gush around him even more.
You were at Gojo’s complete mercy…almost.
Shaking. Your hands find themselves in his hair once more- or more precisely grazing the long length of his kuru. “Satoru.” You’re breathing out as he shivers carnally, “Satoru, I want it- ngh, inside.”
His eyes widen, “Demanding something of the olo’eyktan, are you?”
“Inside, Toru.” Desperate now.
To emphasize, you’re lightly tugging on his kuru and watching as it makes the Na’vi above you shudder. His cock pouring out heaps of precum that only act as a warning for something…more. “F-fuck, better keep this all in until tomorrow-”
At the very least.
You’re honestly not sure if you can keep it all in even now—because then Gojo’s throwing his head back and cumming long and hard. Harder than he ever thinks he has before- his seed dribbles out of him like a gooey waterfall, taking place inside every nook and cranny you have.
Heavy balls clenching almost aggressively as they empty out inside you.
He’s swervin’ each ounce of it inside by dragging his globular tip, that reddened cockhead making you swear you taste Gojo all the way at your throat.
Flooding.
Your toes curl, it almost feels as though he’s fucking you into a third and fourth high altogether-
“Until tomorrow-” Gojo barks out through his smoky tone, “Until always-” After reaching his high so many times in one night, his sparks of euphoria just rip through him. And you can feel the sheer intensity of it by the way his slippery slick thwacks! against the back of your pussy, hot and heavy. It seems to inflate you from the inside, “Until we have our…fuck.”
And it’s not like Gojo to let up a sentence. Especially one that wavered with emotion.
“Until I have…” He starts again, blue eyes twinkling. “…you.”
Right now he was cupping the side of your face with his left hand- accidentally…or perhaps not…dslodging the translating device from your ear.
And then the Na’vi olo’eyktan leans with his forehead pressing down on top of yours.
Dragging his hand down the side of your head, where his beads for you twinkled in the glow of Eywa’s tree. Breathing out the words—“Oel ngati kameie, muntxa si.”
He looks at you with a slightly sad smile as if he was almost bitterly glad you didn’t understand. Though little did he know…“Oel ngati kameie, Satoru.”
And the look on his face was worth all the time you’d spent poring over Na’vi language books with Shoko these past few days. At least you understood this.
You grin, “I did a bit of research myself.”
He holds you tight, he holds you as if he wanted you two to become one.
More so.
Eventually—after about four or so more rounds, and once you were thoroughly shattered and kept on begging for it, Gojo had swiped his long kuru into his hand and raised it up to you. You yourself didn’t have one, but if there was anything you learned from being with the Herwi people—it’s that love comes in all forms and differences.
You press your lips to his flower-like nerves at the very end of his braid. Immediately, a rush of something between you two and you understand what he meant about being mates.
You feel what Gojo sees.
You feel what Gojo smells.
You feel what Gojo hears.
You feel what Gojo tastes.
You feel what Gojo feels.
You feel complete.
.
.
.
Day #6 in the Herwi village (day after the mating):
The ancient of the Herwi clan were one of the only believers in fated mates, of one who had been destined to walk beside you upon this good planet through Eywa’s will. It was said that life does not flower until one meets one’s fate, not even the skies shall migrate, not even the ice shall melt.
Two souls bound to meet.
And until then one can only look up, up, up…
This scientist was found in quite the curious position as mate to the olo’eyktan on the morning after.
Re-entering the village, hand-in-hand, it was inevitable that the Herwi people would stare. Not only was it quite past the deadline of six moons given, but each bore resemblance of a mating session that could’ve been spotted a smile away.
Bite marks. Bruises. Slight falter in walking.
Not to mention that it seems word had spread about the…inoccupancy of the Tree of Winter just the night prior. (Additionally for more on Herwi stamina read Page 69…)
Circling back, the stares were rather unabashed. Some gasping. Some ribbing. Some tuts by elders of the clan who then again turned around with a smile.
It was obvious that they had been praying for the olo’eyktan’s happiness for a long, long time.
It must be noted that congratulations were doled out heavily at the communal dinner that night. Food. Dances. Parades.
It must be noted even further that preparations for coronation at the Herwi tsahìk shall be taking place in a week’s time. Who would have thought, a human being a tsahìk? Who would have thought that humans had fated mates as well?
For this scientist’s final note, preparations are already being planned meticulously for the arrival of a new heir to the Gojo name.
And that leaves the scientific community with one last thing, now that fluency in the Na’vi language is on the path to be attained: the glossary.
Tsahìk - Head shaman, high priest, interpreter..
Olo’eyktan - Male clan leader.
Mawey - Calm.
Txeylan - Best friend.
Ì’awn - Stay.
Fnu - Be quiet.
Txen - Awake.
Nga lu rusey- oh, nga lu rusey. - You’re alive- oh, you’re alive.
Oe'm lefpom. Txen? Lu nga txen? Tsal pung? - I’m happy. Awake? You’re awake? Are you injured?
‘Upe lu nga fwew? - What are you looking for?
Yawne? Oe'd tìng aynga. - Beloved? I’d give you anything.
Oe pey ngim krr. - I’ve been waiting a long time.
Tìnga’prrnen - Pregnant.
Tìnga’prrnen? Oe? - Pregnant? Me?
Nga new ne kanom oe tìnga’prrnen. - You want to get me pregnant?
Fì'u - This.
Irayo nga - Thank you.
Oe ke ronsem tsonta lu tìnga’prrnen. - I wouldn’t mind being pregnant.
Lake Yapay - Lake Steam.
Hona beads - Endearing.beads.
Mt. Hoet - Vast.
Kuru - Neural queue.
Oel ngati kameie, muntxa si. - I see you, my mate.
Oel ngati kameie, Satoru. - I see you, Satoru.
A/N. It must be acknowledged that Herwi culture was influenced by some aspects of Inuit culture, as well as some aspects of my own Sinhalese culture! Both such beautiful cultures that I was honored to research more in-depth on. Also this Na'vi vocabulary bank was used, and for longer Na’vi sentences this translator was used and might not be fully accurate ahhh-
ੈ⭒˚⋆🪼 ೃ࿔*:･ you know your desperation has reached its limit when you decide to ask about dealing with your crush on an online forum.
part 1 -> part 2
chatting with sixeyes0607 at forum becomes a habit.
you tell yourself it’s temporary; just a weird digital crutch until the embarrassment of facing gojo fades, but the forum tab stays open on your browser. you refresh it in the three-minute lull between classes, the glow casting a soft light on your face in your dark dorm before bed, your eyes flicking to it during lectures when your notes blur into incomprehensible swirls. it becomes a ritual, a tiny pocket of understood chaos.
it doesn’t really bother you that you don’t know his name or why the weird nickname(though yours is no better, at least its factual), you don’t know where he studies and what he likes. you are not sure you want to ruin the magic of your anonymity and bonding over your unattainable crushes. regardless, sixeyes0607 is always there. his replies appear like clockwork, a digital heartbeat, a comfort.
sixeyes0607: did you survive today?
ghostinthebackrow: barely. i avoided the area he exists in.
sixeyes0607: valid strategy.
ghostinthebackrow: what about you?
there’s a pause longer than usual. the little typing… indicator appears, disappears, reappears.
sixeyes0607: uh. i tried again. saw them in the library.
your stomach flips, a strange mixture of dread and vicarious thrill.
ghostinthebackrow: and?? don’t leave me in suspense.
sixeyes0607: said something stupid. laughed too loud. she smiled though.
sixeyes0607: a little one. cute tho
you picture his crush—faceless, distant, perfect in your imagination. you feel happy for him, feel glad that he’s braver than you are.
ghostinthebackrow: a smile is good.
sixeyes0607: yeah. felt like winning a medal.
you type before your internal censor can engage, the words flowing straight from the vulnerable core of you to the screen.
ghostinthebackrow: i wish he’d smile at me.
on the other side of campus, gojo stares at that sentence longer than he should. he’s in his dorm, half-dressed after practice, a water bottle forgotten in his hand. the words echo in the silent room. he knows exactly what you mean.
—
your second attempt happens by accident, which is the only way it could have happened at all.
you’re buried in the cacophonous quiet of the main library, digging through the black hole of your bag for a specific highlighter. in your haste, your elbow knocks a thick sociology textbook off the edge of the table. it lands with a soft but definitive thud at someone else’s feet.
long legs, clad in expensive, slightly distressed jeans. familiar white sneakers, impossibly clean.
before you can even gasp an apology, he’s bending down. gojo picks up the book, his fingers brushing the cover. he doesn’t hand it back immediately. instead, he glances at the title, a faint, unreadable expression flickering across his face before he extends it toward you.
“you dropped this,” he says. his voice is lower here, softened by the library hush.
your brain, the traitorous organ, fully short-circuits. all pre-rehearsed sentences evaporate.
“oh—thanks. sorry,” you manage, your voice a breathy whisper. you take the book, your fingers briefly grazing his. a static shock, real or imagined, jolts up your arm.
he doesn’t move away immediately. he watches you for a second, his head tilted slightly. he’s closer than he was at the vending machines. quieter. more present.
“…you’re in my chem lecture, right? with professor yaga?” he asks, as if confirming a hypothesis.
your heart stutters, trips over itself. he knows. he’s noticed you.
“yeah?” you say, the word coming out as a shocked exhale. you clear your throat. “i mean—yes. monday and wednesday at ten.”
he smiles then—not the wide, dazzling, crowd-pleasing grin. this one is smaller, softer at the edges. it looks thoughtful, like he’s concentrating on getting it right. it reaches his eyes, making them crinkle in a way that feels devastatingly genuine.
“cool,” he says, the single word imbued with a weight that the library air seems to hold.
and then, like a spell breaking, someone calls his name from across the periodicals section. the moment snaps, a thread pulled too tight. the easy tension in his shoulders returns, the public persona sliding back into place like a mask.
“later,” he murmurs, more to you than to the caller, and then he’s gone, weaving through the stacks toward the noise.
you sit there for five full minutes, the sociology textbook open on your lap to a random page. you don’t read a single word. you just watch the spot where he stood and feel your hands tremble with the residual energy of a celestial near-miss.
that night, you log on with a new kind of urgency, eager to tell your anonymous friend about what happened.
ghostinthebackrow: update: he talked to me.
sixeyes0607: NO WAY
ghostinthebackrow: it was an accident. i dropped a book. he picked it up and then started talking.
sixeyes0607: that’s huge bro
ghostinthebackrow: like. two sentences. but still.
you hesitate, biting your lip, then add the most crucial data point. you haven’t been able to stop thinking about it through the whole day.
ghostinthebackrow: he smiled.
on gojo’s screen, your words feel heavier than they should. he’s replaying the library moment for the twentieth time, and now he’s reading your perspective of it and doesn’t even know it. the duality is maddening and exhilarating.
sixeyes0607: see? told you silence doesn’t mean rejection.
you smile, a warmth spreading through your chest that has nothing to do with your room’s temperature.
you don’t see him type and delete three different replies.
he backspaces furiously, feeling like an idiot. finally, he settles on something safer, something that aches with the truth he can’t yet voice.
sixeyes0607: you deserve that smile, y’know.
… his next attempt is, by his own later assessment, a disaster of epic proportions.
he spots you outside the student center. you’re sitting alone at a small, round table under a tree, headphones in, a notebook open. you’re biting the end of your pen, lost in thought. his friends, suguru and shoko, are a few feet away, debating where to get lunch, loud and annoying in the way he usually relishes. today, he ignores them.
his feet carry him over before his panic can catch up. he taps the table twice with his knuckles.
you look up, pulling one headphone away, startled. your eyes widen slightly. “oh. hi.”
“hey,” he says, and suddenly he’s hyper-aware of everything: how tall he is looming over the table, how his shadow falls across your notes, the fact that he can’t remember what he planned to say. “uh. we talked at the library.”
you blink. “that’s right.”
he opens his mouth. the plan was something clever, something about the book, or chemistry, or the weather. a smooth segue. what comes out is nothing. just air. his mind is a perfect, blank, blue screen.
his face heats. he can feel the tips of his ears burning, a telltale sign he hopes you don’t notice. he breaks eye contact, rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture so uncharacteristically nervous it would shock his friends.
“i—uh. never mind,” he mutters, the words stumbling over each other. “sorry. bye.”
he turns and walks away, not back to his friends, but just away, leaving you sitting there in stunned silence. he can’t believe he acted so stupidly around you. he can barely shut up around girls he doesn’t even like!
—
later, curled up in bed with your laptop balanced on your knees, you try to process the whirlwind. gojo looked… nervous? confused? scared? it’s weird how his usually confident and cocky nature subdued for whatever reason. maybe you did weird him out with your reaction the other day.
ghostinthebackrow: okay. i think i’m confusing him.
sixeyes0607: how so?
ghostinthebackrow: he keeps acting weird around me.
sixeyes0607: weird how?
ghostinthebackrow: quiet. awkward. like he wants to say something but doesn’t. he’s usually so loud and talkative. is it me?
there’s a long pause. too long. you watch the cursor blink in the reply box, imagining him thinking.
sixeyes0607: …yeah. that sounds familiar.
ghostinthebackrow: really? your crush does that too?
sixeyes0607: oh no. i do that. turns out when you actually care, all that confidence goes straight out the window. leaves you standing there with a dumb look on your face and a heart trying to beat its way out of your chest.
you read the message twice. then a third time. you hug your pillow tighter, pressing it against the sudden, overwhelming ache in your chest. it’s a soft ache, threaded through with filaments of a hope so fragile you’re afraid to name it.
ghostinthebackrow: so maybe um
ghostinthebackrow: maybe our crushes aren’t these untouchable, perfect entities. maybe they’re just… people. with their own stupid, malfunctioning software.
on the other side of the screen, in the quiet of his room, gojo exhales a slow, shaky breath he didn’t know he was holding. he stares at the ceiling, the words painting a new, terrifying, wonderful possibility across the blank white surface.
sixeyes0607: maybe they’re just scared too.
𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼
it isn’t completely insane that a stranger on the internet knows the exact, fluttery rhythm your heart adopts when you walk past a certain section of campus, or the way your stomach knots into a tight, anxious fist twenty minutes before a shared lecture. it’s not weird that his username is the first thing you look for the second you open the clunky forum, your breath hitching slightly until you see the last active: 5 minutes ago tag beside his name.
sixeyes0607: what lecture you suffering through today?
ghostinthebackrow: organic chem. back row. as always.
sixeyes0607: is the air is thinner up there? i know the view of everyone’s impending doom is clearer.
you pause, your pen hovering over your notebook. a coincidence had been nudging at the back of your mind for days, small details aligning.
ghostinthebackrow: wait
ghostinthebackrow: you said your crush is in your chem class. and you’re always joking about hating yaga’s pop quizzes
sixeyes0607: …
ghostinthebackrow: professor yaga. that’s my organic chem professor.
a longer pause.
sixeyes0607: yeah.
ghostinthebackrow: so… same college? tokyo metropolitan?
sixeyes0607: yeah. big one though. thousands of people. odds are astronomically slim we’d ever actually cross paths before we finish it.
your heart does a weird little skip, a tripping beat against your ribs. it felt both impossibly intimate and safely distant.
ghostinthebackrow: still funny.
sixeyes0607: funny or fate 👀
you roll your eyes at the screen, a small, unbidden smile touching your lips despite the swarm of butterflies in your stomach.
—
it happens halfway through the wednesday lecture. yaga is droning on about stereochemistry, and your phone buzzes discreetly in your hoodie pocket. a new notification.
sixeyes0607: bet you five imaginary dollars he’s going to draw that molecule wrong again. look at the angle of that bond. criminal.
you stifle a laugh, glancing up from your screen to look at the whiteboard. as you do, your eyes catch on a figure a row ahead and several seats to the left. white hair, impossibly bright even under the fluorescent lights. broad shoulders slouched in a posture of elegant boredom. gojo satoru.
and in his hand, angled away from the professor’s line of sight, his phone screen is brightly illuminated, unmistakably so. the dark, low-contrast theme. the slightly outdated, text-heavy layout. it’s not a social media feed. it’s a forum thread.
your breath catches in your throat, sharp and cold. the air in the lecture hall suddenly feels too thick.
no. you tell yourself, forcefully. people use forums. there are millions of them. coincidence exists. you’re projecting, your brain rotting from sleep deprivation and romantic delusion, trying to force two separate worlds to collide because you secretly want them to.
still— your fingers, trembling slightly, hover over your own phone’s keyboard.
ghostinthebackrow: do you ever text during class?
three dots appear almost instantly. in your periphery, you see gojo’s thumb move.
sixeyes0607: constantly. it’s the only way to survive. why?
your throat goes dry. you watch as gojo reads a message, his head dipping slightly, a faint, private smile touching his lips before he starts typing a reply.
you don’t answer. you just stare at the back of his head, the world narrowing to the space between his phone and yours.
—
sixeyes0607: hey. this might be completely insane.
ghostinthebackrow: we’re already talking to internet strangers about our heart palpitations. we left ‘sane’ behind weeks ago.
sixeyes0607: true. okay. wanna meet?
your heart slams against your sternum, a single, violent thud that echoes in your ears. you reread the three words.
ghostinthebackrow: like. in real life?
sixeyes0607: yeah. just coffee. campus café. neutral territory. no pressure.
you stare at the screen, your pulse a frantic drumbeat in your wrists.
the offer was a trap door, an escape hatch. it should have been comforting. instead, it made it terrifyingly real. you swallow, your mouth parchment-dry. god, were you really meeting with a person you could have been passing every day in the college campus?
ghostinthebackrow: okay.
sixeyes0607: tomorrow. 4 pm. the grind, on west campus.
ghostinthebackrow: okay
ghostinthebackrow: see ya
you put your phone face down on your pillow as if it had burned you, then immediately buried your face in your hands, a silent scream of pure, undiluted panic trapped in your chest.
… the grind smells like over-roasted espresso beans and damp wool from the afternoon rain. you push the door open, the bell jingling with obnoxious cheer, and your heart plummets straight through the floor.
gojo is there too, for some reason.
he’s sitting at a small table by the rain-streaked window, sunlight struggling through the clouds to glint in his messy white hair. his sunglasses are hooked into the collar of his jacket. he has his phone in his hand, staring at it intently. his leg is bouncing a rapid, anxious rhythm under the table.
no. your brain short-circuits, throwing up static. coincidence. just a cosmic joke. he’s meeting someone else. he’s everywhere, that’s the point, he’s always everywhere, he’s the sun.
you can’t breathe. you mechanically move to the farthest corner, sliding into a chair at a table wedged between a bookshelf and a large potted fern. fifteen minutes, you bargain with yourself, your hands cold and clammy. fifteen minutes and then you’ll leave.
ten minutes pass. each one an eternity. you sneak a glance over the top of your phone.
gojo checks his watch. then his phone. he types something, frowns, deletes it. his thumb hovers, tapping a restless pattern against the case. you think he’s waiting. he’s waiting for someone.
stop it. you’re imagining things. he’s probably texting a friend to meet him for a late lunch.
twenty minutes past four. your hope, a fragile little bird, feels its wings grow leaden. you check your own phone. no new messages from sixeyes0607. nothing.
then, the bell above the door chimes again.
geto suguru walks in, shaking rainwater from his dark hair. he scans the room, spots gojo, and makes a beeline for him, sliding into the seat across from him with the easy familiarity of a lifelong friend. gojo looks up, and you see his face—the anxious tension melts into something else: exasperated affection. he groans, shoves his phone away dismissively, and starts talking, hands waving in animated explanation.
that’s it.
the ache in your chest is sharp, a clean slice of humiliation. of course. of course gojo satoru wasn’t waiting for you. he was waiting for his friend. you were a fool, weaving fantasies out of pixelated conversations and coincidental seating charts.
you stand up so quickly your chair scrapes the floor. you don’t look back as you weave through the tables and push out into the cool, damp air, the cafe’s warmth clinging to you like a taunt.
you text sixeyes0607 when you’ve calmed a bit, as soon as you’re far away from the cafe and closer to your dorm room, the rain misting your heated face.
ghostinthebackrow: you could’ve just told me you’d be busy or something.
the reply comes before you can even pocket your phone, vibrating against your palm.
sixeyes0607: i was there!! i waited!! are you kidding
a bitter laugh escapes you, swallowed by the drizzle.
ghostinthebackrow: sure.
sixeyes0607: i was!! for twenty minutes. then my friend showed up uninvited and i couldn’t get rid of him.
your breath stutters. the image of geto sliding into that seat flashes again.
ghostinthebackrow: it’s whatever. forget it.
the three dots appear. they dance for a long moment. then they disappear. no reply comes.
you don’t wait. you go home. you take a shower so hot it stings your skin, as if you could scrub away the embarrassment. you crawl into bed, the forum app a glaring icon on your phone screen. you don’t open it. for the first time in weeks, you let the chat lie silent.
—
the next morning, you wake with a thought so fully formed and terrifying it rockets you upright, your blanket pooling around your waist.
same college.
same lecture halls.
same obscure, dying forum.
same café, same time.
gojo, constantly on his phone during classes he shares with you.
the way gojo had frozen, speechless, when you’d approached him—twice.
no. it was impossible. a narrative constructed by a desperate, lonely mind. gojo satoru was the campus sovereign, a creature of effortless light and noise. sixeyes0607 was your shadowy confidant, all dry wit and vulnerable, hidden sweetness. they were opposites. they couldn’t overlap.
your phone buzzes on the nightstand. a new notification lights up the screen. you stare at it, your heart pounding a frantic, ragged rhythm against your ribs. for the first time since that very first reply popped up weeks ago, you don’t open it.
you’re too afraid.
because the theory solidifying in your head is a truth too terrifying to speak aloud: a truth that would shatter either your new friendship or your fragile hope.
and even worse—you’re deeply, desperately scared it might be true.
steve harrington who plays with ur pussy like it’s a fidget 💌
i adore your writing plspls keep it up<33
bsf! steve loves to casually play with your pussy! (18+)
something was very wrong with the relationship you had with steve.
anyone could see this very quickly. childhood friends, a little sandbox love story, but... with no love involved, as the two of you claimed. platonic soulmates, is what you went around telling everybody who asked what the two of you were. "oh! stevie's just about my best friend in the whole world." you'd say sweetly. "we just get each other. it's like we share a brain, really!"
he'd say the same thing. calling you his girl, his little shadow, every cutesy name under the sun while subtly making it known to all the boys in town that you were pretty much off limits.
and so the two of you were set on the friends act.
but what kind of friendship involved the two of you kissing on the mouth as a greeting? you'd do it in public with no shame, giggling and skipping up to him as he'd grin and scoop you in his arms and kiss your face, then your cheeks, then one big, wet kiss right on your mouth. it'd last just a second, then he'd ruffle your hair. that was just the start of it. the casual ass pats, the way you two whisper in each other's ear all the time and give each other looks from across rooms to communicate - you'd think the two of you had invented a secret language of some sort.
the way he'd greet you by wrapping his arms around you from behind or tugging on your hair playfully and making you tip your head back so he could kiss you from above, and your inability to be in a group setting for more than a hour before you both wander off to do your own side mission. whatever that may be.
and all of this is done shamelessly, in public.
it just makes people wonder; if you're like this because you have a secret relationship going on, or if you really do think that it's normal for friends to be so close and intimate. and also, are you worse when no one's watching the two of you?
steve currently has you splayed on his bed while he lays between your legs his fingers making a v-shape at your cunt to spread your puffy lips apart to get a good look at your glistening folds. he uses his other hand to rub two fingers up and down your slit, admiring the way your juices trickle over and coat his fingertips, leaving them all glossy and wet.
"holy shit, you're soaked." he comments casually, groaning as your slick webs between his thick fingers. "why're you so worked up? i've barely touched you."
you shiver at steve's mocking tone, gnawing on your lower lip at the feeling of him rubbing your glistening pussy along the rough pads of his fingers, spreading and stroking it until it leaks more of those delicious juices down to his wrist and getting all puffy and sensitive under his touch. just watching your pretty pussy and the look on your face as he plays with you has his dick throbbing in his pants. he grunts and bucks his hips against the mattress to relieve some of the pressure, but he can't help it. you're just so beautiful.
he grinds his hips down lazily, relishing the scratchy fabric of his boxers bumping against his swollen tip. but he's more focused on the way your clit has started to bud under his ministrations and because of the cool air of the room. " 's cause you're teasing me and gettin' me all excited..." you whine, nudging your pussy firmer against his hand to try and coax him to give you more. "c-can you- mnh! can i have your fingers, please?"
steve slowly drags his slick fingers up your slit, gathering more of your arousal before bringing them to his mouth, making a show of licking them clean. his tongue laps up every drop of your slick on his fingers, and he moans at the taste, making direct eye contact with you the whole time. "fuck, you taste so good, honey. i want more." he says, voice saccharine sweet.
and so instead of just giving you his fingers like you asked for like such a good girl, he lowers his lips to your cunt and sucks your folds into his eager mouth, delving down to taste you directly from the source. "ohhh, fuck steve!" you cry out, back arching off the bed as he seals his lips around your dripping pussy and suckles.
steve groans against your pussy, the sound creating vibrations that elicit jolts of pleasure through you. his tongue traces up your slit once more, lapping at the liquids dripping from your core that mix with the saliva he's producing. he is making a mess, to say the least. and to worsen it, he leans down and spits directly onto your pussy, using four of his fingers to lightly spank your pussy and mix it all up. you jolt, back arching off the bed as he rubs your pussy and combines his saliva with your mess, then slowly pushes one long, thick finger inside you, feeling your silken walls grip him tightly.
"mngh, 's good." you moan as he starts to pump his finger in and out. "right there, please!" you whimper, hips curving upwards almost imperceptibly to the shallow thrusts of his finger.
"shhh, just relax," steve soothes, adding a second finger and stretching you further around the welcome intrusion. "you're all wound up, hon. gotta calm down. stay still." he makes it sound so easy. and then, as if taunting you, he starts scissoring his fingers inside you, working them in tandem to spread your slick walls. his thumb finds your clit, rubbing slow tight circles over the sensitive bundle of nerves. the dual stimulation has your moans rising up in volume again, and steve laughs, pushing down on your puffy clit as if it'll help soothe you.
"you like that, don't you? like having my fingers buried in this greedy pussy?" steve says to you sweetly. "course you do. you're makin' a mess of my fingers and grippin' them so tight."
he curls his fingers just right, stroking along your inner walls and seeking that spongey spot that makes your eyes roll back your expression has steve's cock twitching and leaking precum into his boxers.
without warning, he buries his face between your thighs again, unleashing his tongue to lap at your dripping folds. he licks a broad stripe up your slit before delving in deep, fucking your hole with his tongue. his tongue thrusts in and out of your pussy, fucking you open as he holds your thighs open so you can't run away from it.
your fingers tangle in his hair, gripping tightly as he eats you out with passion. he alternates between thrusting his tongue deep inside you and flicking it rapidly over your clit. your hips buck wildly, grinding your cunt against his face as you chase your rapidly building orgasm.
"don't stop, please don't stop!" you practically scream, feeling your orgasm approaching quickly. your thighs tremble and quake around steve's head as he continues his relentless onslaught on you. as if spurred on by your desperate pleas, steve doubles his efforts. his tongue delves even deeper, curling inside you and rubbing back and forth against your soft walls, pressing up to hit your sensitive spot while his fingers return to rubbing the exterior of your cunt. he won't let up at all. so much is happening at the same time. his fingers rubbing your cunt, his tongue inside you and rubbing circles over your sensitive clit.
"fuck! steve, 'm gonna cum!" you wail, seeing stars as your orgasm crashes over you. your pussy clamps down on his invading tongue, fluttering as you gush your release into his mouth, and all over his chin and jaw.
steve drinks it up all up eagerly, not letting a single drop go to waste. he continues to lick and suck through your orgasm, helping you ride it out. as the last waves of pleasure fade, steve sits up and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, looking incredibly smug and self-satisfied. "had fun? you look beat and im the one who did everything. imagine if i gave you my cock, princess." he chuckles, giving your pussy a very friendly pat.
you had a feeling you wouldn't be imagining it for long. things between the two of you just seemed to keep escalating.
you can only nod. your chest heaves as you try to catch your breath, skin flushed and sheened with a light sweat. "feels so much better. thanks steve." you manage to murmur.
"you're welcome." he says, helping you up and sitting you back onto his lap so the two of you can continue watching whatever movie he'd had playing before he'd gotten distracted by you and your pussy. back to being regular old friends, it seems.
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summary: when borrowing steve’s car ends in an accident that destroys his darling car, you’re left shaken and terrified of his reaction. except when he finds you, it’s painfully clear he couldn’t give a fuck about the car.
word count: 2.1k
warnings: car accident, totaled car, panicked sobbing, slight bleeding minor injuries, blood on face/hair, guilt, hurt/comfort, comfort, reassurance, overthinking.
“He’s going to kill me.”
The words spill out of you before you can stop them, thin and shaking, ripped straight from your chest.
You barely recognize your own voice. You’re staring ahead, eyes unfocused, fixed on nothing and everything at once. Not the spiderwebbed windshield. Not the hood crumpled inward, steam ghosting up into the air.
All you can see is Steve’s face when he finds out. When he sees the car. His precious car.
“Oh, sweetheart,” the older woman says gently. “Try not to worry about that right now.”
You shake your head, breath hitching. “No, you don’t understand. He’s—fuck—he’s going to lose it.”
Because not even twenty minutes ago, you’d been driving just fine. Careful and hyper-aware, even, because it was Steve’s car. His stupid, perfect red BMW that he loved more than most people, the one he washed by hand and showed off whenever he got the chance to.
The road had been clear, that’s until a cat darted into your headlights, and your body reacted before your mind could, wrenching the wheel to avoid it—sending the car headfirst into the tree instead.
If it weren’t for the passing car that saw the whole thing, for the woman and her daughter pulling over without hesitation, you don’t know what you would’ve done.
Steve’s car, though, was completely fucked. And that thought keeps looping in your head, loud and relentless, drowning out everything else around you.
The woman sighs and gives your shoulder a careful squeeze before stepping away. “I’m going to call for help, all right? My daughter’s a nurse. She’ll look at you.”
She hurries across the road toward the phone box, sensible shoes crunching against gravel.
You’re still trying to slow your breathing when the car door opens again.
“I need a number,” she says gently, already leaning across the seat. “Who owns the car?”
Steve’s name sticks in your throat, except you can’t even pull the words out. You point instead. “Glove compartment.”
She finds it quickly — a worn little address book, containing numbers and details— and flips until she nods. “Got him.”
“Hey,” a voice says nearby. “I’m Vickie.”
You look up to find a girl. She can’t be much older than you, short hair pulled back, a canvas bag slung over one shoulder. There’s something steady about her, practiced, and it almost makes your chest cave in.
“Can I take a look at you?”
“I’m fine,” you say immediately, the lie automatic. Then your mouth trembles. “I mean—I’m not fine. But I don’t think I’m that injured.”
Vickie gives a small, understanding huff of a smile. “Okay,” she says gently. “Still gonna check you.”
She guides you toward the back seat of the car—which is much less damaged than the front, one hand hovering near your elbow like she’s afraid to startle you. The air smells like antiseptic and gasoline, sharp and overwhelming your senses.
“I swear I wasn’t speeding,” you blurt, words tumbling over each other. “The road was clear, and then there was a cat, it just ran out in front of me and I didn’t even think, I just—”
“Hey,” Vickie says softly, crouching in front of you. “Pause. Breathe first. Then talk, alright?”
You try. The breath stutters anyway.
“That’s okay,” she murmurs, already pulling gloves on. “We’ll take it slow.”
She tilts your chin carefully, eyes scanning your face. “You’ve got a split lip and a cut on your temple.” Her voice stays calm. “Any dizziness? Nausea?”
“I feel sick,” you admit. “But I think that’s just because of… everything.”
“That makes sense.” She presses gauze gently to your forehead.
You hiss despite yourself, tears spilling hot and fast. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she says quickly. “Glass scratches bleed a lot. It always looks worse than it is.”
“It is worse,” you choke. “Steve’s going to see this and he’s going to lose it. God—the car—”
She stills, eyes lifting to meet yours. “Steve’s your boyfriend?”
You nod, but it only makes the lump in your throat worse. The words spill out before you can stop them. “It’s his car. His brand new BMW—which he, by the way, saved up forever for it. He literally washes it by hand, like it’s some sacred thing, and shows it off every chance he gets.”
A laugh slips out despite the fear and guilt coursing through you, and you hate it. “I’m dead. I’m actually so dead.”
Vickie gives a small, incredulous smile. “I don’t know your boyfriend, hon,” she says, smoothing the tape down with careful fingers, “but cars can be fixed. People can’t. I really don’t think he’s going to care about the car when he sees you like this.”
“He will,” you say immediately, shaking your head. “He’s gonna take one look at it and just—God. I shouldn’t have borrowed it. I shouldn’t have touched it at all. I should’ve just walked, I—fuck.”
“Well, my mom already called him,” Vickie says softly, not stopping her work. “And she called your friends too. He’s already on his way.”
Your chest tightens at that, panic blooming fresh and hot. “No. Oh my God.” You drag a hand under your nose, trying to breathe around the pressure. “You should go, both of you. You’ve done more than enough, and I really don’t want you here when he—when he sees it.”
The image won’t leave you alone: Steve’s face hardening, his jaw tight, disappointment cutting deeper than anger ever could. Your stomach twists, nausea rolling up hard enough to make you swallow.
Vickie shakes her head before you’ve even finished. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”
From across the road, her mom’s voice carries over, firm and unmistakable. “None of that, honey!”
Mrs. Dunne walks back toward you, arms folding like she means business. “We are not leaving you stranded and scared on the side of the road. Not for a second.” She softens just a touch as she looks at you. “We’ll stay right here until your boyfriend or one of your friends gets here. That’s that.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Dunne.” you smile warmly at her despite the worry churning in your guts.
Time stretches thin and horrible. Every passing car makes your heart jump. Your thoughts spiral tighter and tighter, replaying Steve handing you the keys earlier, the grin on his face, the way he’d said, Be careful, okay? like it was a joke, like nothing bad could ever happen to you—
A sharp screech of tires cuts through the air.
You flinch hard, breath catching painfully in your throat as a truck skids to a stop on the side of the road, door flying open before it’s even fully parked. Steve steps out, and the look on his face steals the air from your lungs completely.
You’ve never seen him look like that. Not angry, smug, or teasing.
Terrified.
His eyes scan the wrecked car, the tree, the road, wild and frantic, until they land on you. His face goes slack with shock and then he’s moving, fast, running like the ground is on fire beneath his feet.
Vickie and her mom both straighten. “Well,” Mrs. Dunne says softly, already reaching for you. “That’ll be him.”
They each pull you into quick, careful hugs, murmuring reassurances you barely register. Then they step back, giving you space, watching until Steve reaches the door and drops to his knees in front of you like his legs have given out.
“Oh my God,” he breathes, voice breaking. “Hey. Hey—look at me. Fuck—are you okay?”
The Dunnes’ car pulls away slowly, tires crunching over gravel, taillights glowing red before disappearing down the road. The quiet that follows is almost worse as you try to register Steve’s frantic words.
He keeps saying your name, softly at first, then a little louder, but it barely reaches you through the ringing in your ears.
“Hey. Hey—look at me, okay? Baby, c’mon.”
You can’t.
Your eyes stay glued to your shaking hands, to the dark flecks of blood dried beneath your nails. Your chest heaves in sharp, ugly bursts as the sobs finally tear loose, choking and uncontrollable.
“I’m sorry,” you manage, words tripping over each other. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to, I swear, it just happened so fast and I tried to stop and—and I know how much you love it and I shouldn’t have taken it and—”
“Hey.” His voice cuts through, “Hey. Stop.”
Your voice cracks completely. You hiccup on a breath as the words choke out, panic spiraling tighter.
“I know it was stupid,” you ramble, tears blurring everything. “I know it’s your car and it’s new and you worked so hard for it and I ruined it and I didn’t mean to, Steve, I swear it was an accident—”
“—look at me,” he says, low and steady. “Hey. Look at me.”
Steve’s hands come up suddenly, firm and warm, cupping your face on both sides. His thumbs press just under your cheekbones, forcing your head up despite your instinct to pull away.
Your eyes flicker up at last, red and glassy, breath stuttering.
“Breathe, baby,” he says immediately, softer now. “Just breathe with me. In and out. Come on.”
You suck in a shaky breath.
“Good. Out. Yeah, that’s it. Again.”
You follow him, lungs burning as you inhale and exhale in uneven pulls, his thumbs brushing lightly under your eyes, grounding you.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “You’re okay. You’re here.”
Your body trembles again as he studies your face, eyes moving fast, cataloging every mark and every scrape.
“Now,” he says, voice firmer, sharper, like he’s trying to anchor you to reality. “Are you hurt?”
You swallow hard, your throat tight, and the words come out all wrong, tripping over themselves. “No—but your car, it’s—”
Steve’s jaw snaps tight, his hands gripping your face just tight enough to make your skin tingle.
“Did I ask about the goddamn car?” His voice cuts through the trembling air, sharp enough to make your heart drop.
You freeze, the panic climbing higher, and he steps closer, pressing just slightly, like he’s trying to pin you in place—but it’s not dominance, it’s urgency.
“I asked if you’re hurt,” he says again, softer but no less intense. “not the car.”
You look up at him, and it hits you as your stomach drops. The expression on his face, the tension coiled in his body, the raw, frantic light in his eyes—it isn’t anger. It’s terror. Pure, unfiltered, all-consuming fear of losing you.
His hands tremble as they cup your face, thumbs brushing away the tracks of your tears, and for a second, you see the world mirrored in his eyes—a world where nothing matters but you, and every fierce, frantic care he holds is yours alone.
You shake your head slowly, trembling. “No,” you whisper, voice barely audible over your racing heartbeat. “M’not.”
He exhales hard through his nose, “Does your head hurt? Your temple?” he says gently now.
You sniff, shaking your head again. “No. It stings, but—there was an old woman and her daughter. They stopped. The daughter’s a nurse. She helped me.”
Steve nods. “I know. She called me.”
Before you can say anything else, he pulls you into his chest suddenly. His arms wrap around you in a bone-crushing hug, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other pressing you so tight to his chest it knocks the air from your lungs.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathes into your hair. You cling to him, fingers twisting into his jacket as the last of the sobs shake out of you.
“Don’t ever do that to me again,” he murmurs, voice thick. “You hear me? Don’t scare me like that. I thought something much worse happened to you.”
In truth, the moment he’d gotten that phone call, his heart had dropped straight through the floor. He hadn’t thought about the car. Not even for a second. He’d pictured you bleeding, broken, not breathing. He’d borrowed a truck, hands shaking so badly he could barely turn the key, every worst-case scenario slamming into him one after another.
He pulls back just enough to look at you again, forehead pressing briefly to yours. Then he kisses you, quick and desperate, like he needs to feel you over and over again.
You blink up at him, voice small. “So… you’re not mad about your car?”
His expression softens instantly, the tension melting out of his features. “Mad?” he echoes. “No. God, no.”
He shakes his head, a small, breathless laugh escaping him. “I don’t give a damn about the car. I can replace it, sweetheart—hell, I can buy another one tomorrow if I wanted.”
You laugh against his chest, still sniffling. “I don’t think you’re that rich, Steve.”
He snorts, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “Oh, come on. I might not have a Scrooge McDuck vault full of coins, but I can definitely scrape together a replacement BMW. You? Not so lucky.”
You pull back a little, squinting at him through your tears. “Are you seriously laughing right now? I just totaled your baby!”
“I’m laughing at the ridiculousness of you panicking like this,” he says, voice shaking with relief and amusement. “You looked like someone had just told you the world was ending.” His hand slides to your cheek, thumb warm against your skin. “Besides. You’re my baby. Not that damn thing.”
Your throat tightens all over again, heart warming up at his sweet words.
“Now, come on,” he murmurs, shifting closer, careful as he helps you to your feet. “Let’s get you checked out at the hospital.”
You hesitate, glancing down at the gauze. “But Vickie already wrapped me up—”
“I know,” he says softly, squeezing your hand like he needs the contact as much as you do. “I just need to hear it from a doctor, alright? Humor me.”
You nod, letting him guide you toward the truck, his arm never leaving your back, like if he does you might disappear.
Do I Wanna Know? (If This Feeling Flows Both Ways)
Pairing: Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader
Summary: Steve's self-sacrificial behavior is causing issues as him and Dustin struggle to make amends. So, Y/N makes an effort to chat with him after a big fight.
Warnings: Cursing, Mentions of Death, Use of Y/N, Possible S5 Vol. 2 Spoilers, Kissing, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Angst, Mentions of Grief, Fighting, Angry Confessions
Word Count: 2.7K
Masterlist
Y/N had effectively been designated the Dustin-Steve-Beef-Buffer, much to her dismay. Okay, that’s a bit of an odd way to put it, but the two had been at odds ever since Eddie died. Now every crawl, every outing, any time they were all congregated in one place, it was her job to sit between them and make sure they didn’t tear each other apart.
It was certainly an odd job. But she made do. It had been an opportunity to get to know the two better after all, and she could see it. The grief was tearing Dustin apart, the young boy had someone who understood him, someone he could see himself in. And in a matter of moments that person had been torn away from him and their name was disparaged. The way Dustin dealt with it was far from healthy, because his solution to preventing more pain had been… pushing away the only other mentor figure in his life.
Steve, sweet, sweet, Steve. Evidently, he lacked critical thinking skills. Because in all his wisdom, he couldn’t see that Dustin was scared. Steve did, after all, have a history of self-sacrificial nonsense. His roster of volunteering for near death experiences went far and wide, leaving Dustin in perpetual anxiety that one of his closest friends was going to dive straight into death any day now and effectively launch him into even more grief.
Really, the two needed a conversation. And Y/N had tried, she’d made attempts to sit them down and have them talk it out. Neither was really entertaining that though. Most attempts had ended in either the silent treatment or something that is almost akin to a screaming match. So, she’d resigned herself to being the Dustin-Steve-Beef-Buffer until things resolved themselves naturally. It would resolve… right?
Well, it certainly didn’t feel that way right now.
Five minutes, five fucking minutes she’s gone. Using her flashlight to search a nearby room in the desolated Hawkins Lab of the Upside Down. Then she hears it, yelling, a crash. Terror floods her veins as she practically drops everything she’s doing to run to where she’d left Steve and Dustin, calling out their names.
What if they’d been attacked? A loose Demogorgon? Some type of hive mind bullshit? Her hand drops to her side to grab her weapon, as she busts through the doors and—
Holy shit did Dustin just tackle Steve?
“Dustin!” She yells his name and starts to move forward in an effort to break up the fight, the young boy taking swings at Steve’s face. She flinches as she hears a sickening crack of fist to face. Though Dustin doesn’t really have the best form, she’s sure it hurts nonetheless.
Steve makes an effort to restrain him, wrapping his arms around the boy tightly, the kid writhes in his grasp. But in the five seconds he takes to make eye contact with Y/N, she sees the shake of his head.
Okay. Don’t get involved? Steve just took a right hook to the face, but sure, don’t get involved.
It’s only moments later that Dustin wriggles free and tackles Steve through a door, leaving the two to collapse against the wall. Where Steve promptly removes himself from the situation, pushing past Y/N with a resounding, “I’m done.”
Holy fucking shit.
Y/N shoves the door open to look at Dustin, seated on the floor. “What the fuck, Henderson?!” She exclaims, her gaze drawn back to the doors that Steve had disappeared to. Where the hell did he run off to? “What happened?” She asks as she turns back to look at him.
Dustin scoffs, leaning his head back against the wall. “He insulted Eddie.” He responds, a bit of venom in his tone, a hand rubs over his face. “Go find him, we both know you want to.”
Low blow, Dustin. Low blow.
She feels her face warm, and she bristles at his words, narrowing her gaze at the young boy. Despite her best efforts, Y/N’s evident feelings for Steve had made headlines in the party. At least somewhat. But, how could she not have feelings for him at this point? They’d known each other for ages. Had almost died together countless times. And, she liked to think, they’d become friends. But… yeah, maybe she was delusional. It was Steve, her Steve, and at the end of the day, these feelings weren’t relevant.
But they certainly were scary. When she’d first met him it was more of a harmless crush, working at the bookstore down the hall in Starcourt Mall, seeing him on her breaks on occasion. Then the whole disaster with Billy went down and she’d actually gotten to know him, Steve “The Hair” Harrington. When they’d gone to high school together he’d been more of a pretty face with a bit of a rude mouth, but he’d softened around the edges.
He was just a guy. And Y/N liked to think he at least enjoyed her company. They’d hang out frequently, work the closing shift at the Squawk, and he’d been kind enough to drive her home. And at some point they’d just started hanging out in his car or on the roof of the Squawk chatting late into the night and… it had gotten scary. The type of conversations you have when you know someone, really know them. The type of feelings that run deeper than a harmless crush.
She shakes her head, pushing those feelings down. Deep, deep, deep down. It was the end of the world after all. Who had time for that?
Y/N returns her attention to Dustin, scowling a bit. “I’m not leaving you here.” She responds wryly. “Steve is a big boy, he can take care of himself.”
Dustin huffs, “a big boy who strayed from the plan.” He rubs the back of his neck. “If it makes you feel any better, I’d rather be alone right now.” The boy grumbles, banging his head back against the wall.
She hesitates, looking between Dustin and the set of double doors. “You’ll stay put?” She asks.
He sighs and nods. “Yeah… yeah I’ll stay put.” He grumbles.
She sighs, crouching down to pat his head. “He only wants the best for you, Dustin.” She tells him quietly, and Dustin bats her hand away.
“Yeah, yeah. Just.. go chase after your man.”
Dustin, despite his current animosity towards Steve, is nothing if not an excellent wingman. Because, no matter how long it's been since the pair had an actual conversation, he still remembers the way the man pined over this girl. The way he stares, rather pathetically, at her. Yeah, Dustin’s young, but he knows what love looks like. It looks like the way Steve gazes at her like the sun shines out of her ass.
Her face scrunches up at his words and she flicks Dustin’s nose. “Do not move.” She says pointedly, coming to a stand, before pushing through the doors to go in search of Steve.
It takes a couple of minutes of shoving open random doors and hoping she doesn’t find something unsavoury. But eventually, she pushes open the door to some random office and spots him, kicking around the stray boxes. His brows furrowed as he grumbled quietly to himself.
“Steve.” She says his name, letting the door shut behind her.
His attention shifts to her, he blinks, as if surprised. But his gaze softens nonetheless. “Hey.” He greets, though his expression quickly shifts. “Don’t tell me to apologize to the tiny fucker, he decked me—”
Steve is in the midst of his rant as Y/N approaches, hand coming to his jaw, she manhandles him a bit to examine his cheek— an action that effectively silences him. He blinks in shock. “Does it hurt?” She asks, tilting his head to the side.
His breath stutters and he feels his face warm at the proximity, at the touch. “No— no it's fine. I’m fine.” He responds, and he’s almost shy as he looks away from her. “Is the kid okay?” He asks, a bit begrudgingly. Or at least, that’s how he hopes it comes out.
She sighs. “Dustin is fine.” Her hand drops back to her side, and Steve misses the touch, disappointed by the loss of contact, he swallows. “Though you should both apologize.” She chastises him gently, her brows furrowed. “What happened? You guys argue but I’ve never seen it get…”
Physical.
He nods, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah well, I… I said some things and…” Steve sighs, meeting her gaze. “I kinda deserved it.” Comes his admission, kicking an empty box away in his frustration.
She hums, brows furrowing a bit. “He.. Dustin is just worried about you.” She tries to explain.
Steve scoffs. “Well, the kid needs to worry about himself. Keeps on picking fights, and not everyone is as nice as I am!” He raised a finger pointedly, running a hand over his face.
“Steve.” She says his name, her brows furrowed. “I’m being serious.”
“So am I!” He exclaims, looking back to her, almost exasperated by this whole situation. It's been well over a year since Eddie died, and grieving is a process, Steve knows. He’s tried to be patient, to be there for the kid, but Dustin seems to have grown even more antagonistic towards him with time. It’s hard, frustrating. “You know, the kid missed the crawl so he could get his ass beat.” He lets out a frustrated huff.
“Steve.” She looks at him. “He’s scared he’s gonna lose you like he lost Eddie, he’s lashing out. I know he’s not easy to deal with but when you pull all these self-sacrificial moves it starts to stress the kid.” A part of her had hoped that the pair would resolve things with time, but if Dustin has started resorting to his fists then maybe it's time for a more direct approach.
He scoffs, looking at her. “I am not self-sacrificial.” When she doesn’t immediately respond, he pauses, tilting his head at her. “I’m not.”
“You are.” She responds firmly. “We’ve all seen you run straight into death, multiple times, might I add. It’s honestly a bit alarming.”
He bristles, growing defensive. “Y’know as nice as it is that you’ve involved yourself into Dustin and I’s dying friendship, you can butt out of it.” He responds, moving to step past her. “It’s really not your concern.”
“This isn’t about that and you know it.” She snaps. “There are people who care about you and you’re constantly just throwing all that away. You don’t need to prove anything and yet you’re constantly throwing yourself into danger!” She cries out, hands gesturing vividly.
“So what if I do!” He exclaims. “Someone has to do it—”
“But not you! God, Steve. I love you. I don’t know what I’d do if you died.”
She pauses, realizing what she’s said. Her brain stutters to a pause and she opens her mouth, closes it. And Steve is standing there, staring at her. She can’t really see him right now though, too wrapped up in her own anxiety and terror at her sudden confession. She could brush it off as friendship right? Platonic love is very real. Right. Right.
Not when you say it like this though. Not when he knows her, knows her like the back of his hand. He can tell. He knows this isn’t a statement she makes to a close friend— no, that was a declaration of love. The romantic kind. The kind that had been brewing between them for months, the kind that they’d disregarded and brushed off time and time again. But there was no ignoring it now.
If she’d only look him in the eyes she’d see the look on his face. The absolute awe as his eyes darted over her, trying to ascertain if she’s being serious or not. She loves him? She loves him. She loves him. He’s looking at her like she’s hung up the stars, like she's everything. Because how could she not be? Steve has always had feelings for her, pushing them to the side because a part of him didn’t think she felt the same— his luck with women had long since diminished and with everything going on… he felt nervous. Unable to swallow his pride and confess. Unable to really fathom that she might just feel the same intense emotions he did.
“You love me?” His voice cracks a bit, but he doesn’t have it in him to be embarrassed. Instead, he feels relieved. Like a breath of fresh air has entered his lungs as he watches her, eager for a response.
She simply shakes her head, her face hot with embarrassment. God she’s dumb, how the hell could she let that of all things slip? She's swiftly pushing past him to head to the doors. “We can’t do this right now—” They really can’t, the world is ending. Holly is missing. What a mess.
He catches her wrist, tugging her back to him, his free hand coming to her cheek— eyes darting over her face. And then— holy shit — is he leaning in? He’s leaning in. Oh. Oh.
He kisses her. The hand on her wrist, sliding to her forearm, her eyes flutter shut as she kisses back. Her own hand comes to his bicep, free hand going to his nape. His hands find her waist to tug her closer, one of them going to the small of her back to press her against him.
Well, this is certainly delightful.
He pulls back after several moments, nudging his nose against hers affectionately. “You mean it?” He sounds a bit breathless, his eyes lidded.
Her brain feels fuzzy, filled with cotton as she blinks.
Steve calls out her name, nosing at her cheek now. “Did you?”
Her eyes flutter and she nods a bit dumbly. “Yeah I— of course I did. I care about you.” She mumbled, a tad embarrassed.
He’s leaning in the second she affirms her statement, lips pressing to hers tentatively, with less urgency than before. Once she starts to kiss back— the passion returns. His hand comes to her waist as he tilts his head in an effort to deepen it. His other hand goes to her jaw. Her own hand slides up to tug gently at his hair, inciting a whine from him.
She pulls back, and he’s chasing her lips. “I— wait, so do you like me?” She asks breathlessly, seeking out some clarification as his lips smush against her cheek a bit sloppily.
He hums, pulling back, brows furrowed. A puppy-like confusion in his gaze as he tilts his head at you. “I kissed you.” He responds slowly. And when that didn’t seem sufficient, the hand on her waist rubs circles and traces shapes through her top. “Y’know.” He looks almost sheepish, maybe shy. Leaning forward to nose at her cheek again, like any sort of distance is a travesty. “I love you, too.” He murmurs.
She can feel her face warm as she simply nods. “Ah.” She breathes out, head tilting back when he dips down to start kissing her neck. “O-okay.” It’s unexpected, but certainly not unwelcome.
He hums against her skin, pulling back to look at her again, he beams at her. “Cool, cool, cool.” You would’ve never guessed the guy was getting beat up by a high schooler a couple of minutes ago. Now, he was over the moon.His hand comes to her cheek, smoothing a thumb over her skin. “Assuming the world doesn’t end, I’ll take you on a proper date.” He declares. “If that’s fine with you.” A pause. “Please.”
She breathed out a laugh. “I— yeah that sounds nice.” He leans down to steal another kiss, just a small peck. “We should get back to Dustin.” She murmurs against his lips.
Steve groans, pulling back. “Yeah. Yeah. And I’ll apologize.”
She hums, leaning forward to peck his cheek. “We can talk more once we’re… out of here.” She says, offering him a smile.
His stomach flips, and he nods, eager.
His hand slips into hers.
“Perfect.”
Now, they just had to survive the end of the world to get to Enzo's. No worries though.
Note: No thoughts, head empty. Kinda hated this ending but oh well. Hope this was good!
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.
people are jealous of you. it's obvious in the way their eyes linger, the way conversations pause when you walk by, the barely concealed bitterness in their polite smiles. you're used to it by now—the stares, the whispers, the thinly veiled resentment.
but worse? people are jealous of satoru gojo.
everybody is obsessed with him. the strongest sorcerer, untouchable and devastatingly beautiful, with that careless confidence and those eyes that seem to see through everything. people orbit around him like he's the sun, desperate for even a fraction of his attention, his time, his affection.
and then there's you.
your arm wrapped around his as you walk through the city streets, fingers curled into the crook of his elbow like you belong there—because you do. the ring on your finger catches the light with every movement, the blinding boulder sitting there like a declaration. diamonds that look like tears of ice, refracting the pure light of the sun with ease, sending tiny rainbows scattering across the pavement. it’s impossible to miss. impossible to ignore.
the weight of it is familiar now, but you still catch yourself looking at it sometimes—this tangible proof that he chose you, that he got down on one knee and asked you to be his forever. the magnitude of that never quite loses its impact.
people notice. of course they notice.
you can feel their eyes tracking the ring, then traveling up to your face, taking in the pretty lady by satoru gojo's side. the one he chose. the one he keeps close. the one wearing his ring like a badge of honor.
their envy is palpable—thick in the air like humidity before a storm. you see it in the way other women look at you, their gazes sharp and assessing, trying to figure out what you have that they don't. you hear it in the whispered conversations that cut off too quickly when you pass by. you feel it in the weight of their stares, heavy with longing and resentment.
they want what you have. want him.
but what they don't see—what they can't see because they're too busy staring at satoru—is the way he looks at you.
right now, someone's telling a story, something probably funny based on the laughter rippling through the group you're with. you're listening, genuinely engaged, and something they say makes joy spread across your face like sunrise. the corners of your eyes crinkle, your smile so sweet and unguarded and real that it transforms your entire expression.
and satoru envies them.
envies every single person in this circle who gets to stand here and admire your features. who gets to witness the way happiness looks on you, the way your smile starts slow and then blooms into something radiant. who gets to see the little details he's obsessed with—the exact way your nose scrunches slightly when you're really amused, the way your eyes light up first before your mouth follows, the way your whole face becomes softer somehow when you're genuinely happy.
he's seen that smile a thousand times, has memorized every variation of it, and still—still—it does something to him. makes his chest feel too full, makes his own lips curve upward in unconscious mimicry because your joy is his joy, your happiness his happiness.
his hand finds the small of your back, warm and possessive, thumb tracing small circles through the fabric of your dress. you lean into the touch without looking, automatic and trusting, and he feels a spike of smug satisfaction that he gets to touch you like this. that you welcome it. that this casual intimacy belongs to him.
someone in the group is looking at you with clear appreciation—respectful but obvious—and satoru has to fight the urge to pull you closer, to make it even more clear that you're his. that ring on your finger should be enough, but sometimes it's not. sometimes he wants to drape himself over you like a possessive cat, wants to announce to everyone in earshot that this woman, this perfect beautiful woman with the sweet smile and crinkled eyes, chose him back.
you laugh at something else that's said, the sound bright and genuine, and his own expression softens helplessly. he can't help it. can't help the way his entire face rearranges itself around the warmth in his chest, the way his smirk melts into something more genuine when you're happy.
a woman nearby is watching him watch you, and he can see the moment she registers it—the way he looks at you like you're the only person in the room, like everyone else is just background noise. her expression shifts, that envy sharpening into something more bitter.
she wants him to look at her like that. they all do.
but he can't. won't. because that look is reserved for you—for the way you throw your head back slightly when you really laugh, for the way you absently play with your ring when you're thinking, for the way you seek him out in crowds with your eyes like making sure he's still there, still watching, still yours.
your gaze finds his now, like you can feel the weight of his attention, and your smile shifts into something more intimate. something just for him. the corners of your eyes still crinkled with residual joy, but there's a question in them now—you okay?
he answers by tugging you closer, dropping a kiss to your temple that's casual enough for public but lingering enough to make his intentions clear. mine, the gesture says. this woman is mine.
you lean into him, fitting against his side like you were designed for it, and he catches at least three people watching with naked envy. good, he thinks. let them look. let them see what they can't have.
but then you turn back to the conversation, that sweet smile blooming again as someone tells another story, and he's right back to envying everyone who gets to witness it. gets to see the way joy looks on you, the way happiness transforms your features into something almost luminous.
it's unfair, really. he gets to keep you—gets to wake up next to you, gets to see you in all your unguarded moments, gets to be the reason for that smile as often as he can manage. and still he's greedy for more. still he wants to hoard every smile, every laugh, every crinkled-eye expression of joy like a dragon with treasure.
the ring on your finger catches the light again, sending ice-bright reflections dancing across nearby surfaces. his ring. his mark on you, visible and undeniable.
people can't help but envy you for having him.
but they don't know—can't know—that he envies them too. envies anyone who gets to see you smile. envies the sun for kissing your face. envies the breeze for moving your hair. envies anyone and anything that gets even a moment of your attention when he wants all of it, always, forever.
you glance at him again, catching him staring, and your smile turns knowing. a little amused. a lot fond. you mouth something that looks like "what?" and he just shakes his head, pulling you impossibly closer.
nothing. everything. just you existing and him being helplessly, completely, obsessively in love with every detail.
the diamond on your finger glints like tears of ice in the sunlight, and your eyes crinkle with happiness, and satoru thinks—not for the first time—that every person in this city could envy him for having you, and it still wouldn't be enough. wouldn't capture the magnitude of what it means to be yours, to be chosen by you, to be the one who gets to stand next to you while you smile like that.
let them envy. let them stare.
he's too busy envying anyone who gets even a glimpse of your joy to care about their jealousy. too busy memorizing the exact curve of your smile, the precise angle of your crinkled eyes, the way happiness looks on you like it was made to be there.
his lips mirror your expression without conscious thought—your smile reflected in his, your joy becoming his, your happiness making him helpless and human and so desperately, completely in love.
and that ring on your finger, those diamonds like frozen tears catching the sun? they're just a symbol. a visible marker of what everyone can see but will never fully understand.
that you're his. and more importantly—so much more importantly—that he's yours.
debating if i should do seven deadly sins w/ satoru. . maybe
Sum: Nightwing is in love with his partner. You. But you're head over heels for your coworker, Dick Grayson. OR miraculous ladybug plot between you and dick.
Content: Fem!reader, no use of y/n, dick is lowkey slow, mentions of violence, some cuss words
Word count: 6k (I was having too much fun)
A/n: This is heavily inspired by miraculous ladybug teheheh. I'm not kidding, HEAVILY inspired. Enjoy!
Dividers by: @aanaws
Line dividers by: @hyuneskkami
"Nightwing! I said left!" Frustrated, you swing you're weapon against the masked man, who managed to dodge but got kicked square in the ribs right after.
"Sweets. I went left, then changed my mind." Nightwing lands beside you with all the charm he can muster in the smirk that creeps onto his face.
You knock out the last goon and sheath your weapons. "This is exactly why I stressed the fact that you losing your comms was gonna ruin our mission!" With a groan, you make your way over to the supply truck and break open the lock.
"Forgive me, m'lady." He bows as he locks his sticks behind his back.
"I'll think on it after we finish the job." As you roll your eyes, Nightwing stands beside you, pulling open the crate. He whistles as you shine a flashlight on the cargo. "So, it was a cover up."
The boxes that littered the space had been destroyed. "Figured. There weren't nearly enough guards here." You bring your hand to your comms, "Oracle, it's a fake."
"Sending the boys after the other cargo. Good work."
"Alright, clean-up is on you." You turn away and throw a wave over your shoulder.
"What!? Why-"
"Finish it and consider yourself forgiven."
Once you got home, you had a few hours to spare before you had to head to work. As you run a hot shower, you grab your briefcase and empty it out on desk. You organize your papers and put them back in the case to look back at in the lab. Once you've showered, you use the rest of the time to get some sleep in before you're back up and working.
The elevator dings as you step into your department's floor and you're greeted again by none other than Dick Grayson. The task force's golden boy.
"Well isn't it my favorite detective!" And you can feel yourself shrink immediately. Dick makes his way over to you. It's 6AM, you cannot find the words to speak to him. Not because he's insufferable, no no, it's actually the complete opposite.
"Officer Grayson." You turn to him with a tense smile as he gets closer. You grip your briefcase tighter because your palms are now already sweating.
His smile is radiant. So is his skin that's so clear it puts your skincare routine to shame. You would call yourself a cheerful person but when it's compared to Dick? You're as gloomy as the Gotham sky.
It's not your fault though. His laugh manages to cut your breath short every time. His presence alone is so intoxicating you doubt you can even process what he's saying.
"I heard some new evidence came in on that case you're working on."
How is he so cheerful this early in the morning?
"I left it in your lab, also left a letter given to you from one of our night-time vigilantes." That snaps your focus back into place.
"A letter?" Had Nightwing made a stop last night after you left? "From who?"
"Nightwing. Know why?" He tilts his head to the side and all you can see is the way his hair falls with the movement. It shines like silk and all you can think of is raking your fingers through it- "You okay?"
"Hm?" You blink up at him absentmindedly, "Uh- right- Yeah. I think I have a vague idea." You fidget with your briefcase before holding it up in front of your chest. "I'll.. I'll get right on it."
He looks down at the case and nods with another one of those annoying blinding smiles, "I'll leave you to it then." You nod back, tense. You hated how he had to awkwardly walk back to his desk as you slowly make your way into your lab.
As you step inside, you let out a huff, "That was so awkward, oh my god." You grip your briefcase tighter and throw it onto your desk. You spot the letter on your desk and snatch it impatiently. With a sigh you rip it open and read over the paper.
Remembered you were working on this case when I ran into you a while back, here's something I found interesting ;p , no need to thank me.
-NW xoxo
You roll your eyes and sigh. "No need to thank me, xoxo- Like I wasn't doing half the work." You grumble to yourself and make your way to the folder placed beside it containing a ziplock bag and a report from one of the officers.
Hours pass by and once your lunch break starts, you're making your way to the lounge where you spot Dick pouring himself a coffee. He looks up and shoots you a smile.
"You look beat." He smiles and you feel yourself tense once his attention lands on you.
"ha ha, yeah long night.." Laughing timidly, you open the fridge to grab your meal.
"Coffee?" He offers and you nearly bang your head against the fridge door. You turn to him and nod a little too quick. Get yourself together!
As he pours you a cup, you find yourself a spot to sit on the couch and open up your snack.
"How's the case coming along?" Dick passes the coffee to you and your heart nearly skips a beat when your hands make the slightest bit of contact.
"There's progress." You manage to say as you place the cup down and avert your gaze. You know if you look into his eyes, you won't be able to hold up this conversation.
"I'm guessing Nightwing was a huge help?"
"Pshh, him? I'll give him a lollipop for his efforts next time." You're glad he's bringing up a topic your familiar with or you fear you would've been stumbling over your words.
Dick raises a brow, "Not a fan I'm guessing?"
Is he a fan? There's no way you just blew it right now.
"Wha- Nightwing? No!- I mean like- yeah. No. I'm a huge fan!"
HIs eyebrows raise as he takes another sip. You definitely ruined it. Fix it!
"I know him actually!" Not like that.
"You do?" Shock written over his features. You tense when your eyes lock with his. Something so familiar and safe within his gaze.
"Yeah, we- you know- He saved me once while I was following a lead." You look away immediately. You feel like a fraud. Yeah, you've met him, but you don't know him like that. Well.. not as the you right now.
"He was also following the same lead... which is also the case I'm working on." Your hands are occupying themselves with the coffee cup as your eyes dart between your snack and coffee.
"Is that why he left a note?" Dick asked. You nod.
"Must be cool to have a vigilante as a partner." He laughs and you try to force one out in attempt to not seem awkward but it comes out strained.
"I wouldn't say that.. just a great help." Cause that sucker should've gave you some credit. You had to save both their asses cause he couldn't tell between his left and right.
"Don't underestimate yourself. I'm sure he thinks you're a great partner! He's providing you with evidence. He seems eager to help." Okay, he definitely was a Nightwing fan.
"Of course! I'll- I'll definitely thank him next time." You say it like it's obvious. "I thank his partner a lot more though. She's always quick to help me whenever." Throwing in some praise wouldn't hurt.
"You worked with her before!?" His genuine shock and curiosity caught you off guard. "You must be collecting these vigilantes like Pokémon cards if she also decides to work with you."
"What do you mean?"
"She's a tough one. She barely works with the GCPD. I admire her work." He says as he stares off into the distance. Me? I work fine with the GCPD. Was me giving them those reports not enou- wait.
"Y-ou what?"
He blinks and turns his focus back to you. You look up at him and he's smiling again.
"I admire her work. Not many do, but I can tell she's just as amazing as, if not more than, Nightwing."
Your lips part in shock. Hearing that from him, you could barely figure out how to process that before you feel a striking hot sensation over your legs. You flinch before realizing you dropped your coffee all over your trousers.
It might as well kill you with it.
Dick curses under his breath and runs to grab you napkins. He passes you some as he wipes the remaining liquid off the floor.
"Sorry! Sorry... I can't believe I dropped that." The embarrassment is eating you alive and Dick can't help but laugh.
"It's fine, it happens. You okay?"
You sigh in defeat and nod.
That night on patrol, you couldn't wait to go home and sink into your sheets.
"Done for the night, bubblegum?"
Nicknames were never ending with Nightwing; Bubblegum, Sweets, Sweetheart, hon, the list goes on. You eventually accepted it and moved on.
"We agreed that one was a no." You groan as you watch the streets below you. You've been patrolling for a few hours now. Sooner or later, you're going to wrap it up and go home. But of course, company awaits you.
"Something about it suits you. Sugary, bubbly, and so sticky I can't get rid of you." He takes a seat beside you and you roll your eyes.
"That would be you, Wing." You tease.
Even though you and him have never revealed your identities, you've built a bond that seems to be unshakable. Sure, you guys had your moments, but you two honestly couldn't think of working with anybody else. That meant that even though you were in somewhat of a shitty mood, he still managed to lift it.
"If you want to reverse the roles, I have no complaints." He raises his arms in defense and you sigh. "Who burst your bubble, sweets?" He bumps his shoulder into yours, gaining your attention.
"Just a long day."
"How long are we talking?"
"Long enough."
With that you lay your head on his shoulder. This is how you usually finish up your patrols. A sign that you two were about to close in for the night.
"I handed over some evidence from the truck last night to GCPD. Their head detective is working on it, so I thought it would be some help." He mentions and you hum in response.
"As long as you're aren't feeding them everything we know, I don't really care."
"That's a relief. I thought you'd give me the Robin treatment." He chuckled.
"That was entirely different! I know Robin was just starting the whole gig but no one told him that we don't tell the GCPD everything!?" You shouted in defense.
"He said he saw you do it!"
"I did it once! And I spoke to Gordon! Not some random cop!"
Nightwing's shoulders shake as he laughs, and you lift yourself off of them, trying to push down the smile creeping onto your face.
"Batman gave him a long talk after that one. Trust me."
"He's lucky I didn't."
"You had a sword fight-"
"He pulled it out first, Wing! And you know that!" You exaggerated.
"He was 11!"
"And trying to kill me!"
Nightwing throws his head back, laughing so hard all his pearly whites flash in your face. You glare at him and let out a laugh disguised as a scoff.
Moments like these with him were comforting. You felt like yourself when you were in this suit, fighting crime, and with him. You don't think anyone has managed to get this close to you. But that's the thing about him. He's a dickhead sometimes for sure, but you're always reminded why he's your best friend. You wondered in times like these, who was under the mask. Would it be some normal guy working a 9-5 on weekdays? A celebrity? Or worse, some weirdo-
Nightwing calls out to you, and you realize you've been staring. "What's on your mind? You seem distracted."
"Some... guy." You mention as you turn to look back at the street below.
"Woah-ho-ho! Who's the lucky fella?" You cringe at that.
You glance at him and decide if you should tell him or not. He's your best friend, after all. He'd probably think Dick was a great guy. Maybe even help you figure out how to talk to him. But you couldn't risk revealing anything with it came to your civilian lives.
"Wouldn't you like to know, Boy Wonder." You tease with a smirk.
"I'm calling it a night. Call me if you need me before I get home." You grab your grappling hook and hop off the building.
As you swing away, thinking it was a just another normal night. You failed to notice the face of your partner after your remark.
Nightwing watched as you disappeared off into the night. Conflicted.
Nightwing has always held you dear to him. More than a friend. Ever since the first patrol you had together, you've been his first and last thought every day. I mean, could you blame him? Look at you.
From the moment you introduced yourself to him, he was awestruck. He could've sworn careless whisper was playing in the distance. He thinks he also stuttered. Not like he remembers what he said, he was too distracted. That's also how he ended up with a bruise to his side after. You scolded him for being so careless. But he knew he was hooked.
What was he supposed to do with that information now? There was a guy. A guy! If he didn't know any better, he'd think you're fucking with him. But the way you looked at him when he had asked. That longing stare.
He couldn't help but think, was it him?
As your finish up some paperwork, you hear a knock on your door. "Come in!"
It's Dick. Again. What is up with this Peter luck your having?
"Officer Grayson, what brings you here?" You get up from your seat as he once again, grins and holds up a folder. You maneuver your way around your desk, meeting him halfway.
"New evidence. This time, it was Red Robin." He hands you the folder and you take it cautiously. "That's the 3rd vigilante this week. You're gonna have me wondering if you're one of them."
Well, shit.
"As if. I need my 8 hours." You try to play it off. Terribly. Normally, you're great at that. But clearly not in front of him. You open the file and smile to yourself. "Gotta love that kid."
Dick peeks over and asks, "What is it?"
You look up and realize he's much closer now. Frozen in place, he glances up at you and your lungs nearly collapse on you.
Nothing could've prepared you for this. His eyes.
Such a piercing baby blue that replicates the rare clear skies Gotham prays for. They shine with confidence, determination, and something deeper, you wish you could figure out.
Does he know how much his presence suffocates you? How his character is so overwhelmingly admirable you can't help but feel smaller next to how bright he shines?
"J-just.. a case." You show him the paper and he looks down at it like he wasn't inches away from your face a moment ago.
"That's quite the report."
Trying to regain your composure, you nod. Making your way back to behind your desk.
"Red Robin is quite the detective. I did him a few favors. He does me some." Trying to make yourself look busy, you start digging through your papers.
"It seems like you have a way with everyone, detective." He smirks and you don't give yourself the opportunity to glance at him.
"I would hope so, officer." Still digging through piles of paper.
Dick notices the way you avoid his gaze. He's always hated that.
You've always been uncomfortable around him. He can't help but feel like he's the reason why. Everyone has met the fun, witty, and outgoing side of you besides him. You were always tense, quiet, and distant when he tried to talk to you.
He's tried jokes, small talk, even small favors and every time you came in contact with each other, it was like you couldn't wait for him to leave. He's realizing maybe it was no use.
"I'll leave these here then.." He places the files down on the desk and you nod in acknowledgement. Taking that as his sign to leave; Dick walks himself out.
Once the door closes, you finally look up before you fall against your chair, slapping your hands over your face from the mere thought of how that interaction just went. Before the humiliation can eat you alive, the door opens again. You straighten in your seat in a hurry only to spot your friend at the door. Barbara.
"Was Dick just in your office?"
"Yeah, you saw?" Groaning as you slump back into your chair.
"No, you just look like you ruined your life and want the floor to swallow you whole."
"Just about right."
Patrol tonight was quick and easy. Basic robberies, thugs, the whole gig. Once you've done a few laps, you decide to call it a night before spotting NIghtwing on a nearby roof. Without a second thought you make your way over to him.
"Done for the night, bubblegum?" You mock as he turns to you with a shit-eating grin.
"You gonna chew me out if I am?" He says with his hands placed on his hips.
"Depends. You got anything useful?" You nod your head towards him as you look him over with a squint.
"Depends, you got time for one more stop?"
Your face scrunches up in confusion. "Is it a follow up on the toxin?"
"No, but follow me." With that he reaches out for your hand, you take it without a second thought before he pulls you in, throws you two down the building before aiming his grappling hook towards another one.
"It's best if you close your eyes!" He adds, sparking curiosity.
"Don't drop me, bridie!" You laugh as you shut your eyes and let him drag you wherever.
Once you two land, you want to peak but his hands immediately go to shut your eyes.
"Impatient as ever." With his remark, you scoff.
"I'm not going to peak!" You exclaim as he holds one hand over your eyes and does something in the other. He scoffs like that's the dumbest thing he's heard.
"yeah, and I'm not head over heels for you."
Then, a pause. You can feel tension start to rise and quickly, so you exhale dramatically and place your hands over his palm. "I'll keep them closed, Wing." Though, he doesn't let go. His palm remains there. Another pause.. "I won't look till you tell me to."
You stand there quietly as he finishes up, god knows what, and you hear him take a deep breath. "Open 'em." You barely miss it. So, you open your eyes slowly.
"Oh wow." Your lips part in awe.
There, on the rooftop, sits two pillows on the floor. The most adorable setup of snacks, a pair of controllers, and a picnic blanket. The area is dimly lit by the rooftop's yellow lighting, creating a warm atmosphere even in the cold ambience of Gotham.
"Wing, I don't know what girl you're trying to impress, but, trust me," You turn to him, smiling at the thought of his efforts. "You've got this in the bag."
And once he makes eye contact, you're smile almost faltered.
He scratches the back of his neck and rolls his head to the side. "Impessed is one thing."
Then, when he looks back at you, you fail to hold your grin.
"Do you like it?" He asks and you look back at the set up.
He didn't get the wrong idea last night, right? No. There was no way. You're overthinking this. This is just a sweet gesture. Nothing more.
"Yeah! It's amazing!" You quickly reply. Turning back to him with a small, close lipped smile. "What's it for?"
You didn't want to ask. Not really. You actually wanted to just play along and hope your intuition was wrong for once.
But, it never was. "You?"
"Me?"
"Yeah, you.."
"Me?" You pointed at yourself.
"Yes.. you. Your record player break or something?" He attempts a laugh, but you're looking back and forth between him and the setup.
"What for?" You ask. You're trying hard not to sound off. It's not what you think it is. There's no way.
Nightwing just stares. His answer is written all over his face.
Okay, you really wish you weren't too comfortable with him to let your face fall like that. It would've saved you the guilt of watching him realize you knew what he was insisting. And you were rejecting it.
The wind blew by, carrying the last bit of hope left.
"Nightwing-"
"Damn, you're never gonna let me live this down now." He laughs as he rolls his head against his shoulder. "I called it, but I blame Oracle for the push." He pointed before making his way over to the setup.
You stand there blankly. Confused, you follow him. "Wing, listen to me, I'm sorry-"
"What for?" He turns, a smirk plastered on his lips. You can tell he's hurt. Shit..
"Wing, I feel bad. I didn't mean to lead you on." And he nearly cringes at that.
"That." He points, "is my issue. Not yours. You didn't do anything wrong, swee-.. don't blame yourself." And your heart nearly shatters at the way he cut himself off from that nickname.
"Do you wanna talk? You know this doesn't bother me like that. I just.. there's already someone I like.." Nightwing may have thought you didn't notice it, but you did. The way his body tensed. Even in the slightest of movements.
"I would be lying if I didn't tell you. That's the last thing I want. You're important to me. I'd never want to lose you to anything. You're my best friend, Wing." He smiles at that and for a second. You feel like it's going to be alright. This wasn't as bad as you thought.
He then goes to grab one of the snacks from the pile, specifically your favorite. He takes a step towards you. Then another. And another. Till he's face to face and he's pressing the snack into your hands.
"This is enough. Our friendship is everything to me. I wouldn't trade it for the world."
And in that moment, you saw someone else.
This wasn't your partner. It was a man who was devoted to keeping what he held dear close to him. One who longs for an inevitable future he can't help but reach for.
And you were the setting it in stone.
"Wing-"
"Good night. I'll see you tomorrow!" With that, he's running past you, off into invasive fog that took over the streets.
With no idea where to start, you turn around and make your way back home.
"Barbara, I told you-"
"She literally is head over heels for you! I'm telling you! I can't take any more hours of flirting over the comms, only for you to tell me she doesn't like you!" Barbara shouts over the phone. Dick groans into his pillow dramatically.
"I ruined everything."
"No, you didn't."
"Barbara."
"You didn't! I promise."
"I'm going to sleep."
"Trust me on t-" he hangs up before she finishes.
That went horribly. Not only did he leave you there stranded. He completely cut you off and made the situation so much more awkward than it needed to be.
He can't believe he let Barbara convince him into doing that. He should've just asked you out normally instead of throwing that in your face. And then you tried to apologize. Of course you did.
He checks the time and shoves his head into the pillow once he realizes he needs to get some sleep.
He's never gonna come back from this.
"Barbara. Where is this coming from-"
"Girl, you have to ask him. Today is the day, I can feel it!" Barbara sits across your desk. Exaggerating over why you should ask out Officer Grayson today.
"Barb. I love you. Like a lot. You're one of the very few I trust. But I am not doing that."
"Doing what?" Yeah. Might as well add a radioactive spider at this point.
"Just your luck!" Barbara turns to Dick is waking through the open door with a boxes in his hands. He walks over and places them on your desk.
He's wearing a baby blue button-up today instead of his usual uniform. Sleeves rolled up. He has sneakers on. Which has you confused; why was his outfit so uncoordinated? You wonder why, but before you can think about it, they both are staring at you. Realizing you blanked out and missed out on what was said.
"Sorry, did you say something?" You ask.
"I was just telling Officer Grayson how you wanted to ask him something!" Barbara beamed.
This little minx. You're glaring at her, already planning to lock the brakes on those wheels.
Dick looks back at you, waiting for a reply, and you can only dig your eyes into the back of Barbara's head as she leaves.
Dick looks down at the papers on your desk and you follow his line of sight.
"These are still the same ones from last week. Nothing new." You wave them off as he nods. He's unusually quiet. You finally take in the way he's put together. Well.. not really. His hair is a slight mess. No color coordination in his outfit what so ever. and.. was that a stain on his button up? Why wasn't he in uniform today?
"You alright?" You ask before thinking.
Dick looks up at you and sighs. He knows he looks like shit, mostly because he feels like it. Though it's the first time you've genuinely asked him something. "Rough night, but I'll be okay."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that." You sort of try to look away but end up asking another question. "What's that?" Implying the boxes he had just brought in.
"Chief told me to bring these up and have you look through them. No idea what they are. I'm off the field today, so he's keeping me busy."
"He wants me to look through all of these?" You exaggerated before pulling the box over to your side, mumbling under your breath. "That guy seriously likes to throw things at me because I won't get an assistant."
That perked his interest. "Why not?"
That gets your attention again. You seem to get sidetracked easily. "Oh- um. I just work alone.. It's annoying having someone try to push their rules onto you." You shrug as you pull the stacks of files from the box.
"You don't work well with partners?" He asks. And you wonder if he meant something with that question. But, you only shake you head. "I work fine with other people. It just depends on who." Like Nightwing. You frown slightly at that.
"Mind if i help?" Your head perks up. You weren't expecting him to offer.
"You- You don't have to!"
"No, I want to. Like I said, I'm off the field today. I have nothing better to do." He pulls the chair towards him and takes a seat. "You just give me a job and I'll do it."
And with that, you and him work in tandem for the next 3 hours. It was unexpected but Dick worked well with you. He understood his assignments, didn't ask too many questions, and managed to have some conversations that didn't end with you embarrassing yourself. Well.. yet.
"That's the last of them." You place the papers back into the boxes and turn to Dick.
He was pleasantly surprised how much he enjoyed that. He felt like he actually got a glimpse of the real you today. And you work great together. He couldn't help but wonder why you always avoided him.
"Thanks for the help. I appreciate it."
He nods. "Glad to help." And when he hopes to maintain eye contact for longer than 5 seconds, you're already turning away again. And he can't help but feel like all the process he made with you had went to waste.
"I'll take these back to the office.. Need anything else before i head out?" You turn to him with a smile and shaking your head.
"No, all good." And back behind your desk you go. He deflates at that. He was hoping you'd be more comfortable around him after today. But he guesses his luck was shitty this week.
He doesn't wait any longer and makes his way to the door before you call his name.
"How does coffee together sound? After work?"
He had patrol and no idea if his partner would show up.
Cause why would she? After the shit he pulled last night? He's starting to remember why he was so beat today.
"Dick?" You call again and he snaps out of it quick, quickly replying.
"Yeah, uh- No, sorry. Thanks though." He gives a quick smile before leaving the room. He's a bit annoyed with himself now, because he managed to ruin two friendships in under 24 hours. He would love to go for coffee, but he'd rather not go in a bad mood. He'll reschedule. Today just wasn't his day.
And now neither was it for you. As you watch the door shut behind him, you stand there dumbfound.
He just flat out rejected you. Without even a second thought. You can't help but feel yourself shrink after. You really thought you did well today. You were able to carry out multiple conversations with him. Even maintain eye contact for like 4 whole seconds!
This shouldn't bother you that much. You weren't even close. But still, you slump against your chair and stare off into the void hoping you could rid the feeling of dread that built up with every passing second.
That night, you started patrol early and ended early. Why? Because like it or not, you were avoiding Nightwing. It wasn't because you were too afraid to face him, more because you didn't have the energy to. That whole rejection ruined your night.
So, as you stand at your balcony, staring off into the streets of the city that reflected your mood tonight, you hold a cup of tea in your hands. One thing about Gotham was that there was always going to be a slight breeze in the air, a faint scent of rain, and a drafty fog that carried only in the darkest of nights. Was it a good idea to go out onto your balcony this late? No, and you would advise any person to avoid doing so.
But you're a vigilante. So, you give yourself a pass.
But, not everyone knows that.
"I wouldn't recommend sitting out here in the open this late, miss."
Only one person could sneak up on you like that. And it was Nightwing.
Slightly flinching, you turn to him and place your cup on the tiny coffee table. "And I wouldn't try to balance myself on a slippery railing in the dark."
"I'm a vigilante. I get a pass." He places his hands on his hips, all cocky.
"I'm a citizen who pays rent. I get to use this balcony however and whenever I want." You mimic his gesture and he raises a brow at you.
"Aren't you a little sass ball today? You're usually a little more professional when we meet." You drop your arms after that and sigh.
Even though you weren't in your suit, you needed your best friend right now. And it was much easier talking like this to him than worrying about how awkward things can get.
With all your frustration that piled up since this afternoon, you groan, "It was a total disaster!"
Nightwing looks around in confusion. "What exactl-"
"I was doing great! We laughed for hours! I didn't stutter or shy away the whole time we worked!" Nightwing watched as you threw your arms around with every sentence. He stood there in silence, not knowing how he got wrapped up in hearing your outrage, but he was intrigued. He's never seen this side of you. Was it because you weren't around him anymore?
"Then he just walked out and rejected me like it was noth..ing.." Your words died down as your heart sank. This was how he was probably feeling right now. And here you are complaining to him about another guy.
"Sorry. Ignore me." You put your hand up. He doesn't ignore you.
"Rejected you? Now, what idiot decided to ruin his chances at paradise?" He attempted to lighten the mood, now sitting on the railing as you pick up your cup of tea. You were used to his flirts. Well. vigilante you was.
You didn't have it in you to argue over his flirts. You knew it was his nature at this point. "Some guy at work." You rest your elbows against the railing beside him, and he stares at you, urging you to go on.
"He's an officer. The one you gave the letter to."
"Officer Grayson?" He spits out almost shocked and you nod in embarrassment. Your head drops and you rest the cup against your forehead.
"I've liked him for so long. And believe it or not, I'm the most awkward person when it comes to him." Nightwing doesn't reply, so you continue. "I actually mustered up the courage to ask him out today, and he completely shut me down without a second thought!"
Nightwing blanks for a moment. You were asking him out!?
"No he didn- he probably didn't mean it like that!"
"He immediately told me no and walked out the room. I think he meant it like that, Nightwing." You tilt your head to the side, squinting at him.
"I doubt it. He told me he thought you were cool!"
"Cool is fine! He doesn't like me like that though!"
"You don't know that!" He argues.
"You do?" And that shuts him up quick. No, he didn't like you like that. But he didn't like knowing you thought he was rejecting you. Even if he was being a bit of a dickhead this afternoon.
"Sorry. You're right. But I think you should just talk to him about it." You pull the cup away from your forehead and take a sip.
"If it helps, I also got rejected too." He chuckles as you nearly choke on your tea.
"R-Really?"
"Yeah.. I kind of threw it in her face, though. It was a lot less casual than just a basic hangout. I guess I overwhelmed her. But I got the wrong idea and she had to reject me on the spot." He covers his face with a hand before dragging it down. "I was hoping to talk to her, but I guess she needs to clear her head."
"I think we all do at this point." You sigh before taking another sip. "Not much you can do in Gotham to get a clear head around here." Nightwing hums in agreement.
You both sit in a comfortable silence. A minute passes by and you take one last sip of your tea before exhaling.
"I guess I should head inside and try to fix my mood before it gets late."
"Yeah, I should too..." He agrees.
And as you make your way to get back inside, he says your name.
Thinking of best friends to lovers with dick Grayson where you’re so touchy with each other the lines kind of blur and you both try convince yourself this is what friends do when they care about each other (it isn’t)
Friends Don't
summary: You've always been close. Closer than best friends should be. Every touch, every playful shove, every late-night collapse into the same bed gets excused as “just what friends do.” But when casual affection turns into lingering hands and heat you two can’t ignore, the line between friendship and something more starts to blur. It’s a story about denial, desire, and the moment pretending stops working.
word count: 14k
c/w: mdni, best friends to lovers, piv, slow burn, blurred boundaries, poetic horniness haha, 18+, friendly grinding, denial
You tell yourself it’s practical.
You tell yourself it’s about trust and warmth and the way adrenaline leaves both of you hollowed out after patrol. You tell yourself it’s about how the couch sucks. You tell yourself a lot of things with your cheek pressed to his pillow and his breath curling the hair at the nape of your neck.
“C’mere,” he says, already scooting back, lifting the blanket like it’s an order you can’t disobey. He doesn’t look at you when he says it, he looks at the ceiling like there’s something fascinating up there, like he isn’t inviting you into the place where he sleeps and dreams. “Easier this way.”
Easier. Right.
You slide under the covers, and the mattress dips with his weight, and suddenly there’s the long, familiar line of him at your back, chest warm, arm slung heavy across your waist. His forearm is an anchor; you can feel the wiry strength even when he’s loose with exhaustion. He doesn’t pull you closer. He doesn’t need to. Your body does the math on its own, inching until the puzzle fits: your hips nesting into the cradle of his, your calves tangling with his shin. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the rooftop, his mouth grazing your neck. Just a brush. Friendly. Normal.
“Night,” he murmurs.
And for a few minutes there is nothing but the slow settle of two people pretending they don’t feel the other’s heartbeat where their bodies touch.
He’s careful about how he breathes. This is something you learn in the first week of sharing a bed. You don’t say it, but you mark the pattern: the smooth rise and fall, the way it stutters once when you shift, the way each inhale thereafter tightens into something too controlled. His fingers flex against your stomach like he’s scolding them. One, two, three, muscle memory from the trapeze, a count that lives in him even when he’s horizontal.
You stay very still. Your body, unfortunately, is a traitor. The ache that blooms low and steady makes your thighs want to rub together, makes your back want to arch. You stare at the darkness until the darkness stares back.
“Comfy?” he asks, so softly you could pretend you dreamed it.
“Mhm.”
You feel him smile into your skin. “Your toes are like little icicles.”
You elbow him lightly; the movement rocks you all along him. You can’t help it. Neither can he. His breath stalls for a bare, treacherous second.
“You okay?” you say before you can stop yourself.
“Yeah,” he says quickly, and then, lighter, he adds, “Yeah. Just…thinking about how Alfred’s going to roast me for leaving wet boots in the hall again.”
“Mm.” You imagine Alfred’s unimpressed eyebrows lifting one millimeter. It’s an image so absurdly domestic it steadies you, just long enough to drift toward sleep.
Somewhere around the place where dreams pool, his hand slips under the hem of your shirt. Not sneaky, not dirty, just a palm gone wandering in sleep, splayed warm over your belly. His thumb brushes back and forth once, twice. The skin there is thin; you can feel every tremor from his pulse. Your own trips over itself, bangs sloppy against your ribs.
You don’t move his hand. You tell yourself it would wake him. You tell yourself it’s fine.
You sleep badly and wake full, that kind of full that makes you want to fold yourself around something. The thing in question turns out to be Dick’s forearm. You don’t examine that too closely.
He’s already watching you when you roll over. You can feel it in the prickle between your shoulder blades. When you twist to face him, he doesn’t pretend to have been asleep; he just tips his head into the pillow and gives you the soft smile he saves for mornings. There’s stubble on his jaw. Almost invisible, but you know what it feels like from a hundred cheek kisses that were supposedly jokes.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
“Coffee?”
“Coffee.”
“Good,” he says, and then he stretches with a lazy, feline arch that drags his shirt up his stomach, reveals the cut of muscle and an old scar near his ribs you could trace in your sleep. He catches you looking and winks like you’re the one who started it. “Look at us. Functional adults.. Co-habitating and actually getting rest.”
“Speak for yourself.” You duck away from the impulse to reach across and smooth his hair. “I drooled on your pillow.”
“Not quite, sweetheart.” He’s up and on his feet in one sinuous move. “You drooled on me.”
“Maybe you’re just irresistible,” you say, not thinking. It lands between you like a dropped grappling hook.
He pauses, just a hiccup in his stride, then gathers it up with an easy shrug, eyes looking you up and down. “You’re the one who wakes up looking like that.”
“Shut up.”
“Coffee,” he singsongs, and disappears.
You stare at the crumpled dent his body left on the mattress and pretend your bones aren’t vibrating.
-
It’s harder to lie to yourself when there’s sweat buzzing on your lip and chalk grinding into your palms and the mat catching your breath with every fall. The cave smells like metal, damp earth, and the faint rubber of grapnels. He moves across it like he was born here, which, fine. He practically was. But there’s something lazy in his footwork today, something indulgent. He feeds you openings and takes them back at the last second like he likes watching you reach.
“Again?” he says, and pushes damp hair off his forehead with the back of his wrist. His shirt is plastered to him, thin black cotton, darker where sweat has soaked through. You hate that you know he’s not trying to show off; this is just what gravity does when it meets a Grayson.
“Again.”
You circle. He mirrors. Your lungs burn. The rhythm is its own language: tap, slip, pivot, feint. You sweep; he hops. He jabs; you parry. It’s choreography edged with teeth, and you love it, and you love him, and you’re not letting that thought finish.
Then he does what you were waiting for; he overcommits on a reach. You catch his wrist, drop under, twist. For half a heartbeat you have him off-balance, really off-balance, Dick Grayson, the human gyroscope, blinking as the ground tries to introduce itself to his spine.
He laughs, delighted. “Nice.”
You don’t give him time to fix it. You pin his arm, knee in between his, shoulder driving into his chest. He rolls with it, letting you, and then he’s not letting you at all. One sharp shift of his weight and your wrists thud against the mat above your head. He’s braced over you, thighs framing your hips, and the heat of him bleeds down through you like a spill.
It happens all at once: the slap of his palm on your wrist, the wet slide of breath from his mouth as he grins down at you, the switchblade flick of his eyes to your lips. There’s always been a smile in him that gets brighter when he’s proud of you; this isn’t that smile. This one is still and stunned and a little wrecked around the edges.
“Gotcha,” he says softly, like you’re something he’s caught by accident.
“Let me up,” you lie.
“You sure?”
You could buck your hips and throw him. You’ve done it a hundred times. Today your body forgets how. Your back registers the mat; your wrists register the span of his hands; your ribs register the drag of his shirt when he breathes. Your mouth goes dry enough to make a sound like sand.
He adjusts his stance. That adjustment brings the hard line of his thigh against the cradle of your hips. The friction is not theoretical. You feel him; there’s no universe in which you don’t. He feels you feel him. The knowledge flickers over his face, there and gone and then there again like a neon sign fighting to light.
His grin falters. His pupils go wide. He looks at your mouth. He doesn’t kiss you. Damn him.
He lets your wrists go. Slowly. His fingers flatten against your forearms, slide down the length of them like he’s cataloging tendons, counting freckles. He doesn’t need to touch you to get off a mat. He doesn’t need to use your body like a handrail. He does anyway, because you are both liars with greedy fingertips.
When he’s on his feet, he extends a hand to pull you up. You don’t take it. You put your palm against his knee and rise on your own and hope he can’t read your face the way he reads your footwork.
“Again?” you say, like there isn’t a ringing in your bones.
“Yeah,” he says, hoarse. Then he coughs and claps, bright and coach-like. “Yeah. One more round. You almost had me.”
You almost did. You almost had him by the hips and the soft cotton of his shirt and the mouth. You almost had him by the throat and the whole life he keeps locked up behind jokes. You almost had yourself.
You go again. You sweat. You slip. He laughs when you feint high and tag his rib low and says, “Good,” like it means more than that. When you finally throw in the towel, he catches the end of it and uses it to pull you into his side for a second. Just a second. Long enough to memorize how it feels to fit there.
“Come on.” His voice gentles around the syllables. “You need water.”
He doesn’t say, I need distance. He doesn’t say, I need your mouth. Neither do you.
-
The lie holds because it’s woven out of a thousand small threads. It holds because you both keep feeding it.
He wipes sauce from your lip with his thumb and grins at you like he caught you in a crime. “Messy,” he teases. The pad of his thumb drags slow over your mouth. You feel it everywhere. You lick your lip when he drops his hand, tasting basil and him, and his eyes go something you pretend is just amused.
“Who knew Nightwing was so polite,” you say. “Napkin me.”
“Nightwing is extremely polite,” he says solemnly, and tucks a dishtowel into the collar of your hoodie like a bib. He leans in as he does it. You tilt your chin up into the space he’s offering, a bad habit disguised as surrender. He smells like clean cotton and sweat and the faintest bite of metal polish from the cave. His nose almost bumps yours. He doesn’t pull back. He tugs your hoodie strings instead, short little tugs that shorten the distance, that put his breath where you can taste it.
“Cute,” he says.
“Manipulative,” you say. Your voice doesn’t cooperate with the crisp sarcasm you aim for. It comes out softer.
He glances at your mouth again. Quick. Reflexive. You look away first, because if you don’t you might forget the part where you’re friends.
Later, on the couch, he stretches to grab the remote and absolutely has to put his thigh across yours to get it. He makes a pleased sound when he lands back where he was, and you feel it travel up his leg into yours like a current. He scrolls, bored, while his thigh stays where it is. Heat pools everywhere you’re touching, too much fabric and not enough. You shift a little. He shifts a little. Neither of you acknowledges any of it.
“I vote dumb heist movie,” he says.
“You always vote dumb heist movie.”
“Because they’re the best. The part where the plan fails because of hubris?”
“That’s every movie. It's not my fault you don't have the attention span for something more... artistic.”
He tips his head onto your shoulder in theatrical despair. “You’re so mean to me.”
“You love it.”
He does, actually. He loves when you fight him for the last fry, when you shove his shoulder, when you knife your foot between his as you turn a corner and make him stumble, laughing. He loves the way you cut your eyes at him before you smile. He loves the mark your body leaves on his sheets, the hair you leave in his sink, the glove you left in his backseat that he refuses to return because he likes the way it looks next to his own.
You pick at a loose thread on the couch cushion and force yourself to watch the movie, not the angle of his wrist draped over your knee. You do not think about how easily that hand could skim higher. You do not think about how it would feel to take his fingers into your mouth and suck the salt of the popcorn off while he watched, stunned and silent.
He takes a call from Babs. You listen to his voice soften and sharpen by turns, and the little secret part of you that keeps records notes how his knee keeps pressing into you even while he’s talking about encrypted drives. When he hangs up, he flicks the back of your ear and says, “Stop eavesdropping.”
“You’re in my ear,” you protest.
“Great place to be.” He leans in and murmurs into that same ear, “Want dumplings?” It’s deeply unfair how good he is at deploying his voice.
You say yes because your body has started saying yes to him all on its own. The lie needs fuel. Food is fuel.
-
You cook together sometimes. Sometimes he plays sous-chef. Sometimes he plays menace.
The menace nights are the worst.
“Careful,” he says, when you’re chopping scallions. He comes up behind you and fits his hands on your hips like a demonstration. It’s not a demonstration. You feel him slot along your back, all the casual dominance of a person who knows exactly where you live in your body. “Knife skills are mediocre.”
“You’re mediocre.”
“Harsh. And we both know you don't think that's true. In fact, I'd say I'm above average.” He laughs into your hair and then…stops. He goes quiet at the end, like he remembered something he wasn’t supposed to say. You imagine him counting again. His pelvis is a warm, solid thing against your ass. You could rock back just a little and—
You don’t. He does though. It’s subtle, almost subconscious, like a steadying step on a wire. The movement swallows both of your breaths. The counter’s edge bites the front of your thighs. The knife clatters safely away from your fingers. Somewhere a streetlight hums. For a moment it feels like if the city looked into your window, the city would blush.
“Relax,” he says, voice low now, a lovers caress on the nape of your neck. He reaches past you for the knife. His chest brushes your shoulder blade. “I’ve got it.”
He slides the blade through green rings. You stare at his forearm and think obscene things about the way his tendons move under skin.
He catches you thinking them. You know he does. He puts the dull side of the knife under your chin, gentle as a lover, and tips your face up. You acquiesce because you’re treacherous. His mouth curves. He kisses the corner of your smile like a joke. It doesn’t feel like a joke. Your knees do something unsafe.
“Messy girl,” he says, though there’s no sauce this time. He wipes an imaginary smear with his thumb, real slow. The pad of it drags. You swallow and he tracks the movement like a cat watching a bird.
The lie yanks like a leash. You turn away, grab a clean pan, tell yourself you’re imagining it, all of it. You aren’t, but the pan is loud enough to make you feel normal again.
-
You start keeping score in private. Not of hits on a mat. Not of citizens saved. You keep score of all the ways Dick touches you like you belong to him and calls it nothing.
The shoulder rubs after patrol are the worst and the best. He waits until you’re half melted into the chair, until your bruises have bloomed fully, until the cave is quiet except for the murmur of distant computers and the low hum of the elevator’s heart. He comes up behind you and sets his thumbs at the base of your skull.
“You’re making that face,” he says.
“What face.”
“The one that makes me want to press here.” He presses. The world narrows to a point. Your mouth falls open into a groan. “There it is.”
“You’re,” You lose track of your insult when his thumbs drag heat down either side of your spine, catch and release on muscle. You make a sound you’ve never made anywhere but here. It embarrasses you. It makes him sit down because his legs forgot their jobs. You’re very glad he’s behind you; you don’t think you could live through seeing his face when he hears you come apart like this from his hands.
He kneads your shoulders. He’s precise. He’s careful. He’s also a little greedy. His thumbs drift. Just a little. Your body stiffens like a bowstring. He pauses long enough to be a gentleman, then chooses not to be one. He traces the ridge of your trapezius. He squeezes once at the very top of your chest, just below your clavicle, where the line of your sports bra is a suggestion and not a barrier. The sound you make could be a gasp. It could be a warning. It could be the beginning of his name.
“Cold?” he says, which would be funnier if your skin weren’t hot enough to brand him.
“Just…tired,” you say, and want to bite your tongue right off. He hums low, like he’s filed that answer in a new drawer.
He keeps touching you. You keep letting him.
If this were a test, you would fail it. If it were a trap, you would spring it. You eat your food and lick sauce off your thumb and his eyes go soft and then hard and then soft again. On the couch, you tuck your feet under his leg and he rubs his heel up your calf absentmindedly and not-at-all-absentmindedly. On rooftops, you pass off grapnels hand to hand with a brush of fingers that lasts a fraction too long. In daylight grocery lines, he rests his chin on your shoulder while you wait and talks nonsense into your ear and you pretend your spine doesn’t tingle.
The lie grows fat off the feast.
You try starving it. You go on a date with a decent human who has a clean laugh and opinions about urban planning. Dick asks how it went, and you say, “Good,” with enough brightness to sell beachfront property in a hurricane. He nods, middlingly impressed. You tell yourself you like that he doesn’t go feral at the idea. You tell yourself that means you’re still friends. His hands are at the sink, covered in suds, and he scrubs one plate like it wronged a Grayson; the muscles in his forearms jump a little harder than necessary. The lie pretends not to notice.
It fails when you fall asleep again.
Not at his place, this time. Yours. You both stagger in at an hour that has forgotten its own name, jackets dropped where they fall, boots toe-kicked into the corner. You shower with the bathroom door cracked because your body is too tired to fight steam, and he shouts over the water that he’s ordering fries, do you want fries, the answer is yes because you love salt and you love him and fries are the Venn diagram center. You dry your face badly and crawl into bed with your hair wet. You don’t mean for him to follow. He does.
No pretense tonight. No “easier.” He just stands by the bed and looks at you like he is puzzling out a code on a bomb. Then he sets a knee on the mattress, careful, like you’re breakable. The care should make you cry. It makes you greedy.
“Stay,” you hear yourself say.
His hand flattens over your hip. “Yeah.”
He doesn’t ask where to put his body. He knows. He curls into your back, curves around you until you’re the center of a shape only the two of you make. His hand slips under your shirt again, practiced now, the heat of his palm spreading low. You try not to press into it, and you obviously fail, because he makes a sound that could be a thank you or a curse spoken into your shoulder. He buries his face there. His breathing steadies. It’s pretending to be sleep. You close your eyes, and because you’re weak, you arch just enough to feel the hard press of him fit perfectly into the place between your thighs where you ache for him.
In the morning, you both pretend you don’t remember how his hand crept higher around three a.m., how his thumb stroked the underside of your breast like he was soothing himself through the worst dream of his life. You pretend you don’t remember that you woke on a desperate edge with his name half in your mouth. He brings you coffee that is mostly milk and tells you you’ve got pillow-crease tattoos on your cheek, and you tell him to shut up, and he says, “Rude,” in a voice too pleased to be wounded.
-
You lie to yourself, and he lies to himself, and the day comes when the lie surprises both of you with its own appetite.
He’s at your door after a shift at the gym, hair damp at the temples, t-shirt clinging to him like a second thought. He tosses you your hoodie and says, “Movie?” with his whole face bright, and you say yes because you are bad at saying no to him and always have been.
He piles into your couch with the casual entitlement of a cat. He hooks a foot under your leg to drag you closer; you let him. He leans back, throws an arm along the back cushion, and you are drawn under it like gravity. He doesn’t have to tug your hoodie strings this time. You go, mouth to his shoulder, breathing him in. He makes a contented sound you’ve heard from him after particularly graceful landings.
Halfway through the opening credits he reaches forward, slow, and tucks a lock of hair behind your ear. When his knuckles brush your cheek, you go very still. He does too. The room is a hush the city can’t break.
You can say no at any point. You could get up, you could say bathroom, you could cough, you could throw a pillow. You do none of those things. You sit there and look at him look at you. Your heart has climbed into your mouth, and you wonder if he thinks that makes it easier to kiss. You wonder if he knows you’d let him break you if he smiled and asked pretty.
He doesn’t kiss you. He drifts. The pads of his fingers trace down from your ear to your jaw, then to the seam of your mouth. He rubs his knuckle very gently against your bottom lip as if testing a bruise. You exhale, and your breath warms his hand, and his pupils go night-wide.
“What are we doing?” you ask, finally. It’s barely a sound.
“Being friendly,” he says. It is a joke. It sounds like a prayer.
“Friendly,” you repeat, because if you don’t you’ll say his name like confession. You try to move away to puncture the moment, but you don’t get far before he catches you by the string of your hoodie and brings you back.
“Stay,” he says, exactly the way you said it that night. It takes you apart like a quiet.
You stay. You let him tilt you until you’re half sprawled across him, your knee across his thigh, his palm firm at the low part of your back. You swear you’re just finding a comfortable position; he swears he’s just anchoring you. The lie is a third thing on the sofa, watching the movie with bright, greedy eyes.
He laughs at a line you don’t hear. You feel the laugh in your body; his chest moves under your cheek and the rumble of it is embarrassing and insolent and so alive. You want to put your mouth there. You want to hear him laugh into your mouth. You don’t do any of those things. You slip your hand under the hem of his shirt and put your palm on the warm skin of his stomach.
He stops breathing.
Your fingers are indecisive at first and then not; they splay, they trace the cut of his obliques, they find the edge of an old scar and map it like the place you’re from. He doesn’t say your name. He doesn’t say anything. His hand tightens at your back until the pressure turns into something that says mine without a single syllable attached.
The movie keeps pretending to be interesting. You keep pretending to watch. He keeps pretending he doesn’t want to drag you into his lap and beg.
“Want tea?” you ask, throat dust-dry.
“Mm,” he says. You’re not sure he heard you.
You go to the kitchen because you are a coward. He follows because he is too. He leans in the doorway and watches you like you are a problem he adores. When you turn, he reaches out and hooks a finger in your waistband to pull you half a step closer. It is nothing you deserve and everything you shouldn't want. Your mouth does something reckless.
“Don’t tug unless you mean it,” you say, lightly, like you aren’t vibrating.
There’s a half-second where you can see it, the road where he does, the road where he pins you to the counter and tells you very gently to open your mouth. You can feel the surface of that road under your bare feet.
He lets the elastic go. It snaps against your hip, a whisper of a sting. “Tea,” he says, cheeks pink. “Two sugars.”
“A child’s taste,” you say, because you have to say something that isn’t come here, please. He grins, grateful for the easy path. The kettle sings. You pour. He steals the first mug out of your hand and takes a greedy sip and burns his tongue and looks outraged at the laws of thermodynamics. You laugh, and he points his wounded expression at you like a weapon. You tuck your face against his shoulder to hide how charmed you are. He wraps an arm around you and sways like music is playing. The lie sighs in relief at the reprieve.
When you sit back down, he stretches across you again to grab the remote; his thigh presses and stays, the heat of him steady, throbbing. He doesn’t move it. You don’t ask him to. Somewhere around the midpoint of the movie you get so tired you fold. Your body slumps. He draws you into his lap with the same motion he uses to catch a trapeze bar, smooth, practiced, confident. It is not the first time you’ve sat here. It is the first time you notice the sound he makes when you settle fully: a low, dark breath, bitten off like he’s worried it will get him in trouble. You shift to get comfortable; you feel him, already thick behind the zipper of his sweats. He shifts with you, ostensibly to make room. The lie applauds.
If you wanted, you could ride this line forever. You could harvest every slow, illicit pleasure from the border and never cross it. You could be the person who knows all his favorite mugs and where he keeps his heating pad and the exact weight of his body when he falls asleep on your shoulder. You could never know how his mouth tastes after he’s been laughing. You could be safe and sweet and starving.
You tilt your head back to look up at him. He’s looking down at you like you are suspended above the earth. He looks scared. He looks brave. He looks like he’s going to ruin you, and you would thank him.
“Your heart,” he says, surprised. “It’s—”
“Loud?” you say. “Yeah. Yours too.”
He wets his lips. You watch it. His hand, heavy at your hip, squeezes once. It feels like a question. You could answer it. You don’t.
“Friends,” he says.
“Friends,” you echo.
His mouth curves. He tucks you under his chin and kisses your hair, a sweet, nothing kiss that makes your eyes sting. The movie finishes. The credits roll. Neither of you move.
Later, you will tell yourself the reason you got into bed with him again is that it was late. You will tell yourself the sparring matched your breathing. You will tell yourself the shoulder rub made your muscles slack and needy. You will tell yourself that the reason you slid back against him and pushed until you felt him fit perfectly along you was that you were cold.
You will say “just tired” and he will say “just friendly” and the lie will purr.
He jerks off in the shower the next morning with his teeth sunk into a smile that wants to say your name. You rub yourself through your underwear and bite back a sound because the walls are thin. You both rinse your hands and make eggs. You bump hips and call him ridiculous and he bows at the waist like a clown and steals the spatula from your hand with a flourish, and when his thumb ends up in your mouth again you suck the sauce off without thinking and his breath stops hard enough to hurt him.
You pull back first, because you have made a religion of it. He turns to the sink because he has made a ritual of it. From the doorway, the morning looks ordinary.
“Training?” he asks over his shoulder.
“Training,” you say, and you don’t mean the mats.
“Good,” he says, and you both pretend the word doesn’t hit you somewhere it shouldn’t.
You leave together, shoulder to shoulder, steps timed without trying. The city is bright and uncaring. The cave is waiting. The mat is waiting. The line is waiting.
You are, too.
-
The limo is too full, too bright inside, too loud with chatter about endowments and silent auction lots. It smells like velvet and champagne and something expensive you can’t name. You climb in last, the door already closing behind you, and there’s nowhere to sit, just a sliver of leather that would have you half in Tim’s lap and half in thin air.
“Here,” Dick says, easy like water. He’s already spreading his knees to make room and patting his thigh like it’s no big deal, like he hasn’t been looking at you all evening like you’re a star chart he’s memorizing. “It’s cramped.”
You hesitate for a polite second, the kind people perform in public to pretend they have dignity, and then you settle, careful, the satin of your gown whispering as it pools across his lap. The door thunks, sealing you both in with the city’s lights dragging across the tinted glass like spilled gold.
He catches your waist to steady you. Practical. Necessary. You’d fall otherwise. His hands are warm, even through the fabric, even through your own pulse thudding a staccato, you feel the heat of him seep in. His tux is fitted, and you can feel the give of muscle under it, the taut coil of him like a spring set to a lower tension tonight because he’s supposed to be charming, not terrifying. The car lurches into motion. The sway rocks you forward; his hands tighten, pulling you back. You settle deeper, just to test gravity. It obliges.
Barbara is saying something razor-quick and clever across the car; Bruce is pretending not to enjoy it. Tim’s phone lights up and goes dark. Laughter hums. The city hums. The tires find a seam in the road that sends a slight rise through the chassis, a wave that travels through metal and leather to you. The wave picks you up and sets you down exactly against the length of him. Hard, undeniably so.
You go very still. A helpless, treacherous inhale breaks the line of your composure.
His breath hits your ear on the exhale. You feel rather than hear the way it catches. “You okay?” The question is so low you could pretend it’s the engine.
You tip a smile over your shoulder, eyes on his bow tie so you don’t have to look at his mouth. “Mm. Just…crowded.”
“Yeah.” His voice rakes through the word like it has edges. “Just cramped.”
He doesn’t move his hands. Which would be fine if the car didn’t keep moving.
Bumps become math problems. Every acceleration is an equation with no safe answer: if the limo turns left at x speed, your body will slide y degrees, which means the apex of your thighs will.... You adjust, you swear it’s only to get your balance, and the slow drag of satin against wool makes you think wild, undignified thoughts. His palm flexes on your thigh once, like he’s tamping down a reflex. He’s steadier than you, or he’s at least better at the lie.
“Did you see the lot list?” Barbara asks, still across the car. “Tim’s going to waste his allowance on vintage ROM chips he insists are important.”
“They are important, you just lack vision,” Tim says mildly, without looking up. “And it’s not an allowance.”
Bruce doesn’t sigh. He weaponizes a single eyebrow.
Dick leans forward to join the conversation because he’s a good son and an even better brother; when he does, you ride his body up and then down again. The collar of his tux nudges your shoulder blade and the clean, faint bite of cologne sneaks under your skin. He’s laughing, you think. You feel the vibration of it more than you hear the sound. It rolls through your spine and out along your nerves. You tilt a hair’s breadth closer to his mouth to feel it again. You are not an honest person.
Tim’s screen goes dark; the limo glides to a stoplight. Red floods the cabin, washes the world in a color that makes the inside of your cheeks feel fevered.
“Comfortable?” Dick murmurs, and you deserve the teasing in it.
“Perfectly,” you whisper back, your lips barely moving. “Like a seat custom-ordered.”
He huffs, almost chokes on a laugh, and you feel him fight it down. “Don’t,” he says, and you don’t know whether he means don’t tease or don’t move or don’t look down and see what you’re doing to me.
You don’t look, but you can feel it. Satin, wool, the firm heat under that; no imagination required. The hot length of his stiffened cock rests firmly beneath your ass. If you shift just so, you'd feel it where your cunt has begun to weep. Your body is a traitor with excellent memory, a catalog of how his chest feels at your back, how his hand feels heavy on your stomach in sleep, how his voice feels inside your ear when he says your name like it’s an answer. All the little domestic sins gather in you like sparks.
The light turns. The driver takes the turn soft; you should be grateful. You aren’t. You think about street-level physics, how one wrong bump could make you moan in a car full of some of the sharpest people you know. You press your mouth into a neutral line and focus instead on the tiny details that keep you human: the catch in his tuxedo’s topstitching under your palm; the single-stitched edge of his cuff grazing the inside of your knee; the slightly crooked bow because he tied it himself and you watched, biting your smile; the way a vein at his temple ticks twice and then steadies when you breathe like you mean it.
“Are you going to get any of those little crab cakes?” Barbara asks you, breaking your concentration and saving your life.
You find a voice. “Even if I have to lunge from three tables over to beat Jason to them like it's an Olympic sport.”
“Go for gold,” she decrees, eyes glinting.
Dick’s thumbs rub a slow circle on your thighs, absent-minded in a way that is nothing of the sort. He’s steadying you, sure. You’re sitting on him in a moving vehicle. Friends steady friends. His pulse is a drum under your fingers where they rest on his sleeve anyway, the beat giving him away.
The car rolls to a stop at the gala’s portico. Outside, flashbulbs strobe behind velvet ropes. The door opens to chill air and everything shuffles: bodies, hemlines, conversation. You start to stand and he’s there, hands cutting your waist a whisper lower than polite, lowering you off his lap like you might trip. You don’t. He still catches your elbow. He brushes your gown into place like chivalry is a full-contact sport.
“Ready?” he asks, and the question has nothing to do with cameras.
You swallow. You nod.
Inside is marble and orchestra and champagne that tastes like biting bubbles. You take one because it gives your hands a job. Dick takes two so he can press one into your palm and have a reason to touch your wrist. He is the same brand of dishonest you are. It should make you feel better. It makes you feel seen.
You walk the circuit together like you’ve always done, foundation board, donors, the older couple who adore his smile, the middle-aged man who tries to sell you both on a tech charity you’ll research later because your instincts don’t like the tinny ring in his pitch. Dick listens the way a trapeze artist looks: intent, kinetic even when he’s standing still. He laughs at the right places, offers a few sincere words about the community programs, doesn’t drop your hand when you thread your fingers through his under the tablecloth to squeeze once at a subtle cue only the two of you can feel. His thumb slides along your knuckle in return, careful, covert. Friends do that. Friends calibrate.
The orchestra shifts into something slow. People flood the dance floor with relief. He turns to you, tilts his head toward the swell of sound. “Two minutes,” he begs. “Then I’ll let you hide near the potted palm with Bruce.”
“Bruce is the one hiding,” you say, but you set your empty flute on a tray and step into his space.
His palm finds the small of your back like there’s a magnet there. You go weightless for a second, some muscle memory from him, some from trust. His other hand takes yours, his fingers swallowing yours, and you sway into time like you were made for it. Which, fine, you were. You’ve learned Dick’s body the way you learn a route through the city you love: turns, shortcuts, where the light hits best.
He keeps you close under the pretense of crowded floor etiquette, but you can feel the choice in it: the way his palm settles low; the way his forearm brushes the side of your chest as he steers you into a turn; the way he angles his body so your hips slot just so when you step in. If you wanted plausible deniability, you should have stayed home.
“You clean up nice,” he says, conversational, as if he isn’t talking directly into the press of your cheek against his jaw.
“So do you. They should let you wear this when we stake out rooftops. Distract the perps.”
“Right, I’ll fight crime with lapels.”
“Deadly lapels.”
His laugh fans against your temple. You breathe it, greedy. His breath catches on the inhale. “You okay?” you ask softly, throwing his line back at him to see what he does with it.
“Yeah,” he says, like a promise he means to keep. “Just thinking about how we don’t get enough nights like this.”
“Champagne and very bad shrimp?”
“Lights,” he says. “Music and…you not bleeding.”
“High bar.”
“I know what I like,” he says simply, and when he spins you and draws you back in, you feel the words settle somewhere low and bright. "And that's you. Mostly."
It would be easy, so disastrously easy, to tilt your head, angle your mouth, and catch him mid-laugh. You could blame bubbles. You could blame the room. You could blame the bruise of almosts you’ve both been collecting. You don’t. He doesn’t. The song ends. The orchestra surges into something faster. You clap with everyone else and step back. He lets you. He always lets you.
“Air?” you ask, and he reads everything you didn’t say.
“Yeah.”
You slip out onto a balcony that bites your skin with a January mouth. Gotham breathes below you, steam from vents, the flash of river like a blade. He shrugs out of his jacket and wraps it around your shoulders before you can protest. It’s warm. It smells like him. It makes your throat feel small.
“You’ll freeze,” you say.
He shrugs, and in the half-dark he is all lines and bright eyes. “Occupational hazard.”
“Of being decent?” you ask, too soft.
“Of being with you,” he says, and then immediately makes it lighter, eyes widening in exaggerated innocence. “Because you attract wind.”
“Right. The wind adores me.”
“Wind and I have the same taste,” he says, and then the door opens and the spell breaks and you are talking about municipal art grants with a woman who has opinions on color theory instead of the way his knuckles looked where they held your waist.
You do the rest. You smile, you circulate, you rescue Tim from a man who wants to show him seventeen photos of a car restoration, you watch Dick accept compliments on a program he trained twice as hard for as anyone knows. He looks at you across a lobby and does that thing, two raised brows, a very small tilt of his head, that means you okay? and you do the tiny shrug that means yes and also no and also come get me when you can.
He does.
“You good?” he asks when you’re finally in the elevator down to the lobby, just the two of you and a chandelier that’s seen a century of bad decisions.
You look up at him. “Always.”
He tucks a stray hair behind your ear, the pad of his finger catching briefly on your earring. “Liar.”
“Hypocrite.”
“Touché,” he says, and the elevator opens and the city swallows your faces whole.
The ride back is quieter. Fewer people. You could sit anywhere. You sit beside him. He doesn’t pull you into his lap this time. He drapes his arm across the back of the seat and lets his fingers curl into the top of your shoulder, absent, proprietary. You lean, you can’t not, and the weight of his hand settles you like a hand on a skittish horse. You watch streetlights smear. You pretend your chest isn’t aching like muscle.
When the car drops you, he walks you to your door. There is a universe in which he kisses your cheek and says night like a promise. There is a universe where he kisses your mouth. You unlock the door instead and say goodnight like an apology you don’t mean. He nods like a person who deserves more than this and keeps taking exactly what you give. He reaches like he’s going to muss your hair. He doesn’t. He puts his hand on the doorframe, leans in a fraction toward your face, and then says, “Text me when you’re in,” in the voice he uses at the end of rooftops when the air goes wrong. You say you will. He looks at your mouth because he’s a hazard. You step inside because you are too.
You text. He replies with a thumbs-up and then a photo of your earring you didn’t realize you’d dropped in the limo. It sits in his palm like a small moon. He says I’ll bring this by tomorrow. You say thief. He says any excuse to see you. You stare at the read receipt until you hate yourself a little and then you take a shower that is too hot and you don’t think about the way you sat on his lap, pussy soaked, and you don’t think about the way your body still feels like it’s swaying.
You sleep badly when you're alone now. When you dream, you’re on a wire, the city below you black and shining.
-
After patrol, the world shrinks back down to sweat and Velcro and the metallic reek of adrenaline’s aftertaste. The city got mean near dawn; your knuckles are scabbed where the glove split; the seam of your suit rubbed raw on the inside of your knee. Dick’s door clicks behind you like you outran something for one more night. He tosses his domino on the entry table and watches it rock to a stop like a coin; you peel yours off and set it beside his, both masks facing up, blank-eyed and domestic.
You breathe. He breathes. The big things you don’t say crowd the hallway, but they’re quieter in the half-light of his apartment. Here, the lie is easier to feed. It likes the smell of laundry and lemon dish soap and him.
“Stand still,” he says, gentler now. He is always gentler when you’re scraped. “You’ve got a rip.”
He steps behind you. The zipper’s tab is cool where it kisses your nape. His knuckles skim the knobs of your spine as he eases it down. Goosebumps flare across your back in a wave you can’t stop. You can feel his eyes catch on them, that old, careful attention he gives you when you’re in pain, when you’re in danger, when you’re in a new dress. It is all the same attention with different music playing.
“Cold?” he asks, and his voice has midnight in it even though the clock near the sink says 5:12am.
You tell the lie you’ve both chosen. “Just the a/c.”
“Uh-huh,” he says, dubious, fond. The zipper surrenders more fabric and the air finds more of your skin. You breathe through it like a stretch. He helps you slide one arm free, then the other. He’s methodical; he doesn’t look in the mirror over the credenza to see your face. You’re grateful and furious.
“Sit,” he says.
“I can—”
“Sit,” he repeats, and there’s no room in it for anything but trust.
You sit on the counter’s edge. He retrieves the first aid kit because he could do it in his sleep, has done it in yours. He sets out saline, gauze, tape. He doesn’t hum. Tonight’s not a humming night.
When he cleans the graze on your knee, he looks at it like it offended him, like a jealous person looks at an ex. “This'll sting,” he warns, and it does, and you exhale through your teeth. He goes softer immediately, the pads of his fingers barely touching your skin. “Sorry.”
“Not your fault.”
“Still,” he says, and runs gentleness over the sting until the sting blinks and lets go.
He moves on to your knuckles. “Can you make a fist?” You do. He nods; a pleased sound curls out of him, warm and rough. “Good. You’ll live.”
“Dang,” you say. “And here I was hoping to haunt your apartment, knock over your protein powder.”
“Joke’s on you,” he says. “I'd just bring Damian over. He'd exorcise you with a look before breakfast.”
“True.”
He wraps your hand like it’s a gift he’s saving for later. When he’s done, he touches a clean square of gauze to your cheek, a nothing touch, an excuse to cradle your face, thumb landing near your mouth. He looks at the corner of your lip like there’s sauce there. There isn’t. You could be noble. You could be so good. You aren’t. You turn into his palm, just a degree, and your mouth nearly brushes the pad of his thumb. His breath does that hitch again. He leans a fraction before he stops himself, a muscle in his shoulder jerking like he yanked hard on his own leash.
“Hey,” he says softly, the word scraping delicate. “You should shower.”
“Always telling me what to do.”
“Can't help that I'm good at it,” he counters, but his eyes won’t leave your mouth.
“You first,” you say, because if you step into steam right now you’ll drown.
He tilts his head. He could argue. He doesn’t. “Okay.”
He doesn’t go far. The bathroom is within earshot; you hear the pipes cough before the water evens out into a steady rush. You stare at the empty doorway and feel your own pulse in your fingers, at your throat, in the sore meat of your knuckles. The apartment smells like damp gear and his shampoo and the orange he ate on the way home. You peel the rest of your suit down to your waist and sit bent forward, elbows on thighs, and breathe until your skin fits again.
When he comes back, his hair is damp and his t-shirt is a size too big, clinging where it’s caught. He has a towel looped around his neck like a boxer. He stops when he sees you half undressed on his counter, the line of his throat going tight. He doesn’t look away. He doesn’t leer. He looks like someone stood him on a wire and told him to walk without a net.
“Your turn,” he says finally. His voice is careful, steadying both of you.
You slide off the counter and the hem of your suit drags at your thighs and the moment drags with it. You move past him and he steps out of your way. He doesn’t touch you. He touches your elbow. It is nothing. It is everything.
The shower is hot enough to steam the mirror. You brace your hands on tile and let the water pound the back of your neck. Your body is an instrument you’ve tuned with him for months; it starts humming as soon as you’re alone. You see flashes when you close your eyes: the red-light wash of the limo; the line of his mouth during the dance; his thumbs circling your thighs; his hand lowering you off his lap; the easy, filthy warmth of him under you and the way you didn’t move away. Your own knuckles, wrapped by him, look like someone else’s hands. You press your forehead to the wall and breathe until the rhythm is less dangerous.
When you come out, your skin is scrubbed pink and your hair is a wet rope down your spine. He’s exactly where you left him, perched on the far arm of the couch with a glass of water in his hand like a stage direction. He looks up and his eyes eat you and then apologize for it.
“I stole you a hoodie,” he says, offering it like a gift and a truce. It’s the gray one with the softened cuffs, the one that smells like nights you don’t talk about. You pull it on and it halves your heart rate.
“Thanks,” you say, small.
“Come here,” he says, smaller.
You do. You tuck yourself against his side, your legs up, your cheek against the cotton of his shirt. He sets the glass down and slides his hand under the hem of the hoodie to the bare skin above your hip like he forgot there was another option. His palm is very warm. The place where he’s touching you goes soft and wild at once.
“You good?” he asks into your hair.
“Yeah,” you lie.
“Yeah,” he lies back.
The city is waking. It paints the edges of his furniture in thin, cold light. You hear a bus brake somewhere, the low murmur of news from a neighbor’s TV. You feel safe in a way that almost makes you angry.
“Do you ever...” You stop. He waits. It kills you that he waits so well. “Do you ever think we’re…bad at being normal?”
“Yes,” he says instantly, a smile in it. “But we’re excellent at our version.”
“And what is that?”
He drags his thumb along your waist. “Crowded couches,” he says. “Bad boundaries. You stealing my socks. Me stealing your good pen. Me pretending to like your playlist. Me pretending I don’t like how you take all the covers.”
“You love my playlist,” you say, affronted.
“I love how you sing the words wrong and then start talking to try and distract me from what you did.”
“I don’t,” you begin, and then catch the shape of the conversation before it turns into something you can’t manage. You nudge his ribs with your elbow. “Don’t make me fight you when I’m clean.”
“Perish the thought.” He squeezes your hip once. The once turns into twice. Your body shivers in response. “Hey. You’re... You shivered.”
“It's your fault for keeping the a/c so high,” you say automatically, and he breathes a laugh like a long-suffering saint.
“Right,” he says. He doesn’t move his hand. He doesn’t press his mouth against your temple. He doesn’t do a lot of things. Then he tips his head and kisses the crown of your hair because he is who he is. It is not harmless. It is not dangerous. It is oxygen.
You could sleep like this. You have. You will. It’s not the right time for something else, your muscles are spent, your skin is buzzing, your conscience is a thin, trembling thing, so you fold into the warmest version of the lie and you rest there until your breath syncs with his, until your arm goes pins-and-needles under your head, until the window brightens another shade.
At some point you wake to find his hand has moved in his sleep, his fingers splayed lower on your stomach, the heel of his palm curving protective and a little possessive over the place where your body is soft. You could move it. You don’t. He makes a sound against your hair that is nothing like a word and everything like a home.
“Hey,” he says eventually, not opening his eyes. “Hungry?”
“You know it.”
“Pancakes?” He says it like a ritual and a joke.
“Always,” you answer, and he lets you go with the reluctance of a person leaving heat for cold.
He makes them by rote, clean and focused, flipping with a flick perfected on high wires and rooftops. You lean against the counter in his hoodie with bare legs and a bandage on your knee, and he leans an elbow next to you while the second batch bubbles, and he listens while you tell him about the man on the fire escape and the dog that wouldn’t stop barking. He tilts his head as you talk, watching your mouth, and when you stop, he doesn’t fill the silence with a joke. He just looks like he’s memorizing you again, and then he leans in, real slow, and wipes a dot of flour off your cheek with his thumb.
“Messy,” he says softly, as if he hasn’t used this exact excuse before.
“Manipulative,” you reply like you always do, but your voice is not a weapon anymore. It’s a wish.
He smiles in a way that doesn’t solve anything and solves everything. “Eat first,” he says gently, and slides a plate toward you, and it is the kindest thing anyone has ever said to you.
You eat. He eats. There are a thousand opportunities in the small minutes: the way he watches your mouth when you lick syrup off your fork, the way your knee slots between his when you turn to grab the maple bottle, the way he catches your wrist without looking when the plate starts to slide. None of them end you. All of them tilt the world a degree.
After, the sink runs and the sun yawns higher and you both exist in the exquisite torment of almost. He stands at the window with a mug, hair drying into messy curls, and you stand beside him with your shoulder brushing his and your pulse settling into something less frantic. You will spar tomorrow. You will lie again. You will sit in his lap in a car again like gravity is a decision. You will unzip and be unzipped; you will claim you are cold; you will be “just tired.” The line will thin to a wire. The wire will hum.
“Hey,” he says without turning his head.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for…being here.” The sincerity is naked enough to make you look away.
“Always,” you say. It’s not dramatic when you say it. It’s a weather report.
He takes your empty mug; his fingers slide over yours and stay a heartbeat too long. “Good,” he says softly, something satisfied and terrified braided together inside the word. “Good.”
You stand there, shoulder to shoulder, watching the city pretend at daylight, and you both pretend you aren’t already deciding where the next excuse will be made: a couch, a rooftop, the cradle of his bed. You both pretend you don’t know how inevitable this is, the slow, practiced choreography of two people inching toward a cliff with their eyes open.
Later, when you’re ankle-deep in rubber flooring and chalk again, he will take you down clean and pin your wrists above your head and your thigh will open under his palm like a ceremony. That is for later. For now, there is the quiet, the sugar crust of pancakes on your tongue, his hoodie around your shoulders, his shoulder against yours.
For now, there is the way his hand drifts, lazy yet reverent, to the small of your back and stays there, and how neither of you says a word about it, and how the silence between you is not empty at all. It’s full of everything you’ve decided not to do yet, heavy and sweet as the moment before a fall that you’ve rehearsed so well, you almost believe you can stop it.
Almost.
-
It’s a casual night in with the kind of ease that makes you brave enough to be stupid.
Pizza boxes on the coffee table, your socked feet under his thigh, a dumb movie you’ve both seen enough times to recite. He’s sprawled into your space like a cat who’s decided you’re furniture. Every time you reach for a slice, his knee knocks yours, and every time you complain about his terrible topping ratio, he steals your crust and grins at you like it’s a victory worth framing.
It starts as nothing. It always does.
“You going to hide behind that couch cushion all night?” he teases, reaching to yank it out of your arms.
“Depends,” you say, hugging it tighter. “You going to keep forcing me to watch a heist movie with three separate flashback montages?”
“It's called Cinema.” He lunges for the cushion; you twist, laughing, and it’s ridiculous that the sound alone could hook something low in him. "A peon like you wouldn't understand." He leans, you lean, the couch tips closer to mutiny.
“Richard John Grayson.”
“Give,” he says, delighted, and you clutch tighter, and suddenly you’re both twelve and also very much not twelve. His fingers skate around your wrists, warm and sure, and you should surrender the cushion, you should let him win this one, because what’s at stake isn’t fabric, isn’t teasing, isn’t even pride.
You don’t let go.
He’s giggling by then, actually giggling, helpless and bright, and it rattles your chest in a way you’ll be thinking about tomorrow. The pillow goes flying. Your hands are empty. His are not. His are everywhere you are, your wrists, your ribs, your knee as he nudges it with his to unseat your balance.
“You fight dirty,” you accuse, breath skittering.
“Mm,” he says, catching your wrists and pressing them to the couch above your head, eyes glittering with joy and something razor-bright beneath it, “says the girl who weaponized a couch cushion.”
“Maybe you should be nicer to me,” you say, trying for dry, landing on breathless.
“Maybe you should stop looking at me like that.”
“How?”
“Like you want to lose,” he says, and it’s a joke until it isn’t, his smile catching on the last word.
You buck to throw him off. He laughs, the triumphant bark of an acrobat landing a blind catch, and you use the burst of smugness against him, roll, shove, drag him down. He oofs. He lets you think you’ve got him, because he’s a menace, and then he flips you cleanly, like gravity is optional and you’re not.
"Still think I want to lose, Grayson?"
Your wrists hit pillow, then couch, then his hands. His hips slot between your thighs with practiced inevitability. He’s looking at your mouth, then your eyes, then your mouth again, and you’re laughing because you don’t know what else to do with your lungs.
“I love when you play tough, sweetheart,” he says, a little rough, a little too honest as he grins down at you, “when we both know how soft you really are.”
Your laugh drops right through the floor. Air thins. Light goes honey-thick. The movie keeps playing, someone’s sneaking through a vault; the score ticks like a clock, but the room’s center of gravity is here, under his hands, in your ribs, right where your pulse has decided to be embarrassingly loud.
“You’re a dick,” you manage, because it’s easier than yes.
“Uh-huh.” He tucks your wrists higher into one palm and, with criminal finesse, slides his other hand under your knee and hooks it up his hip. You open without thinking, a reflex trained by sparring, by a hundred couch collisions, by trust you didn’t mean to grow this tall. Your breath slips. His does, too.
“Careful,” you say, and you don’t know if you mean him or you or the thing you’ve both been pretending is a ledge and not the lip of a fall.
“Not tonight,” he says, so gentle you could cry.
He lowers, not pouncing, but folding down like a promise, like a curtain drop on everything you’ve not-said. His hips settle flush. It’s not training; your body knows the difference, knows it so immediately you almost laugh again, wild with relief and fear.
“Dick,” you say, warning and want braided into a single syllable.
He’s hard against you. There’s no pretending left in this exact geometry. It’s basic physics, proof written in heat and pressure. Your knee hooked high on his hip, his palm warm under the soft of your thigh, the maddening, perfect grind that happens when he breathes; you feel your own lie crumple like paper in rain as your cunt begins to ache.
He watches your face. You watch his. Both of you go very still. That stillness holds a yes so old it feels like your name.
You break first.
You tip your chin and kiss him.
There’s no test-peck in it, no polite “let’s see.” It’s teeth on a tightrope you’ve been walking on for months. It’s your hand in his hair, no finesse, just need, dragging him down. It’s the crackle of a fuse meeting spark. His mouth hits yours like he’s been falling for years and finally met ground. He gasps, gorgeous and helpless, and then he’s in it, gone, chasing the shape of you, moving his mouth when you move, answering when you open, swallowing the noise you didn’t know you make when relief stings.
It’s clumsy in the way all honest first kisses are. You both overshoot. Your teeth knock. Your nose bumps his cheek. He laughs, breath mixing with yours, and corrects the angle with a hand at your jaw, thumb at your hinge, and then, oh, then he kisses you like he knows a hundred languages and every one of them means I’m here.
You try to play coy. You’ve been trying to play coy for months. “Dick, no,” you murmur, dragging him closer by the hair, your mouth slanting, greedy, your body arching into him like it’s been waiting in a shadow for this exact light. “We can’t ruin our friendship,” you whine, and his name in your throat sounds nothing like no.
He smiles against your mouth, wrecked and fond. He’s shaking a little; adrenaline, restraint, you. “Your mouth may be lying,” he says, kissing the corner of it, then the bow of your top lip, then the soft center again, voice gone low and rough, “but your body is honest, baby. Tell me what you really want. If you want to stop, we stop.” He lifts his head enough to look at you when he says it, eyes blue and clear and steady even while he’s breathing like a man just pulled from a deep dive. “But if you want me… then take me.”
You don’t even pretend to think. You hook your free leg around his waist and tug, bold and shameless. “Stay,” you say, and it’s please and finally and yes all at once.
He kisses you like gratitude.
Clothes become problems to solve. He releases your wrists, not because he wants to, you think, but because he wants to see what you’ll do with the freedom. You show him. You tug at his t-shirt, palms sneaking underneath, spreading over the heat of his back. He goes very, very still, like a man letting a new kind of electricity build.
“Skin,” you say, quiet order, and he obeys it beautifully, whipping the shirt off in a thoughtless arc. He’s all lines and old stories, faded marks, a healed seam that your thumb finds like it’s written there for you. You clock it, reverent, and he watches your face as you trace it, something hungry and relieved flickering through his eyes at the care.
“You’re...” You break off, because there’s no non-ridiculous way to tell him he’s beautiful when he’s this close and this undone and smiling at you like you hung the moon crooked just to watch him fix it.
“So are you,” he says fiercely, and it lands like a palm to your sternum, startling you open. He tugs at your shirt and pauses. “Can I?”
You nod. He waits. You swallow. “Yes.”
It comes off slow. Not a tease, an inventory. He peels it over your head and breathes like the world just got brighter. His hands are warm where they frame your ribs, thumbs wide, gentle pressure that says mine without taking. “God,” he says, almost to himself. “I’m in so much trouble.”
“Me too,” you say, and the smile you manage is wobbly and real, and it kills him a little, and he kisses you for that, too.
The movie is a distant pulse now, explosions masquerading as a heartbeat. The couch is a rooftop with no wind. He brackets you with his arms and you sit up into him, chest to chest, mouth to mouth, thighs caging his hips as if you’ve always known how. His hand slides into your hair and you feel the strength check itself, feel him recalibrate to hold you like a thing that can break and has chosen not to. He kisses your jaw, your throat, the soft place below your ear, slow and shaking, as if he’s asking a thousand questions with his mouth, and you answer yes to every one.
“Tell me if you want to slow down,” he says, lips moving over your skin.
“Faster,” you say, and he laughs into your neck, dizzy and so stupidly in love with you.
When he pushes you back into the cushions, you go willingly, dragging him with you. It stops being play somewhere between the third kiss and the fifth; it stops being pretend when he groans, low, helpless, at the way you roll your hips up to meet him. You catch it like a prize and tuck it behind your tongue to listen to later. You feel him shudder, the hot, involuntary press of him through denim, and your body, honest as it is treacherous, answers in kind, arching, chasing, heat sparking against heat.
“Bedroom,” he manages, sounding like a man making a tactical decision in a firefight.
“Carry me then, punk,” you counter, and he tosses his head back and laughs like you’ve saved him from something.
He scoops you and stands, and you gasp because you weren’t ready to be that handled and that safe at once. He adjusts his grip once: one forearm under your knees, one palm flat to your back, your body tucked against his chest like a secret. “I’ve got you,” he says, a reflex that finally, blessedly, isn’t a lie.
“I know,” you say, because you do, because you always have, and your arms loop around his neck while your legs lock on his hips like you were designed for the job.
The hallway is dark except for streetlight slicing through blinds. You see your bodies in those stripes; his shoulders, your legs cinched around his hips, his jaw set high with the effort not to sprint. He nudges his bedroom door with a knee, and it swings, and you think the ridiculous thought that you’ve seen this room a hundred times but never like this, never with heat coiling tight under your skin and the smell of him crowding out gravity.
He sets you down on the edge of the bed like you’re both made of glass and gunpowder. You make fists in his belt loops and drag him forward because you are also made of floodwater and want. He leans, catches himself on his palms to keep from crushing you, and then seems to think better of that, because a heartbeat later he does the far more honest thing and lowers his weight onto you like a blanket you’ve been cold without. The sound you make is a swallowed cry. He answers it with your name.
“Look at me,” he says, soft command.
You do. His eyes are so blue they’re almost ridiculous. There’s a question in them so simple it aches: Are you here?
“Yes,” you say aloud, just in case.
“Good,” he says, like a prayer, like a curse, like both.
The tug-of-war happens right on schedule. Your brain does a panic sprint while your body builds a cathedral of yes. His mouth is on your collarbone, and you’re thinking about the first time he argued with you for fun, and the way he keeps spare gloves in his trunk in case you forget yours, and how he knows the exact shape of your laugh when you’re trying not to show your teeth. You think, We can’t ruin this. You think, It’s already different. You think, It’s already done.
“Dick,” you say, and your voice has the frayed edge of someone trying to put the brakes on a train they already jumped. “We can’t...”
“We already did,” he says, lifting his head, mouth red, smile devastated and devastating. He presses his forehead to yours. “We did the second you sat on my lap in that stupid car and didn’t move away. Maybe before that. Maybe the first night you fell asleep on my chest and drooled on my hoodie and I wanted to keep the stain.” His breath shakes. “If you want me to stop, I will. I mean it.” His thumb traces your cheekbone, the gentlest line. “But if you’re stopping because you’re scared, then let me be scared with you.”
“Romantic,” you mutter, which is not what you meant to say. What you meant was I am terrified because I have loved you so long I forgot I was doing it.
He grins, slow and brilliant. “Stick with me. I can get worse.”
“You’re impossible,” you breathe.
“I’m yours,” he says, and for once it sounds easy.
The part of you that was ready to fight relaxes a degree you didn’t know you had. You tuck your face into his neck and inhale the clean salt of his skin, the faint bite of the lotion he uses on his hands, the heat rising off him like a weather system. “Okay,” you whisper into him. “Stay.”
He does.
What follows is messy and perfect. Years collapse into minutes; minutes stretch out like a wire you balance across with no net. Clothes come off too fast and not fast enough. He fumbles a button that pops and skitters under the bed like it’s embarrassed to watch. You both laugh, a sharp burst of relief that burns down to something hungrier.
Every inch of you revealed, he kisses like it’s an exam he’s been studying for, cataloging each new patch of skin with a reverence that only makes you ache harder. You slide trembling fingers under the waistband of his jeans, pausing there, not coy now, not pretending, just gathering the nerve to cross the last line. He takes your hand and presses his mouth to your knuckles, soft, steady, as if to say I’ve got you.
Your throat is dry but your voice isn’t. “Take these off,” you whine, yanking at the denim.
He grins, all heat and mischief. “Finally admitting you want in my pants. Took you long enough.”
“Shut up,” you snap, cheeks burning despite the bravado. Your fingers don’t stop pulling.
He slides down to your jaw, kisses a slow trail between your words. “Say it,” he murmurs, breath hot. “Tell me what you want, baby. Use your words.”
“You,” you answer, blunt and raw, tugging him lower until his hips press into yours. “Inside me. Now.”
Something breaks in him, a low, raw sound that isn’t laughter and isn’t quite a curse. His forehead presses against yours. “Christ,” he breathes. “You’re so hot baby.”
“Did you just figure that out?" You tease, the whisper sharp with want.
His hand cups your face, thumb stroking your cheek like he’s holding you steady. His eyes search yours, burning. “Hey. Look at me. You with me?”
“Yes.” It rushes out of you, desperate and true. “Yes. I need you.” You stammer, caught on the words, embarrassed.
He nudges your nose with his, grinning through the hunger like it’s breaking him apart. “Don’t hide from me now,” he murmurs, thumb brushing across your lip. “Say it. Tell me what you want me to do to you.”
“Dick,” you whine, tugging his hair to bring him closer, lips brushing his. “Fuck me. Please.”
His smile wrecks itself into something darker, needier. “That’s my girl. God, I’ve been dying to hear you say that.”
He sheds the last of his clothes with the efficiency of a man who’s been waiting years. You shiver when he finally presses against you, hot and hard, the blunt weight of him making your stomach twist with want. He hovers, teasing, just nudging against your entrance, smirking down at you as you squirm.
“Patience,” he rasps, though his own hips twitch forward like he can’t take it. “I want to feel all of this. I want to burn every second into my memory.”
You hook your legs higher around his waist, dragging him closer with reckless force. “Then don’t waste time remembering. You can have me as many times as you want,” you whisper against his mouth. “So please, just fuck me.”
The groan that rips out of him is all answer, no hesitation. He slides into you slowly, steadily, inch by inch until he’s seated deep, until your body clenches around him like it’s been waiting, until you can’t breathe for the stretch and the relief of being filled.
“Oh, fuck,” he groans against your throat, teeth grazing your skin. “You feel...God, you feel so good.”
“Move,” you gasp, clutching at his back, nails digging crescents into muscle. “Please, Dick, move.”
He does, shallow at first, careful, testing; then, when your moans break free and you meet his hips with your own, he thrusts harder, deeper, the rhythm finding you both like a song you’ve been humming under your breath for years.
The world narrows to sensation: the burn and slick of him inside your tight cunt, the weight of his chest pressing you into the mattress, the press of his nose to your cheek when he laughs breathlessly into your open mouth. Your calf drags a streak up the back of his thigh; his hand fists in your hair as if he can’t keep himself from anchoring there. You say his name over and over, your voice cracking with it, and he answers with yours, gasping it like devotion.
“Tell me again,” he rasps, hips snapping into yours. “Tell me what you want.”
“You,” you moan, tugging him closer, clutching at him like he’s air. “Harder. God, don’t ever stop, baby.”
“Never,” he vows, driving into you with desperate precision, the headboard rattling in time with your breathless cries. “Not stopping, baby. Not when you’re like this. Not when you’re finally mine.”
And then, even with his body shaking from the strain of holding back, he tips your chin, gentle as a vow. He pulls almost all the way out, only leaving in the blunt, fat head of his tip. With shallow rolls of his hips, his eyes lock on yours, blue and wrecked, the question shining clear in them. Are you sure?
“Yes,” you gasp, nails dragging down the sculpted lines of his back, trying to rock your hips up to take him deeper into the cradle of your hips, but he tips his hips back farther, making you chase him. You feel so empty, so aching to be filled again, and he's so cruel to not let you have it. “Dick, please. I’ve never been more sure.”
The groan that rips from his chest is low, ruined, and then he finally gives in, sliding into you fully again, slow at first, until your breath hitches, until your body opens around him like you were made to fit. The stretch has you clutching at him, heels locking at the small of his back to drag him deeper, closer, until there’s no air left between you.
His forehead knocks against yours, sweat-slick, his mouth hovering over yours as he grinds in deep. The sound he makes borders on a sob. “God, fuck, I love you,” he blurts, voice breaking against your lips like he can’t hold it back any longer.
The words steal your breath more than the thrust. For a second you forget how to move, how to do anything but stare at him, wide-eyed, as the confession trembles between you. His face twists like he regrets it, like it slipped, like it’s too much, until you catch his jaw, drag him into a kiss that tastes of salt and fire.
“I love you too,” you choke out against his mouth, raw and unguarded, the words shaking from you like they’ve been locked up too long. “I...God, Dick, I love you.”
The relief that breaks across his face is brighter than pain, sharper than pleasure. He thrusts harder, messier, burying his groan in your neck. “Say it again,” he pleads, rhythm stuttering as if the words themselves undo him more than your body ever could.
“I love you,” you moan, legs tightening around his waist, dragging him in deeper, clutching him like you’ll never let him go. “I love you, I love you.”
Your name leaves his throat like prayer and curse, gasping it with every push, every frantic kiss. He looks wrecked, undone, and so completely yours.
The pleasure coils fast, unbearable; you clutch him tighter, arching up to meet him stroke for stroke, and when it snaps, when you cry out against his mouth, he follows instantly, shuddering with you, your confessions still tumbling between gasps and kisses.
It’s not clean, not polite, not quiet. It’s broken laughter tangled with moans, your bodies clinging so tight you can’t tell which heart is racing faster. It’s I love you punched into every kiss, every thrust, every ragged breath; no excuses left, no walls standing.
The city keeps breathing outside, uncaring. But in here, the only truth that matters is this: his body shuddering into yours, your nails raking down his spine, the sound of your names and your love ricocheting through the dark like something you’ll never be able to take back; something you’ll never want to.
-
You don’t register time passing so much as you register the return of weight: your arm heavy over his bare chest, your naked thigh thrown across his, his breath slowing from frantic to steady. The room smells like sex and citrus. The movie is long finished, the TV in the living room a low blue glow throwing a pale border around the bedroom door.
He’s on his back. You’re half on him, half off, cheek pressed to the warm rise of his chest. Your skin feels reorganized along new fault lines. He strokes your hair in slow, distracted passes, like he’s reassuring his fingers that you won’t vanish now that the words are out.
“Hey,” he says finally, voice rough but glowing with relief. “You okay?”
You’d meant to play it cool, but honesty is all you have left. “Yeah,” you breathe, then add, quieter, “I’m good.” Your voice cracks on the word. “Are you?”
He tips his chin to look at you. The smile that takes his mouth is stunned and private, like he’s just confirmed he didn’t imagine any of it. “I just told you I love you,” he says, still a little dazed. “And you said it back. So yeah. I’m…better than okay.”
The confession still hovers between you like a live wire, but instead of fear, it feels like a light left on.
You laugh softly, shaky. “We’re idiots.”
“The absolute worst,” he agrees, brushing his lips against your temple. “Took us this long to say it out loud.”
“We should’ve done this months ago.”
“Years,” he corrects instantly, then grimaces, half-guilty. “Too much?”
You nudge his ribs with your nose, smiling into his skin. “Not even close.”
“Good.” His hand curls at the base of your skull. He kisses your hair, then your temple, then, unable to stop himself, the bridge of your nose where it leads to your mouth. The pleased little sound he makes when you tilt up and meet him there is enough to make your chest ache. The kiss is slower now, exploratory, your teeth barely grazing his bottom lip before his tongue brushes yours. You tangle your hand in his hair because you can and because he likes it, and he hums like a man who’s just been handed everything he ever wanted.
“Are we going to be weird about this?” you whisper, still close enough to feel his smile.
“Probably,” he admits, breath warming your mouth. “But only a little. And only together.” His tone shifts softer, more serious. “We’ll figure it out. Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” you echo, relieved that you both picked the same word.
He yawns, the kind of ridiculous, whole-face yawn that turns into a laugh halfway through. It’s absurd. It’s home. “You’re staying,” he says at last, not an order, not a question, just a fact.
“Again with the telling me what to do,” you murmur, already curling closer.
“Keep talking and next time, I’ll make you beg for me to tell you what to do.” He shoots back with a grin, voice dropping low. You laugh, breath catching on the heat curling low, because even here, wrapped in blankets and afterglow, he still knows how to make you shake with a single promise.
He tugs the blanket higher over your shoulders. You decide to be cruel and tuck your cold feet between his calves. He yelps, then clamps his legs around yours like a trap, fake-outraged. “Unbelievable.”
“Love me,” you say, no disguise this time, not a joke, just the truth.
“Obviously,” he answers without hesitation, so easy you have to bite your lip to keep from crying again.
“Dick?”
“Yeah?”
“If I drool on you, you can't complain.”
He chuckles, warm and low. “Never have, never will.”
His fingers keep tracing lazy lines over your shoulder, down your arm, across your side. You follow the rhythm down into sleep. You dream, finally, of nothing dangerous: no wire strung over a city, just music around you, the patient weight of his palm at your spine, keeping you without ever holding you back.
When you wake to the pale blue of morning, he’s already awake, watching you with the softest, stupidest smile. You open your mouth to say something clever, but he beats you to it, whispering, “Hi,” like you’re a secret he gets to keep.
“Hi,” you whisper back, and because it’s too late to pretend, you lift your hand to his cheek. Because it’s too late to be scared alone, you let him catch your wrist and kiss your palm like a vow.
You both lie there suspended in the quiet. Then he clears his throat, trying for casual and failing adorably. “So. Pancakes?”
“Always,” you answer, watching his face light up for the hundredth time and somehow also the first. He grins, steals another kiss because he can, and when he finally rolls out of bed you let your eyes linger, greedy, sated, and his.
You think of the imaginary line you both tiptoed for so long. You think of how simple it was, in the end, to just step over it. You think of the words you’ll use later to make this feel ordinary and also precious. And you think, we’ll be fine, because you’re lucky and greedy and not wrong.
From the kitchen comes the sound of cabinets, the low hum of the stovetop, his tuneless whistle. You sink back into the warm dent he left and smile at the ceiling like an accomplice.
★ SYNOPSIS: Contrary to popular belief, Dick's not stupid. He's seen the way his own brother looks at you—the way Jason's very eyes seem to light up when you're in the room—and he. fucking. hates. it.
★ TAGS: jealousy, established relationship, possessive behaviour, his brother is crushing on his girl—let him be a bit possessive guys, background!jason todd x dick's gf!reader, oblivious!reader, love triangle
★ A/N: ugh guys, i'm such a sucker for the guy into his brother's gf trope it's not even funny. the angst potential is through the roof. anyway, this is technically part two to this oneshot but it can be read as its own separate thing!!
line divider by @cafekitsune
Now, Dick likes to think of himself as a reasonable sort of guy.
When Wally pranks him, he laughs it off with nothing but a big smile and a wave of his hand. When Babs lectures him, he chuckles sheepishly and all but promises to do better next time. When Bruce decides to be particularly difficult while working with him, he clenches his jaw and shoves all his annoyance back down the pit it came from before continuing on like it never bubbled out in the first place.
So yeah, all in all, Dick's a pretty reasonable guy—
—except, of course, when it comes to you.
In particular, when it comes to the way his brother looks at you.
He isn't blind. He's seen it. The way Jason's eyes seem to have all the life flood back into them the moment they land on you; the way his hands seem to twitch after you finish tending to his wounds and pull away, as though desperate to pull you back in.
Dick's seen it and he doesn't like it.
In fact, he fucking hates it.
It makes his skin crawl; has spiders flood his veins like he's an island straight after a tsunami, like he's an abandoned house in the middle of nowhere. Still standing. Still hoping. Still praying.
Perhaps for the moment he doesn't have to come home to his little brother eye-fucking his girl.
Dick's gaze narrows, sharpening straight into a blade ready to slice through skin. "Oh hey, didn't realise we had company."
Your lips turn up at the sight of him, and his eyes soften just a bit. "Dick! You're home!"
Then his lips curve up for a split second, only to immediately fall flat the very next one as movement catches the corner of his eye.
Jason shifts in his spot on the couch next to you, gaze darting to the side like he just got caught doing something he shouldn't be.
Something like flirting with his brother's girlfriend.
"Jay came over with an injury, so I'm just patching it up for him."
Dick hums, eyes leaving you in favour of narrowing again at his brother. "He seems to be doing that a lot more lately."
Jason refuses to meet his eyes.
"I know." You frown. "I'm really worried."
Ever the kind heart, you truly don't see what's really going on here, do you?
"Babe," Dick starts, reverting his attention towards you and letting his lips curve up once more, "do you think you can make me some of your special tea? My throat's a bit sore."
Immediately, you get up from your position on the couch, moving towards him so swiftly and with such care, he can't help but flash his gaze to the man behind you and let his lips quirk up just a tad bit more.
"Oh no... I told you to start wearing a scarf out. Winter's right around the corner."
You move to graze a hand over his throat, your brows scrunched in that sweet way they always are when you're concerned for him, and suddenly, as his hands slip right around your waist and he pulls you close, all he sees is you.
"I know, I know." He chuckles, squeezing your hips. "I'll wear one next time. Promise."
He won't, but he can't bring himself to turn you down.
Your lips tug down, almost as if you know this, know him (because you're his girlfriend, not Jason's), but you ultimately leave it alone, pulling away to head to the kitchen.
But then Dick catches the way his brother looks at you—that stupid puppy dog-eyed look Jason probably doesn't even realise he's doing—and he moves to catch your arm again, pulling you straight into a kiss.
Your eyes widen at first, but then you melt into him, and he's making his way into your mouth with his tongue, and you're pulling away not a moment later in both surprise and your own fluster.
A string of saliva is the only evidence that you two were connected further than just an innocent peck. But it's all the evidence he needs as he flicks his gaze back to his brother, sitting there now with a slight frown on his face.
"Dick," you scold him halfheartedly, lips curved up a little at the corners. "Not in front of your brother."
He only smirks back at you, causing you to roll your eyes and pull away to head to the kitchen, mumbling something under your breath and smiling all the while.
As soon as you're gone however, his smirk falls flat.
The room is quiet, a special kind of quiet, one you can cut through with a knife. The tense kind.
Dick's gaze is piercing through Jason, and Jason's is nowhere near Dick's.
How telling.
The older man crosses his arms, and just like that, the silence is shattered.
"So," he starts in a drawl almost too casual for the circumstance, "when were you gonna tell me you're into my girl?"
"Don't know what you're talking 'bout."
Dick scoffs. "Really?"
"Yeah, really."
His jaw ticks, teeth grinding so hard he's worried they'll shatter as Jason still makes no move to return his gaze.
"I'm not blind, Jason," he tries again in a near growl, "I've seen the way you look at her."
This time it's Jason's turn to scoff, and he finally turns his head to meet Dick's own. "Oh yeah? And how's that?"
How do I look at her? he adds with just his eyes.
"Like you want her," Dick shoots back quickly. "Like you love her."
Jason sits up a little, and now it's his turn to narrow his gaze at his brother. "So what if I do?"
At that moment, Dick feels something white, hot, and dangerously close to flames riddle his veins, and suddenly, shattering his teeth is the least of his worries.
"So, she's my girlfriend," he hisses through gritted teeth. "So, you back. off."
Jason scoffs again, but Dick doesn't let him get another word in, the older brother narrowing his gaze into slits as he takes a step forward in a silent warning.
"I want you out of my fucking house by the time she gets back."
Jason stands up. "Or what?"
Another flash of white hot flames.
"Or I'll fucking beat your feelings for her out of you."
The two of them stand there, nothing but tense silence filling the gap between them for a few long moments.
Then Jason lets out another scoff, and he passes by Dick with a particularly harsh shove that has the older man's mouth opening up to speak again before he can stop himself.
"Oh, and do us both a favour: lose her number and start getting someone else to patch you up."
summary: falling in love with each other was easy—a little too easy. after a series of dates and getting to know the other better, it was only a matter of time, right? no longer able to hold it in, dick finds himself desperate and decides that tonight will not end until he gets to walk home with a kiss, from you.
notes: 4.1k words…. fluff!! with a side of nasty kissing, dick is absolutely fed up and DESPERATE, reader has never had a boyfriend before so dick is the very first guy you’ve ever been with. so many feelings and love and yearning you guys are so obsessed with each other its genuinely DISGUSTING. but dick is like way worse because at least half of this is him yearning for you,,,, also a lot of making out...dick literally eats ur face. all the dialogue is later in gomenasorry. written with black reader in mind >0<
Dick Grayson was on a mission. Tonight’s date, he decided, was going to be extra special than usual. Why, you ask? Because tonight, he was going to secure his kiss from you—poor, unsuspecting, you.
Tonight marked the 8th date you guys have gone on ever since your first meeting at a late-night convenience store around the corner of his apartment, where the once peaceful environment was interrupted by a measly burglar waving his gun around with arrogance and the demand of money.
It was the one night when Dick wasn’t in costume and was nursing a severely bruised body from a villain he had encountered two days earlier. The situation irritated him even more than he already was—Bruce was still chewing his ass out over a case that he was working on; he still needed to go to work with his bruised body because he can’t exactly let them know what violent activities he’s up to at night and his injuries—now this.
So it’s an understatement when saying the burglar was dealt with easily and quickly, as Dick was able to disarm him before the man could even take another step towards another innocent customer—someone Dick learned later was you.
The anticlimactic moment ended with the man scrambling out of the store with much less confidence than before, the store clerk shakily thanking Dick with the promise of free items of his choice tonight and the next time he comes in. Accepting the gratitude, Dick was ready to go home with the multitude of free items in his grocery bag--until he spotted you.
Standing near the entrance, dressed in sweatpants about twice your actual size with a hoodie you were equally drowned in, Dick found you absolutely radiant. He wasn’t someone who believed in love at first sight beforehand, but now? Certainly, this is what it means.
It took him a few seconds of silence and staring at you with an open mouth, like a goldfish for him to realize that you were speaking to him, and just like the store clerk. you were thanking him profusely for saving you from the gun that was previously pointed to you. Dick can't remember what happened after that. But he does remember walking out of the store a happy man, your phone number having found its way into his phone.
Back in the present, Dick knew that maybe 8 dates was a little too much to come to this decision; after all, for him it was only on date number 2 that he knew he wanted you, badly. But he knew he had to be patient, especially after you revealed that you’ve never been in a relationship—or on a date at all. It was for this reason that he decided to take things slow and wait for a sign that you wanted him too.
By now, he’s reached his limit.
Every other date you’ve had prior to this had been more casual: going out for coffee, the arcade, movie nights at his place (more often yours because he absolutely adores your cat, mocha), grocery shopping together, and going for a stroll in Melville Park to walk Haley, his adorable pitbull you fell in love with.
Tonight, Dick took you to a nice restaurant with tables reserved on its rooftop. He knew you weren’t someone who frequented fancy restaurants too often, so he found a solid one just in between fancy and casual.
Dinner was going well, and you were absolutely perfect. He’d told you beforehand to come wearing a blue outfit, and the dress you wore had surpassed his expectations so much that he considered dropping down on one knee right then and there before ever asking you to be his girlfriend, if it wasnt apparent just how much it affected him seeing that colour on you with his lovesick gaze the entire night.
The dress you’re wearing is dark blue silk, the kind of colour that shifts like midnight water under the lighting of the restaurant's stringed lights. It drapes across your frame in a way that seems deliberate, highlighting your curves, and Dick feels his mouth dry at how it complements your brown skin—like the colour was meant to be worn by you, and you alone.
The glow of your upper body lets him know of the shea butter you’d rubbed on yourself, your legs that slip through the slit sharing the same glow.
The matching gold jewelry you wear and the updo you’ve done with your curls make him fight demons he never even knew he had, wanting to jump over the table to show you how much he loves you.
It truly doesn’t help how much he’s reminded of his Nightwing costume every time he looks at you.
He finds himself murmuring more compliments than usual because he can’t contain how much it moves him. The blue that once belonged only to his suit now belongs to you too, and he adores it—adores you—in a way he can’t keep from showing.
Dick finds himself craving dessert earlier than usual.
But he knows he has to act accordingly; he can’t afford to scare you away. So he does what he’s best at and eyes you with a disgustingly lovesick, yearning look as if he’s some schoolboy with his very first crush for the entire night as you guys chat over dinner.
He pays even closer attention to you than ever (if that’s even possible), maintaining intense eye contact with every word delivered in the air, squeezing your manicured hand (that has the nails he paid for) while you excitedly share the plot of the most recent book you read last weekend, and feeding you some of the food he’s ordered (you protested against stealing his food, but he insisted, claiming, “It’s my duty to feed you.” how do you even respond to that?).
Overall, dinner was perfect. He thinks this is the best date you guys have been on so far, as after dinner he surprises you with tickets to the movie he remembers you wanted to see when it came out.
What a coincidence that today happens to be its release date, and the happy squeal it pulled from you once he revealed the surprise made the rest of his year, he thinks. It’s something he could listen to on repeat for hours and never get sick of.
As the night got darker and you got tired, Dick knew it was time to take you home. As much as he’d love for this night to continue, he doesn’t want to keep you up later than you’re used to.
It brings you both to his car, pulling up into the neighbourhood of your apartment complex, the car filled with a comfortable silence as you gaze out to the passing buildings. His jacket covers your previously bare shoulders during the car ride after he’d noticed the goosebumps rising on your skin (he wouldn’t quit sulking at the fact that you didn’t tell him anything about you being cold and forced you inside his jacket desite your protests).
Parked in front of your building, you unbuckled your seatbelt and grabbed your purse, ready to thank him for tonight once again and wish him a goodnight—before you were surprised with him unbuckling himself and turning off the engine. He paused his actions when he spotted your questioning stare.
“What? You thought I was gonna let you walk up there alone? Absolutely not,” Dick huffed, quickly circling around the car to open your door and making space for you as you stepped out. “What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t walk you to your door? I need to make sure you make it inside safely, you know.”
Normally you would’ve been your own ride home (he’s never liked it but agreed if it made you happy), but Dick insisted that he’s the one who drives you home this time.
Dick walks you into your building, already knowing his way around from past visits, and unlocks the lobby’s door with his own copy of your keys, then leads you further into the elevators with a hand on your back that’s still covered by his jacket.
It’s almost pathetic how during the entire elevator ride, the two of you are stealing glances at each other—oblivious of the other person’s nervous shifting. Dick knows that it’s tonight that he gets that kiss from you.
At last, when having reached your door, it’s as though the once simmering tension has announced its presence, and settles in the air between the two of you. As you turn to face him with your back to your door, he gives you a soft smile that lets butterflies rise in your stomach, the warm orange lighting that complements his tanned skin doing nothing to help.
If anything, it makes whatever you’re feeling worse, and you don’t know if you can keep acting oblivious to your true feelings.
“I had a really great time,” his voice snaps you out of your thoughts, your full attention back on him, “And I really loved our conversations tonight. I'd love to do something like this again, with you.” His tone at the end has a hopeful implication. He hopes he doesn’t come off as too desperate, but part of him can’t get himself to care.
He thinks now would be the perfect time for that kiss, but he doesn’t want to pressure you. Dick knows it would kill him to ruin what you guys have, and this might be the most nervous he’s ever been in his entire life.
“Yeah?” You ask with a hint of shyness, holding your hands behind your back. “Thank you, Dick. I had a really great time with you tonight, too. The movie made me really happy and...I’m glad you remembered that small detail.”
Dick feels his heart practically melting at the sound of your voice. Your obvious nervousness only boosts his confidence in what he plans on doing, and he can’t get over how much he loves your voice. You’re so adorable. He thinks to himself.
His next smile is a lot more dorky, cheeks warm with his dimples coming out to reveal themselves. It’s your favourite feature on him, right after his blue, blue eyes, you think. You both feel like high schoolers again with a pathetic crush. “Nothing you tell me is ever small.”
He’s taken aback by how fond he let that come out of his mouth, but he decides it’s worth it when your eyes avert down to your feet—flustered. It’s his favourite look on you.
But he knows just like this isn’t enough. This thought leads him to slowly reach for your arms behind your back, gently uncrossing them while his hands trail down to hold your own. He searches your eyes for any discomfort before intertwining them, when having found none, his calloused palms swallow your smaller, softer ones. The contrast does nothing but make his heart beat faster.
It’s when you look up at him with wide, glimmering dark eyes filled with hope and a drop of insecurity that it clicks—you are the woman he wishes to share his life with.
You’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t have a crush on him. It was impossible not to, with his easygoing grin that you’ve observed goes toe to toe with the sun itself. With each action done with careful consideration of you, with each compliment given, with each laugh he’s pulled out of you, with each dinner cooked together, with each night spent on his fire escape with shoulders touching– each day learning about what makes you, you.
It was too easy falling in love with Dick Grayson.
And that scared you.
Similarly to Dick, it was around the third date that you knew you wanted something blooming between you.
Love. What a strange concept for a girl who’s never fallen in love.
You find that the only reason why you hadn’t initiated anything further with him is because you’re unsure if this is how the process goes. Along with the slight insecurity of slipping up if you did, with Dick having more experience than you did. Soon those worries disappeared, because Dick had done nothing but soothe them.
Every moment where you felt as though you needed to initiate anything physical beyond what you were used to, he noticed, and every anxious thought was blown away with a simple reassuring smile.
He never said more than a quiet, “It’s okay,” because to him it was always about your comfort before anything.
He’s never made you feel forced to do anything, content to lead you through each encounter until you found the moment you were ready.
You realize as soon as he holds your hands in his—he’s the one for you.
Dick chuckles softly at the look in your eye and squeezes your hands gently. His blue eyes, nearly swallowed up by his dilated pupils, are fixed on yours, studying your reaction with an intensity that makes you want to squirm. He can feel how warm your skin is and his heart feels like it could pop out of his chest.
With a deep breath, Dick takes another step closer, now only inches apart. He lifts a hand to lift your chin ever-so-slightly, making you tilt your head up to meet his gaze. Dark eyes meet blue.
You swallow thickly as your eyes remain locked on each other, feeling his other hand move down to your waist. His expression is so vulnerable and raw as he looks down at you, and you think you might throw up from nerves alone. Your eyes water as these thoughts circle through your mind.
It doesn’t take detective skills to read you like a book. He can tell what you’re thinking. He knows the reason you’re unsure as you begin shaking in his arms. His thumb traces slow circles against your jaw, coaxing you to relax. He hopes you can’t hear how fast his heart is beating, how he’s memorizing the sound of your soft breaths.
The two of you are the only ones in the hallway at the risk of being seen by neighbours, but neither of you can find it in you to care.
"You okay?" He murmurs softly, searching your face with those impossibly blue eyes. There's no teasing now–just genuine care and something achingly tender beneath it all. "I can... we can stop if—"
(But the way he lingers shows he really doesn’t want to stop.)
"No!" you interject louder than intended to, freezing when you realized ust how loud that came out. A surprised laugh bubbles out of him at your sudden outburst, the sound warm and so fond. That adorable reaction just makes him squeeze you a tiny bit closer.
"N—no, I... this is okay. I'm okay." You finish softly, heart aching for more. You’re incredibly greedy when it comes to his touch, and you don’t feel a drop of shame for it.
"Good," he murmurs, leaning in until his forehead brushes yours—so close you can feel his breath against your lips. His free hand lifts to cradle your cheek now, thumb sweeping beneath your eye to catch that traitorous wetness before it falls.
"Because I really wanna kiss you right now," he admits in a whisper, grinning that stupid lopsided grin that makes your stomach flip. "But only if you really want me to."
Your heart almost stutters to a stop, and your gaze is consumed by nothing but want. Your pupils were almost as blown as his, and the way the wind blows, tussling at his wavy hair, drives you crazy. You melt against him as your foreheads touch, letting out a shaky breath.
It’s as you lose yourself in the pool of his impossibly blue eyes that you realize death doesn't scare you if it's by drowning in his eyes.
You lean into his warm palm, memorizing the sweet scent of his cologne. You give your answer in a hushed tone, as though sharing a secret that's to remain between the two of you alone. "I really wanna kiss you, too."
It sends a shiver down his spine. Holy smokes, he thinks to himself. You look like a dream.
The world seems to melt away as he gazes down at you with an intensity that is both gentle and smoldering. Dick can feel your breath on his lips, and it drives him insane.
"Damn," he mutters roughly, his voice suddenly raw with emotion, "you're going to be the death of me."
It's the only time he'll use the Lord's name in vain.
Just like that, he can't hold back any longer. The dam breaks, and he closes the last meager distance between the two of you, capturing your mouth in a deep, starved kiss.
A cut off gasp is swallowed by his lips, your eyes tightly shutting closed as your lips lock with his— and you feel alive. This is your very first kiss, and it's one you will never forget.
Dick’s arms circle your waist completely, pulling you flush against his body as his one hand slides up your spine until his fingers thread into your hair, tilting your head back as he kisses you with everything he has.
If it weren't for his arms holding you up, your knees would have buckled. He can feel how your body shakes with nerves and anticipation against his lips, and he can’t resist brushing his tongue over your bottom lip, groaning at the rewarding whimper he gets.
The smack of your lips is nasty; after each smack comes the sound of a deep groan which then triggers a breathy whine. Your blood is rushing to your head, and you think you might die. You’re suddenly immensely grateful for living on a nearly empty floor.
DIck groans low in his throat when he feels your grip tighten on his dress shirt, like you’re terrified he might pull away. As if he would ever want to. His tongue teases along your bottom lip again—asking without words.
His other hand drops from your chin to squeeze your hip possessively, fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp against his mouth.
"Sweetheart," he murmurs between feverish kisses, voice wrecked already, "c'mon, open up for me."
That tone—half praise and half demand—sends a bolt of heat straight through you. Holy shit. You’re embarrassed at the mewl that escapes you at the pet name. Please call me that again, please, please—
It's almost instantaneous that you open your mouth, giving his tongue access. The pleased chuckle that escapes him makes your entire body flare up in warmth. It felt good, getting his approval.
Dick takes full advantage of your obedience, the kiss turning downright filthy as he explores your mouth, his tongue coaxing against yours in the most distracting way. He groans again, a hungry, guttural sound that reverberates through his chest. He has to have more of you.
"Dick—" you whine against his lips as the smacking of lips circles around the small, dark quiet hallway. You find out just how easy it is to forget your surroundings when Dick Grayson is all-consuming in your mind, and on your lips.
The sound of his name on your lips grows his greed, wanting to own every gasp and whine and whimper you make. When your tongue brushes against his, something ignites in him, some feral, possessive feeling that makes his skin burn. You're so cute; he feels like a starved animal.
He pulls away with a wet sound, breathing heavily against your lips and resting his forehead against yours. He can feel your heart racing. He presses one last desperate peck to your lips.
"God," he mumbles raggedly, "you're doing things to me, sweetheart."
"I d-didn't do anything," you pant quietly, catching your breath as a string of drool remains between the two of you—your eyes half-lidded.
Dick stares at your face, taking in your flushed cheeks, the way you pant, and that adorable little strand of drool—God, he is so obsessed with you it isn't even funny.
His hands roam your body, one still gripping your hip and the other sliding up to cup your cheek, his calloused thumb tracing your kiss-swollen bottom lip, wiping away the wetness. You resist the urge to take his thumb in your mouth where it sits against your lip.
"Baby, look at you," he murmurs, gaze darkening as he looks down at you. "I could eat you alive right now." His comment makes you squawk. "Please don't," you sigh weakly, a protesting frown on your lips.
"I won't," he murmurs between nips and pecks along your jaw, "not unless you ask very nicely." He punctuates it with a slow drag of his teeth against your pulse point before pulling away just enough to see the reaction on your face.
His fingers tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear as his expression softens into something warmer—something more like home. "But I should probably get going before I actually do something reckless."
Oh. Yeah.
"You should..." You realize sadly that as much as you wanted to stay out longer with him, you couldn't risk getting in trouble with your roommate. "I wish you didn't have to," you murmur sadly, looking down at your heels.
His face falls for a second, reading the disappointment in your tone instantly. Dick pulls you back into a tight hug, pressing his lips to the top of your head before sighing dramatically.
"Ugh, don't look at me like that," he whines, squeezing you lightly as he rests his chin on your head. "You're gonna make me stay. And then I'll have to explain to your roommate why I'm camped out on your doorstep like some lovesick stray."
You couldn’t resist the giggle at his comment, equally wrapping your arms around him. You’re overwhelmed and also not whelmed (heh, yj ref) enough by his scent. “I would've let you stay the night like usual, but she just came back from vacation. Sorry, Dick.”
He only sulks above you, letting out one last dramatic sigh. He’s as dramatic as ever. “It’d be easier if I could just bring you back to mine,” Dick huffs enviously. “If only life were so easy.”
“You talk like I won’t just see you soon, silly. I promised Haley treats.”
“So you only like me for my dog?”
“Crap, you caught me...” you grin, unbothered
He lets out an undignified squawk, your laughther following up with the dramatics.
“To be fair, she’s super adorable. I can’t resist her eyes; she’s just a baby!”
“I’ll have you know, I was the one who trained her. Her cuteness is a direct reflection of me.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “Fine, fine. Maybe I like you a little too.
Dick beams instantly, smug as ever. “I knew it.”
He pulls back just enough to cup your face again—and this time, there's no joking in those stupidly blue eyes. Just something painfully sincere.
"But I’ll see you soon? Like… really soon?" His thumb traces the apple of your cheek hopefully.
You nod eagerly, returning his hopeful smile with a tender one of your own. “Yeah...I’d like that.” You confess quietly, holding his hand against your cheek.
His smile brightens immediately, boyish and so unfairly charming. You hate him. "Good," he murmurs, pressing one last lingering kiss to your forehead before finally—reluctantly—stepping back.
Dick walks backwards to the elevator like an idiot, unable to tear his eyes away from you. "And hey," he adds with a grin that promises trouble, fingers tapping against his chest where his heart is still racing. "You did this to me."
You can’t resist a laugh at his antics, pulling out your keys from your purse as he gets closer to the elevator. You grin like a lovesick teenager—you both do. “I sure did, Golden Boy. Call me when you get home?”
“Always,” he promises, taking a moment to admire your glowing figure under the warm lighting. He stuffs his hands in his pockets to keep himself from walking back over and hauling you into his arms again.
It’s when you unlock your door and give him one last smile that he dramatically blows you a kiss, his heart warming even further when you playfully catch it.
Dick’s grin softens one last time, pausing as the elevator doors open. “Goodnight, baby.” He tells you. You parrot after him. “Goodnight, Dickie.” Only you know how much that nickname makes his heart flutter.
And then—just like that—you disappear into your apartment.
(you only realize minutes later thanks to your roommate that you completely forgot to hand back his jacket. when mentioning this to dick he only laughs and tells you to keep it as a souvenir.)
dont forgot to like & reblog! thank you for reading. <3
Not in a funny way. Not in a "haha I'm so in love” way, no, like actual, clinical insanity.
Because you’re curled up in his lap again, cheek pressed against his chest, humming happily to yourself while scrolling through your phone with your legs draped over his thighs and he’s just… sitting there. Letting it happen. Pretending to watch the movie while his brain is trying to process the weight of your affection.
He doesn’t move. Barely breathes. If he breathes too hard, you might remember he’s just your roommate and move.
His hands are hovering like he doesn’t know where to put them. He wants to hold you so bad it physically hurts, but what if that’s weird? What if you’re just cold and he reads too much into it? What if you get up and say “God, Toru, you’re so clingy,” and then never touch him again?
So he just lets his fingers twitch uselessly against the couch cushion while you hum something under your breath and burrow deeper into him.
He’s so. Pathetic.
He lets you steal bites of his food. Lets you nap on his chest. Lets you crawl into his bed in the middle of the night with sleepy eyes and say “Nightmare,” expecting that to just explain everything. (It does.) He always opens the blankets and pulls you in, holds you until your breathing slows, until his heart stops threatening to burst through his chest.
He thinks you might be dating. Maybe. Possibly.
But you’ve never said anything.
And he doesn’t just want to assume.
What if this is just… how you are? Sweet. Clingy. Affectionate with everyone. What if you’re just playing house and he’s the idiot who fell in love with the fantasy?
God, he’s so embarrassing.
And then, you go and do something stupid. Like kiss his cheek when you get up. Like pout and say “Toru, come cuddle me,” attempting to guide him back to your room. Ignoring him when he tells you to stop being cute.
He doesn't follow. He just wants to ask.
To clarify.
Yet, anytime the words start to form his mouth goes dry. He stares at you. You glance over your shoulder, sipping from your cup. Waiting.
He opens his mouth.
And then closes it.
Because if he asks… if he really asks…what you are.
ᡴꪫ. ex husband satoru & protectiveness 𖹭 f. reader ˖ ࣪ꮽ˳
“who the hell do you think you're talking to?”
ex husband!satoru towers from behind you. the higher-up nearly flinches. a thousand revaluations flash before his eyes. maybe he should have thought better before taking up such a tone with you.
you, ex-madam-gojo. you, the only thing that could make the strongest sorcerer of the modern age — weak.
“this is none of your concern, gojo. show some —” satoru's towering form shadows you in seconds as he flips position. now standing in your place with you securely behind.
“I said." lights above flicker. “who. the fuck. do you think you're talking to?”
the old man only gulps. blindfold or not, hell reigned so evidently in satoru's gaze; and it's cold. icy. the higher-up scampers away with pride swollen in his throat. satoru might have just went after him if —
“satoru.”
oh, that voice. not that voice. you devastate him with only a gentle touch to his bicep. his jaw slacks and muscles ease. if only turning around didn't mean the dying, fruitless urge to pull you into his arms. he'll settle for a head tilt over his shoulder. just enough to see your concerned, grateful gaze.
“whooo," he cheerfully whistles. “got a bit heated there. you see that? this is the part where we make out.”
it pains him to joke about such. once upon a time, that would have been apart of the script. but you've long since left the play, and he stands upon the grand stage alone. empty.
