lysatoru - Tumblr blog

lysatoru · 20 days ago

Text

𝒏𝒐𝒊𝒔𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕 | part ii: driving you crazy (no pun intended)

✧ summary: Living with two guys who think sex is a personality trait is a lot of things. Easy isn’t one of them. It also means dealing with Satoru and Suguru’s favourite hobby: making you their next target. But you're not dumb to believe you’re anything special from every other girl they flirt with.

part i | part ii | more to come | series m.list | posted on ao3

w/c: 3.3k | a/n: i'll come up with a chp title later. EDIT: i came up with one ✊😼

Satoru flops face-first onto the couch, voice muffled by the cushion. “She’s so fuckin hot when she’s mad.”

Suguru walks out from the kitchen after returning the milk you took out. He sits across from him, legs spread to take up as much space as possible, and elbow propped lazily on the armrest. He hums thoughtfully and imagines how you’re probably cussing them out under your breath right now, aggressively texting Shoko and Utahime about how much you hate your living situation.

It makes him smile. “It’s actually insane.”

They don’t speak for a second.

Then Satoru rolls onto his back and looks up at the ceiling like it holds all the answers. “Did you see her face when she turned around? Like she actually considered murder. That little–” He cuts himself off with a half-groan, half-sigh. “God, I miss her already.”

“Goddamn headband pushing her hair back.” Suguru murmurs quietly, almost to himself. “And that sleepy look– fuck, man.”

Satoru nods immediately, enthusiasm brightening his voice. “I literally had to force myself not to stare at her mouth.” He says, palm dragging over his face dramatically. “She wasn’t even trying."

“She never has to.”

They fall comfortably quiet for a moment, standing together in easy silence, both lost in thoughts about you. Eventually, Satoru breaks it again, shifting to stretch his arms over his head lazily, shirt pulling slightly to expose a sliver of his toned stomach.

“Anyways, Yuki’s thing is tomorrow, remember? We gotta pick up from Naoya’s.”

Suguru grimaces immediately. “Ugh, I hate going to his place.”

“Same.” Satoru agrees, making a face. “But if we don’t, Yuki’s gonna be on our ass, which is worse.”

Suguru lets out a long sigh. “We don’t have a ride though. How’re we getting there?”

“We could take your bike?”

“Oh yeah, let’s just casually balance two duffel bags of Yuki’s premium on a ride with no backseat. Not suspicious at all.”

Satoru scoffs, puffing out his cheeks and turns away. They both wait in contemplative silence, frustration fading into resignation, before Satoru’s gaze slowly turns towards the small ceramic dish next to the door, where your spare car keys sit innocently among a handful of loose coins and gum wrappers. An idea lights up in his mind.

Suguru’s eyes follow his. They glance back at each other immediately, a matching smirk pulling at their mouths in perfect synchrony.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Satoru asks, eyes already shining with mischief.

Suguru raises his pierced eyebrow. “When am I not?”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“Maybe next time she should wear noise-cancelling headphones.”

You pitch your voice as deep and dumb as humanly possible, chin tucked to your chest, mouth twisted sideways in a sneer as you scrub the table in front of you like it’s responsible for all your life problems. Your cloth squeaks over the surface, and you can feel heat building in your cheeks the longer you think about it.

“BITCH, maybe YOU should shut the fuck UP and step on a lego, bitch.” The last word comes out more bark than sentence.

Your shoulders are tense, your hands are sore, your hair’s frizzed out from the steam in the kitchen. A rag smacks hard against the prep counter behind you.

“Oh my god.” Utahime mutters, shaking her head as she leans an elbow on the counter. “I would’ve hit him with the blender.”

“RIGHT?!” You fling the cloth into the sink with force. “He’s lucky I didn’t swing.

“No, because what even is that logic?” Shoko cuts in, wiping down the drink machine with zero urgency. “You live there. It’s your house too, and you’re not the problem.”

“Exactly!” You grab the cleaning spray, fire a few aggressive pumps at the next table, then snatch a nearby sponge and wipe in sharp, angry circles. “Every two days, man. Every two days, they’re in there fucking into the wall like they’re playing a fuckass drum solo.”

You hear Haibara’s snort from across the room.

“Booo, tomatoes.” He tosses a crumpled napkin in the air and catches it one-handed. “Boo, get off the stage!”

“They’re SO loud.” You bite, volume climbing again as you stomp your way around the trash can. “Like, olympic medal level loud.” Your throat’s sore from the ranting.

Nanami walks behind you with a broken broom in hand, headed for the back closet. “That’s just disrespectful.” He says without missing a beat.

“THANK YOU.” You yell after him. You start wiping the soda counter, only barely restraining yourself from punching the lid dispenser. “OH, and Suguru!” You bark suddenly, dropping the sponge and throwing your arms out. “He had the audacity to do his hair with my claw clip. MY claw clip! Is he stupid or dumb or what is he?!”

There’s an instant chorus of noise behind you.

“STOP.” Utahime chokes, covering her mouth. “No way.”

Shoko’s fully wheezing now, body bent over the counter. “Please tell me you ripped it out.”

“I didn’t! If I tried to, he’d just take it off and play Piggy in the Middle with Satoru!” You grit your teeth, recalling the last time they pulled that shit with your hair tie, you had chased them through the kitchen whole hey tossed it back and forth between each other. You only got it back after kneeing Satoru in the balls so hard he dropped to the floor, hands cupping his groin like you’d shot him point-blank.

Hmph, he deserved it.

“You’re stronger than me.” Haibara says reverently from where he’s stacking chairs. “I would’ve committed a crime by now.”

“I wanted to.” You hiss.

You sigh, long and tired, dragging a hand down your face to calm down a little. “…They just make me so fucking mad.”

There’s a pause.

“You think they like, get off to that?” Shoko asks slowly.

“Shut the fuck up.” You snap, throwing a dish towel at her.

That’s all it takes. The entire group bursts into laughter. Utahime leans against the counter, Haibara’s doubled over, and even Nanami lets out one of those soft little huffs that’s almost a laugh. You can’t help but laugh too, the familiar ache of it shaking your shoulders.

God. You really needed this.

The restaurant falls quiet again, comfortable silence settling over the group as you all finish up your respective tasks. The clinking of plates, gentle squeak of cloth against glass, and soft sweep of broom bristles against the floor fill the quiet. Finally, Utahime breaks the lull.

“So,” She says, stacking the last dish with a soft clink, “are we still going to Yuki’s party tomorrow night, or are we officially too boring for that now?”

“We’re sooo going.” Haibara replies immediately, enthusiastic. “I have an exam coming up, but I’ll cry about it on Sunday.”

Nanami sighs deeply beside him. “Yu, you promised me you’d actually study this weekend.”

“I will!” Haibara insists, eyes wide and innocent. “I promise, just after we get absolutely wasted at Yuki’s first.”

“Balance.” Shoko says dryly, nodding sagely.

You laugh, leaning back against the booth cushions and crossing your arms. “I mean, I have that stupid Econ paper due too. Maybe we could study at the party?”

Everyone immediately stares at you like you’ve suggested a group suicide pact.

“Study…” Utahime repeats slowly. “…at a house party.”

You blink innocently. “It could be successful?”

Utahime’s eyebrows rise slowly. “I don’t know, getting vodka spilled all over my microbiology notes sounds absolutely thrilling.”

“You’re no fun.” You tease.

“I’m realistic.” She corrects.

“Booooriiiing.” Shoko sings, nudging Utahime’s shoulder gently.

“I think we can do it.” Haibara muses, looking thoughtful now. “Chaos is motivating.”

“Chaos is distracting.” Nanami argues, but he sounds like he’s already resigned himself. “Fine. We’ll bring notes. But you’re fully responsible when we inevitably fail our exams.”

Shoko cheers triumphantly, Utahime sighs like she expected this outcome from the beginning, and Haibara pumps a fist victoriously. You grin, feeling lighter than you have all day.

“Done then.” You declare. “Drinks, textbooks, shitty life decisions. What could go wrong?”

“Everything.” Utahime says flatly.

“That’s the spirit!”

You all laugh, finally gathering your things. Utahime grabs the keys, Nanami checks his watch, then turns to flick the ‘CLOSED’ sign on the door. “Clock out.”

“Yes, Dad.” Shoko says, already behind the counter punching numbers into the POS system.

Nanami doesn’t rise to it. “You’re not paid for overtime.”

“Romance me first, Kento.” She grins lazily. “At least take me to dinner before the hard truths.”

“You’re not my type.” He deadpans. “You remind me of a discarded cigarette.”

“That’s a compliment.” She blows him a kiss.

You snort and reach for your leather jacket, shoving your arms through the sleeves, before moving to switch off the lights. Haibara holds open the door and you all filter out into the night. The sidewalk glows under the yellow streetlights, air just cool enough to pull your sleeves over your hands.

“Later, losers.” Shoko waves lazily with two fingers. “See you tomorrow.”

“Text when you get home!”

Nanami and Haibara break off first, heading toward the station, their fingers brushing together as they walk, talking low between themselves. Shoko and Utahime follow a different path, their laughter fading into the dark.

And then it’s just you and the gravel under your shoes as you cross towards the lot.

You fish your keys out of your pocket, walking slow, already thinking about leftovers, except, when you reach your usual spot, you freeze.

Your car’s gone.

No. Fucking. Way.

“What?” The word comes out strangled, a sharp edge of panic cutting into your throat. “What the fuck?”

You’re pretty sure– no, actually, you’re one hundred percent fucking sure you parked right here, between that red Honda and the Jeep with the faded pride flag bumper sticker.

You scan around, disoriented, searching the lot desperately. Maybe exhaustion’s messing with you. Maybe– maybe you parked further down, or a different row tonight. You whip your phone out, thumb hovering to dial Shoko–

BEEP!

You jolt so hard your skeleton nearly leaves your skin.

You turn on your heel around, hair flinging into your face and heart thudding, and there it is. Your car.

Not only is it your car, Satoru’s in the driver’s seat.

Not only is Satoru in the driver’s seat, Suguru is lounging in the passenger seat. And they’ve got matching grins so wide they could volunteer to take over Clown Teeth Knockout and no one would tell the difference.

“Oh.” You seethe under your breath, your pulse hammering in your ears. “These fuckers.”

Your eyes narrow into slits. Satoru honks the horn again before wiggling his fingers through the small opening of the window like this is all very funny.

Stalking forward towards the driver’s side and the window quickly rolls shut. You reach at the door handle. It clicks under your grasp before you can yank it open. Locked.

“Open the door, assholes.” You punctuate each word clearly, pressing your palm flat against the window.

Satoru’s shit-eating smile only widens. He pretends not to hear you, tapping a finger against his ear theatrically.

“I know you can hear me, my car isn’t noise proof.” You snap.

Suguru chuckles from the other side, leaning across Satoru to offer you an apologetic shrug. He points his thumb over his shoulder, gesturing towards the backseat.

You take a breath, narrow your eyes, and step down. Sure enough, the back door pops open easily beneath your grasp. You slide in, the leather seat cool beneath your fingers.

“Get out. Get out of my car. Get the fuck out right now.” You grit out from clenched teeth, leaning forward sharply between their seats.

Satoru turns slightly in the seat, smile spreading like butter over burnt toast. “Hello to you too, gorgeous.”

Suguru leans his head back over the seat, resting his chin over his shoulder. You resist the urge to flick your eyes to his snake bites. “Did you miss us?”

“Explain yourselves. Now.”

Suguru’s eyes dance in amusement. “Explain what, pretty?”

You swallow your temper, counting silently to three. “How did you sabotage my car?”

“Sabotage?” Satoru echoes incredulously. He places a hand dramatically over his chest. “We would never–”

“You stole my car, you absolute shithead!”

Suguru chuckles softly, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Technically, we’re just borrowing it.”

Satoru nods all too seriously, ignoring your glare as he adjusts the rearview mirror to meet your eyes through it. “Yeah, borrowing.”

“How?!”

“Spare keys.” Satoru says cheerfully, clapping his hands together to his cheek. “You keep them in the dish by the door, silly goose. We took the train to get here and use them.”

“Those are for emergencies!” You yell. “You’re not supposed to use them!”

“You left them in a shared space.” Suguru’s voice is patient, like he’s explaining to a toddler mid-tantrum. “That makes it communal property.”

“Honestly, babe, if anything you should be grateful we didn’t just take off without you.”

Your jaw drops open at his sheer audacity, anger flushing your face hot. Without thinking, you lunge forward, pinching Satoru’s arm hard enough to turn it red. He yelps dramatically, jerking away from you.

“Ow! Violent little thing, aren’t you?” He rubs at the spot on his bicep.

“Shut up.” You snap back, falling against the back seat in a furious heap. “Why are you even here?”

Suguru sighs, leaning his head back leisurely against the seat. “We needed a ride to Naoya’s.”

You snort bitterly. “Why?”

Satoru hums distractedly, fiddling with the radio dials. “Yuki asked us to pick up weed for her party tomorrow.”

Of course she did. You press a hand over your eyes, the throb behind your temples building by the second. “So naturally, you commit grand theft auto? Why can’t you use your own car?”

Satoru scoffs loudly. “Um, my car’s in the shop? Weren’t you listening when I told you about the little accident last week?”

No, you weren’t listening. “You crashed it?”

“I didn’t crash it.” He defends immediately, with the gall of someone who absolutely did. “It got gently grazed by a SUV. Not my fault the guy couldn’t merge like a normal person.”

Your eyebrow furrow instantly in horror. “Oh, hell no. Absolutely fucking not. Get out of my driver’s seat right now, Gojo. You’re not crashing my baby.”

Both boys erupt into laughter at your visible panic. Satoru throws his head back, nearly smacking it on the headrest, while Suguru hides his laughter behind a relaxed hand, shoulders shaking.

And despite yourself, you feel a flip low in your stomach, a sudden flutter that makes your insides pitch sideways. Heat prickles up the back of your neck, creeping into your cheeks like you’ve been caught doing something embarrassing. Their laughter is stupid. This is stupid.

You cross your arms tighter and glare out the window, jaw set. “Okay.” you mutter. “Fun’s over. Out of the seat, Satoru.”

“But I like it here.” He flexes his hands over the wheel, drumming his fingers once.

“Gojo.”

You jolt forward slightly as the car pulls away from the lot, tires crunching over gravel. “Are you serious?”

“Seatbelt, pretty girl.” Suguru says mildly, not even turning to look.

“This is kidnapping.” You hiss, but you snap the buckle into place anyway, sulking back into the seat like a grounded child. “You’re literally kidnapping me right now.”

For a little while, it’s fine. Satoru actually drives normally, if you can believe that. His hands are steady on the wheel, posture relaxed, music low. The city rushes by in a blur of passing headlights and shuttered storefronts, and you let yourself breathe, tension starting to ease.

And then they look at each other.

You see it in the corner of your eye, that glance with matching smirks, and silent communication. You sit up fast.

“No.” Your voice sharpens. “I saw that. What are you two up to–”

The engine growls.

“I swear to god–”

The acceleration is sudden, your spine plastering to the seatback as your car surges forward, tires screeching against asphalt. Satoru laughs as he jerks the wheel hard, taking a sharp turn that sends your stomach slamming into your ribs.

The tires squeal like they’re screaming for help, and your body lifts slightly off the seat before slumping back down. Suguru lets out a low “Whew.” You catch him bracing against the doorframe with one hand looking all too relaxed, like he’s on some luxury thrill ride and not five seconds from becoming roadkill.

“Satoru slow the fuck down!” You grit out, voice an octave higher than usual, clutching the seatbelt so tight your knuckles ache. You’re going to get pulled over. You’re going to die.

“I can handle it, baby.” Satoru yells over the engine. “Watch this!”

“I don’t wanna watch anything!”

Another sharp turn, near miss with a street sign. You feel your soul leave your body somewhere past a gas station, and after about ten minutes of Satoru's reckless speeding, eventually, miraculously, the car slows. And just like that, you’re rolling up a private drive lined with glossy hedges and twinkling fairy lights.

Naoya Zen’in’s mansion looms ahead. Giant marble lion statues. A driveway you could host a wedding on. The garage alone is bigger than your entire house.

Satoru parks, turning the key and you sit there in silence, heart still lodged in your throat and questioning how you managed to survive. Suguru unbuckles his seatbelt, completely unbothered, already texting someone with an idle smile on his lips.

“See?” Satoru says, flashing you a wink through the rearview mirror. “Told you I could handle her.”

“Handle yourself into therapy.” You snap, fumbling to undo your seatbelt with shaking hands. “You freak.”

Suguru then turns back to glance at you. “You good?”

You glare at him. He blinks innocently.

Then Satoru tosses your spare keys into the air before catching them in one smooth motion and opens his door. “Alright, we’ll be five. Try not to die without us!”

Suguru’s already stepping out too, cracking his neck and stretching his arms overhead.

You wait exactly ten seconds after they disappear around the corner of Naoya’s stupid rich-boy mansion before you move. You’re out of the backseat in a flash, slamming the door shut with enough force to echo through the silent street. You yank open the driver’s side door and immediately curse.

“…Motherfucker.”

Satoru. That long-legged, Slender Man built bitch has adjusted everything.

The seat’s pushed so far back you might as well be driving from the backseat. Your feet don’t even reach the pedals. The steering wheel’s tilted up like it belongs to a bus driver. And the mirrors are all pointed directly into the fucking sun or something.

You sit there in stunned silence for a beat.

“Fucking MEN.”

You scoot the seat forward with a screech, yank the wheel down to where it belongs, and adjust your mirrors with a practiced rage. Your shift the gear and grip the steering wheel tight, still warm from where Satoru’s hands were.

Disgusting, you think even as your heart skips a beat.

You flick your eyes up to Naoya’s front door, still closed, and let yourself smirk.

“Steal my car.” You mutter. “Drive it like it’s Need for Speed. Scare the living shit out of me. And laugh about it?”

Your foot gently taps the gas, and the car rolls forward. You coast down the driveway at a smug crawl, windows down, wind brushing your face. And that’s when you see them. They round the corner of the house just as you pass the gate

Satoru with a duffle bag over his shoulder like it’s designer, and Suguru holding his like a briefcase. You lock eyes with them as you pass them, and it’s beautiful. The way their expressions immediately switch from relaxed to “oh no.”

Your middle finger lifts in a perfect arc.

“Wait–” Suguru’s voice is cut off by Satoru’s much louder.

“HEY! WAIT! WE NEED TO GET HOME!”

“WALK HOME!” You call back sweetly, before slamming gas.

Behind you, in the mirror, you catch one final glimpse of Satoru running after the car, arms flailing in outrage, while Suguru just stands there with both hands on his hips, duffle bag discarded by his feet.

You’ve never tasted a victory so sweet.

taglist: @frillitine @emidebii @odettelewis @urmotherswhor3 @ihateexistence @wyuovvia @xylov @ladytamayolover @elllsposts @ohohostinkyyyyy @mimiluvzu2 @porcosjaw @akemiixx01 @man1cslut @serendididy @fiona782 @perpetuallynocturnalspecter @miacakess @nervousalpacalady @sirencholia @des-todoroki @homeslices @pinkmeatball218 @sypnasis @lllovebug @shushbruv @arabellasolstic @antxto @flowerymenendez @kaged-animal @tellria @hellovanie @hghhhhhhhhh @juliarchiv3s @vivian-555 @whoreforjjkmen @tztuoo @sleepisfortheweakpooh @celestialskyystar @tojicidal @genshingeeksworld @rebirthbunbun @bandomonia @degenerates-posts @ilfiorejouki @forgetourpastt @05-simply-06-simping @sobbangchan @smoljimmine @gojoswaterbottle @heh123321 @purpleicing @altgojo @boomdolle @liaflowrr @astutetwilight @freakboycentral @hayakawalove @bokubrooo @risagichi @inserte-un-nombre-original @aominesmuse

open 78/80

1K notes · View notes

lysatoru · 20 days ago

Text

gojo ensures he's always protecting his daughter

the night satoru put the stickers up, the room smelled like strawberries and clean laundry.

your daughter was three, giggling like her tiny body couldn’t hold all that joy, a wriggling blur of ruffled pajamas and hair still damp from her bath. your husband was grinning, precariously balanced on the little step stool, one eye squinted shut and tongue poking out in concentration as he smoothed another sticker into place.

“moon? check.”

“daddy, higher!” she chirped, pointing toward the ceiling’s corner.

“higher? baby, if i go any higher, i’ll stick myself to the ceiling.”

“then dooo it!”

you were lying on her bed, watching them with your cheek on your palm, basking in the glow of their laughter. he did it anyway, of course. he reached just a bit more, because she asked him to. when he was finally done, he turned off the lights dramatically and the ceiling came alive — soft and glowing, tiny constellations in messy patterns only a child and her father could find meaning in.

she gasped. “the stars came!”

“they always do,” he murmured, settling down beside her on the tiny bed, long limbs curled and folded like he was made to fit there. “but remember what i told you?”

she nodded, whispering it, “i’m your moon and sun and stars.”

you smiled, tugging the blanket over her little shoulders. he reached over her to touch your hand. “and you,” he said to you, eyes gleaming in the dark, “you gave me the whole universe.”

the ceiling never changed, even when the rest of the house did.

bookshelves replaced toys. posters replaced finger paintings. she grew taller, her giggles deeper, her footsteps heavier.

but the stars stayed.

you caught her once, at seventeen, lying in bed after a long day, face turned up. her eyes were rimmed red from a silent cry she thought you hadn’t noticed.

“can’t sleep?” you asked gently. she shrugged, then whispered, “i miss him.”

“me too.”

she looked up again. “sometimes i feel stupid. it’s been so long.”

“grief doesn’t know clocks,” you said. “and neither does love.”

she nodded, blinking up at the ceiling. “they’re starting to peel off.”

you looked too. some corners were curled now, soft from time and heat. one star had completely fallen, tucked somewhere behind the headboard maybe.

“we could take them down,” you offered. “or put new ones up.”

she was quiet for a while.

“no,” she finally said. “i like the old ones. he touched these.”

on the night she graduates college, you find her in her old room, just for a moment, dress still on and heels in her hand. she’s looking up. the stickers are faded now, barely holding on, only glowing if you really let your eyes adjust.

“you okay?” you ask from the doorway.

“yeah,” she says, smiling faintly. “just… he would’ve clapped the loudest today.”

you walk over, place your hand over hers. “he would’ve lost his damn mind,” you say, laughing through the ache. “probably yelled your name way too loud, embarrassed both of us.”

“he would’ve stood on the chair.”

“and made everyone look at you.”

you both laugh, then fall quiet, eyes tracing old constellations on a familiar ceiling.

“he never took them down,” she murmurs.

“no,” you say. “because love like his… it stays.”

and so do the stars. even if they fade. even if they fall.

he made sure of it.

1K notes · View notes

lysatoru · 29 days ago

Text

LOOK AT WHAT MY BSF DID OMG

the moon prince 🌙

#jinshi #the apothecary diaries #ka zuigetsu #kusuriya no hitorigoto #fanart #my art

92 notes · View notes

lysatoru · 29 days ago

Text

the moon prince 🌙

92 notes · View notes

lysatoru · 1 month ago

Text

୨୧ — One year in, and Gojo Satoru is still a beautiful disaster between your thighs.

His blindfold dangles around his neck, snow white hair disheveled from your fingers tugging at the silky strands. That perfect mouth -the one that usually spouts the most ridiculous shit- is currently dedicated to making you lose your goddamn mind.

"Gojo's five star dining experience coming right up~!" The vibrations of his laughter make you buck against his face as he spreads your folds wider with his thumbs, diving in with his tongue like a man utterly starved. His nose grinds against your swollen clit white his tongue curls and twists inside you, hitting spots that make your vision blur white.

You'd roll your eyes at the dumb comment, but it's hard to be pissed when his mouth is making your brain short circuit.

"Satoru, plllleeease-" Your plea dissolves into a broken moan as his tongue curls deeper, hitting spots that shouldn't be hit by a tongue.

"Awh, please what?" He pulls back with that infuriating smirk, lips glistening obscenely. Then he gives you one long, firm lick, his tongue hot and slick against your sopping pussy... You gasp when the tip circles your clit with agonizingly light pressure, a soft mewl escaping you as his mouth sucks and teases your nub. "Use your words, baby. I'm the strongest, not a mind reader."

Before you can form a coherent response, he's sealing his mouth over your clit, sucking hard while two ridiculously long fingers slide inside you. The combination makes you arch violently off the bed, his other hand pinning your hips down as he devours you like he was born for this- for solely you.

"Mmph- you're doing that thing again," he mumbles, not even bothering to look up, the rumbling of his voice causing your walls to flutter around his fingers- your toes curling and legs clamping around his head.

"Th-Thing?! What thin- ahh- fuck! S'toru-!!!" you yelp as his fingers flex, rubbing against that bundle of nerves deep inside.

"That thing where you make my brain go stupid. The shaky thing." His voice is muffled, "Love that."

The praise is sweet and dirty all at once- typical Satoru… part boyfriend, part sexual deviant, wholly devoted to making you fall apart on his tongue.

When you start grinding against his face, desperate for more friction, he actually moans like you're the one giving him head. "Easy there princess. At this rate you're gonna drown me," he teases, tongue flicking rapidly at your clit while his fingers pump in and out- curling and twisting against those pretty, slick, inner walls. "Though what a way to go, right? Death by pussy. They'd have to put that on my headstone."

The joke makes you laugh even as you're falling apart, and that's just so perfectly him- making you smile while he's between your legs.

When you finally collapse, boneless and shaking, Satoru presses one last kiss to your clit before pulling away. You expect him to crawl up your body with that cocky grin, ready to claim his reward...

Instead, he stays where he is.

Slowly, carefully, you feel him start to kiss your hip bone- then lower. His tongue glides wetly over the juncture of your thigh before he shifts his long body to curl around your left leg like a koala. His cheek finds the soft skin of your inner thigh, and he nuzzles closer with a dreamy smile, his face fully flushed.

"Wanna stay like this for a bit. You're comfy," he whispers ever so softly. His arms wrap around your leg, holding you in place as his fingers gently trace soothing patterns on your shin.

"Plus, i'm gonna need a minute," he adds with a soft laugh... "It's not every day a guy's girl comes like that- all over his tongue. I think I died a little. Good death, though. Might have to be buried right here. Just me and the world's best thighs." Humming contentedly, Satoru's lashes finally flutter close.

Still a little drunk from the multiple orgasms, it takes a few blinks to realize he's not fucking with you.

He'd totally be okay with dying like this.

You shift under his weight, but he clings like an oversized toddler- his face pressing deeper against the plushness of your thigh.

"…You're ridiculous," you mumble tenderly, fingers finding their way back to his hair, stroking gently as you look down at him... This impossibly powerful man who could destroy cities, now curled up against you like he's found his forever home...

"And you love me," he whispers sleepily.

And he’s absolutely right, you do.

He's a beautiful disaster and a total pain in the ass.

But he's your pain in the ass, and you wouldn't change him for the world.

2K notes · View notes

lysatoru · 1 month ago

Text

symptoms and causes | ch. 17

pairing — professor gojo x med student reader

summary — he's arrogant, self-centered, and he's your professor. renowned for his brilliance in neurosurgery and infamous for his allure. too bad you have to work with him on this research team. now you're stuck with dr. satoru gojo, delving into the complexities of both the brain and the heart — and of how far you'd go for a love that could destroy not only him but you as well.

word count — 11.9 k

warnings — 18+ ONLY. contains explicit sexual content, substance and alcohol abuse, dark themes, unhealthy relationships, codependency, trauma, medical content and mentions of death, illness, abuse, and blood. full trigger warnings available on the masterlist. reader discretion is advised.

previously — you knew going to naoya’s party was a bad idea. now he’s arrested, but it doesn’t feel over. the lawsuit, the stalled research, the exams—they still hang over you. and satoru’s been acting strange. like something’s unraveling, and the real problem never left.

author's note — hello lovelies !! so it's been quite a while. i want to keep this short and say, that i had a lot of problems with this chapter and still have, and i know some of you will hate it but i really cannot continue writing on this chapter for another five months omg, so here it is :')

& a quick heads up: this chapter is heavy on the angst. it touches on themes of deception, death, explicit injuries, and morally grey territory. please take care while reading. see you in the end notes <3

series masterlist + playlist + ao3

<- prev chapter | next chapter ->

How strange it is.

Not peace. Not rest. Not really. It’s something else entirely—something insidious that seeps into your skull and smothers the noise there, coating your nerves in a lie you swallow.

How strange to sit here, your body sinking inward. Your hands don’t tremble. Your chest doesn’t tear itself open with each breath. Everything’s muted, smoothed over like a grave, freshly filled, the dirt packed tight over the chaos beneath.

You should hate it. You do hate it.

But there’s something sickeningly sweet about the way it dulls the edges, the way it makes everything stop hurting for once.

You know how it works. It tells your overstimulated neurons to slow down. Enhances GABA at the GABA-A receptors. Dampens activity in the amygdala, in the prefrontal cortex, and in the hippocampus. It quiets these circuits like disturbed water finally going still. And all the panic, the anxiety, and the agonizing sense of dread that paralyzes the mind disappears. Like it was never there.

You’ve heard the warnings a thousand times in lectures, seen the statistics on tolerance, dependence, withdrawal. How the brain rewires itself around the crutch until you need more and more just to feel normal again. You know all this, but you ignored it anyway.

You wonder if this is how Satoru feels every day. How he sees the world. So smoothed out and faded, like a photograph left in the rain until nothing’s left but grey. You wonder how one breathes through this every day. But perhaps breathing’s always been harder for him.

You hid the alprazolam in the glove compartment of your car. Funny, isn’t it? Now you could understand him a little more.

“Hey. You still with us?” Maki’s voice pulled you back to the present.

It was cold. The breeze bit deeper these days, sinking its teeth into your bones. Soon, it would snow, and the season would change for good. It was raining again, as it always seemed to be these days. You pulled your coat tighter around you.

You sat outside the campus cafeteria in the courtyard. Students passed by every now and again, wrapped in scarves and hurrying towards shelter from the wind.

“Didn’t sleep well,” you lied, and Maki gave you one of her serious looks across the table. She always saw too much.

“No wonder,” Yuta said, poking at his curry that he barely ate. “How do you sleep knowing this was happening all while we’ve just been walking around and—” He trailed off, like finishing the sentence might make it too real.

“Glad he’s caught,” Toge said between sparse spoonfuls of yogurt.

“Yeah, but still…” Yuta dropped his spoon. “I don’t know how to feel about it all.”

“How should anyone feel about that, really.” Maki hadn’t touched her food either. “It’s not every day something like this comes out.”

“What do you think they’ll do with him?” Yuta asked, almost whispering.

“Whatever it is, it won’t be enough,” Maki said.

“Lifelong,” Toge added.

“God, I hope so.” Maki muttered, stabbing at her uneaten food. “You know what pisses me off? He’s in jail, and he’s still suing Dr. Handsome. Like, what the hell? How is that even allowed?”

“Apparently you can sue someone from jail,” Yuta said. “There’s no law against it.”

Maki leaned back on the bench and stared up at the darkening sky. “Feels like it’s going to rain soon.”

“Maybe even snow,” Yuta added, hollowly. “It’s been quite cold lately.” After a beat, he turned to you. “How’d Physiology go?”

You glanced up from your own curry, long gone cold by now. Earlier this morning, you’d retaken Professor Nanami’s exam—the one you’d failed before, the one Satoru had stayed up all night helping you study for until you got everything right.

“It went well,” you said. Half a lie.

You had known the answers. You could still see them, clear as anything. But when the paper hit the desk, your hands wouldn’t move. Fingers stiff like they’d turned to ice. And the words stayed locked in your head, refusing to find the page. Maybe your hands were shaking. Maybe it was something else. Hard to say what went wrong. Maybe everything.

You couldn’t focus. Not really. Not with your thoughts circling back to how strange Satoru had behaved this morning. How it had taken him ten tries to knot his tie before you finally stepped in, hands brushing his as you fixed it. His skin had been hot to the touch, the veins on his hands stood out, pale and tense, and there was blood under his fingernails. Like he’d been clawing at his skin again.

Looking back, the signs were there. Perhaps you just didn’t want to see them. Or maybe you did see them, but denial is a cruel thing. It coils around your heart like thorns and feeds you lies easier to swallow than the brutal truth standing right in front of you.

Something’s wrong. You knew it.

You felt it in the silence between his words, in the pause before he laughs. In the way his smile never quite reached his eyes these days. Could see it in the way he moved, like he was drowning just beneath the surface, trying not to make waves.

Last night, you pretended not to hear him in the bathroom. Pretended to be asleep when he finally came back to bed, his body trembling slightly as he pulled you close. You wanted to ask, wanted to speak the words that hovered on the tip of your tongue, but they caught in your throat before you could say them.

Because deep down, you knew he wouldn’t answer. Wouldn’t tell you the truth. And maybe, just maybe, you weren’t ready to hear it anyway. Maybe that was his kindness. Maybe that’s how he was gentle with you.

But kindness turns ugly when it festers, and now the dread clings to you so tightly that it feels like a second skin you can’t peel off. Like something buried beneath your ribs, feeding off you, growing heavier the more it takes.

Something’s different. Something’s wrong.

And every time you try to name it, to give it shape, it slips through your fingers like water, and you’re left holding nothing but this fear in your chest and this awful certainty that something terrible is waiting just beyond what you’re allowed to see.

You tried to ask. Don’t demand answers. But the heavier the feeling becomes, the harder it is to find the words. It’s almost as if you’ve become more afraid of the truth than of not knowing. And somewhere along the way, you became complicit in your own blindness, so careful not to disturb this house of cards of willful ignorance that would collapse with the slightest breath.

So instead, you watch. You wait. You pretend everything’s fine when it clearly isn’t. You smile when he dodges your questions and laugh at his jokes that have lost their bite. And at night, when he thinks you’re asleep, you listen to his uneven breathing and wonder how much longer you can keep pretending not to notice the way he’s coming undone at the seams.

Something’s wrong. You know it. He know it. But neither of you speaks it aloud.

Because maybe if you don’t name it, it won’t exist. Maybe if you just make it through dinner with his parents, everything will go back to normal. Maybe if you love him hard enough, hold him close enough, want it badly enough…

Maybe.

Such a cruel word. But it’s all you have now. That, and the quiet terror that whispers:

Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong.

Something.

Is.

Wrong.

You watched him struggle with his tie in the mirror this morning, fingers trembling as he undid it for the ninth time. Dog lay curled at your side, his head nuzzling against your leg, while Satoru’s frustration built with each failed attempt.

When his knuckles turned white around the silk and a curse slipped between gritted teeth, you couldn’t take it any longer. You nudged Dog gently aside and walked over to him.

“Let me,” you said.

He dropped his hands without a word, surrendering with a heavy exhale. You took the fabric between your fingers, your hands steady where his weren’t, careful not to brush against his skin that seemed too sensitive, too raw, and hot like he had a fever.

A single bead of sweat trickled down his temple. You watched it trace the curve of his cheekbone, and your stomach dropped. You knew the signs too well by now.

He was cutting his meds again.

You should be proud he’s trying, should be happy he’s fighting it. You should feel hope, or something that feels close to hope. But instead, a knot tightened in your chest. Why didn’t he tell you? Did Suguru know?

It wasn’t something he did lightly. It took everything in him to taper, to even consider going through the crash again. So if he’s doing it now, something must have happened. Something important enough to make him think the pain was worth it.

And he hadn’t told you. Probably didn’t want you to know. And that scared you the most.

Your fingertip caught the droplet of sweat before it could fall. He flinched slightly and closed his eyes, as if even that small touch was too much for his frayed nerves.

“You’re not gonna ask?” he said, eyes finding yours, feverish and dulled with pain.

“Are you going to tell me?”

His mouth twitched ever so slightly, and then he pressed you gently back against the wall, his hands trembling as they framed your face, and then his lips were on yours.

You let him. Let him silence the questions with his mouth. Let him bury his secrets in the space between your bodies. Because sometimes a kiss is easier than facing the fear clawing at both your throats. Easier than admitting that you’re both terrified of what comes next.

Your hands came to rest gently at the back of his neck, torn between pulling him closer and being afraid to hold him too tight, to hurt him more than he was already hurting.

He broke the kiss slowly, then rested his forehead against yours, his breath uneven. You placed your hand gently against his chest. His heartbeat stuttered beneath your palm—too fast, too fragile, like it couldn’t decide whether to keep going or give out.

“Maybe you should skip your lecture today,” you whispered. But he gave the smallest shake of his head. Deflecting. Always deflecting. Instead, he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“Good luck on your exam today,” he said. “I love you.”

And you let him walk away. Because stopping him felt like admitting the worst. And you weren’t ready for that.

Not yet.

“I’m so over this semester. I just want some damn free time again,” Maki said, pulling you back to the present once more. “We should go on a trip, like a weekend getaway or something.”

“Sounds good,” Yuta said. “God knows we need a break.”

“Agree,” Toge added.

“How about Hakone?” Maki offered. “Hot springs, mountain views, good food?”

“Too crowded,” Yuta replied. “What about Kyoto? Sell our souls at a shrine to survive the rest of our exams or something?”

Maki raised an eyebrow. “But Hakone’s too crowded?”

“Yeah, you’re right. Kyoto’s worse.”

“How about Okutama?” you suggested. “It’s only two hours by train and it’s quiet there.”

Maki let out a soft sigh, pulling her windbreaker tighter as a breeze swept through. “Sounds perfect.”

“Let’s go there,” Toge said.

“Agree,” Yuta echoed, finally giving up on his food and pushing his plate aside.

A small group of students walked past your table. One of them glanced at you, then leaned toward the others and whispered something. You couldn’t make out the words, but you didn’t need to. You’d seen that look before.

“They’re just jealous,” Maki said, her gaze following them. “Not a single one of them is even half as brilliant as you, and they know it.”

“It’s okay.” You gave a faint smile. “I don’t care.”

Maki didn’t look convinced. “What’s their problem, anyway? It’s been getting ridiculous this week—”

Soft drops of rain began to fall, light and cold, darkening the pale concrete beneath your shoes, one dot at a time. Maki lifted her hand to feel the drizzle, and nearby, a couple of students gathered already their laptops and headed inside the cafeteria.

“We should go in,” Yuta said, glancing at the wetening sky. “Not like any of us are finishing their food.” He looked around the table. “Want to head home? We’re done with classes anyway.”

“Can’t,” you said, eyes drifting to a nearby plant. Its leaves trembled as water collected on the edges. “I’ve still got something to do for the research project.”

“Today? After your exam?” Maki said. “They really don’t let you rest, huh?”

“It’s fine. It’s… fun, if you…” You trailed off, unable to find the words to describe how you felt about research lately. It used to be fun and fill you with pride. With purpose. Research had made the world feel orderly. Cells lived or died. Reactions triggered. Equations balanced. Things made sense.

Not like people. Not like Satoru.

You used to walk into the lab and feel certain. Certain of the process, certain of the outcome, certain that if you just followed the steps, the truth would reveal itself. There was always an answer—clean, final, explainable.

But no matter how many hours you spent in that lab, no matter how long you stared into that petri dish, it never gave you the answer you needed most.

“Anyway,” you said, brushing it off, “I just need to check on something. You guys go ahead. Don’t wait for me.”

“What are you testing?” Yuta asked.

“Oh, um… nothing big. Really.”

“Then do it next week,” Maki said, frowning. “Girl, get some rest. You’re scaring me.”

“She’s right,” Yuta added. “Take the day off.”

“It’s fine, really. It won’t take long. I just want to make sure—”

“Then we’ll come with you,” Yuta said.

“No, that’s not—”

“You know,” Maki cut in, “we are med students too. Maybe we can help, see something you and the other two big brains missed because your high-functioning minds are too advanced to see the obvious.”

“Ouch,” you said, giving her a long look. “But really—”

“You know we won’t take no for an answer,” she said, crossing her arms.

You looked between your friends. Yuta gave you a thin smile and a helpless shrug. They were painfully persistent. And, in their own way, kind.

─── ·✧· ───

“Don’t tell anyone, okay?”

“Why? What’s going on?” Yuta asked, brow creasing.

“This… isn’t an official key.” You glanced over your shoulder before sliding it into the lock of Geto’s lab and twisting it. The door gave with a quiet click. You stepped inside and flicked on the lights.

“You made yourself a spare?” Maki asked, following you in.

“Yeah.” You set down your bag and shrugged off your coat. “Geto temporarily took the lab key from me.”

“Is he still mad?” Yuta lingered by the door, glancing down the hallway like someone might catch you and call campus security or something. Eventually, Toge pushed him inside.

“He’s not mad.” But even as you said it, you weren’t sure. You’d hardly spoken since that night at Naoya’s party, and when you did cross paths, Suguru seemed to avoid you. It stung more than you wanted to admit.

“He’s just... concerned I’m overworking myself. He said it’d be best if we all took a step back from the project for a while,” you added. “That’s why he asked me to hand him back the key.”

Maki snorted. “So Professor Geto knows you well enough to confiscate your keys to stop you from continuing to work on the project, but apparently not well enough to realize you’d be crazy enough to make a copy?”

“Hence why we can’t tell anyone.”

Maki flopped into the swivel chair Satoru usually sat in, spinning lazily with her legs stretched out. “Still think he’s being an ass. What happened with the girl wasn’t your fault. So what’s his problem?”

“She’s his patient.” You walked to your usual workstation, hands moving on autopilot. “He was worried about her.”

“Still doesn’t give him permission to make you cry.”

“I didn’t cry.”

Maki’s chair stilled. She looked at you with that flat, unblinking stare she used when calling bullshit without needing to say the word.

“Save your lies for Satoru. He might actually believe them.”

“Maki,” Yuta said with a warning in his voice.

“Sorry. I’m coping with sarcasm.”

“Oh good,” you said. “I thought you were just being a bitch.”

Maki tilted her head, lips twitching. “Not your strongest comeback.”

“Lack of sleep.” A flimsy excuse for why you’d lost your edge.

“So,” Maki continued, leaning back in the chair and spinning half a turn, “what now? What are we doing?”

You didn’t answer her right away. You moved to the drawer, grabbed a pair of gloves, and pulled the culture plates from the incubator.

The results hadn’t changed. The tumor cells had reduced—that part had worked. But the neuron cultures were dying too, wiped out alongside the targets. Collateral damage, Satoru had called it. But what good was a brain tumor treatment if it turns the brain into mush?

“I think I know what’s wrong,” you said finally, setting the plates down. “It’s too aggressive. The T-cells aren’t getting enough time to distinguish what’s malignant from what’s just brain.”

“So they’re… too fast?” Yuta asked, stepping closer to peer over your shoulder.

“Not exactly fast,” you said. “More like blind.”

All three of them blinked, confused.

“I thought the CAR-Ts were specifically designed to recognize only tumor antigens?” Yuta continued, glancing toward the whiteboard, where the last notes you and Satoru had scribbled were still faintly visible.

“They are. But the neurons near the tumor are expressing similar markers that confuse the T-cells. I think it’s triggering some kind of overprimed immune response.” Your friends still looked lost. You tried again. “It’s like burning down the whole house because you saw one spider.”

That, at least, landed.

“Reasonable reaction, I’d say,” Maki said with a shrug.

“So… how do you fix that?” Yuta asked.

“We wait.”

“Wait?”

“I delay the activation,” you said. “Stagger the incubation—give the neurons time to fully express their markers. That creates a clearer contrast window. The CAR-Ts need to recognize what not to attack before we let them loose.”

“I thought the goal was to speed up trials,” Maki said, leaning forward. “Now you’re slowing things down?”

“Not the timeline,” you clarified. “Just the reaction. If I give the cells a few more minutes of exposure before introducing the CARs, it might enhance their specificity and make them more discerning.”

“…So you’re what, easing them into it?” Maki asked. “Like a pep talk before action?”

“Something like that.”

Yuta scratched the back of his neck. “Sounds like the kind of thing Professor Geto would lecture us not to try.”

“Good thing he’s not here,” you said, turning back to your samples.

You knew it wasn’t the kind of solution Suguru would approve of, and definitely not what Satoru had in mind. But you knew, you had to make progress. Principal Yaga was waiting. He wanted results—soon. You had a feeling. And if he didn’t get them, he’d start dangling your scholarship over your head again. Of that, you were certain. So when Suguru put the project on pause, you kept going anyway. You couldn’t afford to let the time go to waste.

Before you knew it, hours had passed. Yuta helped you load the pipettes, careful and steady, while Maki double-checked the media, muttering complaints under her breath but never missing a step. You repeated the incubation steps like a mantra—once for them, twice for yourself, and a third time to the cells, whispered softly like they might actually listen and behave for once.

Everything moved slower. Intentionally so. A waiting game.

It was the kind of approach Satoru hated—too still, too quiet. Waiting made him nervous. He always worried the cells would lose viability if they sat too long, convinced that every extra minute pushed them closer to failure. And failure wasn’t something he could easily stomach. So you’d never considered it before. But now, with the lab empty and neither Satoru nor Suguru around, you had space to try.

Still, you wished he was here. Cracking a bad joke. Reminding you to drink water when a migraine started creeping in. But you knew better than to stress him with research right now—not when he was barely holding it together.

But you weren’t alone, were you? Your friends were here. And for once, you didn’t feel like you were carrying it all by yourself.

The timer on the incubator ticked steadily while you waited.

Yuta disappeared for about ten minutes and came back from the cafeteria with a handful of KitKats and Mars bars. He tossed a few onto the table beside Maki, who now had her legs propped up on the desk, lazily scrolling through her phone. Toge had long since dozed off, cheek pressed to the tabletop, soft breaths fogging a patch of glass as rain painted slow streaks down the windows.

“How long will it take?” Yuta asked quietly, careful not to wake him.

“Hard to say.” You stretched your arms overhead. A sharp ache flared in your ribs, and you winced. “Could be anywhere from a few minutes to an hour.”

“You okay?” Yuta asked. “Do the burns still hurt?”

“Just a little. But I’m good.”

Yuta opened on of the Mars bars and took a bite. “How’s your flat, by the way?”

“Oh, um… good. They’re renovating it, and I can probably move back in by the end of the month.”

“But would you? Now that you’re living with Gojo?”

Before you could answer, Maki suddenly sat upright and swung her legs off the desk. “Oh—shit.”

Yuta turned to her. “What?”

“Look,” she said, turning her phone toward you both.

It was a video. A scene from the party. Satoru, kneeling in front of you. His tongue on your skin. Loud music, flashing lights, too many people laughing in the background. It was blurry and shaky, but it didn’t need to be good quality to make the damage clear.

“Fuck,” Yuta said.

“Yeah,” Maki echoed, her tone flat. “Fuck.”

“Who posted it?” Yuta asked. “We need to find them and ask them to delete it.”

“Too late.” Maki swiped to another app. “It’s already everywhere.”

You watched them talk, but your mind had gone somewhere else. You knew better. You’d known better then, even in the moment, but you’d let it happen. Let it go too far. Naive. And so fucking dumb. And now? It all felt pointless.

Games with Satoru never stayed games for long. Sooner or later, something always broke. And this time, it wasn’t just you who got bruised.

Yuta and Maki finally turned to you, their expressions caught somewhere between worry and waiting.

“What do you want to do?” Yuta asked quietly.

Your gaze drifted back to the experiment, to the blinking lights of the incubator and the careful arrangement of plates. Something solid. Something predictable.

“We can’t do anything,” you said at last. “Can we?”

“But if this keeps spreading—” Yuta started.

“It’s already out,” Maki cut in. Her tone wasn’t cruel, just rational. “It’s probably gone viral by now. There’s no way we can contain this anymore.”

Yuta looked like he wanted to argue, but the words deflated with a breath. “Maybe you’re right… but still.” He looked back at you. “You okay?”

Were you? Why should it matter that everyone had seen? They were already talking. Whispering behind your back and staring too long in the hallway. It all faded into background noise when your real fear lived elsewhere.

Before you could answer, Toge stirred. He blinked slowly and pushed himself upright, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“But isn’t it weird?” he said, voice rough with sleep.

“What is?” Yuta asked.

“That no one’s done anything.” Toge looked between you all. “If it’s viral, then it must’ve reached the Principal by now. And, I don’t know—normally, someone would be expelled. Or suspended. At least called in.”

Maki blinked. “Damn, that’s the most I’ve ever heard you say at once.”

Toge gave a small shrug. “Still weird.”

Yuta frowned, nodding slowly. “He’s right. It’s been, what—four days? Everyone must have seen that video by now. That’s probably why people keep staring at us.”

“And not a word from Yaga,” Maki added, straightening. “Nothing.”

“It’s like they don’t care,” Yuta said.

“But why wouldn’t they?” Maki asked.

You sat back, the realization hitting you like the hush before a storm.

Normally, this would’ve been a scandal—academic misconduct, breach of ethics, inappropriate relationships. You should be in the middle of disciplinary meetings and sitting across from some stern official asking if you understood the consequences of your actions. But instead? Silence. And that silence was starting to feel less like mercy and more like a warning.

Toge was the one to say what no one else did. “It’s like they’re not taking action because someone doesn’t want them to.” And then, the monitor beside you blinked amber.

“Something’s happening,” Yuta said, pointing past your shoulder.

You turned, heart climbing into your throat. Maki and Yuta rushed to your side, leaning in as you clicked through the data. The tumor line on the graph had dipped—steeply. Fast. You opened the live cell readout.

Tumor fluorescence was fading. But the neurons—

96%.

94%.

Still holding.

Yuta leaned closer, squinting. “Wait… is that—?”

“Yes,” you said.

Success.

─── ·✧· ───

You nearly slipped on the wet asphalt in your haste.

You’d fled the lab without explanation, barely glancing back as you called over your shoulder for the others to lock up after themselves. No one asked why you suddenly had to leave. They already knew.

Strange how it had taken this long. Stranger still how everything fell into place now—like scales lifting from your eyes, sharp and painful in their sudden clarity. Why had it taken so long? And why now, of all moments, did you need to see him so urgently, ask him so urgently… while dreading the answer just as much?

By the time you reached the main building, rain had soaked through every layer of your clothing. You were dripping, breathless, your shoes squeaking with each step down the high, echoing halls.

You turned the corner just as students began to spill from the auditorium, their laughter and chatter too loud against the stone walls. Satoru’s lecture must’ve just ended. You paused, drawing one last breath, knowing the next one would surely hurt.

Inside the hall, students gathered their things and slipped past you one by one. They kept their distance, but their eyes didn’t. You felt their stares, heard the whispers—loud enough not to care if you heard. Hungry for drama.

You stood there, dripping water onto wooden floors, still catching your breath when you saw him.

Satoru looked up from a set of papers on the front desk, as if sensing you before seeing you. His bright blue eyes found yours across the room. He frowned. So subtly most people wouldn’t have noticed. But you did. You always noticed. You’d known him long enough.

He knew something was wrong. And he hated not knowing what it was. You saw that too. It was part of the game.

He didn’t speak until the last student had slipped out behind you.

“Lock the door.”

You turned and did as he asked.

“You want to say something,” he said cautiously, watching you. “But let me check first, yeah?”

He nodded toward the desk. You climbed up without protest.

You knew you had to give him this first—let him take care of you. Let him believe it would help, that this small act of tending could undo everything fraying between you. You gave him the illusion that it might make things better.

Because later, he wouldn’t have the chance. Later, there would be questions neither of you wanted to ask, and answers you feared even more. Later, there would be pain, and silences that stretched too long to ignore, and a distance you weren’t sure either of you would know how to cross.

But right now, you could give him this. A wound he could see. Something his hands could fix with antiseptic and gauze. Something not yet slipping beyond his reach.

And maybe, in some small way, it was the last thing either of you still knew how to do—

To patch what was broken, even if only on the surface. Even if everything underneath was already coming apart.

He moved closer until he was standing directly in front of you and reached for the hem of your sweater. As he pulled it over your head, the motion brought your faces briefly, breathlessly close—his exhale brushing your lips. Then, in silence, he undid the buttons of your blouse.

He pulled his chair closer and slipped on latex gloves, the snap of plastic loud in the hush between you. He wore a dark blue tie with his white dress shirt—the one you’d laid out for him that morning and helped him with. You’d always liked that one best. You weren’t sure why.

Carefully, he pushed aside the fabric of your blouse, revealing the small wound low on your ribcage. One of the burns from the fire had torn open again, somewhere in the chaos of Naoya’s party. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe the adrenaline. You hadn’t even noticed until the next morning.

You’d tried to hide it. Satoru had found it. He’d been angry. But he’d stitched it anyway. Quietly. Gently. Without a word.

Now, his fingers ghosted over your skin again as he removed the old patch and checked the stitches beneath. A droplet of water slid from your hair and landed on his wrist.

“You’re dripping,” he said, not looking up.

“It’s raining.” Your gaze drifted to the tall windows lining the west wall of the auditorium. Outside, the sky had turned a heavy gray, and rain streaked down the glass in endless sheets.

After a moment, he exhaled slowly, meaning that everything was okay. No infection. No complications. Just a scar now.

You buttoned your blouse again, then pulled your sweater over your head. He rolled his chair back slightly, peeled off the gloves, and tossed them into the wastebasket beside the desk.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He was asking about the phone call from last night. Your mother was taken into a hospital. A care treatment facility somewhere in the mountains. It was best for her, her therapist had said.

“There’s nothing I can do.”

“Do you want to visit?” he asked gently, like he’d forgotten the doctors had told you she needed time to adjust. Or maybe you’d never told him. Maybe that was the lie you’d chosen. Because it was easier than admitting the truth. Easier than saying you were scared of looking into her eyes and not recognizing what looked back.

“Sometime,” you said.

He leaned back, studying you. “If you need time… I can talk to the faculty. We could push your exams—”

“Did you see the video?”

His expression didn’t change much, but there was a pause. He saw it.

“Did you tell your friends? About your mother?”

“You know what’s strange?” you said, ignoring his question. “That Yaga hasn’t come after your job yet.”

“You should talk about it.”

“I’m pretty sure he saw it. Everyone has. And I’m also pretty sure he’d love to fire you. But he hasn’t.”

“You can’t keep avoiding this.”

“There’s been nothing,” you went on. “No meetings. No questions. No lectures. It’s like they’ve all decided to pretend none of it happened.” You looked at him. “Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

“What are you getting at?”

“They don’t care, Satoru. They never did. Not about me. Not about rules. Not about ethics. They don’t care because it’s you. Because it’s you that’s fucking a student.”

Silence.

You watched his jaw tighten, but he didn’t speak.

“The ethics committee was ready to sweep it all under the rug. Until Sukuna stepped in, that is.” You watched him carefully. “He’s the problem. Not this. Not us. No one gives a shit about that. Because they can’t afford to lose their star surgeon.”

He stood without a word and turned away. You heard the faint click of a blister pack, then saw the slight tilt of his head as he swallowed whatever it was. You didn’t ask.

“Just ask me already, first-year,” he said finally, still facing away. “Whatever it is you came here to say. No need for pretenses.”

You hesitated, but only for a moment. “Why does Sukuna really hate you?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t move. For a second, it was like even the air had gone still. He turned, walked back to his chair, and sank into it. He leaned forward, elbows braced on his thighs, and rubbed his jaw. He knew you wouldn’t let it go.

“Sukuna was seeing someone back during our second year of residency,” he said eventually. His voice was low, quiet. “They had this fight and broke up. She came to me that night—upset, angry and hurt… and I was—” He paused. “I was high. On something new, and I’d been drinking too and—”

He leaned back, eyes not on you, but on the space near your feet, like he couldn’t bear to look at you and still keep talking.

“I didn’t stop her when she kissed me. Maybe I wanted it, I don’t know. I barely remember any of it.”

He rubbed a hand over his face.

“Sukuna found out. He’d gone looking for her to apologize and—fuck—Sukuna doesn’t apologize. I didn’t even think he was capable of it.” A beat. “She and Sukuna fought again. I had a stupid shift at the hospital, so I left. She… she was drunk, but got in the car anyway—or at least, that’s what the police report said.” His voice went flat. “Next thing I know, she’s on my operating table.”

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the desk. His words landed like cold water down your spine.

His eyes lifted then, met yours across the space. You wished he hadn’t. Wished he’d kept staring at the floor, or the wall, anything other than dragging you into this truth with him. Perhaps he wanted you to look. Perhaps he needed you to. Needed to watch you flinch, to watch you pull away. Maybe that was the final proof he’d been waiting for—that even you couldn’t stay.

“I called the head of neurosurgery. He was supposed to be on that night. But there was a storm and we were short-staffed. He couldn’t make it in time.” A breath. “So it fell on me.”

“She was losing blood fast, and I tried everything I knew. Did damage control, shunts, applied pressure, transfusions. But nothing held and every time I thought I’d stopped it, it started again.” His voice dropped, barely above a whisper. “There was so much blood, I could barely see anymore.”

A pause so long it could have been silence forever.

“She died before the attending even made it to the hospital.”

Your chest seized, like something had reached inside and wrenched your heart out by the roots. A tear burned its way down before you could stop it, and you swiped it away with the back of your hand. You slid off the desk without a word and turned your back to him.

After a moment, you said, “You slept with her.”

“I didn’t. We kissed, and—”

You turned your head slightly, not enough to face him. “But you would have.”

A long pause. “Probably.”

“And you were high.”

“I was.”

“She died.”

He didn’t answer.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Isn’t that obvious?”

You turned to face him, a deep, trembling breath pulling through your lungs. How could the man standing in front of you wear the same face you love, and still feel like a stranger stitched together from someone else’s bones?

“Do you hate me?” he asked, so softly you almost missed it.

“Isn’t that obvious?”

Maybe you would’ve screamed if it weren’t for the chemical calm flooding your veins. Maybe you’d have fallen apart completely, if not for the weight of the medication holding your limbs hostage, pinning you to the floor of this unbearable moment. You would have cried. Run. Anything to escape this feeling.

How were you supposed to move forward from this? From knowing that the person you loved, the one person whose breath always lived inside your lungs, like you were never fully breathing on your own, had once stood in a room soaked in blood, unable to save the woman dying in front of him because he’d been using?

You couldn’t feel the full weight of it now, but you knew it was waiting. Lurking. It would come later, once the pills had worn off and you were alone.

“I took time off after that,” Satoru continued, his voice breaking the long silence. “Went to rehab.”

“But that wasn’t very successful, was it?”

“No. I left three weeks in. I couldn’t stand the silence in those rooms. And my hands—” he looked down at them, watched them tremble slightly, “they needed to do something. Anything. Other than itch for a pill.”

You closed your eyes, and the tiredness swallowed you whole. “Why do you always make this so hard for me?”

“I know.” His voice was barely there. “I’m sorry.”

But sorry didn’t bring back the dead. Didn’t patch torn arteries. Didn’t bleach out the stain of what he’d done. You wanted to scream that at him. But your body was too tired, too medicated, too full of ache.

“After that, I stopped experimenting,” he said. “I stuck to what I knew I could handle. Doses I could function with—”

“Stable? You think that’s what you are? You were cutting into people’s skulls, people who trusted you—and you were high. That’s not stable, Satoru. That’s criminal.”

“Don’t you think I know that?”

“But you still did it anyway.” You braced your hands on the desk and leaned forward slightly. “How many? How many times did you cut into someone’s fucking brain while you were high on God knows whatever the pharmacy could throw at you?”

His eyes narrowed. “You want the number?”

“Yeah.” The word came out like a dare.

“Seventy-eight.”

“Seventy-eight?”

“Yeah.”

“What—You kept track?” You scoffed and turned away, your breath catching in your throat. Silence spilled into the auditorium, thick and suffocating, broken only by the steady rhythm of rain against the tall windows.

“I went back afterward,” he continued, “reviewed every fucking surgery I’d ever done. Replayed them in my head, over and over, looking for mistakes. For moments I might have—”

“Don’t.” Your hand lifted without thinking.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t try to defend yourself.”

He stood up, his voice low but sharp. “Don’t act like this now. You knew.”

“I knew?”

“Yeah. You did. You knew I was using,” he said, eyes locked on yours. “You stood next to me in the OR, knowing I was on drugs.”

“Don’t make me complicit in your story.”

“Oh, come on.” His voice sharpened. “You turned a blind eye, didn’t you? Because you finally got to scrub in again. Got to be inside an OR. You needed that fix just as bad as I did. You needed it more than your ethics, more than your high ground. That’s the part you don’t want to admit. So don’t cry about it now—not when you were so willing to look away.”

And there it was. Irrefutable and damning, the accusation lingered between you like a knife twisting deeper, and you couldn’t help but feel so small in this hall opposite him.

He sat in front of you, cutting you open, slow and painful, and maybe he wanted it, needed it in that moment, to see the hurt, the pain. Maybe that would finally be enough for you to step back and leave him to himself. Prove he is what he thinks he is.

And right now, sitting there with water falling down your hair, drenched and cold, you weren’t so sure about it either. If you could stay. If this was what love was supposed to be like.

You always thought there was some kind of invisible thread tying you to Satoru. Something that was meant to be, written in the stars and etched into the spine of fate itself—like a wish a child makes with their whole heart, believing the universe is kind enough to listen.

But that thread was poisoned now. It had rotted and curled slowly from within, until the thread was so fragile you weren’t even sure it was still there.

He stood there, waiting for you to refute it. To deny it. But the words didn’t come. Because deep down, you knew.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” you said instead.

He didn’t argue. Didn’t even flinch. And somehow, that made it worse. Somehow that was the proof.

“You were using me for surgeries, and I let you. Because I fell for you. Because I had those stupid feelings—and still do. Because you made it easy to believe I could be better than I am.” His voice cracked slightly. “And believe me, if I could rewind time, I would. But I can’t. I have to live with this now. And there’s not a single fucking day where I don’t hate myself for what I’ve done.”

You turned away, thoughts spinning too fast to catch, too tangled to voice. There was too much—too much information, too much pain, too much weight pressing down on your chest until breathing became a conscious effort. But instead of panic, you felt strangely hollow. Carved out. Like someone had reached inside and scooped away everything that made you react.

You turned away. “It worked.”

“What?”

“I delayed the process, and now the neurons held. We were too aggressive. But it worked.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, like he didn’t trust his ears. And then—

“That’s… that’s—” He sank into the his chair again, the breath knocked out of him. “We could start trials. This could actually…” He looked up at you. “This could change everything. We could cure brain tumors.”

But you didn’t answer. Not with the excitement he expected. Not with anything, really.

After a pause, he asked, “Will you come home tonight?”

“I don’t know,” you said. “Maybe I’ll stay with Maki.”

“…Okay.”

You didn’t move as he crossed the room. He stopped beside you—close enough that you could feel the warmth of him.

“I kept the files. All seventy-eight cases. Notes, scans, surgical reports. They’re in my office. If you want them, they’re yours.”

You looked up at him. His face was drawn in the pale light, the color drained from his skin, his eyes so painfully blue it hurt to look into them. You could tell he was feeling it too, all that exhaustion from the constant fighting.

“I know you’ll want to look,” he added, and you hated how he always knew that. How he knew you. And he must have guessed your thoughts. “You know me. But I know you too.” And it almost sounded like a threat.

Your throat tightened, but you said nothing.

He hesitated for just a second more, then added—so softly you almost missed it, “I’ve fucked up a lot in my life. And I know I’m not a good person. But you... you were the only thing I ever got right, and I hate that I dragged you into all of this. And for that, I am sorry.” His hand lifted, fingertips brushing your chin, tilting your face toward his. “If you ever want to use me for the rest of my life, I’d let you. You can have it all—every surgery, every opportunity. I’ll open you every door, and never speak to you again if that’s what you want. You have all of me.”

And with that, he stepped back and left the room.

─── ·✧· ───

It started when you said his name out loud for the first time in hours. Or maybe it started earlier—when Maki opened the door without asking questions and handed you a hoodie that still smelled like laundry detergent and peppermint gum.

You hadn’t meant to talk about him. But the moment you sank into her bed, your head in her lap, everything you’d been swallowing started to claw its way back up.

It came out in pieces. Not in order. Not cleanly. You weren’t even sure it mattered anymore. And Maki didn’t try to stop it. She just sat there, running her fingers through your hair while you told her everything.

About the addiction. How you’d known from the first time you found pills in the glove compartment of his car and told yourself they were old prescriptions, leftover from some surgery, some legitimate pain. How you’d looked the other way because looking directly at it would have meant admitting that the person you were falling for was already in free fall. How you’d become an expert at seeing everything except what you couldn’t bear to see.

About the rehab attempts. About the withdrawal. How one time you found him on his bathroom floor, his pulse so weak you pressed your fingers to his throat again and again, and how you never knew what real terror was until that moment when you thought you were too late.

About Sukuna. About how he looked you in the eye and said you’re the problem—and how part of you still believes it.

About the accident. About the woman he couldn’t save. About the seventy-eight cases.

You told her about his parents. How he still sometimes flinches when you touch him unexpectedly. His scars.

And then about your parents. About your father. How much you miss him, how you always wanted to be as good a surgeon as he was. How Satoru stood with you at his grave. How your father would have liked him.

About your mother. How you watch her disappearing a little more each time you visit, how you’re terrified that one day you’ll look into her eyes and see nothing familiar anymore. How grief ate her from the inside out, and how you understand now why Satoru reaches for pills when the pain gets too much.

You told her about the pain. About the resentment. How unfair it feels sometimes, to love someone so much and watch them hurt themselves anyway. How you resent his addiction and your own powerlessness against it, how impossible it becomes to separate the man from the disease, how some days you catch yourself hating him for something that’s killing him too.

You told her how being with him started to feel like drowning—not because he was pulling you under, but because you were holding your breath, afraid that breathing too deeply might somehow make things worse. And how, somehow, being without him feels worse.

You kept going until your throat felt raw, like you’d been screaming with no sound, while Sabrina Carpenter and Billie Eilish played softly in the background. It might’ve been funny, if anything still was.

You told her everything except the part that made you sick to admit. You couldn’t say what Satoru already knew and never spoke about until now—that maybe, at the beginning, you’d wanted what he could give you more than you’d wanted him. You looked the other way because all you wanted was to be in the OR, to finally surface after being underwater for so long. After your father’s death, after watching your mother disappear into grief, after years of drowning in your own mediocrity.

You’d wanted the access Satoru could give you—the validation, the adrenaline rush of complicated surgeries, of holding someone’s life in your hands and knowing you were skilled enough not to drop it. Until—

Until you wanted him. To be seen by him, to be touched by him, to be kissed by him. And only him. Only ever him.

You’d gone from wanting what he could give you to wanting him, completely and irrevocably, addiction and all. And you hate that you still want that—even now, even after finding him unconscious on bathroom tiles, after all those ugly fight and watching him choose pills over you again and again, after realizing that loving him might be slowly killing you both.

You tell yourself you deserve better. But the truth is, you don’t want better. You just want him. But lying there in Maki’s bed, you can’t help but wonder how naive that makes you. How stupid.

And then you told her about the files—the ones that had been waiting on Satoru’s desk like he’d known you were coming for them. Like he’d been expecting you all along. He knew you too well, and sometimes that terrified you. Because there was no version of yourself you could keep hidden from him, even when you tried.

Maybe that’s what broke you more than anything—that he’d still handed you the match and dared you to strike it.

You hadn’t looked at Maki the whole time. Couldn’t. But she didn’t flinch, didn’t interrupt. She’d just listened until you were finished, your voice drained and raw. You braced yourself for what was coming—the lecture, the judgment, all of it. But Maki only said, “You have really horrible taste in men.” And then she leaned down to hug you.

It was deep into the night when you were reviewing file number forty-three. Maki helped where she could, but most of it didn’t make sense to her. She couldn’t read imaging like you could or rattle off vascular anomalies without flipping to the glossary.

She sat opposite you, hair tied up messily, sleeves pushed past her elbows, laptop open beside her to Google terms she didn’t know and helped where she could.

Most of the files were routine—craniotomies with clean margins, clean closures. All of them ended with discharge summaries that sounded clinical and bored and safe. Standard procedures with standard outcomes.

He hadn’t made a single mistake. Not a misplaced incision, not an ignored bleed, not a skipped step in sterile protocol.

“He was using during all of these?” Maki asked once.

“Still is,” you said, and kept reading.

You worked through his second year, when he’d moved from assisting to leading his own surgeries. And the more complicated the cases became, the more obsessive his notes grew—like autopsies of his own mind, meticulous dissections of every decision he’d made.

Every file had several different typed reports, then handwritten annotations, then sticky notes and random scraps of paper stapled onto scans. He’d gone over each case multiple times, you could tell by the changes in ink tone, the way some pages were creased down the middle like he’d folded them, reopened them, stared at them long enough to leave fingerprints in the margins.

He’d marked timestamps, tracked OR durations to the minute, cross-referenced medications with motor responses and blood pressure trends. Little arrows connected patient outcomes to dosage half-lives, and he’d circled anomalies in red that weren’t really mistakes, just… variables. Human noise.

You’d never seen anything like it.

It was like he’d turned every file into a courtroom where every suture was evidence, every reading a defense or confession. And he’d judged himself every single time. And yet—

Nothing. No errors. No unexplained bleeds. No outliers. Even the messiest cases showed perfect protocol adherence. You knew how rare that was. Even the best surgeons left behind complications. But Satoru had none.

He’d been using God knows what. And he’d still been perfect. Somehow, that made it worse. Because he knew what he was risking. Because he knew better.

The next case had photos that made your stomach turn. It was blunt force trauma. Skull fracture. Massive intracranial bleeding. The damage was already irreversible by the time she arrived. You knew that before you even finished the first page. Her skull had split on impact, the parietal bone shattered in three directions.

You didn’t realize this was her case until you found Satoru’s handwritten note: should've tried harder—crossed out so violently that the pen had nearly torn through the page.

You stared at the words until the they blurred. Satoru had said she was bleeding fast. He hadn’t told you it was this severe. She went into cardiac arrest twice on the way to the hospital. No one could have saved her. Not him. Not anyone.

Maki shifted beside you and gently pulled the file from your hands. Her eyes scanned pages, eyebrows knitting as she tried to make sense of it. She tilted the CT scan toward the light.

You asked her what she saw. Or maybe you just looked at her in a way that meant the same thing.

“I don't know much about this stuff, but… that’s not something you can survive, right?”

“She was thrown through the windshield,” you said quietly.

“My god.” She frowned, holding the scan a little higher. “Look at that—the whole front of her skull is just... gone. No one could’ve fixed that.”

You nodded, even though you’d known the moment you read her arrival vitals. It wasn’t about saving anymore. It was about the story Satoru needed—that it wasn’t hopeless, he just hadn’t tried hard enough. His personal punishment for being human. And that was the most Satoru thing of all.

You asked Maki if it changed anything—that he couldn’t have saved her, that no one could have.

She leaned back on her palms and starred up at the ceiling. She asked if you want it to change anything. And that stopped you more than anything else.

You said you weren’t sure. Because it should. Logically, clinically, it should. Knowing he wasn’t responsible for her death should lift the weight in your chest. But it didn’t.

Because it wasn’t just about the surgery. It wasn’t even about her. It was about what he’d been willing to risk, how far he’d spiraled before the guilt caught up.

You folded the scan and slid it back into the file.

“You want to know what I think?” Maki began. “He’s not a monster or anything. But he played Russian roulette with people’s lives—and just happened to win.”

You were at loss for words.

“But you always knew that, right? So why is it hitting you now?”

“I don’t know. I knew. I just... didn’t think he’d actually perform sugery while he’s so unstable.”

“He’s an addict. Being unstable is part of the deal.” Maki softened. “Do you want to know what else I think? He told you everything—even the really fucked up stuff, that he didn’t tell anyone else. Only Geto and you know. And now me, I guess.” She paused. “He knows you could blow this up. Get him fired. Maybe even arrested. But he still told you. He trusts you with the worst parts of himself, and I don’t know... that means something, right?”

“Not saying he’s not an asshole,” She went on. “He totally is. And he really has to get clean. He’s been lucky so far, but luck runs out and what happens when it does?”

You didn't answer. Because it was true. And the fact that he’d succeeded didn’t make it any less horrifying. People were alive because he’d gambled with their lives and won—because he got lucky. But he was still the best surgeon in the hospital. And you couldn’t stop wondering, would those patients have died if anyone else had operated on them? High or not, maybe Satoru was their only chance, and that thought made you feel sick.

“Listen,” Maki said after a long silence. “I can’t tell you what to do. But I don’t want to see you crying over him again. You shouldn’t be so loyal that you forget yourself.”

“What would you do in my position?”

“You already know what you want to do.”

“No. I don’t.”

She tilted her head. “Would you forgive Geto if he pulled the same shit? Or anyone else?”

“I’m not sure.”

“No. You are.”

You watched as she reached toward her nightstand and picked up a spare coin. She held it between her fingers, turning it over. “One side means you forgive him.” She rolled the coin across her knuckles. “Other side means cut him out for good.”

Before you could respond, she flipped it. The coin spun high, catching the light, flashing gold as it turned. Your chest tightened with every rotation. Maki caught it midair and slapped it down on the back of her hand, not looking at it yet. She held it there a second longer, then pulled her hand back.

You didn’t look.

You already knew what you wanted. And that was the problem.

─── ·✧· ───

The fog hadn’t lifted all morning. It hung low and heavy over the city, blurring the edges of buildings and streetlights. Maki drove with the heat turned up too high, the windows slightly fogged at the corners. You watched the world pass by, your eyes unfocused, your heart beating faster than it should have.

You hadn’t worn anything dramatic. A simple black dress borrowed from her, with your coat pulled over it. Your fingers curled inside your sleeves the whole drive. You weren’t sure if it was from the cold or something else.

“We can still turn around, you know,” Maki said, glancing over at you.

“I know. But what would he do without me?”

She let out a soft breath. “God, you two are the worst.”

When you reached for the door, she stopped you with a hand on your arm. “Remember what I said? Don’t be so loyal you forget who you are, okay?”

You leaned in for a quick hug, then stepped out of the car.

Cold autumn air bit at your skin as you stood on the sidewalk outside Satoru’s apartment building. He appeared in a black suit that made him look like he was dressed for a funeral. Maybe he was.

He had one hand on the car door when he saw you. His whole body went still, like a deer caught in headlights. For a moment, neither of you moved.

You walked toward him, your footsteps echoing on the empty street. You stopped just short and leaned your side against the car, arms crossed.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he began, cautiously.

“I promised I’d be by your side."

For a second, something in him seemed to give. His shoulders dropped a little. His fingers twitched against the edge of the car door, like he didn’t know what to do with them. Like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure if he still had the right.

You studied his face. He looked like he hadn’t slept.

“You look like shit.”

“You look beautiful.” And the way he said it—fragile and so softly—nearly undid you. But you forced yourself to hold the line, at least for a few more seconds.

“Do you think you could’ve saved her?”

He swallowed. “I don’t know. Maybe.” His hand clenched tighter on the car door. “Even if I couldn’t, I still feel like I should have.”

“Do you blame yourself?” you asked, though you already knew.

“Yes.”

“Okay.” You said it firmly, definitively, knowing how much he blamed himself for everything—how he always turned every failure into something bigger, into proof of his unworthiness.

His worst enemy wasn’t the pills or his parents or even Sukuna. It was his own mind, and nothing you could say would ever be as cruel as what it had already told him.

“Okay?”

“You don’t need me to make you feel worse. You’ve already done that enough,” you said. “You know me,” you echoed his words, then added, softer, “But I know you too.”

You pushed off the car and took a small step closer. Just one. Your heart ached with how much you still loved him. Hopelessly. Stupidly.

“Promise me something,” you said. “When this is over—when the lawsuit’s done, when we’ve dealt with Naoya—we leave.”

His brow furrowed. “Leave?”

“We don’t have to stay and fight Sukuna forever. We could walk away. There won’t be an ethics committee if we’re not here.”

“We can’t just leave. Everything’s here—your studies, my job—”

“You told me once that if you weren’t afraid, you’d leave it all behind. Find us a little house. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere we could be happy.”

He didn’t say anything.

“I can finish school somewhere else,” you added. “Go back to my old university. You could teach anywhere. Just… preferably not where I’m a student again.”

“Yeah, that part didn’t go great.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “But Tokyo’s the best place for you. You know that. You won’t get the same chances anywhere else.”

“I don’t care about chances. I care about you.” You stepped a little closer. “So promise me that we’ll leave when this is over.”

He stared at you for a long moment, his hand still gripping the car door. And then he stepped forward, just enough to close the space between you.

“Okay,” he said at last. He looked like he wanted to say more—maybe touch you, maybe kiss you.

“But this is it, you know. This is our last chance. So, if there’s anything else you want to say to me say it now.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. You saw the fight in his eyes, the words he couldn’t say.

“There’s nothing,” he said, and you knew that was a lie.

“Okay. Then let’s finish this.”

─── ·✧· ───

The driveway to his parents’ house curved through dense forest, the trees crowding in on either side as the light slowly thinned beneath their canopy. It wasn’t until the last bend that the house came into view, rising from the lawn in concrete and glass. Its tall windows caught the overcast sky and the dark silhouettes of pines, reflecting the world back without letting any of it in. Behind it, a lake stretched wide and still.

Satoru guided the car along the circular drive. Gravel shifted under the tires as he eased the car to a halt at the foot of broad concrete steps.

“Home sweet fucking home.”

You looked up at the house, at all the glass and steel and the clean, brutal lines. It was striking, sure, but in the way a museum is striking—beautiful, polished, and built for silence.

“It’s beautiful,” you said.

“It’s cold.”

He shifted the car into park and sat still for a moment. He reached into his jacket, pulled out a pill, and set it on the center console. Then he placed his phone flat over it.

Without a word, he brought his fist down hard. The screen cracked with a sharp sound. You looked away.

A quick sniffle, a wipe of his nose, and then he stepped out of the car. Gravel shifted under his shoes as he rounded the hood. He reached your door and offered his hand.

There was always something heartbreakingly elegant about the way he did those things—how he held his hand out to you, like muscle memory from years of practiced politeness. And standing in front of this house built of steel and glass and cement, it made sense where he’d learned it. Or was forced to lean it.

He didn’t let go right away. Instead, he held you close, arm resting lightly behind you, your back to the car.

“Thank you,” he said. “For coming with me.”

“You don’t have to thank me for that.”

“No, I do.”

He leaned down and kissed you, slow and careful. Hesitant in that aching way he always was after a fight, like he wasn’t sure of his place anymore. His lips were soft against yours, still bitter from the opioids. Strange how you had gotten used to that taste. Then, you caught a flicker of movement—a figure in one of the tall windows above the front steps.

His mother. You recognized her.

She was watching. And the moment she realized she’d been seen, she turned and vanished into the house. Satoru must have noticed her too—you felt the faint shift in his posture.

“You ready?” Satoru asked.

“No.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

He guided you forward, his hand resting against the small of your back.

The front door opened before you could knock. Standing there was an older woman with silver hair, her expression softening the moment she saw Satoru. The years seemed to fall from her face, replaced by something almost maternal.

“Young master!”

Her weathered hands reached for his face, cupping his cheeks and pinching them lightly. Satoru let her fuss over him like a long lost boy coming home. His earlier detachment gave way to something more warm.

“Chiyo. Still putting up with this place?”

“Someone has to.” Her gaze fell on you then, her eyes softening as a smile creased the lines in her face. “And you must be—”

“She’s my girlfriend.” Satoru’s hand found yours. “The only good thing in this house besides you, Chiyo.”

“About time you brought someone around. And such a lovely one, too.”

“Yes, she is,” he said, tugging you a little closer.

“Dinner’s nearly ready,” Chiyo added, already turning back towards the hall. “Your parents are waiting in the dining room.”

You followed Satoru down a hallway lined with tall windows, the dark forest pressing in on both sides. The grey stone floors reflected soft shades of green from the trees outside, everything muted in steel and cement. The house was immaculate—too immaculate. Not a speck of dust, not a single thing out of place.

There was no clutter. No photos. No warmth. No scuff marks from children running. No crooked frames capturing birthdays or holidays. No evidence anyone had truly lived here.

It all reminded you more of a hospital than a home. Walls adorned with expensive art pieces that felt more like investments than personal choices. Each vase, each object seems positioned with mathematical precision, as if the entire house is a museum display of wealth rather than a home.

You thought of your mother’s house—the worn spots on the carpet from years of footsteps, the slightly crooked family photos covering nearly every inch of wall space, the collection of colorful mugs in the kitchen cabinet, the magnets cluttering the fridge, the overall comfortable chaos of a place where life had happened. Before it stopped, that is.

Here, it felt like life had been sanitized away. Like someone had gone through with bleach and scrubbed away anything too human. No wonder Satoru hates hospitals so much. He grew up in one.

Satoru’s hand stayed wrapped around yours the whole time, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles, like he was reminding himself you’re real. You’re here.

A long, dark brown table stretched the length of the dining room, its surface untouched except for the exact placement of black porcelain plates and silver utensils. Outside, the forest leaned against the glass, its reflection swallowing the glass as dusk settled over the lake.

“I thought we agreed you’d let me know before bringing guests.”

You turned. His mother stood by the sideboard, a glass of wine resting in one hand. She was striking in some strange intimidating way. Ash-blonde hair, and her charcoal dress fit like it had been tailored around her bones. A diamond flashed on her finger, the only jewelry she wore.

“Right,” Satoru said, not letting go of your hand. “In case the table gets too crowded.”

“Courtesy, not capacity.”

“I didn’t come for courtesy.”

“No. Clearly not.” Her eyes flicked over you. “Still, you don’t bring guests without notice. We’ve talked about this.”

“We’ve talked about a lot of things. I don’t remember you listening to any of them.”

His mother gave a tight smile. “Is this the same girl from the conference?”

You felt yourself go still. Satoru didn’t.

“She has a name.”

“Forgive me. Is this what you’re doing now? Students?”

“You could try being a little more polite to your future daughter-in-law.”

His mother’s wine glass paused halfway to her lips. “Future—?”

Footsteps echoed from the hallway. A tall man stepped into the room, and everything went still. He didn’t speak right away—he didn’t have to. His presence hit first. You saw the resemblance immediately. Same height, same cutting blue eyes. But where Satoru’s were kind and warm, his father’s were flat and and devoid of any warmth, like frosted glass.

“Mr. Gojo,” Satoru said. No warmth. Like this was a stranger he’d been forced to learn by name.

“You’re late.”

“That’s because I didn’t want to come.”

“And yet here you are.”

“Yeah. Life’s full of disappointments.”

His mother sighed behind her wine glass but said nothing. His father moved to the sideboard, steps quiet on the stone floor. He didn’t look at you once.

“The board's asking about succession,” he said, pouring himself something amber. “They expect a Gojo at the head of the table. It’s time.”

“Of course they do. Can't let the family curse die out.”

“This isn’t a joke. The hospital needs someone capable. Not a surgeon with a God complex and a scandal hanging off his arm.”

You stiffened, but Satoru didn’t even blink.

“Well, lucky for you. I’ve never been much for politics.”

“Unfortunately, that hasn’t stopped you from embarrassing the family.”

Satoru smiled without humor. “You’d have to care about the family to be embarrassed by it.”

“Still so dramatic. When will you finally take responsibility?”

“Responsibility? You mean sitting in boring meetings, pretending I’m important alongside others who think they’re just as important—but really, they’re all quite irrelevant, and most of them can’t even tell a bipolar from a monopolar if their patient’s life depended on it. And we sit there discussing ways to cut costs and starve our personnel. Yeah, well. I’d rather cut my own throat. But then again, you’d probably enjoy watching that, wouldn’t you?”

His father turned then, and the look he gave Satoru could have frozen blood. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

“And I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction of seeing me any other way.”

The silence that followed felt like standing on the edge of a cliff. You could hear your own heartbeat, your own breath. And then you noticed how Satoru’s grip on your hand had tightened.

“Perhaps we should eat before the food gets cold,” Chiyo tried.

“Actually,” Satoru said, turning to you, “I think my wife would love to see the rest of the house first. Everyone loves this beautiful balcony overlooking the lake where I used to plan elaborate murder scenarios, after all.”

Without waiting for an answer, he led you out of the dining room. You caught a glimpse of his mother taking another long drink of wine and Chiyo hovering by the door, her hands clasped together as if in prayer, before she quietly slipped away toward the kitchen.

In the hallway, Satoru let out a breath. “Well, that was fun.”

“That was awful.”

“That was normal.”

<- prev chapter | next chapter ->

author's note — sooo i don’t even know where to start ? i know this update took forever, and i’m not super happy with it tbh. i’ve had the feeling that maybe the forgiveness came too soon, and it might’ve been better to let that emotional distance stretch a bit longer. but after five months of fighting with this chapter, i just couldn’t figure it out. so maybe this one’s a bit weaker.

i really struggled with how to deliver what happened between satoru and sukuna. and i know this chapter might divide people but i always stuggle a bit with "what do readers want" and "what i want to write." so believe me, i toned it down already, but in the end i have to stick with what i want to write, even if it means losing readers (but pls don't come at me, okay, this is just a hobby, thank u).

also… sorry for the pure angst. the next chapter’s gonna be heavy too. i do see that we need some fluff again to breathe a little, and i’ll try my best to sneak in some lighter moments between everything.

and yes, i know the story is kinda like: argument → getting back together → argument again, and at this point it’s just… yeah. that’s on me not planning things out more tightly, and then stumbling into all these big reveals that naturally lead into conflict ahhh. but i swear i crave the soft, fluffy times for them too omg.

overall, this chapter was really about choosing compassion over condemnation. i hope that came somehow through, even if it all feels a little rushed. thank you to everyone who’s been patient and still sticking with me, truly <3

ps: i wrote a little about suguru's and satoru's post from suguru's pov. it's called "suguru's memories" if you want to read that too <3

ps: if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here !

(not updated, sorryy will do later)

tags — @browrm @panteramarron @starlightanyaaa @wiserion @http-iria

@myahfig4 @rosebluod @bloopsstuff @depressedemosantaclaus @nanamis-baker

@tofumiao @shoruio @s3vtrue @rosso-seta @bnha-free-writing

@chiyokoemilia @bonequinhagojo @janbannan @mikkmmmii @yeiena

@coeqi @faustina @glenkiller338 @yenmrtnz @buni-bunnydoll

719 notes · View notes

lysatoru · 1 month ago

Text

HOW TO FAKE DATE A DOCTOR — SATORU GOJO

pairing — doctor!satoru gojo x fem!reader

summary — for six months, you've watched dr. satoru gojo order the sweetest coffee on your menu every morning at exactly 7:15 AM. for six months, you've convinced yourself his intense stares must mean he's spotted something medically concerning about you—maybe a suspicious mole or concerning symptom. but when a desperate white lie about a fake boyfriend results in him volunteering to play the part at your family's christmas dinner, what begins as a simple pretend relationship might just turn into something real.

word count — 9 k

genre/tags — coffee shop AU, holiday romance, fake dating, friends to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn, fluff, idiots in love, reader is a med student and barista, gojo is a cardiologist, age difference (reader is 25/gojo early 30s)

warnings — 16+ ONLY. contains suggestive sexual content, non-graphic medical talk

author's note — hey lovelies, welcome to my first attempt at a holiday romance. this was meant to be a short drabble but somehow turned into this 9 k words of pure fluff and pining. it's my little christmas gift to you all hehe. whether you're celebrating with family, working holiday shifts, or just enjoying a quiet day, hope this makes you smile. thank you for reading, and merry christmas !! <3 (credit/art)

masterlist + support my writing

You first noticed him six months ago.

It wasn't just because he was strikingly handsome, with hair the color of fresh snow and the bluest eyes you'd ever seen, though that certainly didn't hurt. It wasn't even because of his white coat and the stethoscope casually draped around his neck, marking him as one of the doctors from the nearby hospital.

No, what caught your attention was the way he looked at you.

Every morning, like clockwork, the bell above the door would chime at precisely 7:15 AM, and Dr. Satoru Gojo would walk into your café. He'd order the sweetest drink on your menu (always with extra whipped cream), and while you prepared it, his eyes would follow your every movement.

It wasn't creepy or uncomfortable. And it definitely wasn't flirting — at least, you didn't think it was. Perhaps he saw something, a suspicious mole you'd never noticed, and now he was trying to figure out how to tell the coffee girl she’s dying without ruining her morning rush.

That had to be it.

You’d catch his gaze lingering when he thought you weren't looking. Sometimes, he'd tilt his head slightly, a small, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. It made you wonder what he was thinking. Was he judging your latte art? Probably. You were still working on that.

But when you turned around to give him his iced vanilla latte with extra whipped cream and three shots of caramel (it never varied, not once in six months), he'd break his smile to you, his gaze softening for a second, and then his fingers would brush against yours as you handed him the paper cup.

He always thanked you with “Much appreciated”. It made your heart skip a beat, if you'd be honest. Not that you read all too much into it of course. And so for six months, this had been your routine.

5:30 AM: Arrive at the café.

6:00 AM: Open up, prep for the day.

7:13 AM: Start making his drink because you knew he'd walk in exactly two minutes later.

7:15 AM: Heart fluttering slightly as your hand brushed his as you gave him his order.

10:00 AM: Shift end.

10:30 AM: Rush to classes.

Some mornings, he’d arrive in wrinkled scrubs, the faint scent of antiseptic clinging to him. Other days, it was a tailored dress shirt, sometimes with a matching tie. But the routine never changed.

Same order, same time, the same easy smile that would soften slightly when you remembered his order without him having to say it. Not that it was hard to begin with.

“Someone’s got a secret admirer,” Maki would say, nudging you with her elbow as Dr. Gojo left. You’d roll your eyes, but a faint blush crept up your neck anyway.

Between customers, you'd try to squeeze in some studying. The early morning shift wasn't exactly ideal, but it paid better, and you needed every cent you could get for your pre-med textbooks. Those things cost more than your rent, it felt like.

Your anatomy textbook usually lay open behind the counter, hidden from customers' view but accessible during slower moments. Sometimes, when the morning rush died down, you'd catch Dr. Gojo's eyes flickering to the pages as you made his latte. His expression would shift slightly, but he never commented on it.

You wondered sometimes if he was judging your highlighting technique (chaotic at best) or your margin notes (mostly question marks). He must have gone through all this years ago, probably with much more grace than your current fumbling through medical terminology.

The café job barely covered your expenses — between tuition, rent, and those damn textbooks — but at least it was flexible with your class schedule. Your manager understood when you needed to switch shifts for exams, and the free coffee helped during all-nighters.

Your coworkers thought you were crazy for taking such early shifts. "No one should be awake at 5:30 AM," they'd say. But they didn't understand the quiet peace of morning prep, the satisfaction of perfect latte art, or the way certain blue eyes would crinkle at the corners when you got his order just right.

It was a small thing, a fleeting smile, a brush of fingertips, but it was enough to make the early mornings, the aching feet, the constant struggle, almost worth it.

Not that you stuck to this schedule just for him. Obviously not. The extra dollar per hour for opening shift was the real motivator. The fact that it coincided with Dr. Gojo's apparent coffee schedule was just... coincidence.

Sometimes, during chaotic study sessions between customers, you'd catch him watching you mouth medical terms to yourself as you steamed milk. His eyes would linger on your textbook, then flick back to your face with that same intense look that made you wonder if he was counting your remaining days or something—or still trying to figure out if that one mole on your cheek was turning malignant.

The morning you had your anatomy midterm, your textbook sat next to the register, full of sticky notes and frantic annotations. You saw him notice it, saw something shift in his expression as he took in the obvious signs of exam stress. That day, he left an extra large tip with a small note that just said "Good luck."

It was probably just pity. He'd been through med school. He knew the hell you were going through. That had to be it. Absolutely. No other explanation.

That’s what you told yourself, anyway, as you added the note into your wallet, shoving it down next to a crumpled grocery list and a faded movie ticket stub, as if burying it under a pile of mundane objects could somehow bury the flutter in your chest.

For six months, this had been your life. Balancing early mornings, late classes, endless studying, and the mystery of a doctor who looked at you like you were a puzzle he couldn't quite solve.

So when he finally broke pattern that random rainy monday morning, it wasn't with some dramatic revelation about your health you’d imagined. Instead, he tilted his head slightly while waiting for his usual and said, "You changed your hair."

You nearly dropped the caramel syrup. After six months of intense stares and loaded silences, after convincing yourself he was cataloging your symptoms or contemplating your mortality, he was commenting on your hair?

"Oh." Your hand instinctively went to the ends you'd trimmed over the weekend. "Yeah, just a few inches."

"It suits you." He said it so casually, like he hadn't just shattered half a year of mysterious doctor mystique with three words. Then, with that same matter-of-fact tone, "The pathophysiology textbook you were reading last week—Robbins, right? It’s really good. Especially the part about metaplasia. Interesting stuff."

And just like that, the spell was broken. No terminal diagnosis. No earth-shattering revelations. Just a doctor who apparently noticed haircuts and had opinions about medical textbooks.

The sudden normalcy of it all was almost jarring. For months, you’d been half-convinced he was silently cataloging your every freckle, every mole, every perceived imperfection, convinced he was about to deliver some devastating news. Now? He was talking about metaplasia. It was almot—anticlimactic.

And, if you were being honest, a little embarrassing. All those covert checks in the reflection of the espresso machine, all those frantic Google searches for “atypical nevi”—for this?

You almost wanted to laugh.

After that day, your morning routine shifted slightly. He still came in at exactly 7:15, still ordered the same diabetis-inducing latte, still watched you work with those intense blue eyes the color of glacial ice. But now he'd occasionally comment on your study materials, or mention an interesting case that related to whatever chapter you were currently highlighting.

"Cardiac arrhythmias today?" he'd ask, spotting your textbook. "Had a case of atrial fibrillation yesterday. The patient presented with…" He’d then launch into a quick explanation, sketching a diagram on a napkin that somehow made more sense than three hours of lecture on the same topic.

Your coworkers were almost disappointed by this development. "That's it?" Maki had said when you told her. "Six months of smoldering looks and he just... helps you study?"

But somehow, it felt right. The mysterious doctor with pretty eyes turned out to be just a man who noticed details and perhaps had a soft spot for struggling med students.

He still made your heart do that stupid flutter thing when his fingers brushed yours during the handoff, but now you had a perfectly logical explanation for that of course—the vagus nerve or some other equally fascinating cardiovascular phenomenon he'd just explained.

That had to be it.

Some mornings, when the café was quiet and you were stumped by a concept, he'd even linger a few minutes after getting his order. He’d lean against the counter, close enough that you could smell the faint scent of his cologne, gesturing with his cup while breaking down complex medical theories into digestible pieces, somehow making autoimmune disorders sound as simple as iced latte recipes.

"You'll make a good doctor," he said one morning, completely out of nowhere and your cheeks flushed a deep crimson.

Your relationship—if you could even call it that—settled into something comfortably in-between. More than customer and barista, less than friends, but with a rhythm all its own. He'd quiz you while you made his usual, turning morning coffee runs into study sessions.

"Name three complications of chronic hypertension," he'd say while you pumped caramel into his cup.

"Increased risk of heart attack, stroke, and kidney disease," you'd reply, adding the extra shot of espresso he never actually ordered but always appreciated.

"Good. Now tell me about secondary causes."

One random Tuesday morning, however, the bell didn't chime at 7:15. You glanced at the clock, then back at the door.

7:16.

7:17.

A knot of unease tightened in your stomach. It was ridiculous, really. Why did you even care? He was just a customer. A regular customer, yes, but still just a customer. It wasn't like you were waiting for him or anything. You were just—used to the routine. That was all.

But despite your attempts at rationalization, a small, nagging worry began to gnaw at you. Had something happened? Was he okay? You found yourself staring at the door, your hand hovering over the espresso machine, your usual movements faltering slightly. You even messed up a latte, the foam swirling into a sad, lopsided blob instead of the usual pretty rosetta.

At 7:20, just as you were about to convince yourself he’d just overslept and that you were being completely ridiculous, the bell finally rang. He rushed in, slightly out of breath, his cheeks flushed. "Sorry I'm late," he said, his voice a little rushed. "Crazy morning at the hospital."

He looked like he’d run all the way, which was odd. Why would he run? It’s not like his coffee was that important. Right? And yet, your stupid heart did a little flip at the sight of him, a traitorous swell of warmth blooming in your chest. He made it. He was here.

He stayed extra long that morning. After the rush died down, he listened to you recite your flashcards, correcting your pronunciation of medical terms with a patience that made you wonder if he moonlighted as a professor. It was a strange sort of intimacy, this shared moment of slow study amidst the busy morning rush and the soft hum of the refrigerators.

And you never wanted that morning to end.

Your coworkers had stopped teasing you about him—mostly—and started asking if he could explain their own health questions instead. Then came the random stormy Wednesday that changed everything.

The morning had started normally enough—he arriving at 7:15 sharp, you already having his sugar latte ready. But the sky had opened up while he was waiting, rain drumming against the café windows. It wasn’t a gentle shower. It was a deluge, the kind that turned streets into rivers in minutes.

"Did you bring an umbrella?" he asked, watching you glance at the downpour.

"No," you sighed, already dreading the soggy walk to campus. "I checked the forecast last night—it said sunny all day." You internally cursed the weather app.

"When does your shift end?"

"Huh? Oh, uhm 10 AM. I have microbiology at 10:30."

His lips twitched into a faint smile and he left without another word. You tried not to feel disappointed—what had you expected? It's not like he could control the weather.

But at 10 AM sharp, as you were pulling your jacket tighter and preparing to make a run for it, you spotted him through the rain-streaked windows. He was standing outside the café in his white coat, holding a large dark blue umbrella.

Your heart definitely did more than flutter this time.

"Ready?" he asked when you emerged, as if waiting in the pouring rain for some barista was perfectly normal doctor behavior.

"You didn't have to—"

"Can't have my favorite barista catching pneumonia," he said. "Besides, I'm heading that direction anyway." You knew for a fact the hospital was in the opposite direction.

The walk to campus was suddenly—intimate. It was strange being this close to him. You’d seen him every morning for months, but always across the counter, a safe distance separating you. Now, you were walking side-by-side, the scent of his cologne so close it made it hard to focus on anything but his proximity, to say the least.

"So, what are you studying in Microbiology?" he asked, breaking the silence.

"We're covering bacterial pathogenesis this week," you replied, and the conversation drifted naturally to a discussion of how different pathogens could affect various organ systems like it was normal small talk.

As other pedestrians passed, their own umbrellas bobbing and weaving, he’d subtly pull you closer. Each time he did, your breath would catch in your throat, and a fresh wave of warmth would wash over you. You were grateful for his height, because you were certain your cheeks were flushed a deep shade of red.

It was absurd, how flustered you were by such a simple act, but the feeling of his arm occasionally brushing against yours, the shared intimacy of the small space beneath the umbrella, was enough to send your heart racing.

Desperate to focus on something else, you blurted out, "What kind of doctor are you, anyway? I never actually asked."

"Cardiology," he replied simply.

“Cardiology,” you repeated, the word lingering on your tongue. A doctor of the heart. When you reached the medical sciences building, he paused, lowering the umbrella slightly. The rain had begun to ease, but the air still smelled wet and clean.

"Thanks," you said, meeting his gaze. "For the umbrella escort."

"Anytime." That soft smile again, the one that made your heart do a stupid little skip again.

As you watched him walk away, umbrella tilted against the rain, you realized something had shifted. Maybe you weren't quite friends, maybe you weren't quite anything definable, but whatever this was—it felt like the beginning of something. Something more than just sharing an umbrella on rainy days.

⋆꙳•❅•̩❅*̩‧͙ *̩❆₊˚｡❆

Winter arrived on a random thursday morning, transforming rain into snow and turning your early morning walks to work into arctic expeditions.

It was during one of these frigid mornings, while you were preparing Dr. Gojo's usual order and the steam from the espresso machines fogging up the frost-covered windows, that your phone rang. Your mother's contact photo flashed on the screen.

You answered with your phone pressed between ear and shoulder, still working the machines. "Hi, Mom."

"Sweetheart! I was just planning Christmas dinner. You're bringing someone this year, right? That nice boy from your anatomy class you mentioned?"

You winced, catching Dr. Gojo's raised eyebrow from where he stood at the counter. "Mom—"

"Because Aunt Marie's daughter just got engaged, and you know how she gets—"

"My boyfriend's actually busy with hospital rotations," you blurted out, immediately wanting to punch yourself. "He's, uh, very dedicated to his work."

"Boyfriend? Why didn't you tell me? What's his name? What does he—"

"Sorry, Mom, huge line forming, gotta go!" You hung up, letting your forehead thump against the coffee machine with a groan.

"That sounded stressful," Dr. Gojo commented, amusement clear in his voice.

You looked up to find him watching you with that slight smile that always made you shiver. "Just my mom being... my mom." You resumed making his latte. "She's convinced that at twenty-five, I'm practically a spinster."

"Ah." He tilted his head. "And this fictional boyfriend with hospital rotations?"

Your cheeks heated. "Seemed easier than explaining why I'm still single. Between work, classes, and studying, I barely have time to sleep, let alone date." You handed him his usual. "Plus, now she'll stop trying to set me up with every eligible male she meets through her book club."

"A creative solution," he said, taking a sip. "Though hospital rotations over Christmas? Sounds like a terrible boyfriend." A playful smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

"Yeah, well, imaginary men are often disappointing." You started wiping down the counter, needing something to do with your hands. "At least this way I'll have a few weeks of peace before I have to tell her we broke up."

"Sounds like you've done this before," he observed, watching you attack an imaginary coffee stain with perhaps too much force.

"Is it that obvious?" You sighed, abandoning your fake cleaning. "Last year he was studying abroad. The year before that, he was sick. I'm running out of excuses, honestly. Pretty sure my mom's stopped believing me, but she plays along because it's less awkward than admitting we both know I'm lying."

He made a thoughtful sound, then pulled out his prescription pad (why did doctors always carry those around anyway?). You watched, confused, as he scribbled something down and slid it across the counter.

"Here," he said. "My number. Call me during Christmas dinner."

You stared at him. "What?"

"Well, your imaginary boyfriend should at least make an effort, don't you think?" His eyes held that familiar amusement. "I'll tell your mom all about my very important hospital rounds, maybe throw in some medical words. Make it convincing."

You stared at him, mouth slightly agape. Was he… offering to pretend to be your boyfriend? You couldn't quite process what was happening.

"You know," he said, after you'd probably been quiet for too long, "some of us actually do work hospital rotations over Christmas."

"I know, I just—" You stopped, realizing how her words might have sounded. "Oh god, I didn't mean to imply… I know you probably have to work during the holidays too, I wasn't trying to—"

"Someone has to make sure all those Christmas dinner caused heart attacks are properly treated," he interrupted, that familiar, almost-smirk back on his face, easing the tension in your shoulders. "Though I do get Christmas morning off this year."

You couldn't tell if he was trying to make you feel better about your lie, your accidental insult, or just sharing information. With Dr. Gojo, it was often hard to tell. After a moment of stunned silence, you managed, "Are you… sure?"

"Perfectly.”

"Thank you," you said, finally finding your voice as you picked up the slip of paper. "Really, thank you."

"Anytime," he said, that familiar, soft smile gracing his lips. "Consider it a Christmas gift. From your very dedicated, albeit fictional, boyfriend."

As you watched him leave, coffee in hand and snowflakes catching in his white hair. Even if he was probably going to tease you endlessly about your fictional, workaholic boyfriend for weeks to come, a small, stupid part of you was already looking forward to it.

⋆꙳•❅•̩❅*̩‧͙ *̩❆₊˚｡❆

The Christmas dinner was a random Friday night.

The table, laden with enough food to feed a small army, was surrounded by the usual suspects and the dinner turned out to be exactly as excruciating as you'd expected. You'd barely made it through the appetizers before the interrogation began.

"So, this boyfriend of yours," Aunt Marie started. "What did you say he does again?"

"He's a doctor," you said into your mashed potatoes.

"A doctor!" your mother brightened. "You never mentioned that part."

Your cousin Sarah leaned forward. "What kind of doctor? Where did he study? How did you meet?"

You were considering faking a sudden illness when your phone buzzed. Dr. Gojo's name lit up your screen with a video call request. You hadn't even suggested a video call—he was truly committing to this.

"Oh, that's him now!" Your mother said, clapping her hands together. "Put him on speaker!"

Before you could protest, you were surrounded by a sea of curious relatives as you answered the call. The screen filled with Dr. Gojo's face, and—oh god—he was actually in scrubs, in what looked like a real operating room.

"Hey, my love," he said as if it was the most natural thing in the world, and the casual nickname hit you like a train, making you forget your own name. You felt your cheeks flush and it didn’t help that he somehow managed to look unfairly handsome even under the surgical lights. "Sorry I couldn't make it. We had an emergency valve replacement come in."

"Are you... actually in surgery right now?" you asked.

"Just finished!" He tilted the phone slightly to show a glimpse of a team of medical staff behind him, all of whom waved. One even gave a thumbs up. "Thought I'd catch you before dessert. Is that your family I see?"

Your entire extended family crammed themselves into frame, cooing and waving at your "doctor boyfriend" who was dedicated enough to call from work.

"Oh my god, he's gorgeous," your cousin said.

"Dr. Gojo," your mother pushed forward, "we're so disappointed you couldn't join us. Though of course, saving lives comes first!"

"Please, call me Satoru," he said, flashing that unfairly attractive smile of his. "And I'm more disappointed than anyone. I was really looking forward to trying your famous apple pie that your daughter keeps telling me about."

Your mother clutched her chest, delighted. You had never once mentioned her apple pie to him.

"Are those Christmas decorations I see in the OR?" your aunt squinted at the screen.

And indeed, there were actual Christmas lights strung up in the background. Either this hospital was very festive, or he'd gone to ridiculous lengths for this act.

"We try to keep the holiday spirit alive, even here," he said, then suddenly looked off-screen. "Oh, looks like we have another emergency coming in." Dramatic beeping noises increased in the background. "I'm so sorry, but duty calls. It was lovely meeting you all!"

"Such a dedicated young man," your mother sighed after you ended the call.

"So handsome too," Aunt Marie added. "Those eyes!"

You slumped in your chair, caught between mortification and amusement. He really didn't have to go that far—the Christmas lights in the OR? The perfectly timed “emergency”? The entire surgical team playing along? It was almost impressive.

Your phone buzzed with a text: 'How'd I do? The lights were my colleague's idea. They says Merry Christmas, by the way. Your family seems nice.'

Another buzz, a separate message: 'Also, I expect a slice of that famous apple pie at the café tomorrow. After that performance, I think I've earned it.'

You typed back: 'You are absolutely insufferable. That was completely over the top.'

His response came almost instantly: 'Is that any way to talk to your dedicated doctor boyfriend who just saved a life AND charmed your entire family? I'm hurt.'

Despite yourself, you smiled.

Your phone buzzed one more time: 'By the way, your cousin already found my hospital's public contact info and sent a friend request. Should I accept? I feel like a committed boyfriend would.'

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. He was absolutely loving this.

Way too much.

The next morning, you weren't surprised when he showed up at his usual 7:15, despite it being his day off. What did surprise you was that he was still wearing scrubs. They were rumpled, like he'd been wearing them for a while.

"Please tell me you didn't actually work all night just to make that video call more convincing," you said as he approached the counter.

"You know, I am a doctor in real life, right? This isn't just a cover for your mom." He smirked. "But anyway, just finished an actual emergency shift." He glanced at the paper bag you had waiting next to his usual sugary coffee. "Is that… what I think it is?"

"Your well-earned reward for yesterday's Oscar-worthy performance." You handed him both coffee and pie. "Though I still can't believe you got your entire surgical team to play along."

"Bold of you to assume I had to ask." He took a bite of the pie and his eyes widened slightly. "Okay, your mom's reputation is deserved. This is actually amazing."

"Yeah, well, enjoy it while it lasts, because—" You hesitated, took a deep breath, and decided to just rip the bandage off. "She invited you to dinner. Tomorrow."

He paused mid-bite. "Oh?"

"I told her you're probably busy—"

"What time?"

You stared at him. "What?"

"What time is dinner?" He took another bite of pie, looking perfectly casual about the whole thing. "I actually have Sunday evening off, and this pie has convinced me your mom's cooking is worth experiencing in person."

"You can't be serious."

"Why not?" He shrugged. "I've already met them virtually. Might as well complete the experience. Unless you're worried I'll embarrass you?"

"I'm worried you'll be too convincing again," you said. "My mom's already planning our wedding, by the way. She told me this morning that your 'dedication to work' proves you'd be a good husband."

"Well, I'd hate to disappoint a future mother-in-law."

"This isn't funny!"

"It's a little funny." He leaned against the counter, grinning. "Come on, one dinner. I promise to be slightly less charming this time."

"Somehow I doubt that's possible," you said before you could stop yourself.

His smile widened. "Was that a compliment?"

"That was a complaint about your inability to do anything halfway." You busied yourself with wiping down the already clean counter. "But fine. Sunday at seven. Try not to bring Christmas lights this time."

"No promises." He pushed off from the counter, taking his coffee and pie. "Oh, and by the way?"

"Hmm?"

"I accepted your cousin's friend request. She's already invited me to your family's New Year's party."

He was halfway to the door when he paused, turning back with an expression that was softer than his usual teasing smile. "You look pretty today, by the way. The new sweater suits you."

You froze, your heart skipping a beat. You hadn't even realized he'd noticed you'd changed from your usual work shirt into a cozy sweater for your afternoon classes.

He was out the door before you could stammer out a response, leaving you to wonder what exactly you had gotten yourself into. And why one simple, genuine compliment made your heart race more than all his dramatic boyfriend performances combined.

⋆꙳•❅•̩❅*̩‧͙ *̩❆₊˚｡❆

Sunday evening found you pacing a worn path in the carpet by your parents' front door, checking your phone every two minutes. 7:15 came and went—apparently his almost unnervingly precise timing only applied to coffee runs.

You tried to convince yourself it was fine, that doctors had unpredictable schedules, but a nervous flutter had taken up residence in your stomach.

At 7:20, your mom’s worried, "Maybe he got called into surgery?" was interrupted by the doorbell. You took a deep breath, smoothing down your dress, and opened the door.

Standing there was Dr. Gojo—Satoru, you supposed you should call him now—looking slightly disheveled in a way that somehow only emphasized his unfairly attractive features. His white dress shirt, though slightly untucked at the waist, bore the clear signs of a hurried ironing, and he was carrying what looked like an expensive bottle of wine—definitely not the kind you’d find at the corner store.

"I'm so sorry," he said, running a hand through his already slightly tousled white hair. "Emergency consultation ran late, and then traffic was—"

"It's fine," you interrupted, a wave of relief washing over you. He’d actually come. "Really. You didn't have to—"

But the rest of your sentence disappeared into a surprised squeak as he stepped forward, closing the small gap between you. He leaned in and gently pressed a kiss to your cheek, his free hand settling naturally on your waist, just above your hip, as if he’d done it a hundred times before.

"Hi," he whispered against your ear, and you could hear the smile in his voice. "Missed you today at the café."

You stood frozen, brain short-circuiting from the casual intimacy of it all. This wasn't part of the plan. You hadn't discussed... this. The way his hand felt warm through your dress, how his cologne made you slightly dizzy, how natural it felt to have him this close. It was as if your body already knew this was right, even if your mind was still scrambling to catch up.

"I... you..." Words. You needed words. "You're late."

He pulled back just enough to give you that familiar amused look. "And you're blushing."

Before you could even process that observation—or the fact that your heart was currently attempting to beat its way out of your chest—your mother appeared behind you. "Satoru! We're so glad you could make it!"

He smoothly stepped past you to greet your parents, all charm and apologies for his lateness, seamlessly weaving a plausible story about a last-minute emergency consult and unexpected traffic. He shook your father’s hand with just the right amount of respectful firmness and charmed your mother with a compliment about her festive decorations. All while he left you standing in the doorway, slightly dazed, trying to remember how to perform basic human functions like breathing and blinking.

The slight smirk he threw over his shoulder as he joined the others in the living room told you he knew exactly what he'd done.

Insufferable man.

The dinner was simultaneously the longest and shortest evening of your life. Satoru slipped into the role of doting boyfriend with an unsettling ease, weaving medical anecdotes (carefully tailored for a non-medical audience) and charming compliments into the conversation like he'd been rehearsing for weeks. He even managed to compliment Aunt Marie’s notoriously sweet cheesecake without visibly wincing.

He sat close enough that your legs brushed under the table, his hand finding its way to your knee during your mother's third attempt to bring up wedding venues (she was already browsing bridal magazines online, you’d noticed). The casual touch, which should have made you incredibly nervous, instead felt strangely good, like a shared secret between the two of you in the midst of the family chaos.

"And how did you two actually meet?" your aunt asked over dessert.

"She makes the best coffee in the city," Satoru answered smoothly, his thumb drawing absent circles on your thigh beneath the tablecloth. "Though it took me months to work up the courage to say more than my order."

You nearly choked on your wine. He was mixing truth and fiction so seamlessly you almost believed it yourself.

Every story he told had just enough reality to make you question your own memory. He mentioned how you study between customers, but added details about imaginary conversations. He even talked about your first "date" with such specificity that you found yourself half-believing it had happened.

His hand never left your leg for long, occasionally squeezing gently when your relatives’ questions became too invasive. Somehow, he’d effortlessly positioned himself as both the charming guest and the attentive boyfriend, deflecting awkward questions with a disarming smile. And you’d never been so grateful for anything in your life as you were for him breaking the pattern on that random, rainy Monday morning.

"He even helped me with pathophysiology," you found yourself saying, leaning into him slightly, enjoying it. Two could play at this game.

"She didn't need much help," he replied, his voice laced with a warmth that sounded genuinely proud. It made your heart flutter. "Just someone to hold her flashcards while she made my ridiculously sweet coffee."

Your father, who hadn't said much all evening, finally smiled. "She works too hard sometimes."

"She does," Satoru agreed, his hand sliding just a fraction higher on your thigh under the table. "Though that's one of the things I admire most about her." A wave of heat rushed to your face, and you quickly looked away, focusing on a particularly uninteresting spot on the tablecloth. This is getting out of hand.

As the conversation shifted to some other topic—something about your uncle's questionable golf swing—you leaned in slightly, whispering just loud enough for him to hear, "You're awfully charming."

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping lower so that only you could hear. "Funny, you don't seem to hate it." You felt your cheeks burn even hotter now.

By the time dinner ended, your mother was completely smitten, your aunts were bickering over who would host the next family gathering (with Satoru as the guest of honor, of course), and your cousin had somehow convinced him to follow her Instagram—and had already tagged him in three separate stories.

It was all too smooth, too perfect, too real.

The way he helped you clear the table, his hand brushing the small of your back in a casual, yet intimate touch as he passed. How he effortlessly recalled every detail you’d ever mentioned about your family, from your grandmother’s obsession with crossword puzzles to your father’s love of bad puns. The soft, lingering looks he gave you when he thought no one was watching, filled with an emotion you couldn't quite decipher.

"You're very good at this," you said as you stood side by side at the sink, washing dishes after dinner.

"At what?"

"Playing pretend."

His hands paused for just a moment. "Who says I'm pretending?"

The wine glass you were drying slipped from your suddenly nerveless fingers. You managed to catch it before it shattered on the tile floor, but not before making enough noise to draw his attention.

"Hey." His hand was immediately at your waist, steadying you. "You okay?"

"Fine! I'm fine, just—" You set the glass down carefully, very aware of how close he was standing. When you turned to face him, you found yourself effectively trapped between his broad frame and the hard edge of the kitchen counter. "Slippery hands. From the... soap."

"Hmm." His eyes searched your face, and for a fleeting moment, you thought—you could have sworn—his gaze flickered down to your lips before returning to meet your eyes. "You know, for someone who spends all day handling hot liquids, you've seemed very clumsy tonight."

"Maybe I'm just… distracted.”

You could feel the warmth of his breath on your face as he leaned infinitesimally closer, his eyes fixed on yours. One hand came up to gently brush a stray strand of hair from your cheek, his fingertips grazing your skin, the contact sending a shiver down your spine. "By what?"

"You're doing it again," you whispered.

"Doing what?"

"Being too convincing."

A slow, almost hesitant smile spread across his face. It was a smile that reached his eyes, a smile that felt utterly real, utterly intimate, making your heart stutter in your chest. "Perhaps," he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath against your skin, "maybe I'm not trying to convince anyone anymore."

You could feel his breath ghosting over your lips, the slight tremor in his hand where it rested on your waist, the way the kitchen suddenly felt too warm, too small, too—

"Who wants coffee?" your mother's voice carried from the dining room, making you both jump apart. Satoru cleared his throat, taking a hasty step back, his hand dropping from your waist.

The rest of dinner passed in a surreal haze, neither of you quite able to forget the charged moment in the kitchen. What was that? You kept replaying the scene in your mind. His hand on your waist, his breath on your lips, the sudden shift in his eyes. It had felt… different. More real than any of the playacting.

It wasn't until your aunt, after a drawn out round of goodbyes and air kisses, finally got up to leave that anyone noticed the shift in the weather. "Oh my goodness," your mother gasped, pulling back the curtains. "When did it start snowing?"

Outside, the world had transformed into a winter wonderland that would've been charming under different circumstances. At least a foot of snow covered everything, still falling heavily in thick, white sheets.

"The weather alert says it's going to continue all night," your father reported, checking his phone. "They're advising against any travel. Roads are already getting bad."

Your mother immediately switched into hostess mode. "You absolutely can't drive in this, Satoru. These roads won't be plowed until morning, at the earliest."

"I'm sure I can—" he started.

"Absolutely not," she interrupted. "You'll stay here tonight. Both of you."

You nearly choked on air. "Mom—"

"Don't be silly, dear," she said, already bustling towards the hallway. "You can take your old room, of course. It's all made up. Satoru," she called over her shoulder, "I'll go find some spare cloths for you." Then, turning back to you, she added, "And honey, you still have some things in your old room, so it'll be just like old times!"

Old times? What old times? Your childhood bedroom with those old embarrassing school photos and faded posters of your first boyband crush that you’d somehow never gotten around to taking down? This was not part of the plan. This was definitely not part of the plan.

He wasn't supposed to see that side of you.

As you counted down the seconds until you completely died from embarrassment your parents bustled off to prepare the rooms, leaving you and Satoru alone again. He leaned against the window, watching the snow fall, a small smile playing at his lips.

"Convenient weather we're having," you said suspiciously.

He raised an eyebrow. "Are you implying I somehow arranged a snowstorm?"

"At this point, I wouldn't put it past you."

His laugh was soft and warm. "As flattered as I am by your faith in my abilities, even I can't control the weather." He glanced at you. "Though I have to admit, this is working out better than my original plan of pretending my car wouldn't start."

"You're impossible," you groaned.

"So I've been told." He pushed off from the window, moving closer. He stopped just inches away, until you could feel the heat from his body. His gaze dropped—or you thought it did, your pulse quickening at the mere possibility—to your lips for the briefest of moments before returning to meet your eyes. You blinked, trying to clear your head. No, it couldn't be. "Though I notice you're not exactly complaining about the situation."

Before you could formulate a witty retort (or even a coherent thought, for that matter), your mother’s voice rang out from upstairs, effectively putting an end to whatever was about to happen. "I found some spare clothes, Satoru! And honey," she called down, "your old band t-shirts are still in your dresser!"

You covered your face with your hands. "Please forget everything she's about to show you."

"Now how could I possibly pass up the chance to see teenage you's fashion choices?"

You peaked through your fingers to find him smirking, looking far too delighted by this turn of events. This was going to be a very long night.

⋆꙳•❅•̩❅*̩‧͙ *̩❆₊˚｡❆

"I really can sleep on the floor," Satoru offered for the third time, shifting his weight awkwardly in the doorway of your childhood bedroom. He looked around, taking in your teenage decorating choices, and you could practically hear the gears turning in his head.

"Don't be ridiculous." You tried to sound casual as you smoothed down the NASA bedsheets you'd had since high school on your small bed, that suddenly looked barely big enough for one, let alone two adults. "We're both adults. We can share a bed without it being weird."

He was quiet for a moment, and when you glanced up, you found him studying your teenage self's wall decorations with poorly hidden amusement. It was a chaotic mixture of faded movie posters (mostly featuring heartthrobs from your early teens), band posters (an ambarrasing One Direction poster taking center stage), and a poorly crafted periodic table, complete with hand-drawn elements and color-coded categories.

"Nice periodic table," he finally said.

"Shut up," you muttered, throwing a pillow at him. He caught it easily, because of course he did. "Some of us were nerds before med school."

You turned to your old closet, pulling out one of those oversized band t-shirts you'd lived in during high school. You gripped the hem of your sweater, suddenly very aware of his presence in the small room.

You could feel his eyes on you, a weight on your back, and you could feel the heat creeping up your neck. You paused, your fingers frozen on the soft knit. "Um… could you…?" you trailed off, not wanting to meet his gaze.

He didn't say anything, didn't move. You could practically feel his gaze burning into your back. Finally, you turned, holding your band t-shirt protectively in front of you. "Seriously. Turn around."

He blinked. "You know, I am a doctor. I've seen it all."

"Still," you insisted, your cheeks flushing. "Turn. Around."

He sighed, but finally turned his back, though the lingering amusement in his eyes told you he was still enjoying the situation immensely.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you muttered, pulling the t-shirt over your head. You smoothed it down, then took a deep breath.

"I would never," he said.

"You can turn around now."

He turned, his face carefully composed, though a telltale twitch at the corner of his mouth gave him away. His eyes traveled from the hem of the shirt to your face, making your heart stutter. "You look… cute."

"You're a terrible liar.”

You both settled into bed with careful movements, lying rigid as boards, backs facing each other in a vain attempt at maintaining some sort of personal space. The mattress, however, had other plans. It dipped under his weight, creating a subtle slope that kept trying to draw you toward the center—toward him.

Your childhood bed, which had seemed perfectly adequate when you were sixteen, now felt absurdly small. You pressed against the edge, but it was no use, there couldn't have been more than a few inches between your back and his. You could feel the heat of his body, warming the small space between you, his every breath, the subtle shift of the sheets when he moved.

The silence stretched, filled only with the sound of falling snow outside your window and your own heartbeat. It felt so loud, you were certain he could hear it.

"Thank you," you finally whispered into the darkness. "For tonight. For all of it. You didn't have to do any of this."

The bed shifted as he turned over. After a moment's hesitation, you did too, finding yourself face to face with him in the dim light of the streetlamp filtering through your old curtains. His hair was disheveled from the pillow, his expression softer than you'd ever seen it.

"It was fun," he said simply, his breath warm against your cheek.

A small laugh escaped your lips. "Fun? My mom interrogated you about your entire medical history, my dad made you look at his coin collection for an hour, and my cousin tried to show you every embarrassing photo of me from middle school."

"The braces years were particularly charming."

You kicked his shin lightly under the covers. "Shut up."

He grinned, the warmth in his eyes visible even in the dim light. "I mean it, though. Your family is… lively."

"That's a polite way of saying chaotic."

"They care about you. It's nice."

You studied his face, searching for the truth in his words. "Why did you really come tonight? You could have easily found an excuse to avoid this disaster of a family dinner."

"Would you believe me if I said I wanted to?"

"No," you said. "Nobody wants to spend their evening being questioned by my parents and subjected to my aunt's weird baking."

He was quiet for a moment, his eyes never leaving yours. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, more serious. "Maybe I wanted to understand you better. See where you came from. Meet the people who made you... you."

Your heart stuttered in your chest. "Why would you care about any of that?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

You stared at him, suddenly very aware of how close you were, how little space there was between you in this too-small bed. "No," you whispered. "It's not obvious at all."

"Then I must be doing a terrible job of showing you."

Your heart was racing now, your voice barely audible. "Showing me what?"

Before you could respond, he shifted, until he was hovering above you. Your breath caught at the change, at how his white hair fell forward framing his face, at how his eyes seemed to hold entire galaxies in them.

And then he kissed you.

The kiss was nothing like the casual touch of lips from before. It was soft, sweet, and achingly tender at first. He moved against you slowly, his lips parting slightly, inviting you to deepen the kiss. You met his silent invitation, your own lips parting in response. One hand cupped your face, his thumb gently stroking your cheek, while the other braced against the mattress, supporting his weight.

Then, with a soft sigh, he deepened the kiss, his lips moving against yours with a gentle urgency that made your heart ache with a longing you hadn’t known you carried. He pulled you closer, just a fraction, the kiss becoming more urgent, more demanding, yet still laced with a surprising tenderness.

You could feel the rapid thump of his heart against your own chest but then, just as suddenly as it began, he pulled back, breaking the kiss. He didn't move far, though, remaining close enough that you could still feel his breath on your face, see the rapid rise and fall of his chest. "Still think I'm just playing pretend?"

This time, you didn't hesitate. You were the one who moved forward, your hand sliding into his hair, the soft strands tangling around your fingers, pulling him back down to you. His surprised intake of breath was quickly lost as your lips met again.

This kiss was different—deeper, more urgent, six months of watching and waiting poured into a single moment. He made a low sound in his throat as your fingers tightened in his hair, urging him closer.

His own hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, his fingers pressing gently into the sensitive skin there. The weight of him pressed you into the mattress, his warmth seeping through the thin fabric of your band t-shirt.

"I've wanted to do that since the first time you rolled your eyes at my coffee order," he said against your lips, his voice rough in a way that sent shivers down your spine.

"That long?" You tried to sound teasing, but it came out breathless instead.

He smiled against your lips. "Longer, probably." He pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth, then another to your jawline. "Though watching you try to diagnose yourself with every terrible disease I mentioned was pretty entertaining, too."

You groaned, burying your face in the crook of his neck. "You're never going to let me live that down, are you?"

"Never," he agreed, pressing a kiss to your temple. Then, quieter, more intimate, "But I've got plenty of time to make it up to you."

His lips trailed down your neck, each gentle press sending shivers through your body. When he reached the collar of your t-shirt, he paused, his fingers toying with the hem. "Can I?"

You nodded, not trusting your voice, and he slowly, teasingly, pushed the fabric up, revealing your stomach inch by inch. The first brush of his lips against your bare skin made you gasp, your fingers tightening reflexively in his silky hair.

He took his time, pressing kisses to your belly, your ribs, the valley between your breasts. His tongue darted out, tasting your skin, leaving trails of fire in its wake. Your back arched, subtly at first, but with increasing urgency as his lips and hands explored your skin.

His fingers, still toying with the hem of your shirt, finally slipped beneath the fabric. He traced the curve of your waist, the swell of your breasts, leaving goosebumps in their wake. When his thumbs brushed over your nipples, you couldn't suppress the moan that escaped your lips. "More," you whispered, the word barely audible, but he heard it, his eyes flicking up to meet yours.

"You sure?"

"Yes," you breathed. "Please."

His fingers hooked into the waistband of your sleeping shorts. Your heart raced, your skin flushed, every nerve ending racing with the promise of what was to come.

He dragged the fabric down your legs, the cool air hitting your heated skin making you shiver. He settled between your thighs, his broad shoulders forcing your legs wider, and lifted one of your legs over his shoulder, his kisses trailing down your inner thigh. And then his mouth was on you, and the world fell away.

⋆꙳•❅•̩❅*̩‧͙ *̩❆₊˚｡❆

The next morning felt like stepping into a dream—a world where Dr. Satoru Gojo, the man you’d spent six months convinced was silently diagnosing you with rare diseases, was actually just a man utterly smitten with you.

It was as if a blurry lens had finally snapped into focus, revealing a picture so obvious you almost laughed. All those intense stares, the carefully timed coffee shop visits, the way he’d linger at your counter, even helping you study—it had never been about mysterious illnesses or professional concern.

He’d simply been trying to be near you, and you’d been too busy inventing medical mysteries to notice.

And the most embarrassing part? How obvious it had been to everyone else. Your coworkers’ knowing looks finally made sense, as did your mother’s immediate acceptance of him as your “boyfriend.” Even his colleagues had been in on it, helping stage that ridiculous Christmas video call just to make you smile.

When you later confessed your obliviousness to your coworkers, their reactions ranged from “Finally!” to a bewildered “Wait, you mean he wasn’t actually your boyfriend this whole time?”

Over breakfast, as he effortlessly charmed your mother into accepting a third helping of pancakes he casually dropped the bomb to your mom, “I actually rearranged my entire consultation schedule to match her shifts. I don't even like coffee."

Your mind went blank for a moment. He… what? Then, the implications crashed down on you. He’d rearranged his entire work schedule just to see you. And he hated coffee. He’d only ever ordered those sugary lattes because… because of you.

A blush crept up your neck, and you couldn't believe how adorably dense you’d been.

He met your gaze then, his blue eyes softening in that way that always made your heart flutter. Only now you understood what that look truly meant. He hadn’t been studying you. He’d been cherishing you with his gaze. He’d wanted to see you, to be near you, to simply be with you. And the realization made you ridiculously, undeniably happy.

Satoru walked over to you from where he stood next to your mom and leaned down, his breath warm against your temple, and pressed a soft kiss there. You closed your eyes, savoring the simple touch. God, you wanted more. You wanted him closer, his arms around you, his lips on yours again, just like last night.

You'll probably never get enough of that.

He pulled back slightly, his hand cupping your cheek, his thumb gently stroking your skin. His gaze held yours, a soft smile playing on his lips. Then he whispered three words that made your world stand still, "I love you."

Three little words.

But those three words little changed everything.

It felt as though time itself had stopped. He loves me, the thought echoed in your mind, a fragile, beautiful sound you couldn't quite believe was real. You’d imagined this moment countless times in secret, tucked away in the quiet corners of your heart, but you'd never truly believed it could happen.

And in that moment, surrounded by the warmth of his hand, the sweet scent of pancakes, and the soft morning light filtering through the kitchen window, you knew you’d never been happier in your entire life.

And most importantly, you didn't have to pretend anymore. He wasn't just someone you were pretending to date for your family's sake. He was actually your boyfriend. Really, truly your boyfriend. And what had once felt like a performance suddenly felt very much like coming home.

But the best part? At exactly 7:15 the next morning, he still walked in, ordered his usual diabetes in a cup, and watched you work with those intense blue eyes. Only now, when you handed him his drink, he'd pull you close for a kiss that tasted of caramel and cinnamon.

"You know," he said one morning, watching you make his order, "for someone smart enough to get into med school, you were remarkably dense about this whole thing."

"Says the man who spent six months staring instead of just asking me out."

"I was building suspense."

"You were being creepy."

"Maybe," he said, then smilled. "But it worked, didn't it?"

And really, you couldn't argue with that. Though you did make his next latte extra sweet, just to watch him pretend to enjoy it.

After all, some things were worth suffering through overly sugary coffee for.

masterlist + support my writing

author's note — if you're familiar with a certain story on my blog, then no you didn't see this story, and this is definitely not a healthier version of another couple, and i absolutely do not have a thing for medical AUs, okay thank you.

anway, this was supposed to get spicier, but time got away from me because i really wanted to share it with you all for christmas so this is only suggestive, but i hope you enjoyed it either way. & thank you so much for reading this far !! your support means everything to me.

wishing you all a very merry christmas !! hope your holidays are filled with sweet coffee, warm embraces, and maybe even a handsome doctor of your own <3

ps: if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here!

tags — @fayuki @starmapz @snowsilver2000 @starlightanyaaa @sxnkuna

@cocomanga @nanamis-baker @rosso-seta @shervinss @chiyokoemilia

@janbannan @bloopsstuff

10K notes · View notes

lysatoru · 1 month ago

Text

Summer 2006

8K notes · View notes

lysatoru · 1 month ago

Text

🜼 ⋆ in which gojo is the strongest man alive—until a loss, your loss, makes him a ghost of himself. — y’all my shirt is still stained with tears.

his hands rest lightly on your hips, warm and steady, guiding you in a slow, unhurried circle across the kitchen floor where the absence of music makes his low humming stand out even more—soft, almost inaudible, a trembling thread of sound that brushes the crown of your head gently as he sways you back and forth, barefoot and grounded, while your cold legs tremble ever so slightly beneath him, and all at once, in that quiet morning light surrounded by half-washed dishes, unwatered plants, and the lingering smell of instant coffee, the world feels briefly, almost impossibly, easy and safe as if time itself has paused to give you this rare moment of peace.

“this is gross,” you murmur with a half-smile, your cheek pressed against his shirt, voice muffled and tender. “we’re gonna start slow dancing every time it’s quiet now, huh?”

he presses a soft kiss to your forehead, the kind of kiss that holds a thousand unspoken promises. “absolutely.”

“we need boundaries.”

“you need rhythm.”

you snort quietly, the sound barely breaking the stillness, and he smiles against your skin, a small, fond curve that makes the warmth inside you spread, as the morning sun slices through the window, painting the room with gold and giving everything a softness it rarely has.

“promise me something?” you ask, voice small but earnest.

“i hate that question,” he replies, the faintest edge of impatience in his tone, but also something softer, a crack in his usual confidence.

“satoru.”

he exhales, a breath heavy with something you can’t quite place. “fine. what.”

“promise you’ll never let this stop feeling special.”

his silence stretches out, long and deep, the kind of silence that isn’t empty but loaded with meaning—the kind only someone who truly cares can carry—and then, finally, he nods once, decisively, with the weight of the world behind it. “i’ll never stop feeling it.”

and now when gojo unlocks the apartment door without making a single sound, stepping inside with the same careful, reverent touch he always uses when you’re asleep on the couch, closing the door softly behind him and deliberately avoiding turning the lights on as if the darkness might protect the fragile memories still hanging in the air; his jacket clings damply to his shoulders, wet from the rain outside, his shoes still muddied and heavy on the floor, yet he neither removes them nor utters a word, standing motionless, not blinking, not moving for what feels like forever.

the faint scent of lemon, or jasmine, or maybe some elusive combination of both — whatever perfume you wore that used to wrap the apartment like a warm hug — still lingers faintly in the air, mixing with the normalcy of your untouched surroundings, the half-empty coffee mug with the chipped rim still in the sink, your hoodie tossed carelessly over the back of the chair with its sleeves twisted inside out from when you shrugged it off, the hair tie still looped lazily around the doorknob as though you might walk back in any second, and yet despite all this evidence of life, the unbearable truth claws at him harder than anything: you are not here.

you are not here.

and somehow, despite the evidence his senses refuse to accept it.

he doesn’t cry. he doesn’t collapse in a heap on the floor begging the universe to undo what happened. he doesn’t scream or rage or fall apart in front of those who love him, because that’s not who he is.

he is gojo satoru — the strongest, the impenetrable, the invincible man who can stand firm through any storm, who can carry the weight of a funeral without flinching, who can bury you with clean hands and speak words of condolence with a steady voice while the world around him crumbles silently.

but there’s one thing he can’t do — he hasn’t taken the trash out since you died.

he moves through the apartment like a ghost himself, fingers barely grazing the couch where you used to curl up, tracing the edges of your bookshelf, lingering over the crooked photo on the hallway wall — the one you always promised to straighten but never got around to — and he leaves it just as it is, crooked, because that was your way, and he can’t bring himself to fix it.

he leans against the kitchen counter, takes a deep breath, and in that silent moment, he can almost hear your voice echoing in his mind, biting and teasing and soft all at once:

“you’re annoying in the morning.”

“you burnt the rice again.”

“you love me too much, y’know.”

he closes his eyes, desperate for a flicker of your presence.

you weren’t supposed to be there — not in the crossfire, not anywhere near the battlefield where you got caught in something you never signed up for, where someone decided to use you as a pawn, and he couldn’t protect you no matter how hard he fought.

he killed them all, every last one, with cold, clinical precision; his hands were clean not because they were gentle but because his actions were surgical, ruthless, and inevitable, and none of those people ever saw it coming, none of them will ever hurt anyone else again.

but none of that brings you back.

it doesn’t restore the warmth of your hands wrapped tight around his neck when you pulled him close, the way your forehead scrunched when you teased him, or the way you whispered his name with a softness that made it feel like the sweetest thing in the world.

it doesn’t bring back the quiet moments — not your quiet, the kind that felt like home, but this wrong silence that hangs in the air like a grave.

he opens the cabinet, stares at your chipped mug, but doesn’t touch it.

he turns to the fridge, looks at the dent you made when you hit your elbow dancing, but still doesn’t move.

he walks to the window, stares out at nothing, still not blinking, while outside the city carries on in its chaos—curses flying, sorcerers battling, his name whispered with respect and fear—and inside, the space where you used to be is an endless void.

his phone buzzes, but he doesn’t answer.

shoko’s checking in, like always. she knows better than to push.

everyone thinks he’s fine.

of course he is.

he shows up to meetings, handles missions with the same razor-sharp focus, gives orders like nothing’s wrong, cracks jokes even when no one laughs.

but no one has stepped foot inside the apartment since you left, and that is the true divide.

out there, he’s the man they all believe him to be.

in here, he is a hollow shell, silent and unmoving, lost in the slow, suffocating grief that no one else can see.

he enters the bedroom, and the familiar scent of your perfume wraps around him like a ghostly embrace.

he doesn’t turn on the light.

he lies down fully dressed on the sheets, his side of the bed untouched since the last mission.

your pillow still holds the imprint of your head, the shape pressed deeply into the fabric, and he flipped it the first night because he couldn’t bear to see it.

he stares at the ceiling until his eyes adjust to the darkness, not closing them, refusing to sleep, just lying there—motionless, silent, alive only in the most technical sense.

he could call your name out loud right now, whisper it into the darkness like a prayer, a desperate plea for a miracle.

but he doesn’t.

because if he says it, if he admits it aloud, it becomes real.

and if it’s real, then you’re truly gone.

so he remains quiet.

pretending you’re still there in the next room, brushing your teeth, humming softly and off-key, just like you always did.

and then, almost without thinking, he hums back.

softly.

off-key.

a little broken.

just once.

like he’s hoping somehow you’re still listening.

725 notes · View notes

lysatoru · 2 months ago

Text

gojo loves mornings.

not in a normal way—not in the wake-up-early-and-be-productive way, because he’s actually god-awful at that. but he loves mornings with you. the kind where the sun hasn’t fully crept in yet, where the world is still quiet and blanketed in soft blue shadows, where there’s only you and him and the sleepy weight of comfort.

today is one of those mornings.

you’re curled up beside him in bed, body warm and limp with sleep, tucked under his chin while his arms are slung lazily around your middle. he’s been awake for a while—couldn’t help it, not when your hair tickled his nose and your little exhales brushed against his collarbone. he’s just been laying there, holding you close, watching the world slowly brighten beyond the windows.

he doesn’t move.

you’re the softest thing he’s ever had. nothing else in the world has ever felt like this. like peace and like home.

so when you stir, just a little, and shift your head to bury it deeper into his chest, he feels his heart squeeze in the dumbest, warmest way. his fingers flex slightly, drawing lazy circles against your back. your legs try to kick free of the blanket but he wrangles them back under with his own, chuckling lowly.

“mmph,” you mumble, voice muffled, sleep-heavy. “lemme go.”

“never,” he whispers, voice still rough with sleep, curling even tighter around you. “we live here now. in this bed. forever.”

you grunt at him, too groggy to argue properly, your fists pushing against his chest with the strength of a sleepy kitten. your eyes are barely cracked open, just enough to squint at him. he presses a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your cheek.

you smack him—lightly, without energy. “stop.”

he grins against your skin. “but you’re so cute like this.”

“you’re annoying like this.”

“so mean,” he gasps, but he doesn’t let you go. not yet. not until you wiggle hard enough to break an arm free and start clumsily smacking him again, half-heartedly and yawning between each attack.

he lets you roll away, but not too far. follows you with a hand tugging at your waist, draping his leg over yours again. “where are you even trying to go, huh?”

“bathroom.”

“you need me in the bathroom?”

“…i need to pee.”

“i’ll go with you.”

“why would you—no. no. toru—”

but it’s too late. he’s already dragging himself out of the bed, still in his ridiculous sleep shirt that reads i heart naps, hair sticking out in every direction. he’s behind you as you pad slowly toward the bathroom, groaning under your breath.

you look grumpy. adorably so. squinting like the light betrayed you, shuffling like you’ve forgotten how to walk. and when you finally reach the sink and grab your toothbrush, you lean against him like your legs can’t hold you up anymore.

“tired, baby?” he asks, pressing a kiss to your temple.

you glare at him through the mirror, toothpaste foaming at the corner of your mouth. he thinks you look beautiful.

he holds you steady as you brush your teeth, humming some awful tune against your neck until you elbow him in the ribs, forcing a laugh out of him. he lets go only when you’re finished and stretching your arms above your head like a cat, shirt rising up just slightly, enough for him to peek at your belly and press another kiss there too.

you grunt, again. “food.”

he’s already leading the way, fingers loosely hooked in yours.

you end up sitting at the tiny kitchen table in the too-big apartment, faces half-buried in mismatched cereal bowls. it’s almost always cereal in the mornings. not because you can’t cook, but because neither of you wants to. not when it’s early. not when the air still smells like dreams and blankets and you.

“we’re out of the good cereal,” you mumble around a mouthful of cornflakes.

“it’s because you eat it all first.”

“i share—”

“do not,” he cuts in, pointing his spoon at you. “you hide it behind the oats.”

you freeze. “…you weren’t supposed to find that out.”

he looks betrayed. “so it was you?! i thought it was shoko this whole time.”

“why would shoko hide cereal in our cabinet?”

“i don’t know! she’s a doctor? kinda.”

you snort into your bowl and lean over the table to flick milk at him. he retaliates by dragging your stool closer with a single strong hand and plopping you right into his lap.

you yelp—“it’s cold!”—but you don’t move. you never do.

he tucks you in close, wrapping his arms around you like you’re another blanket. his chin rests against your shoulder, spoon now forgotten in his empty bowl. you’re still eating slowly, but he doesn’t mind. he just holds you, thumbs rubbing up and down your thighs, cheek pressed into your sleep-warm skin.

you sigh, soft and content. your body melts against his.

“just ten more minutes,” you whisper.

“take twenty,” he murmurs.

outside, the world continues. cars pass. birds chirp. the sun climbs higher.

but inside, in this little kitchen with the chilly floor and the cereal boxes and the sound of your sleepy breath against his chest, time doesn’t move.

it never does when he has you like this. when he gets to start the day with you tangled in his arms, heart quiet and full.

gojo loves mornings.

but only because he gets to spend them like this. with you.

1K notes · View notes

lysatoru · 2 months ago

Text

Brooklyn Baby

art in the banner is by @e0308r on X

pairings - dad's best friend! Satoru x F! reader

summary - you've got the opportunity of a lifetime for an audition for Julliard, your dream, but there's just one problem, the hotel in New York has booked your room and has nothing available. Good news, your dad's best friend Satoru Gojo shows up and offers you to stay in his suite since he's in town on business. But there's two big problems - one, you've wanted him since you can remember, and two, he can't stand how fucking pretty you are. He can't want you - and nothing can come from it - imagine what your dad Suguru would do if anything ever happened between you!? So nothing will happen - right?

warnings- MDNI- taboo tropes, age gap (Satoru is 41, reader is 22) reader is Suguru's daughter, forbidden relationships, obsessive Satoru, mutual pining, sexual tension, explicit smut and light angst- this chap - masturbation (Satoru) a fuck ton of tension, reader having a lifelong crush on him, mentions of past relationships, self loathing as they both want each other, drinking and kissing -WC- 8.3k

This will be three parts! comments/rbs appreciated if you enjoy!

part two>>> (coming soon)

part one

Satoru Gojo has never had his cock twitch from just looking at someone's back, not even your ass - though fuck that was nice - but something about the bare back in the slinky little dress was fucking him mentally. The gentle curve of your spine, a little birth mark along your shoulder blades has him - a man who's in his early forties and very experienced - leaking precum.

The fuck was that?

He clears his mind, blinking a bit then, he's checking into his favorite suite as he does every couple of months for various business events that he has to attend. Running the Gojo corporation is a never ending list of bullshit he's got to do, and events and speeches were just one of the many.

He sighs as he takes in the immaculate bustling lobby, trying to divert his attention from this girl's back and look like some creep when he's literally Satoru Gojo. He brushes his silken white locks back, walking up to the tall counter then with an easy smile, as the three receptionists rush to him, and leave the girl with the pretty spine behind.

"I can wait my turn, no worries ladies." He winks and they all swoon, and when you hear that voice, you know it's him.

"Gojo?" Satoru blinks at the familiar voice, turning to his side to look down at -

Suguru Geto's only daughter.

Fuck.

He swallows just a bit nervous, how does he explain he just leaked pre looking at his best friend's daughter's spine exactly!? About the ways he would have to explain how your instagram photos haunt him at night, and how he can't help but have glimpses of you in your bikini when he cums.

There's a big reason he's avoided Suguru as of late, and that's because he can't handle how beautiful you are - it's like you fucking just do something, and he refuses to accept it or acknowledge it consciously. Now you're smiling up at him, before you come over and hug him tightly around the waist, your breasts pressed against him.

It takes everything not to either shove you off or give in and pick you up and prop you right on this fucking counter. It's some miracle he just pats your back instead - your bare pretty back that he shouldn't touch because it makes it worse.

"Hey sweetheart, what're you doing in town?" He manages to act normal, putting on an easy smile as he sees now your eyes glimmering with tears. "What's wrong?"

"They gave my room away, and I have the audition for Julliard this week! Everything is booked except shit way out of my price range. I don't wanna bug dad about it." He sighs then, remembering Suguru telling him about your opportunity, he'd been so proud every time he watched you play piano.

It's originally why he followed your IG, but whatever happened your junior year of college made you start posting those damn pictures in your bikini or slutty little outfits. He shoves that all back, focusing on your worry, and then eyes one of the receptionists, backing away from you just a bit.

Not like your scent hasn't already filled his senses.

You're important to him, just like Suguru is, and he'll not let his dumb fucking thoughts ruin your opportunities. "Surely there's a room available, I'll pay."

"You can't do that! It's too much." You're a flustered mess, as he flashes that pretty smile of his that makes your tummy clench.

"It's nothing," he pats your head and smiles down at you, and you try to ignore just how fucking good Satoru Gojo looks then. Try to ignore his cologne in your senses, ignore how the man just gets more attractive every fucking year, a little crinkle on the sides of each eye the only lines on his face.

You have been trying to ignore your crush on your dad's best friend for as long as you can remember - fuck they're so close too, and you hoped it was some childhood idolization. But as a twenty two year old woman, it's as bad as fucking day one - worse maybe, when you study the way his hands move as he speaks, long fingers that give you the worst thoughts you wish would go away.

"Nothing at all open but the presidential suite you said?" He asks softly, you're still too close to him, fucking up his senses, as the receptionist frowns, clacking away at her keyboard.

"They just booked the last one online, Mr. Gojo."

"Shit, then..." He eyes you, blue eyes glinting as he takes in your distraught, pretty little face.

He can compose himself, can't he, hasn't he always?

"She'll stay with me, give her a key card," you hug him once more, he's chuckling and pecking a kiss on your head. "You're clingy still, remember you always were."

"Maybe, oh Gojo, thank you! I didn't wanna have to ask dad for money..." You're independent, Satoru loves that about you, Suguru is well to do - not rich like Satoru, but well off. But he's mentioned you never ask for a thing.

"No worries, the room is huge, we won't even be near each other much." He's pressing the button to the elevator soon once you all get checked in, and the silver automatic doors close, leaving you two alone, nothing but the soft sounds of your breaths and stupid elevator music.

And there's just one problem.

Satoru Gojo can't help but picture pressing you against those elevator walls, sinking to his knees and slipping up your slutty black dress, the one where he can so clearly see your breasts rise and fall, a nipple daring to slip out. Can't help but picture fucking you better than surely any of your dumb little college boys could.

He can't think that way.

He hastily tugs off his jacket, laying it over your shoulders as the elevator dings on each floor.

"Thanks, it's a little chilly." You say softly, tugging his jacket close on you, he exhales in a mix of relief and hot desire at how good you look in his armani suit jacket. "You're a life saver, really."

"It's nothing, kid."

"Kid! I'm not a kid." Your pout earns his chuckle, the two of you walk through the halls, decked with cream colored walls and fancy paintings, it's fancier than even you were used to. He presses the card against the hotel door and it opens, and that's when you both realize just how alone you were.

Satoru had been a part of your life for all you can remember, him and your dad would go off on the silliest adventures, and your dad’s other best friend Shoko would watch you at times. You don’t remember your mom that much anymore, she has been gone since you were young, and Satoru and Suguru had always been inseparable, especially since she left.

Satoru had taught you how to swim, Suguru had taught you how to shoot a gun, Satoru taught you how to throw a ball into a hoop, and Suguru taught you how to hit one with a bat. Every time he came to visit during the summers, you’d be so excited, he always had some new gift and an easy smile.

Until you got older.

You remember the first time he brought over one of his girlfriends, she was beautiful, and you’d still been young, hopelessly staring in the mirror at yourself after, wondering if you’d ever be pretty like that. And when he came for your high school graduation with another girl on his arm, when he told you that you looked beautiful and bought you the necklace you still wear today?

You’d been insanely jealous.

You try to explain it away as being eighteen, you were still a baby then, and the crush had been raging. So badly you found yourself comparing every boy you dated to the man Satoru was, and every single one fell hopelessly short. You both get settled, taking in the opulent surroundings, it’s surely big enough he’s right, there’s an entire other room, a kitchen, spacious furniture and beds.

Satoru sets down the luggage, as he eyes you in his suit, and you start taking some of your things out. It’s quiet, the sense of unease filling the two of you as you both busy yourselves, little friendly smiles are the only passages between you as you two live in your own minds.

“You can take a shower first,” he offers softly a bit later, slipping that tie down just a bit to loosen it, and then rolling up his sleeves, revealing those muscled forearms, light blue veins wrapping up them from his wrists. Your mouth goes dry as you look at them, while he slips off his silver rolex, smiling at you a bit. “Do you want me to hog all the hot water instead?”

“Huh? Oh…” you blink a bit, it’s not like you’ve never been with anyone, never seen a man naked, but Satoru’s forearms were taking you the fuck out.

He is effortless with his little movements, he must do this almost every day, freeing himself from the confines of his perfect facade, the buttoned up business man who you’ve never seen in the same suit twice. You’re sure he wears them again, it’s just you haven’t seen him enough to have ever caught it, the only thing you’ve noticed is he wears the same cufflinks.

The ones you saved to buy him when you were in high school, storing up all your extra funds where you worked as a waitress to purchase them for his birthday. You eye them now as you still hold the jacket close, fingers brushing along the bright blue sapphire of one of them. You’d walked by a jeweler in the mall with your friends and thought they matched just one shade of his eyes.

“You still wear these?” You ask softly, his attention goes to your little fingers brushing over the gem carefully, and he nods a bit. “Why? Aren’t they kind of not up to your… standard?”

“They’re my favorite, and they weren’t cheap either,” he walks up then, touching the other one, his nearness fucking your senses. “I remember you buying them, I think it was my thirty-sixth birthday. I was having some existential crisis and they really cheered me up.”

“You, a crisis? No way,” he hums a bit, gently tugging the cuff links out now, one by one, setting them next to his Rolex on a little black glass tray he’d brought along with him, the lights catch them and make them glimmer prismatically. “You were young though, still are.”

“Yeah no, I’ll be forty one in December, yuck.” You laugh with him, shaking your head then.

“That is not ‘yuck’ or old, you and dad are super young. Dad was always like the youngest at any parent event, shit usually the only dad altogether. I remember him going to Moms and Muffins.”

“Yes, you put bows in his hair, he showed me.” You both laugh then, Satoru stands against the dresser, his mind racing then.

He can’t want you like this, and it has to stop, the way he keeps thinking of having you naked and his jacket splayed under you, if you could stop looking at him like that!? Your lips parted, your pretty eyes lidded, making him tortured by the thoughts of fucking you so good they roll back, so good you drool. He’s clenching his hands into fists at the thought, almost twenty years between you.

Maybe if he keeps saying the number, it’ll fucking matter, the fact that he’s never even been with a girl ten years younger, Satoru just wasn’t a man to do that. He enjoyed intellect, experience, someone who got his references and shitty jokes - but the problem was you did check all those boxes. You’ve been kicking his ass at chess since he could remember, you laughed at all his dumb jokes.

You were a brilliant girl with your life ahead of you, you’re right, he’s not ‘old’ but he just is ‘older’ than you. Having already had a divorce and two broken engagements, he also was tired of trying, he’d settled on some regular girls for sex and focused on business fully now. Something a young Satoru who hated his parents and the Gojo name altogether would gasp at.

“You’re not old, you look my age you know.” You break his thoughts up, he chuckles a bit at that, before sucking in a breath, when you walk closer, slipping his jacket off to hand it to him.

“Yeah, genetics and Korean skincare products.” You giggle, as he keeps his eyes affixed on your face, not the strap that’s fallen down the gentle slope of your shoulder, he takes the jacket instead, your fingers brushing against each other for the briefest moment.

“Well, they work, I don’t think you’ve ever changed. I hope I look super hot when I’m your age.”

“You will, you already are beautiful…” He trails off, your eyes meet then, as he realizes what he said, and the tone he said it. He smiles to break the tension. “Thank god you don’t look like your dad.”

“Oh whatever! He’s pretty, you know.”

“Psh, okay.” He rolls his blue eyes, and you both laugh then.

“Thank you, that’s nice of you Satoru.” When you say his first name it’s like testing it, you’ve always called him Gojo, aside from when you made him birthday cards, and you’d write Satoru on them.

“Not being nice, you know you’re a gorgeous girl.” He’s clearing his throat now, looking away as he hangs his jacket up, next to the other suits he’d brought, smoothing it out.

“It’s kinda nice to hear from the Satoru Gojo.”

“Uh huh, flattery will get you everywhere.” He pats your head then, ruffling up your hair, you blow a thick strand off your brow. “You go take a shower.”

“Yeah, thank you again.” You smile and head into the bathroom, finally leaving Satoru to exhale in relief after he glimpses your back again, like pure torture, he’s curious just how the fuck he’ll handle a week alone with you.

Hopefully a room would open up or something by then.

The sounds of hot water pounding on the tiles below fills the room now, mixed with some light singing echoing from the bathroom, he can’t help but smile a bit at how pretty your voice is. If anyone should get into Julliard, it’s surely you, talented and just a natural at everything, the sound fills the room and ignites something in him he’d rather not think of.

Comfy, homey, it’s how you make him feel, and maybe that’s worse than wanting to bend you over the bed, worse than wanting to lift you and slip you against that shower wall. Much, much scarier than the thoughts of filling you up with so much cum your tummy is full of him, watching his fucking cock bulge that tummy as he’d make sure your cunt was ruined for anyone.

No, homey and comfy were worse by far, they were things he absolutely never thought before, even during his marriage - and what a disaster that was. Women all wanted him for his looks, his money, what he could do for them, but no one really knew him deep down, just the facade he’s tired of putting on.

Picturing you naked in the shower is his fucking downfall, picturing your pretty body with water dripping down it, his cock is hard by the mental images, he scowls down at it. He’s just in his slacks now, putting up his dress shirt, luckily this suite always had good hot water and pressure, it’s why it was one of his favorites, and he could surely use a shower.

Jerk off in there to act normal.

He’s like some pathetic teenager around you rather than a grown man, and it irritates him to no end. He hears your singing stop after a bit, as he is typing some notes for tomorrow’s presentation on his laptop, slipping on his glasses to see the screen just a little better, when he sees you from the corner of his eye, wrapped in a soft terry cloth towel.

He almost whimpers at the sight, clenching his teeth together to focus on the screen as you walk out. “Okay I feel a million times better.”

He looks up then, and it’s his downfall, as he has to see the way the towel is tied right at your breasts, pushed up and glistening, skin dewy and flushed from the shower, making him want to kiss every inch. “I bet, the plane ride was a long one.”

“It was, for sure, and then to get a ride to the hotel was hard, I’m not used to a city this big,” you’re adorable with your little pout, your own gaze taking in his bare chest then, like a caress. “I failed my drivers test again by the way.”

“Again? Shit,” he’s snorting in laughter, even as you cross your arms and glare just a bit, you play along with the motions, but your gaze can’t rip itself away from his chiseled body. “Do I gotta teach you?”

“Do you drive anywhere, Gojo?”

“Hush.” You giggle at his own glare, he looks too fucking hot in those glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, his body shifting a bit to face you now.

It’s not like you haven’t seen him shirtless constantly, Satoru had helped you swim after all, and Gojo and your dad were always taking you to the beach. You’d always known how perfect he was, sculpted within an inch of his life, lean defined muscles that begged for your fingertips to brush across them, lines and shadows cast as the bathroom light filters into the now dim room.

You wish you felt bad about how badly you want him, but you only feel bad it can never happen, feel bad he couldn’t have been your first, like you’d dreamed over and over, until you knew it couldn’t happen. It wasn’t like Gojo ever saw you that way, the times you think he looked at you as more than a ‘kid’ you feel it was just your imagination.

You feel this man could fuck, you just feel it.

But no, stuck with losers who couldn’t care less if you cum - in fact, the last guy you fucked asked if you did after not touching you more than a minute and cumming pathetically quick in a condom. You’d smiled and said ‘of course’, making him grin and kiss you all happy, and that’s about the time you just gave up on ever liking sex either, too far in your fucking delusions.

It wasn’t a healthy desire, or okay, but usually with Gojo not seeing you much, and you having moved out of your dad’s, it was better. It was just elusive memories and fantasies that you could lose sight of, you could focus on school and your music, focus on your dream — but part of you wanted him in the front row.

“You’re gonna catch a cold if you don’t dry your hair,” he teases, standing then, you watch how his muscles flex as he moves, with ease, his long legs making strides so close to you now, when he touches your damp strands with a sigh. “Wasn’t there a blow dryer in there?”

“There is, but I needed to grab some clothes first- ah!” Your towel threatens to fall then, you gasp, but Satoru’s got it bunched together in a fist quicker than you can blink, bringing you right against him.

The only sounds in that moment are your breaths, and your heart pounding in your ears, when your eyes lock together, and you see the way they dilate, almost black in that moment. Your own hand comes over his balled fist, when he leans down, and for some insane fucking moment you picture it - a kiss from him, from Satoru Gojo, his glossy lips and how they’d feel.

Something you wrote about in endless diaries, it can never happen, it would never happen, he’s making sure you’re not naked if anything, you have to remember it, have to hold back. You smile nervously then, hoping the shower will explain away the flush of your cheeks in front of him, as you take the towel from his hold, holding it together now.

“Thanks, I’m so sorry…”

“No, it’s fine,” his voice is darker, huskier than you’ve ever heard it, making your thighs press together, still slick from the water, in need. “I’ll go take one now.”

“Yes,” he stomps away quickly, leaving you to catch your breath, looking in the mirror over the dresser at how badly his nearness affected you. Your own eyes are so dilated you can’t see your iris anymore.

Soon, Satoru’s leaning against the tile wall, stroking his cock in the hot shower, his eyes fluttering shut in a mix of self loathing and need. He has had you pop up in his mind the past couple years, when he’s hitting a girl from the back with your hair color, when he’s fucking one in a spoon position, and her tits are about your size, he’s shoved them all away though.

He’s never jerked off to you specifically, but there’s no denying it, he’s jerking his thick, veiny cock to his best friend’s daughter in the other room. He feels filthy, as filthy as the sick thoughts he has, of making sure he fucked you so good you’d never even look at one of your stupid college boys again. Showing you what cumming really is, because he’s sure no one has done it right.

You’d be so pretty full of him, leaking his cum for him to shove it back inside your cunt, fuck he’d stock up on plan bs if he could do it every night, if he could watch it pour from your perfect pussy. He hasn’t even seen it, but he just knows it’s as beautiful as the rest of you is, god even your thighs in that towel had him leaking more pre, so hard it hurts.

His tip, usually a blushing pink, is now a mean red with how badly it’s been stuck in this fucking state, he hisses a bit as he runs his fingers along it. He’s picturing it all, that towel falling at your feet, and him slipping his hands across that dewy skin, sucking on that delicate neck he’d like his hand around. It’s pathetic, really, he is better than this surely, but he can’t not touch it.

He’s jerking it faster, fisting his long, curved cock, when the fucking door opens, and he tenses, glaring into the shower curtain that thankfully covered him. “I forgot my phone in here, sorry Gojo.”

“Ah, no, it’s f-fine…” he’s sick, he’s sure of it, jerking it even while you’re in there, in fact knowing you’re there has him feeling closer to cumming, hoping you don’t notice the sounds of his fist on his cock.

“Is there still hot water?” You tease, swiping a little bit of the condensation left on your phone with a towel, already wearing your little shorts and a crop top.

“Yeah, plenty, you didn’t hog too much.”

“See!”

“You left strands of your hair on the wall though.”

“Shit, it fell out!” He laughs softly, as if he’s not still stroking it, and you sigh a little bit then. “All right, I’ll leave you to it.”

Why do you fucking think of offering to jump right back in there? Why do you hesitate, wondering just how perfect he looks under that spray? You shut the door gently with a click that echoes, resting your back against it and shutting your eyes, sighing.

You’re already so stressed about the Julliard audition, the last thing you need is this pounding in your head, an impossible fantasy.

When you’re snuggled up in the main bed out in the entryway, Satoru comes out with a towel slung on his hips to grab his clothes, you can’t help but eye the white happy trail, the little v cuts on either side of his hips begging for your tongue on them. You tug your blanket up a little bit, avoiding the sight of the tenting in his towel, and how badly you’re curious about it.

“Feel better?” You tease, he smiles and nods a bit, grabbing his boxers then, hesitating as he realizes he didn’t bring shit else to sleep in.

“Much better.” He’s gone back to the bathroom, you’re exhaling and leaned back, head on the plush leather headboard, fingers tapping in the rhythm you’ll practice tomorrow, focusing.

He finds you like that when he’s back out, sitting down on one of the chairs to tap back at his keyboard once more, and your lips are pursed, fingers tapping along the red silk comforters. You’re beautiful like that, lost in your own world, surely composing some masterpiece only you can hear, a beauty that tugs at his chest.

It’d be one thing if you were just hot, but to be truly beautiful seemed one of life's meanest jokes to him.

Your phone rings, your eyes open and you catch sight of him. “Shit, you saw me like that?”

“Don’t worry, it’s fine, ya gonna get that?” You look at your phone on the nightstand, tugging off the covers just to make him hard again.

Do you wear clothes!? Or just scraps?

“It’s dad!” You’re giggling, picking up the phone, legs dangling high off the floor as he tries not to imagine slipping his fingers across them. “Hey dad!”

“Hey sweetie, you didn’t check in with me, how’s my girl?” Your dads voice instantly makes you miss him, you two are as close as you can be, and you wish he could be here, but he’s out of the country stuck right now because of some stupid customs issue with a pet he and his new girlfriend bought.

She was actually cool as fuck, but you don’t know if your dad really will ever get over mom, though you’d love to see him happy.

“Wishing you were here,” you say, hearing him sigh over the phone.

“I know, shit, I think we should be able to fly out in the next couple days but I’ll miss the audition for sure.”

“Ugh! I’m okay though, actually… Satoru is here.”

“Satoru? Shit, put me on speaker,” you bounce up then, making your tits jiggle as you hop down, Satoru almost chokes when you run up and stand right next to him, popping on the speaker. “He’s here!”

“Satoru, what’re you doing there?” Suguru’s voice is friendly, relieved even. Thank god he can’t sense the dumb fucking thoughts in his head.

“I was actually staying here for business, when the hotel booked her room, so I offered her to just stay in the suite with me.”

“He saved me!”

“Psh.” He’s chuckling as you smile, leaning across his table a bit, tank top slipping off your fucking shoulder, as if the straps were mocking him.

He sure couldn’t stare at your tits while he talks to your dad!?

“Thank you, Satoru, I feel so much better that you’re there with her,” he almost laughs at that, because he sure the fuck wouldn’t want himself around, with what’s brewing in his mind. “I worried about her alone in the city.”

“Dad, I'm a big girl now, you know.” You’re pouting too fucking cute, Satoru can’t drag his mind off your plush lips for a moment as Suguru speaks.

“You’re still my little girl, anyway I am glad it worked out. By the time I even get back you’ll be in Julliard!”

“You have too much faith in me,” your voice is quiet now, and Satoru puts his hand over yours, smiling at you, earning your little smile back.

“She’ll kill it.”

“Exactly, see we both believe in you.” You tear up a bit, sniffling now, it’s been months since you saw either of them.

“I miss you so much.”

“Aw, me too baby, I’ll be home soon okay?” You sniffle as Satoru caresses the back of your hand. “Take good care of her for me, Satoru.”

“I will.” You hang up the phone then, the exhaustion of the flight and your self doubt creeping in, Satoru tugs you close then, hugging you gently as you’re between his thighs, and your arms wrap his neck.

“Hey, hey, you’ll do great. He’ll be back soon,” you’re taking several breaths, burying your face against his neck as the tears fall, and his big hand splays the small of your back, so warm and soothing. “It’s okay.”

“I missed you too.” You say it softly, like a secret, making Satoru pause, his hand still gently running up and down your back.

“Missed me, why?” You just shake your head, hugging him tighter, as his blood rushes to places he wishes it fucking wouldn’t. “Miss me teasing you?”

“Maybe I do,” you pull back, and Satoru swipes your tears, streaking down your pretty cheeks. “You haven’t visited in a long time.”

“Yeah, I know…” He can’t admit why, he eyes your tears still falling, your glassy eyes, it’s too intimate then, too close, your lips a breath away. “I guess work got the best of me, and my nasty break up.”

“She was a bitch.” He snorts in laughter then, swiping more tears as you stand there between his long legs, like you belong there. “I didn’t like her.”

“You didn’t, huh? She was pretty bitchy, it took a lot for me to get her out of the house. I think I considered an exterminator.” You both laugh then, before he realizes he’s still cupping your face. “Why didn’t you like her? She played nice pretty well to others.”

“She wasn’t in love with you enough,” he pauses at your observation, tilting his head, the lights catch the lavender hue on his hair that falls over his brow, still a little damp, the scent of shampoo filling your nostrils. “She didn’t look at you enough, notice you enough. So I decided I didn’t like her.”

“I see, you’re pretty observant huh?” You shrug a shoulder, hand on his wrist now, your thumb brushing over the veins that dance along it. “She wasn’t in love with me, more the idea of being a Gojo I suppose.”

“Well I’m glad she’s gone. I haven’t liked any of your girlfriends.” He laughs now, but you’re dead serious.

“None of them? Now that’s silly, some of them weren’t that bad.”

“Hmm, nope they all sucked.” He’s laughing harder, his hands finally falling, but one of them remains in yours, he looks down at it then, at how small your hand is compared to his. “You deserve someone that really loves you.”

“Yeah, well, I think I give up.”

“What now?”

“Yeah, I’m ancient.”

“Shut up!” You shove at him, he’s chuckling more but you’re very serious. “Stop saying that. I won’t be old at forty.”

“No, you won’t be able to drive then either.”

“Excuse me!?” He’s grinning as you smack playfully, until you smile and sniffle a bit. “You’re such a jerk!”

“Thought I deserve all this love, what now?” His hands found their way to your hips, as he leans forward, before he can think about it, and you suck in your breath, your heart hammering as he pulls back, realizing how natural it felt.

“You do, but you also deserve a few smacks.” You stop his hands before they leave your waist, and he stares right at them, before the gaze drifts to your nipples, glaringly apparent in your top. “Satoru…”

“You should get some sleep,” he barely manages to speak, standing then, towering over you. Your head falls back when he brushes a strand back behind your ear, leaning over to press a friendly kiss on your head, the one that you’d die if it slipped lower. “I’ll have a car ready to bring you in the morning, okay?”

“You’re the best, Satoru, thank you.”

You keep saying it - Satoru - like you’re testing it on your tongue, and it’s never ending hell to hear it, but he plasters on a smile, patting your head like he always does and walking into the room off to the side. Thankful for the privacy and distance, he shuts the heavy cream door and rests his head against it.

He can barely handle looking at you, inhaling your scent, feeling your skin against him, but you saying he deserved love fucked him up completely. He swallows that down, grabbing a water out of the little fridge in there, swallowing it in needy gulps, before finally laying in the bed, forcing himself to fall asleep.

*****

“Good morning, sweets,” Satoru’s bright and cheery as he comes inside the room with two bags full of donuts, muffins and treats, along with two cups of coffee in a carrier. He’s already fully dressed in his suit, looking like a million bucks, so pretty with his smile as bright light filters in the floor to ceiling windows. “You need to eat.”

“Oh, thank you so much.” You yawn and stand, stretching just a bit, when he sees your tit is precariously close to falling out. He flushes and averts his eyes, when you bounce over to him. “You’re so sweet!”

“It’s nothing, all included. You need something in your system so you don’t get shaky,” his thoughtfulness chokes you up for a moment, you just stare at him with a muffin hovering in your hand. “Want a different flavor? I can go grab more.”

“No, no it’s… you remember me getting shaky?”

“Yeah, you were shaking insane at that pool party last year because you were silly and didn’t eat, knowing we were out in the sun all day.” He taps your nose, as you giggle and peel the wrapper. “Bad girl.”

Jesus fuck, does he not know what that does!?

You stare at him, he’s smirking just a bit like maybe he does fucking know, but then he gets to sipping on his sweet coffee, sighing as it hits his tastebuds. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

“I remember a lot of shit I guess,” he shrugs a broad shoulder, taking a donut and starting to devour the sweets, you can’t help but smile as you nibble on your muffin, and he’s sucking on his thumb to lap up icing. “What is it, brat?”

“Brat!? Hey now,” he’s licking his other finger, your body responds almost violently at the sight, picturing the most obscene fucking things. Like him licking you off him instead. You hastily look away, blushing, god is that all you do around this man now? “No, just how you keep that body perfect and eat more than Goku.”

“No one eats more than Goku,” you giggle again at that, as he laughs softly, now tearing into a chocolate chip muffin. “Genetics and working out I guess.”

“You have won the gene pool, this will go to my hips.”

“Nice hips,” he trails off then, clearing his throat, and your tummy clenches as his eyes dart across your body. “I mean to say… you can eat a muffin, you look great, okay?”

“Thank you, Satoru.” You smile and do just that, taking another bite, as the tension in the suite grows with every fucking breath, until you can’t breathe, not with how he looked at you just now.

It has to be your fantasy brain again, he was probably being nice, he’s always been supportive and sweet, someone you could come to. It’s you who is the problem, who can’t stop thinking of fucking your dad’s best friend, something he would never forgive either of you for. Something that will never happen.

You have a huge opportunity, you have to focus.

“Tell me you brought something like… not as… revealing for this? Or do I need to buy you an outfit?” You laugh a bit then, and his thin brows lower. “I’m serious.”

“Are you saying I dress slutty!?”

“What!? No… just very revealing.”

“Maybe you are old.”

“What now!?” You’re biting your lip to stop laughing as he stands up, and you find your back pressed against the table, his arms on either side of you. “Do I look old to you?”

“No, you’re the one that says it silly! You’re old fashioned.” You shove at his chest and he smirks a bit.

“I am not old fashioned, but you do have something professional, yes? I don’t mind taking you shopping.”

The visions flash then, shopping with Satoru, on his fucking arm, god it’s too much, you look down a bit nervously, at his neck, the tie just a bit askew. You fix it carefully, watching his adam’s apple bob up and down. “I have something professional, I’ll put it on and show you.”

He eases back and you come out a few minutes later, a pretty white dress shirt and a cute little bow tie, along with a black little skirt and suspenders, you look fucking adorable. He can’t help but melt a bit as he sees you do a little twirl, black tights and pretty black heels finishing it off.

“Now that’s perfect, you look…” Beautiful, fucking beautiful. “You look like you’re going to nail this.”

“Yay! Thank you!” You kiss his cheek and smile against it, on your tiptoes, a hand over his jacket, burning his skin. “I’m so nervous.”

“Don’t be, you’re going to do amazing. Are you ready to get going? I have to leave a little early for this meeting and the traffic is terrible here.”

“I’m ready!”

Satoru’s in the back with you on his phone, talking to this person and then that person, negotiating a multi million dollar deal while you’re tapping your fingers, an ear bud in with the three songs on rotation that you’ll be performing. You keep tapping them, shutting your eyes, lips murmuring the notes silently. You don’t realize your thigh is shaking until his huge hand covers it.

“You’re a nervous wreck,” his fingers press gently right above your knee, you’re taking several breaths, eyes locking with his as the car stalls through the heavy traffic, slowing to a crawl. “How much are you gonna jiggle it?”

“A lot,” he’s rolling his eyes now, hand falling off, and you instantly miss its warmth, its presence. “I’m gonna fail it.”

“Don’t go in with that attitude, stop that.” He frowns at you, eyes hiding behind those dark shades, just a hint of blue shimmering as they slip down his straight nose a bit. “You’ll do great.”

“Right…”

You wish Satoru was right.

You’re so nervous, so stuck on your insane desires and thoughts, that you keep missing keys you would never. You’re such a fucking mess, every time you hit a sharp key the sickness sinks in deeper, until you’re fucking it all up. You try to save face, the judges are shocked considering all the references on your lists, all the videos that have gone viral of you.

You can’t perform for shit today, and you’re shaking and sobbing by the end of it, heart sinking as you realize what has happened. Instead of waiting for Satoru, you’re walking blocks until you find the nearest bar, and drinking until you’re a mess, all while you picture the disappointment.

All your life living for this dream, for what. What was any of it for?

A few guys are hitting on you as you sit alone at the bar, you let them buy you drinks, but you don’t speak to them, hardly notice as one of them whispers something in your ear and hands you his info, as another touches your back. You barely remember texting Satoru where you are later on, when he was heading to get you from his meeting.

He’s furious when he does walk into the bar, it’s filled with college people probably partying for the summer, he walks through hoards of them when he sees you, two men on either side of you as you down a shot. You’re not smiling or enjoying yourself, he feels the upset from across the bar, your shoulders slumped when one of them dares to touch your back.

He loses any control he’s had, losing it all for the frustration you’ve just put him through, an enigmatic - ‘i’m getting drunk’ and nothing the fuck else at five pm. He’s stomping right over, clearing his throat and getting the two men’s attention, both trying to shoot their shot at a girl who shouldn’t give them the time of fucking day.

He says your name, and you turn to him, skin flushed and eyes glassy, clearly drunk as fuck. He just hopes you had the good sense to only take drinks from the bartender rather than these creeps, as he snatches you right off the barstool, and you almost lose your balance.

“Who’s this, baby?” One asks, Satoru narrows his eyes at the fuck boy.

“It’s Satoru,” you’re hiccuping then, swaying even though you’re not even moving, about to fall if he doesn’t catch you. “Satoru Gojo.”

“Come have another, we can hit a party,” the other says, and you just bury your face against Satoru’s chest, as he carefully holds you.

“She’s going home.” Satoru’s words ring through your drunk ass brain, he lays a tip for you on the table, snatching up your bag and wrapping an arm around your waist, leading you out into the cool night air.

You’re sobbing when he gets to the sidewalk, concerning him to no fucking end, the sun is setting as he guides you gently into the back of the sleek black car, isntantly grabbing a bottle of water from the cooler installed. He twists it open and tilts your chin up gently.

“Drink some water, yeah?” You shake your head, and he scowls. “I said drink some fucking water.”

“Okay, dad.”

“I’m not your fucking dad,” his voice is clipped and harsh then, your eyes try to focus on his angry, handsome face, he swirls just a bit as you let him put the water to your lips. “Drink.”

You do as he says, swallowing greedily then, body craving anything other than the endless shots you’ve just fed it - nothing but a muffin this morning in your body to soak it up. He sighs as he eyes you, unreadable in his gaze, slipping a thumb over your chin as a little bit falls along your chin, before snapping the cap back on.

“Celebrating like this is dangerous, you could have been taken advantage of by those douche bags.”

“Celebrating!” You’re laughing then, until you’re crying, a whole fucking mess as he watches you, swallowing the tightness in his throat. Celebrating, what a joke that was, he looks at you in concern, brows lowering now, the sky is dimming outside, darkening the seat as you try to breathe, try to focus.

“Will you just tell me what’s wrong, what’s going on?” He asks quietly, you sigh then, looking at him, as he gently cups your face.

“I fucking failed, Satoru.”

“What now!?”

“I fucked up, I ruined it.” You’re sobbing again, he holds you against him, as your hands ball his jacket into your fists, tears soaking the expensive material, he exhales and shakes his head. “I did, I did all of this to just fuck it up, dad’s gonna be so d-dissapointed… and you are…”

“Fuck this, I’ll go demand a redo.”

“You can’t!” You pull back and look up at him, the alcohol warming your body, spreading as he’s right near you. “Satoru they will never.”

“The fuck they won’t, you’ve never seen me negotiate shit, have you?” He raises a brow, you swipe at your tears, lip trembling.

“You can’t just fix it for me.”

“I can give you another chance, okay? I’ll meet with them tomorrow, you’ll find I can be very convincing, yeah?” You sigh then, nodding as he brushes back some of your hair. “You’re a mess, ya know?”

“I know.” He frowns contemplatively, as you lean closer, he can taste the liquor on your breath, as your eyes dart to his lips, and the tension coils in your tummy. “You think you can really talk to them?”

“Of course I can, but you better be ready this time. I’ll come watch you, would that help?” You nod then, so quickly it makes you just a little dizzy. “All right then, just let me work my magic.”

You love him.

Fuck you almost say it, the alcohol threatening to loosen your tongue, but you swallow instead, a hand on his chest, and his own eyes lower, snowy lashes casting shadows over those baby blues, the proximity making you both heat up in that moment. He pulls back just a bit, realizing how precarious the moment is, he needs to comfort you, not fucking kiss you, or worse.

Especially drunk off your ass.

“You need more water-” You’ve pressed your lips on his before he can finish his sentence, too far gone to hold back, to stop the motion, pulling back just a bit to look up at him.

He says nothing, eyes wide, and you would apologize if you cared enough to, if you felt bad enough about it, but in that moment it’s all you want, to kiss him, even if it’s only once. You lean back a bit, you want to form the apology you don’t mean on your lips, form it into words, as it’s so silent in the back of that car, all you can hear is your blood rushing in your ears.

“Sorry,” he scoffs then, eyes narrowing, hand slipping into the nape of your neck, tugging your hair just enough to make your head fall back.

“You’re not sorry, are you?” You smile, you can’t help it, you’re too drunk to lie to him.

“Kind of sorry,” he tightens his hand, tugging at the delicate strands of hair, you’re whining out, the sound fucking him completely. “Satoru…”

“You’re forgetting this, okay?” You nod then, understanding him, when he slams his lips on yours, the release so fucking good he can’t stand it, drinking in your cries as your arms wrap his neck.

He’s lost then, letting himself have one moment, where he devours your mouth with his practiced tongue, where his other hand slips up your thigh, up your hip, to your ribcage, brushing right under your breasts. You’re clinging to him, closer and closer, until you’re straddling him, even as he shoves at your hips, you roll them, whining out when you feel him.

“Fuck, you’re a brat…” he’s huffing, biting back a moan as he feels your heat, soaking wet even against your tights, pressing you down for just a moment to torture himself, kissing you deeper, hungrier. It’s messy and desperate, you’re kissing him sloppy, saliva dripping, as you roll your hips against him.

“Please…” He wants to give you it, fuck he wants you to have all of him, but he yanks you off him, holding you up by your hips, kissing you one more time.

“No more, you’re drunk and… this is a terrible fucking idea.” He sits you right next to him, you’re dizzy and breathless. “Forget that happened.”

“Right, sure Satoru.” You glare at him, he glares right back, leaning over and hating himself, he wanted to rip your fucking tights at the crotch, slip his fingers inside your wet cunt, stretch you out on him.

Shit that can never, ever happen.

“You’re upset and drunk, and I’m fucking stupid.”

“You’re not-”

“Drink.” He orders, and you do just that, he’s back to being caring and distant, as you ache for him, more and more as the water sobers you up just a bit.

He’s helping you up into bed later, he puts your hair up off your neck carefully in a pony tail, he makes you eat food that he orders. The alcohol has lost its effects mostly as you lay in bed, and he’s typing over on his laptop, the glasses looking unfairly handsome on his face as you study him.

“Will you really help me get another chance?” You ask softly, his eyes catch you across the room.

“Of course I will, but it’ll be up to you to show them what you can do, show them how good you are. Okay?” You nod then, snuggling against the pillow, eyes drifting shut, neither of you mention the kiss, neither of you breathe a word even close to insinuating it happened.

“Thank you, Satoru. Good night.” You murmur, he sighs, nodding then.

“Good night.” His clicking of the keys drifts you off to sleep, the vivid images behind your eyes of him overtaking your mind, wondering if it was all some fucking drunk fever dream.

But it wasn’t.

When later he closes the laptop and brushes your hair back, studying you for a moment, he tries to make a promise to himself - that it will never happen again, he’ll never let his control slip like that. Even if all he can think of now is slipping into bed next to you and holding you against him, he shoves it all down, going back to his room, and staring at the ceiling.

What had he been thinking?

He can’t feel this way.

He shuts his eyes, failing to sleep as he knows you’re in the next room, while you dream the filthiest things about your dad’s best friend.

tags- @valentinegab3 @vinnababy @sakisworld @satorupied @lolliibunny @coralbae @lnette04 @delightfulstay @zephyairies @flowerymenendez @yomama2089 @chocoyanchan @hargun-s @ic-slxt @lovelytwixx @lily-bisque @sirencholia @etosh0e @yesdere @luciferlikesducks @frankoceanfan9911 @sukunaslilsocks @dientesdefresa @maah-sama @amesenseii @lem-hhn @keiiate @ttrinity @monster-effer @coffinboy666 @neliislost @thequeenofcurses @inzanekillian @gojoswaterbottle @melotter @buckturd @artbligh @msniks @shibataimu @macchianikato @neohoestechnology @levislug @trsh-kitty @satsattoru @erisfayred @gh0stgirl333 @silverfangmarks @smashlyn89 @hwngez

5K notes · View notes

lysatoru · 2 months ago

Text

first & last love

4K notes · View notes

lysatoru · 2 months ago

Text

୨୧ FAMILY CHAOS ୨୧

♡ — 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: one year ago, you & your husband, Satoru, adopted two of his teenage students, Yuji & Megumi. Also, your biological daughter is now five years old, and it seems that every member of the Gojo household is experiencing their fair share of troubles and keeping secrets, yourself included. What exactly is going on this week?

♡ — 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓: 18+ ONLY || fluff, angst, brief description of smut, brief descriptions of violence, canonverse, fem reader, mentions of depression, skipped meals, & suicidal thoughts, pregnancy, & gojo being the best dad and husband ever!

♡ — 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: . . . 9k . . . :)

♡ — 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: this fic is part of my dad!gojo series, but reading the other parts isn’t necessary. || artwork by @/3-aem, ribbon dividers by @/cursed-carmine!

YOUR STORY — DAY ONE

Two positive pregnancy tests rested in the palm of your hand, one showing two vertical pink lines, while the other casually presented the utterly life-changing word: Pregnant.

How unsurprising.

It was only a matter of time — after all, your husband was like an animal, tossing, turning, and twisting you every possible way whenever he could get some alone time with you.

It was impossible to know which night of love-making had led to your current conundrum: Was it the night all of your kids spent their Saturday evening elsewhere? Or, perhaps, the time Satoru had you in a mating press position on a hotel bed? No, it had to have been the time he returned home from a mission amidst your solo shower, and his lack of patience led to him slipping in behind you, and furthermore, slipping into you, all the while his hand-

“Ready?”

Satoru’s voice suddenly snapped you out of your thoughts. He stepped out of the master bathroom, buttoning up his shirt as he walked. You quickly hid the pregnancy tests under your thigh while his all-knowing blue eyes weren’t on you.

“Ready for what?” You said nervously.

“Don’t tell me the same person who rambled on and on about wanting to go to the festival already forgot about it,” Satoru glanced at you briefly. He approached your dresser, grabbing his blacked-out sunglasses. “The kids are waiting. I don’t think Yuji’ll be too happy if he misses the lantern show. And you and I need to do that thing where we share a churro and kiss at the end-”

“Okay, okay, I’m almost ready.”

Despite your words, you hadn’t yet risen from your spot on the edge of the bed.

Satoru turned to face you. He frowned with concern. “You alright?”

The truth was that you weren’t ready to tell Satoru that, soon, there would be another addition to the Gojo household. Your hesitation was odd. This was something you both wanted, and yet . . .

And yet, the news, while delightful, was also worrisome, as the Gojo household was currently experiencing its fair share of troubles within the past couple of months — and you weren’t quite sure what adding a newborn baby to the mix would do.

Stressful times tended to occur when over half of the beloved household fought curses and curse users, both of which were more active during the summer season.

Satoru was occasionally away on important trips to other countries and continents. Your adopted teenagers, Megumi and Yuji, — who had been part of your family officially for a solid year now — were often injured in battle. Meanwhile, Maya, your biological daughter, was arriving closer and closer to starting elementary school.

Your little girl learning all sorts of things about math, animals, and books that were longer than ten, twenty pages was a beautiful sight to see.

She was no longer a toddler, but rather, a child now, and was learning all sorts of things such as numbers that went beyond ten, beyond twenty, and even beyond fifty. There were animals — insanely cool ones, more exciting than the cows and sheep she learned about in preschool — who lived in either the forests or the sea!

There were moments of tragedy of course, such as the day she learned that her dear parents, her beloved mom and dad, were not named Mom and Dad.

Oh, the poor girl cried and sobbed, her chubby cheeks puffy and wet with tears, all while Satoru held her and softly explained to her that he would always be her daddy, she would always address him as so, but in truth, his name was Satoru Gojo.

And your name was not simply Mom or Mommy.

What a troubling day.

But that part was fine. Everything from giggling while you or her dad marked her height by using a pencil to draw a line above her head on her doorframe, enthusiastically saying, “you’re getting so big now!” to learning to sing and dance along to classic Barbie films, to crying her eyes out when she fell down during a game of tag with her friends were all parts of getting older, and it was fine.

Her having to go days or weeks at a time without seeing her dad was not.

Having to soothe her worries and fears whenever Yuji and Megumi returned home from missions with new scars and scratches decorating their skin was not.

And, worst of all, her becoming aware of her own cursed energy and being able to see those terrifying creatures was not.

A few weeks ago, after Maya saw her very first curse across the street while going down a slide at a playground, Satoru had to sit his daughter down and explain everything to her. It was a task that broke his heart.

Afterwards, he crawled into bed with you, sighing heavily.

“She was just learning about the alphabet around what, one, two, three years ago?” Satoru exhaustedly rested his head on your lap, staring up at you with sad, blue eyes. “God, I can’t keep up. She’s growing up so fast. And now she’s seeing curses. I knew this day would come, but now her childhood will never be the same.”

You turned on the lamp on your nightstand with a light tap at the base of it. With your other hand, you gently stroked the spot between Satoru’s furrowed brows with your thumb as his long legs stretched out across your enormous bed.

“We just have to teach her not to be afraid of them. Just as we explained what curses are, we have to explain to her who she is.”

The daughter of the world’s strongest sorcerer, she was.

“I thought I was ready for this. Looking after Megumi when he was a kid, learning about his power, and trying to protect him from that sick Zenin clan . . . thought that experience would prepare me for this. I thought I was ready, but I’m not. Now we have to teach our muffin and protect her from the jujutsu society as a whole.”

“Tell me about it,” you frowned. “I get at least ten emails daily from the higher-ups, all of them wondering if she’s ready to start training. She’s five years old. I told them all to go to hell.”

Satoru laughed softly, then he yawned before he started to speak again.

“I’m sure she’ll want to become a sorcerer, but if she does, I want it to be her decision. I don’t want her to feel pressured to follow in my footsteps, get what I mean?”

Your fingertips started to mess with the strands of Satoru’s white hair.

“I think the best choice would be to work with her, make sure she understands what curses are and what she can do, but also do everything we can to give her a normal life. I don’t care if she learns a cursed technique before she learns how to multiply, but no one will take her childhood away from her.”

With that, you and Satoru sealed off the end of your conversation with a kiss, but nothing more, as about five minutes later, gentle pitter-patter could be heard from the hallway as your daughter made her way to your room and hopped into your bed, snuggling right in between you and Satoru.

After seeing her first curse, she was much too scared to sleep alone.

Dealing with Maya’s current situation had your hands full. Along with all the additional chaos surrounding your entire family, you were also busy being the multitasking mother and wife everyone needed you to be. Keeping everyone fed, healthy, and happy was quite the challenge, especially when you could do very little to keep them safe in a world possessed by such evil — and they were the ones who had to fight against it. Not to mention the horrific fact that your son was quite literally possessed by the embodiment of evil — Sukuna.

Oh! And if that wasn’t enough, Satoru’s other students, old and new, often came to you for motherly love and affection they could never experience elsewhere. Though you welcomed everyone with open arms, you were tired.

Tired, and, apparently, pregnant.

—

“Alright, everyone ready? Everyone have their coats? Anyone have to pee before we hit the road?” Satoru, who stood before the double front doors of your home, scanned his watchful eyes over the bunch.

“The festival’s only fifteen to twenty minutes away,” Megumi said.

“And I bet Yuji’ll have to pee in ten.” Satoru darted his eyes across the dark-haired boy’s casual outfit, which amounted to a short-sleeved black shirt and a pair of grey jeans. “And you’re not wearing a coat.”

Suddenly, Satoru felt a tiny tug at the back of his pants leg. Turning around, he caught sight of Maya — just when did she get behind him?

With a smile, he reached down to ruffle the young girl’s hair, noting the nervous look on her face. After her first experience with a curse, it was quite rare for the young girl to not have eyes that glistened with pure fright.

“At least this one’s being so well behaved, aren’t you, muffin?” Satoru said sweetly.

“Can you pick me up?”

“Of course, sweet girl, hang on.” Satoru raised and turned his head to where Yuji was standing. “Yuji, did you-”

He cut himself off. There was nothing except an empty space where Yuji once stood. “Where’d he go?”

“Bathroom,” you mumbled.

“Right,” Satoru gave you a quick smile — he noticed your silence today. It was nice to hear your voice at all.

Looking at his other teenage son, or, rather, his uncovered arms, Satoru said, “Megumi, go get your coat.”

“But I’m not cold.”

“You can thank our new heated floors for that, but it’s cold outside, buddy, and you had a fever a couple days ago. I don’t want this bipolar weather making you sick again.”

“Cold weather itself doesn’t make someone sick, it’s actually-”

“I’m back!” Yuji’s sudden appearance interrupted Megumi.

“Daddy, pick me up! Pick me up!” Maya whined, tugging on Satoru while her small feet impatiently tapped against the floor; the new, heated one, which was part of the renovations made to your home last month. More chaos.

“Hold on, forgot to wash my hands. Be right back,” Yuji suddenly said, and vanished as quickly as he had arrived.

Satoru didn’t sigh with annoyance, didn’t let his face reflect even the slightest hint of frustration. Instead, he continued to grin, handling the chaos just as easily as he handled curses.

“Come here, I gotcha,” Satoru lifted Maya, holding her in his arms. “Ya know, daddy’s gonna have to put you down to drive, right?”

“No!”

Maya leaned her head against his shoulder. Satoru turned to face Megumi yet again, noticed his lack of a coat yet again, and said playfully, “Megumi, put on a coat or jacket or else I’ll ground you for twelve to fifteen years, kid.”

“Fine,” the teenager rolled his eyes before walking off.

Gently, Satoru gave his daughter’s chubby cheek a little pinch — she squealed from the ticklish feeling — and he then placed his large hand over the little ear that wasn’t leaning against his shoulder before he shouted, “anyone who isn’t in the car in the next three minutes is getting left behind!”

“I would’ve been in the car if you weren’t making me grab a coat,” Megumi called back.

“You’ll thank me when you’re not dying of pneumonia,” Satoru shouted, then mumbled under his breath, “again.”

And with that, you watched as, somehow, someway, Satoru effectively managed to get a moody teenager, a hyper one, a clingy child, and you, his oddly quiet wife, to the annual Night Lights Festival.

—

The lakeside festival was a crowded, yet beautiful display of festive red and yellow decorations and lanterns that brightened the night sky. Live musicians banged on drums or strung their instruments, playing upbeat tones. A parade of dancers passed by, and lively chatter surrounded you.

Around thirty minutes into the festival, Yuji’s face was decorated with face paint, neck adorned with beads and necklaces dancers tossed at him, blush-pink hair covered by an enormous red and yellow hat, and he held a bag of popcorn in one hand and his favorite soda in the other.

Megumi, on the other hand, wasn’t a fan of the large crowd and never-ending music. He did, however, notice a person doing magic tricks with their two enormous dogs, and he stopped to watch the show. Maya, who was previously sitting on her dad’s shoulders, eagerly climbed down, eager to watch the dog show as well.

And by then, Yuji had seen something exciting and ran off. Yet again.

That left you alone with Satoru. Your smiling husband took hold of your hand. Though you gave him a smile back, it didn’t reach your eyes, and he could tell.

Guiding you away from the flow of traffic and closer towards the red bridge that stretched over the beautiful lake with lights dancing above the water — where fewer people mingled, fortunately — Satoru said, “What’s the matter, baby? You’re awfully quiet.”

“Sorry,” you shrugged, unable to look him in the eye. Not while you were telling a lie. “I was just thinking about how well you handle our chaotic family.”

“You know me. Handling chaos is just what I do. I think part of me loves it, actually, considering we’re trying to add on a new member to the family.”

His words made your heart skip a beat. The topic of pregnancy and having another child was nearly a daily discussion between you and Satoru, that was a fact, but now, when your pregnancy test came back positive and you hadn’t yet found the nerve to tell him, hearing those words struck a chord of fear within you.

“I don’t know, honey. I thought that I could handle all this. Don’t get me wrong, please don’t get me wrong, but . . . Megumi and Yuji are at that age where fighting curses is the last thing they need to worry about. Being a teenager is rough enough as it is. Megumi’s attitude is-is just . . . and Yuji stinks sometimes no matter how often he bathes. He just stinks. And seeing them and their friends covered in wounds after a mission . . . it’s just too much. I can’t help but wonder if we’re mature enough to handle it. It’s not like we’re the same age as most parents who have teenagers. Remember what happened a couple of months ago when I treated Nobara, Yuji, and Megumi to the movies and a shopping spree? Two cashiers at two different places thought I was friends with all of them. Friends!

Then there’s Megumi’s depression. I’ve been researching therapists, specifically ones I trust who work with young sorcerers, but there’s only like, two. And I doubt I could get him to talk to someone anyway. Oh, and while I was doing the laundry the other day, I found a crumpled-up piece of paper with a phone number written on it in Yuji’s pocket. I’m thinking a girl gave it to him. That means it’s time to talk to the boys about dating and everything that comes with it, right? I mean, we pretty much raised Megumi long before we adopted him, so I-I know he’s . . . educated, but what about Yuji? Do we just assume that his grandpa taught him everything he needs to know about, well, everything? What if his grandpa taught him things that we’d disagree with morally? No . . . Yuji’s a sweet kid, I doubt that.

I don’t know, I’m just so overwhelmed. Then there’s Sukuna, and what the higher-ups want to do to Yuji because of Sukuna . . . is that why we adopted him? To give him a good life before he’s executed? Or did we truly think we could find a way out of this? Because I love him more and more with every passing day and . . . and don’t even get me started on everything going on with Maya right now.

I don’t just mean the curse thing, either. My friend Jane told me that she stopped carrying her son when he turned four. Maya’s five now, and it seems like she doesn’t ever want to be put down. I have no idea if that’s normal. She’s a sweetheart, and she’s always been a bit clingy and sensitive, but there are certain things that-that she hasn’t grown out of yet and with this curse bullshit, she’s even more dependent on us than what my research says a five year old should be. I bet you being away for weeks at a time is part of it. I know I cling to you like a koala to a tree when you come back home, and part of that is because I’m always so terrified of what might happen to you while you’re away. I love you too much. The idea of something happening to you kills me, Satoru.

I thought that I was this amazing person who could take care of everyone who stepped through our door, but here I am, freaking out while we’re just trying to enjoy a nice festival. Maybe I should just-”

“Momma! Dad! There you are!” Yuji suddenly returned, this time, with a tiny tray of lantern-shaped cookies and a bag of souvenirs. “C’mon, the lantern show’s about to start!”

The excitable teenager once again started to dash away, and you started to follow, when Satoru’s large hands suddenly grabbed onto your shoulders, halting your footsteps.

“Hey, hey, wait,” he said. His fingers found your chin, turning your head in his direction. He planted a kiss that held all the gentle love he felt for you right on your lips. “I hear you, sweetheart. We’ll talk about it later, alright?”

“You say that as if we can ever have a moment of peace and quiet, but thanks for listening.” You gave him a sad smile, and he kissed you yet again.

The night ended with you and Satoru holding onto a beautiful lantern and releasing it together into the starry night sky. Watching your lantern join the countless other ones in the sky as you leaned against your husband’s chest was a temporary moment of relief from the chaos.

MEGUMI’S STORY — DAY FOUR

It happened.

The breaking point.

The final straw.

Reaching the limit — whatever it was, it happened.

Megumi told you something the day after the Night Lights Festival. Something that he now regretted as he slipped on his black hoodie.

“Megumi, let’s go!” You shouted from the foyer.

As you waited for him, your eyes darted up at Satoru, who was adjusting the hood on your head. It was a rainy, gloomy day, after all. Oh, a gloomy day it was.

“Hey, it’ll be alright. I know it. And I know you’re busy, but when you have the time, we should talk. We never finished our conversation from the other day. The one we were having at the festival,” Satoru said.

“Right, well,” you paused, hearing Megumi’s quiet footsteps approaching. “It’ll have to wait.”

“Let’s go,” you said to Megumi, all the while trying — trying — to ignore the pained look of betrayal in his eyes.

—

The car ride was a long, quiet one.

The atmosphere was tense. Odd. Heartbreaking. Therefore, you clenched the steering wheel and made the tough decision to speak to the boy in the passenger seat.

“Megumi? After your session, I was thinking we could stop by a bookstore, see what’s new in the nonfiction section. Get some black coffee, pick up some ginger chicken, whatever you want.”

“Sure.”

“And don’t worry. The first session is usually nothing more than you and the therapist getting to know each other. And the psychiatrist will mainly just ask you a bunch of questions. It’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

“Alright.”

You slowed to a stop at a red light. A sigh escaped from you.

“I know you don’t wanna go, but we’re doing this ‘cause we care about you. We’re worried about you.”

Megumi turned his gaze away from the raindrops on the car window. A therapist. A psychiatrist. A collaborative care plan.

“You think there’s something wrong with me.”

“No, not at all!” You looked at him, your eyebrows pinched. “You’ve gone through a lot, and there’s nothing wrong with needing some help. Everyone needs it at some point.”

“I haven’t gone through anything Yuji hasn’t, and I don’t see him in the car.”

You were silent for a moment. Nothing could be heard except for the raindrops splattering against the roof of the car. The traffic light changed colors.

“When will this competition end? Comparing yourself to your brother?” You paused. “You’re both very different people with very different needs, and-”

“And you think there’s something wrong with me.”

There wasn't that familiar attitude in Megumi’s voice. There was pain. But, heartbreakingly, that pain was a familiar tone as well.

You wanted to look at him, grab his shoulders, and shake some sense into him, do something. Anything. But you could only crank up your windshield wiper and make a left turn.

“You were getting better, Megumi. I saw it. But now? Now it feels like you’re moving backwards. You and I have started to bond, haven’t we? We’d spend quality time together, even if it was just the two of us washing dishes. You even called me mom once. You came to me the other night for comfort and advice, and now I-I feel like you’re just . . . slipping away and I won’t just sit back and let it happen. Please stop pulling away from us, okay? I’m here for you. Your family is here for you.”

“I told you the truth the other day, and look where it’s gotten me. You think I’m fragile. Like I’m weak and I’m gonna break. And now you’re dragging me to meet a therapist and psychiatrist. Being honest with you has only backfired, so . . . I think it’s best if I pull away.”

“What do you expect me to do when my son, my son, looks me in the eyes one night and tells me he doesn’t see the point in living anymore? Do you just-just expect me to, what, sit back and do nothing as I watch you continue to skip meals again? Stay curled up in bed? Hear from your friends over and over again that you were careless with your own life in battle?” You slowed down as you drove; you could barely see, not only because of the heavy rain, but also the tears brimming within your waterline. “This is what it means to be loved by a family, Megumi. I know you didn’t ask for this, and you can hate me and your dad all you want, but I suggest you get used to it, because I’m not giving up on you. None of us are. You understand me? Do you understand me?”

Megumi’s gaze returned to the raindrops on the window. His hands were starting to tremble — he wanted to cry. He didn’t answer you, not now, because he didn’t understand.

He thought he did once. He thought he wrapped his mind around familial love and understood that he was loved and cared for — and he still does. Part of him, the logical side, knows he’s loved and cared for, but maybe, just maybe, that was part of the problem.

He got sick easily. Got injured easily. Didn’t like very many things. Turned away from affection. Was a picky eater — it made him feel like a burden to his family, who he knew loved him and went out of his way to make him comfortable, be it you preparing ginger chicken over a bed of rice while everyone else dined on honey-garlic glazed salmon, or giving up loud family movie nights to play quiet board games with him occasionally.

But right now? It didn’t matter to him whether he understood the concept of familial love or not. He trusted you with something, and this betrayal? He couldn’t understand it.

But right now? When his spirit was crushed and he dreaded every sunrise that marked another day of living? When you parked in front of the beige office building and took him inside for his very first session?

He could understand one thing: his desire to have never been born.

YUJI’S STORY — DAY FIVE

It was warm today. The rapidly changing weather switched back and forth between hot and sunny or cold and rainy as if it couldn’t decide which of the four seasons it wanted to mimic, nevermind what season it actually was.

And, damn it all, Satoru took advantage of temporary warm weather by standing over his smoking outdoor grill, but not because he craved warmth and anything that reminded him of peaceful summer days, but because one of Yuji’s favorite foods happened to be Satoru’s grilled burgers, and Yuji was having a bad day today.

With one hand, Satoru flipped the burgers over with a spatula. They still needed quite a bit of cooking. With the other hand, he raised his blacked-out sunglasses, gazing at the back of his house.

It had been a while since he last checked on the moping boy. His other moping boy, Megumi, was fast asleep after Satoru coaxed him into eating by bringing a food tray to his room that held an apple he sliced, a basic sandwich — Megumi didn’t like too many toppings — and his new antidepressants.

A short distance away, Maya was plopped down in her sandbox, digging around with a colorful, tiny shovel.

“Muffin?” Satoru called out. When the young girl looked at him and tilted her head a bit, he asked, “Want a juice box, sweet girl?”

She eagerly hopped to her feet, took a moment to shake off as much sand as she could, singing under her breath, “shake, shake, shake, shake off the sand . . . shake, shake, shake, shake off the sand.”

Afterwards, Maya and Satoru stepped through the back door. Once he sat the young girl down at the nook table in the corner of the gourmet kitchen, gave her a juice box and told her to stay put — only after putting his lips on the skin of her arm and blowing a raspberry to make her giggle, of course — he then headed upstairs to go check on Yuji.

—

“I wanna kill that annoying punk you call your father first.”

It was Sukuna’s rotten voice. Yuji was digging through the drawer of clothes in his spacious bedroom when the king of curses manifested himself on the side of Yuji’s face.

“Shut up,” Yuji mumbled.

“Who would be fun to kill next? Let me think . . . that pretty mother of yours? Your little sister? That little girl’s becoming sensitive to cursed energy now, right? Does your family know she won’t come near you anymore, ‘cause she can sense me? The evil inside of you? We made her cry and run away the other day. Remember that?”

“Shut up. Just shut up already.”

“You think these people really trust you as a vessel to keep me in check, huh? I bet they’re hoping you die and take me with you-”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up-”

“How do you think it’d feel, brat? Your own body being used to kill the useless humans you call your family? Your face being the last face they see as they die a slow, painful death?”

“Shut the hell up!”

He was shouting — he didn’t realize it, not until the silence that ringed afterward made him realize just how loud he had been.

Yuji heard two knocks at his door. When he failed to respond, whoever seeked entry twisted the knob and opened it.

“Yuji?”

“Sorry, I’m fine.” Yuji glanced at Satoru standing in his doorway. With a bundle of clothes in his hand, Yuji paused, watching his dad glance over the top of his sunglasses, his all-seeing eyes scanning Yuji from top to bottom. “Stop it.”

“He’s bothering you again, huh? Wanna talk about it?” Satoru stepped into his bedroom.

Yuji shook his head, mumbling an inaudible, “no.” He tossed the clothes in his hands on his bed — they fell with a soft plop — and suddenly, the tears started to fall.

He couldn’t help it by then. The teenager found himself turning around and wrapping his arms around Satoru, who didn’t waste a second before hugging him back.

“It’s okay, kid. It’s okay,” Satoru said soothingly, rubbing his back.

“Most days, I can ignore him pretty easily and not let his words get to me, but . . .”

“But ever since he scared Maya, you can’t help but listen to him.”

Yuji gasped.

It was the secret he had been keeping since it happened.

“You knew about it?” Yuji pulled away from Satoru, staring at him with wide eyes.

“Not ‘til now. I was listening at the door,” Satoru said.

“You say he scared Maya, but don’t you mean me? It’s ‘cause of Sukuna, yeah, but it's not like he was taking over my body when she got scared. It was just . . . me. It’s his fault, but it’s still me. Does that make any sense?” Yuji looked down at the floor. “Megumi’s always been her favorite sibling, and I get it, she’s known him her whole life and stuff, but . . . not only am I her least favorite member of the family, but now she’s downright scared of me. Do you think that means I should live on campus for a while? It’s not fair for Maya to be scared of someone in her own home. She’s your biological kid, so she comes first. I’m just the one you adopted last year-”

“And you’re just as much a member of this family as she is.” Satoru interrupted Yuji with a stern tone he wasn’t used to. “Just give it time, Yuji. Your mom and I are working on a way to get her used to . . . all this. And in the meantime, don’t let Sukuna get to you. I know that’s easier said than done, but just you wait. I’m gonna find some sorta loophole where I can kill him for good, and still keep you alive and well. I don’t care how long it takes.”

“You’re pretty optimistic.”

“Well, you’re my boy, Yuji. I’ll be damned if you don’t become old and gray someday.”

Yuji gave Satoru another hug, but this time, instead of tears, it was with a soft smile. Though his heart hadn’t fully accepted Satoru’s words, nor had his mind accepted that he had a right to stay home, he couldn’t help but giggle when his dad called him that affectionate term.

“Damn right I’m your boy!” Yuji exclaimed.

“Hey, watch your mouth.”

“Sorry. Can we play baseball together soon?”

MAYA’S STORY — DAY SIX

It was somewhere between noon and evening, the big house a warming shade of yellow and orange from the setting sun peeking in through the open windows, and Maya crept down the hallways with her doll clenched tightly against her chest.

Sneaking around her home wasn’t fun — not nearly as fun as the show the The Backyardigans made sneaking seem to be in the episode she watched with dad last week. Secret agents, they were.

She tried singing the little Secret Agent song in her head, tried to pretend that she was on some fun, grand adventure, but in truth, she was scared.

She was coming out of her bedroom when she heard footsteps in the hallway, and she felt it. That . . . that energy. That spirit.

Everyone in her family had that same energy, she could feel it, but unlike her dad or Megumi, this energy wasn’t friendly. It was as scary as the big monsters she swore lived under her bed when she was younger — and though dad held her tight and told her he kicked all the monsters out and scared them away, that wasn’t true. Because sometimes, she still saw monsters! Like the one she saw at the park the other day! And she swore — she swore — her big brother was one of them. He was the one with the unfriendly energy.

A little while ago, she ran up to Yuji, eager to share her grapes with him, and that was the first time she felt it. She ran away crying, shrieking away from him when he tried to follow her and ask her what was wrong. Ever since then, she would only go near him if others were around. It broke her little heart. She loved Yuji! So why, just why, did he have to turn out to be one of those scary monsters?

Maya peeked her head around the corner of her door frame and saw Yuji, who was opening a hallway closet.

“Umbrella, umbrella, umbrella. Where is it?” He mumbled to himself in a bored tone, searching the shelves for, apparently, an umbrella.

Why was he here right now, of all places? He wouldn’t move either, which meant . . . she would have to walk past him to reach the bathroom.

She wanted to cry. Where was Dad? He’d hold her, and together, they could make it past that scary monster.

Maya turned in the opposite direction of the bathroom, dashing away as quickly and quietly as she could, not wanting to draw his attention. Her heart was pounding. She then made a quick turn into what was the upstairs gameroom, and there you were! You were fluffing one of the pillows on the couch when you turned your head, smiling at the sight of your daughter running towards you, but your smile quickly vanished as the corners of your lips pointed downward, your brows furrowed.

“What’s wrong, honey?” You asked.

“I have to pee-pee and there’s a monster in the hallway!”

Your frown deepened in pure confusion.

You knew quite well there wasn’t a monster in the hallway, but before you could question the young girl, she was reaching up, grabbing hold of your hand with her little one — the one that wasn’t holding her doll — and she pulled you along.

There was no one in the hallway except Yuji.

You figured that, perhaps, there was some sort of weird decoration in the hallway that scared her, but when you glanced down, you saw her wide, fear-filled eyes were locked on Yuji.

“Maya, what’s the matter?” You questioned. “Mommy doesn’t understand what you’re scared of.”

You weren’t exactly whispering like Maya hoped you would, and your words caught Yuji’s attention. He turned away from the hideous ponchos in his hands, looking in your direction with a small, “hm?” when, all of a sudden, Maya dropped your hand, raising a trembling finger as she pointed at her brother.

“Monster,” she cried out.

A shocked gasp escaped your lips. You never would have expected your sweet girl to call someone such a thing, let alone her brother. “Now Maya, that is not nice. We don’t call people things that we wouldn’t want them to call us. You owe your brother an apology.”

Yuji shut the door of the hallway closet, locking eyes with his sister. Maya shrieked, dropping her doll.

“Mommy!” She grabbed, pulled, and yanked at your shirt and pants, practically trying to climb up your body and jump into your arms.

Tears fell from her eyes as she cried, “Make him go away! Make him go away!”

No parenting book had prepared you for this, whatever this was.

The terrified girl’s nails were digging into your flesh; you had no choice but to pick her up.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” you said soothingly, but the fright in your voice was crystal clear.

You gave Yuji a look of panicked confusion, one that begged for answers to the obvious question, but when you looked at him — even from the distance between you both — you could see the tears streaming down his face.

“Make him go away, mommy! Make him go away!” Maya cried.

Yuji sniffled, wiping his tears off on his sleeves before turning away.

“Wait, Yuji- Maya, it’s okay, I don’t . . .”

Suddenly, with Megumi following, Satoru was making his way up the stairs before Yuji could descend them, forcing the crying sorcerer to stay put.

Yuji tried his hardest to weave around Satoru, but Satoru gripped his shoulders.

“Aht, aht, aht, you’re not going anywhere.”

“But I’m scaring her!”

“Yuji, will you please tell me what’s going on?” You cradled your sobbing daughter’s head.

“Here, Megumi,” Yuji reached around Satoru, tossing Megumi two mustard-yellow ponchos he found.

Megumi caught it and started to descend the steps without another word.

Satoru frowned.

“You two mind telling me why you need ponchos when there isn’t a cloud in the sky?”

There was no answer. Megumi continued to walk down the steps, Maya continued to sob, and Yuji continued to wipe his streaming tears, his path blocked by Satoru.

“I asked you two a question. Yuji, your mother asked you a question.”

“We’re packing our bags and leaving. We can’t stay here.”

It was Megumi who stopped walking and answered.

You could handle quite a bit, but this? This was what finally made the tears fall.

When that very first sniffle interrupted the silence, your entire family turned to face you.

It was too much. Everything. Every bit of it.

With Maya in your arms — her little tantrum had dwindled to silent sobs now — you left the hallway, stepping into the closest room you could find.

Satoru was a man who could walk through Hell with a grin on his face. He was an easygoing person, one who could tolerate everything from strong curses, the attitudes of teenagers — perhaps his own occasional lack of maturity helped him out with that — but, the one thing he could not simply grin and bear?

Seeing his wife upset.

Satoru slowly turned his head between Megumi and Yuji, looking at their guilt-ridden faces. He clenched his jaw.

“You two. Living room. Now. I’m not messing around, and don’t you dare talk back to me.”

Satoru moved past Yuji, and the boy swore he could feel the anger radiating off of him like heat.

The pissed-off man watched his sons drag their feet into the living room, Megumi’s hands fidgeting with the sleeves of his black sweatshirt while Yuji had his head down, messy hair unusually flat like he was a kicked puppy, and Satoru then stepped into the room you occupied with Maya.

You were sitting on the ottoman in front of the bed. Kneeling in front of you, Satoru looked at you with all the softness he held for you in his overwhelmed heart, and he stroked your tears away with his thumb.

“Don’t cry, don’t cry.” He leaned forward and kissed your cheek. He then repeated the same act of love with Maya. “Both of my sweet girls are crying. You’re killing me.”

“I’m sorry.” You mumbled, taking a deep breath as if to soothe yourself. “It’s just been a long, long week. I don’t wanna make them feel guilty for how they feel by crying in front of them, I swear I don’t, but . . . I think hearing them say that was my final straw.”

Satoru rose to his feet. He scooped Maya out of your arms, and said, “Come to the living room. We all need to work it out.”

The living room was softly lit by two lamps. From one of the couches where Megumi and Yuji sat, Yuji wiped away one of his own tears, then gently knocked his knee against Megumi’s.

“You okay?” Yuji asked.

Megumi didn’t answer for a while, his eyes glued on the living room floor.

“No.” Megumi’s voice was soft. “Are you?”

“No.”

Megumi and Yuji gave each other a sympathetic smile. Just then, they heard the sound of footsteps descending the stairs. You came down, following Satoru — who held Maya — and you all found yourself grabbing a spot on one of the couches.

Satoru started to speak to the young girl holding on to him.

“Muffin, look at Yuji.”

Maya looked up at Satoru with precious eyes filled with uncertainty.

“Don’t be scared. It’s okay. Just look at him.”

She was hesitant, found herself clenching Satoru’s shirt even tighter, but . . . but eventually, she turned her head and looked at her older brother, who bounced his leg out of pure nervousness and old habit, his face a mess of falling — and seemingly never-ending — tears.

“You see that?” Satoru pointed. “He’s crying. Do you know why he’s crying?”

Maya looked up at her dad, shaking her head with a small pout.

“He’s crying because you’re hurting his feelings, muffin. Calling him a monster and running away from him is making him sad, so sad that he wants to run away from home. If he does that, it’ll make all of us sad as well. You’re the sweetest girl I know, and I know for a fact my sweet girl doesn’t wanna make anyone sad, right?” Maya blinked at him, and Satoru continued. “Yuji isn’t like that monster you saw at the park. Your brother is actually this super-duper strong, super-duper awesome, super-duper great person who’s keeping a monster at bay, so the monster can’t hurt anyone someday. He’s a hero, one who puts himself in harm's way to try and protect other people, and he loves you very, very much. Isn’t that cool? To have a brother who’s that brave, kind, and strong?”

Maya tilted her head to the side, the gears in her brain turning, and she nodded slowly.

When you started to speak, Maya looked over at you.

“You have a family of people who fight those scary monsters you’ve seen all the time. In fact, your dad is the strongest monster-fighter in the whole world. None of them can lay a hand on him because of how strong he is. And guess what?”

“What?” Maya squeaked out.

“You’re his daughter, so that really strong monster-fighter strength has been passed on to you,” you smiled. “Nothing bad will happen to you, honey. Everyone in this family will make sure of it; me, your dad, Megumi, and Yuji, who I think could really use an apology from you right now.”

Maya, albeit hesitant, hopped off her dad’s lap. She wiped the tears off her chubby cheeks and glanced back at Satoru.

“Go on, it’s okay,” he nodded.

In a way, it was quite hilarious. The person she feared was nothing more than a sulking boy with teary, light brown eyes, and a sad frown. Kicked puppy.

Maya stood in front of her brother. She didn’t fully understand what you and her dad were trying to say, but she knew a few things for certain:

No one else seemed scared of Yuji.

Dad said Yuji wasn’t a monster; he fought monsters.

That evil energy wasn’t the only energy she felt from him, there was something else there. Something kind and warm.

She loved Yuji, and she didn’t like making him feel sad.

“I’m really, really, really sorry,” Maya mumbled.

“It’s okay, Maya Papaya,” Yuji smiled softly.

“You’re like Barbie!”

Oh, her famous compliment. Yuji’s grin widened in amused bewilderment, though he didn’t fully understand what about him could have reminded her of Barbie.

“Oh yeah? I don’t know, I think she’s way cooler than I am,” Yuji reached forward slowly in case his little sister was still hesitant to trust him, and when she didn’t back away, he ruffled her hair. Maya responded to that by stepping closer with her arms out. As Yuji happily leaned down to hug her, god, it felt as if his heart melted and was being glued back together all at once.

A moment after the hug ended, Satoru spoke up. “Muffin, why don’t you go play with dolls, hm? I know my big girl can play all by herself, right?”

“Uh huh! I can go do that!”

Everyone listened to the pitter-patter of Maya’s footsteps. Once the conclusion was drawn that she was in her room, you and Satoru glanced at the boy on the other couch who was playing with the sleeves of his black sweatshirt.

“My turn, right?” Megumi mumbled.

“You’re not in trouble. Neither one of you are. It’s just that, at the first sign of chaos, you two wanna hit the door. You both need to understand that no matter what happens, no matter what you do or how you feel, those beds upstairs are yours. We’ll work through any situation no matter what it is because you’re our children. Your dad and I will chase you down and drag you both back home if we have to, but please don’t make us have to.” You paused. “Megumi, do you truly hate the idea of getting help so much that you’d rather stop living here with us? Are you that angry with me?”

“It isn’t like that. I just feel like a . . . burden again.” He couldn’t look you in the eye. “But I’m not angry, I’m just hurt. It feels like a betrayal.”

“What did . . .” Your voice was wobbly. You used every bit of your strength to hold back your own tears. “When you told me how you were feeling, what did you think would happen? What did you want to happen? Did you think I wouldn’t do something?”

“I knew you would, I just . . . I wanted to talk to you, not a therapist.”

“Me?” You blinked.

“Well, you’re my mother, aren’t you?”

Oh.

Oh, you were certain you misheard him. Your wide eyes found Satoru’s, and your husband gave you a knowing grin.

“I heard it, baby. He said it.” Satoru said.

“I’m gonna cry again,” you wiped at the tears threatening to stream down your face; it was crystal clear during this moment who Maya got her sensitive side from. “Can I hug you? If not, that’s okay.”

Megumi looked up at you. He thought about it for a moment, then with a whisper of a smile, he said, “Yeah, sure.”

You made your way over to where he sat, and he stood up. You wrapped your arms around him, taking extra care not to hug him too long or squeeze him too tightly.

When you pulled away, you said. “I still think you should give your current treatment plan a proper try, but you can always come to me, Megumi. Always, always, always.”

After you released him, you then walked over to Yuji, your arms open, and he grinned widely, hoping to his feet to hug you.

“I owe you an apology, Yuji.”

“Huh? For what?” He pulled away, tilting his head a little.

“For neglecting your needs. You should give therapy a try as well. I didn’t think it was necessary at first, seeing as you were always smiling and laughing no matter what, but after everything you’ve been through, you need it as well. I’m sorry for not considering it sooner.”

“Oh, well . . . okay, I guess.”

“I think someone else needs therapy.”

The interjection came from Satoru. Turning around, you raised an eyebrow at him. “You mean Maya? Because a child therapist doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”

“I was talking about you, but honestly, let’s get the whole family in there,” Satoru motioned you over, and your lips fell into a little frown. “What’s that look for? Aren’t you always saying everyone needs someone to talk to at some point?”

“That’s true,” you said. You walked over to Satoru and claimed the spot next to him on the couch, and he wrapped his arms around you. “I think I could use a massage, or maybe a vacation as well.”

“I’m on it,” Satoru smiled down at you. Then, as he looked back at his teenage boys, he said, “So now, on to dating . . .”

SATORU’S STORY — DAY SIX

The conversation with your boys lasted well into the evening until the orange rays of the setting sun kissed the sky goodbye, and the bright moon appeared along with the stars.

But not every bit of chaos had been resolved just yet. There was something else, something lingering in the back of Satoru’s mind, and that was why instead of showering together before winding down for your nightly routine of soft chatter, massages, and watching an episode of two of your favorite show together, you and Satoru found yourselves strolling through the Night Lights Festival once again.

“Satoru, we’ve all had a long day. Why’d you bring me here?” You asked, looking up at the side of his face, your fingers intertwined.

“Because I wanna spend time with the person I’m in love with, obviously. You’re the love of my life, my amazing wife,” he turned his head, smiling down at you. “Look, I’m even rhyming now like a lovesick poet.”

“But why are we at the festival again? After the day we’ve had, our bed was calling my name. I was hoping we were gonna cuddle up and watch our show together, or anything that involves lying in bed . . . Please don’t make a dirty joke.”

Satoru shot you an amused grin.

He guided you towards a food vendor that smelled of heavenly sugar. After ordering one chocolate-filled churro, he turned around to face you as he waited.

“Well, you and I never get any alone time nowadays, and we really needed to talk. I figured, why not do it here? The festival only comes once a year anyway. I wanna do our little churro tradition as many times as possible.”

“Why do we need to talk? You’re not divorcing me, are you?”

“Never. You’re stuck with me in every lifetime. I really believe it, ya know. I had a dream once where we both died and-”

“Here you go. Enjoy the festival.” The friendly vendor owner unintentionally interrupted Satoru, a churro in hand.

Satoru took it with thanks. You two continued strolling until he found an outdoor bench close to the lantern-lit lake and bridge.

“What was I saying?” He asked, sitting down.

As he took the first bite of the churro before passing it to you, you said, “Listen, if this is about my rant the other day, I really don’t feel the need to continue that conversation. Talking with everyone today helped some.”

“There’s more to it.” Satoru’s tone was serious at first. The lanterns nearby illuminated his expressionless face. Strands of his white hair shifted as he nodded down at the churro in your hand. “Come on, bite the churro.”

You did so. A beat of silence passed between you both. You handed him the churro; his turn to take a bite.

“I’m waiting,” he said, taking the sweet treat.

“For?”

“For you to tell me whatever it is you need to tell me. And for you to tell me why you haven’t told me until I brought up that there’s something you need to tell me.”

You blinked at him. He was right, after all. You were keeping something from him, and of course, he’d recognize the signs of secrecy. But you wanted to hold on to the secret news of your pregnancy a little longer.

“Really? You know me better than I know myself.” You avoided looking at him as he gave you the churro. Your bite was nothing more than a hesitant nibble. “Do you honestly think I’d keep secrets from you?”

“Then why won’t you tell me you’re pregnant, baby?”

Your limbs froze. Your heart skipped a beat, and though he spoke sweetly, kindly, you were still as stiff as a statue.

“Look at me,” he softly demanded, hooking his fingers around his blindfold and pulling it down, letting it dangle around his neck.

You glanced up at him, almost feeling like a shy child getting scolded.

“I . . .” Whatever excuse you wanted to give died in your throat. “How’d you figure it out?”

“Really needa ask?”

“Your eyes.” You mumbled. Duh. Of course. Of course, you couldn’t keep something like this from the Satoru Gojo.

“I would’ve pieced it together either way, ‘cause you’re right, I do know you better than you know yourself.” Satoru smiled for a moment, but then it vanished quickly. It was his turn to take a sad bite of the churro. Those bright blue eyes glistened with a sliver of hurt. “Why didn’t you tell me? I’ve been waiting.”

“I’m sorry, I just didn’t know when or how. With everything going on, I feel like everyone will freak out at the idea of adding a baby to the mix. Especially considering our boys are ready to pack their bags and run away when they spill a cup of water. I didn’t want them to feel like us having another child would mean we no longer wanted them around. Hey, we’re having more biological children, so we don’t need the adopted ones, hit the road! ya know? I read somewhere that adopted kids and teens sometimes feel like that’s what’ll happen, or they feel like they’ll always come last to the biological children. And that’s only part of the reason why me being pregnant right now isn’t a good idea. I don’t know why we thought we would be able to handle another kid at a time like this.”

“Two kids.”

“Huh?”

“We’re having twins.” Satoru leaned forward, resting his elbows on the outdoor bench. “I can pick up on things earlier than an ultrasound can. And . . .” Satoru's eyes darted down to your stomach. “Yeah. I’m looking at two individual cursed energies.”

You couldn’t help but gasp. Twins? Was he being serious? Was this real?

“Oh my god. Satoru I . . . I mean, thank goodness we have a big ass house, right?” You gave a hollow laugh. One out of pure shock. “H-How do you feel about all this? I can’t tell.”

Satoru reached down into the pocket of his black jacket. He pulled out his phone, let the brightness on the screen illuminate his face, and opened the messaging app. Your husband then handed his phone to you. What stared back at you was a messaging thread with Kento.

Satoru spammed the poor man with multiple text messages, some short, incoherent, and incomplete, some using all caps, others long and decorated with emojis, but every message expressed his pure excitement. The last thing you saw before handing his phone back to him was a selfie he sent of himself crying tears of joy.

“Not only did I cry, but I went on a two-hour run to release some built-up excitement. I think it’s safe to say I’m beyond thrilled. I just wanted to wait for you to figure out, because I thought you were gonna be excited to tell me, and I didn’t wanna ruin the surprise, but then I realized that you knew, and I could see how stressed out you were. You were going through tea like a teaholic, didn’t finish your crepes, and the last time I gave you a massage, you were so tense, it was like I was rubbing down a rock.” You took a bite of the churro. Satoru continued speaking. “You know I’m always gonna be here for you, right? There isn’t any part of this that you’ll have to go through alone. Even when I’m away, I will always be coming right back to you. We will figure it out, baby. Every bit of it. I wish I could be the pregnant one, not you, just so I can take some stress away from you.”

“And now you’ve made it weird,” you laughed — a genuine one this time — and watched as Satoru shrugged and took a bite of the churro you handed him.

“As weird as you are,” you paused, the churro now in your hands. “I’m glad you’re in my life. Who knows? Maybe preparing for two new members of the family could be the bonding time this family needs. Not sure.”

“Look at you being optimistic, I love it.”

You took the last bite, playfully rolling your eyes at him, but your fake attitude fooled no one. You were crazy in love with that handsome man across the table.

“Okay, c’mere, time for you to kiss me. The person who takes the last bite has to give the first kiss. Don’t tell me you forgot,” Satoru said. Though he told you to come to him, he was the one who rose from his seat and made his way over to your side of the bench. He straddled the bench seat, facing your side, and placed his hands on your hips as if to coax you into facing him.

“Pretty sure you just made that up. And aren’t we, like, both supposed to take the last bite together, causing our lips to meet, then we kiss?”

“I think the two of us should only try that with pasta, honey. We did it during that pasta making class we went to. I think one of us would choke to death if we tried to do it with a chocolate-covered churro,” Satoru tugged on you a little tighter, his lips falling into a small pout. “You’re taking too long. Just kiss me already. You’re ruining the mom-”

You cut off your talkative husband with what he so eagerly wanted — a sweet kiss. Not only could you feel his soft lips against yours, but you could feel him fighting off a smile as he kissed you back with passion.

That smile fully formed once you both parted, your face inches apart. His bright eyes stared into yours in a way that made it hard for you to breathe, and he gently stroked your cheek.

“Satoru?”

“Hm?”

“I think all of this chaos has taught me that, even though it’s hard, I can handle a lot of things. But promise me that you will never stop looking at me the way you’re looking at me right now. If for any reason you stop looking at me with all of that love in your eyes, I think that’s what will finally break me. Just promise me we will never become one of those couples who fall out of love with one another but are still together out of convenience.”

“I’ve stared at you like this since the first day we met, April 8th, 2005. I thought I was the coolest guy on the planet, but around you? I was a nervous wreck who wouldn’t stop blushing and stuttering. I still look at you now the same way I did then, and I know I still will when we’re old and wrinkly, and you know it too. But I promise, if that’ll put your worried little mind at ease.” Satoru caught you by surprise with one last little peck against your lips. Then, the tall man stood and held his large hand out for you to take. “C’mon, let’s burn our fingers tossing lanterns into the sky again while trying to look like a cute couple.”

You laughed, letting your hand fall into his. You didn’t know it, but several festival goers caught glimpses of you and your husband together. They prayed to someday find a cherishable love just as precious.

♡ — What did you think? Let me know! Feedback is appreciated and encourages me to post more dad!gojo content!

♡ — @marvel-girl3 @goldenglow149 @luaqsv @sstoru @pinkfemdolly @satorusgummies @therealmrsgojo @leehriie @iminlovewqr0w @odessa-is-my-queen @melodycelos @stoneaf @dreamypirate @rac00ns-are-c00l4

2K notes · View notes

lysatoru · 2 months ago

Text

Brooklyn Baby

art in the banner is by @e0308r on X

pairings - dad's best friend! Satoru x F! reader

This will be three parts! comments/rbs appreciated if you enjoy!

part two>>> (coming soon)

part one

The fuck was that?

"I can wait my turn, no worries ladies." He winks and they all swoon, and when you hear that voice, you know it's him.

"Gojo?" Satoru blinks at the familiar voice, turning to his side to look down at -

Suguru Geto's only daughter.

Fuck.

"Hey sweetheart, what're you doing in town?" He manages to act normal, putting on an easy smile as he sees now your eyes glimmering with tears. "What's wrong?"

Not like your scent hasn't already filled his senses.

You're important to him, just like Suguru is, and he'll not let his dumb fucking thoughts ruin your opportunities. "Surely there's a room available, I'll pay."

"You can't do that! It's too much." You're a flustered mess, as he flashes that pretty smile of his that makes your tummy clench.

"Nothing at all open but the presidential suite you said?" He asks softly, you're still too close to him, fucking up his senses, as the receptionist frowns, clacking away at her keyboard.

"They just booked the last one online, Mr. Gojo."

"Shit, then..." He eyes you, blue eyes glinting as he takes in your distraught, pretty little face.

He can compose himself, can't he, hasn't he always?

"She'll stay with me, give her a key card," you hug him once more, he's chuckling and pecking a kiss on your head. "You're clingy still, remember you always were."

And there's just one problem.

He can't think that way.

He hastily tugs off his jacket, laying it over your shoulders as the elevator dings on each floor.

"It's nothing, kid."

Until you got older.

You’d been insanely jealous.

“Huh? Oh…” you blink a bit, it’s not like you’ve never been with anyone, never seen a man naked, but Satoru’s forearms were taking you the fuck out.

“You still wear these?” You ask softly, his attention goes to your little fingers brushing over the gem carefully, and he nods a bit. “Why? Aren’t they kind of not up to your… standard?”

“Yeah no, I’ll be forty one in December, yuck.” You laugh with him, shaking your head then.

“That is not ‘yuck’ or old, you and dad are super young. Dad was always like the youngest at any parent event, shit usually the only dad altogether. I remember him going to Moms and Muffins.”

“Yes, you put bows in his hair, he showed me.” You both laugh then, Satoru stands against the dresser, his mind racing then.

“You’re not old, you look my age you know.” You break his thoughts up, he chuckles a bit at that, before sucking in a breath, when you walk closer, slipping his jacket off to hand it to him.

“Well, they work, I don’t think you’ve ever changed. I hope I look super hot when I’m your age.”

“Oh whatever! He’s pretty, you know.”

“Psh, okay.” He rolls his blue eyes, and you both laugh then.

“Not being nice, you know you’re a gorgeous girl.” He’s clearing his throat now, looking away as he hangs his jacket up, next to the other suits he’d brought, smoothing it out.

“It’s kinda nice to hear from the Satoru Gojo.”

“Uh huh, flattery will get you everywhere.” He pats your head then, ruffling up your hair, you blow a thick strand off your brow. “You go take a shower.”

Hopefully a room would open up or something by then.

Jerk off in there to act normal.

He almost whimpers at the sight, clenching his teeth together to focus on the screen as you walk out. “Okay I feel a million times better.”

“Do you drive anywhere, Gojo?”

“Hush.” You giggle at his own glare, he looks too fucking hot in those glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, his body shifting a bit to face you now.

You feel this man could fuck, you just feel it.

“Thanks, I’m so sorry…”

“No, it’s fine,” his voice is darker, huskier than you’ve ever heard it, making your thighs press together, still slick from the water, in need. “I’ll go take one now.”

“Is there still hot water?” You tease, swiping a little bit of the condensation left on your phone with a towel, already wearing your little shorts and a crop top.

“Yeah, plenty, you didn’t hog too much.”

“See!”

“You left strands of your hair on the wall though.”

“Shit, it fell out!” He laughs softly, as if he’s not still stroking it, and you sigh a little bit then. “All right, I’ll leave you to it.”

You’re already so stressed about the Julliard audition, the last thing you need is this pounding in your head, an impossible fantasy.

“Feel better?” You tease, he smiles and nods a bit, grabbing his boxers then, hesitating as he realizes he didn’t bring shit else to sleep in.

“Much better.” He’s gone back to the bathroom, you’re exhaling and leaned back, head on the plush leather headboard, fingers tapping in the rhythm you’ll practice tomorrow, focusing.

It’d be one thing if you were just hot, but to be truly beautiful seemed one of life's meanest jokes to him.

Your phone rings, your eyes open and you catch sight of him. “Shit, you saw me like that?”

“Don’t worry, it’s fine, ya gonna get that?” You look at your phone on the nightstand, tugging off the covers just to make him hard again.

Do you wear clothes!? Or just scraps?

“It’s dad!” You’re giggling, picking up the phone, legs dangling high off the floor as he tries not to imagine slipping his fingers across them. “Hey dad!”

She was actually cool as fuck, but you don’t know if your dad really will ever get over mom, though you’d love to see him happy.

“Wishing you were here,” you say, hearing him sigh over the phone.

“I know, shit, I think we should be able to fly out in the next couple days but I’ll miss the audition for sure.”

“Ugh! I’m okay though, actually… Satoru is here.”

“Satoru, what’re you doing there?” Suguru’s voice is friendly, relieved even. Thank god he can’t sense the dumb fucking thoughts in his head.

“I was actually staying here for business, when the hotel booked her room, so I offered her to just stay in the suite with me.”

“He saved me!”

“Psh.” He’s chuckling as you smile, leaning across his table a bit, tank top slipping off your fucking shoulder, as if the straps were mocking him.

He sure couldn’t stare at your tits while he talks to your dad!?

“Dad, I'm a big girl now, you know.” You’re pouting too fucking cute, Satoru can’t drag his mind off your plush lips for a moment as Suguru speaks.

“You’re still my little girl, anyway I am glad it worked out. By the time I even get back you’ll be in Julliard!”

“You have too much faith in me,” your voice is quiet now, and Satoru puts his hand over yours, smiling at you, earning your little smile back.

“She’ll kill it.”

“Exactly, see we both believe in you.” You tear up a bit, sniffling now, it’s been months since you saw either of them.

“I miss you so much.”

“Aw, me too baby, I’ll be home soon okay?” You sniffle as Satoru caresses the back of your hand. “Take good care of her for me, Satoru.”

“I missed you too.” You say it softly, like a secret, making Satoru pause, his hand still gently running up and down your back.

“Missed me, why?” You just shake your head, hugging him tighter, as his blood rushes to places he wishes it fucking wouldn’t. “Miss me teasing you?”

“Maybe I do,” you pull back, and Satoru swipes your tears, streaking down your pretty cheeks. “You haven’t visited in a long time.”

“She was a bitch.” He snorts in laughter then, swiping more tears as you stand there between his long legs, like you belong there. “I didn’t like her.”

“Well I’m glad she’s gone. I haven’t liked any of your girlfriends.” He laughs now, but you’re dead serious.

“None of them? Now that’s silly, some of them weren’t that bad.”

“Yeah, well, I think I give up.”

“What now?”

“Yeah, I’m ancient.”

“Shut up!” You shove at him, he’s chuckling more but you’re very serious. “Stop saying that. I won’t be old at forty.”

“No, you won’t be able to drive then either.”

“Excuse me!?” He’s grinning as you smack playfully, until you smile and sniffle a bit. “You’re such a jerk!”

“You’re the best, Satoru, thank you.”

*****

“No, no it’s… you remember me getting shaky?”

Jesus fuck, does he not know what that does!?

“No one eats more than Goku,” you giggle again at that, as he laughs softly, now tearing into a chocolate chip muffin. “Genetics and working out I guess.”

“You have won the gene pool, this will go to my hips.”

“Nice hips,” he trails off then, clearing his throat, and your tummy clenches as his eyes dart across your body. “I mean to say… you can eat a muffin, you look great, okay?”

You have a huge opportunity, you have to focus.

“Tell me you brought something like… not as… revealing for this? Or do I need to buy you an outfit?” You laugh a bit then, and his thin brows lower. “I’m serious.”

“Are you saying I dress slutty!?”

“What!? No… just very revealing.”

“Maybe you are old.”

“What now!?” You’re biting your lip to stop laughing as he stands up, and you find your back pressed against the table, his arms on either side of you. “Do I look old to you?”

“No, you’re the one that says it silly! You’re old fashioned.” You shove at his chest and he smirks a bit.

“I am not old fashioned, but you do have something professional, yes? I don’t mind taking you shopping.”

“Now that’s perfect, you look…” Beautiful, fucking beautiful. “You look like you’re going to nail this.”

“Yay! Thank you!” You kiss his cheek and smile against it, on your tiptoes, a hand over his jacket, burning his skin. “I’m so nervous.”

“Don’t be, you’re going to do amazing. Are you ready to get going? I have to leave a little early for this meeting and the traffic is terrible here.”

“I’m ready!”

“A lot,” he’s rolling his eyes now, hand falling off, and you instantly miss its warmth, its presence. “I’m gonna fail it.”

“Right…”

You wish Satoru was right.

All your life living for this dream, for what. What was any of it for?

“Who’s this, baby?” One asks, Satoru narrows his eyes at the fuck boy.

“It’s Satoru,” you’re hiccuping then, swaying even though you’re not even moving, about to fall if he doesn’t catch you. “Satoru Gojo.”

“Come have another, we can hit a party,” the other says, and you just bury your face against Satoru’s chest, as he carefully holds you.

“Drink some water, yeah?” You shake your head, and he scowls. “I said drink some fucking water.”

“Okay, dad.”

“I’m not your fucking dad,” his voice is clipped and harsh then, your eyes try to focus on his angry, handsome face, he swirls just a bit as you let him put the water to your lips. “Drink.”

“Celebrating like this is dangerous, you could have been taken advantage of by those douche bags.”

“Will you just tell me what’s wrong, what’s going on?” He asks quietly, you sigh then, looking at him, as he gently cups your face.

“I fucking failed, Satoru.”

“What now!?”

“Fuck this, I’ll go demand a redo.”

“You can’t!” You pull back and look up at him, the alcohol warming your body, spreading as he’s right near you. “Satoru they will never.”

“The fuck they won’t, you’ve never seen me negotiate shit, have you?” He raises a brow, you swipe at your tears, lip trembling.

“You can’t just fix it for me.”

You love him.

Especially drunk off your ass.

“You need more water-” You’ve pressed your lips on his before he can finish his sentence, too far gone to hold back, to stop the motion, pulling back just a bit to look up at him.

“Sorry,” he scoffs then, eyes narrowing, hand slipping into the nape of your neck, tugging your hair just enough to make your head fall back.

“You’re not sorry, are you?” You smile, you can’t help it, you’re too drunk to lie to him.

“Kind of sorry,” he tightens his hand, tugging at the delicate strands of hair, you’re whining out, the sound fucking him completely. “Satoru…”

“Please…” He wants to give you it, fuck he wants you to have all of him, but he yanks you off him, holding you up by your hips, kissing you one more time.

“No more, you’re drunk and… this is a terrible fucking idea.” He sits you right next to him, you’re dizzy and breathless. “Forget that happened.”

Shit that can never, ever happen.

“You’re upset and drunk, and I’m fucking stupid.”

“You’re not-”

“Drink.” He orders, and you do just that, he’s back to being caring and distant, as you ache for him, more and more as the water sobers you up just a bit.

“Will you really help me get another chance?” You ask softly, his eyes catch you across the room.

“Thank you, Satoru. Good night.” You murmur, he sighs, nodding then.

“Good night.” His clicking of the keys drifts you off to sleep, the vivid images behind your eyes of him overtaking your mind, wondering if it was all some fucking drunk fever dream.

But it wasn’t.

What had he been thinking?

He can’t feel this way.

He shuts his eyes, failing to sleep as he knows you’re in the next room, while you dream the filthiest things about your dad’s best friend.

5K notes · View notes

lysatoru · 2 months ago

Text

nah bc iris by goo goo dolls playing while they kissed under the rain was my last straw 💔💔 i love this fic sm

symptoms and causes | ch. 04

ღ pairing professor gojo x med student reader

ღ summary he's arrogant, self-centered, and he's your professor. renowned for his brilliance in neurosurgery and infamous for his allure. too bad you have to work with him on this research team. now you're stuck with dr. satoru gojo, delving into the complexities of both the brain and the heart—and of how far you'd go for a love that could destroy not only him but you as well.

ღ wc 7.9 k

ღ warnings [18+] this story contains substance abuse/addiction, (rough) smut, mature themes, self-destructive behavior, (heavy) angst, mentions of death / illness / blood / abuse, graphic medical procedures. reader discretion is advised.

ღ author's note has anyone asked for a bit of angst? dive in and let me know what you think—i love hearing your thoughts! & pls like or repost if you enjoyed, it means the world ♡

series masterlist + playlist + ao3 + wattpad

<- prev chapter | next chapter ->

It had been a week since you had your unconventional date with Gojo. You were back in practical class, relieved that it didn't involve drawing blood like the last time.

Yuta surely was thankful for that.

Doctor Kento was demonstrating how to perform various types of stitches. You paid close attention, even though you knew most of the stitches by heart. When it was time for the students to try, you picked up the needle and thread, grabbed an orange and began to stitch.

You never learned to suture on fruit before, but it must be easier than working on actual human skin, right?

"Bet I can finish my stitches before all of you," Yuta chimed in, a grin spreading across his face as he expertly threaded his needle.

Maki glanced at him. "You're on, Okkotsu. But don't come crying to me when I beat you."

The two worked with newfound speed, their needles weaving through the orange peel. Yuta finished his line first. "See, what did I tell you?" he said with a smile.

Maki leaned closer to inspect his stitching. "Not bad," she admitted. "But check out your spacing here, Yuta. It's a bit off."

Yuta squinted at his work. "Ah, you're right. Gotta work on that."

"And... done!" you said, holding up your perfectly sutured orange.

Yuta turned to look at your work. "Wow, that's some neat stitching. Makes mine look like child's play."

"Impressive," Toge said.

Maki paused her stitching to glance at your handiwork. "Seriously impressive," she commented. "How'd you get so good?"

You smiled. "I had to learn a few things on my own before university," you explained. "And I guess some practice outside of class helped too."

As you finished your set of stitches, doctor Kento came over to inspect your work. His eyebrows raised as he examined the neat line of sutures. "Excellent work," he said. "And I thought you were a failure in practical class, after the mess you made with the blood withdrawal."

Ouch.

Why was he always so direct.

You and your friends were fully engaged in the session, focused on perfecting your suturing techniques. Suddenly, the door opened and professor Gojo entered. He moved towards Kento's desk, as if to retrieve something.

Then, as if drawn by an invisible force, Gojo's gaze found you across the room. His eyes met yours, and a small smile appeared on his lips. You watched him as he walked over to Kento.

Maki leaned closer to you. "Oh, look, Dr. Handsome graces us with his presence," she said. "Isn't it strange how often he shows up around you?"

"Only strange coincidences," you replied, but Maki's raised eyebrow told you she wasn't entirely convinced.

Gojo finished his brief conversation with Kento and made his way over to your group. The others paused, needles in mid-air, as he approached.

"Hello there." His gaze swept over the group and then rested on you. "I see you're all making good progress with your suturing."

Yuta leaned back in his chair. "We're doing our best, professor. But she over here is putting us all to shame," he said, nodding towards you.

Gojo's smile broadened. "Is that so?"

He walked over to you, a bit too close for the classroom setting. He picked up one of your stitched oranges, turning it over in his hands. "Impressive precision."

"But perhaps a bit basic for your skill level," he added, his eyes meeting yours briefly before he picked up another orange from the table. He pulled a chair up to your table, sitting down close enough that his knee brushed against yours under the table.

"Have you ever tried a subcuticular suture?"

"No, I haven't."

Gojo grabbed an unused needle and thread. "Let me show you."

Your friends gathered around, watching as Gojo skillfully maneuvered the needle through the orange peel. "Subcuticular suturing is an intradermal suture that minimizes scarring. You need a steady hand and some patience to do it."

The needle dipped in and out of the orange peel, leaving a nearly invisible line on the surface. "The key is consistent tension," he explained. "Imagine you're weaving, each pass of the needle equidistant to the last, and the thread tension must be just enough to approximate the edges without puckering the tissue."

Once finished, he held up the orange for everyone to see. "See?"

He tossed another orange towards you. Your caught it just in time. "Your turn," he said.

Gojo leaned further towards you, his leg touching yours under the table. Then you felt a hand resting on your thigh. You jumped slightly and immediately kicked him with your foot under the table.

God, Gojo, keep it professional, at least in class.

He received the message and gave you a quick, sly smile that you hoped would go unnoticed by your friends.

With Gojo still watching closely, you began to work on the orange, trying to mirror the technique he had just demonstrated. The stitch was more complex than you were used to. And it didn't help that Gojo was so close.

"Angle the needle a bit more... that's it. Now, even tension as you pull through," he said. You were acutely aware of every comment, every slight touch as he pointed out adjustments.

When you finished, Gojo examined your work, his fingers brushing lightly against your hands as he reached for the orange. "Well done," he said. "You're a quick learner. Or perhaps I'm just a good teacher?"

Sure.

At that moment, Kento approached your table, his gaze lingering on the two of you for a brief second. "Taking over my class, Gojo?"

Gojo straightened, turning to face Kento with a relaxed posture. "Not in the slightest, Kento," he replied. "Only sharing a new technique with the students."

"Well, ensure it doesn't become a regular occurrence," he said. "Managing these students is challenging enough. I don't need any additional burdens."

"Understood, Kento," Gojo said, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "I'll leave the teaching to the experts, then."

He turned his attention back to you and your friends. "Keep practicing, students," he said, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary. As Gojo moved to leave the classroom, he cast one last glance in your direction, his smile lingering.

After he left, Maki leaned closer to you, a suspicious look in her eyes. "You know, he looks at you a bit too long to be just your research partner," she observed in a low voice.

Your stomach fluttered. "Does he?"

Maki leaned back, her eyes studying you closely. "Yeah, It's pretty obvious."

You hesitated, searching for the right words. "We've just gotten to know each other better recently. That's all."

"Uh huh," Maki replied. "Just be careful, okay? He's your professor, after all."

The conversation came to an abrupt halt as Kento redirected the class's attention to the front.

─── ·✧· ───

Later that day, the campus was bathed in warm sunlight, the air filled with the chatter and laughter of students enjoying a break between classes. You were sprawled out on a blanket in the grass with your friends, Toge, Maki, and Yuta, basking in the pleasant warmth of the early afternoon sun.

The breeze, carrying the scent of blooming flowers and freshly cut grass, rustled through the leaves of the trees. Birds high above scurried and chirped. The world seemed to slow down for a moment, allowing you all to enjoy this brief respite from the university's hustle.

As you lay there, soaking up the sun, your phone buzzed with a new message. Glancing at the screen, you saw Gojo's name. Your stomach fluttered. You sat up, shielding your phone from the sunlight to read the message.

[3:12 PM] Gojo: Why aren't you here?

[3:12 PM] You: Where?

[3:12 PM] Gojo: With me.

[3:13 PM] You: Just done with class.

[3:13 PM] Gojo: Done with class, but not with me. How about we change that?

[3:14 PM] You: Is that an invitation or a challenge?

[3:14 PM] Gojo: Consider it both. I'm at the cafe, and it's missing your presence.

[3:15 PM] You: How tragic. Perhaps, I could be persuaded to change scenery.

[3:15 PM] Gojo: I'm sure I can provide a few persuasive arguments.

[3:16 PM] You: Such as?

[3:16 PM] Gojo: The best coffee on campus, for starters. And, of course, the pleasure of my company.

[3:17 PM] You: Tempting, professor.

[3:17 PM] Gojo: I aim to convince. Join me, and let's see if I can sway your decision further.

[3:18 PM] You: Give me 5 minutes.

[3:18 PM] Gojo: I'll be waiting, first-year.

A smile tugged at the corners of your mouth. Slipping your phone into your pocket, you turned to your friends. "I've got to step out for a bit."

Maki raised an eyebrow. "Mysterious meeting with a certain professor?"

You laughed it off, feeling the warmth of a blush creeping up your cheeks. "Just a coffee break. Nothing to gossip about," you replied, gathering your things.

As you stood up, Maki gave you a knowing look, but she didn't press further. "See you later then," she said with a smile.

You made your way to the campus cafe. The afternoon sun filtered through the leaves of the trees that lined the path, casting dappled shadows on the ground. As you approached, you spotted Gojo waiting outside, casually leaning against a wall. His eyes scanned the crowd until they settled on you.

A smile played on his lips as he pushed off the wall and strolled over to you. "I was starting to think you'd ditched me," he teased, his snow-white hair falling loosely across his forehead.

"Ditching my favorite professor? Never," you quipped back, falling into step beside him. Entering the campus cafe, you both queued up to grab coffees.

"So I'm your favorite, huh?" he said. "I'm flattered."

"Well, you do make things more interesting."

"Is that so?" He leaned in slightly closer. "I'm not just an interesting professor, you know."

"Oh?" you responded, your tone feigning innocence. "Pray, enlighten me, professor Gojo."

His lips curved into a sly smile. "Well, that's a conversation for a different setting."

"Such a tease, professor."

The barista called out for the next order. "An americano for me, and whatever she's having," he said to the woman behind the counter, already reaching into his back pocket for his wallet.

"You know I can pay for myself."

He glanced at you. "I know, but I don't want you to."

After picking up your coffees, Gojo guided you through the campus towards its back garden. "Thought we could use a bit of privacy," he said. "Less chance of running into nosy students or colleagues."

As you followed him, the firm pavement turned into a lush, vibrant green carpet of grass and flowers. The garden was in full bloom, with knee-high blossoms exuding a sweet scent that wafted through the air.

Suddenly, he strayed off the path and into the grass. Without a word, he lay down, almost disappearing among the colorful blossoms. He lay on his back, arms folded behind his head, gazing up at the cerulean sky.

"You're really just going to lie down there?"

He looked up at you with a relaxed smile. "Why not? It's a beautiful day. Come, join me."

Hesitantly, you sat down beside him, tucking your legs to the side. The grass was soft and cool beneath you, and the floral scent enveloped you. Sunlight filtered through the leaves of the nearby trees, casting playful, dappled shadows across the two of you.

Your gaze flicked around the area, half-expecting someone to appear. "Aren't you worried about someone seeing us?"

He chuckled, his eyes still fixed on the sky. "There's no one around. And even if there was, we're just two people enjoying a beautiful day. Nothing wrong with that."

Yeah, nothing wrong with a young, stupidly attractive professor and one of his students lying on the grass together.

You watched him for a moment.

Gojo wore his usual white button-down shirt, which accentuated his well-built physique, the top few buttons casually undone. Dark designer sunglasses adorned the bridge of his nose. His sleek white hair was tousled by the gentle breeze that caressed the garden.

As he reclined amid the flourishing garden, the shifting patterns of light and shadow played a mesmerizing dance upon his skin. He seemed to savour every ray of sunlight that touched his skin. The corners of his lips curled upward.

"We have a potential case," he began, shifting to a more serious tone. "There's a patient who might be a perfect candidate for the neurotransplant procedure."

You glanced at his bandaged hand. "Are you sure you're ready for that? With your hand still healing?"

He lifted his hand, testing its movement as he flexed his fingers. "It's healing better than expected. It has to be okay," he said. "Besides, Principal Yaga is really breathing down both mine and Geto's necks about it. He wants to see results."

"And you're okay with that?"

"There's no other way."

You pondered for a second.

"The patient's young, only sixteen," he revealed.

"Sixteen? That's so young," you murmured.

"I know, but he's a perfect fit for this surgery. He wants this chance, and we owe it to him to give our best."

Your brows furrowed.

"I know you're worried," he began. "But trust me, we'll take every necessary precaution. And this time, we have the advantage of everything we've learned so far. We're in this together, and I'll be right there by your side every step of the way."

You smiled faintly.

Gojo propped himself up on one elbow to face you. "What happened to your fearless spirit? When we first met, you suggested an approach in surgery that even I hadn't considered. It was bold, a bit crazy even."

"It was a different situation. That patient was dead either way. So it didn't really matter".

He lay back down, gazing up at the sky. "Wow, how pragmatic of you."

"Aren't you scared? That we mess this up?"

"No, not really. I trust you."

You huffed. Yeah, if only you could have his confidence.

"Why does it always seem like you're so carefree?" you asked him.

He let out a soft chuckle. "Me, carefree? Not exactly. It's more that I've stopped giving a fuck about the small stuff. Stick around in research long enough, and you'll learn to do the same."

"Stopped giving a fuck, huh?" you mused, raising an eyebrow. "That's one way to live a careless life, I suppose."

"It's not about being careless. It's about choosing what deserves your energy and what doesn't."

"And what deserves the energy of one of the most famous neurosurgeons?"

His smile deepened. "Challenging surgeries, medical mysteries and, of course," he paused, " intriguing students who keep me on my toes."

Before you could react, Gojo grasped your shoulders in a swift, unexpected move and pushed you back down onto the grass. Suddenly, you were looking up at him, his face inches from yours, his eyes holding yours in a captivating gaze. Your heart raced.

"Are you insane? What if someone sees us like this?" Panic tinged your voice as you instinctively tried to push him away, but he remained steadfast.

Gojo's eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a sultry whisper. "Would it really be that bad?"

He was surely insane.

Yet, your breath caught in your throat as Gojo's eyes burned into yours. You could see the raw desire in his eyes, mirroring your own.

"You're always so tense, first-year," he teased. "Need someone to help you relax?"

"Gojo, we really shouldn't—," you tried to protest. But your body betrayed you, responding to his closeness. You felt your core heating up.

His lips grazed your earlobe, sending delightful shivers cascading down your spine. "Shouldn't what?" he whispered. "Have a little fun?"

Your heart raced as his lips traced a tantalizing path along your jawline, leaving a trail of heated anticipation in their wake. "Gojo," you breathed out, torn between desire and restraint.

Suddenly, Gojo's hand reached out, grasping your wrists that were still pushing against his chest. He pinned your hands above your head, pressing them into the lush grass.

He paused for a moment, his lips hovering just above yours. "Tell me to stop," he challenged softly.

You swallowed hard, acutely aware of his presence, his warm breath, and his other hand that found its way between your legs. "Gojo, seriously," you whispered. "We're in public."

Yet you couldn't stop yourself from letting your head fall back. Your back arched into him as his fingers traced a slow path along the inside of your leg. "Thrilling isn't it?" His lips moved ever so slightly against the curve of your neck. "Didn't hear the word 'stop' yet."

Yes.

Fuck.

Please stop.

Please be the reasonable one of you two.

Because you surely were not able to.

"Gojo, this is crazy." You took a deep, shaky breath, trying to still the rapid beating of your heart. "We can't... not here."

He pulled back slightly, his eyes still locked with yours. "Then tell me to stop."

You knew you should push him away, end this dangerous game before it went any further. But the desire to give in was overwhelming. His fingers continued their slow, deliberate path, now dangerously close to your core. "I'm waiting, first-year."

His touch ventured higher, feather-light yet electrifying, teasing over your most sensitive spot between your legs. A soft moan broke from your lips. Instantly, his hand clamped over your mouth.

"Shh, sweetheart," he cautioned, his breath hot against your lips. "What if someone hears us? We wouldn't want to get caught, now would we?"

With a sly smirk, Gojo pulled back, granting you a moment to catch your breath. He sat upright. "Seems I can't trust you to keep quiet."

Your heart raced as you watched him, unable to form a coherent response. Gojo had a way of leaving you breathless and wanting more, and you couldn't deny that you were drawn to the dangerous game he was playing.

Eventually, Gojo stood up, casually brushing off grass from his clothes. "Break's over," he said, glancing at his watch. "I've got a lecture in 15 minutes."

He extended a hand toward you, offering to help you up. You took his hand, allowing him to pull you to your feet. Standing close, your eyes locked once more, though your gaze briefly dropped, noticing something.

"You can't go lecture like that."

Looking down, Gojo sighed. "Yeah, it always happens with you. Don't worry, I'll just remember your clumsy attempt to draw blood from Okkotsu's arm. That should take care of it."

Oh, how funny.

"By the way, we're starting the surgical practice again tomorrow, right after your last class," he added. "Wear something nice and easy to get rid of."

─── ·✧· ───

You pulled on your surgical gloves, positioning yourself in front of today's human brain test subject. The sun was beginning to set, casting a crimson glow through the windows and onto the sterile surfaces of the lab.

You went straight into action. You stabilized the tissue as Gojo proceeded to implant the neurotransplant into the cerebral cortex. You breathed slowly, trying to keep your hands as still as possible.

You and Gojo worked together in silence. Every muscle tensed. Gojo successfully placed the neuroimplant in the intended location in the brain. However, when it came time to test the connection between the implant and the biometric arm that the patient would eventually use, something went wrong.

The neural signals fluctuated, failing to align with the anticipated patterns. After double-checking the connections and recalibrating the equipment, you traced the issue back to the placement of the implant.

"Looks like the placement is slightly off," you said, examining the data on the screen. "The implant is a bit too far to the right. That's why we're not getting a proper signal."

Gojo sighed. "A fraction of a millimeter off, and it makes all the difference," he muttered, his gaze fixed on the brain before him. "Let's redo this part. We need to make sure we get this right."

You retrieved a fresh brain from the lab's refrigerator. You sure were spending these brains like you get them at the supermarket.

But Gojo wanted perfection. And so did you.

You made the first incision, exposing the underlying area of the brain where the neuroimplant would be placed. Gojo followed with another incision, providing access to the targeted cortical area as you stabilized the tissue. Gojo then carefully placed the neuroimplant in place.

You watched Gojo closely. It was then that you noticed a subtle tremble in his hand.

"Gojo, your hand..."

He glanced at his hand briefly. "It's nothing to worry about," he said. "Just a slight tremor. It'll pass."

He paused for a moment and took a deep breath to steady himself before continuing. You watched him, noticing the small beads of sweat that formed on his forehead.

"Gojo, if your hand isn't ready, we should—"

"I know. Just give me a second," he cut you off.

Despite his words, Gojo's hand continued to tremble more noticeably as the procedure carried on. The strain on his face became more evident.

At a crucial point in the procedure, when precision was essential, Gojo's hand shook erratically. He tried to steady it, but the tremor proved too severe. After a moment's hesitation, he abruptly withdrew his hand. He muttered a curse under his breath.

He tore off his surgical gloves, tossing them into the trash with unnecessary force. The sound of his heavy breathing filled the otherwise quiet lab.

You watched him, the room enveloped in stillness.

Gojo leaned heavily against the lab counter, his head hanging low. After a minute, he ran his hands through his hair and met your gaze. "Let's switch roles. I'll take care of the parts I can do with one hand, and you'll handle the critical aspects."

What?

"You mean I should try the implant placement?"

"Yeah," Gojo confirmed. "You've got steady hands, and we just need to ensure it's placed correctly. My hand will heal by the time of the actual surgery."

"I'm not sure, Gojo."

He walked over to you. "We'll need to practice," he continued. "I want to make sure we have every step down perfectly."

"Okay, then let's try it."

So, you prepared again, this time with you in the lead and Gojo at your side, standing close. You glanced at his hand. "Are you sure you can manage with just one hand?"

He smirked. "One hand is all I need to get the job done."

You didn't give him the satisfaction on answering to that.

You began the procedure.

"You're doing well," he said as you carefully maneuvered the tools. His voice close and calm. Every so often, you caught Gojo flexing his injured hand, working through the discomfort. Yet, he remained focused on guiding you through the process. "A steeper angle gives you better access... yes, perfect."

The session progressed more smoothly than you had anticipated. As you completed the practice run, a sense of accomplishment washed over you. You had successfully completed the implant placement.

"We make a good team," Gojo remarked. "I knew you could do it."

You found yourself smiling. "Thanks to your guidance, professor."

"Let's try again just to make sure."

You both prepared for another round of practice. As you repeated the procedure, you became acutely aware of Gojo inching closer. His focus seemed to shift away from the procedure to something other.

"Gojo what are you doing?"

Suddenly, you felt him lean in closer from behind. His breath was warm on the back of your neck, causing a shiver to run down your spine. You could feel him subtly inhaling, as if taking in your scent.

"Did you change your shampoo?"

His question caught you off guard, causing a momentary lapse in your focus. "Ehm, yeah."

"Hm. Change it back. I liked the other one better."

You cleared your throat, trying to ease the flutter in your stomach. "We should really focus on—"

Without warning, he reached out and took the surgical tools from your hands. "We've practiced enough for today."

You turned around to face him. "We could still use some more time to—"

Before you could finish your sentence, he leaned in, closing the space between you. "I think there are other things we should be focusing on right now, wouldn't you agree?" he said, his voice a husky whisper.

He set the surgical tools down on the table behind you. Gojo inched even closer, his lips hovering over yours. "Sometimes, first-year," he whispered, his breath mingling with yours, "—it's important to know when to take a break and enjoy the moment."

In a fluid motion, he lifted you effortlessly, setting you down on the edge of the lab table. His hands were planted firmly on either side of you. Your pulse quickened as you looked up into his crystal blue eyes, unable to tear your eyes away from his.

"Hard work should be rewarded," he went on. "Don't you think so?"

You couldn't find the words to respond, your breaths growing shallow. He reached up, his fingers grasping your hair at the nape of your neck. His tilted your head back, exposing the delicate skin of your neck to his gaze.

"Tell me," he whispered, his lips brushing against your neck, "where should I start?" His mouth met your skin, planting deliberate, slow kisses along your neck. Your breath hitched.

His hands slipped beneath your shirt, pulling you closer until your chest pressed against his. His fingers began to explore the skin underneath your shirt. The sensation of his touch was like fire, sparking a heat within you that you hadn't known before.

He trailed his lips down to your collarbone, each kiss a question. "Should I start here?"

Your arms found their way around his neck, pulling him even closer. The realization that you were crossing a line was there, in the back of your mind, but it was overshadowed by the overwhelming need to be close to him.

Breathless, hearts racing, you both surrendered to the moment. He pulled your shirt over your head, tossing it aside. In an instant, his lips found your collarbone once more, trailing down to your chest. "Or here?" His warm, wet breath brushed against your skin. His fingers dug into your hips.

"Gojo," you breathed out, unable to say anything other than his name.

"What is it, sweetheart? Tell me, where do you need it?" He placed soft, lingering kisses down your chest until he reached your breasts. The sensation sent a wave of warmth through you as he kissed the skin right above the hem of your bra.

Then, in one fluid motion, Gojo knelt before you, his eyes never leaving yours. He lifted one of your legs, placing it over his shoulder. With his hand, he pushed the other away, spreading your legs apart. Unable to support yourself on the table any longer, you leaned back.

He continued, placing kisses over the fabric of your jeans, from your knee up to your thighs. "How do you like it here?"

He persisted in his journey up to your sensitive spot, mere inches away from it, his face nestled between your legs. "Tell me, should I start here, sweetheart?"

Overwhelmed, you leaned back further on the table, resting on your elbows for support. Then, accidentally, you pushed the glass container holding the brain, causing it to tip over. The preservative liquid spilled across the table, drenching both of you. You sat up abruptly.

Gojo pulled back. "Did you just spill brain fluid on us?"

"I guess I did," you admitted, still trying to process what had just happened. Here you were, in the middle of a lab, drenched in preservation fluid from a human brain, right before... well, you'd rather not think about it.

Gojo stood up, wiping his face with his sleeve. "Well, that's one way to cool down." He offered you a hand to help you stand up properly. "We should call it quits for today."

You stood, glancing down at your drenched jeans, still feeling the remnants of his kisses and touches on your heated skin.

He leaned in. "You know, if you wanted to get me wet, there are far more enjoyable ways to do it." Then he backed away with a playful smirk.

Back home, you tossed your shampoo bottle into the trash.

─── ·✧· ───

The day of the surgery had finally arrived.

You methodically scrubbed your hands and arms, the sterile scent of the hospital soap filling the room. Through the window, you could see the young patient being prepared in the operating room. He smiled nervously as the nurse inserted the anesthesia needle into his arm.

Is he more nervous or are you? Perhaps you.

The observation gallery was filling up with hospital staff and the usual press, setting up cameras to document the high-stakes surgery. The weight of their gazes, even from a distance, was palpable, intensifying the pressure.

You glanced at the clock on the wall. Gojo hadn't arrived yet. Your heart rate quickened slightly. You reminded yourself that Gojo's hand had been functioning perfectly in the days leading up to the surgery. There was nothing to worry about, right?

Taking a deep breath, you tried to calm yourself. As you continued your preparations, the door to the washing room opened, and Geto stepped in.

"Geto," you greeted him, trying to mask your surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"I just wanted to wish you luck," he replied with an easy smile. "But I guess you're so prepared you won't need any."

"Thank you."

"I'll be cheering on you from the observation gallery."

You nodded. After a moment of silence, you said, "Do you know where Gojo is? He should have been here by now."

Geto's brow furrowed. "Hm? I'm not sure, actually. He didn't mention anything to me about being late."

Your stomach turned. It was unlike Gojo to be late, especially on a day like this. "I need to find him," you said, removing your gloves.

"Should I come with you?"

"No, I'll be fine."

You hurried out of the washing room, your mind racing. Where could Gojo be? Was it because of his hand? Or something else? You quickened your pace, moving through the corridors of the hospital, checking every possible place where Gojo could be.

Pulling out your phone, you called Gojo's number. But he didn't answer. You tried calling again, each ring echoing your growing anxiety. Still, silence.

You reached his office. The door was shut and no one answered when you knocked. Taking a deep breath, you cautiously opened it and peered into the dimly lit room.

The blinds were drawn, casting the office in near darkness. Your eyes adjusted, and that's when you saw him—Gojo, slumped against the wall, his legs sprawled on the floor, head tilted back.

Your heart sank as you saw him.

No.

This can't be real.

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you. You knelt in front of him. Gently, you cupped his pale face in your hands, urging him to look at you. His usually sharp eyes were unfocused as they struggled to fix on you.

No doubt.

"Satoru," you whispered, his first name escaping your lips. There was no need to address him by his last name anymore, was there?

Not anymore.

His slightly glassy eyes flickered, showing a glimmer of recognition, but he seemed distant, lost in a world of his own—clouded by whatever substance he had taken.

The realization hit you hard.

"Satoru," you called his name again, more urgently this time.

His lips parted, an attempt at speech, but only a slurred, indistinct sound emerged. It was painful to see him like this, to witness the downfall of a person you respected and cared so deeply for. Your skin run cold with fear.

"Fuck, Satoru what are you doing?" you asked, your fingers tenderly stroking his cheek. You needed answers, but more than that, you needed to understand why.

Why?

Why today?

Why Satoru?

You shook him slightly, trying to get any response from him. "Satoru, answer me!"

His focus sharpened slightly, and he murmured, "God, you look so beautiful today."

You shook your head. "What are you saying?"

You swallowed the lump forming in your throat, fighting back the tears that threatened to overwhelm you. Right now, you needed to be strong—for him, for the patient waiting in the OR, and for the team depending on you both.

"We need to call this surgery off," you said as you tried to stand up but his grip on your wrist halted you.

"No, wait!" he said. "We can't call it off."

"What?"

"There's too much at stake. If we don't go through with it today, the project will be dead. The funding, everything we've worked for, will be lost."

"Are you insane? You're fucking high, you can't operate!"

He tilted his head up to meet your gaze. "You can."

Gojo's words hit you like a ton of bricks. "You are insane." You stared at him. "I can't do that."

"You're prepared for this," he countered, gaining a semblance of clarity in his speech. "You know the procedure inside and out. You've practically done it already."

"Don't ask this of me, Satoru," you pleaded, feeling the weight of the responsibility he was trying to place on your shoulders.

Shakily, he stood up, his hands gripping your shoulders. "You can do it," he insisted. "I know you can and I'll be there to assist you."

"Geto is also here, he should do it. "

"Suguru hasn't trained for this specific approach. He won't be able to do it without harming the patient. But you can."

"Then we call it off!" you raised your voice, feeling trapped.

"No, you should do it. You need to do this."

You stared at him, lost for words. The intensity in Gojo's eyes was undeniable, his grip on your shoulders firm yet pleading. "You are the only one who can do this now. And I'll be there to guide you. You have the skills, the knowledge. You've done it before, you can do it again."

"This is insane. You can't assist in your condition," you whispered, holding back tears.

"Give me a few minutes and I'll be ready. I swear."

You studied his face, the redness in his eyes betraying his current state. "Fuck, Satoru. Why are you making me do this?"

"You can do it, I know you can."

Silence.

You nodded.

Stepping into the OR your heart raced. Sweat broke out on your forehead. You moved as if in a trance, the reality of the situation numbing your senses. You and Gojo scrubbed up, then walked into the OR where the patient lay prepped and waiting.

You took your position at the operating table where Satoru was supposed to stand. You could feel the weight of numerous eyes on you; could hear them whispering, but no one dared to say anything. Not with Satoru Gojo beside you. No one dared to question him.

Your eyes darted to the gallery. You saw Geto rise from his seat, his brows furrowed as he stepped closer to the glass in front of him.

"Ignore him," Gojo whispered beside you. "Focus on what's in front of you."

Taking a deep, steadying breath, you turned your attention back to the patient, the ridiculous young patient lying open skull in front of you.

Then you held out your hand to Satoru. "Scalpel, please."

─── ·✧· ───

The clapping around you was a distant sound, barely reaching your ears as you stepped back from the operating table. The surgery was a success. Stress and adrenaline abruptly left your body, leaving you feeling suddenly empty and nauseous.

You run over to the corner of the OR, barely making it to the trash bin before succumbing to the overwhelming urge to vomit. Your body shook with each heave.

The whole room suddenly fell silent.

After vomiting into the trash bin, your body shaking from the sudden release of tension, you pushed your way out of the OR. You heard Satoru call your name, but chose to ignore it. You needed space; you needed to get away from him.

You rushed through the sterile corridors of the hospital. Finally reaching a bathroom, you locked yourself in, pressing your back against the door as you fought to steady your breathing.

The clinical smell of the bathroom was sickening.

The sterile exterior felt sickening.

Everything felt sickening in that moment.

You splashed cold water on your face, trying to wash away the remnants of nausea and regain your composure.

Fuck, you whispered.

Fuck.

Fuck!

Your hands clenched tightly around the edge of the sink, knuckles white with tension. Tears brimmed in your eyes, threatening to spill over, but you willed them back.

Why did it feel like your heart was being torn to shreds?

Your breaths came in rapid succession, shallow and uneven, as panic threatened to take over. But you couldn't let it. Not now. Falling apart was not an option. You forced yourself to take slow, deliberate breaths.

Inhale. Exhale.

With one final, deep breath, you pushed open the bathroom door. Pulling out your phone, you called Geto without hesitation. "Where are you?" you demanded, cutting through any pleasantries.

"In my office."

You hung up and marched straight to his office, pushing the door open without bothering to knock.

"When did you want to tell me he's a fucking addict?" You yelled at him.

Geto stood up, his hands planted firmly on his desk. "When did you want to tell me you're fucking him?" he shot back, his voice equally furious.

You didn't even spend the breath to correct him.

You approached him. "I didn't know my love life concerns you that much."

"Don't you get it? He's your professor, he's lecturing you, you're working on this project together that could shape your whole career. What was that even about just now? Why did you do the surgery?"

"Because Gojo was high, damn it! He was fucking high!" Your frustration boiled over, your hands tugging at your hair as you paced the room.

"You should have called off the surgery! What were you thinking?"

"Huh?" You turned to him. "What I was thinking? What were you thinking? Why didn't you tell me? You knew, didn't you?"

He sank back into his chair, tilting his head back as he let out a heavy sigh. "I thought he had it under control."

Was he for real?

"Under control?" you hissed. "Since when do addicts have their addiction under control?"

The room fell silent.

"You should have told me, Geto," you said as you sat down on the chair in from of his desk.

Geto leaned forward, rummaging through his coat pocket. He retrieved a cigarette and lighter. As he lit it, the flame briefly illuminated his face in a warm, orange glow. The cigarette's tip crackled softly, the smoke curling upwards in lazy spirals.

"Smoking in the office now?"

As he took a slow drag, the cigarette's cherry end burned brighter, and he inhaled deeply, letting the smoke fill his lungs. A sense of calm seemed to wash over him, his tense shoulders relaxing slightly as he exhaled a thin plume of smoke into the room.

"Does it matter anymore?" he said as he took another drag from his cigarette. He leaned back, the creak of the leather chair punctuating the silence. His dark eyes were fixed on you. Wisps of smoke curled around him.

"When did it start? With Gojo?" you asked him.

His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came out. Instead, he took another slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly as he continued to study you. Then his eyes drifted away for a moment.

"It started back in our university days," he finally said. "Satoru was always the charismatic one, the life of every gathering. Back then, it was just for fun, a way to let off steam, to unwind after exam periods."

The ember of his cigarette glowed brighter with each drag, casting a faint light on his face. "But over time it got worse. The occasional use became more frequent, and he lost control. He started needing the drugs just to get through the day. On good days, he could mask it, but on the bad ones..."

He trailed off.

"He tried to quit, to get clean, but it's... he developed such a high tolerance for it that he could easily take drugs and still function. Eventually, he became an expert at hiding his addiction."

Your stomach tightened. The truth felt like a heavy stone on your chest, and it refused to go away. Then your phone rang with a message. Startled, you reached for it. Your heart skipped a beat as you saw the name.

[5:43 PM] Gojo: Where are you?

"Message from your lover?" Geto asked dryly, rising from his seat to get something out of a cupboard.

You tucked your phone back into your pocket. "He wants to know where I am."

"Of course he wants to know." Geto remarked, returning to his desk with a bottle and two glasses. He poured a rich, dark liquid into the glasses, sliding one towards you.

"I don't really drink," you said, observing him take a sip of his whiskey.

"What a shame."

"What happens to the project now?"

Geto laughed. "The project? It was a full success, wasn't it? The neurotranplant worked. The surgery worked. The media will love the story of a young, brilliant surgeon performing such a groundbreaking procedure. They'll be even more fascinated when they find out you're still a student."

"You find this amusing?"

"Not really. It's my project, after all," he replied, taking another sip. He set his glass down, his gaze meeting yours. "They'll want you to lead more surgeries like this one, to further validate the technique."

"I don't think I can do that again. Just the thought of it makes me sick."

Your phone vibrated again.

[5:48 PM] Gojo: Where the hell are you?

[5:48 PM] Gojo: Talk to me.

You stared at the screen.

"You want to go to him?"

"No." Without hesitation, you reached for the glass of liquor, tilted your head back, and swallowed the drink in one fluid motion. The alcohol burned in your throat. "I want to leave."

"Should I drive you home?"

"No, I'm fine," you said, setting the empty glass back on the desk with a slight clink.

─── ·✧· ───

After leaving Geto's office, you made your way to the elevator, lost in thought. The doors slid open, and you were jolted back to reality by the sight of Satoru leaning against the wall inside the elevator. His eyes looked up at you.

No way.

Before you could react or step aside, the people behind you, caught up in their own hurry, pushed forward, shoving you into the elevator. The confined space forced you to stand close to Satoru, your back to him.

The elevator began its descent. The people around you chattered, but you felt that the silence between you and Satoru was louder. You could feel his presence only centimeters away. The close quarters left no room for avoidance, and you were acutely aware of every breath Satoru took.

The elevator ride felt like an eternity, each second stretching out as you struggled to maintain your composure.

"You smell like smoke," Satoru observed quietly.

"Are you still high?" you retorted under your breath, not turning to face him.

"I'm good."

"You're good?" you echoed. "How can you even say that after what happened today?"

"You're angry."

"Angry is an understatement," you replied, turning slightly.

He leaned closer, wrinkling his nose. "Did you drink?" he asked, a bit too loudly. "Are you drunk?"

"It's none of your business, Satoru."

As the elevator stopped and its doors slid open, you saw your chance to escape and quickly maneuvered through the crowd. You wanted to put as much distance between you and him as possible.

The lobby of the hospital was a blur as you rushed through it, Satoru's voice calling after you, but you ignored him. You wanted nothing more than to get away from him.

You pushed through the exit doors and stepped outside, only to be greeted by a heavy downpour. The rain drenched you almost instantly, but you hardly noticed.

His footsteps splashed behind you. "Talk to me!" he called out, his voice barely audible over the sound of the pouring rain.

You quickened your pace, the rain streaming down your face. Your heart ached as you tried to distance yourself from the situation, from Satoru, from everything.

"Enough of this crap already! Talk to me!"

"Leave me alone, Satoru!"

"Then just tell me!" he implored, his tone desperate. "Tell me, will it ever stop?"

You halted, but didn't turn to face him. The rain was relentless, soaking through your clothes, matting your hair against your face. "What do you mean?" you called over the downpour.

"Wanting you—every damn second of every fucking day. I don't think I can take it anymore."

His words cut through the sound of the rain, raw and unguarded. For a moment, you were speechless, his confession hanging heavily in the air between you. You slowly turned to face him, seeing in his eyes a tumult of emotions that mirrored your own.

"Satoru—," your voice barely rose above the rain.

"I can't ignore it," he said, taking a step towards you, closing the gap. "I've tried, believe me, I've tried. But it's always there—you are always there."

Your heart pounded against your chest as he stopped mere inches away from you. Raindrops trickled down his face, cascaded down his striking white hair, which clung to his forehead and temples.

"So tell me," he urged. "Will it ever stop? Because I don't know if I can take it much longer."

You were both soaked to the skin, standing in the middle of the downpour, the world around you blurring into insignificance.

"It's killing me, pretending not to want you is killing me," he said quietly.

He stepped closer. His hands reached out, gently cupping your face.

Then, he kissed you.

Without warning, without permission.

Without even deciding to do it, simply because he couldn't not do it.

His lips pressed firmly against yours, molding to their contours as if they had been crafted to fit together. The world around you faded away, leaving only the sensation of his warm breath mingling with yours, the electrifying touch of his fingers on your cheek, and the intoxicating taste of his mouth.

Your hands found their way to his rain-soaked shirt, fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt as if you were afraid he might disappear if you let go. His mouth moved hungrily against yours, and you responded in kind, as if trying to convey all the unspoken words and feelings that had lingered between you for far too long.

As the rain poured down, you tasted rainwater mixed with his unique flavor, and in that moment, nothing else mattered. You finally gave in to the undeniable pull that had drawn you together, allowing it to consume you completely.

Because that's how it felt. Satoru Gojo consumed you.

His tongue grazed your lower lip, seeking permission to explore further, and you willingly granted access. His tongue explored every inch of your mouth, caressing and teasing, his urgency and intensity increasing with each passing second.

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer. Your bodies pressed closer together. His hands roamed your body with a newfound boldness, tracing the curve of your waist, the small of your back, and the nape of your neck. Each touch sent shivers down your spine, and you couldn't help but respond in kind, your fingers tangling in his hair.

But as you kissed, the reality of what had just happened crashed over you like the waves of the rainstorm around you. In that fleeting moment, you hesitated, and Satoru pulled back.

Separated now, both of you stood there, breathless and drenched by the rain. He lowered his forehead to rest against yours. His arms remained loosely around you.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"No, it's... don't speak."

You both stood there under the relentless downpour, the rain streaming down your face, mirroring the tears that had started to well up in your eyes. Satoru reached up to tenderly brush away the tears that slipped down your cheeks.

The silence stretched between you, filled with words you were too afraid to say.

Then you pushed away and turned.

You walked away.

He didn't follow you.

<- prev chapter | next chapter ->

author's note: let the angsty and hurtful part of the story begin haha. as always thank you for reading ♡

🏷️ @sad-darksoul @aerithsthingss @mylovelessnightmare @bbyxxm @musababy @neuviloved (pls comment on the series masterlist to get tagged in the future!)

#saturo gojo x reader #gojo x y/n #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo x female reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #professor satoru gojo #satoru gojo fanfiction #gojo saturo

950 notes · View notes

lysatoru · 2 months ago

Text

ANATOMY LESSONS — SATORU GOJO

pairing — professor!satoru gojo x student!reader

summary — you knew satoru was a good teacher, even with his… unconventional methods. he'd do anything to ensure you aced your exams. but why was he always so distracting when he helped you study? especially when his lessons involved drawing on his bare skin and his heavy gaze on your lips.

word count — 2.3 k

warnings — 16+ ONLY. contains suggestive sexual content, lots of medical talk, student-teacher relationship, age difference, based on symptoms&causes couple

author's note — wrote this in one day and did not really proofread it soorryy !! but hey we meat s&c couple again i guess? watch me do everything except work on the next chapters bc i am so itimidated by my own story and should be writing a thesis anyway but i also love highpressure dealines sooo :')) anyway, i hope you like it. had the idea, wrote it down, didn't really proofread it and just posted it.. oh well :')

masterlist + ao3 + support my writing + art credit: @/3-aem

If you had to memorise one more nerve pathway, you might actually scream. At least that's what you thought to yourself as you dragged your highlighter across the page with enough force to nearly tear the paper.

It was 2 AM and you'd been at this for the past three hours, desperately trying to memorise the axillary, musculocutaneous, median, ulnar, radial, and all the other nerves whose Latin names refused to stick in your skull no matter how many times you reread them.

Maybe it was due to the late hour, or perhaps because of your severe lack of sleep, but exams were right around the corner and you couldn't afford to slack off between research, lab work, classes, and everything else going on at the moment.

Another attempt. Posterior cord, lateral cord, medial cord and then—then…?

You groaned and ran a hand through your hair, tugging at the strands as if you could somehow pull clarity from your scalp. "Fuck, I'm gonna mess this exam up." Another term circled in blue ink—another term you couldn't remember, adding it to your growing list of anatomical structures to review.

The bedroom door clicked open, and Satoru appeared, looking utterly exhausted. His white hair was dishevelled, stray strands sticking out at odd angles. He didn't speak, just closed the door and moved to the bed, collapsing face-first into the pillow beside you with a heavy sigh that was almost a groan.

"Rough day at the hospital?" you asked, voice low, running a hand over the tense muscles of his back.

His response was muffled by the pillow. "The absolute worst." He turned his head to look at you, his blue eyes heavy and tired, blinking slowly as they focused on you. His gaze softened immediately. "But I'd rather hear what's keeping you up."

You held up the textbook, the pages filled with highlighted text. "Exams. Remember?"

Satoru's eyes widened, a flicker of genuine surprise in their depths. "Right, the exams." He sat up abruptly, a hand running through his already disheveled hair. "Fuck, I completely spaced on preparing them."

"You do forget quite often that you're a professor, you know that?"

He flopped back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, one leg bent at the knee, the other stretched out. "God," he breathed. "I should really quit teaching." He shifted, his body restless. He ran a hand over his face, the rough sound of his palm against his stubble filling the quiet room. "Maybe you should write the exam questions."

"I can't help you with that. I'm a student myself. Wouldn't that be cheating or something?"

"Only if we get caught." A slow smile spread across his lips as he propped himself up on an elbow, his gaze fixed on your textbook. His eyes scanned the pages, lingering on your frustrated expression. His finger reached out, gently pressing against the furrow between your brow. "You're frowning. What's got you worked up so much?"

You sighed, letting the heavy textbook fall onto your chest. "I can't seem to remember any of this stupid nerve shit. It just... slips away."

"Which parts?" He shifted closer, the faint, clean scent of his cologne mingling with the sterile, almost metallic smell that always clung to him after a long shift at the hospital.

"The brachial plexus, mostly," you muttered. "And all the other nerves and arteries in the upper limb apparently—"

He suddenly held out his arm, pushing back the sleeve of his shirt to reveal his forearm, the pale skin marked with the faint blue lines of his veins. "Give me one of your markers."

You frowned. "What are you doing?"

"Helping you study," he said, his eyes never leaving yours. He uncapped the marker with his teeth and then began to draw on his own skin, tracing blue lines along the visible veins of his forearm.

"Satoru, you do realize that's a permanent marker."

"Relax, first-year. It'll wash off... eventually." He continued drawing, then held his arm out to you. "Now, tell me what this is."

You studied the blue line running up the medial side of his forearm. "Basilic vein?"

"Very good." He nodded approvingly. "And this one?" He traced another line along the lateral aspect.

"Cephalic vein," you answered, feeling a bit more confident.

"See? You know more than you think." He grabbed a red marker from your side of the bed. "Now for the arteries."

You watched as he drew a thin red line from his armpit down the medial side of his bicep. "This is—"

"The brachial artery," you answered, fingers unconsciously reaching out to trace the line on his skin. "Which continues as the ulnar and radial arteries at the elbow."

"Exactly." His skin was warm, almost radiating heat, under your touch as you followed the red lines he drew. He shivered slightly when your fingertip grazed the sensitive inner part of his arm, the softest of touches. "You're getting it."

"But the nerves are what's really confusing me," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "Especially the brachial plexus."

"Ah, everyone's favorite nightmare." Satoru grabbed a green marker. "Let me show you." He began drawing green lines along his forearm, the marker tracing the defined curve of his bicep where his pushed-up sleeve ended. "This is just a hint of the brachial plexus—"

"Trunks," you continued, your eyes following the movement of his hand, the flexing of his forearm muscles beneath his skin. "They form trunks."

"Upper, middle, and lower." He nodded, his gaze flicking to yours, fleetingly, before he looked away, a almost imperceptible quickening of his breath. "And those divide into—" He stopped abruptly. "Wait. This isn't going to work."

Satoru suddenly sat up, his fingers working at the buttons of his shirt. "We need more space for this." He shrugged the fabric off his shoulders, revealing the broad expanse of his chest and the sculpted lines of his torso. You bit down on your inner lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of letting him see your reaction.

"What are you doing?" you asked.

"We're trying to learn, remember?" All innocence.

With his torso now bare, he began again, drawing a more complete diagram. The green marker traced lines across his shoulder and down his chest.

"Now I can show you properly," he murmured, his voice a husky drawl. "The brachial plexus starts with these five roots from the spinal cord, C5 through T1."

He marked them on his upper chest, the green marker gliding over the scattered freckles across his shoulders, then tracing the slight ridge of an old scar along his collarbone.

He suddenly stopped, a slow smile spreading across his lips. "Here," he said and handed you the green marker. "You draw the rest. It'll help you remember better." And then he leaned back against the pillows, one arm tucked behind his head, watching you.

You bit your lip, a flicker of defiance in your gaze, but not quickly enough to hide it from him. Okay, so—Two can play at this game, right? You moved, slow and deliberate, and settled onto his hips, straddling him.

His eyes widened slightly. His free hand came up to rest lightly on your hip, fingers splayed against the fabric of your shorts. You leaned closer, pushing your hair back over your shoulder, your gaze locked on his. "So the trunks divide into anterior and posterior divisions." You began to trace the nerves across his chest and shoulder. His skin was warm, almost burning, beneath your fingertips, rising and falling with each heavy breath of his.

"These divisions combine to form three cords: lateral, posterior, and medial," you recited, drawing each one in its proper location, your touch lingering slightly.

You continued drawing, adding more detail to the diagram spreading across his skin. "From the lateral cord, we get the musculocutaneous nerve and part of the median," you said, drawing the lines down his bicep, feeling his firm muscle beneath your touch, the subtle shiver that ran through him at your touch.

"And from the medial cord?" he prompted, his voice a little rough around the edges.

"The ulnar nerve and the other part of the median," you answered, leaning in and tracing these along his inner arm.

"Perfect." The word was almost a moan. When you glanced up, his gaze was fixed on, his mouth slightly open, eyes hazy.

You quickly looked back down, but his eyes never left your face as you worked, making it increasingly difficult to concentrate on the anatomical structures rather than the way his chest rose and fell beneath your fingers and the subtle hitch in his breath when you traced a particularly sensitive area on his body.

"The posterior cord gives us the axillary nerve," you continued, drawing a line around his shoulder, "and the radial nerve." Your marker followed the spiral path the nerve would take around the humerus and down the posterior arm.

"You're getting it now." His thumb on your hip started tracing slow, distracting circles on your thigh now. "What about the thoracodorsal nerve?"

Your brow furrowed in concentration, your mind momentarily blank as you tried to recall its path. Satoru gently took your hand in his, guiding the marker to the correct position along his side. "Here," he said, "supplying the latissimus dorsi." You shivered at his touch and he felt it too, his smile widening slightly. "What about these smaller branches of the subclavian artery?"

You bit your lower lip, concentrating. "There's the vertebral artery, which supplies the brain... the internal thoracic for the chest wall... and the thyrocervical trunk."

"Good." He nodded, his free hand now bolder, tracing idle patterns on your hip, just beneath the hem of your shirt. "And what muscles does the musculocutaneous nerve innervate?"

"Coracobrachialis, biceps brachii, and brachialis," you replied, drawing each muscle in different colors on his arm.

"Perfect. What about the nerves that form the posterior cord of the brachial plexus?"

You hesitated, your marker hovering above his shoulder. "Upper, middle, and... lower trunk?"

"Close," he corrected gently, his hand leaving your hip to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. "The posterior divisions of all three trunks form the posterior cord."

You sighed in frustration. "I always mess that up."

"Draw it," he suggested. "It helps to visualize it."

As you carefully traced the lines on his shoulder, Satoru continued his questioning. "The boundaries of the femoral triangle?" Oh, he was testing you now. His fingers had found their way to the small of your back, slipping beneath your shirt to trace the curve of your spine, his touch making it harder and harder to stay focused.

"Inguinal ligament superiorly, sartorius laterally, and adductor longus medially," you answered, though you made no move to draw this on his lower body. No. You wanted to see just how far he'd push.

"And what passes through it?"

"Femoral nerve, artery, vein and lymphatics. From lateral to medial." Your voice wavered slightly, the words catching in your throat as his hand on your back pressed you closer, moulding your body against his.

You looked up at him and the way he was looking at you—like you were the only subject worth studying, like he could spend hours mapping the contours of your face, memorising every curve and hollow—made heat rise to your face.

"You're distracting," you said then, your gaze on his.

His lips twitched at the corner. "Am I? I thought I was being a good teacher."

"A distracting teacher, more like."

"Can you blame me?" He reached out to gently swept the fallen strands of hair back over your shoulder again, his fingers lingering to caress your cheek. Slowly, he traced a line down to your lips, his thumb ghosting over your bottom lip in a touch so light yet so deliberate it made your breath catch. "You're quite distracting yourself."

"We should focus on studying," you said, even as a shaky breath escaped you when his thumb pressed lightly on your lower lip.

"We are," he said. "I'm a living, breathing anatomical model. Complete with pulse and respiration." He took your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours, and brought it to his lips, kissing your knuckles softly, his eyes holding you captive. He then pressed your palm against the steady beat of his heart. "Feel that? Cardiac anatomy, right there."

"That's not—you're still… distracting," you breathed, yet made no move to pull away either.

"Then perhaps—" He slowly sat up, one arm wrapping around your waist to keep you steady, pulling you closer still. "We should take a short break from studying."

His face was now inches from yours, the heat of his breath ghosting across your lips. You could count every pale eyelash, every subtle fleck of blue in his eyes, every minute detail that made him so undeniably him.

"Clear our minds," he murmured, "before continuing."

You knew you should return to your textbook, knew the exam was a looming deadline, but as Satoru's hands settled on your waist, his thumbs brushing against the bare skin just above the waistband of your shorts, anatomy was the furthest thing from your mind.

"Just a short break," you agreed.

He smiled, then leaned in, his lips finding yours with a sudden, urgent pressure that stole your breath. His tongue slipped into your mouth, hot and demanding, and his hands tightened on your waist, pulling you closer, molding your bodies together until there was no space left between you, no breath left untangled.

He groaned, a low, needy sound that vibrated against your lips, as if he'd been holding back for too long—and perhaps he had, thinking abou you all day while he saved lives and cracked open skulls. You met him equally eager, melting into his kiss, your hands coming up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, desperate for the heat of his skin against yours.

After all, there were some lessons no textbook could teach, some explorations that went far beyond the boundaries of anatomical diagrams, some knowledge only Satoru could show you. And right then, with his heart beating against your chest and his skin burning beneath your fingertips, you were more than willing to let him be your teacher.

The brachial plexus could wait. This was a different kind of anatomy lesson altogether—and one you had no intention of cutting short.

masterlist + ao3 + support my writing

author's note — i swear i miss writing him so much, like i thought about the story today and felt sad bc i miss my husband omg. sorry for all the waiting for my main stories, i swear i have deep depression about the stories.

hope you liked this little side story that took place sometime in the story when they weren't fighting and literally trying to kill each other or something. and i have something else cooked up for s&c and r&r readers soonish too about sugurus and satorus past. hope you'll like that too. until next time ! <3

ps: if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here.

tags — @fayuki @starmapz @snowsilver2000 @starlightanyaaa @sxnkuna

@cocomanga @nanamis-baker @rosso-seta @sugurbo @janbannan

@bloopsstuff @ihearttoru @momoewn @yokosandesu @90s-belladonna

@fairygardenprincesss @juneslove21 @glenkiller338 @gojossugarcandy @wiserion

@moucheslove @nanasukii28 @sugucultfollower @leuriss @raendarkfaerie

@bnbaochauuu @markliving @yeiena @rainthensun @yvesdoee

@amayaaaxx @bnbaochauuu @whytfisgojosohot @soapyaya

1K notes · View notes