nariminsstuff

[nariminsstuff]

corporate damage control can’t stop me from riding it

pairing — rock star satoru x pop star reader

synopsis : satoru gojo is currently performing a masterclass in silent, theatrical suffering, and the soundtrack is your chart-topping new single. he wrote you a bleeding-heart ballad; you wrote him a three-minute restraining order set to a pop beat. now he’s trapped in a self-inflicted auditory torture chamber, replaying your music video on a loop while his bandmates document his descent for what sukuna calls 'profoundly marketable art.' he tells everyone it's 'research,' but what he's really looking for is a crack in your perfect pop-princess facade—a single sign that you're lying, and that he's not, in fact, the world's most famous delusional fanboy.

wc — 31.6k ࣪ ִֶָ☾. tags -> f!reader, porn with plot, satoru has a big dick and a dick piercing, secret relationships, public humiliation via synth-pop, miscommunication, light angst with a happy ending, so much yearning and pining, satoru gojo is a dramatic idiot, humor, angry sex, makeup sex, rough sex, nipple play, fingering, edging, orgasm denial, brat taming, dirty talk, praise kink, degradation, dacryphilia, humiliation kink, spanking, hair pulling, light choking, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, dumbification, breeding kink, creampie, emotional hurt/comfort, aftercare, fluff, domestic fluff, confessions, getting together, happy ending.

athy says, it's finally here! thank you so much for being patient with this monster. i'm not gonna lie the porn-to-plot ratio got a little out of hand, my bad. i've stared at this for so long i'm convinced it's underwhelming but i'm hoping that's just my overthinking ass talking. anyway, i hope you enjoy this absolute filth of a fic <3

what, in the grand, cosmic scheme of things, is a man supposed to do when the woman he has willingly, foolishly, and perhaps terminally written a love song for responds not with a tear-stained text, or a late-night call full of whispered confessions, but with three minutes and forty-seven seconds of the most exquisitely produced, aggressively catchy, bubblegum-pop denial ever to be unleashed upon an unsuspecting public?

the answer, apparently, is this.

satoru gojo, lead guitarist for a band so globally recognized they have their own line of ironically terrible merchandise, is currently performing a masterclass in silent, theatrical suffering. he isn’t so much sitting on the ridiculously expensive black leather couch in their practice studio as he is being absorbed by it, a long-limbed puddle of designer despair.

he’s a kicked puppy, yes, but a puppy wearing four-thousand-dollar balenciaga boots that now feel less like a fashion statement and more like exorbitantly priced shackles.

on the massive wall in front of him, your music video is playing on a loop, projected to a scale that feels both epic and deeply, personally insulting.

the visuals are a weaponized assault of softness: sun-drenched fields, lens flares that bloom like ethereal flowers, and a color palette of sickly sweet pinks and baby blues that clash so violently with the gaping, slasher-film wound where his heart used to be, it’s a miracle he hasn’t broken out in hives.

his expression is a carefully curated mask of “i’m fine,” but it’s the kind of “i’m fine” a man says moments after walking into a glass door, dazed and concussed but determined to maintain a shred of dignity.

the song plays again. and again. and again. this is loop number… seventeen? eighteen? he lost count around twelve, when the synth intro started to feel less like music and more like the clinical, beeping prelude to his own emotional flatlining.

he has it connected to the studio’s main speakers via bluetooth, a self-inflicted auditory torture chamber. his thumb, a traitorous digit with a mind of its own, hovers over the replay button on his phone with the unshakable dedication of a monk performing a sacred, agonizing penance.

“it’s for research,” he claims, his voice a weak, papery thing, when he feels suguru’s gaze boring into the side of his skull. “i’m... deconstructing the melodic architecture of my own public execution. it’s fascinating, really. the use of the dominant seventh in the pre-chorus is a particularly vicious choice.”

no one believes him. the air in the room is thick with a secondhand embarrassment so potent it could be bottled and sold as a fragrance. least of all does he believe himself. he’s not researching. he’s searching. searching for a flaw, a crack in your perfect pop-princess facade, a flicker in your eye that says ’i’m lying.’ he hasn’t found one yet.

three minutes and forty-seven seconds. he’s counted every single, torturous second. he has memorized every beat drop that feels like a physical blow, every flawless vocal run that winds around his ribs and squeezes, every perfectly crafted moment where your voice dips into that honey-thick, late-night register that used to whisper his name in the dark like a secret, a promise, a prayer. now it just whispers, ’subscriber count: one less.’

“you’re a masochist,” sukuna states, his voice a monotone of detached amusement. he’s perched on a nearby amplifier, phone held aloft, the red dot of the ‘record’ button a malevolent, unblinking eye. he’s documenting this, naturally, in pristine, cinematic 4k.

“don’t look at me,” he instructs, like a seasoned director. “keep your gaze on the screen. yes, that’s it. let the manufactured light of her indifference wash over you. this is art. tragic, beautiful, profoundly marketable art. i’m thinking of titling it, ‘gojo satoru: the yearning years.’”

nanami doesn’t speak. speech would require an energy he simply does not possess in the face of this much concentrated foolishness.

instead, he just runs a hand down his entire face, a slow, weary gesture that suggests he has aged a full decade in the past hour. he looks like a man watching his dearest friend attempt to teach himself to swim by leaping into the deep end of a pool filled with piranhas, all while the lifeguard station is not only in full view, but is also on fire.

satoru, oblivious to his role as the subject of an indie tragedy, leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees, his focus narrowing on the screen. on you. you’re twirling across the screen now, in that cream silk slip dress that seems to have been spun from moonlight and his own personal tears.

it catches the manufactured golden-hour light like liquid sunshine, the fabric moving like a second skin, a whisper against your body. it’s paired with a few delicate, layered gold necklaces that glitter and flash as you gesture dismissively at the camera—no, not the camera. at him. he knows it. it’s a gesture you’ve used a thousand times, a little flick of the wrist that says ’oh, you.’ only now it says ’oh, you poor, delusional fool.’

your smile is a masterpiece of modern dentistry and practiced innocence, the kind that belongs on magazine covers and in the tormented dreams of men who should have known better.

“she’s so pretty,” he says, and the tone is all wrong for a band meeting. it’s the hollow, reverent tone one uses at a funeral, contemplating the beautiful, cruel finality of it all. his voice cracks, just slightly, on the word ‘pretty,’ as if the very act of acknowledging your beauty while it’s being used as a weapon against him is physically painful. “why is she so pretty while systematically dismantling my public image and my private will to live? it feels disproportionate. there should be a law.”

suguru, who had been attempting a state of meditative transcendence in the far corner, finally cracks. a long, beleaguered sigh escapes him, the sound of a man whose patience has been stretched, frayed, and finally snapped. he bites down on what might be a laugh, or might be a scream of profound concern.

“because, satoru,” he says, his voice dripping with the weary wisdom of a man who has seen this exact train wreck happen in slow motion for months, “the universe has a wickedly dark sense of humor, and you, my friend, are the punchline. you’re the whole damn joke.”

the scene in the music video changes. this is the part he hates the most. the part that feels like swallowing glass. you’re sitting at a ridiculously quaint outdoor café, a single perfect rose in a tiny vase on the table.

you’re stirring sugar into a demitasse of coffee with one perfectly manicured finger, your nails painted a soft, innocent pink. and you’re maintaining direct, unwavering, almost obscenely intimate eye contact with the camera.

it’s a simple shot, innocent enough on the surface, until you pause, lift your gaze ever so slightly, and offer the camera a tiny, almost imperceptible shrug.

the shrug. the goddamn shrug.

it’s a gesture that holds years of history. it was the shrug you gave him across a crowded green room that meant, ’your move, hotshot.’ it was the shrug you offered during a painfully boring press junket that meant, ’let’s ditch this and get ramen.’ it was your silent, secret language, a dare wrapped in nonchalance.

now, it’s been co-opted, sanitized for public consumption, and repurposed into the universal symbol for ’denied.’ ’next caller.’ ’thank you for your interest, but the position has been filled.’

satoru lets out a sound that is a truly unholy fusion of a chuckle and a dying breath, a wheezing, hiccupping noise that speaks of a spirit that has not only been broken but has been stomped on for good measure. his head falls back against the couch with a soft thud, as if gravity, after a long vacation, has suddenly remembered he exists and has decided to exact its revenge.

god.

he wrote a song for you. not just a song. the song. the one that musicians are supposedly only given once in a lifetime, the one that falls out of the sky fully formed, a divine and terrible gift.

it was the first time he’d ever written something that didn’t have a protective layer of irony or a wink-and-a-nudge bravado. it was just… his. raw, terrifyingly sincere, and now, apparently, the catalyst for his public execution via synth-pop.

and you… you wrote this back. a three-minute and forty-seven-second masterpiece of plausible deniability. a bop. an undeniable, chart-topping, soul-crushing bop.

he remembers the night he wrote it with a searing, high-definition clarity. the kind of memory that feels less like a memory and more like a scene he can step back into at any time, a ghost-filled diorama of his own undoing.

it was a thick, humid tokyo night in late july, the kind where the air itself feels heavy and charged with secrets. his apartment, a sterile glass box high above the glittering, sprawling chaos of the city, was his sanctuary.

the windows were thrown open, and the distant, sleepless hum of shinjuku drifted in, a constant, low-level thrum against the silence. the neon glow from a thousand billboards across the skyline painted his walls in fleeting, watercolor strokes of magenta and electric blue, making the whole room feel like it was underwater.

his guitar, a battered telecaster that was more an extension of his own nervous system than an instrument, was balanced on his lap like an old, patient lover. but the melody that was taking shape under his fingers wasn’t coming from the guitar— it was coming from the echo of your laugh, a sound from a video call that had ended hours ago but refused to fade.

it had taken up residence in the hollow space in his chest, a second, phantom heartbeat that was completely out of sync with his own.

you’d been wearing his hoodie.

the gray one. the one with the faded, cracked print of tour dates from their first big arena tour, a relic he rarely wore anymore. on him, it was fitted— on you, it was a cavernous, cozy tent. it swallowed your frame whole, the sleeves falling so far past your fingertips that you looked like a child playing dress-up in her father’s clothes.

the sight of you, so small and lost in something that was so unequivocally his, had done something fundamental and probably irreversible to his brain chemistry. it was an act of quiet, domestic claiming, and it made his heart do a series of stupid, frantic backflips.

you’d spent the call pretending to be deeply, profoundly bored by the whole process, feigning dramatic, put-upon sighs. “satoru, is this really necessary? some of us have eight-step celebrity skincare routines to attend to. we can’t all stay up until four am serenading inanimate wooden objects.”

but he could see the bright, engaged spark in your eyes, and he knew, with a certainty that made his stomach swoop, that you were secretly screen-recording the chord progressions.

then he played the bridge. the part that felt less like he’d written it and more like he’d opened a vein and let it bleed out onto the fretboard. the melody spilled out of him, raw and a little unsteady, full of unresolved chords and a yearning so potent it felt flammable.

on the other end of the line, you went quiet. he watched your small, pixelated form on his screen as you pulled the ridiculously large hood over your head, burrowing into the worn gray cotton until only the tip of your nose was visible. a long, charged silence stretched between tokyo and wherever you were in the world. when you finally spoke, your voice was soft, stripped of all its playful armor.

“play it again,” you’d said, your voice a sleepy, muffled thing from inside the hoodie cocoon. “the bridge… it’s pretty.”

pretty.

you called the exposed, frayed wiring of his soul pretty. and in that singular, universe-altering moment, he had felt like he could levitate. he felt like he could conquer countries, write symphonies, solve cold fusion, all fueled by the quiet, devastating power of that one, simple word from you. he was a god, and his gospel was a g-major chord progression.

he’d been so, so stupid. a beautiful, glorious, once-in-a-lifetime kind of stupid.

he was love-struck, a terminal condition for which the only cure seemed to be a public humiliation set to a catchy beat. he was drunk off the tinny, digitized sound of your voice and the intoxicating sight of you wearing his name on a piece of faded cotton, claiming space in his life so naturally, so effortlessly, it felt like you had always been there.

suguru and the others had known, of course. they had seen the train coming down the tracks from a mile away, and they knew he was standing there, smiling, waiting to be hit. they had been exchanging loaded, weary glances across the studio for weeks, a silent, three-part harmony of concern, watching him stumble over easy chord changes because his brain was no longer in the room— it was on a facetime call, completely mesmerized by the way you hummed along, slightly off-key, to their demos.

“that bridge, satoru,” suguru had said one afternoon, his voice gentle but firm, like a doctor about to deliver some very bad news. “that’s not a song bridge. that’s a ‘i would burn my entire multi-million dollar career to the ground for her’ bridge. you are so far past whipped you’re in a different dimension of whipped. you’re a smoothie.”

“nah,” satoru had grinned, a dopey, besotted expression he was sure was deeply unattractive but was physically incapable of stopping. his fingers had danced across the frets, the notes spelling out your name in a language only they understood. “i’m just honest.”

honest. what a fucking joke. looking back, it wasn’t honesty. it was a complete and total systems failure of his self-preservation instincts.

the song, once it was unleashed upon the world, was a soft-rock confession. it was satoru gojo, the hot himbo guitarist who was famous for his thirst-trap instagram stories and chaotic interview energy, suddenly standing emotionally naked in the middle of times square.

it was so jarringly sincere, so devoid of his usual brand of flirty detachment, that it was impossible to ignore.

the fans went absolutely apoplectic. they were used to songs about summer nights and fast cars, not… feelings. they took the raw, bleeding vulnerability he’d served up and immediately put it under a microscope.

they became a global army of forensic analysts, dissecting metaphors and melodies with the precision of surgeons. they cross-referenced his lyrics with your old interviews, a grainy video of you from three years ago mentioning you liked the rain, the one time you’d both been spotted by paparazzi outside the same sushi restaurant (a full eight minutes apart).

there were twitter threads longer than most doctoral theses, complete with footnotes and annotated bibliographies. there were tiktoks where girls with perfect eyeliner broke down the guitar solo note by painful note, claiming they could “hear his tears in the string bends.” youtube video essays with dramatic thumbnails and titles like “the gojo satoru confession: how a pop princess broke our favorite himbo (with receipts)” garnered millions of views.

the comments sections were a digital warzone, a chaotic symphony of parasocial projection and stan-on-stan violence.

“he’s obsessed, this is actually creepy. she needs a restraining order.”

“he’s a walking red flag but the song is a banger so i’m conflicted.”

“she’s way too clean for his image. remember when sukuna set that reporter’s car on fire? she can’t be associated with that mess.”

“is no one going to talk about the brand shift?? where did our chaotic, slutty golden retriever go?? who is this sad poet??”

“he is so down bad it’s almost romantic. i respect the sheer audacity of this level of public pining.”

“this is what desperation sounds like with a million-dollar production budget and zero shame.”

satoru, ever the professional performer, pretended not to see any of it. he played the part. he shrugged off the deeply personal questions in interviews with a wink and a well-rehearsed one-liner. he acted like this raw, exposed nerve of a song was just another track, just another piece of art, not a page ripped bleeding from his diary.

he played it cool, treating his very public heartbreak like it was just another fashion accessory he wore exceptionally well, like a vintage watch or a particularly good leather jacket. he spun his vulnerability into a punchline, his pain into a brand.

but in the quiet moments, the ones without cameras or an audience, the truth was a suffocating, lead-lined blanket.

in the hollow, echoing silence of a venue between soundcheck and doors, surrounded by the ghosts of past performances and rows of empty seats. in the ringing aftermath of an encore, when the adrenaline had evaporated and all that was left was a buzzing in his ears and a cavernous, aching emptiness in his chest. under the slow, cooling haze of the stage lights, his sweat turning cold on his skin like a fever finally, mercifully breaking.

in those moments, he clung to the memory of writing the song. to the sincerity of it. to the terrifying, unvarnished softness he had only ever shown to you, the parts of himself he’d guarded his whole life with jokes and charm and a blindingly bright smile, and then handed over to you like a set of house keys, trusting, with a fool’s faith, that you wouldn’t be the one to rob him blind.

until you dropped your song.

it arrived without warning. no pre-save campaign he was aware of, no cryptic tweets hinting at a new era. just a sudden, cataclysmic shift in the digital landscape.

one moment he was scrolling through instagram, admiring a particularly good thirst edit of himself from the last tour, and the next, his phone was vibrating with a text from suguru. it was just a link. a single, solitary link to spotify, followed by a single, solitary skull emoji.

his heart plummeted into his designer boots.

your response wasn’t a diss track. it wasn’t vicious or angry or full of the fiery, passionate emotion he had secretly, pathetically, been hoping for. anger would have meant he mattered enough to be angry at.

no, this was worse. so, so much worse.

it was polite. it was breezy. it was dismissive. it was a three-minute and forty-seven-second, perfectly executed, condescending pat on the head, set to a beat so infectious, so diabolically catchy, it immediately became the global soundtrack to his public humiliation.

the first thirty seconds were a masterclass in sugarcoated denial. a shimmering synth intro, like spun sugar and broken glass, bubbled up before a clean, crisp beat dropped in. and then, your voice. laced in silk and a certainty so absolute it could move mountains, it danced over a production so clean, so precise, it could have performed open-heart surgery.

in the video, you looked directly into the camera. you weren’t angry. you weren’t sad. you just looked… knowing. you were wearing a simple, pale yellow sundress, your hair clipped back loosely, looking like the girl next door if the girl next door was a multi-platinum recording artist with a team of lawyers on speed dial.

you tilted your head, just enough to catch the soft, golden light, and gave the lens an expression he knew all too well. it was the look that said, ’nice try, but no.’

the full track? a doctoral thesis in saying nothing while saying absolutely everything.

you never confirmed. you never denied. you just sang around the satoru-shaped hole in the narrative like he was a particularly inconvenient pothole you’d gracefully learned to navigate on your morning commute.

the lyrics were a weaponized form of cotton candy, all innocent confusion and wide-eyed, ‘who, me?’ energy. they spoke of “stories people tell themselves,” and “building castles in the air from a single, stolen glance,” and “sometimes a whisper is just a whisper, not a promise you can keep.”

you didn’t call him a liar. you just gently, sweetly, and with a voice like honey, implied he was completely, utterly delusional.

you turned his grand, romantic gesture, his bleeding-heart ballad, into a reddit thread he couldn’t possibly win. you reframed his love song as a slightly unhinged fan theory, a fever dream he’d wake up from eventually if he just tried hard enough, maybe drank some water and touched some grass.

and everyone knew.

oh, god, everyone knew.

the fans who had been there from day one, the ones who had built entire timelines of your ‘friendship,’ the ones who remembered when you used to like his instagram posts at 3 a.m. and comment on his stories with inside jokes that no one else understood—they knew.

they were now furiously deleting their old shipping threads, their mood boards, their compilation videos, all in a mad scramble to get on the right side of this new, devastating narrative.

the casual listeners, the ones who just showed up for the drama, ate it up with a spoon. it was the celebrity gossip equivalent of a royal wedding and a public execution happening at the same time.

the radio hosts, with their fake, concerned voices and the barely contained glee dancing in their eyes, played the two songs back to back, dissecting the “he said, she said” of it all for their morning drive-time audiences.

you never said his name. you didn’t have to. your lyrical evasion was a work of art, gps-precise in its ability to navigate around any direct accusation while still making it perfectly, painfully clear who you were talking about. your voice, so soft and sweet, was a guided missile aimed directly at his credibility.

it was vague enough for your lawyers to defend, but specific enough to leave him completely, utterly exposed. checkmate.

and the worst part? the truly soul-crushing, existentially horrifying part that made him want to crawl into a hole and cease to exist?

it was good.

like, disgustingly, chart-toppingly, “this is my official anthem for summer and i will be singing it into a hairbrush while subtweeting my ex” good. the hook was an earworm, a parasite that burrowed into your brain and refused to leave. the production was immaculate. his own bandmates were probably, secretly, adding it to their gym playlists as they spoke.

it was the kind of good that made you hate yourself for humming along under your breath while you were supposed to be stewing in your own misery.

and he heard it everywhere. it became the inescapable soundtrack to his life.

he was in a twenty-four-hour grocery store at midnight, trying to buy cereal in peace, when your voice cascaded from the ceiling speaker system, serenading him in the dairy aisle about how he’d built a “castle from a grain of sand.”

he was in his favorite, painfully hip coffee shop, and the barista, a girl with pink hair and a septum piercing, was singing your chorus at the top of her lungs while steaming his oat milk latte into a sad, lopsided heart.

he got into an uber, and the driver, a cheerful man in his fifties, immediately turned up the radio. “you heard this new track?” he’d asked, beaming. “it’s my daughter’s favorite. it’s a real vibe!” and satoru had to sit there for a twelve-minute drive, dying a slow, silent death in the backseat, bathed in the sound of his own romantic incompetence.

he was put on hold with his credit card company, and the hold music was a tinny, instrumental, elevator-music version of your song. that was a new low. that was a fresh, unexplored circle of hell.

he even caught suguru humming the pre-chorus in the shower one morning at the studio. when satoru confronted him, pounding on the door like a madman, suguru didn’t even have the decency to sound guilty.

he’d poked his head out, a towel wrapped around his hair, and said, with the deadpan seriousness of a cult leader, “it’s a reverse exorcism, satoru. i have to flood my brain with the melody to neutralize its power. it’s about fighting fire with fire, purging the demon of her catchy hook through repetition and vocal mimicry. i’m doing this for my own sanity.”

“it’s not even a bad song, objectively,” nanami admitted one evening, looking up from his ipad, his voice as flat and clinical as if he were delivering a quarterly financial report. “the production is clean. the hook is effective from a commercial standpoint. the lyrical content is simply… professionally humiliating for you, specifically, when one is aware of the context.”

“when one is aware,” satoru echoed dramatically, the words catching in his throat. he collapsed backward onto the leather couch, a boneless heap of despair, as if gravity had finally remembered how much he deserved to suffer.

his wrist flopped against his forehead with all the limp, tragic grace of a victorian woman succumbing to the vapors. “i can’t live like this,” he wailed to the ceiling. “i’m becoming a cryptid. a cautionary tale they tell young, emotionally vulnerable musicians around the campfire. ‘don’t be like satoru, kids—he wrote his feelings into a melody and got metaphorically murdered by a pop princess with a team of swedish super-producers and a heart made of stone.’”

the music video played again. was this the nineteenth loop? the twentieth? he wasn’t sure. time had dissolved into a meaningless, syrupy cocktail of synth-pop and artistic betrayal. on the giant projected screen, the scenery shifted. gone was the quaint café of condescension, replaced by a sun-drenched, windswept beach that looked suspiciously like the private cove in malibu you’d dragged him to one weekend.

the screen was a kaleidoscope of neon filters and manufactured summer heat. there were rooftop shots where the wind, a paid actor in its own right, caught your hair in a way that looked both accidental and perfectly choreographed by a team of meteorologists.

you were dancing at the water’s edge, barefoot, wearing a ridiculously cute and deceptively simple white linen two-piece set that hinted at the long, tan lines of your legs and the curve of your stomach.

it was the kind of outfit that was both adorable and devastatingly sexy, a combination you had weaponized with terrifying precision. he knew, with a certainty that made his stomach ache, that you weren’t wearing anything underneath. you never did at the beach.

you danced like you were teasing someone specific. your movements weren’t for a faceless audience— they were intimate, playful, a series of inside jokes set to music. the little hip sway you did when you were trying to distract him from his guitar. the way you’d bite your lip and look over your shoulder, a silent dare.

it was all calculated casualness, an effortless perfection that had probably taken forty-seven takes, a team of professionals, and a small army of assistants holding reflectors.

and it was all for him. obviously. it was always, somehow, infuriatingly, for him, even when it was a public declaration that it absolutely was not.

a low, guttural groan escaped his throat. he snatched a decorative velvet pillow from the couch and slammed it over his face, muffling the sharp, boyish sound of pure, unadulterated heartbreak that clawed its way out of his chest.

it wasn’t just that you were breaking his heart— it was that you looked so damn good doing it. it was an insult to his suffering.

“she’s lying,” he muttered from beneath the pillow, his voice soft and muffled, like a prayer spoken underwater. the words were a desperate mantra, a flimsy shield against the tidal wave of evidence on screen. “i know she is. we—i mean, there were… things. real things. moments that weren’t for cameras or fans or anyone else but us.”

and his mind, a traitorous archive of his own happiest moments, started playing a highlight reel.

late-night phone calls that stretched until the tokyo skyline began to blush with the first hints of sunrise, your voice growing thick and sleepy until you’d fall asleep mid-sentence, and he’d stay on the line for twenty minutes just listening to the soft, even rhythm of you breathing, a sound more calming than any song he’d ever written.

the way you’d steal his hoodies, not just for airport paparazzi shots, but for lazy sundays spent tangled up in his sheets, the worn cotton smelling more like your skin and your perfume than his own cologne. the memory of waking up to you in his bed, a small, warm lump wearing his faded tour shirt and nothing else, made a fresh, sharp ache bloom in his chest.

inside jokes whispered on red carpets that made interviewers deeply uncomfortable, a secret language spoken in glances and tiny, imperceptible shifts in expression.

the kind of sizzling, undeniable chemistry that launched a thousand fan compilation videos and sparked conspiracy theories so elaborate they involved secret marriages and hidden love children.

he remembered the warmth of your skin under his hands, the specific, infuriatingly perfect way your body fit against his, the sound of your laugh—the real one, not the polite one for the cameras—when he’d kiss that sensitive spot just below your ear. those things weren’t fan behavior. they weren’t a fever dream.

“clearly not things she wants to be public knowledge,” suguru said, his voice dry as a desert. he wasn’t even looking at the screen anymore, just scrolling through his phone, his tone carrying the immense weight of a man who had held back his judgment with both hands for months and was starting to get a serious workout.

satoru threw the pillow aside with a surge of frustrated energy and shot upright. his hair, already a mess, now stood on end as if he’d been electrocuted by his own turbulent emotions. his eyes, usually so bright and clear, were rimmed with the tell-tale red of exhaustion and wounded pride.

“i thought we had something, man,” he said, his voice cracking with a genuine, pathetic bewilderment. “a connection. chemistry. that goddamn soulmate shit you read about in books, the kind that’s supposed to transcend corporate contracts and carefully crafted pr strategies. and now? now i’m a trending topic for being the world’s most publicly delusional boyfriend-who-wasn’t-a-boyfriend.”

“you sent her voice memos of your unfinished lyrics at two in the morning,” nanami said without looking up from his phone, his voice carrying the calm, patient tone of a saint and the quiet, crushing judgment of a deeply disappointed father. “you rhymed the word ‘forever’ with the word ‘whatever’ and expected to be lauded as the next shakespeare.”

“that line was vulnerable,” satoru hissed, genuinely offended by the artistic criticism. it was one thing to have his heart broken, it was another to have his songwriting questioned. “the raw, emotional inflection on the word ‘whatever’? heartbreaking. i put my whole chest into that ‘whatever’—it was a symphony of dismissive pain, of casual devastation. that’s advanced songwriting, nanami. it’s called nuance.”

suguru snorted, a sharp, ungracious sound. he finally looked up from his iced americano, a glint of something that looked suspiciously like amusement in his eyes. “and now you’re the internet’s favorite sad boy meme. congratulations. in the span of one week, you’ve managed to out-brood me and completely steal my entire aesthetic. my brand is in shambles.”

“i’m beautiful while suffering,” satoru proclaimed, his performer instincts kicking in. he pressed a hand dramatically to his chest, as if pledging allegiance to his own personal tragedy. “like a greek statue, but with better hair. if euripides had an electric guitar and an instagram account, i would be headlining the athens festival of emotional destruction.”

“you’re emotionally constipated,” sukuna called from across the room, his eyes still glued to the screen of his laptop, where he was no doubt editing the footage of satoru’s breakdown into a viral tiktok. “and it’s starting to affect the brand. seriously. your thirst edits are becoming yearning edits. the comments sections are starting to look like online support groups. it’s killing the ‘hot himbo’ vibe you worked so hard to cultivate.”

it was true. and that, somehow, might have been the worst part of it all. sukuna wasn’t just being an asshole for the sake of it— he was delivering a depressingly accurate brand analysis.

somewhere in the chaotic, humiliating gulf between his song release and the current moment, satoru’s carefully cultivated online presence had undergone a seismic, deeply unwelcome shift. his brand, once a reliable engine of “chaotic hot guitarist energy,” had sputtered, stalled, and morphed into something else entirely.

he was no longer the flirty, untouchable rock god with a penchant for expensive sunglasses and questionable life choices. he was now “sad boy who needs a hug and possibly intensive, long-term therapy.”

the ecosystem of his own fandom had turned on him. fan accounts that used to post supercuts of his most egregious thirst traps—close-ups of his hands on the guitar neck, slow-motion shots of him sweating on stage, compilations of his most chaotic interview moments—had pivoted.

now, they were creating soft-focus, aesthetic mood boards of his most melancholy expressions, usually overlaid with lyrics from a bon iver song.

the tiktoks. my god, the tiktoks. what was once a steady stream of edits celebrating his himbo energy, set to hyper-pop songs about being hot and reckless, had become a series of amateur film studies theses.

girls with names like @gojosgirl were now analyzing his “wounded artist era” with the somber, intellectual dedication of film students dissecting tarkovsky. they’d slow down footage from recent concerts, drawing red circles around the “micro-expressions of pain” on his face as he sang the bridge.

one particularly brutal compilation, titled “the evolution of a man’s heartbreak (a visual journey),” had managed to get three million views in twelve hours. it started with old clips of him looking at you with undisguised adoration during joint interviews and ended with recent paparazzi shots of him looking like his dog had just died. the comment section was a sea of virtual pity.

a tweet from a popular fan account, @satruthereal, had gone viral: “he’s not serving slut anymore he’s serving profound, bone-deep sadness and somehow it’s worse for my mental health.” it was accompanied by a string of seventeen crying emojis.

his own spotify wrapped, he imagined, probably looked like a suicide hotline’s weekly report. his most played song was, without a doubt, your song. followed closely by his own song. followed by a lot of the national and old, sad taylor swift albums. it was a playlist of self-destruction.

“this is character development,” he announced to the room, suddenly sitting up straighter, as if struck by a bolt of divine, delusional inspiration. he adopted the posture of a man about to deliver a ted talk. “i’m becoming multidimensional. complex. i’m moving beyond the simple archetypes the public has assigned me. shakespeare wishes he could write this kind of arc.”

“shakespeare’s dead,” nanami pointed out helpfully, his voice utterly devoid of inflection.

satoru waved a dismissive hand. “so is my dignity, but you don’t see me complaining about it.”

“that,” nanami said, finally looking up from his ipad, his eyes flat and weary, “is literally all you have done for the past three weeks.”

and the tour. the goddamn tour continued its relentless march across the country, a traveling circus with him as the main, miserable attraction. his descent into madness wasn’t just happening in the privacy of the studio—it was happening every night, on stage, in front of twenty thousand people. each show had become a public autopsy of his emotional state.

the press coverage turned vulture-hungry. headlines no longer focused on the music, but on the melodrama. they dissected his every pained facial expression like they were tea leaves, predicting the future of his career from the slump of his shoulders.

“gojo satoru’s heartbreak tour: art or exploitation?” asked one magazine. “why satoru gojo’s public pain is our collective gain,” pondered a popular blog. a late-night news program even ran a segment titled, “pop princess breaks rock star’s guitar… and his heart: more at eleven.”

every venue sold out within hours. fans were clawing for front-row seats, not just to hear the music, but to witness his unraveling in real time. his pain had become a commodity. his public breakdown was a marketing goldmine, and the ticket sales had never been better.

and that verse—the one he had carved from the softest part of his ribs, the one he’d written for you in a moment of pure, stupid, unfiltered honesty—refused to leave his throat intact.

every single night, he’d get to it, the lights would dim, a single spotlight would find him, and the words would catch. his voice would crack on the same line, every time, like a promise he couldn’t keep, like a prayer spoken in a dead language no one else could understand.

the music editors called it raw. the internet called it art. satoru called it hell, but with better lighting and a live audience providing the soundtrack of his own screams back at him.

your face, your voice, your song—they haunted him like a beautiful, relentless ghost. you were on every screen he tried to avoid. spotify ads featuring your smiling face would pop up while he was trying to listen to angry german metal.

youtube pre-roll ads for your perfume would play before he could watch a tutorial on how to fix a faulty guitar pedal. a times square billboard of you, sixty feet tall and impossibly gorgeous, made him want to never leave his apartment again.

you’d smile in slow motion on tiktoks that appeared on his ‘for you’ page, videos he never liked but somehow still ended up saved to his phone, usually at 3 a.m. when his impulse control was at its weakest and the hollow ache in his chest was at its loudest.

even the damn gas station down the road from the studio was a hostile territory. he’d gone in to buy a questionable amount of energy drinks and shame-purchased junk food, and your voice was on a constant, cheerful loop over the store’s speakers.

the cashier, a pimply teenager who couldn’t have been older than seventeen, was humming your chorus while scanning his items, completely oblivious to the fact that he was serving the very man being lyrically eviscerated.

satoru had even caught himself, in a moment of pure, horrifying muscle memory, singing along under his breath. your lyrics, your polite, smiling denials, curling off his tongue as naturally as if they were a song he’d written himself. it was a new, exquisitely tailored form of psychological torture.

it made him sick.

the constant, low-grade thrum of your voice in the background of his life, the way his own brain had memorized the lyrics designed to dismantle him. it was a slow-acting poison, and he was willingly, pathologically, taking a dose every single day.

but it wasn’t sick enough to make him stop. not yet. he was still a masochist in the research phase of his own destruction, picking at the wound just to see if it still hurt. it did. every time.

and then came the festival. the one that would forever be known in fan lore and his own personal hall of shame as the great emotional immolation of satoru gojo.

the morning after, he woke up not to the gentle california sunlight streaming through his hotel window, but to the apocalyptic buzzing of his phone on the nightstand. it sounded less like a notification and more like a swarm of angry, digital hornets.

a quick, blurry-eyed glance confirmed his worst fears. seventeen missed calls from his manager, each one presumably more frantic than the last. forty-three text messages from suguru, a journey in itself, starting with a concerned, “you good?” and escalating to a mildly threatening, “if you don’t answer this phone i will hire a skywriter to broadcast your therapist’s home address.”

and then, the final nail in the coffin: a twitter notification informing him that his name was the number one trend in north america. right alongside “public meltdown,” “career suicide,” and, for some reason, “#gojosatoruisoverparty.”

he’d seen you backstage. that’s where it all went wrong.

it wasn’t some planned, dramatic encounter. it was just a moment of terrible, beautiful serendipity. he’d been walking from his trailer to the stage for soundcheck, a cloud of his own melancholic angst trailing behind him, when he saw you.

you, standing in a patch of that perfect, golden-hour california sunlight, looking like a champagne-soaked dream. you were dressed in a sparkling, sequined crop top the shade of pale rosé, paired with a tiny pleated skirt that swished around your thighs like it had been made to catch the light. rhinestone barrettes pinned back your hair in loose, glossy waves, and glitter dusted your cheekbones so every tilt of your head sent a thousand flecks of gold scattering into the air.

you looked like a festival poster come to life—sugar-sweet, dangerous in the way only the truly beautiful can be, the kind of girl who could wreck a man with nothing more than a laugh. you were talking to someone on your team, hands flying in that animated, passionate way you did, your layered charm bracelets chiming like little bells every time you gestured.

you looked every inch the pop star—glittering, untouchable, the kind of dazzling that belonged on a jumbotron and not within arm’s reach. but then you laughed at something your assistant said, quick and bright and so achingly familiar that for a split second he thought he’d imagined it. it wasn’t the glossy, camera-ready smile the world knew— it was yours, the one that had once been his private treasure.

for one stupid, treacherous moment, he swore the stage lights dimmed and the festival noise fell away, leaving only that smile and the memory of what it used to mean. his heart, that battered and bruised organ, performed a series of dazzling acrobatic routines.

hope, that stubborn, idiotic weed, bloomed in his chest like it had been watered by sunlight itself—reckless, impossible, a hallucination he couldn’t stop believing in.

and then you saw him. your conversation faltered. your smile tightened just a fraction. and you started walking towards him.

you approached him during his soundcheck, moving with a purpose that made your own team part like the red sea. you dodged a roadie carrying a tangle of cables and sidestepped a harried-looking assistant with the practiced, nimble skill of someone who had been navigating these chaotic backstage environments their entire life.

he watched you get closer, and he noticed something else. there was a flicker of what looked like genuine nervousness in your movements. your fingers were playing with the delicate hem of your dress, twisting the fabric. your teeth were catching your bottom lip, a nervous habit he knew meant you were thinking too hard, running a thousand different scenarios in your head at once.

“satoru,” you’d said, your voice so quiet he could barely hear it over the distant thud of a kick drum being tested. your voice, saying his name. it was the first time he’d heard it live, not from a speaker, in weeks. it hit him like a physical blow. “can we—”

“don’t.”

the word shot out of him, colder and harsher than he’d intended. it was a shard of ice, sharp enough to cut through the festival noise, and it sliced right through the fragile, hopeful expression on your face.

he saw you flinch. it wasn’t a big, dramatic movement, but it was there. a slight, almost imperceptible recoiling, as if he’d physically struck you. he watched, in what felt like agonizing slow motion, as the hope in your eyes flickered and died, instantly replaced by a carefully constructed, professionally blank mask. your face went from open to closed in a split second.

“just... don’t, okay?” he continued, his own wounded pride a roaring, ugly beast in his ears, drowning out every rational thought. “whatever publicity stunt this is, whatever your team told you to do for the cameras, i’m not interested.”

you stared at him, your mouth slightly parted in disbelief. your hand, which had been reaching out as if to touch his arm, froze mid-gesture. “satoru, it’s not—”

“save it,” he’d cut in, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. “save it for someone who still believes in fairy tales.” he turned away then, a sharp, jerky movement, because he couldn’t bear to see the full extent of the damage his words had caused reflected in your eyes.

he’d walked away. he had actually, physically turned his back and walked away from you. from the one conversation he had been dreaming about, obsessing over, for weeks. all because his pride, his stupid, shredded, pathetic pride, was apparently more important than his own sanity.

it took a full twenty minutes for the adrenaline to fade and for the cold, horrifying reality of what he’d just done to settle in his gut like a stone.

by the time he’d spun around, his heart pounding with a sudden, desperate need to take it all back, you were gone. and he was left alone on the dusty backstage asphalt with nothing but the echoing sound of his own monumental stupidity and a growing, sickening certainty that he’d just ruined the only thing that had ever truly mattered.

the videos surfaced within hours. of course they did.

grainy, shaky phone footage from a dozen different angles, filmed by crew members and other artists’ assistants. the internet’s self-appointed body language experts went to town, dissecting every frame.

“satoru gojo snubs pop princess at sundown festival!!!” screamed the headlines. “he said WHAT to her??? watch the shocking video!” “the audacity of this man is actually breathtaking...”

his notifications became a digital disaster zone, a toxic waste dump of opinions and accusations. comments ranged from his loyal fans defending his “right to set boundaries” to absolutely vicious attacks from your fanbase, who were now calling for his public cancellation.

fans were picking sides like it was a brutal custody hearing, and he was being painted as the villain in a story he hadn’t even understood.

the internet had opinions about his opinions, think pieces about his think pieces, discourse about his discourse, until the original, painful, stupid moment was buried under a mountain of hot takes and hashtags.

but the worst part wasn’t the online backlash. it wasn’t the angry tweets or the think pieces or the trending hashtags.

it was the look on your face.

in every single one of those grainy videos, from every single angle, it was there. that split second of raw, unguarded hurt. the way your entire expression just… crumpled for a moment, like a carefully folded piece of paper suddenly crushed in a fist, before you caught yourself.

before the walls slammed back up, before the mask of professional poise slid back into place. before you walked away with your chin held high and your dignity perfectly intact, while he just stood there, looking like the world’s biggest, cruelest asshole in a pair of four-thousand-dollar boots.

that look. that single, fleeting expression of pain. that’s what haunted his dreams. that, and the sound of your voice saying his name—so soft, so hesitant, almost vulnerable—playing on a continuous, torturous loop in his head like a broken record he couldn’t turn off.

the label, being a soulless corporate entity, had of course noticed his downward spiral. there were a series of increasingly concerned emails from the pr department, all with vaguely threatening subject lines like “a quick check-in regarding brand synergy” and “managing the narrative moving forward.”

his manager had cornered him after the festival disaster, speaking to him in the gentle, placating tones one might use on a spooked horse or a toddler having a tantrum in a crowded supermarket.

but the real intervention, the one that actually mattered, came from his friends. and it came in the form of an ambush.

he’d shuffled into the studio one afternoon, running on three hours of sleep and a litre of iced coffee, to find them all waiting for him. not practicing, just… sitting. watching him. it was deeply unsettling.

suguru was the first to speak. he was leaning against an amp, arms crossed, his usual serene expression replaced with a look of profound, theatrical exasperation. he looked like a disappointed parent who was about to say “i’m not mad, i’m just disappointed,” which was somehow infinitely worse than him just being mad.

“satoru,” he began, his voice dangerously calm. “we need to talk about your brand.”

satoru, who had just collapsed onto the leather couch like a marionette with its strings cut, blinked at him. “my… brand?”

“yes. or should i say, my brand,” suguru said, pushing off the amp. “the one you seem to be systematically stealing, piece by pathetic, heartbroken piece.” he began to pace, the very picture of aggrieved artistry. “i have a very specific role in this band’s ecosystem, satoru. i am the dark, mysterious one. i am the brooding intellectual who writes cryptic lyrics about the duality of man. my fans expect a certain level of melancholic aesthetic from me. it’s a delicate balance.”

he stopped and gestured wildly at satoru. “and then you come along. you, mister ‘sunshine and chaos,’ mr. ‘i’ve never had a thought i haven’t immediately posted on instagram.’ and you’ve not only dipped your toe into my pool of existential angst, you’ve done a cannonball and splashed all the water out.”

sukuna, from his corner, snickered into his phone. “he’s not wrong. the sad boy market is oversaturated now. you’ve created a bubble.”

suguru shot sukuna a glare before continuing. “the edits, satoru. the fan edits are a disaster. my fan accounts—accounts that are supposed to be dedicated to artful, black-and-white photos of my side profile—are now posting split screens. me, looking pensive, next to you, looking like a kicked puppy in slow motion. they’re putting lana del rey songs over footage of your guitar solos. you have completely disrupted the delicate symbiotic relationship between our respective fandoms. it’s chaos.”

“i’m not trying to be sad,” satoru mumbled into a cushion, his voice thick with a misery that was, unfortunately, one hundred percent authentic. “i just am.”

“we know, man,” nanami said, and his voice was surprisingly gentle. he put his phone down, a sign of true seriousness. “that’s the problem. this isn’t an act for you right now, and it’s… getting a little scary.”

“scary?” satoru pushed himself up, looking between them. “what’s scary? i’m fine. i’m just… evolving.”

“evolution is for darwin. you’re not evolving, you’re spiraling,” suguru said, his frustration finally softening into something that looked a lot like genuine concern. “you look like you haven’t slept in a week. you’re living off gas station coffee and your own tears. and on stage… you’re somewhere else entirely.”

he was right. the tour had become a blur of sold-out arenas and hollow, echoing hotel rooms. his public pain had become a bizarre, marketable commodity, but the person underneath it all was starting to fray at the edges.

“the internet thinks it’s some kind of tragic, romantic performance art,” nanami added, his tone flat but not unkind. “we know it’s just you being a fucking idiot and breaking your own heart in public every night.”

“my point,” suguru cut in, re-railing the conversation back to the most important issue at hand, “is that this ‘fallen angel’ era of yours is deeply infringing on my carefully curated brand identity. but also,” he sighed, the fight going out of him, “we’re worried about you, you dumbass.”

“your thirst edits have officially become yearning edits,” sukuna chimed in, not looking up from his phone. “and frankly, the secondhand embarrassment is becoming overwhelming. you need to get a grip. for all our sakes.”

before satoru could even begin to mount a defense—a flimsy, transparent shield of excuses he didn’t even believe himself—a cheery, pastel-colored envelope was unceremoniously slapped into his hands. it felt less like a gift and more like a beautifully packaged restraining order from his own life.

vacation time! the cover proclaimed in a swirly, offensively cheerful font. mandatory rest and relaxation!

satoru stared at it, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and deep, personal offense. “what is this?” he asked, his voice flat.

“it’s a one-way ticket to okinawa,” nanami stated, his voice devoid of inflection. “the label has ‘graciously suggested’ you take two weeks off at your villa. it is, and i quote the email, ‘an opportunity to disconnect, recalibrate, and rediscover your core brand values.’”

his villa. the words landed like a stone in his gut. not some faceless corporate retreat, but his place. your place. the one he’d bought two years ago under a shell corporation, a sun-drenched, secluded hideaway tucked into a private cove where the cicadas sang louder than the world and time always seemed to move slower. his escape. your escape. where the walls were so saturated with your ghosts he ought to start charging them rent.

“you’re being exiled,” sukuna clarified helpfully. “to the scene of the crime, no less. deliciously ironic.”

“it’s not an exile, it’s a strategic retreat,” suguru said, his voice softening into something almost brotherly. he clapped a hand on satoru’s shoulder. “look, man. we cancelled everything for the next two weeks. go somewhere familiar. lick your wounds. try to remember who you were before you decided to publicly detonate your own heart.”

he squeezed his shoulder. “go to the beach. get some sun. go yell at the ocean. just, for the love of god,” he leaned in closer, “don’t check her social media.” a pause. “and don’t livestream your crying.”

with that, he turned and walked away, the air of a man who had successfully completed his good deed for the day.

satoru, of course, posted about it immediately. his phone was in his hand before the studio door had even swung shut.

an instagram story. a stark, black screen with simple, lowercase white text: gone fishing. don’t text unless you’re a mermaid or carrying good news about my emotional stability.

the caption on the follow-up post—a blurry, deeply melancholic picture of his designer suitcases by the door—read: sometimes healing looks like running away to a beach house and pretending your problems can’t swim. the lie tasted like ash in his mouth. he wasn’t running away to heal—he was running directly into the heart of the hurricane.

he packed like a man preparing for his own haunting. he shoved expensive, designer clothes and a mountain of emotional baggage into his suitcases with equal, chaotic disregard. oversized sunglasses to hide the exhaustion in his eyes.

a collection of ridiculously soft hoodies to disappear into, including the gray one. the gray one. he packed it with the reverence of a holy relic. and his guitar, because he was a masochist of the highest order, bringing the very instrument of his own destruction along to the crime scene.

his toiletry bag was a cry for help—half a pharmacy’s worth of hangover cures and the other half dedicated to various over-the-counter sleep aids, because consciousness had become a liability and his dreams were too dangerous, too full of you, to be trusted.

within five minutes of posting, it had two million views. by the time he reached the airport, a fan cam of him looking utterly miserable at baggage claim was already circulating on twitter, tragically set to a slowed-down, reverb-heavy version of chappell roan's “the subway.”

he turned his notifications off.

he told himself this was a good thing. exposure therapy. confronting the ghosts head-on. becoming the man he was before you’d turned his life into a chart-topping pop song and his heart into a trending topic.

he repeated it to himself like a mantra, a desperate, flimsy prayer. during the long, transatlantic flight. during the silent, humid taxi ride from the airport, a ride he'd taken with you sleeping on his shoulder more times than he could count.

but healing was a scam, and satoru gojo was a hypocrite of the highest, most spectacular order.

how did the bridge of your song go again? the part that twisted the knife with a polite, dismissive smile?

you replay my laughter like your favorite show, turned three little words to the gospel you know, drowning in a crush you refuse to outgrow, that’s not normal, just so you know

damn right.

it starts, as most of his worst decisions and best nights always have, with whiskey.

the good stuff. the hibiki, aged twenty-one years, a bottle he saves for either a celebration or a funeral. tonight, it’s both. he is mourning the death of his own heart, and celebrating his commitment to giving it the most lavish, expensive wake imaginable.

he’s three days deep into his okinawan exile, his glorious, sun-drenched prison of memories, and his entire existence has been distilled into a pathetic, repeating, and deeply luxurious loop.

wake up, stare at the ocean until its endless blue starts to feel like a personal accusation, drink whiskey that costs more than most people’s rent, and eventually, pass out. rinse, repeat.

he’s a mess. a beautiful, exquisitely tailored mess, but a mess nonetheless. a fine, pale layer of stubble is beginning to artfully obscure the sharp, arrogant line of his jaw, softening his edges, making him look less like a world-famous rockstar and more like a disgraced poet-aristocrat who has been banished to his country estate.

he’s living in the gray hoodie. it smells like stale, expensive whiskey and old heartbreak now, but underneath it all, buried deep in the worn cotton, is the faint, lingering ghost of you. it is, at once, the most comforting and most torturous garment he owns.

tonight’s special activity in this prison of memories he built for himself is a new, particularly exquisite form of self-punishment.

he’s sitting on the edge of the sprawling wooden deck, the one where he once watched you dance in the moonlight, his bare feet dangling over the edge, the warm, humid night air doing absolutely nothing to sober him.

his phone, a sleek black mirror of his own misery, is propped up against the now half-empty bottle of hibiki, and from its small, tinny speakers, a sad, reedy voice is singing your song.

it’s a cover. some kid on youtube with a cheap acoustic guitar, a condenser mic, and a palpable sense of secondhand angst.

he’s stripped away all the shimmering, bubbly, fuck-you-very-much production of your version, leaving only the raw, brutal architecture of your lyrics.

and satoru, in his drunken, masochistic haze, is forced to admit that the chord progression is actually quite clever. a devastatingly effective use of a minor-to-major key shift in the chorus that makes the denial sound almost triumphant. he hates it. he’s listened to it five times in a row.

this is his pathetic paradise. it was once your shared paradise, their secret, but he’s single-handedly turned it into a high-end emotional prison, where every grain of sand on the private beach below, every gust of sea-salted air, is a ghost of you.

he takes another long, slow pull from the bottle, the whiskey burning a familiar, welcome path down his throat, a controlled demolition.

and then, a sound.

it’s a buzz. a sharp, intrusive, offensively electronic noise that cuts through the sad acoustic melody and the gentle, rhythmic shushing of the waves. the intercom at the front gate.

satoru freezes, the bottle halfway to his lips. his entire body goes rigid. no one knows he’s here. not really. the label knows, his band knows, but no one else. it’s not a delivery person— it’s nearly midnight. his drunk, celebrity-addled brain, a finely tuned instrument of paranoia and melodrama, leaps to the one and only logical, cinematic conclusion.

it’s a sasaeng. a crazy fan. someone has found him. someone has breached the invisible walls of his secret, sacred hideaway. a tiny, shameful, deeply bored part of him is a little bit thrilled by the drama. it’s a welcome distraction from the main feature of his own suffering.

he stumbles to his feet, a low, animalistic growl rumbling in his chest. he fumbles for his phone, the sad acoustic cover still playing from its tinny speakers, and stabs at the screen to stop it. the sudden silence feels almost as oppressive as the music had. he shoves the phone into the pocket of his sweatpants and grabs the bottle of whiskey—his only weapon and his closest confidant—before making his way unsteadily through the dark, cavernous living room to the video intercom panel by the door. he stabs at the screen with his thumb, his movements clumsy.

the camera feed flickers to life, a grainy, stark black-and-white image of the front gate. and there, standing under the single, weak security light, is a figure.

it’s a person, he can tell that much. but they’re wearing the most ridiculously, conspicuously conspicuous outfit he has ever seen in his life.

a giant, floppy straw hat, the kind a wealthy widow would wear to a garden party, so wide it obscures their entire head and shoulders like a personal, portable awning. massive, dark sunglasses, the jackie o kind that cover half the face, even though it is the dead of night. and, most bizarrely of all, a full-length, beige trench coat, buttoned all the way up to the collar, an item of clothing so profoundly out of place in the thick, humid okinawan heat that it borders on performance art.

this is not a fan. this is a cryptid. a fashion-conscious mothman.

he presses the talk button. his voice comes out as a low, whiskey-soaked, and he hopes, intimidating slur. “yeah?”

a voice crackles back through the speaker. it’s muffled, high-pitched, and so obviously fake it’s genuinely insulting to his intelligence. “is this the residence of gojo satoru?”

definitely a fan. the tiny spark of thrill evaporates, replaced by a wave of pure, unadulterated annoyance. his private pity party had a strict “no uninvited guests” policy.

“nope,” he says, leaning his tired forehead against the cool, smooth wall beside the panel. he decides to lean into the absurdity of the situation. it’s more fun than being sad. “sorry, private property. satoru’s not here.” he straightens up, a spark of drunken, chaotic genius igniting in his brain. “he’s… in antarctica. for research. important research. about… penguins. you know.”

there’s a long, charged pause on the other end. then, the squeaky, fake voice again, now laced with an audible thread of deep, simmering frustration. “open the gate, satoru.”

the sound of his name, even in that stupid, cartoonish voice, sends a strange, unwelcome signal down his spine. it’s a frequency he knows, buried under layers of bad audio and bad decisions. she’s good. she’s committed to the bit. but he’s not falling for it.

“look, i don’t know who you are, but you need to leave before i call the police,” he says, trying to sound menacing and probably just sounding drunk and tired. “i’m not kidding. they take trespassing very seriously here. especially by poorly disguised cryptids.”

“i’m not leaving until you open this damn gate!” the voice shrieks, losing some of its artificial squeakiness and gaining a familiar, fiery, and deeply unsettling edge that sends a confusing jolt through his system.

that’s it. he’s had enough. his privacy has been violated, his meticulously planned evening of drunken self-reflection has been interrupted, and his sanity is hanging on by a single, frayed, whiskey-soaked thread. he’s going to go out there and confront this… this trench-coated menace in person.

he takes one last fortifying swig from the whiskey bottle, and yanks the heavy front door open, letting it slam against the interior wall behind him with a satisfying thud. he stumbles out into the warm, salty night, the sharp gravel of the long driveway crunching unpleasantly under his bare feet.

the walk to the gate feels like a mile. the single security light illuminates the bizarre figure, and as he gets closer, he can see the way the thick fabric of the trench coat is already starting to look damp and heavy in the humidity. a small, dark part of him hopes they’re suffering in there.

“alright, show’s over,” he slurs, stopping a few feet from the tall, wrought iron gate. he holds up the whiskey bottle like a makeshift club. “i’m giving you ten seconds to get off my property before i call the cops and have you arrested for trespassing and for crimes against fashion, because what even is that coat? are you a detective from a 1940s film noir?”

the figure just stands there for a second, a statue of pure, vibrating frustration. and then, with a sudden, violent movement of pure exasperation, you rip the giant, floppy hat off your head, sending it sailing to the gravel with a soft, defeated rustle. you follow it with the oversized sunglasses, yanking them off with such force that they almost fly from your hand.

and it’s you.

it’s. you.

you look furious. your hair is a mess, flattened by the hat and sticking to your skin, which is flushed a deep, angry pink and gleaming with a thin layer of sweat from the ridiculous, suffocating coat. you are breathing heavily, your chest rising and falling in sharp, ragged movements, and you look absolutely, incandescently, nothing like a crazy fan.

you look like his own personal ghost, his most beautiful and terrible haunting, come back to torment him in the flesh.

satoru’s brain does a full, catastrophic system crash. it’s a blue screen of death, a fatal error, a complete and total shutdown of all cognitive function.

the whiskey, the exhaustion, the weeks of unrelenting misery, and the sheer, unadulterated shock of seeing you standing right there, in front of him, creates a perfect storm of cognitive dissonance.

he can see you, his eyes are taking in the information, but his brain is flatly refusing to process it. is he hallucinating? is this a whiskey-fueled mirage? has he finally, officially, gone completely and irrevocably insane?

the silence stretches, thick and heavy, broken only by the chirping of cicadas and the distant, mocking sound of the waves. he just stands there, whiskey bottle dangling forgotten from his hand, his mouth hanging slightly open like a fool.

and before he can form a single, coherent, romantic thought—before he can say your name, or “i miss you,” or “what the fuck are you doing here?”—you unleash.

but you’re not crying. you’re not there to apologize. you are radiating a fury so pure, so potent, it feels like it’s raising the temperature of the air around you. your opening line is not “i miss you.” it is delivered with the sharp, cutting edge of a woman who has been profoundly, personally, and absurdly scorned.

“you didn’t recognize me.”

your voice is low, seething with a rage that seems completely disconnected from the situation at hand. you stare at him through the bars of the gate, your hands clenched into tight, white-knuckled fists at your sides.

satoru is baffled. his drunk brain is trying to catch up, but it’s like trying to catch a bullet train on a tricycle. “what?” he manages, the word a stupid, confused puff of air.

“you didn’t recognize me!” you repeat, your voice rising in volume and sheer, theatrical disbelief. you take a step closer to the gate, your knuckles bone-white where you’re gripping the cool iron bars. “you promised me, satoru. right here, on this property, probably on that very deck. you promised.”

he has absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. he’s still stuck on the fact that you are physically here, in okinawa, at his gate, looking like you want to both kiss him and kill him.

“you said,” you continue, your voice now trembling with a rage that is so much more terrifying than sadness, so much more confusing, “you said, and i quote, ‘i would know it was you even if you were a worm.’ a literal, dirt-eating, slimy little worm! you said you would see a worm wriggling on the sidewalk after a rainstorm and you would just know, in your soul, that it was me! but you can’t recognize me in a stupid fucking hat? was the worm thing a lie, satoru?! was it just another one of your pretty, empty, poetic lines that you feed to girls?”

and there it is. the central, catastrophic conflict. it is not your public, lyrical betrayal of his heart. it is not the weeks of radio silence and public misery.

it is his failure to live up to a ridiculous, probably-drunken, and deeply sincere worm-related promise he doesn’t even remember making. the sheer, unadulterated absurdity of it is so you, and so him, and so you and him, that for a split second, a hysterical laugh bubbles up in his throat.

but then his own bruised ego, his own deep, festering well of hurt, finally catches up. his brain reboots, and the confusion curdles into a hot, indignant, and deeply satisfying sulk. oh, no. he’s not just going to let you steamroll him with this… this invertebrate-based accusation. not after everything.

he straightens up, a slow, deliberate movement, and a dark, humorless smirk curls his lips. he takes a slow, deliberate sip from the whiskey bottle, his eyes never leaving yours, a silent, theatrical pause.

“a worm, huh?” he says, his voice a low, dangerous purr that’s dripping with sarcasm. “that’s a high bar.” he lowers the bottle, his smirk widening into a full, sharp-edged grin. “you released a song that is essentially a three-minute restraining order set to a pop beat, a song that has been the soundtrack to my own personal, waking hell for three weeks, and you show up here, at my private, secret hideaway, dressed like carmen sandiego’s depressed, heat-stroked cousin, and you’re mad—you’re mad—that i didn’t immediately recognize you because of some bullshit promise about a worm?”

“it wasn’t bullshit!” you shoot back, rattling the gate in your frustration, the sound sharp and angry in the night. “it was a metaphor for unconditional recognition! a literary concept you clearly don’t understand because you’re too busy being a himbo!”

“oh, i understand recognition,” he says, taking a step closer to the gate, his voice dropping, the sound of it a low, intimate growl. “i recognize the girl who wrote a chart-topping song implying i’m a delusional, obsessive stalker. that girl, i recognize perfectly.”

“i had to!” you shout, and for the first time, a crack appears in your furious facade. a flicker of something desperate and real and deeply hurt flashes in your eyes. “i had no choice!”

“a choice?” he laughs, a short, ugly, humorless sound that scrapes his own throat. “you always have a choice. you could have called. you could have texted. you could have sent a fucking carrier pigeon.”

“with what phone?!” you scream, your frustration boiling over. you finally find the keypad on the gate post and punch in the code—the code you still remember, his birthday, 1-2-0-7—and the gate clicks open with a soft, final buzz.

you storm through, shoving past him without a glance, the ridiculous trench coat flapping around you like the wings of a large, angry bird. “you think this is what i wanted? you think i enjoyed any of this?”

he follows you as you march up the long, gravel driveway, his angry, stomping footsteps a stark contrast to the quiet of the night. he can’t help but watch the sway of your hips, even when you’re furious. “i don’t know what you wanted! you made that pretty clear in your little hit single!”

you spin around to face him in the middle of the driveway, your face illuminated by the warm, golden light spilling from the open front door of the villa. “satoru, your song was… it was the most charming, reckless, stupidly romantic thing anyone has ever done. and it forced my agency’s hand!”

you take a step towards him, your voice lowering, becoming more intense. “they see ‘gojo satoru’ and they see ryomen sukuna setting a reporter’s car on fire. they see him getting into bar fights in foreign countries. they see him as ‘brand kryptonite’ for a pop princess whose biggest controversy to date is wearing mismatched socks. your song put a giant, glittering, neon sign on ‘us,’ a thing they didn’t even know existed, and they panicked, satoru! they went into full crisis mode.”

he just stares at you, the whiskey buzzing in his veins, your words finally, slowly, starting to penetrate the thick fog of his own self-pity.

“that’s why i came to the festival,” you continue, your voice cracking slightly, the anger finally giving way to the hurt underneath. “they took my phone, they had a ‘handler’ following me everywhere. it was my only chance to find you, to try and explain anything before they forced me into a recording studio to sing that… that corporate, soulless, pr statement of a song. and you… you looked right through me and told me to save it for a fairy tale.”

the blow lands. right in the center of his chest, a clean, sharp, and deeply deserved hit. the memory of your crumpled face flashes in his mind, and for the first time in weeks, the anger he feels is directed entirely at himself..

but he’s hurt. and he’s drunk. and he is absolutely, categorically not ready to surrender the moral high ground he has been so miserably occupying for the past three weeks.

your explanation, as logical and painful as it sounds, is an inconvenient truth that his pride is refusing to process. it’s easier to be the victim. it’s easier to be the one who was wronged.

he just stares at you for a long, heavy moment. the air in the driveway is thick with the ghosts of your shouted words and the scent of the sea. your face, illuminated by the warm light spilling from the villa, is a mask of exhausted frustration, your eyes pleading with him to just, for once, understand.

a part of him, the sober, rational part that is currently locked in the basement of his skull, knows you’re telling the truth. but the rest of him, the part that’s been marinating in hibiki and self-pity, just sees the woman who broke his heart on the radio.

“so that’s it?” he finally says, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. he takes a step towards you, closing the space you’d put between you, forcing you to tilt your head back to look at him. “you just expect me to say ‘oh, okay, that makes sense,’ and just… what? forget the past months? forget the song? forget the fact that you turned my heart into a international pop anthem about how i’m a delusional clinger?”

“i’m not asking you to forget it, satoru,” you say, your voice weary. you don’t back down, don’t flinch from his proximity. “i’m asking you to listen for five seconds without making this entire thing about your wounded pride. i missed you. i was scared. and i was completely alone.”

the words “i missed you” hang in the air between you, a fragile, shimmering thing. they should be a balm, a key, the thing that ends this. but his pride is a fortress, and he’s not ready to lower the gates.

“you don’t get to say that,” he whispers, the words sharp and cruel. “not now. not after you stood by and let them do it.”

he turns away from you then, a sharp, jerky movement, and stalks into the house, leaving you standing alone in the driveway. he needs to move, needs to pace, the restless, angry energy in his veins too much to contain.

you follow him in, closing the door softly behind you. the sound clicks with a quiet finality. your anger has momentarily cooled, replaced by a deep, aching sadness as you take in the state of the room. it’s a mess. his mess. empty ramen cups on the expensive coffee table, a discarded shirt slung over a chair, the half-empty bottle of whiskey standing sentinel on the floor.

it’s the physical manifestation of his heartbreak, and it makes your own chest ache with a fresh wave of guilt and longing.

“satoru, stop,” you say, your voice soft now, pleading. “just stop and listen to me.”

“i’ve been listening!” he snaps, spinning around to face you. he’s pacing now, a caged tiger in his own home, gesturing wildly around the room, at the mess, at the ghosts, at the empty space beside him on the couch. “i’ve been doing nothing but listening! to your song, on the radio, in grocery stores, in my own fucking nightmares! what more do you want me to listen to?”

“to me! the real me, not the version my label wrote a press release for!” you take a step closer, your hands clenched into fists at your sides. “i told you, i tried to talk to you at the festival—”

“oh, the festival!” he laughs, a short, ugly, humorless sound. “yeah, let’s talk about that. what did you expect me to do? you think i didn’t see the cameras? the phones? everyone from crew members to other artists had a video of that little moment. of me snubbing you. you know what would have happened if i’d let you ‘explain’ right there? it would have been career suicide. for you.”

he stops pacing and faces you, his expression a twisted mask of self-righteous fury and genuine pain. “your song was the biggest hit of the summer. a song all about how you don’t know me, how i’m some delusional fan. for you to turn around a week later and say ‘just kidding’? you would have looked like the world’s biggest hypocrite. i did the right thing. i saved your precious fucking career for you.”

“don’t you dare,” you say, your voice dangerously quiet. you close the distance between you until you’re only a few feet apart, the air crackling with everything unsaid. “don’t you dare pretend that was for me. that was for your pride. that was you, hurt and angry, and lashing out because it was easier than listening.”

you take another step, close enough now to feel the heat radiating off him. “i get it,” you whisper, your voice cracking slightly. “i do. i know what my song did. i know it hurt. but it hurt me too. and you don’t get to decide what’s best for me or my career. you just get to decide whether or not you’ll listen when i’m standing right in front of you, trying to tell you the truth.”

your words land like a clean punch. he’s got nothing. no sarcastic retort, no angry denial. he just looks at you, his jaw tight, his beautiful face a mess of conflicting emotions. he knows you’re right. he’s lost the argument, and the sudden loss of his righteous anger leaves him feeling raw and exposed.

his brain, a frantic and unreliable narrator fueled by alcohol and pain, casts about for a new grievance, a new anchor. it needs to find some ground, any ground, where he can be right, where he isn’t the asshole.

and then, his wild, desperate eyes land on the open door to the master bathroom. and in its infinite, irrational wisdom, his brain finds it. the perfect, petty, indestructible piece of driftwood.

“you know what?” he says, his voice dropping, a sudden, bizarre shift in tone. “this is just typical. this is what you do.”

you stare at him, your expression a perfect mask of utter bafflement. the whiplash from the conversation is almost audible. “what are you talking about?”

“you just waltz in here,” he continues, taking a step towards you, his voice rising with a new, completely unhinged wave of indignation, “back into my life, into my—our—house, and you just expect everything to be exactly how you want it. you don’t think. you just do.”

“satoru, you’re not making any sense,” you say, taking a cautious step back, looking at him like he might have actually, finally, lost his mind.

“oh, it makes sense,” he says, and he points a long, accusatory, and slightly trembling finger towards the bathroom. “it makes perfect sense. because you’re the same person. you’re the same person who never, not once, puts the cap back on the toothpaste!”

the accusation hangs in the air, so profoundly, wonderfully stupid it feels like a physical object.

for a moment, you just stare at him, your mouth slightly agape. the sheer, unadulterated audacity of the pivot is almost impressive. you look from his wild, accusing eyes to the bathroom and back again.

and then, a slow, dangerous smile spreads across your face.

“the toothpaste cap?” you say, your voice a low, incredulous purr. you cross your arms over your chest, a gesture of pure, familiar defiance. “you want to talk about the toothpaste cap, satoru? after everything, after weeks of silence and public humiliation, that’s the hill you want to die on?” you don’t wait for an answer. “fine. let’s talk about it. and while we’re at it, let’s talk about how you squeeze it from the middle like a goddamn barbarian.”

his eyes narrow. “i do not—”

“you absolutely do! and you leave your contact case open on the counter with the solution evaporating, and you use my expensive face wash as body soap!” you take a deliberate step forward. “the one that costs more than your stupid designer socks that you leave everywhere like some kind of textile breadcrumb trail!”

“those socks cost eight hundred dollars!” he yells back.

“then maybe don’t treat them like disposable napkins!” you shout, throwing your hands up. “there’s probably one fossilized under that couch cushion from march! and don’t get me started on how you eat cereal—who the hell puts the milk in first?!”

“it prevents splashing!”

“it’s psychotic behavior, satoru! and you leave exactly one sip of coffee in the pot every morning like you’re marking territory!”

“i was saving it for you!”

“for three hours while it turned into battery acid!” you’re pacing now, and he’s mirroring you, both of you circling like wolves. “and you reorganize my spotify playlists! without asking! i had my shower songs in a very specific order!”

“your shower songs made no sense! you can’t go from chopin to cardi b!”

“it’s called range!”

you’re close now, close enough that your chests are almost touching. he can smell your perfume mixed with travel and fury. you can see the gold flecks in his impossibly blue eyes.

and then, the shouting stops.

his eyes drop from yours to your mouth, still parted from yelling at him about cereal protocol. and you know, with a terrifying, primal certainty that starts as a low thrum deep in your belly, what’s about to happen.

satoru doesn’t know who moves first. it doesn’t matter. one moment you’re locked in a standoff, and the next, in a surge of pure, frustrated energy, you shove him. both your hands flat against his chest, a futile, desperate attempt to create space, to regain some semblance of control.

it’s like pushing against a marble statue. he doesn’t budge an inch, just absorbs the impact with a low, dark chuckle that vibrates through his chest and into your palms.

and then he’s the one moving.

he flips it, the dynamic shifting so fast it steals the breath from your lungs. one of his large, warm hands tangles in your hair, gripping the strands at the nape of your neck, not painfully, but with an absolute, undeniable ownership that makes your knees feel weak.

his other arm snakes around your waist, yanking you flush against the hard, unyielding length of him. and he’s crashing his mouth down on yours.

it is less a kiss and more a collision. it’s angry, and messy, and full of teeth. there is too much tongue, a slick, hot invasion that seeks to dominate, to silence, to consume. it tastes like expensive whiskey and the salt on your skin and weeks of pent-up, unspoken frustration.

he walks you backwards, his steps sure and deliberate, while yours are a clumsy, stumbling retreat. your back hits the cool, smooth surface of the wall with a soft thud, the sound swallowed by the wet, open-mouthed chaos of the kiss. he cages you in, his body a solid wall of heat and muscle in front of you, his size, his sheer presence, filling your entire world, your entire vision.

your hands, of their own accord, fist in the soft, worn fabric of his gray hoodie, pulling him closer, as if that were even possible. you’re both panting into each other’s mouths, the fight not over, just changed.

“you have no idea…” he growls against your lips, the words a rough, broken thing.

“…what you put me through,” you manage to gasp back, your insult lost as he bites, gently but firmly, at your bottom lip, pulling a low, involuntary moan from your throat.

the warmth of his palm lands first, a heavy, possessive brand on your thigh, just above the knee. you feel the distinct, rough texture of his callouses, a geography you know by heart, as he begins a lazy, torturous crawl upwards.

it’s the touch he’s been fantasizing about for weeks, and the reality of your skin, warm and real under his hand, makes a shudder run through his entire body.

your breath hitches, a tiny, involuntary sound you can’t hold back, and he feels it against his mouth, a silent gasp that tastes like victory. he watches your eyes flutter shut as his hand finally settles high on your leg, his thumb pressing into the sensitive crease where your thigh meets your hip.

his fingers find the lapel of your ridiculous trench coat, and for a moment, he just toys with the fabric, his cerulean eyes, dark with whiskey and something much more potent, fixed on yours. then he starts on the buttons.

you feel the clumsy, frustrated pressure of his large fingers against your stomach, a stark contrast to the usual grace you know he possesses. a low, frustrated growl rumbles in his chest, a sound that vibrates through his body and into yours, making your stomach flip with a dizzying mix of anticipation and dread.

“get this thing off,” he mutters, his voice a rough, gravelly thing against your mouth. he gives up on the buttons, his patience snapping. he grabs the coat on either side and yanks it open, the force of it making you stumble a step closer, your body colliding with his.

you let out a soft ‘oof’ as you land against the hard wall of his chest, your hands coming up to brace yourself against his shoulders. he shrugs the heavy, sweat-dampened fabric off you, letting it fall in a heap on the floor behind you, a discarded skin.

and then he sees you. really sees you. not on a screen, not in a memory, but here. real. just you in a dress, now wrinkled from your journey.

he lets out a low, appreciative sound, a sound of pure, unadulterated want, his eyes raking over you, a slow, possessive inventory. this is the image he’s been replaying in his head in the darkest hours of the night, and the reality of you is a thousand times more potent.

his hand comes back to you, this time to the delicate strap of your dress. he doesn’t slide it down. he hooks his finger under it, his gaze locked on yours, and pulls. the sound is a short, sharp, satisfying rip, and you jolt, a shocked little gasp escaping your lips. the sound, your sound, makes his grin turn feral. he does the same to the other strap, spurred on by your reaction.

he shoves the ruined bodice of the dress down, bunching the fabric around your waist, freeing your breasts to the cool air of the room. your nipples pebble instantly, a betrayal your body offers up without your consent.

his mouth detaches from yours with a wet, sticky sound and follows the path of his hands, his tongue a hot, wet brand against the swell of your breast. he laves the peak, the rough texture of his tongue sending a jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure straight to your core.

he draws it into his mouth, his teeth gently scraping, and a full-body shudder wracks through you. your head falls back against the wall with a soft thud as a low, helpless moan escapes your lips. your fingers, which were braced against his shoulders, fist in the thick fabric of his gray hoodie, pulling him impossibly closer, a silent, desperate plea for more.

that’s the sound he’s been waiting for. that’s the sound he’s been imagining.a low, triumphant growl vibrates in his chest, and his other hand finds your thigh, his thumb drawing slow, lazy circles on the sensitive skin of your inner thigh as he lifts your leg, hooking it around his narrow hip, granting himself the access he so clearly craves.

you gasp as the cool air hits your wet, exposed skin, your thighs clenching involuntarily. his mouth is on yours again, deeper this time, wetter, a frantic, desperate thing. his tongue sweeps into your mouth, tasting of whiskey and himself and the desperation he can now taste on you. he pulls back just enough to look at you, his breath hot and ragged against your lips.

“you know,” he begins, his voice a low, conversational purr, as if you were just chatting over coffee. his hand, which had been on your thigh, slides inwards. he lets his fingers brush lightly over the thin, damp fabric of your underwear. you flinch, a tiny, involuntary jerk of your hips. he smirks. “for a girl who wrote a whole, chart-topping song about me being a delusional clinger…”

his fingers press down, just slightly, and he feels it. the undeniable, shameless proof of how wet you are. his smirk widens into a full, sharp-edged, triumphant grin.

“…this is a little inconvenient for your narrative, isn’t it?” he asks, his voice dripping with playful, condescending victory. he chuckles, a low, dark sound against your throat. “funny. the lyrics didn’t mention anything about this part.”

he hooks a finger under the elastic of your underwear, not to pull them off, but just to feel the wet, slick heat of you directly. “i’ve heard enough of your singing voice on the radio for a lifetime. let’s hear what you really sound like when you’re being honest.”

he hooks his fingers into the side of your underwear and rips them away, the sound another satisfying tear in the quiet of the room. and then his fingers, bare and slick with your own wetness, are on you.

the reality of you, slick and hot under his hands, is a thousand times better than the memory he’s been clinging to for months. one finger at first, then two, slipping inside you with an easy, familiar glide.

the feeling of him stretching you, filling you, makes another low moan rumble in your chest, and you press yourself down onto his hand, a silent, shameless offering. he groans at the feeling, the feeling he’s been chasing in his own hand for weeks.

he starts to move, and at the same time, he starts to grind against you. his erection, thick and hard and straining against the thin fabric of his sweatpants, presses against your thigh, a steady, rhythmic friction that makes your head spin.

you can feel the heat of him, the sheer size of him, and the promise of it makes a low, needy whine escape your throat. every time you whine, every little desperate sound you make, he grinds a little harder, his fingers moving a little faster, a cruel, perfect feedback loop of pleasure.

his fingers move with an impossible, dizzying speed, a frantic, desperate rhythm that mirrors the chaos in his head. he finds that perfect spot inside you, the one that makes your toes curl, and he starts to work it, a relentless, focused assault. he adds his thumb to the mix, a rough, calloused pressure against your clit, and the combination is devastating.

your hips start to buck against his hand, actively trying to fuck his fingers, to grind your clit raw against the rough pad of his thumb. the pleasure is too much, a sharp, white-hot wire coiling tight and low in your belly, making your legs tremble uncontrollably.

a constant, broken stream of noise is torn from your throat—high, needy whines and choked, sob-like gasps of his name, “satoru, satoru, fuck—” the sounds are ugly, shameless, and a flash of mortification cuts through the haze. your free hand flies up, slapping over your mouth to stifle the next pathetic cry.

but his reflexes are faster. he snatches your wrist, his grip like a steel manacle, and yanks your hand away from your face, pinning it flat to the wall beside your head.

“no,” he growls, his voice a low, guttural command that vibrates through the wall and into your skull. he leans in, his hot breath ghosting over your ear. “you don’t get to hide from me. i want to hear every fucking ugly sound you make. i’ve been jerking off to the memory of these sounds for months.”

a sharp, shocked gasp is torn from your throat. your hips slam down hard onto his hand, a single, involuntary thrust, and your inner walls give a deep, fluttering pulse against his knuckles.

he feels it. a low, dark chuckle rumbles in his chest, the sound of pure, smug victory. “oh, you like that?” he murmurs, his thumb, which had been part of the frantic rhythm, suddenly slowing, pressing and grinding against your clit in a single, deliberate, torturous circle. “my needy little mess. getting all hot and bothered hearing about how i use you in my head. it’s not enough, though. the memories aren’t the real thing.”

his fingers inside you shift. instead of pumping, they press upwards, his knuckles finding that sensitive, swollen spot deep inside you and just holding, a firm, unwavering pressure that sends a dizzying shockwave through your entire system. a high, broken whine is torn from your throat.

“you know what’s even better than the memories?” he asks, his voice a low, filthy secret against your ear, while his thumb continues its relentless, circular assault. “your music video. yeah, that one. the one where you’re systematically dismantling my heart on a global scale.”

your whole body tenses, a wave of pure, exquisite humiliation washing over you.

“the part on the beach,” he continues, his voice a rough purr. “in that little white linen thing.” he pauses, and you can feel the smirk in his voice as he presses his knuckles just a little bit harder. “i was so fucking pissed watching it. and so fucking hard. you weren’t wearing anything underneath, were you? you never do at the beach.”

the intimate, secret detail, spoken aloud while he holds you pinned on the edge of a climax, is what finally makes you break. your entire body convulses, a choked, sob-like sound ripping from your throat as your hips start to move again, a desperate, mindless rocking against his unmoving hand, trying to create your own friction. you’re completely lost to it.

“that’s it,” he growls, his own control fraying. his hand finally starts to move again, a new, brutal rhythm. his fingers scissor inside you, stretching you, opening you up in a way that’s a completely different kind of overwhelming pleasure, while his thumb never leaves its relentless, circular assault on your clit. your moans get louder, higher, more desperate, shameless sounds of pure need.

and then he stops.

his fingers, buried to the knuckles inside your soaking cunt, go dead still. your inner walls, already spasming in anticipation, clench down hard around his motionless fingers. a raw, frustrated whine rips from the back of your throat. your eyes snap open, glaring, a petulant fire flashing in their depths before clouding over with that pathetic, desperate need he loves so much.

a slow, soft, fucking smirk touches his lips. his free hand comes up, his thumb gently stroking the tear track on your cheek, the pad of it coming away wet.

“what was that, princess?” his voice is a low, intimate purr. his other thumb, still slick with your fluid and pressed hard against your throbbing clit, makes a single, slow, deliberate circle. a sharp, broken gasp parts your lips on a silent plea. your hips buck hard against the tiny movement. “you want something? use your words for me. i need to hear you.”

“you’re a pervert,” you breathe, the accusation completely lacking any real heat, just a shaky, breathless statement of fact. “thinking about… that. while you watched my video.”

a slow, smug, triumphant grin spreads across his face. he doesn’t deny it. he revels in it. “am i?” he purrs, his voice a low, intimate rumble. “i’m not the one who’s completely falling apart right now.” to prove his point, his thumb grinds another slow, deliberate circle into your clit, and another gush of your slick leaks around his fingers, hot and thick, your body betraying you completely. “look at this mess. all because you found out a little secret.”

his tongue darts out, tracing the delicate shell of your ear, and a violent shiver wracks your whole body. his voice drops to a whisper, his hot breath ghosting against your skin. “you love it. you love knowing you make me this pathetic. now stop being a brat and earn it. beg for my fingers, right here, inside your cunt. ask me nicely.”

your jaw clenches so tight a muscle jumps under your skin. he knows exactly what to do. his fingers hook inside you, and at the same time, his thumb grinds a hard circle into your clit. a tiny, brutal movement that makes your body break.

a loud, shameless sob of a moan is torn from your throat, your eyes squeezing shut. there it is. the sweet little sound of his brat giving in.

“please,” you sob, the word thick with spit and desperation. “please, satoru. please, i need to… please…”

his smirk widens softly, almost fond. his own breath hitches. fuck, he missed this. “good girl,” he whispers, the words a rough, awestruck sound. his hand is a fucking blur. a punishing, piston-like rhythm begins.

two fingers pumping in and out, brutal and deep, while his thumb grinds your clit into a raw, throbbing nub. his hips start grinding against your thigh, his own thick, hard cock a constant, torturous promise against your leg.

your back arches off the wall as he pushes you harder, right to that dizzying edge. your voice cracks, degrading into a series of broken, pathetic mewls, his name a constant, breathy noise ripped from your throat.

a fresh gush of your slick soaks his hand, so much that it drips down his wrist. your inner muscles start to flutter around his knuckles. you’re about to come all over his hand.

and then he stops again.

the stillness is even more brutal this time. your body, already convulsing, seizes up. a choked, frustrated cry rips from your throat.

your hips keep trying to buck against his motionless hand, a frantic, mindless rhythm your body can’t stop, but his other hand clamps down on your hip bone, a firm, unyielding anchor pinning you to the wall, holding you still for his torment. hot tears stream down your face. he gently thumbs them away, his eyes fixed on your mouth, now open and slack.

“not yet,” he murmurs, his voice a low, soothing caress against your cheek. he’s panting now, his own cock aching in his pants. “i’m not done looking at you like this.” he leans in, his whisper a hot caress against your ear. “your pretty little cunt spasming around my fingers, trying to milk me. so greedy for it. now, use your words for me. you know what to do.”

a raw, frustrated, and deeply petulant sound rips from your throat. “i did!” you whine, the words a thick, angry sob. “i already said please! what more do you want from me?!”

a slow, condescending, and utterly delighted smirk touches his lips. he loves this. he loves when you try to fight him, even when you’re this far gone. he leans in again, his voice a low, patient purr, as if explaining a very simple rule to a very stupid, very pretty pet.

“‘please’?” he echoes, his thumb making a single, slow, deliberate circle against your clit that makes your hips give a violent, involuntary jerk against his restraining hand. “princess, ‘please’ is for asking for another glass of water. it’s not for this.” he looks you right in the eye, his gaze dark and intense. “i don’t want you to be polite. i want you to be a fucking mess. you know the word i need. the ugly one. the one that tells me you’re not just asking, you’re completely falling apart for it. say the word, baby.”

your mind scrambles, trying to find one last shred of defiance, one last smart-ass comment to throw at him. “what word…?” you manage, your voice a thin, reedy thing. “pretty please?”

a slow, dark, fucking dangerous smirk touches his lips. that was a mistake. his fingers inside you, which had been still, suddenly hook, and he drags them once, a slow, brutal scrape against that raw, swollen, perfect spot deep inside you.

it’s not pleasure. it’s a full-body, electric shock that short-circuits your brain and shatters your last bit of resistance into a million pieces. a loud, shameless sob is torn from your throat, your entire body going rigid for a second before completely breaking.

“please—fuck, satoru, it hurts, please just let me—” you sob, the words a jumbled, broken mess. “i need to come, i need it, please just fuck my cunt with your fingers, please i’m begging you, i’ll do anything…”

his grin is feral, but his eyes are soft with a deep, possessive fondness. he loves this. he loves you like this. “i know,” he says, and the two words are a promise and a threat, a confirmation that he heard your surrender and is about to reward you for it.

your thighs shake against his arm, the muscles quivering so uncontrollably it’s a miracle you’re still standing. his hand is a blur, a punishing, piston-like rhythm that feels less like pleasure and more like a frantic, desperate attempt to erase the last few weeks from existence. .

he hooks his fingers deeper, drags your g-spot directly across his knuckles with every brutal pump, while his thumb grinds your clit into a raw, throbbing, oversensitive nub. the pleasure is so sharp it’s almost pain, a white-hot wire coiling tight and low in your belly, making you see stars behind your closed eyelids.

your voice, which had been a series of pathetic mewls, finally gives out completely. the sound degrades into a thin, reedy keen, a high-pitched, hopeless noise that’s not quite a scream, not quite a sob, just the pure, unfiltered sound of a body being pushed past its absolute limit.

another gush of your slick, so much that it runs hot and thick down your own thigh, soaks his hand, his wrist. he feels your cunt contract violently around his knuckles, a frantic, desperate, pulsing rhythm that signals you’re right there, on the precipice of a climax so powerful you’re not sure you’ll survive it. this is it. he promised.

and for the third, and most brutal time, he freezes.

this time, the silence is a physical blow. you don’t even have the energy to whine in protest. a single, ragged, broken sob is torn from your throat as your body gives a violent, full-body twitch. your hips give a few weak, mindless rocks against his motionless hand, a pathetic, instinctual attempt to find the friction that has vanished. hot, silent tears stream down your face, not from sadness, but from pure, devastating frustration and sensory overload.

he leans his forehead against yours, his own breathing harsh and unsteady, the muscles in his jaw tight with the strain of his own denial. he watches as your pupils, blown wide and black, slowly, painfully, try to focus on him. you look completely undone. empty.

“look at you,” he whispers, and his voice is full of a strange, possessive reverence, the sound of a man witnessing a miracle of his own creation. “so fucking beautiful like this.” his thumb comes up, gently stroking the wet track of a tear on your cheek. “this is the real you, isn’t it? not the girl on the posters. this messy, crying, completely shameless girl who falls apart for me. this is the one i get.”

he closes the tiny space between you, his lips brushing yours, so close but not kissing you, another small, perfect cruelty. “your voice…” he continues, his voice a low, intimate murmur against your mouth. “everyone in the world pays millions to hear you sing those pretty, perfect words. but this sound…”

he pauses, letting the weight of his words sink in, his gaze devouring you. “this ugly, broken little keen you were just making? that’s mine. that’s the sound no one else will ever hear. that’s the price of admission for breaking my heart, baby. i get this part of you. forever.”

a tiny, broken sound escapes your lips, a pathetic, desperate plea. “please…”

that’s all he needs. the sound of that single, shattered word is his final permission. he gives you a final, brutal push, a punishing, piston-like rhythm designed to shatter you, his own breath coming in harsh gasps. he works you over, his fingers a relentless assault, until your body is convulsing again, the violent spasm of your orgasm finally, truly beginning to take you.

your inner walls clench and unclench around his knuckles in a frantic, desperate rhythm. a long, keening note of pure, unrestrained pleasure builds in your throat, a hopeless, reedy sound threatening to shatter.

and right as that first true wave of pleasure hits, he rips his fingers out of you.

the sound is a wet, slick pop that echoes in the sudden, shocking silence. the climax is stolen, a brutal theft that leaves a hollow, aching void where the light was about to break.

your back slams against the wall as your body convulses around nothing. your hips keep bucking, a frantic, pathetic, mindless rhythm, chasing the ghost of his touch, your cunt spasming on empty air. a raw, animalistic keen is torn from your throat—not a sound of protest, but of pure, thwarted instinct, the sound of a creature whose very soul has been denied.

“look at me,” he commands, his voice a low, rough growl.

you force your heavy eyelids open, your vision blurry with tears of pure frustration. he’s fumbling with the drawstring of his sweatpants, his eyes never leaving yours, a desperate, hungry look on his face. he pushes them down, just enough, and he’s free. the dim light catches the glint of metal first—a familiar, brutalist glint of polished titanium.

he is, as you remembered with a sharp, visceral pang, big. so thick and long and impossibly, beautifully, him, made even more intimidating by the barbell that pierces him vertically, a deliberate, beautiful weapon you know all too well.

he doesn’t wait. he doesn’t ask. your hips give another pathetic, involuntary twitch, and that’s all the invitation he needs. he positions himself at your entrance, the blunt, hot tip of him pressing against your slick, throbbing folds.

and he pushes into you. all at once.

the initial invasion is a deep, soul-shattering stretch that fills you completely, but it’s the second, more subtle impact that detonates you. as he drives in, the small, cool, heavy bead of metal at the base of his cockhead slides past your g-spot, a specific, targeted pressure that your body remembers on a cellular level. the feeling of being so completely, utterly filled by him, punctuated by that perfect, brutal little point of contact after being denied for so long, is what does it.

your orgasm hits you like a lightning strike. a hot, flooding gush of your own slick erupts from you, not a leak but a shameless, undeniable fountain that soaks his cock, his thighs, the floor beneath you.

your whole body seizes, your inner muscles clamping down on him and the cool, unyielding metal in a series of violent, exquisite spasms, a greedy, desperate fist milking him dry before he’s even started. a long, keening moan is torn from your throat, your voice cracking on his name, degrading into a series of helpless, breathy whimpers.

it’s the sound he’s been chasing in his dreams for weeks, and the reality of it, coupled with the hot, slick feeling of your body coming apart and gushing all over him, is a thousand times more potent.

he groans, a low, guttural sound torn from the depths of his chest, his own control strained to its absolute limit. he hadn’t even started moving yet. a fresh wave of dark, possessive pride washes over him, so potent it makes his head spin.

“fuck,” he breathes against your temple, his voice a rough, reverent whisper, full of awe and dark pride. he nuzzles into your hair, inhaling your scent. “that little metal bastard still does the trick, huh?” he murmurs, his tone a mix of smug satisfaction and genuine wonder. “didn’t even last a second. just gushed all over my cock the moment i was home.” he presses a soft, lingering kiss to your skin, right where a tear track is still damp. “wrote a whole song about how you didn’t want me, and you fall apart the second you feel me inside you. my perfect, needy girl.”

he expects you to go limp, to ride out the aftershocks.

but you don’t.

your body is still trembling, your inner muscles fluttering weakly around the length of him, but it’s not enough. you’re not done. a low, needy whine escapes your throat, and your hips begin to move. it’s sloppy, a desperate rock against him, a mindless, greedy attempt to get that perfect pressure again. your body, on pure instinct, is already chasing the next orgasm, even as the last one still shudders through you.

a slow, dark, fucking triumphant grin spreads across his face.

“look at you,” he murmurs, the words a low, reverent growl. he leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice a hot, filthy secret. “no self-control at all when it comes to this, do you? my perfect, greedy girl.”

his hands clamp down hard on your hips, anchoring you. he pulls back, just an inch, the thick head of his cock and the cool weight of the metal dragging with an obscene, delicious friction along your swollen, hypersensitive inner walls, before thrusting back in.

“we’re just getting started,” he promises against your mouth, his lips finding yours again in a slow, deep kiss that’s less about passion and more about branding you as his.

and then he starts to move.

it’s a frantic, needy, unfinished rhythm. every punishing thrust is a word he couldn’t say. he lifts you higher against the wall, your legs wrapped tight around his waist, and the sound of your wet, slick bodies slapping against each other is a brutal, obscene rhythm in the quiet of the house.

with every deep plunge, the top bead of the apadravya creates an entirely separate, maddening friction against your clit, a constant, dizzying buzz of pleasure that layers on top of the overwhelming fullness.

you meet every one of his thrusts with a desperate, hungry tilt of your own hips, chasing the feeling, trying to grind yourself raw against the metal. he pulls back, his cock almost slipping out of you, and you cry out in protest, your hips chasing him. he grins, a feral, wicked thing, before slamming back into you, all the way to the hilt, burying the piercing so deep you feel it nudge your cervix.

“like that?” he growls in your ear, his voice a low, rough purr. “want me to go deeper?”

you can only manage a sobbed “yes,” the word a broken, shameless thing.

he’s about to lose it. the pleasure is a hot, tight coil in his gut, but he’s not ready. not yet. he pulls back again, his hand coming to rest on your stomach, his thumb pressing down lightly, right over your womb. “you on the pill?” he asks, his voice a low, serious rumble.

he watches your eyes, wide and hazy with pleasure, as you give a breathless, eager shake of your head.

a dark, dangerous look flashes in his eyes, a look of profound, unholy purpose. “good,” he says, his voice a low, possessive growl. the rhythm changes completely. he drives into you with a punishing depth, every thrust a clear, unhinged attempt to ram his cock and the hard bead of metal so deep inside you that he touches your soul.

the thought of breeding you, of filling you with his child, of leaving a mark on you that no song or contract could ever erase, sends a fresh wave of adrenaline through him.

the intensity pushes him over. his balls tighten, an agonizing, familiar warning that he’s close. but he won’t. not yet.

he grits his teeth, a low snarl escaping his lips as he forces a new, torturous rhythm. he pulls out of you slowly, almost all the way, the thick head of his cock and the cool metal dragging with an obscene friction along your swollen, sensitive inner walls. you whimper, a high, pathetic sound, and try to chase him with your hips.

he just grins, a feral, wicked thing, before pushing back in, inch by agonizing inch. “fuck,” he groans against your throat, the sound half-laugh, half-snarl. his hips roll slow, cruel, the thick drag of him inside you just enough to make your head spin. “feel that? the way you clench around the metal? keep doing that and i swear you’ll have me stamped on your insides.”

you whimper, and he stills just to hear it. “oh, that’s pretty. you want me to come? you want me to fill you up so bad it leaks down your thighs?” he pulls back a fraction, then slams back to the hilt in one punishing snap. “too bad. i like you desperate. i’ll keep you right here—messy, brainless, mine—until you can’t even say your own name without choking on it.”

with that promise hanging in the air, he starts again. he finds that perfect angle, that spot deep inside you that the piercing hits just right, and he starts hammering it. the pace is punishing, relentless, his powerful thighs slamming against yours, your head thumping against the wall. he watches your face, completely wrecked, your eyes rolled back, your mouth open on a continuous, broken moan.

the build comes again, stronger this time, a hot, unstoppable wave. he gives in, letting the feeling consume him completely. his own hips become frantic, uncontrolled, slamming into you with a desperate, final urgency, driving the piercing into you over and over again.

a low, guttural groan is torn from the depths of his chest as the first pulse of his orgasm hits him. he keeps fucking you, harder, faster, pounding into you as his climax rips through him. he feels the first hot, thick jet of his come shoot deep inside you, coating your cervix

you moan as your own orgasm finally crashes over you, triggered by the dual, overwhelming sensation of the piercing hammering your g-spot while he floods your womb. he keeps pounding, driving his softening cock into your spasming inner walls, pushing his seed in deeper with every last, desperate thrust until he’s completely, utterly empty inside you.

he collapses against you, his forehead pressed to yours, his entire body trembling with the force of his release. he stays buried deep inside you, his cock still twitching, the sticky heat of his come pooling in your womb, the faint, cool pressure of the metal bead a final, possessive brand against your cervix.

he pulls out of you with a wet, reluctant pop. the sudden emptiness makes your knees buckle, your whole body going slack. he catches you before you can slide down the wall, his arms strong and sure around you, scooping you up into his chest.

a soft, exhausted sound escapes your lips, a broken little sigh of pure, boneless surrender. you bury your face in the crook of his neck, your entire frame trembling with the lingering aftershocks of your release, inhaling the familiar, intoxicating scent of his skin and his sweat. he carries you, his steps sure and steady, across the living room to the huge, plush sofa.

he gently lowers you onto the soft cushions, letting you sink into them, your body a boneless, quivering mess. he stays standing, towering over you for a moment, his presence a solid, possessive shadow in the dim light. the air is thick with the scent of sex and sweat and his come, a primal, intimate perfume that fills the entire room.

he reaches up, hooks two fingers into the collar of his gray hoodie—the hoodie—and pulls it over his head in one smooth, powerful motion, tossing it aside with a careless grace.

and you just stare. your breath catches.

he’s shirtless now, his skin gleaming in the dim light. and the art that covers the left side of his torso is a sprawling, breathtaking masterpiece, a river of black ink and vibrant, almost violent red. you’ve seen it a thousand times, traced it with your fingertips until you fell asleep, but seeing it now, after everything, makes your chest ache with a fresh, sharp pang of longing.

a magnificent, serpentine dragon, its scales a thousand tiny, intricate strokes of black and grey ink, coils possessively over his shoulder and across the hard plane of his pectoral. woven through and around the fierce beast are three enormous peonies, exploding in soft, decadent blooms of rich, feverish red. and hidden there, tucked away in the delicate, overlapping veins of a single peony petal, right over his heart, is your initial. a tiny, secret brand he wears over his heart.

your eyes trace the familiar path down his body, following the dragon’s tail as it disappears, and then find the second piece. a cascade of black and blood-red characters runs vertically down the hard, chiseled lines of his obliques. it’s not a neat, precise script— it’s calligraphy, painted onto his skin with a wild, deliberate energy.

“you tore my dress,” you mumble, your voice hoarse and raw, your eyes still lost in the ink on his skin.

“yeah,” he says, his voice a low, cocky rumble. he kneels on the floor in front of you then, bringing his face level with yours. he presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to your collarbone, his stubble a delicious, rough scrape against your sensitive skin. “i’ll buy you ten,” he murmurs against your skin, his hands finding the ruined straps of your dress. “but this one’s done.”

his touch is completely different now. there’s no frantic, angry tearing. his movements are slow, deliberate, almost worshipful. his calloused fingertips brush against your shoulders as he gently pushes the shredded fabric down your arms. the dress bunches at your waist, and his hands follow, his palms warm against your skin as he pushes the ruined garment down over the curve of your hips, down your trembling thighs, until it pools in a sad, silky heap at your ankles. he kicks it away with his foot.

you’re completely naked now, exposed to him in the dim, forgiving light of the villa. he just stays there, kneeling, his eyes roaming over you, a slow, possessive inventory. his expression is unreadable, his eyes dark and hungry, and you can see his cock, already hard again, thick and heavy against the fabric of his sweatpants.

you reach out, your hand closing around his bicep, and pull. it’s a weak, pathetic tug, your body still a boneless, quivering mess, but it’s enough. it’s an invitation. he lets you guide him, allows you to pull him down to sit on the sofa beside you, the heat of his bare, inked skin a searing, welcome brand against your own.

he leans in, and the kiss is different this time. the raw, punishing anger that had driven the earlier ones is gone, melted into something slower, deeper, almost reverent.

his mouth moves over yours with a languid hunger, lips soft but insistent, parting you open with an ease that feels both tender and obscene. his tongue slips past your lips, unhurried but thorough, sweeping through your mouth like he’s savoring every inch.

his hands wander restlessly, unable to stay still. one slides up your spine, broad palm flattening against the small of your back to hold you closer, pressing you flush against the hard planes of his body.

the other roams lower, fingers tracing the dip of your waist before curling possessively over the swell of your hip, thumb stroking the sensitive ridge of bone there as though he’s memorizing it all over again. he squeezes, not rough, but firm enough to leave the ghost of his grip behind, grounding you in the reality of his touch.

he kisses you like he’s starving, like air is secondary, and when he finally tilts his head to deepen the angle, your breath catches, a dizzy rush flooding your chest. the wet heat of his mouth, the slow, filthy drag of his tongue against yours, the faint nip of his teeth at your lower lip before he soothes it with another open-mouthed slide—every second pulls you deeper into him, leaves you weak and shuddering, leaves you tasting nothing but him.

it’s a long, consuming kiss—loving in its slowness, filthy in its thoroughness—that leaves you lightheaded, lips bruised, chest heaving, and utterly wrecked in the best way.

he lets you, his body pliant under yours, his hands resting loosely at his sides. he’s giving you the illusion of control, and you both know it. it’s a game you’ve played a thousand times.

you brace your hands on his broad, hard chest, feeling the solid muscle flex under your palms. his skin is hot and slick with a thin sheen of sweat. slowly, with an agonizing lack of haste, you lower yourself onto his waiting cock.

it’s a familiar terror, a delicious, breathtaking moment you know by heart. you feel the blunt, heavy head of him stretch you open first, a deep, overwhelming pressure that makes you gasp. it’s the sheer, soul-stealing fullness of him, the feeling of your body making way for his size. and then, as you sink lower, comes the secondary shock: the single, sharp point of pressure as the bottom bead of his apadravya finds your clit, followed by the slow, brutal slide of the top bead past your g-spot. a helpless, broken moan escapes your lips at the dual sensation.

a low, guttural groan is torn from his throat, a sound of profound, soul-deep relief. he fills you completely, stretching you in a way that is both a sweet, familiar ache and an exquisite, overwhelming pleasure. his head falls back against the sofa cushions, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment, surrendering to the sensation of being so completely enveloped by you, of feeling your inner walls clenching not just on metal, but on the thick, hard shaft of him.

you set a slow, deliberate rhythm. it’s a complex, two-part motion you know he loves: a deep, downward press to take every last inch of his length, feeling the stretch and the overwhelming fullness, followed by a slow, circular grind of your hips designed to drag the top bead across that perfect, swollen spot deep inside you. you milk a soft groan from him with every roll. you watch his face, a work of art in the dim light. his ocean eyes are heavy-idded and dark with a lust so potent it’s almost black, fixed on yours. a muscle feathers in his jaw as he fights for control.

his hands come up with a touch surprisingly gentle as they find your breasts. he cups the heavy, sensitive flesh, his thumbs stroking your already-aching nipples into hard, tight points. he leans forward, his hot breath ghosting over your skin a second before his mouth closes over one nipple. he suckles, a gentle, rhythmic pull that sends a bright, sharp jolt of pleasure straight from your breast to your core, where your inner muscles clench around the entire thick circumference of him.

“ah—fuck,” he groans against your skin, the vibration of his voice a delicious buzz against your chest. he knows exactly what that felt like.

you arch into him, a silent offering, your rhythm becoming a little deeper, a little more purposeful. he gets the message. his suckling becomes more insistent, his other hand coming up to mirror the action, gently pinching and rolling your other nipple between his thumb and forefinger. the combination is dizzying, a sweet, overwhelming torture that has a low, continuous whine building in the back of your throat.

this is it. this is the intimacy. him, completely focused, completely devoted to your pleasure, while you hold all the power.

you lean down, letting your hair fall forward, creating a soft, private curtain around your faces. you look him right in the eye, your hips still grinding down, feeling the deep, perfect pressure of both him and his piercing. a slow, wicked, and deeply fond smile touches your lips.

“look at you,” you whisper, the words a low, mocking, teasing purr, meant to be an endearment. “so completely focused. it's adorable. someone's a little obsessed with me, aren't they?”

it’s the wrong word.

it works like a switch being flipped, plunging the room into a sudden, dangerous darkness.

his mouth releases you with a soft, wet pop. his head snaps up, his eyes flying open to lock with yours. the heavy-lidded haze is gone, replaced by a look of sharp, dangerous clarity. his hands, which had been so gentle, suddenly clamp down on your hips, his grip firm, possessive, his fingers digging into your soft flesh. he’s pinning you in place, still buried to the hilt inside you, but the lazy game is over.

“yeah,” he moans, the word a raw, guttural thing. his hips buck up once, a single, involuntary, punishing thrust that drives his entire thick cock deeper, the piercing a final, brutal punctuation mark that steals a shocked gasp from your lips. he stares at you, his eyes burning with a dark, possessive fire that makes your heart hammer against your ribs. “so what.”

a deep, hot flush immediately floods your skin, starting in your chest and creeping up your neck to the tips of your ears. your breath hitches in your throat.

he reaches for his phone. the movement is casual, almost lazy, but it shifts the entire atmosphere. his cock is still buried deep inside you, the sheer size of him a thick, hot anchor, but his attention is suddenly elsewhere. he unlocks it with his thumb, the cool, clinical light of the screen casting his face in sharp, alien angles.

“what are you doing?” you breathe, your lazy, rolling hips faltering for a second. a thrill, dark and dangerous, snakes down your spine. you know that look in his eye.

“research,” he says, his voice a low, smug purr that vibrates from his chest, through your hands, and into your bones. he opens instagram. his thumb scrolls with a practiced, deliberate slowness, and you feel a strange, hot flush of humiliation and excitement knowing he’s about to bring the whole ugly world into this secret, sacred space. he finds what he’s looking for.

“satoru gojo isn’t serving golden retriever anymore, he’s serving pathetic. it’s embarrassing.”

he reads it out loud, his voice a low, mocking drawl, savoring each syllable. his eyes, sharp and impossibly blue, flick up from the screen to meet yours. you’re still moving on him, a slow, defiant grind, your chin tilted up, but a nervous blush is creeping up your neck.

“am i being pathetic, princess?” he asks, his voice soft, almost conversational. “is this embarrassing for you?” he doesn’t wait for an answer. his free hand comes up, fast and sure, and smacks your ass. hard.

the sound is a loud, sharp crack that echoes in the quiet room, brutally loud against the soft sounds of your fucking. a white-hot sting explodes across your skin. your rhythm shatters. a sharp, broken gasp is torn from your throat as your whole body jolts, your hips slamming down on him involuntarily. you lose your balance for a second, your upper body collapsing forward, your forehead bumping against his shoulder as your inner muscles seize around his cock, the pressure of the piercing a sudden, sharp shock deep inside you.

he groans, a deep, guttural sound of pure, possessive satisfaction torn from the depths of his chest, his own hips bucking up once against his will. a slow, triumphant, and utterly condescending grin spreads across his face. he looks down at you, a crumpled, gasping mess, and his voice is a low, smug purr, laced with honey and poison.

“funny,” he murmurs, lifting his hand—the one that just struck you—to gently, almost patronizingly, trace the line of your jaw. “the internet thinks i’m pathetic, but your cunt just tried to swallow me whole.” he tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. “doesn’t seem so embarrassing from down here, does it, baby?”

his thumb is already scrolling. he finds another comment. “someone needs to put a leash on him. spank him, maybe.”

he looks at you, a wicked glint in his eye. you can see the anticipation on his face, and your own body betrays you with a visible flinch, your hips stuttering in their renewed, shaky rhythm. he sees it. he loves it. “what do you think? do i need a leash? or do you?”

he doesn’t wait for your answer. he does it again. another hard, stinging smack, right on the soft, fleshy part of your other cheek, perfectly symmetrical. this time, you’re ready for it, and the sound you make is different—a high, helpless whine that’s equal parts pain and pleasure. your rhythm doesn’t break, but it becomes messy, uncoordinated, your hips moving in a sloppy, desperate circle that tells him you’re losing control.

“keep moving, baby,” he says, his voice a low, rough command. his gaze isn't on the phone anymore— it's fixed, with a hot, possessive intensity, on your flushed, tear-streaked face. “you’re in charge, remember? fuck yourself on my cock while i read.” he leans in, his voice dropping to a low, smug purr. “i bet you’re already turning red for me back there. let’s see if we can make your face match.”

you obey, not because you want to, but because your body has no other choice. your hips find a new, faster rhythm, a desperate, hungry pace as you chase the building pleasure, grinding yourself down on his thick cock, the piercing a constant, perfect point of pressure deep inside you. he finds another comment. “lmao he’s probably crying into a pillow rn writing another sad song about her.”

he chuckles, a low, dark sound that vibrates deep in his chest. “am i crying into a pillow?” he asks, his free hand coming up to your breast, his long fingers cool against your flushed skin. he doesn’t caress it. his fingers close around your nipple, just between his thumb and forefinger, and pinch, a sharp, electric sting that makes you cry out, a surprised, breathy sound. “no. but you are, aren’t you?”

your eyes are wet, you realize, a single hot tear spilling over and tracing a path down your temple. his other hand comes up, the rough pad of his thumb gently, almost reverently, brushing it away, his touch a shocking, tender contrast to the sharp pain still radiating from your breast.

“that’s it,” he whispers, his voice a strange, intoxicating mix of condescending praise and genuine awe. “the whole world wants to see you smile. me? i think you’re prettiest when you’re a fucking wreck for me. keep moving.”

the dizzying whiplash of it all makes your head swim. you start to move again, faster this time, your inner walls clenching and unclenching around him with every deep, downward thrust.

he finds another comment. “he’s so soft for her, a total simp.”

a slow, amused smirk touches his lips. “soft?” he echoes, the word a purr of pure disbelief. his hand returns to your breast, this time closing around the entire soft weight of it, squeezing, just a little too hard. your hips falter. then, his thumb and forefinger find your other nipple and give it a sharp, punishing twist. a shocked, helpless cry is torn from your lips as your body freezes for a second, completely overwhelmed.

“doesn’t feel very soft from where i’m sitting,” he whispers, his voice a low, satisfied growl. “feels like you’re the one falling apart.” he watches another tear trace a path down your face before wiping it away. “look at you, leaking for me. from your eyes, from your cunt. all for me. fuck yourself stupid for me. now.”

he finds another comment. “she would never. she’s too clean for him. a good girl.”

he laughs. a genuine, sharp, delighted sound. “clean? a good girl?” he asks, his gaze dropping to where you’re joined, to the wet, slick mess you’ve made of his lap. “doesn’t look very clean from here, princess. looks like a fucking mess. my mess.”

his hand, the one that had been on your breast, slides down your stomach, his long fingers tracing a line of fire over your skin. he doesn’t go for your clit. instead, they find the sensitive, quivering muscles of your inner thigh, right where it meets your hip, and he digs his fingertips in, a sharp, almost painful pressure.

you gasp, the unexpected sensation making you try to pull away, a futile gesture while he’s buried deep inside you.

“doesn’t feel very good, either. feels like you’re exactly where you belong.” he punctuates the last word with another hard, open-palmed smack to your already-reddened ass, the sound a sharp crack in the room. the combination of the sharp pressure in your thigh and the sting on your ass is too much. your controlled rhythm breaks completely, degrading into a frantic, mindless bucking on his cock.

“fuck,” he groans, his own hips bucking up hard to meet yours. “just like that. again.”

he keeps going, a relentless, beautiful, brutal assault. he reads another comment, something about you being an “untainted angel,” and his only response is to reach up with both hands, his fingers tangling in your hair at the scalp, twisting until he has a firm grip, and yanking your head back.

the sharp pull forces a cry from you, your back arching, the long column of your throat completely exposed to him. at the exact same time, he thrusts his hips up, a single, brutal, punishing movement that feels like it’s going to split you in two, the piercing a final, devastating blow deep inside.

“break for me, angel,” he whispers, his voice a low, rough command against your exposed throat.

you come apart on his cock, a long, keening, shuddering climax. there’s no scream, just a high, broken moan that cracks and dissolves into a series of helpless, breathy sobs. your body seizes, your inner walls spasming violently around him, milking him with a desperate, greedy rhythm. your head is still thrown back, held in his tight grip, your back arched off his lap, your body a taut, trembling bow being played by a master.

he just holds you there, his hips still, letting you convulse on his cock, watching your wrecked, beautiful expression with a look of pure, possessive victory.

when the last tremor finally subsides, he lets go of your hair and kisses the tears from your face. “good girl,” he whispers. “that was a good start.”

you don’t think you can move. your body is a boneless, quivering mess. you try to collapse against his chest, to hide, but he just waits, his cock still hard and buried deep inside you. you’re not done. he’s not done.

“come on, baby,” he coos, his voice a low, soft murmur against the shell of your ear, a sweet poison that bypasses thought and goes straight to your nerves. “don’t stop now. just a little more for me.” slowly, shakily, you start to move again, your rhythm sloppy and weak, a pathetic little rock on his lap.

he finds another comment. “he’s probably got a whole folder of her pics he jerks off to every night.”

he grins, a feral, sharp-edged thing. he leans in close, his lips brushing against your ear. “a folder?” he asks, his voice a low, intimate growl that sends a fresh shiver down your spine. “why would i need a cheap copy when i’ve got the masterpiece right here, on my cock, crying and falling apart for me? this is better than a picture, isn’t it?”

he doesn’t wait for an answer. his hand finds your ass again, another hard slap that makes you cry out and clench around him. “isn’t it?” he insists.

“yes,” you sob, the word a broken, shameless admission.

“good,” he says. he brings you to another, even more intense orgasm, his fingers and his words a relentless battery on your senses. you’re crying, not from pain, but from the sheer, overwhelming, humiliating pleasure of it all. your body is so sensitive that even the brush of his thumb against your hip is enough to send a fresh shockwave through you.

you try to collapse, to stop, to find an end to the endless pleasure, but he won’t let you. “you’re not done yet,” he says, his voice a low, non-negotiable command. “one more for me. make it pretty.”

you can barely move, your legs trembling so hard they can’t support you. you manage a few weak, pathetic thrusts on his cock, your body completely spent. it’s not enough for him. not even close.

he reaches up, his large hand closing around the soft flesh of your throat. his grip is firm, not enough to choke, but enough to own. his thumb presses against the frantic, fluttering pulse at the base of your neck. he watches your eyes widen, a flicker of fear and excitement in their hazy depths.

“i said, make it pretty,” he growls, his voice a low, dangerous command. he uses his grip on your throat as a handle, his other hand clamping down hard on your hip, anchoring you to him. and then he starts to move, using his own powerful hips and his grip on you to lift your body up and slam you back down onto his cock.

the motion is brutal, a deliberate, punishing bounce. it’s not you riding him anymore— he is riding you on his cock. with every downward slam, he feels the thick head of his cock smash into you, the piercing a merciless, perfect weapon against your g-spot. he feels you stretch, feels you clench, feels the wet, slick heat of you envelop him. the sound is a wet, obscene slap of skin on skin, a rhythm he dictates completely.

he watches your face. he watches the shock melt into a dazed, mindless pleasure. he watches your eyes lose focus completely, the pupils blown wide and black, staring at nothing. he watches your mouth fall open on a silent, broken o, a thin string of saliva connecting your lips as you pant. you are completely his, a doll he is fucking into oblivion, and the sight is the most beautiful, intoxicating thing he has ever seen.

he starts slow, a deep, deliberate plunge that makes you whimper, then he quickens the pace. he starts hammering into you, his hips a relentless, powerful piston, bouncing you on his cock harder and faster. he feels your thighs, trembling and weak, start to fail. he just tightens his grip on your hip, holding you in place, forcing you to take it.

“that’s it, baby,” he grunts, his own control starting to fray. the feeling of your cunt, so hot and wet, clenching around his cock with every forced bounce is pushing him closer to the edge. “so good for me. take it. take all of it.”

he watches the exact moment the pleasure becomes too much for you. your back arches like a bow, your breasts pushed out, your nipples hard, aching points. a long, keening cry is torn from your throat, a beautiful, broken sound of pure, unrestrained release. and he feels it. he feels your inner walls spasm violently around his cock, a frantic, desperate, pulsing grip that milks him, threatening to pull his own orgasm from him.

his own control is a frayed rope, his cock aching and ready to burst, but he holds on, gritting his teeth. he wants to watch you. he wants to feel every last tremor of your climax while he’s still hard and deep inside you. he keeps up the steady, punishing rhythm, fucking you right through your orgasm, pushing you even higher.

only when the last violent tremor has faded from your body, when your inner muscles are just a weak, fluttering memory around his cock, does he finally let go of your throat.

your legs finally give out completely, your entire body going limp. you collapse onto his chest, a boneless, sobbing, quivering mess, completely and utterly spent.

the stillness settles not like peace, but like a physical weight. the only sounds in the cavernous living room are your broken, hiccupping sobs and the harsh rasp of satoru’s breathing slowly evening out beneath you. 

satoru’s brain is doing something catastrophic. the adrenaline high, the whiskey-fueled rage, the triumphant, sadistic haze—it’s all dissolving like sugar in water, leaving behind a cold, sick clarity that coils in his gut. he can feel the damp heat of your tears soaking his chest. he can see, from the corner of his eye, the faint, perfect bruises his fingers left on your hips, the angry red handprints blooming across your ass like twin blossoms of his loss of control.

your breathing is a shattered, uneven thing, and you’re clinging to him with a desperation that feels less like post-orgasm bliss and more like you’re drowning and he’s the only solid thing in a storm.

oh god. oh fuck. what did he do?

his heart gives a violent, arrhythmic lurch in his chest. this wasn’t just their usual brand of rough play. something about your tears, the raw, heartbroken sound of them, feels different. like he didn’t just break your composure—he broke something essential.

“hey,” he whispers, and his voice is nothing like the commanding growl from before. it’s hesitant, raspy with exhaustion and a growing, sick fear. his hand, the one that had held you pinned, comes up to stroke your hair, the gesture so gentle it’s almost reverent. his fingers are trembling slightly. “hey, baby, are you okay? did i hurt you? fuck, i’m sorry. i went too far, didn’t i?”

you shake your head against his neck, but the movement is weak, barely perceptible, and your sobs only get thicker, more desperate in response. he takes this as confirmation of his worst fears. a cold, sharp panic claws up his throat like a living thing.

“okay, okay, i’m sorry,” he breathes, his voice cracking, the sound of it small and lost in the big, empty room. “i’m such a fucking asshole. i just… i lost my head. the comments, and the anger, and you were there, and i…” he trails off, because there’s no excuse. there’s no justification for using your body as the anvil on which he hammered out his own emotional breakdown, no matter how much you seemed to want it. his hands are shaking now as they stroke your hair, your back, anywhere he can touch to try and soothe you. “talk to me, please. tell me what i can do. tell me how to fix this.”

“it’s not… that…” you finally manage to choke out, the words muffled and thick against his skin. you pull your head back just enough to look at him, and the sight of your face makes something inside his chest fracture. you’re a complete wreck—eyes swollen and red, cheeks streaked with tears, your lips puffy and bruised from his kisses. but it’s the expression in your eyes that hollows him out. it’s a raw, desolate heartbreak that mirrors the one he’s been living with for weeks.

“i just…” you sob, your voice cracking on every word, “i missed you so much, satoru. so fucking much.” you push yourself up slightly, your hands bracing on his chest, your own eyes wide and pleading. “i thought i’d never get to touch you again, never get to be like this with you, and i was so scared when they wouldn’t let me call you, and that fucking song was everywhere, and i saw the comments about how pathetic you looked, and i saw you at the festival and you looked right through me like i was nothing, like i was just another stanger, and i…”

your voice dissolves into another wave of tears, your whole body shaking with the force of it. “i’ve been so alone. and i missed you. i missed you so much it felt like dying every single day.”

satoru just stares at you, his brain completely short-circuiting. the relief that crashes over him is so intense it’s almost violent, stealing the air from his lungs. a sound escapes him that’s half laugh, half sob, a breathless, disbelieving noise that makes you hiccup mid-cry. his expression crumples, the arrogant mask completely gone, leaving only a raw, aching vulnerability that breaks your heart all over again.

“oh, baby,” he whispers, his voice thick with an emotion so profound it’s almost reverent. he surges up, pulling you flush against him, crushing you in a hug that feels like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together permanently. he buries his face in your hair, pressing desperate, messy kisses to your scalp, your temple, anywhere he can reach. his own eyes are burning now, hot and prickly with unshed tears. “i’m sorry. god, i’m so sorry. not for this—never for this—but for everything else. for the festival, for being so goddamn stubborn, for not fighting harder to get to you, for letting my stupid pride get in the way of—”

“don’t leave,” you mumble against his chest, your arms tightening around his neck with what little strength you have left. your voice is small and broken and so achingly vulnerable it makes his chest physically hurt. “please don’t leave me again. i can’t do it again, satoru. i can’t lose you again.”

“never,” he promises immediately, fiercely, his arms tightening around you until you can barely breathe. his voice is a low, guttural vow against your hair. “never again. you’re stuck with me now, you got that? i’m not going anywhere. they’d have to kill me first.”

he means it. every word. the thought of being separated from you again makes him feel genuinely nauseous.

his brain kicks into high gear, switching into full provider mode. he needs to take care of you. needs to fix this, fix everything. “okay, you need a bath,” he says, his voice still rough but gaining a frantic, purposeful edge. he tries to shift you gently, to see your face properly. “and water. lots of water. and food—when’s the last time you ate something? you’re probably dehydrated. jesus, i’m a terrible host. let me get you—”

“no.” your arms tighten around him like a vice, weak but absolutely immovable. your head shakes against his chest, a sharp, stubborn movement. “no bath. no moving. no leaving. just… sleep. right here. with you.” your voice cracks on the last word, and you burrow deeper into his chest like you’re trying to crawl inside his ribcage and live there. “don’t go anywhere. please. i just need you to stay.”

and that, more than anything else, is what finally convinces him that you’re going to be okay. the desperate way you’re clinging to him isn’t trauma—it’s love. pure, stubborn, ridiculous love.

“okay,” he murmurs, his whole body relaxing as he settles back against the couch cushions with you still draped across his chest. he shifts, adjusting your weight until you’re more comfortable, his movements all slow, gentle grace. “okay, we’ll sleep right here. i’m not going anywhere.”

he reaches for the gray hoodie he’d discarded earlier—the one that started this whole mess, the one that still smells like both of you and better times—and pulls it over your naked, shivering frame like the world’s most emotionally significant blanket. the soft cotton settles over your shoulders, and you make a small, contented sound that goes straight to his heart.

he doesn’t bother finding clothes for himself. nothing matters except the weight of you in his arms and the steady, reassuring rhythm of your breathing against his skin. he can feel the exact moment your muscles fully relax, when exhaustion finally wins over adrenaline and your body goes limp and trusting against his.

your breathing evens out first, becoming deep and steady and peaceful in a way he hasn’t heard in months. he stays awake longer, one hand stroking your hair in long, soothing motions, the other tracing lazy, meaningless patterns on your back through the soft hoodie.

every few minutes, you make small sounds in your sleep—little sighs and mumbles that sound almost like his name. each one makes his chest tight with a happiness so intense it’s almost painful. you’re here. you’re safe. you’re his.

it’s the first real sleep either of you has had in weeks.

satoru wakes up to sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows and a headache that feels like sukuna is using his skull as a drum kit. the okinawan sun is merciless, bright and warm and completely at odds with the whiskey-and-adrenaline hangover currently trying to kill him from the inside out.

his mouth tastes like something died in it. his back aches from sleeping on the couch. his left arm is completely numb from being trapped under your weight all night. he’s never been happier to wake up anywhere in his entire life.

you’re still asleep, curled up on his chest like a cat, your face soft and peaceful in a way he hasn’t seen in months. sometime during the night, you’d shifted so that your head is tucked under his chin and your legs are tangled with his, claiming every inch of contact you can get even unconsciously. his hoodie has ridden up slightly, and he can see the faint marks he left on your skin—nothing serious, just the ghost of his hands, evidence of what happened between you.

instead of the possessive pride he might have felt before, he’s hit with a wave of fierce protectiveness. you look so small like this, so trusting. the fact that you fell asleep on him, stayed asleep on him, chose him as your safe place even after everything—it does something to his chest that feels dangerously close to cardiac arrest.

he needs to take care of you. properly this time.

he carefully extracts himself from beneath you, moving slowly so as not to wake you. you make a small, discontented sound and reach for him in your sleep, and he has to physically resist the urge to climb back in with you and never leave this couch again.

instead, he finds one of his clean t-shirts—the softest one he owns, worn thin from years of wear—and gently works it over your head and arms, covering you properly. you don’t wake up, but you smile in your sleep when the familiar scent of his detergent surrounds you, and the sight nearly kills him on the spot.

the kitchen is a disaster zone. there are empty takeout containers scattered across the counters, a suspicious stain on the floor that might be soy sauce, and his coffee maker looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since the paleozoic era. normally, the mess would make his eye twitch—he likes his spaces clean, organized, perfect. today, he doesn’t care about any of it. he has more important things to worry about.

coffee first. the good stuff, the expensive beans he saves for special occasions. he grinds them fresh, measures everything precisely despite his shaking hands and pounding head. you’re going to need caffeine when you wake up, and more importantly, you deserve the best he can give you.

while the coffee brews, he assesses his breakfast options. his fridge is embarrassingly bare—some leftover takeout, energy drinks, a container of strawberries that are only slightly past their prime. his pantry isn’t much better, but he finds a box of pancake mix shoved behind a bottle of expensive whiskey he definitely doesn’t want to look at right now.

pancakes. he can make pancakes. how hard can it be?

he reads the instructions on the box three times, then reads them again for good measure. his hands are still shaking—from the hangover, from nerves, from the emotional whiplash of the past twelve hours. he measures out the mix, cracks eggs with the careful precision of a man defusing a bomb.

the first batch is a disaster of epic proportions. he misjudges the heat, and they burn almost instantly, setting off his smoke alarm and filling the kitchen with acrid smoke. he frantically waves a dish towel at the detector, praying the sound doesn’t wake you up. the last thing you need is to wake up to him burning down his own kitchen like some kind of domestic terrorist.

he scrapes the charcoal remains into the trash and starts over. the second batch is better—still lopsided and a little too thick, but golden brown and actually resembling food rather than modern art. he arranges them on a plate with the strawberries, adds a small bowl of syrup, pours the coffee into your favorite mug (the one you left here months ago, the one he’s been too stubborn to put away).

the whole process takes him nearly two hours, partly because he’s moving like he’s underwater, but mostly because he keeps stopping to check on you. every few minutes, he pokes his head around the corner to make sure you’re still there, still breathing, still real. each time, the sight of you curled up in his clothes on his couch makes his heart do something acrobatic and painful.

when everything is ready, he arranges it all on a tray like he’s seen in movies. it’s not perfect—the pancakes are still questionably shaped, and he’s pretty sure he used salt instead of sugar in the strawberries—but it’s made with love and desperation and the kind of devotion that would probably worry a therapist.

you wake up to the smell of burnt batter and expensive coffee, tangled in his sheets with his oversized t-shirt twisted around your waist. the fabric is soft against your skin, worn and comfortable and smelling like his detergent and something uniquely him. for a moment, you just lie there, breathing it in, letting yourself believe this is real.

you open your eyes slowly, blinking in the bright sunlight, and see him standing next to the couch looking like death warmed over.

his white hair is sticking up in seventeen different directions, defying both gravity and logic. there are dark circles under his eyes that make him look like he got in a fight with a raccoon and lost. his skin has a grayish tinge that suggests his hangover is actively trying to murder him from the inside. he’s wearing nothing but his sweatpants from last night, hanging low on his hips, and he’s holding a tray with what might generously be called breakfast.

the pancakes are tragically lopsided and vaguely pancake-adjacent, accompanied by strawberries that look like they’ve seen better days and coffee that smells strong enough to dissolve metal. it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

your heart does something stupid and acrobatic in your chest. he looks awful. he looks like he hasn’t slept in a week and got hit by a truck. and he’s standing there with homemade breakfast like he’s trying to audition for the world’s most devoted boyfriend award.

“morning, beautiful,” he says, his voice rough with sleep and too much whiskey. he sets the tray down on the coffee table with the careful precision of someone whose hands aren’t entirely steady, then perches on the edge of the couch next to you. his movements are slow, deliberate, like he’s afraid of startling you. “i made… food. sort of. the first batch was more of a fire hazard than actual breakfast, but these ones are probably edible. maybe.”

you push yourself up into a sitting position, your whole body aching in a dull, pleasant way. he immediately reaches out to help steady you, his hands gentle on your shoulders, and the simple touch sends warmth flooding through your chest. you accept the mug of coffee he holds out to you. it’s perfect. exactly how you like it—two sugars, just enough cream to turn it the color of caramel. even hungover and barely functional, he remembered.

“you didn’t have to do all this,” you murmur, your voice still thick with sleep.

“yes, i did,” he says, and there’s something fierce in his voice despite how rough he sounds, his gaze soft as it roams your face. “i absolutely did. you passed out on my couch after… after everything, and the least i can do is feed you properly. even if ‘properly’ is a relative term when it comes to my cooking skills.”

you take a sip of coffee and make a small, appreciative sound that makes his whole face brighten like you’ve just told him he hung the moon. “satoru, these look…” you pause, looking at the pancakes. they really are quite tragic—one is roughly the shape of australia, another looks like it might be an abstract representation of existential dread. “…like you tried very hard.”

he laughs, a real laugh that transforms his whole face, makes the corners of his eyes crinkle in the way that always makes your stomach flip. “they’re terrible, aren’t they? i burned the first batch so badly i’m pretty sure i created a new form of carbon. but they’re made with love and spite and approximately seventeen cups of coffee, so that has to count for something.”

you cut off a piece of pancake and try it. it’s… actually not bad. a little dense, maybe, and you’re pretty sure he confused salt for sugar on the strawberries, but it’s warm and sweet and made by his hands specifically for you. “it’s perfect,” you tell him, your voice soft and sincere as you meet his hopeful, anxious gaze.

something in his expression softens at that, goes warm and tender in a way that makes your chest tight. he settles in next to you properly, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his skin. “liar,” he says fondly, stealing a strawberry off your plate. “but thank you for saying it anyway.”

for a few minutes, you eat in comfortable silence, sharing the tragic breakfast and letting the normalcy of it sink into your bones. this is what you’ve been missing. not just the sex or the drama or the grand romantic gestures, but this—domestic and silly and real. satoru stealing food off your plate and making faces at his own cooking. the easy intimacy of sharing space, sharing air, sharing a morning that belongs to no one but the two of you.

“so,” he says eventually, poking at a particularly misshapen pancake with his fork, his expression turning serious. he puts his own plate down, turning to face you fully. “that song of yours… i’m guessing you’re open to a remix?”

the question should be casual, but you can see the vulnerability in his eyes, the careful way he’s holding himself like he’s bracing for another rejection. your chest goes tight with affection and guilt in equal measure.

“satoru,” you start, setting down your coffee so you can give him your full attention, your own expression softening. “i need you to know something first. about the song, about all of it.”

he goes very still, his fork freezing halfway to his mouth, his blue eyes fixed on yours, waiting.

“i didn’t want to write it,” you continue, your voice barely above a whisper. “they made me. my team, my management, the label executives—they all panicked when your song came out. they saw the way the fans were connecting dots, saw the speculation about us, and they completely lost their minds.”

you take a shaky breath, remembering the conference room full of suits telling you exactly how this was going to go whether you liked it or not. “they had three different versions of a response song written before yours even hit number one. mine was the nicest one. the other options were… worse. much worse.”

satoru’s jaw tightens, a muscle feathering along the sharp line of it. you see something dangerous flash in his eyes. “what kind of worse?” he asks, his voice dangerously quiet.

“the kind that would have destroyed your reputation instead of just denying everything,” you say, your own voice trembling slightly at the memory. “they wanted to make you look predatory, obsessive. turn you into a cautionary tale about male entitlement in the industry.”

the silence that follows is deafening. when satoru finally speaks, his voice is laced with a cold fury. “and you stopped them?”

“i fought for the version we ended up with,” you say, your hands twisting in the hem of his t-shirt. “spent three days in meetings arguing for every single lyric. it was the best i could do without…” you trail off, because the rest of it is still too raw to say out loud.

“without what?” he presses gently, his hand coming to rest on your knee, his touch a warm, grounding weight.

“without them dropping me entirely and releasing one of the worse versions anyway,” you admit, your voice cracking. “my contract has clauses, satoru. morality clauses, image clauses, behavioral expectations. being publicly involved with you—with your band, with sukuna’s reputation—it violates about seventeen different sections. they could have sued me into bankruptcy and still released a song calling you a stalker.”

the weight of it settles between you like a physical presence. all those weeks of silence, of watching him suffer through the aftermath of your song, knowing you were the cause but unable to explain, unable to fix it.

“i wanted to call you,” you whisper, tears starting to burn behind your eyes again. you look up at him, your own eyes pleading for him to understand. “every single day, i wanted to call you and explain everything. but they took my phone, assigned handlers to watch me, made sure i couldn’t contact you or anyone else without supervision.”

satoru is quiet for a long moment, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles on your knee. when he finally looks at you, his expression is soft and sad and full of a profound understanding. “that’s why you came to the festival. it was your only chance.”

you nod, a single tear spilling over and tracing a hot path down your cheek.

“and i told you to save it for someone who still believes in fairy tales.” his voice cracks slightly on the words, and he drops his head into his hands, a low, pained groan rumbling in his chest. “jesus christ, i’m such an asshole.”

“you didn’t know,” you say quickly, reaching out to touch his arm. “you couldn’t have known. i couldn’t tell you without making everything worse.”

“i should have trusted you,” he says, looking up at you with red-rimmed eyes. “i should have known you wouldn’t do that to me without a reason. but i was so hurt, and my ego was so bruised, and i just…”

“wanted to hurt me back,” you finish quietly, your voice thick with unshed tears of your own.

he nods, looking miserable. “i’m so sorry, baby. for all of it. for not fighting harder to get to you, for being too proud to look past the surface, for last night—”

“last night was perfect,” you interrupt, and mean it. “last night was you finally listening to me, finally letting me close enough to explain. it was rough, yeah, but it was real. it was us.”

something in his posture relaxes at that, the guilt-ridden tension in his shoulders easing slightly.

“but the rest of it,” you continue, “the situation with my label, with the public perception—that’s not going to just go away because we’ve figured our shit out.”

satoru is quiet for a moment, and you can practically see the gears turning in his head. when he looks at you again, there’s something sharp and determined in his eyes that makes your pulse quicken.

“what if it didn’t have to be your problem anymore?” he asks slowly, his gaze intense.

“what do you mean?” you ask, your brow furrowing in confusion.

“i mean, what if you didn’t have to stay trapped in their cage? what if you could just… leave?”

you blink at him. “satoru, it’s not that simple. the contract penalties alone would—”

“fuck the contract penalties,” he says, and there’s steel in his voice now, the same tone he uses when he’s about to do something spectacularly stupid and brilliant. he leans forward, his whole body thrumming with a new, dangerous energy. “my label—our label—is owned by a parent company that makes a goddamn hobby out of poaching talent from shitty, restrictive contracts. they live for that kind of drama. hostile takeovers, legal warfare, public battles over artistic freedom—it’s like christmas morning for them.”

you stare at him, something that might be hope beginning to flutter in your chest.

“what if we didn’t have to sneak around?” he continues, his eyes bright with possibility. “what if we could go nuclear? burn their whole fucking system down and build something better?”

“metaphorically,” he adds quickly, seeing the look on your face. “sukuna would handle the literal arson if we asked nicely, but that’s probably overkill for this situation.”

despite everything, you laugh. a real laugh that bubbles up from somewhere deep in your chest. “you’re insane.”

“crazy in love,” he corrects, grinning at you with that crooked smile that first made you fall for him years ago. “but also completely serious. they’ve kept you locked up, controlled, miserable for months. made you write songs you hated, forced you to deny feelings you actually have, threatened your career over who you choose to love. that’s not okay, baby. none of it is okay.”

the hope in your chest is growing stronger, spreading warmth through your limbs. “you really think they’d take me on? even with all the baggage, all the potential drama?”

“are you kidding me?” he scoffs, his whole demeanor shifting to one of absolute confidence. “you’re a multi-platinum artist with a built-in fanbase and a story about label oppression that would generate headlines for months. they’d probably fight each other for the chance to sign you.”

something shifts in the air between you then. the energy is different—not just romantic anymore, but conspiratorial. you’re not just lovers figuring out your relationship— you’re partners in crime, allies with a common enemy.

“it would be a war,” you warn him, your voice gaining a new strength. “legal battles, media circus, industry blacklisting. they’ll try to destroy both of us.”

satoru’s grin turns sharp and wicked. “let them try. they have lawyers and pr teams and corporate backing. we have something better.”

“what’s that?” you ask, a small smile playing on your own lips.

“the truth,” he says simply. “and really, really good lawyers of our own. plus sukuna, who’s been looking for an excuse to commit corporate espionage for months.”

you stare at him—this beautiful, chaotic, impossibly devoted man who just spent two hours making you terrible pancakes with a hangover that could kill a horse, who’s now offering to help you burn down your entire professional life just so you can be together properly.

“so what do you say?” he asks, reaching out to trace a finger along your jaw, his touch gentle and reverent. “ready to cause some trouble?”

you lean into his touch, feeling that familiar electricity spark between you. for the first time in months, the future doesn’t look like a cage. it looks like freedom, like possibility, like the two of you against the world.

“with you?” you murmur, turning your head to press a kiss to his palm. “always.”

he kisses you then, soft and sweet and tasting like coffee and strawberries and new beginnings. it’s different from last night—less desperate, more certain. a promise instead of a question.

when you break apart, you’re both grinning like idiots.

“just to be clear though,” he says, his voice dropping to that teasing purr you love, “the worm thing was complete bullshit, right? because i’m pretty sure i would have recognized you even in that ridiculous trench coat if i’d been sober.”

you laugh, bright and loud and completely free, and kiss him again. deeper this time, full of promise and mischief and all the trouble you’re about to cause together.

“wait,” you say, pulling back slightly, your hands still fisted in the soft cotton of his t-shirt. your expression turns serious, though there’s still a playful glint in your eyes. “before we burn down the music industry and commit corporate warfare, can we maybe… talk about what we actually are? because i’ve spent the last six months not knowing if you were my boyfriend, my situationship, or my extremely talented booty call with feelings.”

satoru blinks at you, his expression shifting from revolutionary fervor to something that looks suspiciously like a deer caught in headlights. “oh. that’s… yeah. we should probably figure that out before we start signing contracts together.”

the silence stretches for exactly three seconds before you both burst into laughter, the kind of slightly hysterical giggling that happens when you realize you’ve been conducting psychological warfare over a relationship status you never actually defined.

“this is so stupid,” you wheeze, wiping tears from your eyes. “we wrote entire songs about each other. i literally just let you—,” you gesture vaguely at your current state of undress, “—and we don’t even know what to call each other.”

“to be fair,” satoru says, his grin crooked and absolutely devastating, “the last time we had the ‘what are we’ conversation, you disappeared for three months to go on a world tour. i developed trust issues.”

“that’s valid,” you admit, then pause. “wait, when did we have that conversation? because i remember a lot of really good sex and you stealing my room service, but i don’t remember actually talking about… this.”

satoru’s expression goes thoughtful, then slightly panicked. “oh my god. we never actually had that conversation, did we? we just started acting like a couple and assumed the other person got the memo.”

“jesus christ, we’re both idiots.” you drop your head into your hands, partly from embarrassment and partly because you’re laughing too hard to sit up straight. “no wonder everything got so fucked up. we’ve been in an unlabeled relationship for two years.”

“two years of the most intense situationship in human history,” satoru agrees solemnly, then breaks character to snort with laughter. “sukuna’s going to have a field day with this. he’s been making bets on when we’d finally have this conversation.”

“nanami’s going to die of secondhand embarrassment when he finds out we nearly destroyed our careers over a relationship status we were both too emotionally constipated to discuss,” you add, which sends both of you into fresh peals of laughter.

when you finally calm down enough to breathe properly, satoru reaches out and takes your hands in his, his thumbs tracing gentle circles over your knuckles. the gesture is so tender, so naturally intimate, it makes your heart skip several important beats.

“okay,” he says, his voice soft but steady, his blue eyes so sincere they steal your breath. “let’s do this properly. hi, i’m gojo satoru. i’m stupidly, embarrassingly, completely in love with you. like, write terrible songs and make terrible pancakes and probably commit white-collar crimes for you in love with you.”

your heart does something acrobatic and possibly illegal in your chest. “you love me?” you whisper, the words feeling fragile and momentous.

“so much it’s medically concerning,” he says, completely serious. “i love your terrible morning hair and the way you steal my hoodies and how you sing in the shower even though you’re completely tone-deaf before coffee. i love that you put pineapple on pizza like a complete psychopath, and i love that you cry during pixar movies even though you try to hide it. i love your brain and your talent and your stupid jokes and the face you make when you’re concentrating on writing lyrics.”

he pauses, his thumbs still doing those maddening circles on your skin. “i love that you fought for me even when your entire team was against it. i love that you’re brave enough to burn everything down just to be authentic. and i really, really love that you showed up at my gate in the middle of the night wearing the world’s most ridiculous disguise just to yell at me about worms.”

by the time he’s finished, you’re crying again, but these are completely different tears. these are the good kind, the kind that happen when someone sees every weird, flawed, ridiculous part of you and decides to love it all anyway.

“your turn,” he says gently, and there’s something vulnerable in his eyes that makes you want to protect him from everything bad in the world.

“i’m in love with you too, you absolute disaster of a human being,” you manage through your tears, your voice thick with emotion. “i’m in love with your stupid confidence and your terrible cooking and the way you play guitar like you’re making love to the instrument. i love that you remember how i take my coffee and that you let me win when we play video games even though you think i don’t notice.”

you take a shaky breath, trying to get through this without completely dissolving. “i love your dumb jokes and your pretty face and how you always smell like that ridiculously expensive cologne. i love that you’re talented enough to make me jealous and sweet enough to make me pancakes when you’re dying of a hangover. i love that you wrote me a love song so beautiful it made me cry, and i love that you’re crazy enough to help me commit career suicide just so we can be together.”

“and,” you add, because this part is important, “i love that you’re mine. officially, finally, completely mine.”

“so we’re doing this?” he asks, and his voice is soft and wondering like he can’t quite believe this is real. “we’re actually going to be a real couple? with labels and everything?”

“boyfriend and girlfriend,” you confirm, testing out the words. they feel strange and new and absolutely perfect. “partners in crime. ride or die. whatever you want to call it, as long as everyone knows you’re mine and i’m yours.”

the smile that spreads across his face is so bright it could probably power a small city. “boyfriend and girlfriend,” he repeats, like he’s savoring the words. “i like the sound of that. very official. very adult. very ‘we have our shit together.’”

“we absolutely do not have our shit together,” you point out, laughing. “we’re about to start a legal war with my record label and we just figured out we’ve been in love for two years without actually saying it.”

“details,” satoru waves a dismissive hand. “we’re in love and we have a plan and we make terrible pancakes together. that’s basically a successful adult relationship right there.”

he leans in and kisses you again, soft and sweet and tasting like forever. when you break apart, you’re both grinning like absolute fools.

“so, boyfriend,” you say, enjoying the way the word makes his eyes light up, “what’s our first official act as a couple?”

“well, girlfriend,” he replies, the word dripping with fond satisfaction, “i was thinking we could start with a shower, since we both smell like sex and poor life choices. then maybe we could work on that duet you mentioned. something that tells our side of the story.”

“a shower together?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

“purely practical,” he says with completely fake innocence. “water conservation is very important. we’re being environmentally responsible.”

“right,” you deadpan. “because you’re known for your commitment to environmental causes.”

“i’m a changed man,” he declares solemnly. “love has made me want to be better. greener. more… wet.”

you stare at him for exactly three seconds before dissolving into laughter again. “that was the worst line you’ve ever delivered, and that’s saying something.”

“but did it work?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows.

“unfortunately, yes,” you admit, letting him pull you to your feet. “but only because you’re cute and i’m still running on post-orgasmic endorphins.”

“i’ll take it,” he says, scooping you up bridal style with embarrassing ease. “now come on, girlfriend. let’s go be environmentally responsible together.”

as he carries you toward his ridiculously fancy bathroom, you can’t stop smiling. you’re still going to have to deal with lawyers and contracts and the inevitable media circus. your career is still hanging in the balance, and there’s a very real chance this whole thing could blow up in your faces.

but right now, wrapped in satoru’s arms with the okinawan sun streaming through the windows and the promise of a shared future stretching out in front of you, everything feels possible. you’re in love, and you’re together, and you’re about to take the longest, most environmentally irresponsible shower of your lives.

except the shower, as it turns out, is actually pretty responsible. mostly because halfway through soaping each other up, satoru gets distracted by the way water droplets cling to your eyelashes and spends ten minutes just staring at you like you’re some kind of maritime miracle. and you get distracted by the way his stupid perfect abs look under the rainfall showerhead, so really, very little actual washing happens.

“we’re terrible at this,” you inform him, standing on your tiptoes to work shampoo through his ridiculous hair. it’s even more unmanageable when wet, defying every law of physics as it sticks up in soap-sudded spikes.

“speak for yourself,” he replies, his hands sliding down to your waist. “i’m great at this. this is exactly what showers are for.”

“cleaning?” you suggest innocently.

“admiring my incredibly beautiful girlfriend while she’s naked and wet,” he corrects, pressing a kiss to your temple. “much better use of time and water.”

by the time you finally emerge, clean and pruned and laughing, the sun is already climbing higher in the sky. satoru wraps you in a towel that’s probably worth more than most people’s cars, and you watch him get dressed in the kind of casual beach clothes that somehow still look like they belong in a magazine spread.

linen pants that sit perfectly on his hips. a white button-up that he leaves mostly unbuttoned because he’s apparently committed to being a walking thirst trap even during domestic moments. sunglasses that probably cost more than your last car payment pushed up on top of his damp hair.

“you’re staring,” he informs you, not looking up from where he’s rummaging through his dresser.

“can you blame me?” you shoot back, pulling on one of his t-shirts over your bikini. it’s soft and worn and smells like him, and it hits you mid-thigh like the world’s most comfortable dress. “you look like a vacation instagram post came to life.”

he tosses you a pair of his sunglasses—designer, naturally. “we’re going to the beach,” he announces, like this is breaking news instead of stating the obvious. “proper beach date. with sand and everything.”

“the beach is literally twenty feet from your back door,” you point out.

“exactly. no paparazzi, no crowds, no one to interrupt when i inevitably do something embarrassing like trip over my own feet trying to impress you.”

“you’re going to try to impress me?” you ask, grinning. “we literally just had shower sex. i think i’m already adequately impressed by your… capabilities.”

he goes slightly pink, which is adorable on someone who looks like a calvin klein model. “that’s different. this is… romantic. wholesome. the kind of thing boyfriends do for their girlfriends.”

“oh, we’re going full boyfriend mode now?”

“maximum boyfriend,” he confirms solemnly. “prepare to be courted so hard you forget your own name.”

the beach behind his villa is exactly as private and perfect as you remembered. white sand that’s soft as powder, crystal clear water that shifts from turquoise to deep blue, and absolutely no one around for miles. it’s the kind of place that exists in travel brochures and rich people’s instagram stories, and somehow it’s just… his backyard.

satoru spreads out a blanket that’s definitely too nice to be used on sand, then immediately ruins the aesthetic by flopping down on it with all the grace of a dying giraffe. “ta-da,” he says, gesturing grandly at the setup. “romance.”

“you’re an idiot,” you tell him fondly, settling down next to him.

“your idiot,” he corrects, looking pleased with himself.

for a while, you just exist together in the sunshine. satoru lies on his back with his arm thrown over his eyes, looking like a very content starfish. you sit cross-legged next to him, tracing lazy patterns on his chest and watching the waves roll in. it’s peaceful in a way that feels almost foreign after months of chaos and uncertainty.

“this is nice,” you murmur, your finger following the lines of his dragon tattoo. the ink looks even more vibrant in the natural light, the reds deeper and richer against his skin.

“mm,” he hums in agreement, not moving. “could do this forever.”

“what, lie around half-naked on expensive blankets while i use you as a human coloring book?”

“sounds perfect to me.”

you’re quiet for a moment, just enjoying the sun and the sound of the waves and the steady rise and fall of his breathing under your hand. then, because you’re apparently incapable of leaving well enough alone, you say, “so what happens now?”

“now?” satoru lifts his arm to look at you, squinting in the bright light. “now we work on our tans and pretend the real world doesn’t exist for a few more hours.”

“i mean after that,” you persist. “when we go back to tokyo. when we have to deal with everything.”

he’s quiet for a long moment, and you can practically see him thinking. when he finally speaks, his voice is thoughtful, serious in a way that’s rare for him.

“we figure it out together,” he says simply. “whatever happens, we do it as a team this time. no more secrets, no more assuming the other person knows what we’re thinking. we talk about everything, even the scary stuff.”

“even when you’re being a stubborn ass?”

“especially when i’m being a stubborn ass,” he agrees. “though i reserve the right to pout about it.”

“deal,” you laugh, leaning down to kiss him. it’s meant to be quick, just a soft press of lips, but somehow it turns into something longer and sweeter, the kind of kiss that tastes like promises and new beginnings.

when you pull apart, satoru’s eyes are soft and fond and completely unguarded. “i love you,” he says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. like he’s not still getting used to being allowed to say it out loud.

“i love you too,” you reply, and marvel at how natural it feels now that you’ve finally said it. “even when you make terrible pancakes and leave your socks everywhere.”

“those are designer socks,” he protests. “they’re supposed to be everywhere. it’s called ‘casual luxury.’”

“it’s called ‘being a slob,’ but sure, let’s go with casual luxury.”

he pulls you down on top of him, laughing, and you shriek as he threatens to roll you both right off the blanket and into the sand. you end up tangled together, your legs intertwined with his, your head on his chest, his arms wrapped securely around you.

“this is definitely better than sitting in a studio listening to sukuna plot arson,” he murmurs into your hair.

“is that what you guys do when i’m not around? plot crimes?”

“mostly we just talk about you,” he admits, sounding slightly embarrassed. “well, i talk about you. sukuna threatens to set things on fire if i don’t shut up. nanami just looks like he’s contemplating the sweet release of death.”

“you talk about me?” you ask, lifting your head to look at him.

“constantly. embarrassingly. in great detail about how much i missed you and how stupid i was for letting you go.” his cheeks are definitely pink now, which is frankly adorable. “they started charging me a fee every time i mentioned your name. i owe them like three thousand dollars.”

“three thousand dollars?” you stare at him. “how often were you talking about me?”

“apparently too much,” he says sheepishly. “but in my defense, you’re very interesting. lots to discuss.”

“such as?”

“such as the way you scrunch your nose when you’re thinking. and how you always steal the last bite of dessert but pretend you’re not interested. and the face you make when you’re writing lyrics—like you’re solving the mysteries of the universe one rhyme at a time.”

your heart does that stupid fluttering thing again. “you notice all that?”

“i notice everything about you,” he says, his voice going soft and sincere. “always have. probably always will. it’s become sort of a hobby.”

you kiss him again, because what else are you supposed to do with that kind of declaration? this one is deeper, slower, the kind that makes your toes curl and your brain go fuzzy around the edges.

“we should probably eat something,” you murmur against his lips when you finally come up for air. “actual food. not just coffee and questionable pancakes.”

“there’s a little place in town that makes the best ramen,” satoru says, his hands still tangled in your hair. “we could go later. make it a real date.”

“a real date,” you repeat, testing the words. “in public. where people might see us.”

“where people will definitely see us,” he corrects. “where i can hold your hand and buy you dinner and be disgustingly obvious about how gone i am for you.”

the thought should be terrifying. after months of secrecy and careful distance, the idea of being openly together feels almost surreal. but looking at satoru, seeing the soft certainty in his eyes, it just feels right.

“okay,” you say, and mean it completely. “let’s go on a real date.”

his smile is so bright it could probably be seen from space. “yeah?”

“yeah. but first, more beach time. i haven’t properly appreciated your ridiculous abs in natural lighting yet.”

“well,” he says, settling back down on the blanket with a grin, “we can’t have that. take all the time you need. i’m not going anywhere.”

and as you curl back up against his side, listening to the waves and feeling the sun on your skin and the steady beat of his heart under your cheek, you believe him completely. he’s not going anywhere, and neither are you.

the war with your label is still coming. there will be lawyers and contracts and probably a media circus that makes your last scandal look like a minor inconvenience. but right now, wrapped up in expensive blankets on a private beach with the man you love, all of that feels very far away.

right now, there’s just this: sunshine and saltwater and the promise of forever stretching out in front of you like an endless summer day.

taglist: @akeisryna @controldeville @simplymygojo @kazuhaplscomehome @prettilyrisse @ritsatoru @poisonedpeach3 @theauthorunicorn @writtenapoiogy @enhasrii @walmarmi @useless-potatho @dairyfaerie @peqch-pie @bagofballs @kkataleena @blu3cat @twstedfreak @lizzebear123 @wandabillywrites @asimpinamillion @jaemdonut @ehcilhc @rannie-16 @enouche @satxoru @whitetofudubu @disappointedpeaches @sleepykittyenergy @foul-song-princess @problematicthinker @hxteurgutz @d4rlinxs @str4wbrryaoi @dollescenthar

[nariminsstuff]

bake me up, buttercup

pairing — gym rat satoru x baker reader

synopsis : satoru gojo’s life is a meticulously curated empire of protein shakes, gym selfies, and the unwavering adoration of six million followers. he’s got it all down to a science, a perfect balance of macros and influence that’s starting to feel just a little empty. but when a late-night scroll leads him to your quiet corner of the internet, everything changes. it’s not about your face—he’s never seen it. it’s about your hands, steady and dusted with flour, and your voice, a warm, patient hum that makes him forget all about his post-workout cardio. suddenly, the man who prides himself on control finds himself completely obsessed with a baker who offers something sweeter and far more dangerous than any cheat meal: a little bit of peace. or: he could break the internet with a single photo, but he’s about to risk it all for a girl who accidentally liked his post one time.

wc ࣪— 39k ִֶָ☾. tags -> f!reader, plot with porn, influencer au, modern setting, fluff, humor, banter, slow burn, food as a love language, mutual pining, eventual smut, sexual tension, making out, food play, cunnilingus, multiple orgasms, praise kink, marking, satoru goes feral, unsafe sex, rough sex, size kink, it won’t fit trope, breeding kink, creampie, aftercare, domestic fluff, tooth-rotting fluff, marriage proposal, wedding fluff, happy ending

athy says, hi my lovies, i'm looking at my follower count and i genuinely can't believe we've hit 9k before this little blog of mine is even six months old. thank you, from the bottom of my heart. this fic has been simmering away in my drafts for what feels like an eternity, and i wanted to dedicate it to all of you as a thank you. it's super soft, a little cheesy, and hopefully the perfect thing to curl up with. i hope you all enjoy it!! ♡⁠(⁠Ӧ⁠ｖ⁠Ӧ⁠｡⁠)

satoru gojo has never needed hashtags to break the internet.

he knows this the same way he knows his post-workout selfies could fund a small country’s economy, the same way he knows that the gym mirror loves him more than his own mother ever did.

so when he drops his phone against his sweat-dampened chest and angles it just right—shadows cutting across the landscape of muscle he’s carved with religious devotion, that mess of hair catching the fluorescent light like spun moonlight, eyes the color of winter storms narrowed in that signature smirk—he doesn’t bother with captions longer than “cardio day.”

six million followers don’t need context. they need salvation, and apparently, he’s their god.

the likes pour in before he’s even toweled off. comments that would make his grandmother clutch her pearls, fire emojis that could melt antarctica, marriage proposals in seven languages. satoru scrolls through them with the bored satisfaction of someone who’s never had to wonder if he’s attractive, clocking the trending status of his latest flex, watching the numbers climb.

after a few minutes of basking in the chaos he just unleashed—thousands of girls twisting in their sheets, thirsting themselves half to death—he flicks over to reels. it’s a casual, almost lazy motion, like a king turning away from the adoration of his court once he’s had his fill.

his reels are the usual rotation: endless loops of protein shake hacks, questionable “science-backed” mobility drills, and gym bros flexing in worse lighting than his bathroom mirror. sometimes a cooking video sneaks in—grilled chicken recipes that look like punishment meals, pre-workout snacks no sane person would enjoy, the occasional steak sizzling on cast iron just enough to hold his attention. mindless fuel, background noise for someone who already knows he looks better than half the influencers trying to sell him their macros.

but then, the algorithm, in its infinite, mysterious wisdom, does that thing where it thinks it knows him better than he knows himself, and suddenly his screen fills with something entirely different. no thirst, no desperation, no familiar symphony of validation.

just hands.

soft, capable hands dusted with flour, moving with the kind of precision that makes his chest do something weird and unfamiliar. the voice accompanying them flows like honey over warm bread, explaining the mysteries of chocolate tempering with the patience of someone who actually gives a damn about their craft.

“temperature control is everything,” you’re saying, and satoru finds himself leaning closer to his phone screen like an idiot. your hands work magic he doesn’t understand—folding, smoothing, creating something beautiful from nothing. there’s flour scattered across your black apron like stars, and he realizes he’s been holding his breath. “too hot and you’ll seize the chocolate. too cold and it won’t temper properly. you want that perfect balance.”

perfect balance. right. satoru gojo, who can bench twice his body weight and has never met a macronutrient he couldn’t calculate in his sleep, suddenly feels like he doesn’t understand balance at all.

he’s three videos deep before his brain catches up to his thumbs. your username—why.en_bakes—sits at the top of each video like a riddle he wants to solve. faceless content creator, obviously skilled, voice that could talk him through a panic attack or into one, depending on the circumstances.

his trainer would have an aneurysm if he knew satoru was mentally calculating the caloric content of buttercream roses at eleven pm.

his trainer doesn’t have to know.

meanwhile, you’re having your own crisis three hundred miles away, curled up in bed with your phone balanced precariously on your chest. you’ve been mindlessly scrolling through instagram, the kind of late-night brain rot that makes you question your life choices and wonder why you’re not asleep like a normal person.

the dm notification pops up from @squatoru—and there’s that little blue checkmark that makes your stomach drop because verified accounts usually mean one of two things: actual celebrities or influencers hunting for free stuff.

squatoru: hey, your hands are so steady, i’m pretty sure you could perform surgery. on my heart, maybe? kidding. mostly. anyway, the real question: do you take custom orders, or am i doomed to just drool over your perfect pastries through ig reels tutorials forever? my cardio needs a reward ;)

you frown, tapping on his profile with the kind of skepticism reserved for men who slide into dms and politicians. probably another influencer looking for free pastries in exchange for exposure. you’ve seen this song and dance before, and your content is specifically designed to avoid this—just your hands, your voice, and your pastries. no face, no personal details, no invitation for this kind of attention.

except his profile loads, and the image that fills your screen is so utterly, aggressively stunning that your breath hitches. your eyes go wide, wider than any pastry plate you’ve ever presented, and you feel a ridiculous, old-fashioned flush creep up your neck. like a victorian gentleman accidentally stumbling upon an exposed ankle, but instead of an ankle, it’s an eight-pack, a smirk, and eyes that could unravel your very soul.

you swallow, hard, your mind temporarily short-circuiting at the sheer, unapologetic perfection. the phone, balanced precariously on your chest, finally loses its grip as your hands instinctively clench in shock, and it falls. with a sickening thud, it smacks directly into your face, the impact rattling your teeth and, far worse, triggering an accidental double-tap right on his latest thirst trap. specifically, right on his absurdly defined abs.

because @squatoru isn’t just any influencer.

he’s all sharp angles and casual arrogance, the kind of beautiful that makes you question whether humans are supposed to look like that or if someone’s been editing reality behind your back. his hair defies every law of physics and good sense, standing up in ways that should look ridiculous but instead look like he’s been personally blessed by some very attractive gods. and his eyes—they’re not just blue, they’re the kind of blue that makes you forget other colors exist, like someone liquefied lightning and poured it into his irises just to see what would happen.

the worst part? he knows exactly what he looks like.

every photo is a carefully constructed masterpiece of casual perfection. gym selfies that belong in museums, mirror shots that probably crash servers, candid photos that are about as candid as a hollywood red carpet. he’s the kind of beautiful that makes normal people feel like potatoes, and he’s just casually sliding into your dms like it’s tuesday.

the little heart icon fills with red, mocking you. you immediately know you’ve made a mistake of astronomical proportions, a digital crime scene of embarrassment. you don’t even look at this kind of content. your algorithm is carefully curated chaos of baking tutorials, cat videos, and the occasional pottery reel.

you wouldn’t know a thirst trap if it personally introduced itself and asked for your number. but apparently, it just did, and you just liked it.

your phone buzzes almost instantly.

squatoru: oh, saw that 😉 figured you wouldn’t be able to resist. it’s okay, my content’s usually pretty captivating. consider yourself caught admiring the view.

you scramble upright, nearly launching your phone across the room in your panic. your heart is doing something between a tango and a cardiac episode, and you’re pretty sure you’re about to die of embarrassment in your own bed, which seems like a particularly pathetic way to go. you wince, rubbing your nose where the phone left a red mark.

why.en_bakes: it was an accident. my phone slipped. literally. it just smacked me.

the response comes back quicker than you’d like, quicker than gives you time to construct proper emotional barriers or remember how to breathe like a normal person.

squatoru: suuuure it did. 😉 a very convenient slip. but hey, thanks for the unintentional validation. speaking of irresistible things... i’ve actually been genuinely obsessed with your videos. that chocolate work? absolutely insane. like, i’m genuinely curious about trying your stuff in person. my cheat day budget just went up.

he’s been watching your videos. this man, human equivalent of a renaissance sculpture, is obsessed with your chocolate work? you, who usually only gets comments from sweet grandmas and fellow bakers, are suddenly being eyed by the thirst trap god himself. you stare at the message until the words blur together, trying to process this information like a computer that’s been asked to run software from the future.

why.en_bakes: well, the cafe info is on my profile if you’re actually serious. we’re open from 8-6 tuesday to saturday. no freebies.

because you’re not about to make this easy for him. you’ve built a whole business on not making things easy, on the radical concept that good pastries require effort and patience and maybe a little suffering. if this man wants to waltz into your world with his perfect face and his ridiculous hair, he can follow the same rules as everyone else.

squatoru: oh, trust me, cupcake. i’m serious about good desserts. and good conversation. and maybe a few other things. consider me booked. see you soon.

cupcake.

he called you cupcake, and something in your stomach does a little flip that has absolutely nothing to do with the leftover anxiety from accidentally liking his photo and everything to do with the way that familiar, sweet word, usually piped with buttercream and sold by the dozen, suddenly tasted personal, a secret, delicious indulgence meant just for you.

satoru, meanwhile, is having his own moment of amused contemplation in his ridiculously expensive apartment, a smirk playing on his lips as he stares at his phone. because here’s the thing that’s currently piquing his interest in a way almost nothing else does: you don’t know who he is.

not in the way everyone else does, anyway. you’re not sliding into his dms with marriage proposals or asking him to promote your skincare routine. you’re not breathless with excitement or falling over yourself to impress him. you claimed you liked his photo by accident—a blatant, adorable fib, if your mortified response was anything to go by. you immediately tried to take it back like it was a mistake, but satoru knew better. people didn’t accidentally double-tap his abs. they just got shy when they were caught.

when was the last time someone feigned indifference to his attention?

he can’t remember, and that bothers him more than it should. he’s so used to being wanted, expected, demanded, that your casual dismissal, even if it was just an act of shyness, feels like a puzzle he needs to solve. you’re talented and professional and seemingly unimpressed by the fact that he exists, and something about that makes him want to try harder than he’s tried at anything that didn’t involve weights or protein shakes.

plus, there’s your voice. that soft, warm tone that guided him through chocolate tempering like you were sharing secrets, like you actually cared whether he understood the difference between seeding and tabling methods.

that night, he replayed your videos more times than he’d admit to anyone, and each time he notices something new—the careful way you handle delicate pastry, the little satisfied hum when something turns out perfectly, the genuine enthusiasm when you explain why certain techniques matter.

which is how satoru gojo, influencer extraordinaire and professional beautiful person, finds himself googling the address of a bakery at midnight like some kind of carb-obsessed stalker.

your cafe isn’t far from his gym. isn’t that convenient.

he screenshots the address and adds it to his calendar with the kind of focus usually reserved for competition prep, already planning his route and calculating what time he’ll need to leave to avoid the morning rush but still catch you during business hours.

because apparently, satoru gojo has stumbled upon a new obsession—someone who makes croissants for a living and couldn’t care less about his follower count, pretending she didn't just like his gym selfie.

his trainer is definitely going to have that aneurysm.

he timed it perfectly—after the morning rush had thinned and the café’s cheerful hum had settled into something softer. strategic timing, really. fewer distractions meant more of your attention, and satoru gojo had never been one to settle for scraps when he could have the whole meal.

the bell above the door chimed, small and unassuming, almost absurdly inadequate for the entrance that followed. satoru filled the doorway like gravity had personally rearranged itself around him, a quality white tee draping effortlessly over shoulders that looked like they’d been carved by someone with a personal vendetta against moderation, hinting at the landscape of muscle beneath. well-cut dark cargo pants, practical yet stylish, hung casually on powerful legs that could probably crush watermelons, and his hair—that impossible mess of silver-white strands—caught the morning light like it was showing off.

he walked in with the kind of confidence that made people forget what they were saying mid-sentence. calculated but effortless, the way predators moved when they weren’t particularly hungry but enjoyed the hunt anyway.

you recognized him instantly, and the mortifying memory of that accidental double-tap crashed through your mind like a wrecking ball made of pure embarrassment. heat threatened to crawl up your neck, but you shoved it down with the kind of ruthless efficiency that came from years of dealing with difficult customers and even more difficult ovens.

“welcome to flour & sugar,” you said, voice carefully steady as you finished wiping down the espresso machine. your movements were precise, controlled, the kind of calm that came from having your hands busy while your brain short-circuited. he caught the swift dart of your eyes, the way they met his for a fraction of a second before skittering away, and a slow, knowing amusement bloomed in his chest. oh, you were definitely lying. “what can i get for you today?”

but satoru wasn’t listening to your carefully rehearsed greeting. he was too busy having what could only be described as a religious experience with your display case.

“jesus christ,” he breathed, and those storm-glass eyes went wide as they tracked across the pastries like he was cataloging treasures. his hands pressed against the cool glass, long fingers splaying as he leaned in closer. “is that—are those pain au chocolat actually laminated properly or are you just trying to make me cry?”

the croissants sat in perfect golden rows, their surfaces glossy and flaked to mathematical precision. next to them, danish pastries spiraled with fruit preserves that caught the light like stained glass windows. chocolate éclairs lined up like soldiers, their choux pastry shells piped so perfectly they looked machine-made, topped with ganache so mirror-smooth it reflected the café’s warm lighting.

“showing off, obviously,” you replied, corners of your mouth threatening to betray you with something dangerously close to a smile. your fingers found the edge of your flour-dusted black apron, smoothing it down in a gesture that was becoming embarrassingly predictable. “we just brush regular croissants with chocolate syrup and hope no one notices.”

that earned you a bark of laughter, bright and genuine and so unexpected it made something flutter in your chest like a bird trying to escape. his whole face transformed when he laughed—the careful perfection cracking open to reveal something warmer underneath.

“oh, you’re trouble,” he said, grinning as he straightened up from the display case. ran one hand through that gravity-defying hair, messing it up in a way that somehow made it look better. the motion caused the soft fabric of the white tee to subtly shift and stretch over his chest and shoulder, a brief, undeniable testament to the power beneath, and he noticed you noticed. his grin widened almost imperceptibly. yeah, you definitely hadn’t liked his photo by ‘accident’. “i can tell already. so what’s your best ‘i’m definitely going to regret this later but it’ll be worth every minute’ option today?”

“the chocolate tart is popular,” you said, gesturing toward where it sat in solitary splendor—a perfect circle of temptation with ganache so dark it looked like liquid sin. “our kouign-amann sells out by noon.” you pointed to the golden, layered pastries that looked like edible architecture. “and if you’re feeling particularly self-destructive, the salted caramel éclair has a cult following.”

“dangerous recommendations,” he mused, those impossible eyes still cataloging every curve and swirl of your handiwork. his gaze lingered on the fruit tarts, their pastry cream bases topped with berries arranged like tiny works of art, then moved to the cinnamon rolls that spiraled with mathematical precision, their surfaces glazed to perfection.

he was quiet for a moment, just looking, and something in his expression shifted. softer somehow, like he was seeing more than just pastries behind the glass.

“what about you?” he asked finally, those winter-storm eyes finding yours. “what would you eat if calories didn’t exist and your trainer wasn’t going to lecture you about macros tomorrow?”

the question caught you completely off guard. most customers just wanted their order taken, not actual conversation, not genuine curiosity about your preferences. your hands stilled on the apron, suddenly aware of how he was looking at you—really looking, like your answer mattered.

“oh, definitely the chocolate tart,” you said, and a sudden, unexpected spark lit up in your eyes. you leaned forward just a fraction, your voice gaining a soft, enthusiastic edge. “it’s not just chocolate, you know? we use a blend of valrhona guanaja for that deep, almost bitter cocoa base, but then there’s a hint of madagascar vanilla bean in the custard, just enough to bring out the sweetness without making it cloying. and the crust—it’s a sable breton, a really buttery, shortbread-like texture that just crumbles perfectly. it’s about the balance, the way the intensity of the chocolate plays with the richness of the butter and the delicate snap of the shell. it’s… everything.”

you finished with a quiet, almost breathless sigh, a small flush on your cheeks from the sheer passion of your explanation. you hadn’t even realized you were practically lecturing him until you saw the look on his face.

something flickered across his face then, a slow dawning of satisfaction mixed with a captivating curiosity. his eyes, usually so sharp and teasing, were softened, fixed entirely on you. he hadn’t understood half the technical terms, but he’d understood the passion, the genuine love that radiated from you when you talked about your craft. that, he realized, was even more intoxicating than the thought of the tart itself.

“sold,” he declared, his voice a low, pleased rumble. “one chocolate tart for me. and—” he paused, head tilting as he studied the menu board behind you. “matcha latte. extra sweet, if you don’t mind. gotta balance out all that virtue somehow.”

the way he said it, low and curious, made your pulse skip in a way that had nothing to do with caffeine. “mr. gojo—”

“just satoru,” he interrupted, and that easy smile turned softer somehow, more genuine. leaned against the counter on his forearms, bringing himself closer to your eye level. the sleeve of his white tee shifted, briefly revealing the impressive curve of his powerful biceps, practically begging for your gaze, and you felt that familiar, involuntary tightening in your throat again. he was far too aware of the space between you, of the way the air thrummed with unspoken things. “i’d prefer it if you called me satoru. ‘mr. gojo’ makes me sound like my father, and trust me, that’s not the vibe we’re going for here.”

heat crept up your neck despite every attempt at professional composure. he was close enough that you could smell his cologne—something clean and expensive that probably cost more than your monthly ingredient budget—mixed with the faintest hint of lingering workout endorphins.

“satoru, then,” you managed, fingers finding the register keys with muscle memory while your brain tried to process the way he smiled when you said his name. “find a seat anywhere you’d like. i’ll call you when it’s ready.”

he pushed back from the counter with fluid grace, all loose-limbed confidence and predatory satisfaction. chose the corner table by the window—of course he did—prime real estate for people-watching and and, more importantly, you-watching. settled into the chair like he owned not just the seat but the entire building, phone out but screen dark, attention fixed entirely on your workspace.

you tried to ignore the weight of his stare as you moved through your routine, but it was like trying to ignore sunlight streaming through windows. persistent, warm, impossible to escape. steamed milk for his matcha latte, the bright green powder swirling into pale foam like liquid jade, sweetened just enough to match his request for extra sugar.

selected his tart from the display case with the reverence it deserved, the chocolate ganache mirror-smooth and perfect, reflecting the café’s warm lighting like dark water.

“order for satoru,” you called, and watched him unfold from the chair with that fluid grace that made ordinary movements look choreographed.

“that was fast,” he said, accepting the small plate and cup. his fingers brushed yours for just a moment—warm, callused from whatever weights he threw around when he wasn’t terrorizing bakeries. “efficient.”

“i try not to keep people waiting.” the words came out steadier than you felt, professional smile firmly in place even as your skin tingled where he’d touched it.

“and here i was hoping you’d take your time,” he replied, that insufferable smirk back in full force. tilted his head just enough to catch your eye, silver hair falling across his forehead in a way that should’ve looked accidental but absolutely wasn’t. “guess i’ll just have to savor this extra slowly to make up for it.”

back at his table, satoru lifted the fork like he was about to perform delicate surgery. cut into the tart with surgical precision, watched the ganache yield to reveal the perfect custard beneath, dark chocolate giving way to pale cream in a contrast that made his mouth water before he’d even tasted it.

the first bite rewired something fundamental in his brain.

it wasn’t just the flavor—though that was devastating enough, rich and balanced and absolutely perfect. it was the memory that came with it, sudden and overwhelming. his grandmother’s kitchen on sunday mornings, flour handprints on her faded apron, the smell of butter and vanilla thick in the air like incense in a church dedicated to sugar and love.

he’d been a chubby kid back then, all round cheeks and soft edges before growth spurts and gym obsessions carved him into something else entirely. back when sweetness meant safety, when dessert wasn’t the enemy but the reward for scraped knees and hard days and just existing in a world that sometimes felt too big and too scary.

this tart tasted like coming home to a place he’d forgotten existed.

he tried to eat it slowly, really tried. wanted to analyze the flavor profile, identify the techniques, make it last. but his body had other plans entirely. each bite melted on his tongue like a prayer answered, and before he knew it the plate was empty and he was staring at the evidence of his complete lack of self-control.

worth every single burpee he’d have to do tomorrow. worth twice that many.

he pulled out his phone, angled it to catch the crumb-scattered plate in afternoon light. typed out “found heaven” with thumbs that were steadier than they had any right to be, tagged the location, posted it to his story without a second thought.

let his trainer try to explain that one.

when he looked up, you were watching him from behind the counter, expression carefully neutral but eyes curious. caught in the act of caring whether he’d enjoyed it, whether your work had lived up to whatever expectations he’d built in his head.

“verdict?” you called across the space between you, voice carrying just the tiniest hint of genuine interest beneath the professional politeness.

“devastating,” he called back, not bothering to hide his grin or the way he gestured to the empty plate like it was evidence in a criminal trial. “absolutely devastating. i’m going to have to come back tomorrow just to make sure it wasn’t a fluke.”

“tomorrow’s monday. we’re closed.” the correction came automatically, but there was something softer in your voice now, the professional mask slipping just enough to let real personality peek through.

“then tuesday,” he said without missing a beat, standing up with that fluid grace and reaching for his wallet. “and probably wednesday. thursday’s looking pretty likely too.”

you ducked your head, but not before he caught the small smile you were trying to hide. watched you wipe your hands on that flour-dusted apron in the nervous gesture he was already learning to catalog alongside all your other tells.

“same time tuesday, then,” you said, like you were discussing the weather instead of planning his return to the scene of his carbohydrate crime.

“wouldn’t miss it, cupcake,” he replied, dropping a twenty on the counter for a twelve-dollar order and heading for the door before you could argue about the change.

he walked out into afternoon sunshine already calculating how many extra miles he’d need to run to justify coming back in two days.

spoiler alert: he was coming back regardless, and you both knew it.

the cafe, which once felt like a carefully controlled universe of flour and sugar, now had a new gravitational pull. satoru gojo had become a regular. not just a customer, but a fixture, like the espresso machine or the perpetually overflowing tips jar.

except this fixture came with perfectly tousled hair and a smile that could probably power half the city.

tuesday morning, 10:47 am. the bell chimed and there he was, silver hair catching the morning light like he’d been personally blessed by some very aesthetic gods. today’s ensemble: a loose knit sweater that somehow managed to look both cozy and criminally expensive, draped across shoulders that belonged in a renaissance sculpture exhibit.

he approached the counter with that easy confidence, long fingers already drumming against the glass as those winter-storm eyes conducted some kind of pastry reconnaissance mission.

“just making sure the integrity of your laminated dough hasn’t... suffered since yesterday, cupcake,” he said, leaning against the counter like he’d been doing it his whole life. the casual way he invaded your space should have been annoying. instead, it made something flutter stupidly in your chest.

you barely suppressed an eye roll, busying yourself with restocking napkins because your hands needed something to do that wasn’t embarrassing. “my laminated dough is doing just fine, satoru.”

“is it though?” he tilted his head, hair falling across his forehead in a way that was definitely not accidental, studying a pain au chocolat like it held state secrets. “because that one right there looks criminally perfect. almost offensive, really. i might have to do something about it.”

the way he said it, all mock seriousness with those ridiculous blue eyes sparkling with mischief, made your lips twitch despite your best efforts. “such a hardship for you.”

“devastating,” he agreed, pressing a hand to his chest like he was physically wounded. then that grin broke through, the one that made him look less like a fitness god and more like a kid who’d found the cookie jar. “i’ll take two. and one of those.” he pointed to a lemon meringue tart, its peak of toasted meringue golden and proud. “for balance.”

you reached for the pastries, trying to ignore how he watched your every movement like he was memorizing the choreography. “balance?”

“very important nutritional concept. sweet, then tart, then back to sweet. it’s basically science.”

“that’s not how nutrition works.”

“says who? my trainer?” he waved a dismissive hand, the gesture fluid and careless. “he thinks protein powder counts as a food group. clearly not a reliable source.”

wednesday brought a different satoru—button-down with sleeves rolled just so, revealing forearms that should probably be illegal in most countries. he ordered three chocolate éclairs this time, each one a perfect torpedo of choux pastry and dark ganache.

“consistency test?” you repeated, watching him pull out that expensive wallet like he was performing surgery.

“scientific method, cupcake. very important.” he peeled off crisp hundreds with the casual air of someone who’d never met a price tag he couldn’t ignore. the bills looked fresh from the bank, and you briefly wondered if he requested new ones specifically for pastry purchases. “can’t make proper recommendations without thorough research.”

your fingers found the edge of your apron, smoothing down imaginary wrinkles. “recommendations to who?”

“my trainer, obviously. gotta give him fair warning about what’s destroying his careful work.” that laugh again, bright and completely unrepentant, the sound warming something deep in your chest. “speaking of which, what’s the caloric damage on these beauties?”

“you don’t want to know.”

“try me.” he leaned forward slightly, chin tilting in challenge, and you caught yourself staring at the way his collar bone disappeared beneath the cotton of his shirt.

“about three hundred each.”

he paused, éclair halfway to his mouth, and you watched something flicker across his face. not regret exactly, but the quick mental calculation of someone who’d spent years thinking in macros and meal plans. then he shrugged, a movement that somehow made his shoulders look even broader, and took a bite that was pure bliss.

his eyes actually fluttered closed for a second, and the small sound he made was borderline indecent. you busied yourself with the register before your brain could process the implications.

“worth every burpee,” he declared, and the conviction in his voice made something warm unfurl in your stomach. this wasn’t just politeness or customer service charm. he meant it.

thursday he showed up in a perfectly fitted black tee that left absolutely nothing to the imagination, and your professionalism took a brief vacation. the fabric clung to every angle and curve like it had been painted on, and you spent an embarrassing amount of time pretending to organize the already-organized pastry display.

he ordered what could only be described as half your case. two kouign-amann, a slice of blood orange tart, three of your dark chocolate cookies, and a danish that had been sitting there looking particularly photogenic.

“research again?” you asked, voice carefully light while your eyes decidedly did not linger on the way his shirt stretched when he reached for his wallet.

“training day,” he said, and there was that subtle flex again, the movement so casual it might have been accidental if not for the way his lips quirked slightly. he knew exactly what he was doing. “need the fuel.”

you handed him his order, fingers brushing his for just a moment. warm, slightly callused from whatever torture routine he put himself through daily. “for what, exactly?”

“deadlifts. squats. the usual punishment for having a sweet tooth the size of tokyo.” he examined the danish like he was conducting a forensic investigation, head tilted just so. “my trainer keeps threatening to fire me, but joke’s on him—i’d just find someone who appreciates the finer things in life.”

the mental image of satoru gojo interviewing personal trainers based on their pastry tolerance made you duck your head to hide a smile. “how much extra cardio are we talking here?”

“for this haul? probably an extra hour. maybe two.” he bit into the danish with the kind of focus usually reserved for important life decisions, and you watched his expression melt into something approaching reverence. “but look at this thing. the way you’ve layered that fruit, how the glaze catches the light... that’s art, cupcake. you can’t put a price on art.”

heat crept up your neck at the genuine appreciation in his voice. “apparently you can. it’s twelve dollars.”

“cheap for a masterpiece.”

the compliment hit different when it came wrapped in that soft tone, without any of his usual performative charm. just honest appreciation, and it made your chest feel tight in ways you didn’t want to examine.

by friday, you’d started doing something incredibly stupid. anticipating his visits with the kind of precision usually reserved for oven timers and proofing schedules. you knew his patterns now—tart first, then creamy, then something with crunch. complex flavors that demanded attention, just like everything else about him.

so when he walked in wearing a cream-colored sweater that made his hair look like spun moonlight, you’d already committed the crime of setting aside a perfect almond croissant and a slice of your new cardamom pear tart. just sitting there on a small plate behind the counter, waiting like evidence of your growing soft spot.

he stopped short when he saw them, and something shifted in his expression. softer somehow, like you’d surprised him in the best possible way. “you read my mind, cupcake.”

“just good service,” you mumbled, but your hands betrayed you, finding your apron and smoothing the flour-dusted fabric with nervous fingers.

“is it though?” he leaned forward, elbows finding the counter, bringing himself into your space in a way that made your pulse skip. up close, you could see the faint freckle near his left temple, the way his ridiculously long eyelashes cast shadows on his cheekbones. “because this feels suspiciously like you’ve been paying attention to my very sophisticated palate.”

the teasing lilt in his voice made your stomach do something acrobatic. “your very expensive palate, you mean.”

“that too.” those eyes were studying you now with the same intensity he usually reserved for pastries, curious and warm and entirely too perceptive. “so what made you choose these? professional instinct or...”

“or what?”

“or maybe you’re starting to like having me around.”

the question hung between you like sugar dust in afternoon light, sweet and impossible to ignore. your cheeks felt warm, but you kept your voice steady through sheer stubborn will. “you’re a good customer.”

“just good?” he tilted his head, hair falling across his forehead in that way that made your fingers itch to brush it back.

“you tip well.”

“ah.” he straightened up with fluid grace, grinning like he’d just solved a particularly entertaining puzzle. “so it is about the money.”

the lie sat bitter on your tongue, but you’d rather eat raw flour than admit the truth. that you looked forward to his visits. that you’d started timing your baking schedule around his usual arrival. that the ridiculous tips were just an excuse to let yourself enjoy his company without feeling guilty about it.

“everything’s about money, satoru.”

“everything?” that voice dropped lower, softer, and you felt it in places that had absolutely nothing to do with business. “what about the art? the passion? the pure, unadulterated joy of creation?”

your breath caught slightly at the way he said ‘passion,’ like the word meant something more than flour and butter and sugar. “rent doesn’t pay itself with passion.”

“fair point.” he took a bite of the almond croissant, and you watched his entire face transform. the careful composure melted away, replaced by something raw and genuine and absolutely devastating. “jesus. okay, this is... this is stupid good.”

pride bloomed warm in your chest, the kind that came from watching someone truly appreciate your work. “just stupid good?”

“life-changing. earth-shattering. the kind of good that makes me question every life choice that led to me discovering it this late.” he took another bite, slower this time, actually savoring it like it deserved. watching him eat something you’d made with such obvious pleasure did dangerous things to your equilibrium. “where did you learn to do this?”

the question caught you off guard. not his usual surface-level compliments, but genuine curiosity about you, about your story. you found yourself answering before you could think better of it.

“culinary school. then a few years working under other people before i saved enough to open this place.” you gestured around the café, at the warm lighting and carefully chosen décor that had taken months of planning and every penny you’d managed to scrape together.

“other people?”

“a french pastry chef who made gordon ramsay look like a teddy bear. learned more in six months with him than i did in two years of school.” the memory still made you wince slightly, even wrapped in gratitude for everything it had taught you.

satoru’s eyebrows rose, and something shifted in his expression. less playful, more attentive. “sounds intense.”

“he once made me remake the same batch of croissants seventeen times because the lamination wasn’t perfect.” the words came easier now, maybe because he was listening with such focused attention. “i cried in the walk-in cooler.”

“and the eighteenth time?”

“eighteenth time was perfect.” you surprised yourself with how much warmth crept into your voice. “finally understood what he meant about respecting the process. about not cutting corners just because you think you know better.”

“and now?”

“now i can make them in my sleep.” you gestured toward the display case where your croissants sat in golden, flaky perfection, evidence of countless hours and stubborn determination. “muscle memory and spite, mostly.”

that drew a laugh from him, rich and genuine. “deadly combination.”

he was looking at you differently now, those impossible eyes softer somehow. like he was seeing past the professional politeness to something more real. it should have been unsettling. instead, it made you want to keep talking, keep sharing pieces of yourself you usually kept locked away.

“so this chocolate work you do—the tempering, the ganache—that all came from drill sergeant pastry chef too?”

you found yourself actually wanting to explain it, to share the thing you loved most about your craft. “some of it. but chocolate is... different. more temperamental. you can’t bully it into submission like dough. you have to coax it, understand what it needs.”

he leaned closer, genuinely interested, and you caught a whiff of his cologne mixed with the lingering sweetness from the pastries. clean and expensive and entirely too distracting. “what does it need?”

“patience. the right temperature. respect for the process.” you pulled out your phone almost without thinking, scrolling to a video you’d posted last week. “see this? the way the chocolate looks when it’s properly tempered versus when it’s not?”

he moved around the counter—when had you said he could do that?—to look at your screen. close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, see the way his hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck. “show me the difference.”

your fingers were definitely not steady as you pointed to the glossy, perfectly smooth chocolate in the video. “this one. snappy, shiny, stable. versus this.” another clip, chocolate that looked dull and streaky. “seized because someone got impatient and tried to rush the cooling process.”

“someone like me, you mean.”

the self-awareness in his voice made you look up, and suddenly you were much too close to those winter-storm eyes. “someone exactly like you.”

“ouch.” but he was smiling, that soft genuine smile that made your pulse forget its rhythm. “so you’re saying i need to learn patience.”

“i’m saying chocolate will teach you patience whether you want to learn or not.”

“and if i wanted to learn? hypothetically speaking.”

the question settled between you like powdered sugar, sweet and impossible to brush away. your heart did something complicated against your ribs. “hypothetically?”

“completely hypothetical. just curious about the... educational process.”

you studied his face, looking for the usual playful smirk, but found something more sincere instead. something that made your chest feel tight and warm and terrified. “it’s not easy. takes time. messy. lots of failures before you get it right.”

“i’m not afraid of messy.” his voice was softer now, and you realized you were still standing much too close, could see the faint gold flecks in his impossibly blue eyes.

“no,” you said quietly, taking in his perfectly styled hair, his carefully chosen outfit, the way he carried himself like problems were just puzzles waiting to be solved. “i don’t think you are.”

he stayed longer that day, nursing his matcha latte and working through the cardamom pear tart with the kind of focus usually reserved for meditation or very important life decisions. every so often he’d look up and catch you watching him, and instead of that cocky smirk you’d grown dangerously fond of, he’d give you something softer. more real.

when he finally left, he paused at the door, hand on the frame, looking back like he wanted to say something else.

“same time monday?”

“we’re closed mondays.”

“tuesday, then.” that smile again, the one that made your knees forget their primary function.

“tuesday works.”

he pushed through the door into afternoon sunshine, and you watched him pull out his phone to photograph the empty plate he’d left behind. the story that went up an hour later was just the image with no caption, but your café’s location tagged like a promise.

your phone buzzed, not with an explosion, but with another steady pulse in what had become a low, constant hum of new activity over the past few days. each time he’d posted and tagged you, a new wave of curious followers would wash over your small page—a few hundred more likes, a dozen more comments asking who you were. this post felt different, though. more potent.

it felt less like a ripple and more like the tide starting to turn. you stared at your phone screen, watching the new notifications roll in, a knot of anticipation tightening in your stomach. you realized you were in trouble. the kind of trouble that was only partly about the looming threat of viral fame, and everything to do with the way your heart had started keeping time to the rhythm of a certain someone’s visits.

the cafe visits had become routine, but so had something else entirely. late-night video binges. satoru, tucked into the ridiculously expensive italian leather couch in his penthouse, would scroll through your youtube channel like it was late-night cable, airpods in, the city lights a distant hum.

your voice, a warm honey he’d once only associated with chocolate tempering, now filled his ears, a constant, comforting presence. it was oddly intimate, an exclusive soundtrack to his solitary evenings. he’d watch you explain the subtle art of a perfectly proofed brioche, the meticulous fold of a puff pastry. and as he watched, as your gentle explanations filled the quiet of his apartment, he started associating sweetness with more than just taste.

it was in the warmth of your voice, the patient way you corrected a common baking mistake in a tutorial, the quiet dedication in your hands as they measured flour. sweetness became patience. sweetness became quiet strength. sweetness became you.

he’d drift off to sleep with the soft cadence of your voice in his ears, and that’s when the dreams started. not about gym glory or brand deals, but about pastries that didn’t exist yet. wild, impossible creations: a lavender-infused crème brûlée that shimmered like moonlight, a pistachio and rosewater financier that smelled like spring, a miso-caramel tart with a delicate sesame crust. he’d wake up, confused and disoriented, craving flavors you hadn’t invented yet, a strange, persistent ache in his chest.

and then, the texting began.

it started innocently enough, a playful jab after a particularly indulgent visit.

squatoru: seriously, that pain au chocolat today? should come with a warning label. my trainer cried.

why.en-bakes: glad to be of service 😃

but then, the messages started appearing at odd hours. 1 am, 2 am. sometimes a simple, nonsensical emoji. sometimes a flurry of half-baked ideas.

squatoru: what about a churro croissant? is that legal? asking for a friend. (the friend is my sweet tooth).

you’d wake up to the ping, groggy and annoyed, but then you’d read his absurd suggestions, and a small smile would tug at your lips. sometimes, inexplicably, they were good ideas. too good.

your fingers would hover over your phone, considering the absurdity, then find themselves scrolling through your pantry. a few days later, a churro croissant would appear as tomorrow’s special, flaky and cinnamon-sugared, a tangible reply to his late-night musings.

he’d walk in the next day, a triumphant grin on his face. “i knew it,” he’d say, leaning against the counter, eyes sparkling. “you’re secretly taking commissions from my dreams, aren’t you, cupcake?”

you’d just shrug, a faint flush on your cheeks. “just a good baker with good ideas, satoru.”

he began to wonder if this was what inspiration felt like, this constant buzz in his brain, these unexpected surges of creativity that always, always, revolved around you and your world. it was foreign, intoxicating.

the teasing messages started to shift, to soften. the playful jabs giving way to something more sincere, more vulnerable.

squatoru: that apple crumble changed my life, no joke. thought i peaked, then tasted that. turns out i can still be surprised.

a message like that would arrive late at night, catching you off guard. you’d be scrolling through a supplier catalog, exhausted, and then his words would bloom on the screen, a quiet warmth spreading through your chest.

squatoru: didn’t know honey could taste like that. your honey cake. it’s something else.

you’d stare at your phone screen, a strange mixture of fluster and genuine pleasure unfurling inside you. these weren't compliments about his abs or his follower count—they were about your work, your taste, your ability to create something beautiful. when you thought no one was looking, usually tucked under your covers or in the quiet pre-dawn hours of the cafe, you’d screenshot them. little digital keepsakes of his quiet adoration.

squatoru: you made winter feel kind today. the lemon tart. tasted like sunshine.

you didn't know what to do with messages like that. they weren't flirting, not exactly. they were… observations. gentle, heartfelt observations that chipped away at your professional armor, one sweet, unassuming word at a time.

back in the gleaming, sterile environment of his gym, satoru’s performance was, to put it mildly, suffering. his focus, once laser-sharp, now drifted like dandelion fluff on the wind.

he dropped weights mid-set, the heavy clatter echoing through the gym, startling the other lifters. he’d be thinking about the impossibly smooth texture of your lemon curd, the delicate balance of your custard. the way it melted on the tongue. the exact shade of the toasted meringue.

his trainer, a no-nonsense man named masaru who believed in pain and protein above all else, crossed his arms, a vein throbbing faintly in his temple. “satoru. you’ve dropped that sixty-kilo bell three times this week. you sleeping enough?”

satoru grunted, wiping sweat from his brow with a towel, his mind still halfway back in your cafe. “yeah, fine. just… distracted.”

“distracted by what? another brand deal?” masaru eyed him skeptically. “you’re hitting your protein, right? macros are still on point?”

“yeah, yeah. all fine.” satoru lied, easily, smoothly. he hadn’t logged his macros properly in days. he hadn’t done his usual post-workout cardio in favor of replaying your new almond croissant tutorial. he wasn’t fine. not in the way masaru meant.

he was falling. falling faster and harder than any deadlift he’d ever attempted. and the landing, he suspected, was going to be deliciously, terrifyingly sweet.

satoru’s multiple story posts tagging humble your café’s location, each one a testament to your baking prowess and his insatiable sweet tooth, had brought chaos. glorious, sugary chaos.

by the next morning, tuesday, there was a line winding around the block of flour & sugar—a serpent of eager customers stretching down the street, smartphones out, food bloggers scribbling furiously into notebooks, and a worrying number of local influencers trying (and failing) to recreate satoru’s “found heaven” aesthetic shots outside your unassuming facade.

you opened the doors at seven, expecting your usual tuesday hum. instead, you were hit with a tidal wave. your tiny cafe, usually a haven of quiet contemplation for pastry lovers, became a buzzing hive of anticipation.

by 9 am, the display case was utterly, tragically barren. empty shelves stared back at you, pristine and devoid of life. you were sold out, completely overwhelmed by the sudden, unprecedented influx of customers, all asking for “whatever satoru gojo ordered.”

you’d spent the last hour politely explaining that satoru gojo had a different order every day and, no, you couldn’t just whip up a fresh batch of everything right now. the exhaustion was real, but so was the faint, bewildered pride.

when he showed up at his usual, leisurely time, strolling in at 10:47 like he owned the sunshine outside, he stopped short. the bell above the door gave its usual chime, but for once, satoru’s fluid confidence faltered. his storm-glass eyes, usually so sharp and discerning, widened, then slowly swept across the utterly desolate display case.

the devastation on his face was almost comical—like someone had just told him christmas was cancelled, forever, and replaced it with a mandatory kale cleanse. his impossible silver hair seemed to droop slightly, mirroring the sudden collapse of his shoulders.

you, wiping down the already spotless counter, saw his expression crumble, the playful mischief in his eyes replaced by a profound, almost childlike grief. a genuine wave of apology washed over you.

“i’m so sorry,” you started, stepping closer to the counter, your voice softer than intended. his gaze flickered to you, briefly losing focus on the tragedy before him. “we… we sold out early today. there were just… a lot of new customers.” you gestured vaguely towards the lingering stragglers outside, still hopeful.

he ignored them. his eyes were fixed on the barren shelves, staring at the empty spaces where his beloved pain au chocolat and lemon meringue tarts usually sat in gleaming rows, like they had personally betrayed him. his perfect posture, usually so effortlessly arrogant, sagged just a fraction. “all of it?”

you nodded, a small, sympathetic frown creasing your brow. “all of it. the pain au chocolat, the kouign-amann, even the cinnamon rolls. everything.” you watched him process this profound tragedy, the quick flicker of shock, then disbelief, then a truly dramatic despair. a strange, soft tug pulled at your chest. it was ridiculous, of course, but also… kind of sweet.

you couldn’t help it. his absolute, unadulterated heartbreak over a lack of pastries was surprisingly endearing. “but… i could make you something?” you offered, the words tumbling out before you could fully censor them. “fresh? if you don’t mind waiting.”

his head snapped up, those storm-glass eyes widening again, now alight with a sudden, improbable hope. it was like you’d just offered him the moon, gift-wrapped and topped with ganache. “you’d do that?”

“well,” you said, trying to ignore how his entire face lit up, a blinding sunrise of relief and joy. you felt a blush creeping up your neck. “can’t have you wasting away to nothing, satoru. i imagine your trainer would send me a very strongly worded email.” you added, a small, wry smile touching your lips.

what you didn’t say: that you’d already set aside ingredients for his usual favorites—an almond croissant, a chocolate tart, a couple of those irresistible dark chocolate cookies—before the morning rush hit, carefully hidden in the back like a secret stash, just in case. just in case he showed up, heartbroken, and needed a little private magic.

he seemed to take this as a cue, a permission granted. a wide, relieved grin spread across his face, lighting up the entire cafe. “you’re a lifesaver, cupcake. a literal, delicious lifesaver.” he pushed off the counter, moving with renewed purpose towards his usual corner table, settling in with the patience of a cat waiting for milk. “anything you make will be perfect. take your time. i’m in no rush.”

you ducked your head, a smile finally escaping, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the espresso machine. the cafe was empty of customers, but suddenly, it felt very, very full.

you disappeared into the back, the familiar rhythm of your kitchen a welcome balm after the morning’s chaos. pulling out the pre-portioned ingredients, you began to work, your hands moving with skilled precision. you rolled the pastry for his almond croissant, its buttery layers promising flaky perfection, then assembled a miniature chocolate tart, ensuring the ganache was extra smooth, the sable crust extra crisp. the aroma of warm butter and dark chocolate began to waft through the now quiet cafe, a comforting, familiar scent that promised indulgence.

satoru, at his table, watched the kitchen door, an expectant, almost puppy-like eagerness in his posture. when you finally emerged, a small plate held carefully in your hands, he practically vibrated with anticipation.

“almond croissant and a chocolate tart, fresh out of the oven,” you announced, placing the plate gently before him. the croissant gleamed, its toasted almonds a fragrant crown, and the chocolate tart was a miniature masterpiece, its surface still faintly warm. “and a fresh matcha latte, extra sweet, just like you like it.”

he stared at the plate, then up at you, his impossible eyes wide with genuine awe. “you… you made this? just for me?”

you felt a blush spread across your cheeks. “it’s part of the job, satoru. making people happy with pastries.”

“you’re doing a very good job,” he said, his gaze lingering on your face for a beat longer than strictly necessary. he reached for the croissant first, breaking off a piece with careful precision. the warm, buttery scent filled the air around him. his eyes fluttered closed for a second, a soft, appreciative hum escaping him as he chewed slowly, savoring every flaky, almond-laced bite.

this wasn't just a pastry. this was a personalized act of kindness from the one person who seemed utterly immune to his usual charms. and it tasted like pure, unadulterated happiness.

he devoured the croissant, then moved to the chocolate tart, taking a huge, satisfying bite. the warmth of the chocolate, the sweetness of the ganache, the unexpected crunch of the crust—it was pure bliss. he ate it with the focus of a man who’d been starving for days, yet somehow also with a deliberate slowness, trying to make the moment last.

when he finished, the plates were impeccably clean, as if licked. he pulled out his wallet again, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “i’m going to need the damage report, cupcake. and i have a feeling this kind of bespoke service warrants… extra compensation.” he placed two crisp hundred-dollar bills on the counter, pushing them towards you. “for the trouble. and for the extra miles i’ll have to run tomorrow.”

you stared at the money, then at him, a genuine smile finally breaking through. “satoru, this is ridiculous. it’s twelve dollars. the ingredients were already here.”

“nonsense. that was a private showing of artisanal genius. worth every penny. consider it a down payment for future emergencies.” he grinned, then stood, stretching with a languid grace that drew your eyes to the way his t-shirt draped over his chest. “so. tuesday, then? same time?”

you watched him, a warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the oven. “tuesday. we’ll try to save some for you.”

“no need,” he said, a playful wink accompanying his words as he headed for the door. “i have a feeling you’ll make something special just for me.”

and as the bell chimed, marking his departure, you couldn’t help but smile, already thinking about what new creation you could conjure up for his next visit. he was right. you probably would.

the cafe had always run on rhythm. espresso machine hissing, ceramic clatter, quiet conversation hum. but lately, that rhythm had acquired a distinct satoru-shaped beat that threw off your entire carefully orchestrated world.

he’d been coming in daily now, not just tuesday through saturday, but every moment the doors were open. his excuses were increasingly transparent, delivered with charming smirks that you almost bought—would have bought, if you weren’t becoming dangerously familiar with the way his mouth curved when he was particularly pleased with himself.

“needed caffeine,” he’d declare one morning, striding through the bell’s familiar jingle with the kind of confidence that made gravity seem negotiable. never mind that his penthouse probably housed equipment worth more than your monthly rent. he’d stretch deliberately, quality fabric pulling across shoulders that belonged in renaissance sculptures, while storm-glass eyes swept the display case like he was conducting some kind of sacred inventory.

another day brought, “had a meeting nearby.” vague gesturing down the street with long fingers that moved like they were conducting invisible symphonies, as if his presence wasn’t the actual purpose. he’d unwrap an éclair before fully paying, chocolate scent momentarily masking cologne that probably cost more than your weekly flour budget.

then came the most audacious: “thought i smelled something burning.”

perfectly straight face, not even a twitch in those ridiculous cheekbones. dramatic air-sniffing that somehow made him look like a very expensive bloodhound. you’d given him your flattest look, the one usually reserved for customers who asked if your croissants were “really” made fresh daily.

there was, of course, no burning anything. just your patience, slowly crumbling like overbaked cookies.

today was thursday. he walked in wearing a dark long-sleeved shirt that committed actual crimes against your ability to concentrate and cargo pants that somehow looked effortlessly expensive on legs that went on for geological ages. ordered his usual—chocolate tart, almond croissant, extra-sweet matcha latte that matched his ridiculous sweet tooth—but bypassed his customary corner table.

instead, he chose a small two-person spot against the wall. direct, unobstructed view of your main workspace. the audacity was breathtaking, really.

you felt his attention immediately, warm weight settling between your shoulder blades like a cat claiming ownership. moved to the prep station where vanilla cupcakes waited for rosettes, your hands usually surgeon-steady despite the early morning rush. but under his unwavering focus, fingers felt clumsy, disconnected from your brain. delicate buttercream swirls wobbled slightly, and you bit back the urge to hum—your usual working soundtrack felt too intimate with him watching.

annoyance mixed with growing heat that had nothing to do with the ovens. furious blush threatened to betray every professional instinct you’d cultivated.

during a lull, you glanced up, and immediately regretted it. his table sat maybe six feet away but felt impossibly close, like he’d somehow bent space around himself. no pretense today—phone abandoned beside his matcha, screen dark as those winter-storm eyes. just watching. chin propped on palm, elbow on table, head tilted with languid grace that suggested he had all the time in the world to study your every movement.

his expression was soft, unguarded. usual playful glint replaced by something direct, seeing. it made your chest tighten strangely, breath catching like you’d forgotten how to process oxygen properly. awareness jolted through you like touching a live wire.

“you’re staring,” you called across the space, voice steadier than your pulse deserved. the words came out sharper than intended, defensive armor against the way he was looking at you like you were the most fascinating thing in his very curated world.

he smiled slowly, easy stretch reaching those impossible eyes. blue depths softened, losing glacial edge for warmth that made something flutter stupidly behind your ribs. lifted his matcha with deliberate grace, sipped without breaking eye contact. the movement was calculated casualness, performative in its confidence.

“just appreciating the artistry, cupcake.” his voice carried new weight today, rougher around the edges. more honest than his usual smooth control, like he’d forgotten to put on his public persona along with that perfectly fitted shirt.

“the artistry of cupcakes?” you countered, fingers tightening around the piping bag until plastic creaked in protest. forced attention back to swirling white frosting, but your mind kept circling back to how his gaze felt like warm spotlight, illuminating corners of yourself you usually kept professionally dim.

he chuckled, low and private, the sound meant for your ears alone despite the public space. head tilted again, silver hair falling across his forehead in a way that should have looked messy but instead made him look like some expensive magazine’s idea of casual perfection. storm-glass eyes held yours, reflective depth replacing sharp teasing.

“the artistry of you making them.” the words fell between you like powdered sugar, sweet and impossible to brush away.

this compliment rewired something fundamental in your chest. bypassed professional pride entirely, sailed straight past the fluster you’d been fighting, and landed somewhere dangerous. settled like comfortable weight against your ribs, warm and persistent. wasn’t about pastries anymore, or technical skill. about you.

the quiet passion, focused dedication you poured into everything you made. like he’d reached past counter, past flour-dusted apron, past practiced customer service smile, and seen something essential you rarely let anyone witness.

heat crept up your neck in a slow burn, spread across cheeks like spilled cinnamon. you ducked your head, suddenly exposed in ways that made your skin feel too tight. terrifying and exhilarating simultaneously, like standing at the edge of something vast and unnamed.

foolish joy blossomed behind your ribs anyway. he really sees it. sees you.

“well, thank you, satoru,” you managed, voice softer than intended, betraying the carefully constructed composure you wore like armor. squeezed the piping bag, and a perfect rosette bloomed—slightly lopsided but charming in its imperfection. “it takes a lot of practice. years, actually.”

your fingers trembled slightly as you set the cupcake aside, reached for another. started humming under your breath without thinking, a soft melody that always accompanied your work. caught yourself, stopped abruptly.

he made a thoughtful sound, those long fingers drumming against ceramic in a rhythm that somehow matched the song you’d been humming. like he’d been listening, filing away even your unconscious habits. “years, huh? that’s...” he paused, rolling the word around like he was tasting it. “dedication.”

something almost wistful colored his tone, like he was trying to imagine that kind of sustained commitment to anything that wasn’t maintaining his ridiculous physical perfection. his thumb traced the rim of his cup, absent gesture that drew your attention to hands that were probably softer than yours despite all his gym time.

“some people think it’s obsessive,” you admitted, surprising yourself with the honesty. smoothed your apron with nervous fingers, flour transferring to already-dusty fabric. you’d heard it before—friends who didn’t understand the 4am starts, the burned fingers, the endless pursuit of perfect crumb structure.

“obsessive?” he repeated, eyebrows rising toward that impossible hairline. familiar smirk tugged at lips that were unfairly well-defined, but gentler somehow. less performative. “coming from someone who’s memorized your operating schedule and has been conducting what could generously be called ‘pastry surveillance’ for months?”

the self-awareness in his voice, paired with that slight flush across sharp cheekbones, made something warm bubble up in your chest. despite yourself, you snorted. actual snorted. like an undignified, very unprofessional sound that would have mortified you with any other customer.

his grin widened into something brilliant, transforming his entire face. less magazine-perfect, more genuinely beautiful. the kind of smile that made you forget he was probably genetically engineered for maximum visual impact.

“touché,” you murmured, ducking your head to hide your answering smile. started humming again, softer this time, the melody weaving between words. “though i’d hardly call buying excessive amounts of baked goods ‘surveillance.’”

“excessive?” he pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense, the gesture making his shirt pull across torso that defied reasonable proportions. leaned back in his chair with fluid grace, all long lines and casual power. “i prefer ‘thorough research methodology.’”

“is that what we’re calling it?” the question came out teasing despite your best efforts, fingers moving in familiar patterns as buttercream spiraled into perfect peaks.

“absolutely. very scientific.” he took another sip of matcha, eyes sparkling with mischief that made him look younger, less untouchable. “can’t make proper assessments without comprehensive data collection.”

you paused in your piping, tilted your head in challenge. “and what exactly are you assessing?”

something shifted in his expression then, playful mask slipping slightly. “everything,” he said simply, voice dropping to something more intimate. “the way you move when you think no one’s watching. how you hum when you’re concentrating. the fact that you always check the oven timer twice, even though you could probably bake blindfolded by now.”

the observation sent warmth spiraling through your chest. he had been watching, really watching. not just appreciating the view but memorizing details, cataloging habits you thought were invisible.

“speaking of which,” he continued, leaning forward slightly, elbows finding the table. closer now, close enough that you could see the way his lashes cast shadows on those ridiculous cheekbones. “how does one even begin to learn something like this? hypothetically speaking.”

the question caught you off guard, made you pause with piping bag hovering over another cupcake. something in his tone had shifted—less flirtatious banter, more genuine curiosity. like he was actually interested in your answer rather than just enjoying the conversation.

“hypothetically?” you echoed carefully, studying his face for signs of his usual performative charm. found something more sincere instead, vulnerability creeping around the edges of his confidence.

“completely hypothetical,” he assured, but that flush across his cheekbones deepened slightly. fingers stilled against his cup, waiting for your response with the kind of focus he usually reserved for gym routines or camera angles.

you considered this, set down the piping bag to give him your full attention. “well, hypothetically... most people start with basics. measuring, following recipes exactly. learning to fail gracefully.”

“fail gracefully?” curiosity brightened those storm-glass eyes, head tilting like he was genuinely trying to understand a foreign concept.

“burned cookies, collapsed cakes, chocolate that seizes because you got impatient.” you shrugged, began humming again as you arranged finished cupcakes on a tiered stand. the melody helped organize your thoughts, made the explanation flow easier. “it’s part of the process. you mess up, figure out why, try again.”

he was quiet for a moment, processing this with the kind of intense focus that probably made his personal trainer weep with joy. thumb traced patterns against ceramic, unconscious gesture that somehow made him seem more human.

“sounds like it requires patience.” something rueful colored his voice, like he was recognizing his own shortcomings.

“tons of it. and thick skin. and the ability to get up at ungodly hours because bread waits for no one.” you glanced up, caught something almost vulnerable in his expression. like he was actually considering this impossible scenario, measuring himself against requirements he’d never had to meet.

“ungodly hours,” he repeated thoughtfully, hair falling across his forehead as he leaned closer. “like how ungodly are we talking?”

“four am, sometimes earlier during busy seasons.” you watched him wince dramatically, all sharp angles and exaggerated horror. the reaction was so genuine it made you laugh, soft sound that seemed to catch his attention like a hook. “different kind of brutal than your workout schedule.”

“definitely different,” he agreed, then found yourself adding, voice softer, “but worth it. when everything comes together perfectly, when you create something that makes people happy...” you trailed off, humming resuming as you lost yourself in the thought. “there’s nothing quite like it.”

the way you said it, gentle and genuine and completely unguarded, made something shift in his expression. that performative confidence melted away entirely, replaced by raw curiosity and something that looked dangerously like longing.

“you really love it,” he observed quietly. not a question, more like a realization. like he was seeing you—really seeing you—for the first time.

“yeah,” you admitted, suddenly shy under his intense focus. smoothed your apron again, nervous gesture that left more flour streaks across the fabric. “i really do.”

silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. charged instead, humming with possibilities and the weight of his attention. you could feel something shifting in the space between counter and table, subtle but significant. like tectonic plates moving, rearranging the landscape of whatever this was becoming.

and maybe, just maybe, you were starting to see him too. past the perfect exterior and calculated charm, to something more genuine underneath. something worth the risk of letting your guard down.

“well,” he said finally, voice softer than usual, that vulnerability still threading through his tone. straightened in his chair but somehow seemed less distant. “hypothetically speaking, that sounds like something worth learning about.”

you met his gaze, heart doing complicated acrobatics against your ribs. started humming again, melody filling the space between words. “hypothetically.”

“of course.” that slow smile returned, different now. less performative, more real. like sunlight breaking through carefully constructed clouds. “purely theoretical interest.”

“naturally,” you agreed, trying to ignore how your pulse had shifted into overtime.

but as you watched him settle back in his chair, something had definitely changed. the air between you felt thicker, more charged with possibility. and for the first time since this whole thing started, you weren’t entirely sure who was in control of this particular game anymore.

not that you minded being a little lost, especially when the alternative was finding your way back to the safety of professional distance. some risks were worth taking, even if they came wrapped in designer clothing and impossible blue eyes.

two months in, satoru gojo’s meticulously structured life had quietly reorganized itself around flour & sugar’s operating hours. his calendar, once a rigid grid of training blocks and sponsorship meetings, now had soft, flexible pockets of time carved out for “research.”

his trainer, masaru, had progressed from exasperated sighs to leaving passive-aggressive notes about “dietary consistency” taped to his gym locker. one simply read: “carbs are not your friend, satoru.” satoru had crumpled it up with a grin.

his friends had progressed from gentle ribbing about his "carb phase" to outright intervention attempts.

“dude, you know there are other bakeries in the city, right?” his roommate had asked last tuesday, watching satoru check the time for the third time in ten minutes, a nervous energy thrumming under his skin. “ones that don’t require you to rearrange your entire geopolitical schedule?”

satoru had just shrugged, eyes fixed on the clock. “the lighting’s better at this one.”

but they didn’t understand. couldn’t understand. because somewhere between that first accidental like and now, somewhere in the quiet hum of your cafe and the warm scent of your pastries, this had stopped being about the pastries entirely.

wednesday morning found him arriving at his usual time—10:47 am, after the morning rush but before lunch prep fully consumed your attention.

he’d timed it perfectly over weeks of careful observation, memorizing the rhythm of your day like scripture. the bell announced his entrance with a familiar chime, and he felt that stupid, predictable flutter in his chest when you looked up from behind the counter, a small, knowing smile touching your lips.

you were piping something delicate onto petit fours, tiny, jewel-like cakes arranged in neat rows. your movements were precise, economical, each squeeze of the pastry bag adding perfect, miniature rosettes of buttercream. but it was the soft humming that got him—a barely audible, contented melody that seemed to flow from some deep, quiet place inside you. he’d started cataloging these details without meaning to.

“morning, cupcake,” he said, his voice a low, familiar rumble as he settled into his usual spot by the window. the endearment had become natural, automatic, though he wasn’t sure when that had happened. it just… fit.

“morning, satoru.” your voice carried a warmth that made something dangerous and hopeful bloom in his chest. you finished the petit four with a final, delicate flourish, set down the piping bag, and he watched you wipe your hands on your flour-dusted black apron—the same gesture he’d seen hundreds of times now, but it still made him want to memorize the movement. “the usual?”

the usual. like he was a regular fixture, a predictable part of your day, which he supposed he was. chocolate tart, almond croissant, matcha latte with extra sweetness because you’d noticed his ridiculous sweet tooth weeks ago and started accommodating it without him ever having to ask.

“you know me so well,” he said, and the words held more weight than he’d intended.

something flickered across your face—pleasure, maybe, or a quiet satisfaction at being seen as perceptive. you moved through the preparation with a practiced efficiency, but he caught the way you selected his chocolate tart from the back row, where you’d obviously set aside the most perfectly formed one. he noticed how you added just a touch more syrup to his matcha without measuring, your muscle memory perfectly calibrated to his preferences.

these small kindnesses shouldn't have meant so much. but they did. they felt like secrets, quiet acknowledgements of this strange, unspoken thing growing between you.

“here we go,” you said, setting his order down with a quiet care. your fingers brushed his as you handed over the matcha, a contact so brief it was barely there, but so electric it sent a jolt straight up his arm. “perfect timing, too—that tart just came out of the case.”

“perfect timing,” he agreed, his voice a little rough, though he was talking about more than pastries. every visit felt like perfect timing now, like the universe had conspired to place him in this specific seat at this specific moment, watching you create magic from flour and butter and impossible patience.

he settled in, but the cafe felt different today. quieter. the lull between rushes seemed to stretch longer, leaving just the two of you in the warm, sweet-scented space. he ate slowly, deliberately, making the experience last. he’d finish a bite of the rich, decadent tart, then take a sip of the sweet, earthy matcha, his eyes constantly drifting back to you as you worked.

you were arranging the petit fours now, a focused intensity in your movements. you felt his gaze on you, a familiar, warm weight. but it wasn't just observation anymore—it felt like a presence, a quiet companionship that filled the empty spaces in the cafe.

“those look almost too pretty to eat,” he called over, his voice a low, appreciative murmur.

you glanced up, a small, genuine smile touching your lips. “almost,” you agreed. “that’s the goal. make people hesitate for at least a full second before they destroy your hard work.”

he chuckled, a rich sound that made your chest feel warm. “a full second? that’s ambitious. for me, it’s more like half a second of quiet reverence, followed by total annihilation.” he gestured to his now-empty plate as evidence.

the conversation fell into a comfortable silence. he finished his latte, but he didn't move. he didn’t pull out his phone, didn’t start gathering his things. he just sat there, watching you, a soft, unguarded expression on his face. the hesitation was palpable, a quiet reluctance to break the spell of the morning. you felt your own heart beating a little faster. he was waiting. waiting for what, you weren't sure. maybe for you to tell him to leave.

but you didn’t want him to.

your hands stilled on the counter. you took a breath, a small, shaky thing. this was new territory, a step beyond the safety of your professional boundaries. “so,” you started, your voice a little softer than you intended. “i was, uh, working on something new this morning.”

his head tilted, a spark of genuine curiosity lighting up his storm-glass eyes. he leaned forward slightly, all his attention focused on you. “oh yeah? a new instrument of torture for my trainer?”

the familiar banter was a lifeline, and you grabbed it. “something like that,” you said, a real smile breaking through. you ducked into the kitchen for a moment, the hum in your throat picking up a nervous, excited tempo. when you returned, you were holding a small, pristine white plate. on it sat a single, perfect creation.

it was a small, dome-shaped mousse cake, glazed with a mirror finish so pale blue it was almost white, the exact shade of his eyes on a clear winter day. delicate, crystalline sugar work spun around its base like fractured ice, and on top, a single, perfect white chocolate feather rested, reminiscent of his impossible hair, dusted with the finest silver powder. it looked like him. it looked like a feeling you were terrified to name.

you placed it on the counter between you, a silent, trembling offering.

satoru stared at it, his usual playful smirk gone, replaced by an expression of genuine, stunned awe. his eyes, so often a similar shade of impossible blue, widened as he took in the delicate details. the color. the single white feather. the resemblance was subtle, artful, but undeniably there. he knew, instantly, what—or rather, who—he was looking at. “cupcake,” he breathed, the word soft, reverent, barely a whisper. “what is this?”

“i’m not sure what to call it yet,” you admitted, your fingers finding the familiar comfort of your apron, twisting the fabric. “it’s a white chocolate and blueberry mousse. with a yuzu curd center. i was trying to capture a feeling, more than just a flavor.” your eyes were fixed on the cake, unable to meet his.

he looked from the cake to you, his gaze intense, searching, his heart hammering against his ribs. he understood. oh, he understood completely. “what feeling?”

you felt a blush heat your cheeks, a slow, deep burn. you risked a glance up, and the raw vulnerability in his expression made your breath catch. “i don’t know… quiet. calm.” you gestured vaguely at the peaceful cafe around you, a weak attempt at deflection. “like… the feeling you get when you finally perfect something. that moment of peace.” your lie was thin as spun sugar.

he was silent for a long moment, just looking at you, a universe of unspoken understanding passing between your locked gazes. then, his eyes met yours, and there was a raw honesty in them you’d never seen before. “can i…?”

“i was hoping you would,” you said, your voice barely a whisper. “i need an honest opinion. from a professional researcher.”

that earned you a slow, breathtaking smile. it wasn't his usual cocky grin—it was softer, more genuine, and it reached all the way to his eyes, making them crinkle at the corners. “my services are at your disposal.”

he moved from his table to the counter, taking the seat opposite you. the shift was significant. he was no longer a customer in your space—he was a guest, an invited participant. he picked up the small fork you’d provided, his long, callused fingers surprisingly delicate.

he took the first bite with the focus of a bomb disposal expert. you watched, holding your breath, as his expression shifted. his eyes widened slightly, then fluttered closed for a brief, blissful moment. a soft, involuntary sigh escaped his lips.

he chewed slowly, thoughtfully. you saw the surprise as the bright, tart yuzu hit his palate, cutting through the creamy sweetness of the white chocolate and the subtle fruitiness of the blueberry.

when he opened his eyes, they were dark, intense. “cupcake,” he said again, his voice rough with emotion. “that’s… that’s not a pastry. that’s a poem.” he looked from the half-eaten cake back to you, a question in his eyes. a silent asking. is this for me?

pride, warm and overwhelming, bloomed in your chest. “so… it’s okay?” you asked, your voice trembling slightly.

he laughed, a real, incredulous sound. “okay? it’s… perfect.” he took another bite, slower this time, savoring it. “it tastes exactly like you said. like a quiet morning. like… peace.” he looked at you then, and the weight of his gaze was enough to make your knees feel weak. “like finding something you didn't even know you were looking for.”

“i try,” you whispered, your heart doing a wild, joyful dance against your ribs.

he finished the entire cake in a reverent silence. when he was done, he set the fork down gently, a thoughtful, almost sad expression on his face. “the only problem,” he said, looking at the empty plate, “is that it’s over.”

his gaze lifted to yours, and in that moment, in the quiet of the empty cafe, with the ghost of a perfect pastry between you, you both knew he wasn't just talking about the cake anymore.

he was in trouble. deep, irreversible trouble.

and as you looked back at him, a soft, shy smile touching your lips, you realized with a terrifying, exhilarating certainty… so were you.

thursday passed like a held breath.

you found yourself checking the clock obsessively—10:30, 10:45, 10:47. each minute that ticked by without the familiar chime of the entrance bell felt heavier than the last. by 11 am, you’d reorganized the display case twice. by noon, you’d deep-cleaned the espresso machine that was already spotless. by 2 pm, you were fighting the urge to text him, though you didn’t even have his number.

the rational part of your mind supplied perfectly reasonable explanations. content creation. gym sessions. life. but the irrational part—the part that had spent last night dreaming about storm-glass eyes and the way he’d said “perfect” like a prayer—whispered crueler possibilities.

maybe he’d finally realized how far he’d drifted from his carefully curated routine. maybe masaru had staged a successful intervention. maybe yesterday’s cake had been too much, too obvious, too vulnerable.

maybe he’d finally gotten tired of your little bakery.

the lunch rush came and went in a blur of mechanical smiles and automated responses. customers complimented your strawberry danish, your matcha cookies, your perfectly crafted lattes, but their praise felt muted, like hearing music through water. you caught yourself glancing toward his usual table—table three by the window—every few minutes, each time hoping to see white hair catching the afternoon light.

instead, you saw empty chairs and the golden dust motes dancing in the space he usually occupied.

masako, your part-time helper, noticed your distraction during the afternoon lull. “you seem off today,” she said, wiping down the counter with characteristic directness. at sixty-two, she had no patience for subtlety. “waiting for someone?”

“no,” you lied, your voice a little too bright. “just tired.”

she hummed, unconvinced, but left you to your melancholy. you spent the rest of the afternoon perfecting a new recipe for honey lavender madeleines, throwing yourself into the familiar comfort of precise measurements and careful timing. baking had always been your meditation, your way of quieting the noise in your head. but today, even the methodical ritual couldn’t quite drown out the disappointed whisper in your chest.

by 6 pm, you’d accepted the truth. he wasn’t coming.

you began your closing routine with a heavy heart, moving through the familiar motions on autopilot. wiping down tables, washing the last of the display cases, counting the till. the evening light slanted golden through your windows, painting everything in warm honey tones that should have felt cozy but instead felt lonely.

you were just reaching for the door lock, keys jingling softly against your wrist, when you heard it—the soft tap of knuckles against glass.

your heart performed some impossible acrobatics as you turned, and there he was. satoru gojo, looking uncharacteristically nervous in the fading daylight, one hand raised in a small wave, the other clutching something behind his back. his usual confident smirk was nowhere to be found; instead, his expression held a tentative quality that made your chest ache with sudden, overwhelming relief. even anxious, he was devastating—the way his white hair caught the golden hour light like spun silk, how his broad shoulders seemed to fill the doorframe despite the uncertain set to them.

you fumbled with the lock, your hands trembling slightly as you let him in. “satoru,” you breathed, his name carrying more emotion than you’d intended, your fingers still wrapped around the cool metal of your keys. “i thought—”

“i know,” he said quickly, stepping inside and bringing with him the familiar scent of clean soap and something indefinably him. his free hand found the back of his neck, rubbing in a gesture you’d never seen before, vulnerability written in the uncertain tilt of his mouth. “i’m sorry. i had… things to take care of.” a pause, where he seemed to gather courage from somewhere deep. “i was going to come this morning, but then i realized i needed to do this properly.”

“do what properly?” you asked, your pulse hammering against your throat. the question came out softer than intended, curiosity and hope threading through your voice as you unconsciously stepped closer.

instead of answering, he brought his hidden hand forward, revealing a small bouquet that made your breath snag. white camellias, maybe a dozen of them, their petals perfect and pristine as fresh snow. in japan, you knew their meaning: you’re adorable. my destiny. in love with you. the message was clear, vulnerable, impossibly sweet.

satoru’s cheeks flushed the faintest pink as he watched your expression shift, the color spreading across his sculpted features like watercolor on paper. “i spent three hours at five different flower shops,” he admitted, his voice carrying that rare uncertainty that made him seem younger, more human. “the florist at the last one had to explain the meanings because apparently i’m hopeless at this.” his storm-glass eyes met yours, earnest and a little scared, the usual playful glint replaced by something raw and real. “but these… these felt right. they reminded me of yesterday. of that cake. of the way you looked at me when i said it was perfect.”

you took the bouquet with reverent hands, your fingertips brushing his in the transfer—a contact so brief it barely registered but electric enough to send warmth spiraling up your arms. the delicate petals felt like silk against your skin as you brought them closer, breathing in their subtle fragrance. “satoru,” you whispered, and the name came out like a sigh, like gratitude made sound. “they’re beautiful.”

relief flooded his features like sunlight breaking through clouds, and a hint of his usual confidence crept back into the curve of his mouth. those impossibly long lashes fluttered as he blinked, and when he smiled—really smiled, not the practiced grin from his instagram posts—it transformed his entire face. “i was hoping you’d say that. because i have a question to ask you, and i figured flowers might help my case.”

you looked up at him expectantly, your heart doing that familiar flutter-dance, clutching the camellias like an anchor.

“would you…” he started, then stopped, that hand finding his hair again, fingers raking through the white strands and leaving them slightly mussed. you’d never seen him this flustered, and it was endearing beyond words, the way his carefully maintained composure cracked to reveal something beautifully nervous underneath. “god, why is this harder than my first brand partnership pitch?” he muttered to himself, making you laugh despite your nerves.

the sound seemed to center him. “satoru,” you said gently, setting the flowers carefully on the counter, your movements deliberate and soft. “just ask.”

he took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling beneath his fitted black sweater, shoulders squaring as he found his resolve. “would you like to have dinner with me? tonight? there’s this place…” his voice gained momentum, words tumbling out like he was afraid he’d lose his nerve. “it’s small, nothing fancy, but they make the best karaage in shibuya, and their ramen is…” he trailed off, shaking his head with a self-deprecating smile that made your stomach flip. “i’m selling this terribly. what i’m trying to say is, it’s my favorite place. where i go when i need to feel grounded. and i want to share it with you.”

the vulnerability in his voice, the way he was offering you a piece of his private world, made your chest feel too small for your heart. you pressed your palms against the counter for stability, the cool surface grounding you as you processed the magnitude of what he was asking. “i’d love to,” you said simply, and watched his entire body relax with relief, tension melting from his shoulders like snow in spring.

“yeah?” he asked, that devastating smile breaking across his face like sunrise, eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made you want to memorize every detail.

“yeah,” you confirmed, grinning back at him, your own smile feeling bright enough to power the whole cafe. “just let me grab my things.”

you found a small ceramic vase in your supply closet and arranged the camellias carefully, their white petals catching the last of the evening light. they looked perfect on your counter, a promise of something beautiful beginning. after gathering your cardigan and bag, locking up the cafe with hands that trembled only slightly, you turned to find satoru watching you with soft eyes, his gaze following your movements like he was cataloguing them for later.

“ready?” he asked, offering you his arm like an old-fashioned gentleman, the gesture somehow both casual and reverent.

“ready,” you replied, slipping your hand through the crook of his elbow and trying not to think about how perfectly you fit against his side, how solid and warm he felt beneath the soft fabric of his sweater.

the walk to his favorite restaurant took fifteen minutes through the bustling streets of shibuya. he guided you away from the main tourist areas, down narrow side streets where locals hurried past small family-owned shops and the air smelled like yakitori and car exhaust and the particular energy of tokyo at dinnertime. his free hand occasionally gestured as he talked, painting pictures in the air, and you found yourself watching the elegant line of his wrists, the way his long fingers moved with unconscious grace.

“nervous?” he asked as you walked, and you realized you’d been quieter than usual, too busy cataloguing the way his presence beside you made the familiar streets feel brand new.

“a little,” you admitted, your fingers tightening slightly on his arm. “good nervous, though.”

“me too,” he confessed, and the honesty in his voice made you look up at him in surprise. up close, you could see the faint freckles scattered across his nose, barely visible unless you were really looking. “i haven’t done this in a while. the whole… proper date thing.”

“what do you usually do?” you asked, then immediately regretted the question, your cheeks warming. “sorry, that’s none of my business.”

“no, it’s okay,” he said, his thumb rubbing gentle circles against your arm where your hand rested, the touch absent and soothing. “honestly? usually nothing this meaningful. protein bars in my apartment while editing content isn’t exactly romantic dinner material.” his laugh carried a note of self-deprecation that made you want to argue with him about his worth.

you laughed, the sound bright in the evening air, and felt him relax beside you. “well, you’re setting the bar pretty low for yourself.”

“exactly,” he grinned, and there was that practiced charm again, but softer somehow, more genuine. “smart strategy. exceed expectations by actually trying.”

the restaurant he led you to was tucked between a small bookshop and a traditional tea house, so narrow you almost missed it. the wooden sign above the door was weathered and simple: “momiji.” no english, no tourist-friendly decorations, just the kind of place locals protected fiercely from guidebook discovery.

inside was warm and cramped in the best possible way. maybe ten tables total, most occupied by older couples and small groups of friends talking quietly over steaming bowls. the air was rich with the smell of soy and garlic and chicken fat, and your stomach rumbled appreciatively, the sound making satoru’s mouth quirk with amusement.

“gojo-kun!” called out an elderly woman from behind the counter, her face lighting up with genuine affection that transformed her weathered features into something beautiful.

“evening, chiyo-san,” satoru replied, bowing slightly, and you watched his whole demeanor shift into something warmer, more relaxed. the careful influencer polish melted away, replaced by genuine fondness. “i brought someone special tonight.”

the woman’s eyes immediately shifted to you, taking in your simple cream-colored dress with the tiny floral print and the way satoru’s hand had found the small of your back as he guided you inside, his palm warm even through the fabric. her smile grew knowing, delighted, the expression of someone who’d been waiting for this moment. “ah, i see. the usual table?”

“please,” he said, and she led you to a small booth in the back corner, quieter and more intimate than the rest of the dining room.

as you settled across from each other, the worn wooden bench soft beneath you, you realized how different this felt from your morning encounters at the cafe. there, you’d had the safety of routine, the professional distance of counter service. here, with nothing between you but a small wooden table scarred with years of use and the soft glow of paper lanterns, the connection felt immediate, electric.

“so,” you said, glancing around the cozy space, your fingers playing with the hem of your dress, “how did you find this place?”

his expression grew thoughtful, a little nostalgic, and he leaned back against the booth. even relaxed, there was something elegant about the way he occupied space, long limbs arranged with unconscious grace. “my first year trying to make it as a competitive swimmer, i was broke. like, eating convenience store onigiri for every meal broke.” his fingers drummed against the table, a nervous habit you’d never noticed before. “but i’d just started posting gym content online—mostly because i was bored and thought my workout routines were decent enough to share. turns out people really liked watching me lift heavy things.” his grin turned almost smug, and you could see a hint of that cocky influencer confidence bleeding through. “went from the chubby kid getting laughed at in middle school to having people leave fire emojis on everything i posted. not gonna lie, the ego boost was incredible.”

you nearly choked on your own spit. “you were chubby?” the question came out before you could stop it, eyes widening as you tried to reconcile this information with the man sitting across from you—all sharp angles and lean muscle and the kind of physique that probably broke instagram servers on a regular basis.

his laugh was rich, genuinely amused by your shock. “hard to believe, right? but yeah, i was this round little kid who lived on baa-chan’s pastries and had absolutely zero athletic ability. got picked on pretty relentlessly for it too.” his expression grew more serious for a moment. “kids can be brutal about that stuff.”

“i can’t even imagine,” you said, still staring at him like he’d just revealed he used to be a completely different person. “you’re so…” you gestured vaguely at all of him, “you know.”

“devastatingly handsome?” he supplied with a grin that was pure mischief.

you rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. “i was going to say fit, but your ego doesn’t need any more help.”

“my ego is perfectly calibrated, thank you very much,” he said, taking another bite with obvious satisfaction. “six million followers can’t be wrong.”

“six million?” you nearly choked on your tea, your eyes widening in genuine shock. you’d known he was popular—the blue checkmark, the sudden influx of customers at your cafe—but that number was astronomical. you hadn't even looked when you’d first clicked on his profile, too stunned by the… scenery.

a flicker of confusion crossed his features, quickly replaced by a slow, amused smirk. he leaned forward, propping his chin on his hand, those storm-glass eyes sparkling with pure mischief. “wait a minute,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, teasing drawl. “you’re telling me you stalked my entire profile, ‘accidentally’ liked my abs, and you didn’t even clock the follower count?” his eyebrows rose in mock disbelief. “cupcake, were you that mesmerized?”

heat flooded your cheeks, a furious, mortifying blush. “it was an accident!” you insisted, your voice a little too high. “my phone slipped! literally! it fell on my face!”

he just laughed, a rich, delighted sound that made chiyo-san glance over with a fond smile. “sure it did. a very convenient, gravity-induced slip right onto the like button of my most recent thirst trap.” he leaned back, looking incredibly pleased with himself. “it’s okay to admit it. my content is very… engaging.”

“it was an accident,” you repeated through gritted teeth, though the corner of your mouth was twitching with a smile you were desperately trying to suppress. “i barely even noticed.”

“you noticed enough to get flustered when i walked into your cafe the next day,” he countered, his grin widening. “don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.” he winked, a quick, devastatingly charming gesture.

you sighed in dramatic, feigned defeat, shaking your head in amused disbelief. here he was, this successful influencer with millions of people thirsting over his content, sitting in a tiny restaurant getting excited about karaage and still finding the time to relentlessly tease you about a two-month-old instagram mishap.

he gestured around the small restaurant with obvious affection, his smile softening, the teasing glint in his eyes receding as he switched back to the more serious topic. “anyway… that first real brand deal came through when i had a lot fewer followers than i do now. i wandered around for hours after i got the email, just buzzing, until i smelled chiyo-san’s karaage and… followed my nose. she fed me for about half what anywhere else would have charged, and when i tried to tip her, she refused. said young athletes needed to save their money for important things.”

“like what?” you asked, charmed by the story, by the way his whole face animated as he spoke.

“protein powder, apparently,” he laughed, the sound rich and genuine. “she’s been trying to fatten me up ever since. every time i come in, she adds extra portions and pretends not to notice.” his expression shifted, became more thoughtful. “funny thing is, she reminds me of my grandmother. same stubborn kindness, same inability to let people leave hungry.”

something in his voice made you lean forward slightly, sensing a story. “your grandmother?”

“baa-chan,” he said, and the childhood nickname made him look younger somehow, vulnerability flickering across his features like candlelight. “she lived with us when i was little. made the most incredible pastries—mont blanc, cream puffs, these little butter cookies shaped like flowers.” his fingers moved as he spoke, sketching shapes in the air. “i was… well, let’s just say i was a chubby kid with zero self-control around her baking.”

the admission came with a self-conscious laugh, and you watched him duck his head slightly, white hair falling across his forehead in a way that made your fingers itch to brush it back. “i probably ate my weight in cream puffs every week. my parents were horrified—kept talking about discipline and proper nutrition—but baa-chan would just smile and make me another batch.”

“what happened?” you asked softly, sensing the weight beneath his words.

“she died when i was twelve,” he said simply, but you caught the way his jaw tightened slightly, the old grief still tender. “that’s actually when i got serious about swimming. needed something to prove, you know? the chubby kid who got picked on suddenly had abs and could out-swim anyone.” his laugh held a note of old satisfaction. “worked pretty well too, until my shoulder decided otherwise at nineteen.” he shrugged, and there was something almost casual about it, like he’d made peace with that disappointment long ago. “funny thing though—turns out all that discipline translated perfectly to social media. and honestly? after years of being called names, having people thirst over my workout videos was… pretty addictive.”

the parallel wasn’t lost on you—him finding your bakery, the way he’d gravitated toward your humming, your pastries, your quiet care. your throat felt tight with understanding. “she sounds wonderful,” you managed, your voice softer than intended.

“she would have loved you,” he said, and the certainty in his voice made warmth bloom in your chest. “would have probably tried to steal all your recipes and then pretend she’d invented them herself.”

a soft, watery laugh escaped you at the image, a sound thick with an emotion you couldn't quite name. you reached across the small table, your fingers gently covering his where they rested on the wood. his own smile softened in response, and he turned his hand over to tangle his fingers with yours, giving them a gentle squeeze. “i think i would have liked her too,” you said, your voice a little shaky. “even with the threat of culinary espionage.”

as if summoned by your shared laughter, chiyo-san appeared at your table with a pot of jasmine tea and a knowing smile, her approach breaking the tender moment. “the usual for you, gojo-kun?”

“the usual sounds perfect,” he confirmed, then turned to you with a slightly sheepish expression, running his hand through his hair in that nervous gesture. “i hope you don’t mind me ordering for both of us. she knows what i like, and trust me, you want what i’m having.”

“i trust you,” you said, and something in his eyes flickered with pleasure at the words, his whole posture straightening slightly.

chiyo-san bustled away, and you found yourselves alone again in the warm bubble of the corner booth. the awkwardness you’d expected on a first date was nowhere to be found—instead, conversation flowed as easily as it did in your cafe, maybe easier without the professional barriers.

“so,” he said, leaning forward slightly, his elbows on the table, “tell me something i don’t know about you.”

you considered this, idly tracing patterns on the wooden table with your finger, the surface smooth from years of use. “i didn’t always want to run a bakery,” you admitted, glancing up to find his attention completely focused on you, those storm-glass eyes intent and curious. “i went to university for literature. thought i’d be a translator, maybe work in publishing.”

“what changed your mind?” his question came with that particular quality of attention he gave you—like you were the only person in the world worth listening to.

“my grandmother,” you said, and your smile carried the warmth of a thousand memories. “she taught me to bake when i was little. not recipes from books, but the kind of knowledge that lives in your hands. how to tell when dough is ready by feel, how to adjust for humidity, all those little secrets that make the difference between good and extraordinary.”

you paused as chiyo-san returned with plates of food—golden karaage chicken that smelled like heaven, perfectly chewy ramen with rich, cloudy broth, gyoza with crispy bottoms and tender tops, and several small dishes you didn’t recognize but immediately wanted to try. the portions were generous enough to feed a small army.

“this looks incredible,” you breathed, the savory aroma making your mouth water.

“chiyo-san’s love language is overfeeding people,” satoru explained, already reaching for his chopsticks with the practiced ease of someone who’d done this countless times. “but finish your story. about your grandmother.”

you took a tentative bite of the karaage and nearly made an embarrassing sound of pleasure at the perfect balance of crispy exterior and juicy interior, your eyes fluttering closed for just a moment. “oh my god, this is amazing.”

“right?” his smile was proud, like he’d made it himself, and you caught the way he watched you taste everything, cataloguing your reactions with obvious satisfaction. “best in the city. now keep talking.”

“well,” you continued between bites, your chopsticks moving with less grace than his but no less enthusiasm, “when she got sick, i took leave from my job to take care of her. we spent months baking together, and she made me promise to keep her recipes alive. not just the techniques, but the feeling behind them. the idea that food can be comfort, celebration, love made tangible.”

your voice grew softer, more vulnerable, and you found yourself looking down at your bowl. “she died two weeks before i was supposed to start my master’s program. instead of going back to school for my master's, i realized what i really wanted. i used my savings for culinary school instead, and then opened flour & sugar. some days i think she’d be proud. other days i wonder if i gave up too easily on my original dreams.”

satoru’s chopsticks stilled in his bowl, and when you looked up, his expression was gentle, understanding written in the soft set of his features. “you didn’t give up,” he said quietly, and there was conviction in his voice that made your chest tight. “you just found a different way to tell stories. every pastry you make, every customer you welcome—that’s narrative too. connection. meaning.”

the simple validation made your throat tight with emotion, and you had to blink back the sudden threat of tears. “you think so?”

“i know so,” he said firmly, leaning forward slightly, his intensity focused entirely on you. “because i’ve been living that story for two months now. every morning at 10:47, getting to be part of whatever magic you create in that little space.”

you felt heat bloom in your cheeks, partly from his words and partly from a sudden realization that had been nagging at you all evening. “satoru,” you started hesitantly, your fingers tightening around your chopsticks, “can i ask you something?”

“anything,” he said, then caught your serious tone and set down his chopsticks entirely, giving you his complete attention.

“your routine,” you said carefully, worrying your lower lip between your teeth, “your content schedule, your training… am i messing that up for you? because if masaru is angry, or if coming to the cafe is interfering with your workouts…”

he was quiet for a long moment, considering his response, and you watched emotions flicker across his face—surprise, thoughtfulness, something that might have been relief. when he spoke, his voice was thoughtful, honest.

“yes,” he said simply, and your heart sank until he continued, his mouth quirking into a rueful smile. “you’ve completely destroyed my routine. i used to plan content three weeks in advance. i had optimal posting times calculated to the minute. i scheduled my life in fifteen-minute increments for maximum engagement.”

“satoru—” you started, distress clear in your voice.

“let me finish,” he said gently, and there was something in his expression that made you settle back, though worry still thrummed beneath your skin. “you’ve ruined all of that. and it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

you stared at him, confusion clear in your expression, your head tilting slightly in that way you had when you were trying to puzzle something out.

“for three years, since swimming didn’t work out, i’ve been pretty happy with what i built,” he continued, his hands gesturing as he spoke, and you found yourself watching the elegant movement of his fingers. “good content, solid following, enough brand deals to live comfortably. got to turn all that training discipline into something that actually pays the bills.” his smile was easy, confident. “and honestly? i was enjoying it. liked the routine, liked the control, liked seeing the numbers go up.”

he reached across the table, his fingers brushing against yours where they rested beside your ramen bowl, and the touch sent electricity racing up your arm. “but then i found your cafe, and suddenly i had something to look forward to that wasn’t about hitting my macros or optimal posting times. something that was just… nice. simple good. like that first bite of your chocolate tart, or the way you hum when you’re concentrating, or how you remember exactly how i like my matcha without me having to ask.”

his thumb traced across your knuckles, the touch feather-light but grounding, and you found yourself holding your breath. “masaru thinks i’ve gotten distracted, and he’s probably right. but honestly? i’m not complaining. life’s been pretty good to me, but this…” he gestured vaguely between you both, “this is something different. something better.”

the weight of his confession settled between you like a shared secret, and around you, the restaurant hummed with quiet conversation and clinking chopsticks, but you felt suspended in this moment, in the warm golden light and the earnestness in his eyes.

“so no,” he said, his voice dropping to something warm, genuine, meant only for you, “you’re not messing anything up. if anything, you’re making everything more interesting.”

you felt warmth bloom in your chest—relief, happiness, something sweet and uncomplicated swelling until you could barely contain your smile. “that’s either the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” you managed, your voice slightly wobbly as you turned your hand palm-up beneath his, fingers intertwining, “or you’re really good at making excuses for carb addiction.”

he threw back his head and laughed, the sound rich and delighted and completely unguarded, and the momentary emotional intensity dissolved into warmth, comfort, the easy joy of sharing a meal with someone who understood the shape of your heart.

“probably both,” he admitted, grinning as he brought your joined hands to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles that made your entire body feel warm. “masaru keeps leaving increasingly desperate notes in my gym locker. yesterday’s just said ‘vegetables exist, satoru.’”

“he’s not wrong,” you said, gesturing at the mountain of fried chicken between you with your free hand, though you made no move to let go of his. “this is not exactly influencer food.”

“which is why,” he said, reaching for another piece of karaage with his chopsticks, absolutely no shame in his expression, “we’re going to enjoy every single bite, and tomorrow i’ll do an extra workout. balance.”

you spent the next hour working through chiyo-san’s generous spread, talking about everything and nothing. he told you about growing up in a family that expected perfection, about the pressure of competition, about the crushing disappointment when his swimming career ended with a shoulder injury at nineteen. you shared stories about the early days of the cafe, the learning curve of small business ownership, the quiet satisfaction of creating something with your own hands.

the conversation flowed like you’d known each other for years instead of months, punctuated by his groans of appreciation for the food and your laughter at his increasingly dramatic descriptions of masaru’s passive-aggressive campaign to restore his “macro discipline.”

“he’s started leaving printed meal plans in my gym bag,” satoru confessed, twirling ramen noodles around his chopsticks with practiced ease, his expression one of amused exasperation. “like a nutrition-focused fairy, but more judgmental and with better organizational skills.”

“maybe you should introduce him to my neighbor,” you suggested, dabbing at a drop of broth on your chin with your napkin. “she leaves notes about proper composting technique on everyone’s door. they could bond over their shared love of unsolicited improvement projects.”

“god, can you imagine?” he grinned, his eyes crinkling with genuine mirth. “they’d have the most organized, health-conscious children in tokyo.”

by the time chiyo-san brought you perfectly ripe persimmons and more jasmine tea, the restaurant had begun to empty out. you’d somehow made it through most of the food—a feat that seemed impossible when the plates first arrived—and you felt full in the best possible way, warm and content and slightly drowsy from good food and better company.

“i should probably get you home,” satoru said eventually, though his tone suggested he’d rather do anything else, his thumb still tracing absent patterns across your knuckles. “it’s getting late, and you have to open tomorrow.”

“unfortunately,” you agreed, though you made no move to gather your things, reluctant to break the spell of the evening.

he signaled chiyo-san for the check, waving off your attempts to pay with a firm shake of his head that left no room for argument. “this was my idea,” he said, his voice carrying that quiet authority that probably served him well in business negotiations. “besides, you make me breakfast five days a week. it’s the least i can do.”

“that’s different,” you protested, your cheeks warming. “that’s business.”

“is it?” he asked, his eyes holding yours with an intensity that made your pulse skip, the question loaded with weeks of careful circling around each other. “because it hasn’t felt like business for a while now.”

heat bloomed in your cheeks, and you looked down at your hands, still tangled with his. “no,” you admitted quietly, the word barely above a whisper. “it hasn’t.”

he settled the bill with chiyo-san, who sent you off with a paper bag of extra gyoza “for tomorrow’s lunch” and promises that you were welcome back anytime, her knowing smile making it clear she approved of satoru’s choice. the night air was cool against your skin as you stepped outside, a pleasant contrast to the warm restaurant, and you pulled your cardigan closer around your shoulders.

“which direction?” satoru asked, offering his arm again, the gesture now familiar and comforting.

you pointed toward the quieter residential area a few blocks away, and he fell into step beside you, matching his longer stride to yours with the easy consideration that seemed to come naturally to him. the streets were less crowded now, mostly couples heading home from dinners and workers catching late trains.

“thank you,” you said as you walked, your hand warm in the crook of his elbow, feeling the solid strength of his arm beneath the soft fabric of his sweater. “for tonight. for the flowers. for… all of it.”

“thank you,” he replied, and there was something wondering in his voice, like he couldn’t quite believe his luck, “for saying yes. and for making that cake yesterday. i know it was for me.”

you felt a flutter of nervousness in your stomach, your steps faltering slightly. “was it that obvious?”

“the white chocolate feather was a dead giveaway,” he teased gently, his voice warm with affection, but then his expression grew more serious. “but even without that, i would have known. you put yourself into everything you create. it’s one of the things i…” he trailed off, suddenly uncertain.

“one of the things you what?” you prompted, though your heart was already beating faster, hope and fear warring in your chest.

just as he was about to answer, his phone buzzed sharply, shattering the quiet between you. he flinched, annoyance flashing across his face as he pulled it out. you caught masaru’s name before he silenced the call with a jab and shoved the phone back, sighing.

the fragile thread of his confession snapped. he looked away, jaw tight, then met your gaze again—this time not raw, but steadier, warmer, as though he’d chosen a safer honesty.

he stopped walking, turning to face you under the soft glow of a street lamp, the light casting golden highlights in his impossible hair. his hands found yours, warm and slightly callused and infinitely gentle, and the touch grounded you even as it sent your pulse racing. “

i had a really good time tonight,” he said quietly, his storm-glass eyes searching your face with an intensity that made your breath catch. “like, really good. better than good.”

the words hung in the air between you, warm and honest and making your heart do that familiar flutter-dance in your chest. you felt your breath catch, your entire world narrowing to this moment, this quiet confession, the way he was looking at you like you were something wonderful and unexpected.

“me too,” you whispered, your voice full of wonder and possibility.

he looked like he wanted to kiss you then. you could see it in the way his eyes dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second, the slight parting of his own. you wanted him to. you wanted it more than you’d wanted anything in a long time. but the moment stretched, suspended and fragile, and neither of you moved. the spell broke when a car passed, its headlights momentarily blinding you both, and the chance was gone.

he cleared his throat, a faint flush on his cheeks, and let go of one of your hands. “we should… get you home.”

the rest of the walk passed in a charged, comfortable silence. the unspoken moment from the streetlamp hung between you, electric and full of promise.

“this is me,” you said as you reached the small apartment building where you lived above a quiet bookshop, the familiar sight made new by his presence beside you. the white camellias waiting in your cafe felt like they were calling to you, a promise of sweet tomorrows.

he stopped at the entrance, his hands finding the pockets of his cargo pants. “well… goodnight, cupcake.” there was a touch of awkwardness in his posture, a reluctance to leave that was both sweet and agonizing.

“goodnight, satoru.”

he lingered for a beat longer, his storm-glass eyes holding yours. you knew if you didn’t do something now, the night would end on this note of sweet, unresolved tension. and that simply wouldn’t do.

before you could lose your nerve, you reached up, your fingers finding the soft collar of his sweater. he looked down at you, surprise widening his eyes. with a soft tug, you pulled his head down towards you. even then, with his six-foot-plus frame bent, you still had to rise up on your tiptoes, stretching to reach him.

it wasn’t his lips you found. it was his cheek. you pressed a soft, quick, deliberate kiss to the spot just beside his mouth, your own lips lingering for just a fraction of a second against his skin. it was warm, smooth, and felt impossibly intimate.

“bye,” you whispered against his cheek, then you pulled back, let go of his sweater, and practically fled—turning and rushing up the steps to your building’s entrance without a backward glance, your cheeks absolutely on fire.

satoru stood frozen on the sidewalk for a full minute after your door clicked shut, stunned into immobility. slowly, his fingers came up to touch the spot on his cheek where your lips had been. a slow, genuine, devastatingly happy smile spread across his face, unguarded and brilliant under the streetlight.

inside, you leaned your back against the cool wood of your apartment door, your heart hammering against your ribs. you brought a trembling hand up to your own lips, a disbelieving laugh bubbling up in your chest. a mix of pure terror and giddy exhilaration coursed through you. what did you just do?

a moment later, your phone buzzed in your bag with a familiar notification sound. you fumbled for it, your hands still shaking, and saw the instagram icon on your screen. it was him. a new message.

squatoru: you missed 😉 but thank you. see you tomorrow, cupcake.

you stared at the screen, a wide, foolish grin spreading across your face. the teasing emoji, the playful admonishment through the same app where this all started, the sweet promise of “tomorrow”—it was perfect. it was everything.

your heart did complicated acrobatics as you typed back a simple, breathless reply. tomorrow, you decided as you got ready for bed, still smiling at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, you were going to make him something even better than that cake. something that tasted like jasmine tea and stolen kisses and the beginning of something beautiful.

after all, you had a story to tell. and now you had someone who wanted to read every chapter, someone who understood that the best stories weren’t the ones you planned, but the ones that found you when you were busy making other, smaller plans. and you couldn't wait to see what happened in the next chapter.

the weeks following your first date settled into a new, delicious rhythm. satoru’s visits were no longer just a feature of your mornings—they were the anchor around which the day pivoted. his excuses grew bolder, more ridiculous, delivered with a playful glint in his eyes that dared you to call his bluff. “my coffee machine is staging a protest,” he’d declared one monday, looking deeply offended. “it refuses to respect my caffeine requirements.” another time, he’d claimed he was performing a “long-term atmospheric study” of the cafe.

the tentative space between you had warmed, filled with inside jokes murmured over the counter and a steady stream of late-night texts that ranged from his profound thoughts on protein-to-carb ratios to blurry photos of his cat sleeping on his face. yet, for all the new intimacy, an invisible line remained, drawn somewhere between a shared laugh and the memory of a soft, hesitant kiss on a quiet street corner. the air between you hummed with a constant, unspoken question.

which brought you to this thursday.

the afternoon had bled into soft golden-hour evening, the last loyal customers drifting out into cooling air, leaving behind lingering coffee scent and quiet refrigerator hum.

you were twenty minutes from closing, moving through your end-of-day routine with practiced, meditative rhythm. wiping down the gleaming stainless steel counters, the sharp sanitizer scent cutting through the day’s symphony of sugar and butter. humming a soft, unidentifiable tune that filled the empty space like invisible thread weaving through silence.

he was still there. satoru. at his usual table, fortress of one, half-empty matcha latte sweating onto a coaster. he was pretending to work on his sleek, expensive laptop that seemed alien in the cozy analog warmth of your café. but the screen had been dark for ten minutes, its black surface reflecting the warm, buttery pendant light glow.

he was just watching you. watching you move through your closing routine with the kind of quiet, unwavering attention usually reserved for things you never want to forget. his focus was a tangible weight between your shoulder blades.

“you know,” he says suddenly, his voice a low, unexpected rumble that cuts through the comfortable silence, startling you from your rhythmic wiping. those long fingers drummed a restless, silent rhythm against the closed laptop—a nervous tell you’d never seen from satoru gojo before. the man who moved through the world like he owned it was nervous. the realization sent a warm, unfamiliar jolt through you.

you paused, cloth in hand, leaning a hip against the counter. the setting sun slanted through the large front window, catching the silver strands of his hair, turning them to spun gold. “what’s that? wondering if i’m ever going to kick you out so i can finally go home?”

he smiled, a slow, easy stretch that didn’t quite reach his storm-glass eyes. there was something different there today, a depth you hadn’t seen before. “something like that,” he admitted, his voice softer. he closed the laptop with a quiet click, the sound definitive, final. “how long does it actually take to learn? to do what you do?”

this wasn’t his casual, playful curiosity from before. not banter about his “research methodology.” this was deeper. vulnerable. it made your breath catch in ways that had nothing to do with flour dust.

“depends what you want to learn,” you said carefully, your voice quiet in the empty café, sensing the delicate shift in the air between you. you placed the cleaning cloth on the counter, giving him your full attention.

“everything.” the word hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. he stood, unfolding from his chair with fluid grace that was at odds with the tension in his shoulders. all that easy, performative confidence had been stripped away, replaced by something raw and honest. “i want to understand it all. the whole process. from scratch.”

you turned to look at him properly, taking in the way he watched you with those impossible eyes, the slight tension in his jaw like he was bracing for rejection. “from scratch?” you echoed, a faint disbelieving hum in your throat. “satoru, that’s... that would take a while. it’s not just following recipes. it’s feel. touch. intuition you build over years.”

“i know,” he said, his gaze unwavering. he took a step closer, then another, until he was leaning against the counter opposite you, the broad stainless steel expanse the only separation. the space felt charged, intimate. “i’ve been watching you. it’s different. the way you work. there’s patience to it. respect for the ingredients.” his voice dropped lower, more intimate. “i want to understand what it feels like to create something like you do. not just consume it.”

the confession, earnest and stripped of his usual charm, rewired something fundamental in your chest. he wasn’t just talking about baking. he was talking about meaning, purpose—things you never would have associated with the man who posted thirst traps for a living.

“that would take months, maybe longer,” you said, your voice barely a whisper.

“i’ve got time,” he said immediately, the words a quiet, fervent promise. he pushed off the counter, moving around it until he was standing in your workspace, in your world. he was close enough that you could smell the faint clean scent of his cologne, the subtle matcha sweetness on his breath. “we could start tonight. if you want. something simple.”

your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in your chest. you realized what he was really asking for. not just lessons. not just a hobby. your time, your space, a piece of your world. he was asking for you.

“it’s almost closing time, satoru,” you managed, the words a weak protest against the overwhelming tide of his sincerity.

“i know.” another step closer. his storm-glass eyes were dark, intense, searching yours. “perfect timing, actually. no interruptions.”

you hesitated, suddenly acutely aware of how empty the café felt, how the golden late-afternoon light streaming through the windows made everything feel dreamlike and charged. you could hear the soft refrigerator hum, the quiet clock ticking, the frantic thumping of your own heart. he saw your pause, the flicker of uncertainty in your eyes, and something shifted in his expression—doubt maybe, disappointment that made your chest ache.

“unless you’re too tired,” he started, his voice suddenly losing its confident edge, “or you have plans, or this is a stupid idea, or—”

“no!” the word came out too enthusiastic, cutting him off. you felt a mortifying blush creep up your neck. you cleared your throat, trying to regain some composure. “i mean, yes. we could do that. tonight.”

the smile that spread across his face was different from any you’d seen before. not his usual cocky smirk, nor the playful teasing grin. this one was softer, more genuine, tinged with profound relief and something that looked dangerously like joy. it transformed his entire face, made him look younger, more vulnerable. utterly beautiful.

“yeah?” he breathed, the single word full of hopeful, boyish charm that completely undid you.

“yeah,” you confirmed, a real, unguarded smile finally breaking through your professional facade. “but you’re on dish duty.”

he laughed, a bright, relieved sound that echoed in the quiet café, and in that moment something fragile and beautiful and terrifying was born between you.

you settled on chocolate soufflé. it felt appropriate—impressive enough to justify the extended after-hours lesson, but delicate enough to require real technique and timing. a challenge worthy of his newfound sincerity.

you flipped the sign to ‘closed’, the soft lock click echoing in the silence. you dimmed the front lights, leaving just the warm, focused glow of the kitchen workspace, creating an intimate golden bubble just for the two of you.

“soufflé?” he raised an eyebrow as you pulled out ramekins, his voice a low, amused rumble. he was leaning against the prep counter, watching with an intensity that made your skin prickle. he’d shed his expensive long-sleeved shirt, revealing a plain black t-shirt that clung to every powerful line of his torso. no designer labels, no carefully tousled hair. he looked simpler. more real. and almost nervous, a faint tension in his broad shoulders that you found ridiculously endearing. “isn’t that supposed to be impossible? the final boss of desserts?”

“only if you don’t understand the science,” you said, gathering your hair with practiced efficiency, tying it back. you felt his eyes on the nape of your neck, a warm focused heat. you started humming under your breath, a soft melody that always accompanied your more delicate work. “it’s all about incorporating air properly, then not letting it collapse. it’s very... temperamental.”

the word hung suspended in the chocolate-scented air, heavy with obvious double meaning. his storm-glass eyes darkened slightly, a slow knowing smile touching his lips.

“first, we make the base,” you explained, your voice slightly breathy as you turned to face him. you showed him how to melt dark chocolate with butter in a double boiler, the rich intoxicating scent starting to fill the air. “low and slow. you can’t rush it, or everything seizes up. gets bitter.”

he stood beside you, closer than necessary, watching intently as you stirred the mixture with a wooden spoon, the chocolate melting into a glossy dark pool. when you handed the spoon over, his fingers brushed yours, a brief electric touch that sent a jolt up your arm.

“like this?” his voice was a low murmur as he mimicked your gentle circular motions. his focus was absolute, his usual playful energy replaced by quiet, earnest concentration that made something warm bloom in your chest.

“perfect. keep that rhythm.” when he started stirring just a little too fast, a little too aggressively, he moved behind you to adjust the motion. his broad chest pressed against your back as he covered your hand with his much larger one, and you went completely still. the solid wall of muscle behind you made thinking suddenly impossible. you could feel every shift of his torso, the way his breathing had gotten slightly unsteady, the heat radiating through his thin t-shirt. “feel how it’s getting smoother? the proteins are relaxing. you have to be gentle,” you managed, voice breathless and unsteady.

“sorry, cupcake,” he murmured against the top of your head, voice soft and slightly shaky. “i’m... not usually this nervous about stirring things.” there was wonder in his tone, like he couldn’t quite believe he was here, doing this with you.

his voice was a low, rough growl when he answered. “kind of hard to focus with you pressed against me like this, cupcake.”

but the real intimacy, the real danger, came with the egg whites. you separated them with practiced grace, the yolks and whites parting cleanly. when you handed him the large copper bowl and the whisk, he looked genuinely intimidated, like you’d just handed him a live grenade.

“this is the make-or-break moment,” you told him, your voice soft but firm. you showed him the copper bowl, the clear viscous whites shimmering within. “the whites need to be perfect—not under-whisked, not over-whisked. just right. perfect stiff peaks.”

he started whisking, and it was all wrong. too aggressive, too fast, his powerful shoulders putting way too much force into it. the whites started foaming unevenly, large sloppy bubbles forming instead of the fine consistent foam you needed.

“no, no,” you said, looking up at his technique with barely contained laughter. “gentle at first, then build up. like this. it’s not about strength—it’s about rhythm.”

he stepped behind you with obvious reluctance, like he wasn’t quite sure this was a good idea either. “show me,” he said, voice slightly strained. his much larger hands covered yours on the whisk handle, his chest pressed against your back as he leaned over your shoulder to watch the bowl. the solid wall of muscle behind you made your pulse stutter, and you could tell from his uneven breathing that he was just as affected. “this is... harder than it looks,” he murmured, clearly talking about more than whisking.

“slow circles first,” you managed, acutely aware of how he was bracketing you, the clean scent of his cologne mixing with lingering chocolate. you started the motion, and he followed your rhythm with careful precision, his hands slightly unsteady over yours. you felt him lean down, his breath warm against your ear, and you had to bite back a nervous giggle at how ridiculous this all was. “feel the resistance change? now we can go faster.”

“this is torture,” he said softly, but there was fondness in his voice, like he was amazed by his own predicament. when you sped up the whisking motion, his body moved with yours, and he let out a soft, almost helpless sound that made you want to turn around and kiss the dazed expression you knew was on his face.

“they’re getting stiff,” he said, his voice rough, strained.

“perfect stiff peaks,” you agreed, your own voice shaky, though you were definitely talking about more than egg whites now. the air was thick with unspoken things, with the scent of chocolate and the clean masculine smell of him. “now comes the tricky part.”

“but first,” you said, reaching for the small container of flour from a nearby shelf, “let me just...” you dipped your fingers into the white powder, then without warning, dabbed it across his cheek, leaving a pale streak across his sharp cheekbone.

he went completely still, his storm-glass eyes widening in surprise. “did you just—”

“oops,” you said innocently, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away. “occupational hazard. flour gets everywhere in real kitchens.”

a slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. “is that so?” he reached for the flour container, dipped his own fingers. before you could react, he’d brushed powder across your nose, a gentle touch that made your breath catch. “seems like you’re right. very hazardous.”

what followed was gentle chaos. a playful flour fight that had you both laughing breathlessly, white powder dusting your hair and clothes and every surface within reach. he was careful not to be too aggressive, but his competitive streak showed when he managed to get a handful down the back of your apron.

“satoru!” you squeaked, arching away from the cold powder, which only pressed you closer against his chest. he was grinning down at you, flour in his silver hair making him look younger, more carefree than you’d ever seen him.

“what? you started it, cupcake.” his voice was warm with laughter, his hands settling on your waist to steady you. “just evening the playing field.”

“we’re supposed to be baking,” you protested weakly, but you were smiling too hard to sound stern. you hummed a soft laugh that made his eyes crinkle at the corners.

“we are baking,” he said solemnly, though his eyes sparkled with mischief. “this is... technique development. very important for proper soufflé preparation.”

“technique development,” you repeated skeptically.

“absolutely. building trust between chef and... sous chef.” his fingers tightened slightly on your waist. “can’t make good food without trust, right?”

something in his voice made you look up at him properly. you were both flour-streaked and disheveled, hair messed and clothes dusty, but his expression was soft, genuine. like he was asking about more than just cooking.

“right,” you agreed quietly. “trust is... essential.”

the moment stretched between you, charged with possibility, until the timer on your phone chimed a reminder about the chocolate base.

“folding is an art,” you told him after you’d both brushed off the worst of the flour, your voice a low murmur as you spooned a third of the whipped egg whites into the chocolate base. you started humming again, a soft tune that helped organize your movements. “too rough, and you’ll knock out all the air we just built up. too gentle, and it won’t incorporate properly.”

you demonstrated the motion—a gentle lift up from the bottom, a turn of the spoon, a clean cut down through the mixture. it was graceful, practiced, almost hypnotic. a quiet ballet of the hands.

��your turn,” you said, handing him the spoon, your eyes locking with his over the bowl. his were dark, almost black, pupils blown wide.

his first attempts were clumsy, awkward. he was trying to stir, not fold, and you could see the frustration building in the tense set of his shoulders.

“here,” you murmured, gesturing for him to step behind you again. “it’s easier if you can see the motion properly.” this time when he moved to stand behind you, his positioning was more natural but no less distracting—his height allowing him to look over your shoulder easily, though he seemed to be having trouble concentrating on anything but the way you fit against his chest.

you demonstrated the folding motion with him watching intently, his breath tickling your ear. “lift... turn... cut down,” you guided softly, trying to ignore how his hands trembled slightly when they covered yours. “it’s all about the wrist action. gentle but firm.”

the double entendre hung in the air, and you felt him go completely still behind you, then let out a quiet, slightly hysterical laugh. “you’re killing me here, cupcake,” he said, voice strained but fond. “i’m trying to be a gentleman.”

“like that?” he asked when you guided him through the motion, voice breathless and wondering, like he couldn’t quite believe he was here doing this with you.

“exactly like that,” you whispered back, your own voice soft with affection and barely contained laughter at how completely gone you both were. “you’re a natural.”

the confession, so simple and true, settled between you like flour in still air, impossible to take back. you didn’t step away this time. you couldn’t. instead, your hands tightened over his on the spoon, a silent mutual acknowledgment that this had stopped being about baking.

“satoru,” you whispered, his name a soft questioning sound against his skin.

he turned in your arms, the movement slow, deliberate, until you were pressed between his warm solid chest and the cool unyielding edge of the counter. the spoon was forgotten, clattering onto the prep surface as his hands, large and warm and sure, found your waist.

what started as one soft, hesitant kiss, a question asked and answered, became something hungrier, deeper. your hands fisted in the soft cotton of his t-shirt, pulling him closer, and he responded by lifting you easily, effortlessly, onto the prep counter, his strength making you feel cherished and utterly safe.

“we should... put the soufflés in the oven,” you breathed against his mouth, your mind vaguely aware of the prepared ramekins sitting nearby, waiting.

“in a minute,” he murmured back, his hands spanning your waist, his thumbs brushing the sensitive skin under your ribs, sending shivers through you. “i like you messy, cupcake. flour suits you.”

his mouth trailed down your throat, a hot open-mouthed path that made you arch into him, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him impossibly closer. he groaned softly at the contact, the sound a deep guttural vibration against your collarbone that made your entire body hum with want.

“they’ll collapse if we wait too long,” you tried again, halfheartedly, your fingers tangling in the soft silver strands of his hair.

“then we’ll make new ones,” he said against your skin, his voice a low possessive growl. he pulled back just enough to look at you, his storm-glass eyes dark with a want so profound it stole the air from your lungs. “but i’ve been thinking about this for weeks, cupcake. thinking about you. about what it would feel like to have you in my arms, in my kitchen.”

his mouth found yours again, a deep, possessive kiss that spoke of weeks of pent-up longing, restraint finally shattering. it felt like surrender, a point of no return—until your eyes fluttered open and caught on the copper bowl behind him. the glossy egg whites, the soul of the soufflé, were already softening. the baker in you screamed in silent protest.

your palms pressed to his chest, firm but trembling. “satoru, wait,” you breathed, lips brushing his. “the soufflé—the egg whites will collapse.”

he groaned, burying his face in your neck for one tortured beat before pulling back. the panic in your eyes softened his frustration into something fonder, and a wicked smile tugged at his lips.

“can’t have that,” he murmured. “a collapsed soufflé on my first lesson? my record would be ruined.” he stole one last hard kiss. “okay, chef. lead the way.”

the shift back to the task was electric. the air was thick with what almost happened, and what was definitely going to happen later. with trembling legs, you slid off the counter, your body buzzing with unspent energy.

somehow, between shaking hands and the distraction of his solid presence behind you, you managed to get the soufflé mixture into the ramekins and slide them into the preheated oven. your movements were less precise than usual, some ramekins fuller than others, your usual perfectionist tendencies completely derailed by the heat radiating from his body every time he leaned close.

“and now we wait,” you said, stepping back from the oven and immediately missing the warmth of him behind you.

“twelve minutes,” he repeated, voice rough around the edges. he ran a hand through his silver hair, leaving it more disheveled than usual. “what do we do for twelve minutes?”

“try not to think about them,” you managed, wiping your flour-dusted hands on your apron with nervous energy. “soufflés can sense anxiety.”

“well, that explains a lot,” he said, that crooked smile making your pulse skip. “i’m the human embodiment of anxiety right now.”

the twelve minutes crawled by with painful slowness. you cleaned up together, hyperaware of every accidental brush of fingers, every time he had to reach around you for something. the domesticity of it was strange and intoxicating—him washing dishes while you wiped surfaces, both stealing glances at each other and the oven door.

when the timer finally shrieked, you both jumped like guilty teenagers.

you opened the oven door with trembling hands, and a cloud of warm, chocolate-scented air enveloped you. your heart did a little flip. they’d risen, yes, but unevenly—some tall and proud, others slightly lopsided, one that had clearly gotten too much mixture and was threatening to spill over its ramekin in a delicious, molten wave. they were messy. they were imperfect. they were theirs.

“oh,” satoru said softly from beside you, and you could hear the genuine disappointment creeping into his voice as he took in the imperfect results. his broad shoulders slumped just a fraction, a quiet admission of his high expectations meeting a messy reality.

you turned to face him, a gentle, reassuring smile on your lips as you caught the slight downturn of his mouth. it was an expression you’d never seen on him before—not arrogance, not charm, but a boyish, sulky pout that was ridiculously endearing.

“hey,” you said softly, nudging his arm with your shoulder. “it’s your first time making one of the most notoriously difficult pastries in the world. and,” you added, your voice dropping to a warmer, more intimate tone, “they’re made with love. that’s what really matters, right?”

he looked down at you with those storm-glass eyes, something soft and vulnerable flickering there. “but yours are always perfect,” he retorted, his voice a low, almost mournful grumble. “everything you make is always perfect and made with love. it’s not fair.”

heat crept up your neck at the raw sincerity in his voice, the way he was looking at you like you’d hung the moon and personally arranged the stars. the compliment, born from his own momentary failure, felt more potent than any of his previous praise. “satoru…”

“what? it’s true.” a hint of his usual confidence returned as he grabbed two spoons from the drawer, his movements decisive. he handed you one, but his expression was still earnest. “you need to taste it. for science. to confirm that my love-infused-but-lopsided soufflé is still edible.”

the first bite was molten chocolate heaven, rich and airy despite the uneven appearance. you made a soft, involuntary sound of appreciation, your eyes fluttering closed for just a second. when you opened them, he was watching you, a hopeful, almost anxious look on his face.

“good?” he asked, taking his own first, tentative spoonful.

instead of answering with words, you scooped up another bite from the messy, overflowing ramekin—his ramekin. you held it out to him, surprising yourself with the easy intimacy of the gesture. “you tell me.”

his eyes went wide for a moment before a slow, devastating smile spread across his face. he leaned forward, his lips closing around the spoon you offered in a way that made your pulse stutter. the soft, pleased sound he made, his own eyes fluttering closed in bliss, sent a wave of heat spiraling through your chest.

“incredible,” he breathed, his gaze locking with yours, dark and full of a wonder that had nothing to do with the chocolate. then, a mischievous glint returned. he scooped up some of his own. “your turn.”

you leaned forward to accept the bite he offered, hyperaware of how his gaze tracked the movement of your lips around the spoon. the chocolate was perfect—rich and warm and somehow tasting even better when he was the one feeding it to you.

“this is ridiculous,” you murmured, but you were smiling, caught up in the sweetness of the moment.

“ridiculously perfect,” he agreed, then leaned closer, eyes dark with intent. “you’ve got chocolate...”

instead of telling you where, he kissed you, slow and sweet and tasting of molten chocolate and something like joy. when he pulled back just enough to speak, his lips barely brushing yours, you were both breathing unsteadily.

“found it,” he murmured against your mouth, then kissed you again, deeper this time.

the spoons clattered forgotten to the counter as his hands found your waist, lifting you easily onto the prep surface. your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, pulling him closer as his mouth moved against yours with increasing hunger.

“satoru,” you gasped between kisses, your hands fisting in his t-shirt.

“been thinking about this,” he confessed against your throat, his voice rough with want. “been thinking about you. for weeks.”

his mouth trailed soft kisses along your jaw, your neck, finding that sensitive spot that made you gasp and laugh at the same time. “been thinking about this,” he confessed against your throat, voice full of wonder like he couldn’t quite believe it was happening. “been thinking about you. driving myself crazy for weeks.”

your fingers tangled in his silver hair, and he practically melted into the touch, letting out a soft, almost reverent sigh. “you’re ridiculous,” you murmured fondly, then squeaked when he found that particularly sensitive spot again. “and apparently very good at distracting people from baking.”

“i’m a man of many talents,” he said against your skin, then pulled back to look at you with that boyish grin that made your heart do stupid things. “though i have to say, this is my new favorite.”

what started as one soft, hesitant kiss, a question asked and answered, became something hungrier, deeper. your hands fisted in the soft cotton of his t-shirt, pulling him closer, and he responded by lifting you easily, effortlessly, onto the prep counter, his strength making you feel small and cherished and utterly safe.

he groans into your mouth, a low, guttural sound of surrender. his hands, large and sure, span your waist before sliding down, gripping your hips with a possessive strength that makes your breath catch. with an effortless display of power, he lifts you, settling you back onto the cool, flour-dusted prep counter without breaking the kiss. you are surrounded by him, pinned between his hard body and the solid surface, the intoxicating scent of him—clean soap, expensive cologne, and a faint, sweet hint of matcha—filling your senses.

he breaks the kiss, pulling back just enough to look at you, his storm-glass eyes dark with a want so profound it makes you dizzy. his breathing is ragged, his chest rising and falling heavily. he rests his forehead against yours for a moment, a quiet beat in the rising storm, as if to center himself.

“been wanting to do that,” he murmurs, his voice a low, rough growl, “since the first time i saw you wipe flour on your apron.” his thumbs trace slow, hypnotic circles on your hips. “weeks, cupcake. i’ve been going out of my mind.”

the raw honesty in his voice, stripped of all its usual playful charm, makes your heart hammer against your ribs. you can only nod, your fingers still tangled in the soft fabric of his shirt.

he straightens up slightly, his gaze dropping to the simple, practical dress you wear for work. a slow, wicked smirk begins to curve his lips. “this has got to go,” he decides, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. he reaches for the small zipper at the back of your neck, his knuckles brushing against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. “can’t properly appreciate the artistry with all this… fabric in the way.”

a wave of shyness washes over you, and your hands instinctively move to cover his. “satoru, wait…”

he pauses, his large, warm hand gently covering yours. he brings your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles, his storm-glass eyes holding yours, suddenly tender. “hey,” he whispers. “it’s just me. just us. i want to see you. all of you.” the sincerity in his voice, the quiet plea in his eyes, melts your resistance. you slowly, hesitantly, release his hand.

with a triumphant but gentle smile, he unzips your dress, the sound loud in the quiet kitchen. he peels the fabric from your shoulders with a reverence that makes you feel cherished, not exposed. he lets the dress pool around your waist, revealing the simple cotton bra and bloomers you wear for comfort during long hours on your feet. he unhooks your bra with practiced ease, his fingers deft and sure, letting it fall away.

his breath hitches. “fuck, you’re beautiful,” he breathes, his gaze sweeping over you with an almost worshipful intensity. his eyes, so often a playful, teasing blue, are now dark with a raw, unadulterated awe. he reaches out, his fingers tracing the curve of your collarbone, the swell of your breast, as if memorizing your shape. “so perfect.”

he breaks away for a moment, and you hear the soft hiss of a canister. he returns with the whipped cream you’d left out from the cupcake prep, a playful, predatory glint in his eyes that makes your stomach do a frantic flip.

“what are you doing?” you whisper, your voice shaky, a nervous laugh bubbling up in your throat.

“you make perfect things all day,” he murmurs, his voice a low, husky rumble, as he steps back between your legs. “so sweet. so delicious.” his hand slides up your thigh, his touch warm and sure. “it’s only fair i get to make you my pastry for once.” he shakes the can, the sound a playful rattle. “for research, of course.”

you watch, a mixture of terror and fascination, as he aims the nozzle. “satoru, that’s going to be… cold,” you manage, a faint note of protest in your voice.

“i’ll warm you up,” he promises, his eyes dark with intent.

he doesn't start where you expect. he sprays a small, perfect dollop of whipped cream on your inner thigh, right above your knee. the cold shock makes you gasp, your legs instinctively trying to close. he just chuckles, a low, pleased sound, and holds them gently in place. he leans down, his silver hair brushing against your leg like spun silk, and licks the cream away in one slow, deliberate swipe. his eyes flutter closed as he savors the taste. his gaze lifts to meet yours, dark and heavy-lidded. “delicious.”

he moves up, a slow, methodical artist at work. he sprays a delicate swirl on your hip, another on the sensitive skin of your stomach, just above your navel, each cold touch followed by the hot, wet warmth of his mouth. he’s decorating you, his movements precise and artful. his final touches are the most deliberate: two perfect, delicate rosettes piped directly onto your nipples. the intense cold makes them pebble instantly, and you cry out, a sharp, surprised sound.

“look at that,” he breathes, admiring his handiwork, his voice thick with a possessive pride. “my perfect little cupcake. so pretty.” he leans in and devours his creation, his tongue tracing the swirl on one nipple before he takes the entire hardened peak into his mouth, licking and sucking the sweet cream away until you’re writhing on the counter, your fingers fisting in his hair. he gives the other nipple the same reverent, all-consuming attention, his praise a constant, filthy murmur against your skin. “so sweet… knew you would be… perfect for me…”

his attention then moves lower, his mouth trailing a hot, wet path down your stomach, licking away every last trace of cream. his hands find the waistband of your bloomers, then the delicate lace of your panties beneath. he doesn't remove them. instead, he hooks his fingers in the elastic, pulling the fabric taut, creating a perfect frame for the sight of you. you’re already dripping for him, the thin lace dark and damp with your arousal. he groans, a low, satisfied sound against your skin. “look at how wet you are, pretty girl. already melting for me.”

he doesn't push the fabric aside. he presses his mouth right against the damp lace, the slightly rough texture an immediate, shocking friction against your sensitive flesh. his tongue darts out, tracing the outline of your folds through the material, mapping you. the friction is maddening, a delicious, textured pleasure that makes you cry out, your hips lifting instinctively from the counter. he laps at you, teases you, soaking the lace until it clings to you like a second skin.

“so sweet,” he pants against you. “i can taste you right through your panties. fuck, that’s so hot.” his praise is relentless, a filthy, hypnotic mantra. “that’s it, let it go for me… soak yourself for me… i’m going to taste every drop…”

then, the teasing stops. he positions his mouth directly over the heart of you, and with a low groan, he pushes the tip of his tongue firmly against the lace, right over your entrance. he doesn't just lick, he fucks. he presses his tongue into you, a firm, insistent pressure that mimics the head of a cock, working his way into your channel through the thin barrier of fabric. the sensation is overwhelming, a dull, deep friction that sends shockwaves straight to your core.

he moves with a steady, relentless rhythm, his entire focus narrowed on this single, filthy act—fucking you through your own panties. you can feel the lace stretching, rubbing, a maddeningly indirect stimulation that is somehow more intense than direct contact. he works you like this for long, torturous moments, his breath hot and ragged, until your mind goes blank with overwhelming pleasure.

with a choked sob, you come, your body convulsing on the counter, your inner muscles clenching with a helpless, shattering release.

he stays there, lapping up the fresh wave of your release through the lace, until the last of your shudders subside. then, and only then, does he pull back, a triumphant, proprietary smirk on his lips. he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your soaked panties and bloomers, pulling them down your legs with a slow, deliberate motion, tossing them aside.

“oh, pretty girl,” he says, his voice a low, teasing drawl as he looks at the damp, glistening evidence of your pleasure on the counter beneath you. “you made a mess.” he tuts playfully, shaking his head. “we can’t have that. health hazard, you know. very unprofessional.”

before you can respond, a mortified blush heating your cheeks, he’s leaning in, his tongue darting out to clean you up, licking the sticky wetness from the cool stainless steel. his thoroughness is both humiliating and unbelievably arousing.

when he’s finished, he looks up at you, his eyes dark and hungry. “all clean,” he purrs. “but i think i missed a spot.”

he reaches for the whipped cream canister again. your eyes widen. “satoru, no…” you breathe, a weak, helpless laugh escaping you.

“satoru, yes,” he corrects, his grin wicked.

this time, he sprays a single, perfect, generous dollop right onto your swollen, hyper-sensitive clit. the cold shock makes you gasp, your hips lifting off the counter, a sound that is half protest, half plea.

he watches the cream start to melt against your heat, a slow, decadent drip. “now, for the final, most important detail,” he whispers, his voice thick with anticipation.

this time, there is no barrier, just his mouth and tongue and teeth, a relentless, worshipful assault. he licks away the cream with slow, languid strokes, savoring the taste of it mixed with your own unique sweetness. his tongue is an instrument of pure pleasure, tracing circles, flicking, dipping inside you.

his praise starts again, a low, constant murmur against your most sensitive flesh as he works. “fuck, you taste so good… my favorite flavor… so responsive for me, pretty girl… that’s it, let me hear you… scream for me this time…”

he finds your rhythm, his tongue a merciless, perfect piston against your clit. the pleasure is sharper this time, more intense, building with a speed that terrifies and excites you.

you feel the pressure coiling low in your belly, a tight, frantic knot. he senses it, his ministrations becoming more insistent, his fingers gripping your thighs to hold you still. he is determined to wring another orgasm from you, to leave you completely, utterly wrecked.

you come apart for him again, the climax even more intense than the first, a shattering, vocal scream that echoes in the quiet kitchen as he swallows every last drop with a deep, possessive groan.

he pulled back, mouth slick with your taste, a triumphant smirk curving his lips. you were a beautiful, dazed mess on his counter, boneless beneath his gaze.

then, unexpectedly, tenderness welled in him. he kissed you again—softer this time, slow and languid, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. his hands slid from your thighs to brush your hair back, careful, hesitant. he was trying to be good.

but you were wrecked. your body still trembling from back-to-back orgasms, raw with sensitivity, high on his filthy praise—and now achingly empty. his gentleness only stoked the hunger. you craved the strength he leashed, the overwhelming power you knew he held. you needed more.

“satoru,” you whisper, your voice shaky but threaded with a raw, undeniable determination. your hands, which had been limply resting in your lap, come up to fist in the front of his shirt, tugging him closer. his gentle caresses aren’t enough. “don’t… don’t be so gentle.”

his hands still in your hair. he pulls back slightly, his storm-glass eyes searching yours, a flicker of genuine surprise momentarily clearing the haze of lust. he sees the pleading in your gaze, the desperate want, and something darker, more primal, begins to stir in their depths. the carefully constructed dam of his control begins to crack.

“you sure, pretty girl?” his voice is a low, dangerous growl, a stark contrast to his previous soft praises. the air crackles with a new, sharper tension. “i’ve been trying really hard to be good for you. but if you ask me not to be…”

you just shake your head, a single. your legs, which had been lying limp, tighten around his waist, hooking your ankles behind him, trapping him. “i don’t want you to be good,” you breathe, the confession a spark in the charged air, an open invitation to the freak you know is lurking just beneath the surface. “i want you.”

that’s it. that’s the only permission he needs. his control shatters into a million pieces. the last vestiges of softness in his expression vanish, replaced by a raw, possessive hunger that makes a shiver of fear and excitement race down your spine. his eyes darken, pupils blown wide, and the grip on your thighs becomes bruising, possessive.

“then you better hold on tight,” he growls, his voice a guttural promise of what’s to come.

“not here,” he says, his voice rough, a surprising, almost feral nod to the hygiene of your workspace, a last remnant of his respect for your craft. he glances around at the flour-dusted surfaces, at the cooling soufflés, then back at you. “i’m going to ruin you, and i want to see your face when i do it.”

before you can respond, he’s lifting you from the counter like you weigh nothing, your legs locked tight around his waist. his stride is long, purposeful, carrying you out of the warm kitchen into the dark back office. the door slams shut behind him, the echo sealing you off from the world. he drops you onto the worn couch, the springs groaning under the impact.

he looms in the dim light, a towering silhouette of unrestrained want—a predator finally given leave to hunt. his fingers fumble at his cargo pants, grace traded for frantic urgency, the rasp of his zipper loud in the silence.

then he’s free. your breath stutters, eyes widening as the faint glow catches on him—thick, heavy, impossibly long. he’s big. so big. a sharp, sweet edge of fear slices through the haze of your arousal.

“so pretty for me,” he pants, his eyes dark and wild as he moves over you. “all wrecked and wanting it.” he pins your wrists to the couch cushions above your head with one large, strong hand, his grip firm but not painful, a gesture of absolute domination. with his other hand, he parts your slick folds, his thumb stroking your clit in a way that makes you gasp.

he guides himself to your entrance. you’re soaked, still leaking from your last orgasms, but even so, the thick, blunt head of his cock just nudges against you, a solid, unyielding pressure. it’s too much. it won’t fit.

“satoru,” you gasp, your eyes wide, a real note of panic in your voice as you feel the impossible pressure. your hips instinctively try to shift away. “i don’t… i don’t think i can.”

“shhh,” he soothes, his voice a low, ragged rumble, though his eyes are blazing with intensity. he doesn't pull back. instead, he leans down, his mouth brushing against your ear. “yes, you can, pretty girl. you were made for this.” a possessive growl underlines his words. “and i’m going to make it fit.”

he demonstrates a restraint that is almost terrifying. he doesn't push. instead, he begins a slow, torturous tease. he rocks his hips, fucking you with just the very tip, the wide, smooth head of his cock stretching you, parting your slick folds, making you impossibly wetter.

he moves in and out of just that first inch, a maddening, relentless rhythm that feels like both heaven and hell. his control is absolute, his powerful body held perfectly in check.

“that’s it…” he groans, his own control fraying, sweat beading on his temples. “feel how much i want you? just the tip, and you’re already so tight… so good… gripping me…” every word is a praise, a promise. he watches your face, watches your eyes screw shut as you bite your lip, lost in the overwhelming sensation of being slowly, deliberately claimed.

you’re whining now, desperate and needy as your hips buck instinctively, trying to take more of him. the initial fear has been replaced by an all-consuming need to be filled by him, completely and utterly.

“eager for me, huh?” he chuckles, a dark, pleased sound. his hips stutter, a sign of his own fracturing control. “good. that’s so good, pretty girl. now, take me. all of me.”

he shifts his angle slightly, and then, with a slow, deliberate, powerful push, he begins to fill you. it’s a gradual invasion, an inch-by-inch claiming of your body. it’s an overwhelming, gut-rearranging fullness, a delicious, burning stretch that makes you cry out, your back arching off the couch.

he keeps going, slowly, steadily, until he’s buried to the hilt, and you feel a profound, soul-deep stretch as he bottoms out against your cervix. he fills you completely, impossibly.

he stays there for a long moment, buried to the hilt inside you, letting you feel the sheer, overwhelming size of him. he pants above you, his forehead beaded with sweat, his eyes closed as he just savors the feeling of being completely, perfectly sheathed inside you.

“fuck,” he breathes, the word a reverent sigh. “perfect fit.”

he shifts his hips just a fraction, a slow, deliberate grind that draws a whimper from your throat, and a satisfied smirk touches his lips. he opens his eyes, their storm-blue depths dark and intense.

when he finally begins to move, it’s with an agonizing, deliberate slowness. he pulls back almost all the way, the sensation of him retreating making you whine in protest, your hips lifting off the couch to chase him. he chuckles, a low, dark sound. “uh-uh, pretty girl,” he murmurs, his free hand coming down to press your hip firmly into the couch cushions, pinning you in place. “i’m in charge now. you’ll take what i give you.”

he thrusts back in, slowly, every inch a rediscovery, a fresh wave of overwhelming fullness. he establishes a deep, hypnotic rhythm—a slow, complete withdrawal followed by an even slower, deeper return. with every inward stroke, he presses deep, his powerful hips rolling, grinding the head of his cock against your cervix in a way that makes you see stars.

“feel that?” he groans, his voice a low, rough rasp by your ear. “that’s all for you. all of it.”

you can only nod, your own breath coming in ragged gasps, your mind starting to short-circuit. the dual stimulation is too much, your senses overloaded. you’re trapped, pinned by his hand on your hip and his other hand holding your wrists, completely at the mercy of his slow, deliberate torture.

“use your words, pretty girl,” he demands, his rhythm faltering for just a second. “i need to hear it. tell me how it feels.”

“it’s… so much,” you gasp, tears of pleasure pricking at the corners of your eyes. “satoru, please…”

“please what?” he presses, his hips resuming that slow, torturous grind. he knows exactly what he’s doing, drawing out the pleasure, pushing you closer and closer to the edge only to pull you back. “tell me what you want.”

“i want… more,” you sob, the admission torn from you. “faster.”

a dark, possessive grin spreads across his face. “not yet,” he breathes, leaning down to kiss you, a deep, bruising kiss that tastes of salt and want. “not until you’re begging for it.”

he continues his slow, deep, punishing rhythm for what feels like an eternity. he talks to you the entire time, a constant stream of filthy praise and possessive commands that unravels you completely. “so good… gripping me so tight… look at you, taking all of me without even a single complaint… you were made for this, made for me…”

he’s right. you were. the initial overwhelming stretch has melted into a deep, profound ache of pleasure. your body, which you thought couldn't possibly take him, has molded around him, welcoming him.

finally, just as you feel like you’re about to shatter from the tension, he changes the rhythm. his thrusts become shorter, faster, focused on that one spot deep inside you that he seems to have memorized. your own hips start to buck against his hand, a frantic, uncontrolled rhythm.

“there it is,” he pants, his own control starting to fray. “that’s what i wanted to see.”

his head dips down. as a particularly deep, powerful thrust makes you cry out his name in a sob of pure pleasure, his mouth finds the soft flesh of your shoulder, just above the collarbone. he bites down. it’s not enough to break the skin, but it’s a sharp, possessive pressure that leaves a clear, red mark. a brand. he licks over it immediately, the rough swipe of his tongue soothing the sting.

“gotta leave a little reminder for you,” he rasps, his voice a possessive growl against your skin, his thrusts becoming frantic now, slamming into you. “so you don’t forget who you belong to. so everyone knows.”

the mark, his possessive words, the overwhelming fullness, the shift to a desperate, frantic pace… it all sends you spiraling. your mind goes white with sensation, and you come with a choked scream, your body convulsing around his thick cock, your inner muscles clenching and milking him with a helpless, frantic rhythm.

your orgasm only makes him harder, his own release held back by a thread of sheer, iron will. the feeling of your inner muscles convulsing around him, milking him, sends a shudder through his powerful frame. he groans, a low, guttural sound of a man right on the edge. but he’s not done with you yet. not even close.

he pulls out of you with a wet, obscene slap that makes you whine in protest at the sudden emptiness. but he doesn't give you a moment to recover. before you can even process the lingering tremors of your climax, he’s pulling you up from the couch, onto your feet.

“turn around,” he commands, his voice a low, rough growl, thick with unshed lust. you’re pliant in his hands, dazed and completely his to command. you obey without question, letting him guide you the few steps to the small, cluttered wooden desk. he positions you, turning you so you can plant your hands on the edge of it, your ass pushed out for him, a perfect, vulnerable offering.

he presses his hard, sweat-slick body against your back, caging you in, the heat of him a stark contrast to the cool wood beneath your palms. “look at you,” he rasps, his voice a low growl right by your ear as he admires the sight of you, bent over and waiting for him. “so good. so obedient for me.”

one powerful arm snakes around your front, his forearm pressing with deliberate, firm pressure against your throat. it doesn’t hurt, not yet, but it’s a clear, undeniable act of control. your breath hitches, a jolt of pure, primal fear mixing with a sharp spike of arousal.

his hold tilts your head back into the crook of his shoulder, exposing the long, pale line of your neck to him. his mouth is right there, at your ear, at your throat, his hot breath ghosting over your skin. his other hand grips your hip, thumb pressing into the soft flesh, holding you steady, claiming you. you are completely, utterly his to manhandle.

he thrusts into you from behind in a single, powerful motion. the angle is impossibly deep, hitting a spot that bypasses thought and sends a bolt of pure, white-hot pleasure straight to your brain. a scream tears from your throat, but as it does, the pressure on your windpipe increases. not enough to truly choke you, but enough to cut the sound off, turning your scream into a pathetic, breathy whimper.

the world begins to swim at the edges, your head light and floaty from the lack of air. it’s terrifying. it’s perfect. the combination of overwhelming fullness and oxygen deprivation sends you spiraling, your mind going blessedly blank.

his thrusts are deep, powerful, slamming into you with a relentless, animalistic rhythm. with the pressure on your throat, every frantic gasp for air, every choked moan, is a sound of pure, helpless submission that seems to drive him wilder.

his mouth finds the sensitive skin where your neck meets your shoulder, and as he fucks you, he latches on, sucking hard. you feel the sting, the pull, and you know, with a dizzying thrill, that he’s leaving a dark, undeniable hickey. another mark. a claim for all to see.

he’s not pulling out. this is the final, undeniable act of possession. “i’m going to come inside you, pretty girl,” he groans into your ear, his hips slamming into you, each word a percussive beat against your senses. “i’m going to fill you up… make you mine.”

the combination of his filthy, possessive words, the choking pressure making your head spin, the new, stinging mark on your neck, and the overwhelming, gut-rearranging fullness is what sends you over the edge one last time.

your fourth, and most intense, orgasm hits like a lightning strike, a complete system overload. your mind whites out, your body convulsing violently around him, and the helpless, breathy sounds spilling from your lips are his undoing.

with a final, desperate groan that’s more roar than word, he thrusts deep one last time and floods you with his release, the hot, thick seed a shocking, intimate brand deep inside you, coating your womb, claiming you from the inside out.

he collapses against you, his entire weight a comforting, solid presence. his arm immediately loosens from your throat, allowing you to drag in a ragged, desperate lungful of air. your vision clears, the world snapping back into sharp focus. his breathing is harsh, ragged against your ear, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your back. for a long moment, you just stand there, tangled together, held up only by the desk and his strength, the aftermath of the storm washing over you in slow, trembling waves.

he doesn't let you go. after a minute, when his breathing has started to even out, he shifts. his movements are gentle now, a stark, beautiful contrast to the ferocity of moments before. he pulls you back against his chest, his arms wrapping around your middle in a secure, protective embrace. he presses a soft, lingering kiss to your temple, then another to the dark, angry-looking mark on your neck. his lips are soft, almost apologetic, yet deeply possessive.

“come on,” he whispers, his voice thick with sleep and satisfaction. he helps you gather your discarded clothes—the dress, the bra, the panties—not with any sense of shame, but with a quiet, domestic tenderness. he guides you back to the couch, sitting you down gently before finding a clean dish towel from a nearby hook and wetting it with a bottle of water from your desk. he kneels before you and carefully, tenderly, cleans you up. every soft swipe of the cloth is an act of worship, an apology, a promise.

when you’re clean, he helps you dress again, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he zips up your dress, his fingers brushing against your skin. he pulls you into his lap, cradling you against his chest, his arms a safe haven. you’re exhausted, boneless, and completely content.

and in the beautiful, comfortable wreckage he’d so lovingly made of you, you felt safer and more cherished than ever before. you were, unequivocally, his.

consciousness crept in slowly, warm and hazy and completely disorienting. your bed felt softer than usual, sunlight streaming through curtains that you definitely remembered closing last night. you were wearing your favorite sleep shirt—the oversized one with tiny croissants printed all over it—and had absolutely no memory of changing into it.

blinking up at your ceiling, pieces of the previous evening started filtering back. the baking lesson. satoru’s hands over yours. flour everywhere. the soufflés rising unevenly. kissing him until your lips felt swollen and your heart hammered like it was trying to escape your chest. everything after that was a haze of heat and breathless whispers and the way he’d touched you like you were something precious and breakable and his.

but how did you get home?

you sat up slowly, running hands through thoroughly disheveled hair, trying to piece together the gap in your memory. the last clear thing you remembered was being wrapped around satoru on your office couch, both of you breathless and covered in flour, the cafe dark except for the warm glow from the kitchen.

your phone sat on the nightstand, and when you grabbed it to check the time, your heart nearly stopped.

9:47 am.

wait, that couldn’t be right. you shot up from bed like you’d been electrocuted, panic flooding your system. if it was 9:47 in the morning, that meant— “shit, shit, shit!” the cafe should have opened an hour and forty-seven minutes ago. customers would have been lined up. your regulars, your weekend rush. they’d be confused, probably annoyed. your perfect attendance record, your reputation, everything—

that’s when you smelled it. coffee. real coffee, not the instant stuff you kept in your apartment for emergencies. and was that… bacon?

you stumbled toward your bedroom door, still half-panicked and completely confused. the soft sounds of someone moving around your kitchen, the quiet sizzle of something in a pan, and—was that humming? a low, familiar melody that made your chest flutter with recognition.

padding barefoot down the hallway, you stopped short in your kitchen doorway.

satoru stood at your stove, wearing his jeans from last night and nothing else except one of your aprons tied around his narrow waist. the soft pink fabric with tiny cupcakes printed on it looked absolutely ridiculous stretched across his broad shoulders, the ties barely meeting around his back. his silver hair was still sleep-mussed, sticking up in several directions, and he was humming while orchestrating what looked like a feast designed to feed a small army.

the counter was covered with an impressive spread that belonged in a five-star brunch restaurant. thick, fluffy japanese pancakes stacked impossibly high, their surfaces golden and perfect. fresh strawberries and blueberries arranged in artful clusters, some cut into delicate fan shapes. crispy strips of bacon laid out in precise rows alongside what appeared to be perfectly seasoned breakfast potatoes, golden and herb-crusted. scrambled eggs that looked like silk, probably made with cream and patience.

a small bowl of homemade whipped cream sat next to another containing what could only be maple butter. and was that hollandaise sauce? actual hollandaise sauce, made from scratch in your tiny kitchen, keeping warm in a makeshift double boiler.

“morning, beautiful,” he said without turning around, shoulders shifting as he adjusted the heat under a pan. his voice carried that particular roughness that came from a night of use, and the sound sent warmth spiraling through your chest as memories crashed back in vivid detail. “hope you don’t mind me raiding your kitchen. and your spice cabinet. and possibly your entire pantry.”

you stared at the spread, then at him, brain still trying to catch up to this alternate reality where satoru gojo had transformed your modest kitchen into a professional-grade brunch operation. “that’s my apron,” you managed, voice scratchy with sleep and something else entirely. your fingers unconsciously smoothed down your croissant-printed pajama shirt, suddenly very aware of how rumpled you probably looked.

he glanced down at the pink fabric with its cheerful cupcake pattern, then back at you with that boyish grin that made your knees forget their structural integrity. those impossible blue eyes held warmth and mischief and something deeper that made your pulse stutter. “looks better on you, obviously, but i didn’t want to get hollandaise on myself.” he gestured toward the elaborate spread with his spatula, movements confident and practiced, like he’d been cooking in your kitchen for years instead of hours. “thought you might be hungry after… well, after everything.”

the way he said ‘everything’ with that slight pause, that knowing look, sent heat creeping up your neck. memories flickered behind your eyelids—his hands, his mouth, the way he’d whispered your name like a prayer.

heat crept up your neck at the implication, memories flickering like film strips behind your eyelids. “satoru, what time is it? the cafe—i need to open, people are probably waiting outside wondering where—”

“relax, cupcake.” he turned fully now, and you caught sight of the feast he’d created on your small dining table. those long fingers gestured toward your phone on the counter, his expression gentle but firm. “it’s friday morning, yes. but look at yourself.”

you glanced down at your croissant pajamas, then caught sight of yourself in the microwave’s reflection. disheveled didn’t begin to cover it. you looked like you’d been thoroughly—well, exactly like someone who’d spent the night being completely and utterly ruined in the best possible way.

“when’s the last time you took a real day off?” he continued, leaning against the counter with those muscled arms crossed, the ridiculous apron making him look both domestic and absolutely edible. “and i mean a real day off, not just sunday afternoons when you meal prep for the week.”

“i don’t need—”

“you fell asleep mid-sentence last night,” he interrupted, storm-glass eyes serious now. “completely dead to the world. that’s not normal tired, sweetheart. that’s your body shutting down because you’ve been running on fumes for months.”

the endearment made something flutter in your chest, but you fought against the warmth. “people depend on their morning coffee. their pastries. i can’t just—”

“the world will survive one day without your croissants.” he pushed off the counter, moving toward you with that predatory grace that made your pulse skip. “but will you survive if you keep pushing yourself like this?”

you opened your mouth to argue, but he continued, voice dropping to something softer, more vulnerable. “i carried you home last night. you weighed nothing, and you were so exhausted you didn’t even stir when i changed your clothes or when the car hit every pothole between the cafe and here.” his hands found your shoulders, thumbs brushing over your collarbone through the soft cotton. “when’s the last time someone took care of you?”

the question settled between you like flour in still air, impossible to brush away. you stared up at him, taking in the genuine concern in those impossible eyes, the way his hair stuck up in seventeen different directions, the careful way he was touching you like you might break.

“i already put a sign on the door,” he admitted quietly. “professional-looking thing. ‘temporarily closed for equipment maintenance, reopening tomorrow with fresh selections.’ even laminated it.”

“you…” you blinked at him, torn between exasperation and something dangerously close to affection. “you laminated a sign?”

“seemed like something you’d appreciate.” that boyish grin made its appearance, but it was softer now, less performative. “besides, gives us the whole day to figure this out.”

“figure what out?”

“this.” he gestured between you with one hand, the other still resting on your shoulder. “us. whatever this is becoming.”

his own cheeks pinked slightly, and he ran a hand through his already-messy hair, the gesture making those silver strands stick up even more ridiculously. the movement drew attention to the lean muscles of his arm, the way his bicep flexed under unmarked skin. he was beautiful in the morning light, all sharp angles and soft edges, looking nothing like the polished influencer and everything like the man who’d whispered praise against your skin in the dark.

“right, about that. you were completely dead to the world, so i…” he paused, shoulders shifting as he turned to face you fully, and the careful way he moved suggested he was reading your reaction, making sure you were okay with this conversation. “i may have carried you.” the admission came out like he was confessing to a crime, storm-glass eyes searching your face for any sign of discomfort.

you were quiet for a long moment, processing this while your fingers unconsciously twisted the hem of your pajama shirt. the image of satoru gojo, internet famous fitness influencer, carrying your unconscious form through the streets while digging through your purse for house keys should have been embarrassing. instead, it felt like being cherished. “called a car, had to dig through your bag for your keys—sorry about that, by the way. total invasion of privacy but you were unconscious and i couldn’t exactly leave you on the couch all night.”

“and the clothes?” you asked quietly, voice barely above a whisper as you gestured to your croissant pajamas. your cheeks felt warm, not from embarrassment but from something softer, more vulnerable.

his flush deepened, spreading down his neck to disappear beneath the ridiculous cupcake apron, and he focused very intently on arranging the berries in perfect little clusters. his long fingers moved with surprising delicacy, the same hands that had mapped every inch of your skin now handling strawberries like they were made of glass. “you were… well, you couldn’t sleep in your work clothes. they were all flour-dusted and…” he cleared his throat, voice dropping to something rough and honest. “i was very respectful about it. found your pajamas in the top drawer, got you changed as quickly as possible.”

the careful way he said it, like he was worried you’d be upset, made something warm unfurl in your chest. after everything that had happened between you—the way he’d touched you, tasted you, made you completely his—the tenderness of him taking care of you when you were completely vulnerable felt more intimate than anything else. your heart did something complicated against your ribs, affection and gratitude tangling together.

“thank you,” you said softly, the words carrying more weight than they should. “for taking care of me.”

his shoulders relaxed slightly, and that devastating smile returned. “anytime, cupcake. literally anytime.” he moved back toward the stove, checking on something in a pan. “now come on, let me feed you properly. all this cooking and no one to appreciate it is making me feel like a very attractive housewife with an absentee spouse.”

despite everything, you snorted. “did you just compare yourself to a housewife?”

“a very attractive housewife,” he corrected solemnly. “the apron really brings out my eyes.”

you perched on one of your barstools, finally allowing yourself to really take in the spread he’d created. it was magnificent—restaurant-quality food that had obviously taken hours to prepare. “satoru, this is… how long have you been awake?”

“since about six.” he shrugged like it was nothing, plating the eggs with practiced precision. “i’m used to early mornings. besides, i wanted everything to be perfect when you woke up.”

something warm and dangerous bloomed in your chest at the casual way he said it, like making you elaborate breakfasts was just another tuesday for him.

he set a plate in front of you that could have fed three people. the pancakes were impossibly fluffy, stacked four high and dusted with powdered sugar. the eggs looked like silk, probably made with cream and the kind of patience you rarely had time for. the breakfast potatoes were golden and herb-crusted, the bacon perfectly crispy, and everything was arranged with an artistry that rivaled your own pastry displays.

“this is…” you took a bite of the pancakes, and flavor exploded across your tongue. light, airy, with just the right amount of sweetness and a hint of vanilla that made your eyes flutter closed. “holy shit, satoru. this is incredible.”

he beamed like you’d just told him he’d won the lottery, settling across from you with his own overfilled plate. “really? basic, but edible,” he said with obvious false modesty, but you could see the genuine pride in his eyes.

“basic?” you laughed, taking another bite, then another, suddenly ravenous in a way that had nothing to do with skipping dinner and everything to do with working up quite an appetite. “satoru, this is restaurant-quality. where did you learn to cook like this?”

you ate with the same focused intensity he’d seen you bring to your baking, that complete attention to flavor and texture that made him fall for you in the first place. watching you devour his cooking with such obvious pleasure made something warm and possessive bloom in his chest. he found himself memorizing the way you closed your eyes when you tasted the hollandaise, the soft sound you made when you tried the potatoes, the fact that you cleaned your plate completely before even pausing to breathe.

“years of meal prep,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady while watching you lick hollandaise off your fork with the same precision you used for piping buttercream. “when you’re trying to build muscle without destroying your body, you learn to make healthy food that doesn’t taste like punishment.” he gestured with his own fork, grinning. “though i’ll admit, i may have gotten a little carried away trying to impress you.”

“mission accomplished,” you said around another bite, then paused to really look at the spread. “seriously, satoru, this is restaurant-quality. why aren’t you doing this professionally?”

his cheeks pinked slightly, that boyish flush that made him look younger, more vulnerable. “because watching people enjoy things i make feels…” he paused, searching for words. “it feels like this. like watching you eat my food with the same appreciation i have for your pastries. makes me understand why you do what you do.”

you finished the last bite and sat back with a satisfied sigh, feeling more full and content than you had in months. the plate was completely clean—you’d devoured every single thing he’d made with the same focused intensity you brought to your own work.

“that was incredible. i mean it,” you said, then caught his expression. he was watching you with something like wonder, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“actually,” he said suddenly, setting down his fork and running a hand through his silver hair. “can we… can we talk about something?”

your stomach dropped slightly. here it came—the regret, the awkwardness, the ‘this was fun but we should probably pretend it didn’t happen’ conversation. you set down your coffee cup carefully, trying to keep your expression neutral. “okay.”

he pushed back from the table abruptly, starting to pace behind the kitchen island like a caged animal. his movements were agitated, nervous energy radiating from every line of his body. “i’ve been thinking,” he said, voice strained. “and i realized i did everything completely backwards last night.”

you blinked at him, confusion replacing dread. “backwards?”

“i should have told you how i feel first.” he stopped pacing long enough to gesture vaguely toward your bedroom, cheeks going properly pink now. “before we… god, your neighbors probably hate me. i didn’t even tell you i love you first and i just…” his voice cracked slightly. “i mean, i really went at it, didn’t i?”

the confession crashed over you like warm honey, sweet and overwhelming. your heart stuttered against your ribs. “you love me?”

he stopped pacing entirely, those impossible eyes meeting yours with devastating sincerity. his hands were shaking slightly as he ran them through his hair again, making it stick up in seventeen different directions. “are you kidding? i’ve been completely gone for you since that first chocolate tart. i rearranged my entire life around your operating hours. masaru thinks i’ve lost my mind.”

“you love me,” you repeated, softer this time, like you were testing how the words tasted on your tongue.

“embarrassingly much,” he admitted, voice rough with vulnerability. he resumed his pacing, gesticulating wildly now. “which is why i feel terrible that i didn’t say it before i… before we…” he trailed off, looking genuinely distressed. “i’m not usually the type to put the cart before the horse, you know? but you make me forget how to think straight.”

something about his genuine distress, the way he was beating himself up over the order of operations, struck you as absolutely ridiculous. a giggle escaped before you could stop it. then another. soon you were laughing so hard tears pricked your eyes, shoulders shaking with the force of it.

“what’s funny?” he asked, stopping mid-pace to stare at you, looking wounded and confused.

“satoru,” you managed between giggles, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. “you’ve been courting me for months. bringing me ridiculously large tips. asking me to teach you to bake. memorizing my coffee preferences. learning my schedule by heart.” you stood up, still laughing softly. “if that’s not love, i don’t know what is.”

his expression shifted from wounded to hopeful, like sunrise breaking through storm clouds. “so… you’re not upset that i did it backwards?”

“the only thing i’m upset about,” you said, moving around the island toward him, “is that you beat me to saying it first.”

his face transformed into that brilliant smile you’d grown to love, the one that made him look younger and completely unguarded. “so what does this make us then? officially?”

“well,” you said, reaching up to smooth down his ridiculous bedhead, fingers tangling in the soft silver strands. “you’ve basically moved into my cafe. you know my coffee preferences better than i do. and you just made me breakfast while wearing an apron that’s two sizes too small.”

he glanced down at the ridiculous cupcake-printed fabric stretched across his broad chest, then back at you with that boyish grin. “very domesticated of me.”

“extremely domesticated,” you agreed, hands still buried in his hair. “practically husband material.”

the word hung in the air between you, and you both froze slightly. too much, too fast, too honest for a morning after conversation.

“too fast?” you asked quickly, suddenly uncertain.

“definitely too fast,” he agreed, then that devastating smile returned full force. “but i like the sound of it anyway.”

you stretched up on your toes to kiss him, tasting coffee and maple syrup and morning possibilities on his lips. when you pulled back, both of you were breathing a little unsteadily.

“so… boyfriend then? for now?” you whispered against his mouth.

“boyfriend who’s completely obsessed with his girlfriend,” he confirmed, arms wrapping around your waist to pull you impossibly closer. “and plans to continue being your most devoted customer.”

“what about your trainer? your social media following? the whole influencer thing?”

“masaru can learn to live with disappointment. some things are more important than macros.” he pulled back just enough to look at you seriously, those storm-glass eyes soft with affection. “like making sure the woman i love gets proper breakfast when she’s too tired to make it herself.”

warmth bloomed in your chest at the casual way he said ‘the woman i love,’ like it was the most natural thing in the world. “satoru gojo, are you offering to be my personal breakfast chef?”

“i’m offering to be whatever you need me to be,” he said simply, honestly, thumbs tracing gentle circles against your waist through the thin cotton of your pajama shirt. “starting with the guy who makes you eggs and tells you he loves you every morning.”

your heart did something complicated and wonderful behind your ribs. “i love you too,” you whispered, the words feeling both new and inevitable. “even if you did steal my apron.”

“our apron,” he corrected with a grin, then lifted you off your feet and spun you around your tiny kitchen, both of you laughing like teenagers who’d discovered something wonderful and secret. your hands fisted in the ridiculous cupcake fabric as he spun you, the world blurring except for his face, his smile, the way he was looking at you like you were everything he’d ever wanted.

when he finally set you back down, he kept his arms around you, both of you still giggling and breathless. “we’re domestic now, remember?” he said, pressing his forehead against yours.

and standing there in your sunny kitchen, wearing croissant pajamas while satoru gojo held you close in your stolen apron, you thought maybe the best relationships really did come from a little bit of chaos, a lot of patience, and the perfect amount of sweetness.

seven months of official dating had settled into something sweeter than any confection you’d ever crafted. what started as satoru’s carefully timed visits to flour & sugar had evolved into something that had the internet completely obsessed and your little bakery busier than you’d ever dreamed possible.

it had started innocently enough—his social media transformation had been gradual, so subtle that his followers might have missed it if they weren’t paying attention. but the comments sections told a different story.

“bro where are the gym thirst traps” “who is she and what did she do with our protein daddy” “NOT HIM POSTING COUPLE RECIPES” “the way this man went from ‘rate my deadlift’ to ‘rate our sourdough starter’ is sending me”

his instagram had become a love letter written in pixels and captions, a soft-focus documentary of domestic bliss that had somehow captured the internet’s collective heart. gone were the carefully staged shots of his abs and dramatic gym poses. instead, his feed had filled with your hands—piping delicate rosettes onto cupcakes, kneading dough with flour up to your elbows, writing recipe modifications in your careful script on index cards. blurry morning photos of you both tangled in the sheets above the bakery, sharing a croissant and coffee, your hair catching the golden morning light and his eyes soft with sleep and adoration.

“she said the croissants needed to be tested for quality control. who am i to argue with an expert? #worthit #carbsarelife”

the gym content that remained had evolved too. videos of him teaching you proper deadlift form while you corrected his piping technique, both of you collapsing into giggles when he inevitably got buttercream on the barbell. couple workouts that ended with you both on yoga mats, breathless and laughing, sharing post-workout protein smoothies that you’d somehow made taste like birthday cake.

his captions had gotten impossibly sappier, much to his trainer’s horror and his followers’ secret delight.

“strongest thing about me is how hard i fell for her” under a photo of you both covered in flour after an epic food fight that had started as a serious recipe test and devolved into full-scale warfare.

“she lifts my spirits, i lift heavy things. perfect partnership #relationshipgoals #sheputsupwithme”

“plot twist: the real gains were the pastries we made along the way” posted with a picture of a particularly elaborate croquembouche you’d attempted together, which had collapsed spectacularly but tasted like heaven.

but it was the video that really sent everything viral. he’d filmed you teaching him how to make croissants at 4 am, both of you in matching flour-dusted aprons, your voice gentle and patient as you guided his hands through the delicate lamination process. the video caught the moment when he’d finally gotten the fold right, the way your face had lit up with pride, how he’d spun you around the kitchen in celebration, both of you laughing breathlessly in the pre-dawn quiet.

“month 6 of pastry school with the best teacher in the world. still can’t believe she hasn’t fired me yet #luckiestman #sheputsupwitheverything”

the video had exploded overnight. suddenly everyone wanted to try the bakery where the internet’s new favorite couple had fallen in love. the hashtag #flourandsugar started trending, with people posting their own attempts at your recipes and sharing photos of their visits to the little bakery that had stolen the internet’s heart.

which was how you’d found yourself six months later, standing in what used to be the cramped storage room behind your original space, now transformed into a sun-drenched new kitchen three times the size of your old one. the success had been overwhelming in the best possible way—the new space was a baker’s dream, with warm butcher block counters instead of cold steel and creamy subway tiles that caught the light. it was professional, yes, but it still felt like your kitchen.

that warmth extended upstairs, where you’d expanded into a proper second floor with big, beautiful windows that flooded the space with light, now filled with mismatched armchairs you’d found at flea markets, their plush velvet cushions in shades of dusty rose and sage green inviting people to linger for hours. you’d added low bookshelves filled with old novels and cookbooks, making it feel more like a cozy, lived-in library than a cafe.

and outside, you’d finally built the outdoor garden patio you’d always dreamed of. it was a hidden city oasis, where climbing jasmine and wisteria wove through rustic wooden trellises, their sweet scent mixing with the aroma of fresh baking. warm, rounded wooden tables were nestled amongst potted lavender and herbs that you used in your recipes, and in the evenings, the entire space was lit by hundreds of soft, twinkling fairy lights, making it feel like a secret garden straight from a storybook. a small, charmingly weathered stage was tucked into a corner, where local musicians played soft acoustic sets on friday nights.

satoru had insisted on being involved in every aspect of the renovation, showing up in a hard hat that was completely unnecessary but made him look adorable, asking the contractors a million questions and somehow charming them into letting him help with the purely decorative elements. he’d painted the entire garden fence himself, claiming it was “functional exercise” when masaru complained about his training schedule.

and somewhere in the midst of expansion plans and permit applications and the beautiful chaos of success, he’d also become your unofficial apprentice.

every morning, he’d show up before opening hours, hair still messy from sleep and eyes still soft with dreams, pressing coffee into your hands and tying on the custom apron you’d made him—black with “sous chef (in training)” embroidered in white thread.

he was surprisingly good at it, once you got past his tendency to treat everything like a chemistry experiment that required his complete focus and undivided attention. his hands, so used to precise movements in the gym, had adapted quickly to the delicate work of pastry. he could pipe perfectly uniform rosettes now, roll pasta thin enough to read through, and his bread kneading technique was flawless—all that upper body strength put to decidedly more domestic use.

the only problem was how clingy he got during work hours, like a cat who’d decided you were the only warm spot in the house.

“focus,” you’d murmur when you caught him staring at you instead of watching his custard, which was definitely about to curdle if he didn’t pay attention, your own concentration wavering under the weight of his gaze.

“i am focused,” he’d protest, those storm-glass eyes never leaving your face, his head tilting in that way that made his hair fall across his forehead just so. “just not on the custard.”

he had a habit of finding excuses to be close to you—reaching over you for ingredients he could easily grab from the other side, his chest brushing against your shoulder as he moved with unnecessary slowness, pressing himself against your back to “check your technique” when you were demonstrating something he’d watched you do a hundred times, his breath warm against your neck as he murmured questions he already knew the answers to. stealing kisses between timer intervals that left you both breathless and your kitchen staff rolling their eyes so hard they risked permanent damage.

“you know,” your assistant manager had said one particularly busy morning, watching satoru follow you around like a lovesick puppy with separation anxiety, “most people don’t let their boyfriends work in their restaurants because it’s unprofessional.”

“good thing he’s not just my boyfriend,” you’d replied, not looking up from the wedding cake sketch you were working on, your cheeks warm with the kind of happiness that made everything else fade to background noise. “he’s my best student too.”

and he was. beneath all the playful clinginess and shameless flirting, he’d thrown himself into learning your craft with the same intensity he brought to everything else. he studied cookbooks like training manuals, practiced piping techniques until his hands cramped, and had somehow memorized the temperature preferences of every regular customer without being asked.

tonight felt different, though. there was an energy humming beneath his skin as he helped you test a new recipe—a delicate honey lavender cake that had been giving you trouble for weeks. the kind of nervous energy that made him move too precisely, like he was afraid his hands might betray him. he’d been unusually quiet, focused with an intensity that went beyond even his usual dedication to perfection. his hands, normally so confident and sure, had trembled slightly as he held the mixing bowl steady while you folded in the final ingredients, his knuckles white with tension.

you’d caught him checking his phone more than usual, running his fingers through his hair in that telltale sign of nerves that made the white strands stick up at odd angles.

the new kitchen was empty except for the two of you, the dinner rush long over and your staff gone home. upstairs, you could hear the soft sounds of the last few customers settling their bills and heading out into the night. soon it would be just the two of you in your expanded little empire, testing recipes and stealing kisses between batches like you had every night for months.

“perfect,” you murmured, running the offset spatula around the bowl’s edge to catch the last bit of batter, satisfaction curling warm in your chest. “finally got the lavender balance right. not too floral, not too—”

“marry me.”

the words fell between you like flour from a torn bag, sudden and everywhere at once. your spatula froze mid-swipe, batter clinging to its edge, and the kitchen went so quiet you could hear the soft hum of the new industrial refrigerators, the distant tick of the timer counting down on the oven, the rapid flutter of your own heartbeat.

you turned slowly, your heart doing something acrobatic and terrifying in your chest, like it was trying to escape through your ribs.

satoru was standing by the three-basin sink, soap bubbles still clinging to his forearms from washing the mixing bowls, his storm-glass eyes wide and vulnerable in a way that made the air catch in your lungs. his usually perfect posture had crumbled slightly, shoulders curved inward like he was bracing for impact. in his damp hands—hands that could deadlift twice his body weight but now shook like autumn leaves—he held a ring.

it was simple. classic. a single diamond set in white gold, understated and elegant and so perfectly you that your throat closed with emotion. it caught the warm led lighting of your new kitchen and threw tiny rainbows across the stainless steel counter between you, each facet a promise you weren’t sure you were brave enough to believe.

“i—” he started, then stopped, running his free hand through his impossible white hair until it stood up in anxious spikes. his adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, and you could see the flush creeping up his neck above the collar of his black henley. “i had a whole speech planned. been practicing in the mirror like an idiot for weeks. masaru kept finding me in the gym storage room rehearsing it to the resistance bands. hell, i even practiced on the contractors during the renovation, and they all said it was solid gold. but standing here, watching you perfect something for the hundredth time just because you refuse to settle for anything less than beautiful, i just… i can’t wait anymore.”

you set the spatula down with trembling fingers, your mouth slightly parted in shock, your eyes never leaving his face. there was something raw there, something that made your chest feel too small to contain your heart. the way he was looking at you—like you were the answer to a question he’d been asking his whole life without knowing it.

“i know we’ve technically only been together seven months,” he continued, words tumbling out faster now, like he was afraid he’d lose his nerve. his free hand gestured wildly, flour still dusting his knuckles. “but i’ve been reorganizing my whole life around you for almost a year now, and it doesn’t feel fast. it feels like… like i’ve been waiting my whole life to find someone who makes me want to be better. who makes me want to learn the difference between brown sugar and turbinado sugar because it matters to them. who makes me want to wake up at 4 am just to watch them create magic from flour and butter and impossible patience.”

tears blurred your vision, but you couldn’t look away from him. couldn’t breathe. couldn’t do anything but stand there in your flour-dusted apron with your heart trying to climb out of your throat.

“you turned me from a guy whose idea of cooking was protein powder and water into someone who knows seventeen different ways to fold dough,” he said, his voice dropping to that soft, rough register that made your knees feel unsteady. “you made me trade my supplement-covered bathroom counter for skincare products and fancy soaps that smell like vanilla and cardamom. you let me reorganize your spice cabinet by color and didn’t even laugh when i alphabetized the sprinkles. you taught me that there’s a difference between vanilla extract and vanilla paste, and somehow made me care about it enough to argue with the supplier about quality.”

he was rambling now, the speech he’d practiced forgotten in favor of raw honesty, his eyes bright with unshed tears.

“you make me want to be the kind of man who deserves a woman who puts that much love into everything she touches,” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly on the last word. “and i know i’m not there yet, but i want to spend the rest of my life trying. if you’ll let me. if you’ll have me, with all my terrible habits and my tendency to leave protein powder rings on your pristine counters and my complete inability to remember which spoon is for tasting and which is for mixing even though you’ve told me a thousand times—”

“yes,” you breathed, the word escaping like a prayer, like something that had been building inside you for months and finally found its way out. your hands flew to your mouth, tears spilling over your cheeks. then louder, clearer, with a certainty that surprised you both: “yes. yes, of course, yes. you beautiful, ridiculous man, yes.”

relief crashed over his features like sunrise after the longest night, his shoulders sagging as the tension finally left his body. suddenly he was moving, crossing the spacious new kitchen in three quick strides, his long legs eating up the distance between you. he scooped you up, lifting you clean off the ground and spinning you around despite the flour that would definitely transfer to his black henley.

you laughed—bright, joyous, disbelieving—the sound echoing off the stainless steel surfaces as he set you down gently, his hands framing your face like you were something precious and fragile.

he took your left hand with reverent care, his fingers steady now, and the ring slipped onto your finger like it had been waiting there all along, a perfect fit that made your heart stutter. you stared down at it through tears, this small, shining promise that caught the light and threw it back in brilliant fragments.

“it was my grandmother’s,” he said softly, his thumb tracing over your knuckles, his voice thick with emotion. “she would have loved you. probably would have spent hours teaching you her secret recipes and conspiring against my diet with homemade cookies and guilt trips about being too skinny.”

you looked up at him, this beautiful, impossible man who’d learned to love the quiet corners of your world, and felt something click into place deep in your chest, like the final piece of a puzzle you hadn’t known you were solving. “she raised someone pretty wonderful,” you whispered, your voice watery with happiness.

he cupped your face in his flour-dusted hands and kissed you then, soft and sweet and tasting like promises and the lingering sweetness of cake batter. when you finally broke apart, breathless, he rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed like he was trying to memorize the moment.

“so,” he said, that familiar playful edge creeping back into his voice, though it was rougher now, weighted with emotion. “think we should celebrate with cake?”

you laughed, the sound bubbling up from some deep, happy place inside you, your hands fisting in the soft cotton of his shirt. “the honey lavender isn’t ready yet.”

“then i guess,” he said, pressing another kiss to your temple, his lips lingering there, “we’ll just have to make do with each other.”

and in the warm, sweet-scented sanctuary of your expanded kitchen, with an engagement ring catching the light and his arms around you, you thought you’d never tasted anything sweeter.

the next few weeks passed in a blur of congratulations and wedding planning that somehow felt like the most natural thing in the world, like every decision was just another recipe to perfect together. your expanded bakery had become an even bigger destination after satoru posted a photo of your engagement ring next to a perfectly plated slice of the honey lavender cake, captioned simply: “she said yes. tastes even sweeter than it looks. #luckiestman #sheputsupwitheverything #futurewife”

the internet had collectively lost its mind with joy, his comments section turning into a virtual celebration that lasted for days.

but the real magic happened in the quiet moments between the public celebrations. like the evening you’d spent sprawled on the living room floor of the apartment above the bakery—your apartment, officially both of yours now, his name on the lease and his terrible reality tv preferences integrated into your netflix algorithm—surrounded by wedding magazines and cake flavor combinations scribbled on index cards.

“okay,” you said, shuffling through your notes with the same methodical precision you brought to everything, your engagement ring catching the lamplight as you moved. “we’ve narrowed it down to seven flavors. one for each month we’ve been together.”

“our love story in cake form,” he agreed, lying on his stomach with his chin propped on his hands, looking at you like you’d personally hung every star in the sky. his eyes were soft and dreamy, the way they got when he was completely, utterly content. “very us.”

“so the bottom layer,” you continued, consulting your carefully organized list, your brow furrowed in that adorable way it did when you were concentrating, “vanilla bean with salted caramel. for that first day you came in and i thought you were just another pretty face with a sweet tooth.”

“just another pretty face?” he gasped in mock offense, rolling onto his back and pressing his hand to his chest like you’d wounded him mortally. his hair fanned out against the hardwood floor like a halo, and you had the sudden, overwhelming urge to run your fingers through it. “i’ll have you know this pretty face was already planning our future together after that first smile.”

“mmm,” you hummed, trying to look stern but failing spectacularly as warmth bloomed in your chest, “the second layer is dark chocolate with raspberry. rich and a little tart, like how i felt when i realized you were actually going to be a problem for my carefully ordered life.”

“a problem?” he sat up, scooting closer until he could nuzzle into your neck, his breath warm against your skin. “i prefer ‘best thing that ever happened to you.’”

“that’s layer seven,” you said softly, your voice going tender in a way that made his heart do somersaults. “honey lavender. sweet and unexpected and perfect.”

he went quiet then, understanding the weight of what you were saying, his arms tightening around you. “and the layers in between?”

“lemon with strawberry buttercream for the first time you made me laugh until my sides hurt—that morning you tried to help me make croissants and somehow got butter in your hair.” you were smiling now, lost in the memory, your fingers absently playing with the hem of his shirt. “coffee cake with brown butter frosting for all those early mornings you started showing up before we opened, just to spend time with me. vanilla rose for the day you told me you loved me. and…” you blushed, consulting your notes, “brown butter cake with cinnamon cream cheese frosting for the first time you stayed the night and i woke up to you making breakfast. the most chaotic breakfast, but the gesture was perfect.”

“hey,” he protested, pulling back to look at you with wounded dignity, his lower lip jutting out in an exaggerated pout, “that french toast was a masterpiece.”

“baby,” you said, reaching up to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing over the sharp line of his cheekbone, “you used hamburger buns because i was out of regular bread.”

“innovation,” he said solemnly, leaning into your touch like a cat seeking warmth. “that’s what separates the great chefs from the merely good ones.”

you’d spent that night planning every detail, from the sugar flowers you’d craft by hand to the way you’d display each layer so guests could see the beautiful cross-section of your love story. he’d been unusually quiet as you worked, and you’d found him later at your kitchen table at two in the morning, surrounded by crumpled papers and wearing the ridiculous “kiss the cook” apron you’d gotten him as a joke, his shoulders curved in defeat.

“baby?” you’d whispered, padding over in your pajamas and his oversized gym shirt, your heart clenching at the sight of him looking so lost. “what are you doing?”

“trying to write my vows,” he’d said, voice rough with exhaustion and emotion, his hands buried in his hair. “but i can’t get it right. how do you put into words the moment someone becomes your whole world? how do you explain that you didn’t even know you were incomplete until they showed up and made everything make sense? how do you tell someone that they turned you from a man who thought love was a distraction into someone who can’t imagine existing without them?”

you’d climbed into his lap then, right there in the kitchen chair, your arms winding around his neck as you pressed soft kisses to his temple. together, you’d found the words. together, the way you did everything now.

the cake tasting had turned into an event in itself. you’d closed the bakery early on a tuesday afternoon, transforming the main floor into a private testing kitchen with the kind of nervous excitement you usually reserved for new recipe launches. your wedding cake, all seven layers of your love story, sat on the counter in individual slices, each layer labeled with a small card explaining its significance in your careful script.

“okay,” you’d said, suddenly nervous as you watched him approach the display, your hands smoothing down your flour-dusted apron for the hundredth time. “remember, these are just samples. the actual wedding cake will be much prettier, and the proportions will be better, and—”

“cupcake,” he’d interrupted gently, taking your flour-dusted hands in his, his thumbs stroking over your knuckles in that soothing way that never failed to calm your racing thoughts. “breathe. it’s perfect because you made it.”

the way he said it, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like perfection was just a natural byproduct of your touch, made your chest tight with emotion.

he’d insisted on tasting each layer separately, giving you detailed feedback like the world’s most devoted food critic, his expressions shifting from anticipation to bliss with each bite. the vanilla bean and salted caramel had made him close his eyes and hum appreciatively, a sound that sent heat curling through your stomach. the chocolate raspberry had earned a low whistle of approval that made your cheeks flush.

but you were just as gone for him, watching the way his face lit up with each taste, the way he’d pause and consider flavors with the same intensity he brought to everything else, the way his eyes would find yours after each bite like he needed to share the experience with you. when he reached for your hand during the coffee layer, threading your fingers together like he couldn’t bear not to be touching you, your heart did something ridiculous and fluttery in your chest.

“this one,” he’d said after trying the vanilla rose, his voice slightly rough, “tastes like that morning when you told me you loved me back. all sunshine and possibility.”

“you remember what i was wearing?” you’d asked, moving closer without really meaning to, drawn in by the softness in his expression.

“that yellow sundress with the little buttons,” he’d said immediately, his free hand coming up to trace the air where the buttons would have been. “you had flour in your hair and you kept fidgeting with the ties on your apron.”

the fact that he remembered those details, that he’d cataloged them like they mattered, made your breath catch.

but it was the honey lavender that had undone him completely. his whole body had gone still after the first bite, eyes fluttering closed, and for a moment you’d worried something was wrong. then his shoulders had started shaking slightly, and you’d realized with a start that he was crying.

“that’s it,” he’d said finally, his voice thick with emotion, eyes still closed like he was afraid to break the spell. “that’s the one.”

“which one?” you’d whispered, though part of you already knew.

“the feeling. the one you were trying to capture when you made it for me that first time.” he’d opened his eyes then, and they were bright with unshed tears that made your own eyes prickle in response. “it tastes like the moment i realized i was completely, hopelessly, forever in love with you.”

“satoru,” you’d breathed, and then you were kissing him, tasting honey and lavender and promises on his lips, both of you crying a little as you held each other in your expanded bakery surrounded by the evidence of how far you’d come.

“marry me tomorrow,” he’d mumbled against your lips, his hands fisting in the fabric of your dress like he was afraid you might disappear.

“we already have a date picked,” you’d laughed, but your voice was shaky with emotion.

“marry me right now then,” he’d said, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes wild and bright. “i don’t care about the dress or the flowers or any of it. i just want to be yours officially.”

the months leading up to the wedding had been a whirlwind of planning and preparation, but also of quiet domestic moments that felt like the real celebration

. mornings spent teaching him increasingly complex techniques, watching his confidence grow as he mastered croissant lamination and sugar work and the precise art of tempering chocolate, his tongue poking out slightly in concentration in a way that made your heart flutter.

afternoons working side by side, his playlist mixing with yours over the bakery’s sound system, creating the soundtrack to your shared life. evenings curled up on the couch, him reading nutrition labels to you while you sketched cake designs on his chest, both of you laughing at how perfectly your weird little habits complemented each other.

his social media had documented the whole journey, turning your followers into invested participants in your love story. posts about cake testing sessions and venue scouting, videos of him practicing his piping technique with the focused intensity he usually reserved for deadlifts, photos of you both covered in flour and grinning like idiots after successful experiments.

“wedding cake testing day 3: she’s perfect, the cakes are perfect, life is perfect #blessed #luckiestman #cakefortifiedgroom”

“month 12 of pastry school and she still hasn’t kicked me out. pretty sure that means i’m stuck with her forever #keeper #futurewife #sheputsupwitheverything”

the night before the wedding, he’d found you in the bakery’s kitchen at midnight, putting the finishing touches on the seven-layer masterpiece that would serve as the centerpiece of your reception. you’d been working for hours, crafting delicate sugar flowers by hand, each petal formed with the kind of patience and precision that had first caught his attention all those months ago.

“shouldn’t you be at your bachelor party?” you’d asked without looking up, your brow furrowed in concentration as you focused on attaching a particularly delicate rose to the top tier.

“nah,” he’d said, settling onto a stool at the work counter, his chin propped on his hands as he watched you work. “masaru and the guys went to some sports bar. figured they could celebrate my last night of freedom without me. i’d rather spend it watching you create magic.”

“it’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding,” you’d protested halfheartedly, but you were smiling as you worked, warmth spreading through your chest at his presence.

“pretty sure that’s just about the dress,” he’d said, his voice soft with adoration as he watched your steady hands. “besides, i’ve been watching you create beautiful things every day for over a year. why would i want to stop now?”

you’d worked in comfortable silence, him occasionally handing you tools or holding delicate pieces steady while you attached them, his presence calming in the way it always was. when you’d finally stepped back to admire the finished cake—seven layers of love story rising in perfect, elegant tiers—he’d let out a low whistle of appreciation that made your cheeks warm.

“damn, cupcake. that’s not a wedding cake. that’s art.”

“it’s us,” you’d said simply, wiping your hands on your apron, and somehow that had said everything.

standing at the altar the next day in his perfectly tailored tux, satoru felt like his heart might actually burst from his chest. the ceremony was perfect—intimate and personal, held in the garden behind flour & sugar with your closest friends and family gathered under fairy lights and white flowers, the lingering scent of the bakery’s ovens mixing with the evening air.

the space had been transformed, but it still felt like home. like you. white flowers and trailing greenery wound around the fence he’d painted himself, and small tables scattered throughout the garden held miniature versions of pastries from your menu, little bites of your love story for guests to enjoy.

his hands were shaking again, the same way they had the night he’d proposed, and he had to flex his fingers to keep them steady. his best man kept shooting him concerned looks, and masaru had actually brought smelling salts, tucked discretely in his jacket pocket, after satoru had nearly fainted during the rehearsal.

but none of his nerves mattered when the music started—an acoustic version of the song he’d learned to play for you, performed by a local musician you’d hired for the garden’s friday night performances. none of his anxiety mattered when the small crowd rose to their feet, turning toward the bakery’s back door with expectant smiles.

and then you appeared, and the whole world stopped.

you emerged from the bakery like something from a fairy tale, like every perfect thing he’d ever dreamed of and several he’d never been brave enough to imagine. your dress was ivory silk and lace, simple and elegant and perfectly you, flowing around you like spun sugar as you walked down the short aisle between chairs draped with white fabric and scattered with rose petals—roses that matched the sugar flowers crowning your wedding cake.

but it was your smile that completely undid him—radiant and bright and aimed directly at him like he was the only person in the world worth looking at. your eyes were sparkling with tears and joy and so much love that he had to blink rapidly to keep from sobbing right there in front of everyone. the way you looked at him, like he was worth waiting for, like he was worth choosing, every single day.

his knees went weak, and his best man steadied him with a firm hand on his shoulder.

when your father placed your hand in his, satoru had to take a shuddering breath because the moment felt too precious, too perfect to be real. your skin was soft and familiar, and he could feel the slight tremor in your fingers that matched his own nervous energy.

“hi,” you whispered, just for him, your voice slightly breathless, eyes sparkling with mischief and adoration.

“hi, beautiful,” he whispered back, his thumb tracing over your knuckles where his grandmother’s ring caught the golden hour light. “you ready to be stuck with me forever?”

“i’ve been ready since you demolished that first chocolate tart,” you said, your smile widening as you spoke, and he had to bite back a laugh because of course you’d make him smile even now, when his heart was trying to escape through his throat.

the ceremony passed in a blur of tears and laughter and promises that felt too big for words but somehow perfectly right. when the officiant finally said “you may kiss the bride,” satoru cupped your face like you were made of spun glass and kissed you like it was the first time and the last time and every time in between, pouring seven months of morning coffees and shared recipes and quiet domestic happiness into the moment.

the reception flowed seamlessly from ceremony to celebration, guests moving from the ceremony space to tables scattered throughout the garden and up onto the second floor of the bakery, which had been opened up and decorated with more fairy lights and flowing white fabric. the seven-layer cake stood in the center of it all, a tower of love story and sugar art that had guests stopping to take photos and marvel at the delicate details.

“ladies and gentlemen,” the musician announced as the sun set over your little empire, “the couple would like to cut their cake and share the story behind this incredible creation.”

you and satoru stood before the masterpiece, his hand warm and steady over yours on the knife handle, his chest pressed against your back as he murmured sweet nonsense in your ear that made you giggle. “ready?” you asked, looking up at him with eyes bright with happiness, your cheeks flushed with joy and champagne.

“been ready my whole life,” he said, his voice rough with emotion, and meant it.

together, you cut into the bottom layer, the vanilla bean and salted caramel that represented that first day, that first moment when his world had tilted on its axis. the cake was perfect—moist and flavorful and beautiful in cross-section, each layer visible and distinct, a rainbow of your love story made edible.

he lifted the first piece to your lips with hands that finally weren’t shaking, watching as you bit into it with a soft hum of approval, your eyes fluttering closed in pleasure. a tiny dot of frosting stuck to the corner of your mouth, and without thinking, he leaned in and kissed it away, slow and sweet, tasting sugar and promises and forever on your lips.

“best cheat day of my life,” he whispered against your temple, his lips curving into a smile against your skin, making you laugh—that bright, joyous sound that had become the soundtrack to his happiness.

you looked up at him, your husband, this beautiful impossible man who’d learned to love the quiet corners of your world and filled them with light and laughter and more joy than you’d ever thought possible, and felt your heart swell with so much love you thought it might actually burst.

“we’re just getting started,” you said, and kissed him again, sweet enough to rot his teeth, perfect enough to last forever.

as the night wound down and the last guests filtered out into the summer evening, you found yourselves back in the kitchen where it had all started, still in your wedding clothes but with bare feet and sleeves rolled up, sharing leftover cake and feeding each other bites while recounting the best moments of the day.

“i think,” satoru said, sitting on the floor with his back against the cabinets, you curled up between his legs with your head on his shoulder, his bow tie undone and hanging loose around his neck, “this might actually be better than my first chocolate tart.”

you gasped in mock offense, turning to look at him with wide eyes, your hand pressed dramatically to your chest. “better than the pastry that started it all? that’s basically blasphemy.”

“nah,” he said, catching your hand and pressing a kiss to your ring finger, right over the simple gold band that now sat beside his grandmother’s engagement ring. “the chocolate tart was just the beginning. this is the happily ever after.”

you looked at him, this man who’d stumbled into your carefully ordered world and turned it into something sweeter, richer, more alive than you’d ever imagined possible, and knew with absolute certainty that this was what love looked like. not the dramatic, movie-perfect romance you’d once imagined, but this: wedding cake and bare feet and quiet promises made in kitchen light, surrounded by the beautiful life you’d built together from flour and sugar and impossible patience.

tag list : @akeisryna @esotericsorrow @prettilyrisse @cherrymoon55 @linaaeatsfamilies @k0z3me @ilovebeansyay @ethereal-moonlit @anathemaspeaks @fancypeacepersona @scryarchives @chieeeeeee @snowsilver2000 @k-kkiana

[nariminsstuff]

After You - Satoru G.

about. after a devastating accident pulls you back to tokyo, the last person you expect to see again is gojo satoru — the man who shattered your heart a year ago. You swore you'd never forgive him. But he’s showing up in quiet mornings and rainy afternoons, offering everything you used to love. And no matter how hard you try… you still notice him.

pairings. Gojo x Fem!Reader

words. 12.69k

content. angst, exes to lovers (maybe), slow burn, heavy emotions, crying gojo, yelling reader, emotional breakdowns, single tulip at your door, “don’t touch me”, “oh, toru”, soft flashbacks, hospital scenes, self-sabotage, character growth, gojo on his knees, regret-filled apologies, comfort scenes, pacing in a hotel room, rainy confessions, “i miss you”, sleepless nights, soft touches, holding back tears, emotional tension, love that still lingers

notes. stay up for part two??? winkwink, yll deserve a treat after this.

They say when something awful happens, time slows down.

But for you, it didn’t.

It struck fast and cruel, like the sharp snap of a branch underfoot.

One moment you were rinsing toothpaste from your mouth, scrolling mindlessly through notifications, and the next, your phone was shaking in your hand, someone on the other end barely holding their voice together.

You don’t even remember what they said exactly — only that he was in surgery, and it didn’t sound good.

That was enough.

You were already grabbing whatever clothes you could find, already booking the next flight to Tokyo, already letting your vacation days burn for something that didn’t feel like a break at all.

It had been a while since you heard his voice. Longer since you’d seen his face. But the second you heard the words accident and critical, something inside you collapsed without permission.

You hadn’t cried yet.

Not really.

There wasn’t time for it — only motion, only urgency, only movement that felt like survival.

The grief hadn’t hit.

Not fully. But something close to it was blooming beneath your skin, a cold, buzzing panic that had followed you all the way from your apartment to the terminal to the cab ride now speeding toward the hospital.

You try not to think about who else might be at the hospital.

You haven’t asked.

You couldn’t bring yourself to.

The name lingers at the back of your throat like smoke — like a wound you’ve trained yourself not to touch. Even now, even after all this time, even after all the healing you’ve faked in Kyoto, you can’t say it.

Not even in your head.

Not without feeling your jaw clench, your pulse kick up, your entire body remembering the sting of something you were never supposed to feel.

You wish you could say you’ve moved on.

That the distance between then and now had softened the memory.

That you don’t still flinch when certain songs come on, or when someone with white hair brushes past you too fast on the street.

You wish you could say it doesn’t still live in you — that night, that voice, the sound of betrayal dressed in a whisper.

But it does, and it haunts you every damn time.

And that’s why you don’t let yourself say the name.

Not here.

Not yet.

Not when you’re this close to the hospital, this close to seeing him — the one who didn’t hurt you. The one who never left, even when you did.

Suguru.

His name doesn’t sting.

His name doesn’t tremble when you think it.

He was steady, kind. Always there in the background, holding pieces no one else noticed you’d dropped.

The thought of him lying still in a hospital bed makes your stomach twist in ways you don’t have words for. You’ve known him since your first year of high school — back when the world felt too big and the future felt too far. He was the calm between louder voices, the one who made space for you when everything else felt like too much.

You owe him everything. So when the hospital comes into view — tall, gray, humming under fluorescent lights — you square your shoulders and remind yourself why you’re here. Not for ghosts. Not for memories. Not for names you can’t bring yourself to say.

You’re here for the boy who never let you fall alone.

You’re here for Suguru.

And if something else is waiting for you inside those walls?

You’ll deal with it when it finds you.

The hospital lobby is too bright. That’s the first thing you notice. Too white, too sterile, too cold. The kind of place where time moves weird — where minutes drag and hours vanish and the people sitting around you are all waiting for answers they’re scared to hear.

Your bag hangs heavy off your shoulder as you step through the sliding glass doors. The air smells like bleach and something metallic beneath it. You don’t look around. You just head to the front desk, voice barely steady as you say Suguru’s name.

The nurse gives you a room number and tells you gently, “The surgery ended half an hour ago. He’s stable for now.”

You nod, but your chest doesn’t unclench.

They tell you you’ll have to wait until the doctor clears visitors. So you’re directed to the family waiting room — tucked in a quiet hallway at the end of the cardiology wing. You’re almost afraid to open the door.

But you do.

And the second you step in, you see her.

Shoko sits in the corner of the room, hunched forward with her elbows on her knees, a tissue clutched loosely in one hand. Her eyes are red, but her face is still. Blank. The kind of blank that only comes after hours of holding it in.

She looks up when she hears you enter.

And for a moment, she doesn’t say anything.

Neither do you.

You just cross the room and kneel in front of her, the lump in your throat rising the second your eyes meet.

She was the one who called you.

Shoko hadn’t always been part of your circle. She came halfway through high school — quiet at first, almost cold, until she wasn’t. You didn’t expect to grow close to her, but she stuck. A sharp tongue, a good heart. You shared notes, lighter moments, hungover mornings. Somehow, she became someone you trusted. And now she’s here, holding herself like she’ll fall apart if she breathes too hard.

You reach for her hand, and her fingers curl tightly around yours.

“I got the call at 2AM,” she says. Her voice is hoarse. “They said it was bad. That there was… blood. And broken ribs. And—” She stops. Her mouth opens, then closes again. “They didn’t tell me if he was going to make it.”

You squeeze her hand. “He will.”

She lets out a breath, shaky and half-laugh, half-sob. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” you say, even though your voice cracks. “Because he’s Suguru. He’s stubborn as hell. He doesn’t know how to leave.”

Shoko nods, but her lips are trembling now, and when her eyes meet yours again, whatever strength she was holding onto snaps.

The tears fall quietly. No sound at first — just her face crumpling as she leans forward and buries herself in your arms.

You hold her. Tight. The way you wish someone would hold you. Your hand finds the back of her head, and your other arm wraps around her shoulders as she finally breaks. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just broken.

You try to whisper something — It’s okay. You’re not alone. I’m here. But your own voice wavers, and before you can stop it, your cheeks are wet too.

You don’t even know who you’re crying for.

For Suguru, who didn’t deserve this.

For Shoko, who held everything together alone for hours.

For yourself, for everything you left behind and everything you’re being forced to feel all over again.

You cry quietly, tucked into each other like the world outside the waiting room doesn’t exist. You’re not ready to face anything beyond these walls — not the doctors, not the machines, not the possibility of seeing him.

But for now, you don’t have to.

You have Shoko. And she has you.

And maybe that’s enough, just for this moment.

The waiting room stays quiet after that. Just soft footsteps from nurses in the hallway, the buzz of an old TV on low volume, and the occasional sniffle from Shoko as she tries to get her breathing under control. You don’t say much. Neither of you need to. You just sit beside her, shoulder to shoulder, hands wrapped around bad vending machine coffee that tastes like burnt water and anxiety.

You checked your phone a few times, but there’s no point. No missed calls. No new updates. Just time dragging its feet, and your knee bouncing without rhythm. At some point, you both gave up and wandered down the hall to the little hospital kiosk — bought crackers you never opened, a bottle of tea, a rice ball you didn’t touch. The cashier didn’t ask questions. You looked too tired for small talk.

The hours stretched thin after that.

Shoko eventually closed her eyes for a bit, curled up awkwardly in one of the waiting chairs, her lab coat draped around her like a blanket. You didn’t sleep. You couldn’t. You just sat there, chewing your lip raw and staring at the hallway.

And then — finally — the door opens.

You shoot up before your brain catches up. Shoko’s eyes snap open too, and you both stand at once when the doctor walks in.

He looks tired, like he’s been on his feet for hours, but there’s a calm in his posture. A professionalism in his voice that makes you cling to every word.

“He made it through surgery,” he says. “There was a lot of internal bruising, several fractured ribs, and a ruptured spleen. The bleeding was significant, but we got to it in time. He’s stable now. Still unconscious, but responsive to touch. We’re keeping him under observation for the next twenty-four hours.”

You nod too quickly, almost like it’ll make the information easier to digest. Shoko’s breath hitches beside you.

“You can see him,” the doctor adds. “But keep it short, please. He needs rest.”

You thank him, voice barely audible, then follow the quiet sound of his footsteps down the hall. The fluorescent lights feel too bright again. The tiles echo under your shoes.

When he stops at the room, something in your chest twists.

The doctor opens the door, gives a polite nod, and leaves.

You step in.

The beeping is the first thing you hear — soft and steady. Machines monitoring a rhythm that, hours ago, almost stopped entirely. The lights are dimmed low, and the smell of antiseptic clings to everything.

Suguru looks... small.

Not physically. He’s still tall, still long-limbed, still very much the person you remember. But there’s something in the way he’s lying there — skin pale, an oxygen line resting under his nose, his arm bandaged and strapped with IV lines — that makes your heart lurch into your throat.

You take slow steps to the side of his bed. Shoko hovers beside you, her hand covering her mouth like she’s trying not to break again.

There’s a chair near the headboard, and you take it.

“Hey,” you whisper. Your voice feels too loud, even though it barely comes out.

His eyes are shut. There’s a bruise just beneath his cheekbone, faint yellow mixed with violet. You wonder if he even knows you’re here.

Shoko steps closer, brushing a hand over his hair, like maybe that’ll wake him. She doesn’t say anything either. Just stares down at him like she still can’t believe it’s real.

You swallow thickly and rest your hand near his — not touching, but close enough that he’d feel it if he shifted.

“You scared the shit out of us,” you murmur.

Still nothing.

But he’s breathing. That’s enough. For now, that’s enough.

You lean back in the chair and press your palm to your chest, trying to quiet the chaos inside you.

He’s here. He’s alive.

And as long as he is — you can keep going.

You’re not sure how long you sit there in silence, just watching the slow rise and fall of Suguru’s chest. His skin looks pale against the sheets. His lips are chapped. There’s a machine next to him that lets out a soft hiss every few seconds, and the sound digs under your skin like a pin.

Shoko stands near the window, arms crossed, eyes unfocused. She hasn’t cried again, but you can still see the weight in her face — like something’s pressing down hard on her shoulders and she’s too stubborn to fall under it.

You speak first, voice low. “Do they know what happened?”

She blinks, like the question had to filter through layers of static. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, the cops called me after I got here.”

You wait.

“They said it was a truck. Some delivery driver lost control—snow slicked road, poor brakes. It was too fast. Hit Suguru on the driver’s side.” She swallows. “They said he probably didn’t even see it coming.”

Your fingers tighten in your lap. The thought of Suguru alone in a car, unaware, unable to stop what was coming—something about it twists in your stomach and won’t let go.

“They said if the ambulance came two minutes later…” Shoko doesn’t finish.

You don’t ask her to.

The silence after is full. Not empty — just packed with things neither of you want to name. So you stare at the beeping monitor instead, and try to focus on the rhythm. It helps. A little.

Then Shoko’s phone rings.

She looks down, already irritated before she even sees the screen. But when she does, her lips press into a thin line. Her jaw flexes.

You don’t need to ask.

You already know.

It’s like your whole body freezes. Like your bones remember something your mind worked so hard to forget. You feel your pulse spike, chest tightening, the cold creeping in from somewhere deep inside.

“I should get this,” she mutters, eyes flicking toward you.

You don’t move. You can’t even nod. But she’s already turning away, already answering.

“Where are you, Satoru?” she snaps, low and sharp, the words like glass.

And just like that, it’s back.

His name.

Said out loud for the first time in a year. Like it never left the earth. Like it hasn’t been rotting quietly in the dark corners of your memory. It lands heavy, sharp — like someone carved it straight into your skin without asking.

You inhale too fast. Look away. Pretend to focus on Suguru’s hand.

Shoko paces a little, voice hushed now but tense. “No—don’t pull that. Don’t—Satoru, you should’ve been here hours ago. He could’ve died.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. Hard.

Not now. This isn’t about him. This isn’t why you’re here. You came for Suguru — because he’s your friend. Because he’s family. Because he never broke you.

But you can hear Shoko’s voice still, even as she walks toward the hallway, trying not to disturb you.

“Yeah. She’s here. What the hell do you expect me to say to her?”

It’s too much.

Your chest tightens, and the room suddenly feels smaller — like the walls are pressing in, like the air’s been sucked out. You stare at Suguru harder, like maybe he’ll wake up and give you something to cling to. A joke. A complaint. A tired smirk.

But he’s asleep. And he is coming.

You push your chair back, quietly. The scrape of the legs on the tile is soft but enough to break Shoko’s focus for a second. She glances back, still holding the phone against her ear, and your eyes meet.

You don’t say anything.

You just need to leave before you fall apart.

You need air. You need to walk. You need to remember how to exist without his name ringing in your ears.

Because four years ended on a Tuesday.

Just like that.

And now he’s coming back into your life like the silence he left behind wasn’t loud enough.

You won’t break.

Not for him.

Not again.

You don’t wait for her to come back in fully.

You’ve already grabbed your bag from the floor, fingers fumbling for the zipper, pretending you’re not moving too fast, pretending your heart isn’t crashing against your ribs like a trapped thing.

Shoko steps into the room slowly, her phone still in her hand, like she’s trying to approach you without startling you.

“Y/N—” she starts, but doesn’t get the whole sentence out.

You’re already swinging your bag over your shoulder. “I need to check in. I haven’t… I haven’t rented anything yet. I need to figure that out.”

She frowns. “What?”

“I mean, I was thinking of staying somewhere for a few weeks. Like that Mimaru place in Ueno East. The one with the little kitchen. I think I saw a listing still open. I need to book it now—while I still can.”

You’re not making sense. You both know it. But your voice keeps pushing forward, carrying you through the panic, through the fog, like if you just keep talking, none of this will catch up to you.

Shoko steps in front of you before you can reach the door. “Y/N.”

You won’t look at her.

She exhales hard, trying again. “He’s coming. Satoru’s on his way.”

Your eyes snap up. The name, again. Spoken like it doesn’t hurt. But it does. It cracks something inside you, sharp and instant.

“I know,” you say flatly. “That’s why I need to go.”

“Y/N, wait—”

“I came here for Suguru,” you say, louder now, your voice starting to shake. “Not for him. I didn’t ask to see him. I didn’t want to see him. I can’t.”

Shoko’s expression tightens. Her eyes soften, but her jaw sets with a kind of stubborn kindness only she could pull off.

“This isn’t about you and him right now.”

Your laugh is bitter, short. “No? It feels pretty damn close.”

“I’m still mad about it,” she snaps. “Do you think I forgave him? I haven’t. I still want to punch him every time I remember what he did to you. But this isn’t about him. Or about you. This is about Suguru. He needs both of you here. Whether you like it or not.”

You shake your head. “I can’t be in the same room as him, Shoko.”

“Then don’t talk to him.” Her voice is quieter now, but firmer. “Don’t look at him. Just stay. For Suguru. That’s all I’m asking.”

You stare at her, trying to find something to fight with — a reason, an excuse, anything that doesn’t sound like I’m scared, because that’s what it really is. You’re scared. Of how he’ll look at you. Of how your voice might betray you. Of the way your heart is already acting like it remembers him — and it shouldn’t.

Shoko sees it. All of it. You don’t say a word, but your silence screams.

She takes a step closer.

“This is the first time I’ve seen you in a year,” she says quietly. “A whole year, Y/N.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

“I missed you.”

Her voice is so soft, it lands right where your defenses are thinnest. You look at her — really look — and you see it in her face: everything she’s carried, everything she’s held together without you. You weren’t the only one who lost something when you left.

The room stays still for a long beat.

And you?

You just hold your bag a little tighter. Because you’re not sure what else you can hold onto right now.

You’ve been staring at your phone for the last twenty minutes, screen dim, thumb barely scrolling. You’re not reading anything. Not really. You just need something to look at that isn’t the door. Something to occupy the space inside your chest that’s been on high alert ever since Shoko stood up and said, “I’ll go get him.”

You didn’t ask her to.

But you didn’t stop her either.

Suguru hasn’t moved. His breathing stays slow, steady, the beeping of the monitors calm like he’s just napping after a long night. Every few minutes, your gaze drifts from your phone back to him. You wonder what he’d say if he were awake. You wonder if he’d be pissed or grateful. Maybe both. He was always better at reading people than you were.

You check the time again. The hallway outside is too quiet.

And then — footsteps.

Two pairs. Light, but unhurried. The sound of them makes something cold unfurl in your stomach.

You don’t lift your head. You don’t need to.

He’s here.

You knew he was. You felt it before Shoko even said she was going to meet him at the entrance — probably so the nurses wouldn’t assume he was some random six-foot-two man barging into the ICU like he owned the place. Because that’s what he looked like. Always did.

Even now, when Shoko opens the door and walks in first, your spine goes stiff.

And then he enters.

You don’t raise your eyes at first. You feel it instead — the way the air in the room shifts like it always used to. The weight of him. The gravity. It always demanded your attention.

And slowly, inevitably, you look up.

The same white hair. Tousled, like he ran his hand through it on the way here. No blindfold. No sunglasses. Just those eyes — the ones that used to soften when they looked at you, like you were something holy.

They’re just blue now. Plain and clear and impossible to forget.

You don’t mean to stare.

But in that second, you remember everything.

The way he used to walk you home, flicking your forehead and laughing at how dramatic you were. The way he used to kiss the top of your head like it was second nature. The night you fell asleep in his lap while he crammed for a test he never studied for. The four years of being so stupidly, completely his.

And then — the night you weren’t enough.

The night he told you everything and cried while you sat there, feeling like something hollow and discarded. The night you walked out of his apartment with a suitcase in your hand and everything else in pieces.

Your eyes drop back to Suguru, and you don’t look again.

He almost says something. You hear the breath catch in his throat, like he’s reaching for your name.

But Shoko is faster.

“Don’t talk to her,” she says under her breath, cutting her eyes toward him like a warning. “Give her space.”

A beat. And then he exhales — long and quiet, like it knocked something loose in his chest.

You keep your eyes on Suguru.

Because you came for him. Not for this. Not for him.

Satoru bites it back. Sighs, low and tired. Rubs the back of his neck.

Because she’s right.

You don’t owe him a damn thing. Not a word. Not a look.

He hurt you — ruined everything — in one night.

And now?

Now you’re sitting there like the four years he loved you never happened at all.

But you’re still the most beautiful thing in the room.

And he’s still the one who destroyed it.

You hadn’t meant to remember.

But sometimes, when the room gets too still — when the hum of the fridge starts to sound like silence, when the chair beneath you feels too familiar — it creeps back in. All of it.

The mornings first.

You used to wake up in a sun-drenched room that wasn’t yours, pressed beneath heavy sheets and even heavier limbs. Satoru always slept like he was trying to pin you to the mattress. A leg flung over yours. Arms around your waist. Sometimes his face buried in your shoulder, breath warm on your skin as he mumbled nonsense in his sleep.

He was terrible at waking up.

Always five alarms deep, groaning, dragging himself out of bed like gravity only worked on him. But for you? He made coffee. Every time. Milk and one sugar. Sometimes he forgot the sugar and tried to kiss it back into your mouth later, laughing when you told him he tasted like regret and half-burnt toast.

You used to study together — or at least, you tried to. Satoru got bored easily. You’d be neck-deep in notes while he stacked highlighters into towers or played with your hair, asking what you thought you’d name your future dog. Somehow, you always let him distract you.

Some nights you sat in the tiny ramen shop near the corner of your dorms, sharing pork broth and teasing him about getting extra noodles when he was already full. He never listened. Always said, “If I die, at least it’s with miso in my veins.”

He was loud in crowds, but soft with you. Always softer with you.

Fingers brushing yours under tables. A kiss to the side of your head as you walked. His hand resting on the back of your neck when you leaned forward — like he needed the contact, even in silence.

He took pictures of you when you weren’t looking.

And then laughed when you caught him.

You fought sometimes. Of course you did. Over nothing and everything — who forgot to text, who didn’t show up on time, what he said that came out too sharp. But he always came back. Always found you.

The rooftop of the engineering building. The lawn under the cherry blossom trees in spring. That 24-hour diner you hated but he loved, with neon lights that made your skin look like paper.

He made you laugh until your ribs hurt.

He danced with you in the hallway once, music playing from his phone speaker, swaying clumsily in socked feet on polished floor. Told you, “This is what people mean when they say forever.”

And you believed him.

God, you really did.

You memorized the shape of him — the curve of his grin, the dip of his collarbone, the little mole near his jaw he always forgot about.

He was your first home that wasn’t a place.

And for a while... it felt like enough.

It felt like always.

You didn’t just love him.

You chose him.

Again and again, even when it didn’t make sense. Even when everything else told you not to.

It wasn’t just coffee in the mornings and laughter under cherry blossoms. It wasn’t just the warm way he’d look at you when he thought you weren’t watching.

It was the night he drank too much after bombing a midterm he swore he didn’t care about. You were halfway through your own exam — thirty minutes in, pen moving furiously — when your phone started buzzing in your lap. Over and over. Shoko. Then Nanami. Then finally, a stranger.

The bar manager’s voice was sharp. Impatient. “Is this Y/N? You need to get down here now. He’s making a scene.”

You didn’t finish the test.

Didn’t explain. Didn’t even grab your jacket.

You just ran.

All the way to the cheap bar two blocks off campus where Satoru was slumped in a booth, laughing too loud, eyes glassy, one arm hanging off the edge like he was too big for the world. People were staring. A manager was yelling. Telling you they should call the cops. That he wasn’t your problem.

But he was.

He always was.

You apologized until your voice went hoarse. Helped him up even though he was twice your size. Held his hand like it could shield you both from the embarrassment burning up your cheeks. Got him home, into his room, into bed, and stayed by his side the whole night while he muttered half-coherent regrets into the pillow.

You missed the exam.

Your professor didn’t let you retake it.

Your parents didn’t understand either.

“You're throwing your future away for some boy?” “He can take care of himself, Y/N — why is it always you picking him up?” “He’s not your responsibility.”

But you loved him.

And that made it worth it.

At least back then, it did.

He had this way of holding your face when you cried. Like nothing else existed. Like your sadness deserved reverence. His thumbs would brush under your eyes, soft and steady, and he’d whisper things like, “If it hurts, I’ll make it stop. You just tell me how.”

He made you believe he could fix anything.

That nothing could go wrong as long as you had him.

He’d show up to your apartment with cheap takeout and a new playlist, saying, “You looked tired in your texts. This is recovery food and sonic healing.”

He’d kiss your knuckles in the middle of arguments, just to calm you down.

He’d carry your backpack after class even when you said it was fine. “It’s not about weight,” he said once, “it’s about letting you know I’m here.”

And God, you let him be there.

Even when it cost you sleep.

Even when it cost you grades.

Even when it started to cost you you.

Because being with Satoru made you feel like you were bulletproof — like nothing could touch you, not the world, not failure, not loneliness. He filled your days with so much light, you didn’t realize how dim you were becoming just to keep him shining.

You gave him everything.

Even the ugly parts. The selfish parts. The ones you’d never shown anyone else.

You gave him the parts of you that you now wish you’d saved.

Because at the time, you thought he’d keep them safe.

And for a while… He did.

It had been raining that week too.

Not softly. Not romantic or warm. Just endless, grey, and cold — the kind of weather that felt like it was leaking through the cracks in your life.

Things had been rocky for a while. A month, maybe more. Missed calls. Short replies. Less eye contact. More space between your bodies in bed.

You told yourself it was stress. Finals. His internship. The late nights, the shift in his tone when you asked where he’d been. You told yourself not to spiral.

Until the night he came home at one in the morning.

The dorm was dark. Just the little desk lamp you kept on while studying, your notes spread out in front of you, highlighter ink staining your fingertips. You were barely awake. Shoulders tense, eyes sore.

You didn’t even hear the door unlock.

You only noticed when the floor creaked — and then there he was, dripping rainwater on the hardwood, wiping his shoes half-heartedly on the mat.

He looked exhausted.

But not in the way you did.

You stared at him for a second.

Then said quietly, “You didn’t text.”

He ran a hand through his hair, didn’t look at you. “I figured you were busy.”

“I was. Still am.”

And when he finally turned his head, you saw it.

Just a flicker of it. Half-hidden beneath the line of his jaw, peeking out from the collar of his hoodie.

A kiss mark.

Faint. But real.

You froze.

He didn’t notice — or maybe he did. Maybe he thought you wouldn’t say anything.

But you did.

“…What’s on your neck?”

His mouth twitched.

“What?”

“Your neck,” you repeated, voice thin. “What is that?”

He didn’t answer.

And you knew.

You knew.

You pushed back your chair. Stood. Let the question fall again, louder, uglier, something in your throat already cracking:

“Who was it?”

He scoffed.

Like it was ridiculous.

Like you were.

“Seriously?” he said. “You’re going to start this now?”

“Start—? Are you fucking kidding me—?”

“It’s not a big deal,” he muttered, already walking past you toward the kitchen. “God, I was drunk.”

Your chest burned.

“Drunk?” You followed him. “You let someone put their mouth on you and you’re calling it not a big deal?”

“It wasn’t. I didn’t mean for it to happen, alright?”

Your voice splintered.

“So it did happen.”

That made him pause.

And when he turned around, something in his face was wrong. Not defensive. Not even sorry.

Just tired.

Like this conversation bored him.

“Look,” he said, “I was overwhelmed. You don’t— You don’t understand what it’s been like lately. Everything’s too fucking much, alright? I can’t breathe around you anymore.”

Your stomach dropped.

“What?”

“You’re always hovering,” he snapped. “Always checking in. Always making things heavy. You act like I’m your responsibility or something. I didn’t ask you to give up your classes for me. I didn’t ask you to pick me up from every shitty bar or cover for me with your parents—”

“I did that because I loved you,” you choked.

“Yeah? Well it doesn’t feel like love. It feels like guilt. Like pressure. Like I can’t mess up without you holding it over my head.”

You stared at him.

And you realized something, in that moment.

He didn’t just betray you.

He resented you.

Everything you did — the nights you skipped sleep, the classes you missed, the way you fought for him harder than you ever fought for yourself — he hated it. He hated being held up like that. He hated the version of you that refused to leave, even when he gave you reasons to.

And he hated how small it made him feel.

“Then why didn’t you just say it?” you whispered. “Why didn’t you just tell me you didn’t want me anymore?”

Satoru looked away.

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t apologize.

You waited for him to say something that could undo it. Even now, even bleeding — you waited.

But all he said was:

“I didn’t think it would get this far.”

That was the moment something inside you died.

The part that still believed in him.

The part that thought maybe you were different. That the four years, the late-night confessions, the mornings wrapped in each other — that it all meant something solid. Something real.

Instead, you stood there in a room full of shattered promises, rain pounding against the windows like it was trying to drown out the silence between you.

You grabbed your coat.

He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t reach for your hand.

Didn’t chase you down the hallway or beg you to stay.

Because you weren’t his anymore.

Not after that.

Not ever again.

The hotel room is too quiet.

You’re curled into the corner of the couch, knees drawn up, a cup of coffee resting warm between your palms. The city outside your window is buzzing — lights flashing, cars passing — but in here, it’s still.

Still enough for old ghosts to come knocking.

Your laptop sits forgotten in your lap, the screen dimmed out minutes ago, maybe longer. You don’t remember what you were typing. You barely remember what you were thinking. All you know is that your brain hasn’t stopped spinning since the hospital.

Since you saw him.

It wasn’t the face that undid you — though even now, you can see it in the reflection of the black screen. White hair. Blue eyes. The shadow of a man you used to love more than you loved your own future.

No — it was the memory.

It came back fast. Uninvited.

One minute you were standing in that sterile room next to Shoko, pretending you didn’t feel him looking at you. The next, you were back in that tiny dorm, the rain against the window, his voice in your ears again like a curse.

"I didn’t think it would get this far."

That.

That was the part that still makes your throat close.

Not the cheating.

Not even the kiss mark on his neck.

But the way he made your love feel like an accident.

Like some burden he didn’t ask for. Something you did wrong.

And you hate him for that.

You fucking hate him.

You hate how those words still live in your chest like splinters. How even now, a year later, after therapy and silence and pretending you’re healed, the memory still makes your coffee taste bitter.

You stare down into the mug.

It’s lukewarm now. You should get up. Reheat it. Do anything other than sit here and replay what broke you.

But your body won’t move.

Because there’s a part of you — the part you thought you buried — that still wonders what you did to deserve it.

That part is quieter now, sure. Duller. But it’s there.

It whispers things you don’t want to hear.

That maybe you were too much. That maybe loving someone that hard was suffocating. That maybe if you had just—

You stop yourself.

You swallow it down.

Because no. No — fuck that.

You didn’t break the promise. You didn’t kiss someone else. You didn’t turn four years into a footnote just because things got hard.

He did that.

He chose that.

And no amount of blue eyes or half-hearted apologies will ever change it.

You press the coffee to your lips, even though it’s cold.

Even though it tastes like memory.

And somewhere in your chest, the hate sits quietly — not burning, not loud. Just there.

Heavy, unmovable and earned.

The hotel room was too still.

Too quiet without Shoko's tired sighs or your footsteps moving from the kitchen to the bathroom. No clinking mugs, no charger cords stretched across the bed, no rustling of your oversized hoodie as you curled up with your laptop. Just... silence. And the heavy hum of the air conditioner that sounded too much like guilt.

Satoru leaned back against the headboard, still fully dressed. Jacket unzipped, shoes on, fingers twitching at his sides like they were looking for something to hold onto. But there was nothing left to hold.

You were gone.

And he felt it — finally, in full.

He stared at the bedside lamp, too dim. The walls, too blank. His chest, too fucking empty.

It had taken him a long time to realize what your absence meant. Months, maybe. At first, he called it space. Told himself he was giving you room to “cool off,” to “think.” As if you were the one who needed to apologize.

But then a week passed.

And another.

And then… it hit him.

Not in a dramatic way. No thunderstrike. No collapse.

Just little things.

Like how no one reminded him to eat before heading out to meetings.

How his keys were always missing now, and you weren’t there to laugh and say “Left side coat pocket, dumbass.”

How his apartment stayed cold all the time. How the bathroom floor was always wet. How the playlist in his car kept skipping over the songs you used to sing quietly along to — not because he removed them, but because he couldn’t bring himself to listen anymore.

And then it hit harder.

The way his laundry piled up. The way his calendar never got updated. The way he showed up late to everything, forgot birthdays, left unread emails for days.

You used to handle those things. Not because you had to.

But because you wanted to.

Because you loved him.

And Satoru hadn’t even realized.

He hadn’t seen how much of his life you filled — how much of his chaos you softened with a simple glance, a kiss to the shoulder, a quiet, “Hey, it’s okay, I’ve got this.”

He took it all for granted.

Your steadiness. Your small routines. The way you made his favorite tea when he was too exhausted to lift a finger. How you made to-do lists for him and stuck them to the mirror in neon pink sticky notes that always ended with “♥ please don’t forget.”

He remembered the time he was sick for three days and you stayed up, head foggy from your own fever, just to make sure he drank water. The time he failed a certification test and you said nothing — just let him lay in your lap and cry, fingers stroking his hair until he fell asleep.

You never asked for thanks.

You never asked for anything.

And he gave you everything but loyalty.

Now, sitting in this goddamn hotel room with the overpriced minibar and the empty second pillow, he finally saw it.

He would’ve given his blood, his name, his stupid pride — anything — just to hear you laugh again.

That soft, slightly breathless laugh when he said something dumb. The kind that made your nose scrunch and your eyes soften like he was the only boy in the world.

And now it was gone.

You were gone.

And he’d never hated himself more than in this moment — not when you cried, not even when he walked out of your apartment for the last time.

It was now, in the silence.

In the knowing.

That he let something extraordinary slip through his hands — and he did it thinking he’d still have time.

He thought he could fuck up and still be loved.

He thought you’d always come back.

And he was wrong.

So devastatingly, gut-wrenchingly wrong.

There’s a knock at the door.

Sharp. Twice.

Satoru doesn’t move at first. He doesn’t want to deal with anyone, let alone a hotel staff member asking if he wants fresh towels. But then the door handle turns, and only one person on earth would be both ballsy and polite enough to knock before breaking in.

Nanami.

“You look like shit,” he says bluntly, stepping inside.

Satoru doesn’t respond. Just stares ahead at nothing, still slouched against the headboard, still in yesterday’s clothes, still silent.

Nanami doesn’t expect a hello. He just sets down the takeout bag in his hand and walks over to the chair by the window, shrugging off his coat.

“You haven’t left this room in two days,” he says. “Shoko told me.”

Satoru exhales. A bitter, tired sound.

“I’ve had worse.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Nanami says, crossing one leg over the other. “But this is pathetic. Even for you.”

Satoru finally shifts — just enough to glance over.

“You came here to insult me?”

“No,” Nanami says coolly. “I came here so you’d stop marinating in your own regret like a dying poet.”

Satoru snorts.

Then falls quiet again.

A beat passes. The air is thick.

Then, without looking over, Satoru mutters:

“…You think she’ll take me back?”

Nanami doesn’t answer right away.

He leans back in the chair. Eyes him for a long, quiet second.

“No,” he says, flatly.

Satoru flinches. Just a little. Like he was hoping for something softer, even from him.

But Nanami’s never been one to sugarcoat truth.

“Not now. Maybe not ever.”

Satoru rubs a hand down his face. His fingers twitch in his lap.

“She won’t even look at me,” he says, voice low. “At the hospital, she just sat there. Like I was invisible.”

Nanami nods.

“She should.”

Satoru glances at him, brows drawn.

And Nanami continues, tone calm but cutting.

“She loved you like you hung the stars. Gave you her time, her future, her energy — all without asking for anything back. And you... what? You broke her. Because what — you got scared? Bored? Tempted?”

“I fucked up,” Satoru says, almost choking on the words. “I know that.”

“Do you?”

“Don’t do that,” he snaps. “Don’t act like I don’t care—”

“I’m not saying you don’t,” Nanami cuts in. “I’m saying caring doesn’t undo what you did.”

Satoru looks away.

Silence again.

Until finally—

“I miss her so much, Nanami.”

And this time it’s not snark. Not deflection. It’s raw. Soft. A wound speaking directly.

“I can’t sleep,” he says, eyes glossing over. “I keep checking my phone like she’s going to message. I keep thinking I’ll bump into her at that stupid bento shop she likes. I—”

He breaks off. Exhales shakily.

“I remember everything. The way she’d wake me up by pulling the blanket off. The way she’d tie her hair in a lazy bun and still look prettier than anyone else. She used to hum when she studied. I used to hate that sound but now it’s the only thing I want to hear.”

Nanami stays quiet.

Lets him spill.

“I didn’t think she’d really leave,” Satoru says, quieter now. “I thought… no matter how bad it got, she’d still—”

“But she did,” Nanami interrupts. “She did leave. Because she had to.”

Satoru clenches his jaw. Stares at the floor.

And Nanami softens — just a little.

“She loved you,” he says. “Maybe still does. But don’t confuse love with forgiveness.”

Satoru doesn’t reply.

Nanami leans forward. Folds his hands together.

“If you want her back,” he says slowly, “then fix yourself. And not for her — for you. Because the man she loved wouldn’t have done what you did. And right now, she’s mourning him.”

Satoru’s throat tightens.

And in the quiet that follows, he finally understands—

You didn’t just walk away.

You grieved him.

The version of him that held you up when the world got too loud. The boy who remembered your drink order, who studied your face like scripture, who promised you forever and meant it — once.

And now, if he ever wants you back...

He has to become him again, or lose you forever.

It started small.

The morning after Nanami’s visit, Satoru was out of bed before nine for the first time in a month.

No excuses. No dragging. He just got up.

He shaved. Trimmed the chaos that had started taking root under his jaw. Cleaned out his inbox. Replied to four different emails that had been blinking red for a week. Caught up on overdue reports. Folded the wrinkled laundry that had been thrown over the back of his couch since god-knows-when.

Old Satoru wouldn’t have done any of that.

Old Satoru would’ve rolled over, groaned, and told the world to wait.

But the old Satoru didn’t have to see you in the hallway every morning with your clipboard and your unreadable face, your footsteps quick and careful, your eyes never lingering for long.

The old Satoru didn’t know what it felt like to be invisible to the only person he still cared about.

The first few days passed slow.

Suguru still didn’t wake up. Shoko said it was normal — healing was complicated. But Satoru started showing up every evening, sitting quietly by the window, watching you from across the room as you read or dozed or just… stared.

You never acknowledged him.

He didn’t expect you to.

But that didn’t stop him from hoping.

On the third day, he brought coffee.

Two cups.

He walked into the room like it was casual, like it didn’t mean anything, even though his heart was fucking racing. He held out the one you liked — same brand, same custom syrup pump you always asked for — and waited.

You didn’t even look at it.

Just reached into your bag, pulled out your own drink, and set it next to you without a word.

Satoru stood there for a second, awkwardly holding two coffees like a dumbass.

“…Yeah, okay,” he muttered, forcing a smile. “I mean, I’ll take both. That’s fine. I’m kind of sleepy anyway.”

You didn’t respond.

Didn’t even blink.

He sat down in the corner and drank both.

It was bitter. It stung. But he drank every drop.

Later that night, he got back to his apartment and opened up his calendar for the first time in ages. Started color-coding deadlines. Deleted all the mindless things that used to fill his days — the parties, the after-work bar crawls, the late-night games that ended in blurry mornings and hangovers.

He started doing things differently.

Up early.

Work first.

Texting Nanami back on time. Saying thank you to the admin assistants. Actually sitting in team meetings without slouching and zoning out.

He didn’t tell anyone why.

Didn’t say your name.

But they all noticed.

Even the higher-ups. The ones who used to roll their eyes when he sauntered in late with sunglasses and a grin.

“About time you cleaned up,” one of them muttered when he handed in a project two days early.

Satoru didn’t react.

He just nodded.

And went back to work.

Then came the rain.

The kind that turned the city into a blur of umbrellas and blurry headlights.

He was already waiting near the hospital entrance, standing under the awning, sipping a warm can of coffee from the vending machine when he saw you coming from the crosswalk — no umbrella, shoulders hunched, phone pressed to your ear.

Instinct moved him before logic could stop it.

He jogged forward, umbrella open, arm already outstretched as he stepped into your path.

“Here,” he said gently. “Let me—”

You looked at him.

And then walked faster.

No words.

No hesitation.

Just a sharp, desperate speed-walk that ended with you darting under the building overhang, water dripping from your sleeves.

He stood there in the rain like a statue, still holding the umbrella, watching your back disappear into the building.

And he swallowed it.

Didn’t chase. Didn’t speak.

He just walked back to the vending machine.

And bought another can of coffee.

Because even if you didn’t want his help, even if you didn’t want to be near him — he did want to be better.

Not just for you.

But because he hated the version of himself you had to leave.

Back at work, things changed more.

He started showing up to staff meetings early. Left detailed notes for people who missed presentations. Picked up projects he usually would’ve pawned off. He even reached out to Suguru’s old team — offered to help cover while they waited for him to recover.

He said it was out of obligation.

But everyone knew.

It was guilt. It was hope.

It was you.

A week passed like that.

With silent coffees. Awkward hallway glances. You ignoring him in every room. And Satoru not asking for more than that.

He didn’t deserve it yet.

But he was trying.

God, he was trying.

He was halfway through a meeting when his phone buzzed.

He didn’t even glance at the caller ID. Just grabbed it, eyes still on the spreadsheet his coworker was rambling about — until he heard her voice.

“Hey,” Shoko said. She sounded… different. Lighter. Like something huge had just cracked open.

“He’s awake.”

That was all she needed to say.

Satoru didn’t respond — didn’t even bother with a “thanks” — just stood up mid-meeting, shoved his laptop shut, and practically ran out of the office with his blazer flapping behind him and a half-apology to Nanami trailing off in his wake.

The drive felt like a blur. Like time didn’t matter. The whole world melted around the edges, and all he could think about was Suguru. Awake. Breathing. Alive.

By the time he pushed through the hospital doors, his pulse was racing.

And when he reached the room—

He stopped.

You were already there.

And for the first time in a year, he saw it.

Your smile.

Not polite. Not forced. Real.

It was soft, crooked, slightly teary — the kind of smile people only made when they thought they’d lost something for good and finally got it back.

You were leaning over Suguru’s bed, whispering something that made him grin, bandaged and groggy but alive, eyes warm even through the haze of meds. Your hand was resting near his — not touching, but close enough to feel like home.

And then—

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Suguru muttered with a hoarse laugh.

Satoru blinked.

And then that grin — the old one, the bright, obnoxious, Satoru fucking Gojo grin — stretched across his face.

“Well, well, well,” he said, stepping inside like he hadn’t just been holding back tears in the hallway. “Took you long enough, Sleeping Beauty.”

Suguru snorted. “Yeah, yeah. Where’s my kiss, then?”

“Oh, don’t tempt me.”

“You’re not my type.”

Satoru laughed. It came out louder than he meant, unfiltered and boyish and almost too much — but Suguru chuckled too, and suddenly, it felt like college again. Like rooftops and vending machine snacks and stupid inside jokes that never really left them.

They bantered for a while — something about Suguru's gross hospital food, how Shoko would definitely milk this for free drinks, how Nanami probably scolded the surgeon about punctuality. You giggled under your breath once or twice.

And then—

He looked at you.

And this time, you didn’t look away.

Your eyes found his.

And you smiled.

Small. Hesitant. But bright.

Like maybe… maybe this didn’t have to be permanent.

Like maybe, just maybe, there was still something left.

Something worth rebuilding.

Satoru’s breath caught in his throat — just for a second. Just long enough for his chest to swell, full of something warm and familiar and just a little bit fragile.

Because after all the silence, all the avoidance, all the cold hallway glances and slammed doors in the rain —

You were looking at him again.

And smiling.

And for the first time in over a year, Satoru felt alive.

Shoko and you had already gone.

Just one visitor at a time, per the doctor’s rules — the earlier exception was rare and temporary. So now, it was just Satoru and Suguru. Quiet between them. The hospital room had dimmed, the sun finally starting to fall behind the skyline, painting the walls soft orange and grey.

Satoru sat by the window, legs stretched out, fingers loosely linked in his lap.

Suguru cleared his throat, careful of the soreness still in his ribs.

“She smiled at you.”

Satoru blinked. Looked up. “Huh?”

Suguru smirked faintly. “Just now. You didn’t notice?”

He had.

Of course he had. He’d been thinking about it since the moment it happened.

“I noticed,” Satoru murmured.

Suguru looked at him for a moment longer. Then, without preamble, he asked, “You’ve talked to her at all?”

Satoru sighed. Shook his head.

“She won’t speak to me,” he said, voice low. “Barely looks at me. I’ve tried. Not with words, not yet. But... I’ve tried.”

Suguru raised a brow. “Tried how?”

That’s when Satoru leaned back in the chair, ran a hand through his hair, and really spoke — for the first time in what felt like years.

“I stopped waiting for her to forgive me,” he said. “Started working on being someone who deserves it. Even if I never get it.”

He paused. Swallowed thickly.

“I started showing up to work early. Got ahead of deadlines. I picked up your old assignments, handled team rotations, replied to every message Nanami ever complained I ignored. I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol since the day she ran in the rain to avoid standing under my umbrella.”

Suguru blinked.

“She what?”

“Yeah,” Satoru laughed once, bitter. “I waited at the hospital entrance like some fool with an umbrella, and she just looked at me… and ran. Didn’t say a word.”

Suguru tried not to smile, but it tugged at his lips anyway.

“I’ve been bringing her coffee sometimes,” Satoru added. “Doesn’t take it. She brings her own now. Same order, but not from our place.”

Another pause.

“I know I don’t deserve her,” he said. “And I know what I did was—” He stopped. Breathed. “It was more than a mistake. It was selfish. Cowardly. I broke something that took four years to build just because I didn’t know how to sit with my own fear. She gave me everything. Even when she was tired. Even when I didn’t thank her. And I...”

He trailed off again. This time, when he looked up, his voice cracked a little.

“I’d give anything to hear her call me Toru again.”

Suguru looked at him for a long time. The kind of look only someone who’s known you your whole life can give — layered with exhaustion, history, love, and disappointment.

“I hated what you did,” he said plainly. “Still do.”

Satoru nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”

“But,” Suguru added, “I’ve also never seen you like this.”

Satoru blinked.

“I mean it,” he continued. “You’ve always had your charm, your talent, your big talk. But this... this quiet version of you, the one who's finally earning things instead of expecting them handed over with a smile — she would’ve loved to see this.”

“I’m too late,” Satoru said, rubbing his thumb against the corner of his lip. “She’s moved on. Or worse — she’s numb to me.”

“I don’t think she’s numb.”

Satoru looked at him.

“I think she’s scared,” Suguru said. “You broke her, Satoru. And people don’t just bounce back from that. But I also think... if she didn’t still feel something, she wouldn’t have come back to see me.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

Another beat.

“You want her back?” Suguru asked.

“With everything I have.”

“Then don’t rush it. Don’t corner her. And don’t try to be the man you were before. Be the man she should’ve had all along.”

Satoru exhaled shakily. “What if I don’t know how?”

“You do,” Suguru said, with a tired, certain smile. “You’ve already started.”

And for the first time in months, Satoru didn’t feel like he was drowning in regret.

He felt like maybe — just maybe — he was finally learning how to swim.

You just needed five minutes.

Five minutes away from the machines and the disinfectant, the humming lights, the weight of watching Suguru sleep like if you looked away, he’d disappear again.

So you stepped outside. Coffee in hand. Hoodie pulled up. The sky above Tokyo already dimming into something slate grey, the kind of quiet that warns you rain’s on its way.

You were halfway down the path to the little hospital garden when it happened.

A stranger — tall, in a rush, barely looking — bumped into you shoulder-first. Your hand jolted. Coffee sloshed over your sweater, hot and bitter and ruining the one piece of comfort you had on your body.

“Oh— shit, I’m sorry,” the guy muttered, already walking backward, not even waiting for you to respond.

You stood there, stunned. Chest heaving just slightly. Coffee dripping down your sleeves. Fingers clenched. And not because of the spill — not really.

It was everything else. It was the year that gutted you. The ache that didn’t leave. The fact that you still woke up thinking about someone who ripped you in half like it was an accident.

And then, of course—

“You okay?”

You froze.

Your heart didn’t. It stuttered like it remembered something you didn’t ask it to.

He jogged the last few steps toward you, eyes flicking to your shirt, the wet stain already starting to cool against your skin.

“I’ve got clothes in my car,” he said, breath a little rushed. “I can grab you something, a hoodie or—”

“No. Forget it.”

He blinked.

You didn’t mean to sound so sharp, but it just came out. Too fast, too raw.

“I was just—trying to help—”

“Well, don’t.”

Silence.

You hated this. Hated how his face fell just slightly, like he thought this was going to be the moment. Like he thought a fucking coffee stain was his chance.

You looked at the ground. Then at your hand. Then at him.

“Stay away from me. Okay?”

He didn’t move.

You clenched your jaw.

“I mean it.”

The wind picked up then — brushing past both of you, pulling your sleeves tighter against your arms. A low grumble of thunder rolled in the distance.

He looked like he wanted to say something.

But he didn’t.

Just stood there, watching you like you were the last thing in the world he had left.

You turned around.

And walked back toward the hospital doors.

And behind you, the rain started to fall.

You’d been back and forth from the hospital so often the nurses started to smile at you with tired recognition. Suguru was awake now — groggy, healing, but talking. That alone gave you something to hold onto.

But not enough to block him out.

Because lately, Satoru didn’t hide anymore.

He used to linger. Hang back. Leave a coffee on the bench like it was some apology in disguise.

Now?

Now he waited.

Held doors open for you. Walked behind you in the hallway — not too close, not enough to make you speak, but just there.

The day after the coffee spill, he showed up to the hospital with a bag of clothes.

Not from his car. Not his oversized hoodies or a stupid t-shirt you used to wear to sleep.

New. Folded. In your size. With a little tag still clipped to the collar.

“I didn’t know what color you liked anymore,” he said, holding the bag out. “So I got black. That was always safe, right?”

You didn’t take it.

Not then.

But when you left for the day, it wasn’t in the trash. It was sitting beside the hospital chair, and somehow — somehow — it made its way back with you.

Two days later, it was raining again.

You forgot your umbrella that time. Too distracted. Rushed out.

He didn’t speak when he met you at the exit, already holding his over your head.

Didn’t smile either.

Just walked beside you.

Both of you quiet under the small circle of plastic shelter, boots splashing through puddles. You didn’t say thank you. He didn’t ask for it.

That night, you sat at your hotel desk and stared at the wet umbrella in the corner like it was some kind of ghost.

By the third day, he started showing up with food.

He remembered your old orders — which you hated him for. Because it meant he remembered everything else too. Where you used to sit in cafés. How you hated olives. That weird way you always had to drink something cold with something hot.

He knew all of it.

And he used it.

Not to manipulate you. Not to beg.

Just to be there.

You tried to ignore it. You did.

You’d leave the food untouched sometimes, let the hospital staff take it, or give it to Shoko. You acted like it didn’t bother you.

But it did.

Because it meant he still knew how to take care of you.

And part of you hated how much you noticed.

The dark circles under his eyes. The way he didn’t laugh like he used to. The way he looked at Suguru — with real warmth, like he was scared to blink and lose him — and the way his gaze would flick to you after, like he was already bracing for heartbreak.

He didn’t flirt. Didn’t joke.

He just… showed up.

Every time.

And it was getting harder and harder to pretend you didn’t feel it too.

Not forgiveness.

But the ache.

The memory of what he used to be — what you used to be — before it all shattered.

And the quiet, unspoken truth that he was trying now, when it might already be too late.

You weren’t expecting anyone to be there.

Not outside your door. Not after a long, emotionally draining day at the hospital, not after hours of trying to convince yourself that you were fine. That ignoring him was working. That time was doing what it always promised to do — make things easier.

But there he was.

Leaning against the wall outside your hotel room, like he had nowhere else to go.

A single tulip in his hand.

Your favorite. The kind you used to tell him reminded you of quiet mornings and fresh starts. Of spring.

He looked up the second your footsteps approached — like he’d been listening for them. Waiting.

You froze.

He straightened up. Didn’t smile. Didn’t speak.

Just held out the flower.

You blinked at him. Your fingers tightened around your hotel key.

“Who told you I lived here?” you muttered, mostly to yourself.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

You stepped closer to your door, ignoring the way your heart slammed in your chest. You tried to brush past him, to get your key in the lock, but—

“It’s just a flower,” he said quietly. “It’s not a promise. Not a trap. Just something you used to like.”

You stilled.

Just for a second.

And then, slowly, without looking at him, you took the flower.

Walked inside.

And tossed it to the floor.

Didn’t even look to see where it landed — just stepped over it, like it didn’t mean anything. Like he didn’t.

You didn’t expect him to follow.

But he did.

The second you turned around, he shut the door behind him, slow and careful like he knew you were ready to kick him out the second you had the breath to do it.

You stared at him.

He stared back.

“The fuck are you doing here?” you snapped, voice sharp, brittle.

He didn’t flinch. “I just— I needed to see you.”

“You have been seeing me, Satoru,” you said, stepping back like his presence alone was suffocating. “Hospitals. Hallways. Coffee stands. I told you not to talk to me.”

“I haven’t said a word.”

“But you’ve been everywhere.”

Your voice cracked. Just barely. But enough to make you hate the way your throat tightened.

You looked away.

He stepped forward once. Hesitant. Like he was moving through water.

“You deserved more than a quiet apology. More than coffee cups and umbrellas. You deserved—”

“I didn’t ask for anything from you,” you snapped, eyes burning. “I didn’t want flowers. I didn’t want closure. I wanted distance.”

He looked like he was holding himself together with thread.

“You think showing up with my favorite flower is going to fix anything?” you laughed — bitter, breathless. “You think being visible makes up for what you did?”

His mouth parted like he wanted to argue.

But he didn’t.

Because you weren’t done.

“I came here to forget. I came here to make sure I never softened again— and all you’ve done since Suguru opened his eyes is push yourself back into places you don’t belong.”

“I never stopped belonging to you,” he said.

The room went still.

You stared at him. Heart thudding. Eyes hot. Rage swallowing you whole.

But somewhere, under all of it — you noticed the way he looked at you like this was the last time.

Like every second he stood in that room hurt, nd you hated it.

Because no matter how hard you tried — You still noticed, and that was the worst part.

You didn’t mean to scream.

But it ripped out of you like it had been clawing at your chest for months, desperate for air.

“Get out of my fucking life, Satoru!”

His eyes widened — but he didn’t move.

“I don’t fucking need you,” you yelled, your voice breaking, fists shaking at your sides. “I never will again.”

He didn’t believe it. You knew he didn’t. Not with the way your throat closed mid-sentence, not when your eyes were already stinging.

And that only made it worse.

“You’re so fucking stubborn,” you spat, pacing the small room, barely able to breathe. “Why can’t you just—just stay away? Why can’t you let me go?”

Your hands shot up to your forehead, wrists pressed to your skin like you could hold the emotions in if you squeezed hard enough. But it didn’t help.

Nothing did.

Because you were crumbling.

“I don’t want to feel like this again,” you gasped, pacing tighter circles now, stumbling through your own grief. “I don’t want to be soft again, Satoru—don’t you get it?”

You turned to him, eyes wide, heart pounding, tears now streaming down your cheeks.

“I didn’t want to notice anymore. I didn’t want to see you and remember how good it used to be. I didn’t want to feel that pull again. Because I know myself—”

You sobbed. A sharp, guttural sound that broke through your teeth.

“I know I’ll always have something for you. Even after everything.”

He stepped forward — slowly, carefully, like he wasn’t sure if you’d let him.

But when his hand reached out toward you—

“Don’t fucking touch me!” you shrieked, jerking back like he’d burned you.

He froze.

“You don’t get to do this,” you cried. “Not after what you said. Not after what you did to me.”

Your voice cracked again, trembling, wet, filled with everything you swore you’d never let him hear.

“You can’t just fucking bring me coffee and expect I’ll forgive you,” you hissed. “You don’t get to barge into my life again with your sad fucking eyes and think I’ll forget what it felt like to be nothing to you.”

The yelling stopped, but your sobbing didn’t. Your arms wrapped around yourself as you stumbled back against the wall, as if holding your own body together was the only thing keeping you standing.

“You know how hard I love,” you whispered, voice shaking like glass. “You know it’s hard for me to say no to you.”

Your head fell forward. Shoulders trembling. “Why are you doing this to me?”

He didn’t answer.

“Why are you still coming back into my life,” you choked, “when you already tore it apart?”

You looked up at him, vision blurred, throat aching.

“You weren’t the one who gave everything only to realize our relationship was a fucking accident.”

He flinched at that.

“You weren’t the one who carried that.”

You shook your head, tears slipping down your chin. “You knew how to get me. You always knew. One sorry. One fucking flower. One ‘please,’ and suddenly I’m right back where I started.”

You laughed through the tears — bitter, hopeless.

“The resentment. The hatred. It just—goes quiet. Like my whole world starts spinning again, just because you showed up.”

Your hands dropped to your sides. Exhausted. Done.

“You’re a fucking jerk, Satoru.”

And he just stood there.

Soaking in the wreckage.

Because for the first time—

You weren’t holding back.

You didn’t expect him to move.

Not at first.

He stood there, staring at you like you’d just ripped open his chest and finally saw what was left inside. His jaw clenched. His lips parted, then shut again — like he didn’t know where to start. Like he knew anything he said might make it worse.

But then—

His voice.

Soft. So soft it barely made it past the space between you.

“I didn’t know how empty I was until you left.”

Your stomach twisted.

He took a step forward. One foot, then the other — careful. Heavy.

“I thought I could handle it. That if I gave you time, maybe I’d stop missing you. That maybe it would hurt less.”

He shook his head.

“But it never did.”

You stayed still.

He looked down. Fingers twitching at his sides, knuckles pale.

“I tried to be better. I tried to become the kind of man you’d be proud of. Not because I thought it would fix things—” His voice broke, barely audible. “—but because I needed to believe I could still be someone good… someone worth the way you loved me.”

Your chest tightened.

He looked up again, blue eyes shining under the weight of his own shame.

“I used to think I was the strongest man alive,” he whispered. “And then I lost you. And I’ve never felt weaker.”

The first tear rolled down.

He didn’t wipe it.

Didn’t flinch.

His lips just pulled into that soft, pouty line you’d seen so many times — when he was tired, or sad, or trying not to cry. His mouth trembled.

“I miss you.”

He said it like a prayer.

“I fucking miss you.”

And then — slowly, quietly — he sank to his knees.

Like his body couldn’t carry the weight of it anymore.

He knelt in front of you, looking up with eyes red and full of longing. His hands limp in his lap. His head tilted up, lips trembling, tears streaming down now — silent, steady, shameless.

Your heart cracked in half.

He was beautiful like this. Broken, yearning, soft in a way only you ever got to see. No bravado. No charm. Just the real Satoru — the boy who used to cling to your pinky finger in public like it made him braver. The man who used to fall asleep with his head on your lap, mumbling how he didn’t know how to love right, but he was trying for you.

You didn’t realize you were reaching for him until your thumb wiped the tear from his cheek.

He flinched, just slightly — like he couldn’t believe you touched him.

And still, he kept talking. Barely holding his breath between words.

“I think about you every morning I wake up. Every time I order coffee. Every time I hear someone laugh the way you used to in the car when I played stupid songs.”

He shook his head, more tears slipping out.

“I don’t want anyone else. I never did. Even when I fucked up—god, even then—there wasn’t a second I didn’t regret it.”

You stayed standing.

But your hand… lingered.

Fingertips brushing against the skin beneath his eye, now damp and warm.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t reach for you.

Just knelt there.

Crying for you.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please, Y/N. I know I don’t deserve it. But just… don’t hate me anymore.”

And you could see it in him — every single piece of him cracked wide open, still loving you, still begging you to love him back.

You didn’t speak right away.

You just stared down at him — knees on your hotel floor, eyes wet, face flushed, holding back nothing for once.

It would’ve been easier if he stayed the Satoru you hated. The one you left behind. The one who shattered you.

But he wasn’t.

He was this Satoru. The one crying at your feet like his entire world was on pause, waiting for your voice to bring it back to life.

And suddenly, the fear that had kept you cold for so long — the armor you wore so well — began to crack.

You opened your mouth.

It didn’t come out strong.

“I’m scared,” you whispered.

His head lifted — just enough to meet your eyes. His bottom lip quivered. The quietest breath left his mouth.

“I know.”

You let your hand drop from his cheek. Watched it hang at your side, useless.

“I’m scared of losing myself again,” you murmured. “Of giving everything and watching it fall apart like it never mattered.”

He shook his head quickly, kneeling taller, hands still trembling in his lap.

“I swear to you,” he said, voice hoarse, “I’m not that man anymore. I don’t want anything else. I don’t care about perfect or easy or clean. I just—”

He looked up at you like you were oxygen. Like he was afraid to blink.

“I’m half a heart without you.”

You exhaled — sharp, shaky, gut-deep.

“And I’ve been walking around like I’m fine, like I’m whole,” he went on, voice trembling, “but I’m not. I’m fucking not, Y/N. I haven’t been since the night I left your doorstep.”

You bit down on your lip, eyes stinging.

“I think about it every day,” he whispered. “How cold you looked. How strong you were for letting me go. And I’d give everything just to go back and make you feel safe again.”

Silence.

You let it linger between you.

And then, with the gentlest breath — a thread of sound caught between sorrow and love — you said it.

“Oh, Toru…”

The moment it left your lips, his hands found your waist.

His arms wrapped around you like muscle memory, like prayer.

And he pressed his face to your stomach, forehead resting against the fabric of your shirt as he sobbed — not loudly, not violently, just finally.

Your hands trembled as they threaded into his hair.

You held him.

You held him like you used to — with everything you were. With love and hurt and history all tangled in your fingers. Your thumb stroked the nape of his neck. Your other hand stayed pressed gently to his crown.

Neither of you spoke.

You didn’t need to.

Because something heavy — something unspoken and unbearable — lifted from both your shoulders.

It didn’t make it simple.

It didn’t make it right.

But it made it real.

And in that moment — knees to floor, arms wrapped tight, breath stuttering between you — love didn’t feel like weakness anymore.

dividers by, @cafekitsune

[nariminsstuff]

THE PERFECT PAIR

pairing: absent bf!satoru gojo x neglected!reader

synopsis : satoru gojo has always been larger than life—strongest sorcerer, busiest man, and lately, the most absent boyfriend. missions drag him away, late nights turn into empty mornings, and somewhere along the line, your love slipped into silence. you wait, you wonder, and you try to hold on, but every missed call and half-hearted smile makes the gap between you wider. now you’re left questioning how long you can keep fighting for someone who doesn’t seem to notice you’re slipping away. cw: hurt/angst to comfort to some smut. reader is sad and lonely and neglected, satoru is distant and in his own world. shoko is the voice of reason as always. miscommunication/lack of it. drinking/clubbing. reader and satoru argue. the smut isn't the best it's my first time really writing it. not fully proof read. ㅤㅤㅤㅤ​ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤwc: 4.6k+ inspired by 'the perfect pair" by beabadoobee !

It wasn’t always like this. The first three years of your relationship were magical. There used to be laughter in the house when he came home, warmth in the way he reached for you. He would hate being away from you too long, insisting to call every night no matter how late it was for him. Flowers would show up at your door with handwritten notes reminding you how much he loved you.

His hands were always on you. He’d shower you with kisses, leaving marks on your neck and down from there. He’d hug you from behind and kiss behind your ear, whispering sweet nothings to you. Now, there was only silence.

You lie in bed, staring at the empty space beside you. He hadn’t even bothered to tell you he’d be late this time. You used to be the first to know. Rolling onto your back, you stare at the ceiling of your shared apartment.

How the hell did it get this bad? This had to be an all-time low. Your phone glows faintly on the nightstand. Should I check on him? What if he’s in trouble? 

You sigh and chew on your lip. Your worry for him conflicts with itself—you want to check on him, but lately, it feels like that’s the last thing he wants from you.

You decide against it and roll over, drifting into deep sleep.

You wake up to movement beside you. He doesn’t look at you. Not yet. His arm brushes yours as he stretches, yawning like he hasn’t thought twice about the hours you’ve spent waiting.

“Morning,” he mutters, voice rough from sleep.

You swallow the irritation rising in your chest. “You didn’t come home on time last night,” you say softly, trying to keep your tone neutral.

He glances briefly at you, just long enough to catch your expression, then shrugs. “Had a mission. Ran over.”

That shrug. That single, careless gesture that used to never exist between you. It feels like a punch in the gut.

You nod, “Okay, well let me know next time.” You look over your shoulder to meet his eyes but he’s scrolling mindlessly on his phone. “Satoru?” He looks up from his phone. “What did you say?” His cerulean eyes bore into yours, waiting for you to reply. You swallow and sigh. “Never mind, don’t worry about it.” You get up from bed and head into the kitchen. Cooking has always been therapeutic for you. When things got rough between the two of you, you poured yourself into it. The time you once set aside for each other had turned into endless hours of experimenting, taste testing, and perfecting recipes. You’d even taken cooking classes, learning to make dishes from all over the world. You were getting better with each attempt—and he noticed, even if he never said it. You could tell by the empty plates in the sink or when you came home to find the fridge cleared of leftovers.

You reach for the flour and eggs, following your favorite waffle recipe. You busy yourself with preparing breakfast, letting the motions distract you from the quiet tension lingering in the apartment. As you mix the batter, you hear a chair scrape softly against the floor. He’s moved closer to the counter, watching you, but his eyes are on something else—his phone, a notification, anything but you.

“Do you want coffee?” you ask, keeping your voice even.

He glances up briefly. “Yeah, I guess.”

You nod and set the kettle on. The small exchange feels heavy, full of all the words you’re not saying.  You focus on the waffles, the smell of batter and butter grounding you, trying not to let the quiet sting.

When the kettle beeps, signaling it’s done boiling, you make his coffee just how he likes it—impossibly sweet.

You place the cup in front of him. He glances up for a second, mutters something under his breath, then turns back to his phone, completely absorbed.

You stand there, waiting, hands on your hips. The silence stretches, thick and heavy.

When he finally looks at you properly, confusion crosses his face. “What’s wrong?”

“No thank you?” you chuckle bitterly. “The least you could do is say thank you.”

He stares blankly for a moment. “Thank you?”

He blinks at you, still holding his cup, genuinely unsure why you’re upset.2

“Yeah,” you mutter, leaning against the counter. “You know… a simple thank you. Like a normal person.”

He chuckles softly, running a hand through his messy hair. “I said it. You heard me.”

You bite back a retort, because that’s not what you mean—not really. It’s everything else he doesn’t say, everything he’s been missing: the late nights, the silence, the way he drifts through your life without really being present.

You stir the batter a little harder than necessary, letting the motion fill the awkward quiet. “I don’t even know why I bother sometimes,” you admit, voice low, almost to yourself.

He finally looks at you, eyes flickering with something—guilt? Confusion? Then goes back to his phone. Neither of you says anything else. The waffles cook in silence, the air heavy with all the words you’re both too tired—or too scared—to say.

A few days pass with little to no interaction between the two of you. It’s one of the rare times in the year when he doesn’t have back-to-back missions. Usually, the two of you would plan something to make up for the time lost when he’s away. Now, you stay at opposite ends of the apartment, keeping to yourself. “When was the last time you went out?” Shoko asks over the phone one day.

You pause and rack your memory. “...I honestly don’t know. I’ve been so busy with work and cooking in my free time that I haven’t had a chance in a while.”

“What?! No, no, get ready—we’re going out tonight. You can’t keep this up, you’ll be miserable and lonely.”

I already am miserable and lonely, you thought to yourself. 

It isn’t like you’re fully alone. He’s there sometimes, but when he is, he might as well be absent. You hardly speak, and when you do, he barely pays attention. There isn’t much to say.

“Fine, we can go out,” you say reluctantly, mentally preparing yourself for the headache this night will likely bring.

Shoko cheers and rattles off the details before you hang up. As you get ready, you contemplate cancelling. To be honest, you liked being a homebody. You always had been, preferring curling up in bed with a good book opposed to going out and partying. Satoru was the one who pulled you out of your shell, convincing you to go places with him, claiming that he “couldn’t go alone.”

Now, going out without him feels different—empty, forced, a reminder of what you’ve lost. The idea of leaving the apartment tonight fills you with a quiet dread. It’s not fun anymore. It only reminds you of him.

A time like now, three years ago, you’d look forward to whatever crazy date idea he came up with, whether it was visiting a museum, or even rock climbing, he made it fun. If you’d known in the beginning that it would come to this, you wonder if you would have stayed with him. You wonder if all the pain and waiting—the loneliness, the neglect—was ever worth the laughter and love of the past.

As you fasten your earrings, your phone vibrates.

shoko 🚬: i’m outside you: okay, coming!!

You rush out to the car, the cold air hitting your face.

Shoko leans against the car, smoking a cigarette. When she sees you, her eyes light up. She drops the cigarette into the dirt, stamping it out.

“I haven’t seen you in forever! Wow,” she grins, embracing you warmly.

“I know, I’m sorry I’ve been so busy lately,” you say, offering a sympathetic smile.

“And Satoru! I haven’t seen that man in ages. How is he?”

You pause, realizing you don’t actually know. You live off brief conversations and fleeting glimpses.

“He’s good… just busy,” you finally say.

Shoko nods, a teasing grin spreading across her face. “Well, time for some fun, yeah? You look like you need it.”

You give a wry smile and slide into the passenger seat.

Shoko was right: You were having the time of your life. Your girls night out consisted of multiple locations: shopping, karaoke, and finally, clubbing. You drank a lot more than you usually do. Your words slurred and the room spun. Shoko didn’t drink at all, insisting it was so she can drive her car back home and not spend money on an Uber. You think it’s because she’d just rather smoke her cigarettes. “Are you sure you’re okay?” she yells over the music, squinting as the club lights flash around the room. “Huh?” you yell back, swaying to the beat. With the amount of alcohol in your system, you didn’t have a care in the world. Satoru was far from your mind as you danced your troubles away. Shoko grabs your arm. “Okay, you’ve officially had too much. We’re leaving.” She starts dragging you off the dance floor. “What? Why? I’m having soooo much fun, Shoko! Come on!” Your words slur as you stumble along. Outside, the chill of the Saturday night air hits you. You shiver, adjusting from the heat of the crowd to the crisp breeze. Shoko fumbles in her purse for her keys. You look up, taking in the night sky. Stars twinkle around the crescent moon. You sigh happily. “Shoko, thank you for this. I’m so glad I went out tonight.” You stumble into her, attempting to hug her.

“Of course. Now let’s get you home, yeah?” She finally finds her keys and starts toward the car. Your stomach twists. The thought of going back—of pretending everything is fine with Satoru—feels unbearable. You freeze. Shoko notices immediately. “Are you okay?” Before you can answer, your stomach betrays you. You vomit into the bush beside you, sobbing uncontrollably, hands trembling.

Shoko rushes to your side, pushing your hair back and rubbing your back gently. “It’s okay, I got you,” she says softly. “No it’s not,” you cry out, “Everything’s ruined.” She rubs your back a little more and hands you a napkin and a water bottle. Chugging the water and wiping your mouth give you a moment to breathe. After a beat, she asks you quietly, “What did you mean when you said ‘everything’s ruined’?” You take a deep breath. You know it’s a bad idea to air out your relationship issues to someone else, let alone one of his childhood best friends, but the weight of everything you’ve endured the past few months has crushed you.You desperately needed to get it off your chest. “My relationship… it’s gone to shit. And he doesn’t even care,” you chuckle dryly, “He’s so busy I doubt he even realizes something’s wrong.” “What do you mean? Did something happen?” “I... I don’t even know where to begin.” you admit. She takes the water bottle from you silently and guides you to a nearby bench. You sit down and stare out to the street in front of you. It’s pretty late, probably around one in the morning. You doubt he even noticed you were gone. Your phone had died a few hours ago, and you left in a rush, forgetting to bring a charger. Shoko sits next to you, placing the water bottle in between the two of you. You bounce your leg anxiously, struggling to put your feelings into words. How to put it into words that the silence swallowed you whole. How it felt like you’re in a relationship with a ghost. “Well, it started with him being really busy with missions. Over time, he stopped texting and calling as much,” you sniffle. “We’ve just grown so distant. It’s not working—him being gone all the time. The fact that we’re not working is the elephant in the room. We both ignore it and move on with our lives. It’s so depressing. You don’t understand, Shoko.”

The two of you sit in silence, letting the words of your confession sink in. “Have you two talked about it?” she asks finally. “Yeah, at first. A few conversations here and there, promising to be better about communicating but neither of us stuck to it.” you suck in a breath, taking another sip from the water bottle. “It’s pointless, there’s no saving us at this point.” “We’re too far gone.” The finality of your words scared you. As awful as it was, it was the truth. You weren’t sure how long you could keep up with this. Staying in a relationship solely to cling to the good times was unhealthy, and frankly, you were exhausted. And you suspect he was too. “Satoru loves you. If you sit him down and tell him how you are feeling I’m sure he’d listen to you,” she squeezed your shoulder, “It’s going to be fine, trust me.” “I really don’t think so,” you shake your head,  “It’s been months. I honestly don’t even want to go back home. I already feel like crap, no need to make it worse,” you say miserably. “Do you want to just crash at my place? You can sleep in the guest room.”

You nod, “That would be nice, thank you.” She stands and holds out her hand. “Come on, let’s get out of here.” You grab her hand and let her lead the way.

You wake up around noon.

Your head is pounding. You silently curse your past self for going too hard last night. Stretching your arms, you reach for your phone on the nightstand, unplugging Shoko’s charger.

Shit.

Over 300 notifications from Satoru. He’d spammed your phone all night and morning.

You frantically call him back. He picks up on the first ring. “Wow. So nice of you to finally call me back,” he fumes. Your head hurt too much to argue with him. “I went out with Shoko last night. I was too drunk, so she let me crash. I’m still here—I just woke up,” you reply, careful to keep your tone calm.

Silence. “Alright,” he says, then hangs up.

You stare at your phone in disbelief. What was his problem? He always stayed out late without letting you know, and you never gave him a hard time about it the next day. Shoving your phone into your bag, you decide you’ve overstayed. You grab your things, say a quick bye to Shoko, and catch an Uber. By the time you get to the apartment, you feel like you’re doing the walk of shame.In the bedroom, he’s at the desk, scribbling on a stack of papers. He glances up and does a double take. “Look who decided to show up,” he mutters, dropping another sheet onto the pile.

You freeze mid-step and spin to face him. “What did you say?” you seethe, daring him to repeat it. He meets your gaze without flinching. “You heard me. I kept calling and texting you. You didn’t bother to let me know where you were?” You glare at him. “You are the last person who should be talking about not letting people know where they are. You stopped doing that ages ago. Don’t you dare give me crap about that, you hypocrite.” He throws his arms up. “Oh come on, I’m sorry my job sometimes prevents me from replying to every single text of yours. God forbid I’m busy.” You laugh bitterly, the weight of his words landing hard.

His frown deepens. “I’m sorry for caring about my boyfriend’s whereabouts—especially since he could be dead and I’d have no idea! And guess what? I’ve been busy too. My life doesn’t revolve around you, Satoru. I have people who actually care about me and want to spend time with me.” Your voice rises until you’re yelling. Your head is swimming, your stomach turning—you were at your breaking point. You’re sticky, nauseous, and desperately in need of a shower and coffee. “The least you could’ve done was tell me you were going out and when you’d be home. You could’ve been dead, too. And what does wanting to spend time with me have to do with any of this?!” You explode: “My phone died, so I couldn’t text anyone! And I wouldn’t have gone so hard last night if you’d just looked up from your damn phone for two seconds and paid attention to me.” Before he can reply, you storm into the bathroom and slam the door.

Leaning back against it, you slide down until you’re curled on the floor. You bury your face in your hands and let yourself sob. You cry for all the time wasted these past months. For feeling invisible to the one person who once made you feel seen. For the people you two used to be—so disgustingly in love.

You wish you could turn back the clock. You wish you could go back to the way it was.

The door knob rattles above you. “Open the door,” he says firmly. You scramble to turn on the shower, drowning out his voice. Peeling off your dress and kicking off your heels, you catch sight of yourself in the mirror. You look awful. Mascara streaked down your cheeks, hair wild, and eyes bloodshot. You tie your hair up and step into the shower. Steam swirls around you, clinging to your skin as you scrub hard, as if you could wash off last night, this morning, all of it.

When you’re done, you stand at the bathroom door wrapped in a towel, nerves twisting in your stomach. You take a breath and unlock it. The cool air makes you shiver as you step back into your shared bedroom. Empty.

The desk is abandoned. His papers are gone.

Weird.

You pad through the apartment, calling his name softly at first, then louder. Nothing Wrapping the towel tighter around yourself, you sit back down on the bed. Your phone lights up with two new notifications. satoru 🍧💞: i got called out on a mission. I’m not sure when i’ll be back satoru 🍧💞: we’ll continue our talk when I get back okay? Your fingers tremble as you type out a reply. you: okay, sounds good He wants to talk. That’s… something.

You remind yourself not to get your hopes up. One conversation won’t fix the distance — the half-hearted exchanges, the way his eyes drift past you, the weight of nights spent beside him feeling completely alone. None of that will disappear overnight.

But it was a start. You hurry to get changed, inspired to make his favorite dish for the first time in months.

You grab your keys and head out to the grocery store.

“I’m home!” his voice carries through the apartment.

You untie your apron and smooth down your sundress before walking out to greet him.

The past two days have not been kind to him. His shoulders sag, his eyes are rimmed with exhaustion. He pulls off his blindfold, fingers raking through messy white hair. “Hey,” you say softly. His gaze drags across you, lingering in a way that makes your chest tighten. “Hey,” he breathes.

You close the space and wrap your arms around him. He hugs you back, strong and steady, and for a moment you stay like that. When you finally pull apart, he sniffs the air and manages a tired smile. “Something smells good.” “I made your favorite,” you wink, taking his hand. God, you’d missed this. The warmth of his hand engulfing yours, the way it made you feel tethered to him. You lead him to the kitchen, and gesture for him to take a seat at the dining table. You lead him into the kitchen, gesture for him to sit, and set a plate in front of him with a glass of water. Leaning down, you cup his cheek. “Eat up.” You start to turn away, but he catches your wrist.

“Where are you going?” he asks. If you didn’t know better, you’d think there was a hint of sadness in his voice.

“Oh, I already ate and cleaned up.”

“Stay. Here with me, please?” His vibrant blue eyes meet yours and you melt. “Okay, I will.” You start to turn away, but he catches your wrist.

“Where are you going?” he asks. If you didn’t know better, you’d think there was a hint of sadness in his voice.

“Oh, I already ate and cleaned up.” For the first time in months, it feels… different. Closer. Not perfect, not like before, but closer.

You had told yourself this is your last gesture: making his favorite meal, being affectionate, and showing him you’re still trying. The rest is up to him now. He can decide whether to keep drifting or to reach for you again.

Under the table, his hand finds yours. He squeezes, pulling you out of your thoughts. “You okay?” he asks. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Just thinking.” He wipes his mouth with a napkin, then looks at you seriously. “I’ve been thinking too. That talk we had before I left… It made me realize a few things.”

Your chest tightens as he goes on. He holds your gaze. “I haven’t been a good boyfriend. Like at all. I’ve been distant and throwing myself into work and I haven’t even addressed it.” He takes a deep breath. “I haven’t been a good boyfriend. At all. I’ve been distant, hiding in my work, and ignoring what was right in front of me. I’ve been neglecting you, neglecting us. And I’m sorry.” He takes a shaky breath. “You didn’t deserve that.”

You blink, caught between relief and disbelief. He squeezes your hand again. “You don’t have to forgive me. If you wanted to walk away, I wouldn’t blame you. But I love you. I want us to work — and I think we can, if we both try.” Your throat tightens, but you stay quiet as he continues. “When things first started getting bad, we promised to communicate, to do better. And I didn’t. That’s on me. From now on, I’ll be better. I’ll let you know when I’m coming home. I’ll make time for us, like I used to. No more empty promises.” His lips twitch into a small grin. “I hope you’re ready for my ridiculous date ideas again.”

You roll your eyes at that comment as a smile tugs at your lips. His expression turns serious again. “I don’t ever want that distance between us again. I know what it’s like now — what it feels like to lose you, even when you’re still right here “If you’ll have me of course,” he adds sheepishly. His words sink into you like warmth after months of cold.

Tears sting your eyes. He still wants this. He still wants you.

“Yes,” you choke out, voice breaking. “Of course I’ll have you.” You throw your arms around him, and he holds you tight, whispering against your ear. “It’s okay, sweetheart. We’re okay now. I love you more than anything. You’re my everything.”

He wipes your tears with his thumb, kissing your forehead.

“I’ve missed you, Satoru,” you whisper.

“I’ve missed you too,” he murmurs. He kisses your forehead. “I’ve missed you too,” he murmurs. You lift your head and look into his eyes. You lean back just enough to meet his eyes, your lips curving. “Well… I guess it’s time to make up for lost time.” He blinks, startled. “Huh? What do you—”

Your smirk deepens as you press your lips to his neck, trailing kisses down to his collarbone. His breath catches, a shiver running down his spine at the gentle pressure of your lips. You pull back slightly, grinning at him.

“Mm… did you miss me?”

He nods eagerly, eyes dark with longing. He pulls you closer, lips meeting yours in a soft, lingering kiss at first, tasting and savoring. Your hands find their way into his messy hair, fingers threading through the strands as you deepen the kiss. His hands roam your back, sliding over your hips, pressing you flush against him. You grind slightly against his lap, eliciting a low groan from him, and he tightens his hold, lifting you just enough so your hips press more into his. You feel him growing harder from each roll of your hips, the warmth and tension building between you. Deciding to tease him, you pull away from this kiss and still your hips. He looks mock-offended, lips parting as if to protest. You giggle, eyes sparkling, and start rolling your hips again—slowly, deliberately. He shakes his head, a frustrated groan escaping his throat. “Nope. No more teasing.” Before you can react, he lifts you off his lap and onto the kitchen table, hands firm but gentle.

“We’ve already wasted more than enough time.” he whispers in your ear, his voice low and thick with desire. He leans in, capturing your lips again, this time harder, more urgent, as his hands roam your body with intent. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, nails grazing his skin, matching the rhythm of his pressing against you.

“God, you feel so good,” he rasps, lips tracing down your jaw to your neck, nipping and sucking lightly, leaving a trail of heat in his wake.

You arch into him, the friction sending shivers through your body. His hands slide over your hips and thighs, pulling you closer, pressing you flush against him. Every touch, every press, every groan is charged with months of longing.

You tug at his hair, letting out a soft moan as he lowers his mouth to your collarbone, lips and tongue exploring, teasing. His hands roam further, brushing along your sides, sliding under the fabric of your dress, and you shiver at the sensation.

He lifts you slightly, thighs wrapping around his waist, and kisses you fiercely, tongues intertwining, the heat between you two escalating. Every press, every roll of your hips against him, every gasp and moan, is a reclamation of what you’ve both missed.

“Please… ” you whisper against his lips, voice trembling with need.

His hands gripping you firmly, lips devouring yours, marking you, claiming you, and letting you feel just how much he’s missed this. How much he’s missed you.

You tug at his pants, looking at him with wide eyes. He nods and he watches you undo his belt. You pull down his pants and his boxers. His cock springs out, his tip red and angry, leaking with precum. “Shit Satoru…” “I know, I need you.” You spread your legs wider for him. Grabbing his shirt and pulling him closer to you, you whisper: “Want you to ruin me.” His eyes darken with lust. “Are you sure?” You nod, and he tilts his forehead against yours, eyes half-lidded and soft. The heat from his body presses into yours, and you can feel his steadying breath mingling with yours. He tugs your underwear from under your dress down your legs, gripping your hips to pull you closer to him. “Gonna make you feel good, ‘m promise.” he mumbles. He pumps himself a few times before lining himself up with your entrance. “You ready?” “Yes Satoru I’m rea—” Before you can finish your sentence he’s inside. He kisses your neck as he pushes in deeper and deeper, stretching you out. You throw your head back and moan. “Fuck Satoru, I–” He kisses your neck again, “I know sweetie I know.” He finally bottoms out. You feel all of him, every inch. He starts to move slowly and you cling to him, nails griping his back. “You’re so tight, fuck,” he moans out. “Don’t stop,” you murmur, voice trembling with desire.

“I won’t,” he rasped, voice low. His lips locking with yours, hands exploring, claiming, and never letting you go. He slams into you, setting a brutal pace in and out of you. You bury your face in his chest. "Don't hide from me sweetheart. Hey look at me." He moves you so you meet his eyes.

"Want to watch you as I ruin you."

pls cut me some slack i've never written smut before and i wrote this in a short amount of time im truly sorry if this is ass😭

[nariminsstuff]

Being free use for your boyfriends Gojo and Geto

You thought free use would be fun, you have the two sexiest men as your boyfriends - six foot four sorcerers in fact, Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto. You figure they need stress relief after those missions, and you love their cocks inside you.

You didn't take into account just how bratty they were!

Day one.

"F-fuck, sweetheart..." Satoru gasps out as he runs his tip along your plush lips, glossing them with his precum. "Give me that pretty mouth."

You open eagerly for him, he gasps out when he starts fucking your throat, little whines emitting as his precum coats your tongue, sweet just like Satoru is. He's throbbing, veins pressing up as the blood pumps his cock, making it so thick it's hurting your mouth to take in the best way.

"You're so good," he murmurs, looking down at you with pretty blue eyes. "So pretty."

"Not fair," you hear the door shut, and pull back with a suctioned pop to see Suguru. "I want your mouth on me."

"Then come here- mph!"

"Ah-ah," Satoru fucks your mouth more, tugging at your hair, earning Suguru's glare. "My turn."

Suguru is there in moments, yanking you off Satoru, tugging you to coat his cock with your drool, tasting him as he fucks your throat, stretching it. He moans, brushing your hair into a pony tail, your cunt gets so sensitive, needy, only for Gojo to yank you back to him.

"Give her back!"

"I'm not a toy to fight over, you - mmm!" Satoru's pretty pink tip is back in your mouth, his blue eyes narrowing at Suguru.

"You come back later, hmm?"

"No way." You'd roll your eyes but they're already fluttered shut as you're tugged between the two men and their huge, thick cocks that are far too close to each other, brushing against their tips. "Get off me!?"

"You love it," Satoru says - You laugh and they both look down at you, raising their brows.

"Oh shit..."

Day Two.

"Sugu..." you mumble sleepily, he's buried his face between your thighs right as you're waking up in the middle of the night, dark hair falling against your skin. His tongue lapping at your juices. "Ah!"

"Need you," he murmurs, looking up with glossy lips, flicking his long tongue up again, you spread your thighs eagerly for him, earning his satisfied groan. "Perfect, open for me."

"Rude," Satoru slips into the room and Suguru rolls his pretty amethyst eyes, slurping you up. "I wanna taste."

"Mmm, go away," you run your fingers across Satoru's silky locks, he kisses your palm.

"Free use for both of you, remember?"

"Tch," he moves a bit, and slips two fingers inside you, Satoru laps at your cunt, drinking your juices and Suguru's saliva up greedily. "Fuck you're soaked, Princess."

"Mnh!" Satoru's hungrily lapping at you, cock rutting against the mattress for friction, and soon they're both fingering you, licking you, tongues meeting as they desperately pretend they're not kissing while they drink your cunt up. "Close!"

"I get to drink it," Satoru damn near shoves Suguru, who just shoves him back, and the two men fight over who gets more of your squirt all over their face.

Day Three.

You hope that maybe they'll learn to share, but the free use has made them more competitive.

Satoru has you bent over the kitchen table, tip gliding between your soppy folds, you cry out loud, head falling back, only for Suguru to be woken up from his nap, exhausted from a mission. He glares when he watches Satoru press his cock inside of you, your ass arching up, getting filled by him.

"I was napping, how's this fair?" Suguru steps up, you turn your head to look at him, biting your lip, Satoru's cock so deep you feel him in your tummy. "Princess, you're so mean to me."

"M'not trying to be, l-love you both - ah!" Satoru's shoved so deep it hurts, grinning and gripping your hips.

"Love me more, don't you?"

"That's it," Suguru reaches over, cupping your face then, before he's kneeling, lapping at your clit, his hands gripping your thighs. "Mmm, taste s'good."

"Do I taste good too?" Satoru makes you laugh breathless, Suguru bites your clit in response.

"Satoru, hush!" You try to be stern, but Satoru's pretty blue eyes are all dilated as he sinks deep, and you shatter for him.

"Drink her up."

"Don't tell me what to do!?" Suguru's already drinking you, mouth muffled as he speaks, drinking every bit of cum that pours, your hand grips his locks. "My turn."

"No way."

"Boys," you pull back, Satoru eases out of you then, Suguru is right behind you in moments. "Share."

"Nope."

This was a bad idea.

Nonsense lmao

[nariminsstuff]

Love.exe - Satoru Gojo

⟢ summary: satoru is a genius-level nerd with a hopeless, painfully obvious crush on his sarcastic, emotionally unavailable roommate—you. after rejecting him for the hundredth time, you thought he’d bounce back like he always did. But when a new girl enters your group project, you start to realize he’s changing — softening, opening up, and maybe even falling in love again… just not with you.

⟢ pairing: platonic nerdjo x fem!reader x playboy!suguru

⟢ tags: MDNI. modern au, angst, slow burn, hurt/no comfort, roommates to lovers (with twist), nerdjo, toxic arguments, sassy reader, rejection, love confession, first kiss, a lot of regret.

⟢ wc: 22.2k so far

⟢ a/n: tagliat is open!!

𝟢𝟢𝟣 — chapter one

𝟢𝟢𝟤 — chapter two

𝟢𝟢𝟥 — chapter three

𝟢𝟢𝟦 — chapter four

𝟢𝟢𝟧 — chapter five

𝟢𝟢𝟨 — chapter six

𝟢𝟢𝟩 — chapter seven

bunny divider by @/chilumitos and art by leimiruu on twt ^^

taglist: @klcvvnt @kamuihz @sylustoru @deeninadream @celestialcursedwomb @superficialmp3 @jyneprincess @vroomsss @brookypoohh @arizhyyy @ri-sa20 @shoruio @satorugooner @deliahsstuff @anan-baban @man1cslut @kitassecretgf @kentofilms @saccharinecherry @nanamisss @casssiesthing @xaie

[nariminsstuff]

“𝐨𝐡 𝐧𝐨! 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐜𝐤!”

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬! oral, established relationship, teasing, biting, pussy smacking, light pain kink, he is kind of mean with his actions but sweet with his words, he acts like you’re stuck, a few ass slaps, biting, gojo loses a bet, he is pussy obsessed, praise, using his infinity to make his tongue bigger whilst eating you out for a little while, fingering your ass, squirting, jerking off, calling you lil' mama/calling him daddy, breeding, eating his cum out of your cream pie, he cums way to quickly, edging

𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧’𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐬; lord what i'd give to sit on gojo's pretty face 🫠 u just know he can do some freaky shi with his tongue

Satoru pushes his blindfold up, your adorable, sexy ass is bent over with half your body stuck into the large washer. All for purpose of getting a sock plastered to the back. Your tauntingly short skirt barely covers your sweet ass in this position.

You haven't been wearing any underwear all day. Giving Satoru’s six eyes a perfect view all day. His balls are aching and figuratively blue. Pre-cum is soaking his underwear and smearing over his cock making him messy.

He almost always wins, he’s Satoru Gojo. He couldn't lose to your stupid hands-off bet. Could he?

You’re looking too beautiful, with your perfect ass, supple tights, and mouth-watering cunt to walk away from. Your soft cunt is so beautiful. He could spend days admiring the color and shape of your kissable lips and puffy clit. Your pretty little hole clenching nothing when you realize he’s staring, begging for his tongue.

Satoru groans rubbing his cock through his pants. He croons, “Oh looks like you’re stuck, lemme help.” Kneeling spreading your cheeks apart burrying his tongue inside you. Groaning in relief when he tastes you, you’re so fucking sweet.

Closing his eyes, curling and pumping his tongue. Satoru cherishes knowing you, your body and cunt so well. The perfect pressure and pace that makes your thighs tremble and your pussy quiver. Stroking your sweet spot, groaning in your sweet cunt in pure delight.

Your moans go to his aching, hard cock. “Nnnn ha! You lose! Nnnn fuck just like that.” Your voice softens with a moan that echos inside the washer. “How is this helping?”

Pushing your plush ass onto Satoru’s face, clenching his tongue. Spreading your thighs enough for him to play with your plush clit. making your thighs tremble, your sweet cunt spasming around his tongue.

Kissing your soft lips, moaning sloppily making out with your beautiful pussy. Gliding his tongue in and out, slowly curling his tongue lightly grazing your sweet spot teasing you.

Pulling away, “It’s helping me. Never said anything about helping you. But I don't mind helping myself to,” smacking your cunt, “my pretty pussy. Since the only,” smack! “thing I was losing was time I should've spent eating you out.” Biting your ass, holding your hip still when you squirm and cry.

Satoru can feel his heart’s pulse in his cock. Groaning, “I need you.” Gliding his tongue past your lip, making his tongue thicker with his infinity. He can't feel or taste you but the way you moan makes it worth it.

"Wha-ohhhhhhnnn!" Unbucking his pants getting off on hearing your sweet moans. When you press your soft ass and sloppy cunt on his face Satoru is overcoming with the need for you to smother him.

Satoru stuffs his hand in his underwear smearing his excessive pre-cum over his cockhead with slow swirls of his thumb. Slowly bucking his hips, stroking your clit faster, adding a little more pressure. Groaning as you writhe, grinding your sloppy cunt on his face, you're so close.

Pulling away, slapping your cunt with his large palm. Smack! Smack! "Awe did you want to cum?" Smack! Wailing you twist your hips away, pulling his hand away. You easily get out of the washer glaring up at him.

Pushing his underwear and pants down, your anger softens at the sight of his cock, hard and dripping pre-cum. "You're face is so pretty why wouldn't I wanna cover you in cum." Oh fuck, your words go straight to his cock and balls with a throb.

Spitting in his palm, smirking down at you, jerking off. Satoru's muscular arm flexes with each stroke, his sculpted abs tensing with his hips' steady, slow rut.

Ordering you, “Show me my pussy lil' mama n’ beg." You stand up and bend over, Satoru laughs at your eagerness, he doesn't have to see your face to know your embarrassed.

The feeling making your hesitate before you plead, "I need to cum on your face, please eat me out.” Spreading your lips apart and stuffing your fingers in.

Satoru groans, fondling his balls, stroking his cock faster. Getting off on watching you play with yourself, moaning and begging, “I wanna feel your warm, wet tongue inside me while you play with my clit." Satoru loudly sucks on his fingers.

Looking over your shoulder pleading "Please lemme sit on your face." Satoru turns off his infinity, smearing his spit on your tight asshole, slowly pumping his finger in. Smacking your ass, giving both cheeks three merciless slaps. Rubbing your soft, warm cheek with his large palm.

Stuffing two fingers deeper in your ass Satoru croons, "You have the prettiest ass and cunt, so damn messy for me lil mama, so fuckin' tight." Stretching his fingers apart to spit inside your asshole fucking it deeper into you with his fingers.

Stuffing his face into your cunt gliding his tongue into your messy cunt with an erotic needy moan. Obsessing over how you taste, the texture of your cunt squeezing his tongue.

Rubbing your clit with his thumb, fingering your ass faster, slowly curling his fingers down. Pressing on flesh between your cunt and ass, wiggling his tongue Satoru can feel how deep he is.

Pleasing with him, "Fuck me! Please fuck me toru, daddy please!”Harshly smacking your ass, grabbing his cock, standing up rubbing his cockhead against your wet slit.

Slamming himself in your wet hot cunt, spasm, clenching him tightly around him. "Fuck, you can help make me a daddy, is that what your beautiful pussy needs lil mama?" Unable to think Satoru ruts his hips at a cruel, selfish pussy bruising pace. Obsessing over your soft, wet, warm tight cunt squeezing his hard, throbbing cock.

Your lips puffier wrapping around his pale cock. The loud squelching of your messy cunt, the smacking of skin, the way your whimper, "Cum in me daddy. Wanna make you my baby daddy! Nnn you're cock feels 's good."

It’s too much! Fuck your sweet, sloppy cunt, he couldn't be…not this quickly! His cock throbs as his warm thick cum spills inside you. The pleasure is overwhelming, each stroke fucking his cum deeper makes his legs weaker.

Taunting him, "Aw you came so quickly? "s my pussy too much for ya?" Bouncing your hips, taking his overly sensitive cock in your hot cunt. Making his legs tremble, his shoulder curl in, hanging his head moaning. His warm thick cum bunches around the bottom in a thick ring.

Clenching him when Satoru whimpers. "Too much, need more. Fuck! You're pretty cunt s' perfect the way she takes my cock, so hot dripping my cum." Stepping back, kneeling giving his cock a break, and stuffing his tongue in your cum filled cunt.

Stuffing a third finger in your ass. "I'm cumming in ya again after I finish eating my dessert. How else can I be your daddy?" Gliding his large tongue in your cum dripping cunt with a loud moan.

Oreo’s m.list

[nariminsstuff]

❀ in which you and Nanami exchange emails where he asks for forgiveness slightly suggestive + features guests stars + nothing but fluff

From: nanamikento@icloud.com

Subject: Talk To Me Please

Good morning, dear,  Or rather, it would be, if my wife so much as looked in my direction this morning. Instead, I find myself writing to you like some forgotten soul behind enemy lines, using this means of communication as if I am but a mere stranger begging for a moment of your time. It is humiliating. Your refusal to hear your husband out is noted and begrudgingly endured but I forgive you (see? It is not so hard at all).  Please just answer your messages. We have a data plan for a reason.  Love, always,  Your Kento

From: ynnanami@icloud.com

Subject: Seriously?

Hello Kento,  I hope you are well.  Please refrain from contacting me via my work email. It is inappropriate and annoyingly endearing. Let me be mad in peace. Thank you.  Best wishes,  Your Wife

From: nanamikento@icloud.com

Subject: Please Forgive Me

Hello to you too, sweetheart, I must admit your response is both upsetting and encouraging. Truthfully, I wasn't expecting you to respond at all. Of course, I wish your email was more welcoming but beggars and whatnot. What must I do, my love? I have apologised. Not once or twice, but countless times. So many times now it feels like ‘I’m so sorry’ were my first words. I rose early to prepare your favourite breakfast — drove clear across the city to find the precise ingredients (you and I both know there is only one acceptable brand of jam in this household). I plated it neatly, included a smiley face, just as you like it, though, I observed, it was met with a frown, thus defeating the spirit of these things.  Your work clothes were laid out, ironed with care and to perfection, if I may say so myself. I made sure the heating was on well before you awoke, so the chill wouldn’t bother you so — I’ve seen how cold mornings test your…patience, should we say. Your lunch was packed and ready, with a handwritten note tucked inside, although I’m sure you carelessly tossed it aside in your bid to destroy my will to live on a spiritual level. It was a new recipe, by the way. I hope it suits your taste. Do let me know. Perhaps by softening your glare when you arrive home since apparently smiles are beneath you. Even last night, I relinquished the duvet entirely — though I must admit, it was less an offering and more a tactical surrender after you ripped it from my body without mercy. I woke up frozen, on the brink of pneumonia. Need I remind you, I am at a tender age?  And after all of that… You walked past me. Not a word. Not even a glance. You washed the dishes (which is, and I cannot stress this enough, my responsibility), and shoved my work clothes off the bed because — what was it? The sleeve was ‘encroaching’ upon your own and the cotton needed space because ‘husband air is toxic?’ That was particularly hurtful. Entirely uncalled for. My blazer may never recover. Still, I could take it. I could take all of it. Because I admit my fault and I recognise my need to be punished. But to leave without kissing me goodbye? That, my love, was unconscionable. A line crossed. A declaration of war. An admittance of lesser character. I am disappointed in you. Thus, I now join your unrelenting form on the S.S. Marital Displeasure. Let’s see how we fare at sea, together. Yours, unwaveringly, Kento— the husband you once swore never to abandon P.S. Dinner is on me tonight. Please let me know what time you’ll be home. P.P.S. You looked radiant this morning. Even in silence. Even in a mood. You’re still the most beautiful thing in the room.

From: ynnanami@icloud.com

Subject: Wow. Just Wow

Kento,  You infuriatingly adorable man. All those things you listed about this morning are things you do everyday. I know that was supposed to guilt trip me, but that just annoyed me more cause I get it — you’re totally perfect and handsome and tall and you smell nice. Ugh, you’re the worst. Lunch was yummy, by the way. Ten out of ten. The note, which I didn’t carelessly throw away mind you (that was very rude to assume, how dare you) telling me ‘you are loved even when you’re grumpy’ was not. I am not grumpy, Kento. I am aggrieved.  You have aggrieved me.  Also, don’t try to guilt trip me about the cover hogging. You run hot and you know we have a spare duvet in the closet. Many times now, I've begged you to take it because I know I have bad sleeping habits BUT you refused. You said, need I remind you, that you insist on sharing one to be as close to me as possible. Your words.  The work clothes thing was an accident. I didn’t mean to push it off, and I was trying to stay mad so I made up some lie. Tell your blazer I’m sorry. Tell its owner I will never forgive nor forget. You know what you did.  And I don’t want you to join my ship. We can’t both be on it. We’ll sink…damn that’s metaphorical. For your own good, get off now whilst you still can.  Lukewarm wishes,  Your Wife P.S. I’ll be home later than you, I have some things to finish P.S. There was only one other person in the room and that was you, and even then you were clearly the more beautiful one Mr. Wakes Up With A Five O’Clock Shadow And Silky Golden Locks. That pissed me off so much more. Try to be less perfect, thank you.

From: nanamikento@icloud.com

Subject: I Miss You

My dearest, I’ve read your message precisely three times and still, I’m not entirely sure whether I’ve been forgiven or sentenced. However, I feel a sense of optimism, foolish or not.  Let me begin with your opening line: ‘infuriatingly adorable’— it is not quite a compliment but I accept it with caution regardless. I am adorable and I understand that you wish I wasn’t. As soon as possible, I will find a cure. Moreover, in reference to my morning route, you’re right, of course. The tasks I listed are things I do every day. Not as some grand gesture, but because loving you — actively, attentively, without pause — is part of my daily routine. Like ironing my shirts or making my coffee. It’s muscle memory now. If I were to stop, I fear I might just malfunction and catch fire. That said, if you are aggrieved — not grumpy, as I so mistakenly suggested, please forgive me for that too— then I humbly bow to your deliverance, Lady Justice. Though I maintain that the distinction is rather blurry when you’re stomping past me with furrowed brows and lips pressed into a line sharp enough to cut marble, lips I dare say I wish I could kiss into their usual form. Regarding the duvet — yes, I recall saying that. I stand by it. Even if I must freeze to death one night beneath your siege of unconscious theft, I would still rather reach out and find you beside me than not. You will indubitably note that that was unnecessarily dark, I’m sure, and you’ll then make a comment about the phase we shall not talk about that I went through in my youth. Further, the blazer has accepted your apology. It insists you take it off me tonight. Is that too forward? You usually love when I’m forward but I worry this will only enrage you more, likely in a way that will leave me dangerously sore. Perhaps that is what I intend. I cannot tell anymore. I just miss your touch. As for the note, I didn’t assume you threw it away. I merely feared it. I know you well enough to know that even when you’re furious, you’re still gentle with the things I give you. It’s one of those things you do that melt my heart. Your ship — this solitary vessel of marital vengeance — sounds lonely. It is precisely that reason however that I must stay aboard, respectfully. With all my love, Kento – your infuriatingly tall, overly warm, occasionally smug but entirely yours husband P.S. I’ll have dinner ready by the time you’re home. P.P.S. I will attempt to be less perfect, though I make no promises. I’ve spent years mastering my five o’clock shadow, it practically comes in on its own when it senses you’re at your most vulnerable. As for my silk, golden locks, I owe that to you and your hair mask. Thank you.

From: ynnanami@icloud.com

Subject: Tempting

Kento. I’ve read your message. Twice. Once dramatically, on break. Once again, aloud, with emphasis, so the plants in my office could also judge you. And I must say... The audacity. The calm. The poetry. The charm. Ugh. Disgusting. I hate how you win arguments by being emotionally intelligent and devastatingly eloquent. Stop. Also, your blazer is so dramatic. I was always going to take it off you, that was never in question. And yes, I love when you're forward. I loved it just now. Reminds me of that time we snuck off into the janitor's closet and... Moving on. I will admit (reluctantly) that your words were very lovely, they usually are, and the image of you freezing like a noble idiot because you'd rather suffer than part from me for even a life-saving second was both tragic and romantic and exactly the kind of behaviour that makes staying mad at you basically impossible. I hate that for me. But fine. F I N E. You may stay aboard my metaphorical ship, provided you bring snacks and acknowledge that I am the captain and you’re just here for deck-swabbing privileges and forehead kisses. You’ll be handsomely rewarded ;) Love, Your Wife (Still aggrieved. But slightly less so. Like… 69% less.) P.S. If you’re trying to seduce me via dinner, it’s working. You might get that kiss. Or two. Depends how good it is.

From: ijichikiyotaka@icloud.com

Subject: Please Stop

Dear YN and Nanami Kento,  I hope you are both well.  Do forgive me for intruding me but, as Head of HR and as your friend, I feel a need to remind you both that you are liaising using your work emails which are monitored by HR. Resolving marital disputes on company hours and company mail is not recommended nor permitted. Please set this aside for when you get home. I also wish to remind you that your offices are a short distance from each other. There doesn’t seem to be a need to be communicating via emails at all. From my desk, I have been watching you two write your emails with smiles on your faces.  I suspect neither of you are mad at each other at all. So, YN, please just forgive him already. He hasn’t done much work all day, whereas your productivity has increased. We should probably hold a meeting to discuss both changes. I am concerned.  Lastly, your fight is distracting everyone. One colleague described it as ‘funny,’ another ‘sweet,’ and someone else called it ‘foreplay.’ I’m sure you understand why exactly I intervened. You are both already on two strikes. Please don't make me remind you of what exactly what happened the last two times. The company is still paying for therapy sessions for the affected employees. Do better.  Best wishes,  Ijichi Kiyotaka P.S. Why were you even mad? Did he forget an anniversary? Comment on your weight?

From: ynnanami@icloud.com

Subject: Kinda Embarrassed. No Longer Mad

Dear Kento, Did not realise the whole office was invested in this. No wonder the intern was giving me a look and Sharon from IT told me that she and her husband also fight like this to ’spice up’ their love life, and that its best when the husband gets mad too. TMI but appreciated. Are you even capable of getting mad at me? Well, anyway, you heard the man. Let’s continue this conversation at home.  And Ijichi, I know you’re reading this, you Peeping Tom. I hope you know we’re going to make sweet, dirty love tonight. All night. Bring this up to the Big Boss, I dare you. I know you haven’t forgotten the huge favour you owe me for beating Gojo up when he needlessly sent you on errands around the city. Please stand up for yourself. Do better, as you say. Kento, let’s go home together tonight. I need to apologise to your blazer as soon as possible and to catch up on kisses expeditiously. In fact, expect a knock on your office door.  Love,  Your wife

From: ynnanami@icloud.com

Subject: Didn't Notice Ijichi's P.S.

Dear Nanami, and Ijichi because you are reading these, He sat on my bunny plushie yesterday. He flattened her. I'm mad again. Hate, YN

From: nanamikento@icloud.com

Subject: Thank You, Ijichi

Dear wife and Peeping Tom colleague, You have no appreciation for the work I put in to get back into my wife's good graces. All your disclaimers about simply doing your job were clearly written in deceit since your gossiping self could not resist prying. Do not think I haven't overheard you collecting bets on why she was mad at me in the break room. Please expect Gojo's presence in your office with some new, overbearing task soon. You're welcome. Worst wishes (to Ijichi), Nanami Kento And nothing but love (to my wife), Ken

From: ynnanami@icloud.com

Subject: Don't Read This One, Ijichi

Ken, You're so hot when you're all assertive. Wanna get strike three? Preferably in your office, on your desk? Gojo can distract everyone for an hour...or two. Lust, Your Wife

From: nanamikento@icloud.com

Subject: Don't Keep Me Waiting

Sweetheart, Door's open.

From: ijichikiyotaka@icloud.com

Subject: I Am Not A Peeping Tom

I hate you both and you deserve each other. Regrettably, Ijichi Kiyotaka

From: thehonouredone@icloud.com

Subject: Freakyyyy

Dear Nanami, YN, and my favourite Peeping Tom, This is what happens in the office? Wow, maybe I should get a desk job (lol that's probably what Nanami's getting right now, lucky guy) Can't believe I was slaving away, keeping the world safe, and you two were slacking off and getting it on. I'm expecting a baby Nanami soon. Make me the godfather pls pls pls Stay sexy, The Strongest P.S. Can I watch? I’m kidding…unless?

[nariminsstuff]

suguru geto’s guide to cunnilingus ft. cuck gojo. minors DNI.

satoru gojo was a good boyfriend. a great boyfriend even.

while your girlfriends were trying (and failing) to convince theirs to do the bare minimum, your boyfriend was off buying a purse you’d mentioned once in passing. spending a couple grand daily without so much as batting an eye.

satoru brought over an extra coffee and your favorite pastry whenever you were pulling a particularly long studying sesh in the school library. there was hardly anything that went unnoticed.

but there was only problem in your relationship.

satoru gojo could not make you cum to save his own life.

piles and piles of books all focused around anatomy and female pleasure were stacked on his bookcase next to his neat lil’ collection of comics. he’d read them multiple times—to the point where he could probably recite each one back to front and front to back.

and still, he couldn’t manage to put what he’d read into action. every time he slid your panties down, salivating just at the sight of your glistening folds (after almost thirty minutes of foreplay), he froze.

his hands grew clammy, sweat beaded up on his forehead like he’d just ran a marathon, and his tongue started to feel like lead. everything he read left his mind and he ended up lapping at your cunt like a desperate dog until you pulled him off with a small, reassuring smile.

and now, you weren’t even entertaining the idea. “‘toru, it’s fine. i’ll just get my vibe to help me out or something,” you told him before he could even kneel down. satoru felt his heart drop to his ass.

satoru dropped back on his knees, staring at you like you’d offended him and his bloodline in one go. “you’re seriously gonna let a clanker-” he spat out the word with such disdain before continuing with his rant, “-into our bedroom? into our safe space and abode? i mean, seriously, think about the environment and the battery power required to power that thing. soon enough you’ll replace me with a robot and-”

you stopped him before he could continue with his rambling, “do you have a better idea then?”

“actually yeah, give me a second.” before you could respond, he darted off. locking himself in the bathroom and pulling his phone out like it was urgent.

it was.

his fingers flew across the screen, dialing the only number other than yours he had memorized by now.

he didn’t give the other man a chance to speak, immediately talking like he was recruiting geto for the military. “suguru i need your help. i feel like she’s about to dump my ass.”

a yawn left the other man’s lips, “okay woah, slow down,” the sound of sheets rustling sounded next like he’d just woken up, “why do you think she’s gonna break up with you?”

“because i don’t know how eat pussy!” satoru whined, louder than he intended to. “can you come over and teach me, pleaseee? i’ll pay you.”

“teach you how?”

that was surprisingly.. less resistance than gojo was expecting. “can you eat out my girlfriend?” he knew how ridiculous it sounded, but he was desperate. “i’ll learn by watching you.”

the line went silent, suguru seemingly considering the offer for a couple seconds. “and your girlfriend’s okay with all this?”

“…..yeah.”

“i’ll be right over in twenty then.”

twenty minutes later on the dot, suguru was settling in between your thighs, pulling your legs to dangle over his broad shoulders. the little ‘s’ anklet satoru had got you dangled almost mockingly. looking up at you before he asked, “this okay with you?”

you turned to look over at satoru, over in the cuck chair in the ‘corner of shame’ as he so called it, but suguru quickly brought your attention back to him, gently biting on your inner thigh. “i’m asking you. i’m not asking your idiot of a boyfriend. is this okay?”

“yeah, it’s okay,” you responded almost immediately, feeling a shiver run down your spine as suguru crawled up, tilting your chin up. his kiss wasn’t desperate like satoru’s were, but it was still hungry. his tongue traced the seam of your lower lip before he coaxed your mouth open, tasting you like you were a divine fruit.

one of suguru’s hands moved down, pushing your lace panties to the side with ease. “oh f-fuck,” you whined into his mouth, hips bucking up into his fingers as he started to rub your folds, spreading your slick like jelly on bread.

“there we-” suguru murmured, pushing two fingers inside of your dripping cunt, “-go. took it so well for me, just relax,” he all but cooed in your ear, fingers moving in a torturous pace as he thrust them in and out. in and out, slow and steady.

admittedly, it was a little hard to relax when your boyfriend’s big blue orbs were staring at what seemed to be your soul while he dutifully took notes. scribbling down what exactly had you making the most noise, what you seemed to enjoy that he didn’t do.

but you leaned back, allowing yourself to get lost in suguru.

suguru dropped back to where he was once before and where he belonged: face to face with your cunt. but he ignored your desperate attempts of bucking your pussy in his face, choosing to start off on your inner thigh. each brush of his lips, each kiss, felt like a mocking tease the more he avoided touching where you wanted.

“please,” you spoke up. suguru’s eyes darted over to yours, a shit-eating smile on his face as he leaned forward. breath hitting your cunt, your walls clenching at nothing.

“please, what?”

“please eat me out, i need it, need you, please,” you babbled despite the chuckle that escaped the man’s throat. satoru wrote that down enthusiastically—you’d never begged for him like this. if anything, you asked for him to stop.

suguru give your thigh one last teasing bite before his tongue swiped across your folds, your slick overwhelming his taste buds. “you’re mmmf, missing out toru. she tastes like heaven.”

of course, satoru knew that. a pathetic whine left his lips as he watched suguru’s eyes practically roll back with each taste, eyes practically hyper focused on everything the man was doing. suguru spread your legs even wider, the tip of his tongue flicking against your entrance before he delved in.

“o-oh fuck, sugu!” a loud moan left your lips, fingers digging into his scalp as he started to eat you out like a man starving. saliva and slick dribbled down from his lips to his chin, the tip of his nose prodding against your throbbing clit.

satoru gojo didn’t bother even trying to keep up with his notes.

his notepad was left discarded, cock straining against the thin material of his digimon boxers. satoru didn’t free himself though, he didn’t deserve it. but he did palm himself through his sweatpants, giving himself just the slightest bit of pressure to feel some sort of relief.

“taste so good, such a shame satoru can’t make you cum,” suguru let out a muffled groan against your cunt, each one sending a vibration shooting up your spine. his lips latched onto your swollen clit, sucking and swirling his tongue against the sensitive bud while his fingers thrusted in you once more.

“don’t stop, fuck- sugu, fuck, gonna cum, gonna cum.” you sounded so pretty when you weren’t faking your orgasm. your back arched off the bed, toes curling and desperate babbles left your mouth—all in desperation to cum.

“there we go, take what you deserve,” suguru cooed, your orgasm washing over you like a wave almost instantly. you soaked his lips and chin, and yet, you laid back against the bed with a satisfied sigh.

suguru got up from his spot, walking over to the cuck chair. he tilted satoru’s chin, immediately met with the sight of the flustered man before he leaned in. being so generous as to give him the divine taste, spit dripping down satoru’s skin the messier the exchange got. satoru let out a moan, fingers digging into the man’s shoulder to pull him impossibly closer.

and just as quickly as it’d started, the raven haired man pulled away. “alright, hope that helps,” suguru announced before leaving, the door slamming shut behind him. leaving you panting and clenching the bedsheets like it was nothing.

and leaving gojo unsure if the cum dripping onto his underwear was from the sight of you being pleasured or from being kissed by his best friend.

@riveredmoon thank you for the clanker bit idea <3

[nariminsstuff]

A Siren's Cadence || S. Geto ||

TAGS: Ancient Greece AU, Greek Mythology, smut, friends with benefits, humor, friends to lovers, fantasy, wc 7k //pairing: Poseidon!Geto x Amphitrite!Reader x Nerites!Gojo

You fucked up. Badly.  Not only did you address the king incorrectly. Twice. But you also touched him, threw sand at him, and hit him.  And worst of all, you fucking kissed him.

WARNINGS: MDNI, explicit smut, threesome, oral (f!receiving), double penetration, pet names (sprat, which is a small fish, like a minnow), p in v, they're in a grotto, stepcest if you squint really, really, really hard, Reader and Gojo can both grow tails and scales, but they have their legs for most of this, porn with plot

A/N: First thing to note, if you've read Malevolence in Spring, please know that this is in no way connected to that. The characters are playing different gods here. Second, I feel like a little context is needed if you're unfamiliar with Poseidon's myth. He's married to Amphitrite, but he has a lover, Nerites, who is his charioteer and Amphitrite's brother. However, that's not the case here, as you'll see below.

Your existence, in its aggregated sloven sum, had always been undesired in every sense of that word. Your birth was a mistake–you were your father’s bastard child, which left you to bear the brunt of your parents’ poorly concealed disdain and take their passive-aggressive commentary with a smile. This smile of yours was perfect; you’d truly mastered the art of portraying felicity. Even when the hauteur your parents had was passed down to your sisters for them to wield against you, even having to hear them address you with the utmost disdain, you managed a faultless smile.

Of course, there was one sibling who never took a superior tone with you, for he knew exactly what you experienced day in and day out. While not a bastard like you, he didn’t share the same father as the rest of you, and that was the sole reason he was hated by your sisters. To the world, you were the Nereids, the fifty children to The Old Man of the Sea and an Oceanid, but on the inside, the Nereids consisted of forty-nine daughters and a hated outcast with an extra sibling on the side.

The extra sibling on the side had been nothing but a lingering presence while growing up. You and Satoru weren’t close, but you didn’t hate one another, and it was the lack of hatred that made you grow somewhat comfortable with him. Unfortunately, that didn’t last, and five years into your youth, Satoru left the home for good.

Life continued to be bland underneath this forced smile, the slight pleasantry that Satoru left behind numbed, and you were left to grow. You had everyone convinced that your feelings were truly impenetrable–that assuredness even extended to yourself. For years, you wore this armor with pride and rested easy knowing that nothing could hurt you. This shield of yours was a force to be reckoned with, for there was nothing that could make it crack.

That is, until it was put up against him.

You didn’t know his name the day you met, but with the oddest sense of connection you had upon seeing him, you weren’t sure that you even needed to know it. You felt like you had him memorized to the point that learning his name seemed so unnecessary. Little did you know, his name, in fact, was highly necessary if you were to address him with respect like you were supposed to. 

However, he didn’t give it to you, and you didn’t ask what it was.

* * * * *

Your face broke the surface of the dark ocean, and just like that, the tension that was coiling tight along your shoulders just relaxed, and for the first time in days, you were able to breathe easily. 

The black waves crashed against one another, seeming a bit rowdy tonight, but they created a melody that was perfect for decompressing after listening to your parents berate you for hours. If you were being honest, you tuned them out the second the first condescending remark hit your ears. And when it felt like their rant was finally drawing to a close, you slipped away so you could come to the surface. 

You followed the rough current to the shore, humming all the way to drown out the lingering voices of your mother and father. As soon as your fingers traced along the wet sand, you began pulling yourself out of the water. 

When the tide could only graze the very tip of your tail, you twisted yourself onto your back and collapsed. Dragging yourself ashore was always a feat, but the feeling of land made it all worth it. 

The night sky was peppered with twinkling stars, and the moon looked so bright. To pair it with the gentle breeze ricocheting off the ocean and the sound of the waves felt like the greatest reprieve. Nothing could ruin this feeling. 

Except for maybe one thing: company. With your eyes closed, you didn’t see him approach, and didn’t even know he was there until he spoke up. 

“Sprats like you aren’t supposed to come out of the water, you know,” the man tutted, kicking up a bit of sand over your tail. “Pretty sure that’s an order from the king.”

Your eyes snapped open to see him standing above you with a small smirk on his mouth. His long black hair caught the wind, creating a tousled look that fell over his dark purple eyes. They were quite beautiful–one might compare them to some sort of coral if they were feeling up to it; however, you were not. Rather than humoring him, you closed your eyes again and sprawled out on the sand, stretching out your arms and flipping the end of your tail to toss the sand off.

“Leave me be. I’m relaxing.”

“No can do. You’re going to dry out and suffocate.” 

Your panic set in when you felt his warm hands latch onto your tail as he tried to drag you to the water.

“Hey!” you gasped, writhing against his pull, but it seemed useless. “Let me go, you fiend!”

He seemed unbothered as he continued to drag you through the sand. Your fingers dug into the granules below you to give you some traction, but it meant nothing. 

He was too strong. 

“Relax. I’m not going to hurt you,” he snickered, and pulled you in until the waves hitting the beach were rushing over your lower back. He dropped his hold on you, letting your tail hit the water with a resounding slap! The salty sea splashed both of you as he chuckled, taking a moment to rake his eyes over your form. “Just want to make sure you don’t accidentally beach yourself-”

“I’m not incompetent! I was doing just fine, thank you!”

“Now you’re doing better, and you’re welcome!” He gave a slight bow. “Though you should probably swim home soon. Don’t want your king to find out, do you?”

Through gritted teeth, you growled, “I couldn’t give two shits what the king thinks! And why do you care? It’s not your king who gave an order.”

“Oh? What makes you think our kings aren’t the same?”

You eyed him incredulously and motioned toward his legs. “You’re clearly from the surface with your two feet. And you said ‘your king’ when you offered me your unsolicited advice. The god of the sky is your king, is he not?”

“He is not,” he chirped, “And neither is the sea king.”

You cocked a brow, glancing over his towering form to deduce his origin. “Well, you don’t look like you’re from the underworld.”

“Wonderful observation, sprat-”

“Don’t call me that,” you hissed, “Do you not claim a king, then?”

“Mm, nope.”

“Then where are you from?”

“My, so many questions from someone who looks at me like I’m a monster for saving her life-”

“That’s because you didn’t save my life, you fool! I was being careful, I know my limit for air. I frequent the banks of this beach.”

His eyes narrowed. “That so?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“So ready to go against your king’s order? The Capitol should label you a treasonist-”

You raised your webbed hand to stop him. “Please. This order from the king is ridiculous; hardly anyone follows it. And it's not like the old miser would find out anyway. No one has seen his face in years–he’s been a shut-in for longer than I’ve been alive.”

“Which is?”

“Eighteen years–and even if I did get caught, there’s hardly anything he’d do about it.”

He raised both brows in surprise, a grin quirking onto his face. “And why’s that?” 

“My parents rank high in social standings.” You were never one to flaunt your status, and gods know it would do very little to keep you out of trouble where it really mattered–that being your parents–but this man was a stranger who was growing increasingly comfortable being in your personal space. “My father sits just below the crown. He rules over the sea’s bounty of fish.”

“The Old Man of the Sea,” the man hummed in realization, nodding as he mumbled, “he’s a good ally to the crown.”

“Yes, he is. So, as you can see, there’s little the king would do to me, lest he wishes to go against my father’s compliance.”

The man crouched beside you, not swaying at all as the waves crashed against his knee. Your proximity was too close for your liking, but before you could shuffle away, his finger met the underside of your chin and raised your gaze to meet his own.

“You speak a lot about your father, yet not a word about your mother. The Oceanid is a wonderful ally to the crown, too.” Your eyes widened as you reeled back from his touch, shocked to hear that he knew so much about the topic of your family. Sure, your stepmother was a good ally to the crown, but she was not your mother. “Their children can also be considered allies, right? The Nereids are a group of very beautiful women.”

Something was off with his tone. So much so that you found yourself recoiling away from it. 

“You’ve met them, I take it?”

“A few. Enough to know they all resemble their mother in some way, yet you do not, which I find rather odd. But there is this rumor I’ve heard that The Old Man has a bastard. I take it that’s you?”

Your heart sank as you grimly nodded. 

“Don’t worry. I won’t hold that against you. It’s not your fault your father can’t hold his liquor around some hetaera.” The look of deflation must’ve been evident on your face because the man cracked a smile and pushed himself to his feet. “Can’t believe I found thee Nereidian outcast. I feel like I should receive a prize–they make you seem like a myth, you know?”

“Yes, well, I’m not my father’s proudest achievement, so he tends to keep my origins a secret.”

“Still think he’d protect you against the king’s wrath if he finds out you’ve been breaking a rule?” When your expression only grew dimmer, his happened to brighten. “I suppose your secret is safe with me, then. Also, if you were a Nereid, you should have led with that. I wouldn’t have pushed you back into the water.”

Despite your dulled confidence, you grew rather confused. Especially when he started to drag you out of the water again. 

“What are you doing?!” you exclaimed, once again fighting against him in a useless battle. His arms had coiled around your midsection tightly, holding your back against his chest.

“Getting you some legs,” he quipped, continuing his ascent on the beach. Your tail flipped against the sand as your webbed hands clawed at his wrists.

“This is too far! The sand is too dry, I won’t be able to pull myself back-”

“You don’t need to pull yourself back when you can walk back.” 

“Walk?! Are you crazy! I have a tail–I can’t just grow legs!”

His chest rumbled with laughter as he leaned down to say, “Oh, but you can. The Old Man never taught you this?” He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “Your scales are connected with the tide.”

“What?! No, no! That–let me go! You’re going to kill me!” You slammed your fists against his arms. 

“No, I’m not-”

“I’m suffocating already! Take me back, take me back!”

The man came to a stop as one of his hands wrapped around your jaw. He turned your head to look at him over your shoulder. 

“Would you just trust me?”

“Absolutely not!” He groaned and dropped his hand to continue dragging you away. “I don’t know you!”

“But I know you, and I know how your body works,” he huffed before dragging you a few more feet onto the beach before dropping you down. You shook your head, heaving in gulps of air that were killing you. “Hey, don’t start flopping around like a fish out of water. You’re being dramatic.”

“Dying…I’m dying-” you choked, clutching your chest.

“Oh, dear gods.” He knelt beside you, placing his hand on your chest. “You aren’t dying. You’re one of the Nereids, this is what you’re meant for, okay. You can grow legs.”

“No, no, I cannot!”

“Yes, you can. You just need to be far enough away from the ocean for your scales to begin to shed.” You felt his hand graze up your drying tail before he raised it in front of your face, showing you the colorful scales that covered his palm. “See. They just fall right off.”

The sight of it looked wrong. It left you startled.

Propping yourself up on your elbows, you looked down at your tail as the man gently brushed the dried scales away, revealing a set of legs underneath. At your feet, he peeled the papery-thin material that used to be your fin away, showing you a pair of feet beneath. 

“How did–what is– you just…” 

He snorted at your stuttering and moved his palms up your legs, brushing away the scales on your knees, because you had knees now. Your fingers were no longer webbed together either. You used them to latch onto his wrist to stop him. “I don’t understand.”

“As I said, your scales are connected to the ocean. You’re supposed to pull yourself out of the water at high tide, wait for it to recede back into the ocean, and the distance between you and the water will cause your scales to fall off. But you’re lucky and had me to pull you out far enough that you didn’t have to wait for low tide.”

Still at a loss for words, all you could do was watch him as he dusted them away, moving up your legs until he faltered and quickly removed his hands. You looked down to see that he’d stopped below your hips as he sat back in the sand. 

“You should do the rest.”

So, you did. You brushed them all away until you had two whole legs, no tail in sight. As you wiggled your feet around, you couldn’t help the giggles that bubbled out of you. “How did you know I could do that?”

“Everyone knows the Nereids have this ability. It’s crucial for your role. Your father really never told you?”

“No, he likes to keep me away from everything. Stows me away at home, leaving me to do whatever I please as long as I don’t show my face to the folk around the sea. But now I have these, I’m free to wander the surface! Oh, gods, this is so neat!”

When you tried to stand to test them out, your foot sank into the sand, and all you could do was stumble until he wrapped an arm around your waist to steady you. 

“You should probably learn to use them before you go off exploring the surface.”

“Well, teach me. Right now.”

“I think you’ve learned enough tonight. Why don’t you swim home? It’s late.”

Your excitement started to deplete. “No! Please, please teach me! Please-”

“Alright, I will, but not tonight. Now, go.”

“But… how?” You looked down at your feet. “My tail is gone.”

“It’s just like your legs. Once you’re fully submerged and the water saturates your skin, your tail will return to you.”

Sounds easy enough.

He walked you down to the water, the waves lapping at your bare feet, when you stopped to ask him another question. “Do you have a tail?”

“No, but I grow scales like you.”

You raised a brow. “So, you do belong to the sea.”

He bit back a smile, averting his eyes. “You could say that.”

“And King Suguru isn’t your king?”

Snickering, he said, “You could say that, too.”

“I don’t understand.” You shook your head, eyeing his body for a clue. 

“That’s okay…” he trailed off, prompting you to give him your name, which you did. He hummed over it, feeling it on his tongue.

“And what’s your name?” you asked.

His eyes slid back up to yours, his smile never wavering. “Tell you what, if you still haven’t figured it out by tomorrow, I’ll tell you when we meet up, okay?”

“Why can’t you just tell me now?”

He shrugged. “I just want to see how smart you are.”

You frowned, muttering, “That’s it?”

“No, but if I tell you now, you’re going to want to apologize and grovel on your hands and knees, and I’m already late to meet up with someone.”

The scoff was inevitable. “Apologize and grovel? Now, why would I do that? Are you someone important?”

And as soon as you said it, pieces started snapping together, painting the picture of just who you had been talking to this evening. He caught the realization in your eyes and then sighed, watching as you slapped a hand over your mouth. 

“Oh, gods, you’re… Suguru,” you sputtered behind your hand.

“Well, King Suguru to you.”

You felt like you were on the verge of passing out. 

What have you done? He was going to be so pissed!

“Please, don’t tell my father!” you exclaimed, grabbing onto his hands as if to plead with him. “I take back everything I said about not giving a shit about what you say! Just don’t tell him, please!”

He seemed taken aback, but said, “Okay, I won’t.”

You let out a huge breath of relief and dropped his wrists to bring your hands to the sides of his face. Without warning, you pulled him in closer and placed a wet kiss on his cheek before releasing him altogether. 

“Thank you, Suguru. You’re the best.”

You stepped away from him, about to dive into the water, when you heard him mumble behind you, “...King Suguru…to you,” but you were submerged before you could respond.

It was only when you were halfway back home that you realized the severity of your situation, and not the one with your father if he found out what happened. 

No, you fucked up. 

Badly. 

Not only did you address the king incorrectly twice, but you also touched him, threw sand at him, and hit him. 

And worst of all, you fucking kissed him.

* * * * *

The next day, you made it to the beach early to rid yourself of your tail before Suguru could arrive. Then, you waited for him on your knees, and when you finally saw him approaching in the night, you bowed low until your forehead hit the sand. 

However, rather than the shouting and promises of your demise that you’d expected, you heard his laughter. You didn’t dare to raise your head, not until he said to.

When he sounded like he was right in front of you, he groaned playfully, “Oh, gods. Stop it.” 

“But I disrespected you, and I need to apologize. I must!”

He sighed, “Alright. Let’s hear it then.”

Without waiting, you announced, “I am so sorry!”

A beat of silence passed between you before he asked, “Is that it?”

“Mhm.”

He snickered, “Okay, you’ve been forgiven. Now get up and put these on.” You felt some type of cloth hit your bare back before you could sit up properly. You pulled them into your lap to look at them. 

“You’re giving me clothes?”

“Well, I’m not about to grope you for a couple of hours while you learn to walk. Now, hurry up.”

It actually didn’t take as much practice as you thought it might to learn how to walk. You grasped the gist of it pretty quickly, and before an hour had passed, you were freely walking beside Suguru on the beach. You tugged at the garment that was draped loosely around your shoulders and groaned when the wind caught it again, twisting it all over the place. 

“These garments you wear on the surface are stupid. They’re such a hindrance. I want to walk without something wrapped around my legs–I wanted rid of my tail for a reason, Suguru, and here you are, forcing me to have another one.”

“King Suguru,” he subtly corrected you. 

“I know, I know. I heard you the first time,” you scoffed before finally having enough of the clothing. Without hesitation, you pulled it off and allowed the wind to take it since it seemed to want it so badly. You watched it go, letting the wind carry it out to sea, and when it disappeared from your sight, you felt yourself smile before turning back to Suguru, who looked less than amused. “What? I told you I didn’t like it.”

“You can’t walk around bare on the surface. You’ll give people the wrong idea.”

“What wrong idea?” you asked, looking up at him. 

He seemed to hesitate before he answered, “That you’re a whore.”

You brushed him off. “I don’t even know what that is. Besides, we don’t wear clothes in the ocean, my king. You should know that.”

“Well, we’re on the surface right now, sprat. They wear clothes here. It’s customary to cover your… parts.”

You glanced down at yourself. “You mean my breasts? Yours are out right now. I bet you have no intention of covering them, do you?”

“I don’t have breasts. And it’s not just them that you need to cover. It’s what lies between your legs, too.”

“And what’s that?” you questioned, coming to a stop so you could look between your legs. Just before you could touch yourself there, Suguru latched onto your wrist and pulled your hand away. 

“Don’t inspect yourself in front of other people!”

“Why not? It’s just my body-”

“It’s improper!”

And that was the last of that conversation. 

The next few times you met with Suguru, he always brought you clothing and made you wear it. After a while, you grew used to the feeling of it and never complained about it again. 

You met every night for months before he suggested meeting at an earlier time. 

The day that you made it to the beach just as the sun began to sink below the horizon was when you remembered that other people inhabited the surface.

Standing on the beach with Suguru was another man, one who looked strikingly familiar. 

It made you angry.

Neither of them was really paying attention as you brushed off your scales; instead, they opted to talk amongst themselves. In Suguru’s hands were your clothes for the evening, which he dropped onto the sand next to you while continuing to entertain this stranger. 

You discarded the clothing and roughly pushed between their bodies to stand in front of him with a deep, seething scowl on your face. 

“Satoru,” you hissed, pushing at his shoulders. 

“Woah, hey,” Suguru began, sliding his arm around your waist to pull you away from the very shocked Satoru. 

His bright blue eyes were glued to you, showing off how his brain was working hard to figure out who exactly you were. As the other tried desperately to pull you away while being as gentle as possible, you asked the question you’d been dying to know the answer to for thirteen years. 

“Why did you leave me?”

Satoru’s frown grew deeper as he shook his head. “I apologize, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You froze in Suguru’s hold, now feeling as though you were a bit crazy. How could this not be Satoru? It was the same white hair and blue eyes that you remembered from your youth–there’s no way this wasn’t him. 

“You… you don’t remember me?”

A small smile quirked onto his mouth. “Can’t say that I do-”

You gave him your name, adding, “The Old Man of the Sea is my father.”

Acknowledgment gleamed in his eyes, but the scowl on his mouth held all the disdain you knew was directed toward the mention of your father. 

“You know, The Old Man has fifty daughters, so-”

“But he only has one bastard.”

Slowly, his face lit up with recognition, and it gave you a bit of hope. “That’s right, I vaguely remember his bastard. I think you were the only one I could tolerate for more than a few minutes.”

Enthusiastically, you nodded your head. “Yes!”

“Forgive me for not making the connection sooner, but you do look… different than what I can remember, which isn’t a lot in the first place. But I do remember you having a tail instead of these legs.”

“Yes,” Suguru hissed, pulling you away from Satoru entirely now that you had stopped fighting against him. “These very bare legs. What have I said about clothing?”

You brushed him off. “It’s just Satoru. He knows I’m not whore, or whatever you called it before–hey!” You landed in the sand when Suguru pushed you down. “You’re such an ass.” 

In response, he only flipped sand at you with his foot. 

From that moment on, the three of you became really good friends. Suguru would always come to see you on the beach in the evenings, and sometimes he’d bring Satoru with him. 

There were even a couple of times that just Satoru came to see you, too. The two of you never spoke of your childhood when you would spend time together, and you couldn’t say that it upset you. 

Your time on the surface was a reprieve away from home, and you treated it as such. 

Even four years later. 

* * * * *

“Do you think the town is going to notice?” you asked, looking between Satoru and Suguru as the beached ship continued to burn in front of you. 

“Notice that their supplies for this month have been burned to a crisp on their one and only ship?” Satoru questioned, scornfully adding, “Oh, they are definitely going to notice.”

A loud crashing wave broke the sound of your conversation, garnering your attention to see Suguru guiding the ocean waves to the burning ship. The flames hissed as they were extinguished by the sea, which instantly quelled your nerves. 

“He’s putting out the fire,” you sighed, nudging Satoru with your elbow, as if he couldn’t see Suguru doing that very thing. He only scoffed and batted away your hands.

“Yes, putting out the fire,” Suguru quipped, just in time to raise a bigger wave from the ocean, one that enveloped the ship wreckage completely. When the waves receded, the ship went with it. “And taking what’s left to sea.”

When he was finished, he turned to see you and Satoru with your mouths hanging open. 

“What?” Suguru asked innocently.

“Why did you do that?”

“If the townsfolk saw the wreckage, they’d think it was my fault and demand a new ship. I control the ocean, remember? And the ocean controls everything that’s in it; therefore, I control the ships.” When he took in your still shocked faces, he rolled his eyes and pointed to you. “It’s your fault-”

You gasped, “Not entirely! You thought it would be a fun idea to climb the ship and sail it ashore.”

“And it all would have been fine if you hadn’t made a big deal about the fireworks onboard, which set the ship on fire, might I add.”

“But you crashed it!”

“Because of you and those damn fireworks!”

“Hey, guys!” Satoru interrupted, pulling you away from one another. “Please tell me someone remembered to untie the captain and his men before Suguru decided to sink the ship.”

With that reminder, your hand slapped over your mouth as you looked to Suguru with wide eyes. You watched him deflate as he grumbled, “That was your only job!”

“I forgot! I didn’t anticipate crashing the ship and setting it on fire!” For a moment, you were subject to their scrutinizing stares, your eyes flicking between the two of them. Unable to handle the blame for all of it anymore, you gestured toward Suguru. “Must I remind you both that it was his idea to steal the ship and then sink it?!”

“Someone is going to have to go down there and get them,” Satoru puffed, crossing his arms, looking at Suguru. “It’s not going to be me. I had to save the last victims of one of your bright ideas-”

You raised your hand to cut him off. “Excuse me, but tipping that last ship was your idea.” You poked Satoru in the chest to get your point across. “It was only fair that you had to save them, and it’s only fair that Suguru has to save these guys this time.” 

The two of them exchanged knowing glances before Satoru subtly added, “And what about all of your fun ideas that have left humans stranded in the ocean that Suguru and I had to save?”

You averted your gaze to shield them from the guilty look in your eyes. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“Right,” Satoru hummed, “Maybe you should save them this time. You are a Nereid, after all. This is sort of your purpose.”

Suguru nodded. “He’s right, sprat. You’re supposed to help protect the sailors and fishermen, not let them drown.”

Seeing no way around your duties, you groaned, “I hate you both,” and began peeling your clothing off, paying no mind to the burns their stares left on your skin. You balled up your dress and shoved it into Suguru’s chest hard when you saw the smirk on his mouth. 

“We’ll wait for you in the grotto.”

You mocked his words under your breath, making the two of them snicker while you stormed off toward the ocean.

After locating the captain and his men, you dragged them as far onto the beach as you could. Since you were now bound by your tail, you couldn’t exactly take them too far out of the water, but at least they were now able to breathe, which you made sure each of them was doing before taking off in the pitch black sea again. 

You entered the grotto through the ocean and navigated through the cave until you came to the usual spot your trio would hang out in the evenings. It was a serene place to be, where the silence was consumed by the soft lapping of the ocean waves against the outer grotto rocks, and the light was minimal, only coming from the glowing algae. You were happy that the only ones who knew of this place were you and your two friends.

The two of them were already lounging on the smooth rock edge, speaking to each other in a low tone that you couldn’t hear. They were already close, almost pressed against one another completely, while they laughed at whatever joke came out of Satoru’s mouth. When they noticed your entrance, they broke from their conversation to address the words that were already spilling out of your mouth.

“You know what I was thinking on the way back? That captain is so going to tell the Capitol that his ship was stolen by three pirates, and then you, Suguru, will owe them another ship.” Swimming to the edge where they sat, you raised your hands toward them both, a silent signal to pull you out of the water, which they did. “We should have let them drown. To save yourself the money. And exposure to the public.”

As Suguru situated you in his arms to carry you away from the waters edge, he said, “It’s not about the money, more than it is the public exposure, but having the public think I allowed the sea to take the lives of some surface-dwellers would be worse than just destroying their ship.”

He placed you down on the makeshift lounging area you’d created for the times you’d come to the grotto. Now that you were far enough away from the water, your scales began to recede.

“I don’t understand why you don’t just make an appearance and tell them you’re not the caring king everyone assumes you to be. Maybe then it would relieve a bit of pressure off your shoulders.”

He bristled at your jab, which had been nothing but a joke, as he mumbled, “I’m a caring king, thank you.”

“Mhm,” you playfully hummed, brushing off the sparkly flecks of your dried scales on the front of your thighs until they disintegrated into nothing. 

“Yeah, you really showed your care by washing their ship to sea,” Satoru taunted, taking his place beside you when he noticed you were starting to struggle getting off the scales that were stuck to the backs of your legs. His hand took over the motion for you, brushing off what you couldn’t see. “I’m sure the surface-dwellers will thank you.” 

Suguru eyed your position, seeing that you were lying on your side with Satoru behind you, brushing his palm up and down the back of your upper thighs. 

It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary; both of the men were very touchy-feely with you–more so Satoru than Suguru, but you’d been groped by them both, nonetheless. In fact, they had been more than just touchy-feely with you before–more than friends ever should be together.

Suguru cleared his throat, stare flicking to the man behind you to say, “I don’t like it when you both band together like this.”

“No?” he questioned coyly, to which Suguru shook his head, not finding Satoru’s attitude all that amusing. Resting his head in the crook of your neck, he tutted at Suguru and leaned down to murmur against your skin, “The king is uncaring, and he’s a liar.”

The vibration of his voice against your neck sent shivers across your entire body. Subtly, you leaned your head back, resting it against Satoru’s shoulder to bare more of your skin to him. Per usual, he noticed and skimmed his lips over your pulse while he brushed away the remaining flecks of your scales that still covered your thighs. 

“I’m not a liar,” Suguru scoffed, though his voice was trailing as he watched Satoru kiss up the column of your throat. “It’s annoying.”

“Hm,” the other hummed, not buying Suguru’s lies, and moved his lips to your ear to ask, “You like it when we get together like this, don’t you?”

When you nodded, grinning, Suguru rolled his eyes. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” he chided, moving forward until his hand was trailing up and down your waist, taking a moment to stop and dig his fingers into the plush of your hip. “It’s not nice to tease your king; it’s a punishable offense, you know?”

“Is it?” you questioned, not threatened in the slightest. 

The number of times Suguru has tried to use his title to his advantage with both you and Satoru was too many to count, but it never worked out in his favor. For a king, he was a major pushover, and with two consorts who loved pushing buttons, Suguru would never persevere. You and Satoru would make sure of it.

“And what’s the punishment for such a terrible crime, my king?” you asked, a teasing lilt to your tone. Like always, he feigned a look of disapproval, but you knew he ate it up every time. 

“You both are insufferable,” he grumbled and shoved your shoulder until you were forced up against Satoru’s chest, who then rolled onto his back to drag you over top of him.

He held you up with his hands on your waist while Suguru moved between your legs, spreading them apart to get closer. Your hands moved behind you to press into Satoru’s chest and hold yourself up. It was a position all three of you had taken countless times before, but the novelty of it had never worn off–this one was your favorite.

Abandoning his hold on your waist, Satoru pulled down his pants enough for his cock to spring free. You reached down between your legs, wrapping your fingers around him to guide his tip toward your pussy. From the few minutes of touching from before, there wasn’t much to prep before you could take him. 

As soon as he was lined up with your entrance, he lowered you down until his tip was nestled right against your cervix–the tightness of it making both of you exhale some kind of shaky breath. And that’s where you both stopped to wait for your counterpart to join in. Because taking one of their cocks was never enough for you; you needed both. At the same time.

However, rather than sliding inside, your friend moved down until he was resting on his stomach, his face mere inches away from your pussy. You cocked a brow, glancing down at him to ask, “Are you just watching this time?”

The hand Satoru had on your waist cinched in around your belly to hold you steady while he sat up until his chest was pressed against your back. He grabbed your arm and wrapped it around the back of his neck so he could see between your legs, too. When he saw Suguru staring up at you both, he huffed out a whine, his face leaning against your shoulder to moan, “You both are too pretty. I can’t take it.”

“What are you doing?” you asked, tilting your head and reaching down to card your fingers through the roots of his hair, hoping that would be enough to pull him out of whatever reverie he was in. Giving his strands a gentle tug, he finally moved, but rather than sliding up your body, his mouth met your pussy instead. A garbled gasp slithered past your lips.

Oral was not a new concept to you–it was actually the very first thing they showed you the day the sexual tension of your trio became too much–but oral, while also being fucked was certainly new.

You felt Satoru’s moan vibrate against your skin as he slowly began to move his hips, inching and teasing his cock inside of you, all while Suguru’s warm tongue licked stripes up and down your slit. His palms slid up your inner thighs, holding them apart as he moved in closer. Not only did your breathing grow ragged, so did Satoru’s, and you could feel it brushing over your skin. 

When Suguru dragged his tongue lower to flick over the bottom of Satoru’s cock as he languidly thrust into you, your breathing hitched at the same time Satoru’s did–even more when he pressed his lips to the area and sucked on it. The man behind you exhaled a shaky breath when Suguru lapped over the sensitive skin with his tongue, trailing it up to your clit.

While you wanted nothing more than to buck your hips into Suguru’s mouth, the grip Satoru had on your body was making the difficult. The best you could manage was grabbing onto Suguru’s hair to drag him closer. You caught a smug smile on his mouth before his lips circled around your clit, sucking it into his mouth to swirl his tongue over it. A soft moan escaped you as your back arched slightly off Satoru’s chest.

“Keep doing that,” Satoru murmured his command breathlessly, nearly whining, “She gets so fucking tight.” He dragged your hips down harder against each of his thrusts, taking a moment to grind you against him each time. 

While it felt good–really good, it wasn’t fast enough to get you off.

But how were you supposed to tell them that when each time you opened your mouth, the words that came from it weren’t the most coherent?

Luckily, after years of being best friends, the two of them were pretty good at reading you. It’s what led Suguru to place one last kiss on your pussy before pulling away. 

“Turn her over,” he told Satoru, backing up to give you space. 

The man behind you raised you off himself with ease, maneuvering you around until you straddled his lap, and sat with his cock inside you once again. When your eyes met, he grinned as he purred, “Hi,” as if his dick wasn’t just in you while you both watched Suguru lick between your legs.

You rolled your eyes and pushed at his chest until he was lying flat on his back. Just as a retort was about to fire off from your mouth, Suguru’s tip nudged against your slit, and without warning, thrust all the way in. You fell forward with a gasp that quickly turned into a poorly suppressed moan when he started fucking into you.

Satoru held your face in his hands, chuckling at you as you tried your best to hold onto your composure. It always started like this, and by the end of it, you were barely lucid. His low-lidded, blue eyes raked over your expression when Suguru really started to fuck you, taking in the furrow of your brow and how your jaw would always go slack. Satoru liked seeing you this way–it amused him just as much as it turned him on. 

When your sounds were too loud, he had to cover your mouth and give you the usual reminder of what had happened before. 

“You’re gonna get that rumor started with the locals again if you keep sounding so pretty,” he tutted, but made no attempt to actually shut you up. “You know how much they fear the sirens.”

It was true. For a couple of weeks, you had to avoid the grotto altogether because a group of hunters was stationed outside, waiting for the first sound of a siren’s call.

You panted into his palm, already feeling yourself climbing closer to that edge they liked to keep you at. It was always so easy when you were filled so full with both of them. And when Satoru would rut his hips up, timing them perfectly with Suguru’s thrusts behind you, his pelvis would brush your clit each time, further forcing you forward.

But they would keep you there as long as they could, not letting you finish until they were there, too. Until then, you were subject to their taunting. You’d never admit it to them, but it was a major turn-on for you, which only made the whole situation that much more overstimulating. 

 And when they were finally done teasing you, they’d both push themselves as deeply as they could inside of you. It was usually the feeling of their thick ropes of cum painting your cervix that would push you over the edge, leaving you spasming with an orgasm that would milk them both dry. 

Suguru only pulled out once their combined release started dripping down your inner thighs, offering your asscheek a very harsh slap that echoed around the grotto. All you could manage in response was a sated hum as you rested against Satoru’s chest. His fingers traced up and down your bare spine, calming you enough that you almost drifted to sleep.

“Come on,” Suguru softly called out, causing you and Satoru to stir sleepily. It seemed he was just as tired as you. “You both need to rinse off.”

But the two of you only waved him away.

Minutes later, the feeling of cold ocean water soaking you shocked you out of your sleepiness. Pushing up from Satoru’s chest, you both gasped as your bodies reverted to their scaled versions, which put you both in an uncomfortable position. Satoru was still inside you, but in this form, it was… not ideal.

“Ew!” you shrieked, rolling off his body just as fast as he was pushing you away, too. The entire time, Suguru just watched you both with an empty pail swinging in his hands and a grin. 

“This is why people say you’re an uncaring king!” Satoru goaded, grimacing at his own body.

He tossed the bucket away and rolled his eyes. “Keep calling me uncaring, and you two can crawl back to the water.”

“No, wait,” Satoru interjected quickly, reaching out for him. “I take it back. You’re not uncaring.”

Suguru nodded, seemingly pleased. “I’ll take what I can get.” He turned to you, waiting for you to backpedal, too. 

“What he said,” you grumbled, earning another nod of approval.

He hauled you up over his shoulder first, stooping to grab Satoru second before taking you both over to the water. Rather than easing you back into the ocean, he just dropped you both. When your heads broke the surface, you both were glaring at your king. 

“You might be a caring ruler, Suguru, but you’re an asshole,” you snapped, splashing water his way. 

He shrugged. “I can’t be that bad if you both stick around like clingy little consorts.”

[nariminsstuff]

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.

[nariminsstuff]

so like what if you and gojo were a thing. and what if when you break up, your new boyfriend takes you to his concert - because youre such a fan I Popstar!Satoru x fem!reader & Boyfriend!Choso

cw: mdni, explicit, kinda infidelity but also….Choso?

Popstar!Satoru who no matter how busy life got, always made sure to pop on a face mask, his classic shades, and head down to the grocery store for a sense of normalcy. Fluorescent lights not unlike the blinding gaze of adoring fans, and the illuminating glow of the spotlight fixated on his every motion, every turn of phrase, every slight twitch of his jaw and narrowing of his lids.

He much prefers watching himself stroll in through the automatic gates of the store, he finds the gritty CCTV quality preferable to the merciless glare of camera flashes, trained on imperfection, counting their millons made while he's counting how many more lapses of judgement he can afford.

Popstar!Satoru, who while scanning items he does not need at the self-checkout — one banana, two bars of chocolate, and stationery he thought looked cool — flicks his crystalline gaze towards the commotion at the exit.

It's you, holding out your receipt to the red-fitted employee, lips parted, like words of disbelief and speechlessness were battling it out in your jaw, and obscenities were trickling down from your head to tongue. You're being accused of shoplifting, and you're gesturing to your groceries like it might prove that you're not.

Popstar!Satoru, who pities you. Strolls to your side, his own grocery bounty forgotten. His sunglasses a shield, his tongue a sword. He offers to pay for the difference. You scoff in his face, though your jaw hangs open for a different reason when he pulls out his black card (seriously, who does that in the local supermarket). You rush off with a muttered thank you, he watches you leave, suddenly wishing you recognised him.

Popstar!Satoru decided to expand his search radius after that, mingling in other nearby haunts, until he stumbles across you again. This time, it's not the harsh glow of flickering lights or buzzing self-checkouts — it's the quiet hum of a bookstore cafe, the air thick with ground beans, and the whisper of pages turning. He lingers at the threshold longer than he should, sunglasses hanging low on his nose, amused at how invisible he can be in plain sight.

You're there, hunched over a pile of books you probably won't buy, drink half-forgotten, cooling beside your elbow. Brows knit in concentration, and it's the first time in a long while he feels that the world isn't looking at him, but through him. It unsettles him. It thrills him.

His cheeks are kissed with a pretty pink, carbonated giddiness rising with every peek at your focused face. Light cascades through the window in fractals, crowning you with priceless gold.

Popstar!Satoru, who orders a drink he won't touch just to sit across the room from you, scrolling through the weather app as his ears track the rhythm of your sighs, the scratch of your pen.

When your eyes finally lift, his mouth tugs into the kind of smile that has sold out arenas. But here, it's too sharp, too practiced. You blink once, twice, and then — back to your book, back to the scattered papers by your side. No double-take. No gasp. No recognition.

Popstar!Satoru, who learns that love feels different when it isn't chased by flashes or chart rankings.

The thrill of fame that dulled into the humdrum of solitude, into indifference at the number of followers he had, the streams he yielded. Fanpages he half-heartedly interacts with. An obligation he feels dirtied by, trading their love for a few pixelated hearts, and curated messages run through by his manager.

But with you, it's ramen at midnight, a hoodie tugged over his unmistakeable hair. Your fingers laced with his under the table, always under the table. It's arguments about movies, your toothbrush appearing in his bathroom, your slippers by his. It's muffled laughter, etched into his skin, caught in the dawn and whispered into your ear.

The slow drag of his cock in your drenched core, thrusts that feel less like stolen moments and more like promises of forever. Mornings where he's supposed to be elsewhere, but isn't. He's never been good at slowing down, but with you, the whole world hits pause.

And then, inevitably, play.

Popstar!Satoru, plagued by world tours he suddenly wants to cancel. It starts small. Infrequent text messages, conversations that descend into monotonous updates and bleary-eyed 'good mornings'. You don't mind that you're kept a secret. You prefer the privacy anyway. You knew what you were getting into, you just didn't know how hard it'd be.

Popstar!Satoru comes home one mundane Monday, to find you sitting on the couch, arms draped across your lap like tidiness might make breaking up less messy. Your legs crossed like you're a guest, the suitcase beside you shattering his heart.

Popstar!Satoru, who's not used to things not being how he ordered them to be. Hell, he'd even been able to get through your prickly exterior, got you to curl into his side despite your initial hesitance.

But this?

You're no longer weaving through the aisles, no longer haunting your favourite cafe, or browsing the comic section of the rundown store you used to visit together. He runs on the pure need, the kind that gnaws at him during interviews, during soundcheck, during every empty hotel night. The need to see you again, breathe your air.

Popstar!Satoru, who can't believe his fucking eyes when he spots you in the VIP section of his last concert for the tour — he made sure it was in your hometown. Didn't know if you'd turn up, but at least you wouldn't be able to escape his face — splashed across posters, billboards, advertising his return. Even if you had blocked his social media accounts. Even if you had deleted every photo of him, and thrown mementos into the bin.

But something is wrong. Someone's arm is wrapped around your waist. You're leaning against someone else like you've never heard his name in your life.

His mouth goes dry mid-lyric, the crowd roars the words that he's supposed to be singing. His band doesn't miss a beat, but he does — stumbling, catching himself with a laugh that doesn't reach his eyes. Thousands of fans scream, but his gaze is fixed, laser-sharp, on you.

You flinch under his stare, though your new boyfriend thinks it's due to the bass that dictates the beat of your heart. His song is still the only one your body follows like a command. You turn your face toward your boyfriend, his dark locks hide your flustered state — though Satoru doesn't miss a thing.

Your poor boyfriend!Choso, who's unusually excited about this concert — wide shoulders bouncing to the beat, flashing you wide smiles that you return with a falter.

He bought the tickets as a surprise, because he noticed you'd followed Gojo on Instagram, that you'd commented on a few of his posts. Guilt curls in your chest, flaring in your chest, bitter on your tongue.

Boyfriend!Choso, who does not notice the pure contempt directed at him as Satoru continues belting the song with a renewed vigour. Who shouts in your ear, as the song about heartbreak blares around the venue, that "he looked at me! Babe, he looked at me!"

Every peal of delight makes you feel like you're cheating on him.

You nod, lips trembling, but Satoru's stare pins you anyway.

When the concert ends, you're eager to leave — but you're stopped by security. Your mouth goes dry, sweat collects by your brow.

"Backstage passes. Specially chosen. Come with us."

Boyfriend!Choso tugs at your wrist before you can even blink, your mind racing faster than your feet as he basically drags you to the side entrance. At this point, you're not sure who those tickets were for.

And then you find yourself in front of a ticked-off Satoru. Choso shakes his hand with awe. Satoru's muscles ripple with the effort of not crushing him with his grip.

Boyfriend!Choso, who then realises he's forgotten something back where you were standing before. He promises he'll be back soon, missing the plea in your eyes to not leave you alone with Satoru.

Popstar!Satoru, who crosses the room in a few short strides with his long legs as soon as the door slams shut, each step swallowing the space between you. His presence fills the dressing room like heart, intoxicating and dangerous, muscles coiling with controlled force.

His breath tickles your ear in short, shallow bursts, pressing you against him like he never intends to let you go again.

"Thought he'd never leave."

Satoru's hands slide up your sides, slipping under your top, grazing your ribs. Just shy of reckless, testing limits he already knows you'll cross. Your back hits the wall, as your chest aligns with the solidness of his. Your breath catches in your throat, halting the words you know you're meant to say.

Stop. I can't do this.

I have a boyfriend.

He's going to be back any second.

Because when he drags his fingertips, feverish yet gentle, across your skin, goosebumps are left in his wake. And when he slots his thigh between your legs in a challenge, and you grind down — slick dripping, soaking through your panties — your body betrays you, ressponsive. Wet. Wanting.

And suddenly, the blame isn't his anymore.

Your hands clench at your sides, trembling, caught between the pull of him, and the voice in your head screaming to stop. Every brush of his tacky skin against yoursis a spark, igniting something you thought you'd extinguished long ago.

"Shh," he murmurs, the lilt reverberating through your eardrums, a melody just for you. "Don't fight it. You never fought it before, hm?"

"When I didn't have to ask, and you'd spread your legs like the obedient, good girl you were…already soaked. Just for me."

Satoru flexes his thigh, pushing against your clit like he's proving a point. Your pulsing hole clenches around nothing, and wads of arousal drip drip drip onto the fabric of his pants. "God, you've missed me, haven't you? Wouldn't be so needy if your boyfriend fucked you right, hm?"

Boyfriend.

Heat flares where his throbbing cock strains against the cloth prison, a burning need reflected in you. "Remember when you'd beg for me," — he's rutting against you now, the shelves rattling as your back knocks against the wall with the force of his desperation — "whine, so so prettily. Then you'd sob when I finally pushed inside. Said I was too big."

His words have your stomach flipping, pussy spasming at the memory of how he felt then. You feel it as he mutters filth — his phantom veins that dragged deliciously against your walls, the way he'd press down on your stomach, onto the bulge of his cock. The way his thick head smeared precum against your weeping cervix, how the swollen tip would twitch inside you, desperate for release.

"But you took it. You always took it. Took it so well too." His hips press harder against you now, a scalding reminder. "You liked being ruined, liked being told what to do. Didn't you."

His words wrap around you like fire. "Every whimper, every moan. You were mine, and you knew it. Still are."

"Haven't fucked anyone since you," he mutters, voice low, and loaded. "Think you've ruined sex for me. Only need you now."

A broken gasp forces its way through your lips, as his fingers slip into your drenched pussy. A whimper escapes, small and desperate, as his digits probe, stroke, in perfect rhythm with his jerky movements. Your nails dig into his shoulders, mind fraying between shame, need, and pleasure too overwhelming to resist.

"S-satoru—!" you cry, body trembling, every nerve alight, begging for more. "This is—ngh—wrong."

"But you feel so right."

The door swings open before you even hear the knock. Choso steps inside, shoulders squared, expression unreadable. A familiar weight in the air when he's around. Shame settles in your gut, but Satoru doesn't stop.

The thing he went to grab — his wallet? a pen? You're not quite sure — clatters to the ground.

He turns to glare, eyes half-lidded, blown pupils narrowed like Choso is the one intruding. His fingers don't stop, and the incriminating squelch of your dripping pussy fills the room, obscene. Instead, he sets a new pace — hand curling with a deliberate, possessive pressure that only undoes you with every motion.

"Choso—"

The words die as Satoru's fingers prod against where you're sensitive, and a filthy gasp leaves you instead.

You wait for it. You didn't mean to hurt him. Not like this, but—

"Baby, this is a low blow."

Your glazed eyes drop to Choso's pants, and heat blooms anew, shame and need twisting and coiling.

He's rock fucking hard. You can picture it too — salmon pink tip glossed with cream, veins pronounced.

And then it clicks.

He was there, waiting outside the door. He didn't stop you, didn't react when he saw you like…this.

Choso's sharp, calculating eyes meet your furrowed ones with premeditation, a small, almost smug curve on his lips.

"Didn't even wait for me."

author's note: dont ask abt the pairing i was really confused too. not proof read, srry for any typos etc.

divider credit: @/strangergraphics

[nariminsstuff]

Somno with Satoru Gojo

It's late when Satoru Gojo enters the penthouse, quietly shutting the door and taking off his jacket. He finds you fast asleep in your bed, a blanket on, lightly snoring. He smiles at just how cute you are, slipping that blanket down, a silky whisper on your skin.

Your tank is askew, one pretty tit out - shorts riding up, showing far too much of your plush thighs. He's already throbbing, aching for you, for the release - fuck he missed you. He should feel a little bad, but when you don't respond to his soft, experimental touches on your skin - it makes him harder.

Fingers trailing down your bare thighs, the little breaths and how you shift make him so hard. How pliant you are, head falling to the side, lips parted when he runs a thumb across them, watching the plush of them move under his touch.

You stir a bit when fingertips slip under that tank top you're wearing, slipping it down to reveal your pretty breasts, nipples flush and begging for his mouth. He leans down, watching your breasts rise and fall with deep breaths.

He sucks it into his mouth, tongue lapping circles slowly, sliding the top down along with your shorts, seeing goosebumps rise up on your skin while he bares your thighs, breath ghosting over your skin, mouth still stuck to your puffy nipple. He lets it go with a suctioned pop, seeing how your areola tightened just for him.

Slipping those shorts until you're completely bare for him, studying your pretty body and moaning softly. He should feel bad doing this, right? Enjoying you asleep this much - so much it concerns him, even if you wanted and asked, he didn't expect this, blue eyes just raking the sight of you in.

"I won't be wearing any panties."

Satoru didn't truly expect it to make him this hard from the sight, your already glistening pussy. Sliping those clothes down your legs, they fall to the floor, his hands gripping your thighs and spreading them.

You murmur his name, making him smirk as he nips your skin with his sharp teeth, shoving those thighs apart, they fall so fucking easy, spreading your folds wide so he can see your little hole. He leans forward, running a finger down your slit, looking at you under snowy lashes to see you're still fast asleep, even as you drip.

Your cunt is even more pliant in your sleep, soaking wet with a few light touches, soft gasp when he slips a finger inside, gummy walls grip him in response. Your head falls to the side when he crooks that finger, feeling normally tight muscles lax.

He could get the tip of his cock in, but he needs to taste you first, pulling out his finger to suck on it, moaning under his breath. He palms his cock under his pants, gasping out at how hard he is, how sensitive already, your scent filling his senses.

"I want you to cum in me and everything."

You're a brat, really, edging him like that, making him feel so depraved for wanting to fuck your sleeping form.

"Fuck, what if I just put a baby inside you tonight?" He murmurs softly, leaning over you and caressing your cheek. You don't answer, still breathing slowly, so calmly while he chuckles. "Wonder if a mating press would wake you up, sweetheart."

Part of him is fine if you wake up, but another part loves this too much.

"Look at you," he whispers, kissing your lips that don't meet his, something he's never done. "You'll let me do anything like this, won't you?"

Satoru's cock leaks so much pre it's dripping. He stands, getting fully naked, cock so heavy and aching, thickening as it begs to enter you. He runs the tip of it down your slit, pressing and testing your pretty cunt, which is still too tight even like this.

"You're so tiny," he whispers to your cunt then, pressing a little kiss on your clit, parting your folds and spitting right on it, watching it drip down to your hole. "Can you take me like this?"

His words are a hum under his breath, swirling two fingers in his spit and your arousal. You're so pliant, so relaxed for him, hardly reacting aside from shaky little gasps, little movements.

Two long fingers slip deep, curling up to hit that spongy spot inside. Satoru's cock is slipping against the soft suede of your blankets, fucking against it, your soppy cunt making so much noise. Swirling wetness making a mess while it slips down his fingers, your hands resting at your sides, fingers curling just a bit.

Satoru leans down to flick his long tastebuds on your clit, you jerk - making him pause. He's always loved to lick you, but he's used to you fucking his face, screaming out.

Something about seeing you spread open and drooling is too much, thighs not even tensing, just staying open so obediently. Satoru flicks his tongue again, that clit twitches in response, begging for more, his fingertips press up on that spot in slick walls over and over while your slick drools down his chin.

"Can you squirt in your sleep?" He muses softly, you're lightly snoring even while his tongue drags circles, slower and with more pressure. "Mmm..."

You are so good for him, pretty cunt wide open for his fingers to pump in and out, still lost in your sleep. You're drooling out so much wetness it gets messy, clear arousal pouring down his hand while he moves.

"That's it," feeling your walls quiver around his thick digits. You're shifting a bit, whimpering softly, your cunt coating his tongue. He hits that spot once and you gush.

Satoru eases his fingers out, sucking on them to savor more of you, before he leans back up, testing how lax your pretty pussy has gotten with his cock, coating that hole with his precum. She opens right of for him, so warm and velvety, he sucks in a breath when you stir just a bit, his heart pounding.

The challenge, of fucking you like this, gentle and ever so easy until his cock slides deeper - Satoru studies your pretty face while he starts fucking into you gently.

His hips start moving quicker, your little gasps urging him on, as he sinks impossibly deeper in your slutty little hole, so ready she's milking him. His leaky tip presses on your cervix, your eyes open for another moment, mumbling a sleepy Satoru before passing back out.

Fuck you're so pliant- so pretty.

He lifts your thighs and shoves so deep, and you lay wide open for more.

"Takin' all of me like this?" his voice is just a breath, while he presses a kiss on your lips, lax underneath him. "You want all my cum, don't you sweetheart?"

Your answer is a little shaky breath and your brows drawn together, Satoru keeps his strokes lazy and slow, looking down as he presses on your thighs, cock glistening with all that slick, a creamy ring forming at the base of his cock with each pump.

"You're cummin' in your sleep, hah - so slutty." the evidence of how much your cunt loves him pours down that length.

"T-toru," your gasp has his eyes locked back up, but you're still out of it, just writhing a bit, trying to turn to your side to snuggle like you don't have an eight inch cock in you.

He smiles at how cute you are, before groaning out, your spasming cunt starting to pulse. "Can't wait anymore, need to fill you - don't worry I'll give you so much."

You're still pliant and soft, letting him plow your tiny little abused hole, until Satoru feels his cock throb and release so much inside you. Busting his sticky white ropes, they coat every inch, resting his head against the pillow next to you.

"You took it all, you're so good even now f'me," he whispers, kissing you messy, your answer is your nails gently pressing into his back, gasping out his name like he's fucking you in a dream. He smiles and leans back, pulling out of your hole and groaning at the sight. "Oh, you're wasting it."

He shoves two fingers inside your hole now, making you stir more, shushing you with another kiss, lining his sensitive tip and rubbing it again. You're waking up as he does, hearing his little whimper, with his tongue in your mouth, his cock already pressing back against your now very sore hole.

"Ngh..." You pull back, blinking all sleepy at him, and Satoru tenses. Perhaps he had too much fun. "Toru, did you..."

He pulls back and has the audacity to blush. "I may have gotten carried away..."

You're yawning and looking down to see him spread your thighs, you lean up and watch a trail of his cum leaking out, white against your slick skin. You touch it, lapping at your fingers sleepily, yawning even as he desperately sucks his own cum off them.

"Did you like it, me asleep?" You tease softly.

"Maybe too much," it's not long before Satoru's fucking you right back to sleep.

This won the poll hehe - Satosugu x you next 😌

[nariminsstuff]

✦ neighbor!sukuna coming over for milk and leaving singlemother!reader... drained‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ﾉ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎eighteen plus

DING DONG

Your movements lull at the kitchen sink, fingers lathered in bubbling suds. You glance past your shoulder, something electric striking down your spine as you had found yourself waiting patiently for the past three weeks.

It’s him, and you know it’s him. You’re not expecting anyone else and the wait has had you stir crazy and cleaning every inch of your place.

DING DONG

“Jesus- COMING!” You wipe your hands on a rag and toss it over your shoulder. You dust the pleat of your apron and quickly pad over to the front door, tugging it open to meet the stocky figure that could only belong to…

“Outta milk,” Sukuna starts, holding up an empty and clearly used decanter, his eyes shamelessly tracing the sundress you’re sporting beneath your apron. 

The afternoon light spills in and paints him as some sort of fallen angel that makes your gut churn.

You roll your eyes, leaving the brute at the door and pacing back towards the kitchen, concealing the minute smile crawling upon your lips. “The grocery store is just a few blocks down, Sukuna-san. You can buy your milk there.”

He dips his head slightly with a sharp grin at the formality despite the fact that he’s seen you completely bare, letting himself in and locking the door behind him. He sets the empty jug with just dribbles of dairy left behind before striding after you. “True. Not as sweet as yours, though.”

You scoff audibly, ignoring the heat crawling up your nape, ready to bite back when you feel hands snake around your waist and lose all sense of gravity beneath your feet.

“What have I done to be addressed with such pleasantries?” He whispers teasingly, tugging your lobe between his teeth and making you dizzy with the action.

You ignore his question and try to elbow him in the side, but it’s fruitless as his abdomen is like a fucking brick wall.

Sukuna pulls your back to his chest, holding you up midair like you weigh virtually nothing as he peppers kisses along your jugular while you squirm in a fit of giggles. “Yer kid home?”

You smack his corded forearm, palm brushing against the bulging veins. “Let me down,” you manage to wheeze out between snickers, skin flaring in passion and stomach inverting at least twelve times over. “And no. She’s at school.”

With practiced ease, he turns you around and sets you onto the dining room table, placing both hands beside your thighs and leaning down to meet your flushed face with his usual casual composure. “You mad at me?”

You cross your arms, avoiding those dissecting carmine irises you’ve gotten to know far too well in quite a short time. “Why would I be mad?”

He tilts his head, angling it to try and match your eyeline as you focus on a potted plant like it’s the most intriguing thing in the world. “Business trip went longer than I expected. Nothin’ more to it.”

You glance back up at him, your expression scrunched as your eyes flicker across his frank face. He looks serious, and you have no plausible reason to not believe him.

You’ve only known Sukuna for a couple of months now, the time spent fucking against nearly every surface to christen your new home and making out until the two of you were breathless. And, you know without a doubt that there’s no way a man with pink hair and facial tattoos would be able to land any real office job, much less make connections that’s conceded him such success given the fact that he’s your next-door neighbor in a well-off neighborhood.

You know there’s more to it, but you’re not on terms to technically question it, biting your tongue and enjoying the ride he takes you on every time he shows up at your door.

Being the new hot single mom on the block must have drawn you to him, but you’re certain his mysterious allure had you flocking to him like a fucking peacock with fluttering it’s plumes.

“Sounds good,” you whisper, fingers tracing his forearm just beside you, then trailing down and ghosting over the textured knuckles.

He eyes you for a moment, before leaning in to press a gentle kiss just below your jaw, right where he knows it’ll make you whine and give into him. “Say you missed me,” he grunts against your skin, bringing a hand up to slither up your bare thigh.

A shiver snaps down between your shoulder blades like a lightning strike at the contact, your eyes fluttering shut as you clench your thighs. “Missed you,” you mumble, digits curling around his bulky forearms as he cages you in his grasp, leaning away from his kisses that render you light-headed.

You feel him smile against your throat as you yield to him, baring his canines and grazing the skin that earns a heady whimper of his name.

“Up,” he commands, lifting your thighs and sliding your panties off that he quickly pockets despite your glare with no heat to back it. 

Your ass digs into the rough texture of your dining room table cloth, legs parting to make space for Sukuna to slot himself between your knees. With slow deliberation, he brushes his lips against your jaw, then your cheek, the seam of your lips, before his own find yours.

You let out a wanton moan, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders. He slips his tongue into your warm cavern—exploring, curious, needy.

All the time spent apart, lust building up and now boiling over to scald you.

He tugs your front closer to the tent in his slacks, sending a groan for you to consume and rattle your lungs.

“Thought about you every day,” he grumbles, brows knitted, and you can feel his irritation pressing into your core just for you to leave a slick spot right where his crotch is.

“Yeah?” You quiz, taking his lip between your teeth and tugging on it before pulling away. “Show me how much you missed me, then.”

His pupils are now blown wide, chest heaving as he finds himself dropping to his knees. You watch as he lifts your legs and tosses them over his shoulders, eyeing your dripping cunt like his last meal on Earth.

Swiftly, his tongue presses flat against your hood, making you twitch from the sensation and huff. The man certainly wastes no time. 

“Fucking hell…” you groan, fingers curling around the edge of the table to ground yourself in reality despite how his mouth is lifting you to cloud nine.

His lips suction around your clit—your entrance winking as he hollows his cheeks out, making your eyes threaten to roll into your skull permanently.

It doesn’t take long before it’s messy, hungry—your cunt sopping your juices right into his welcoming mouth.

“So much, mmmf, sweeter,” he groans right into your sex, making your brows knit.

“Hck- what?” You quiz slurred, fingers carding through his gelled hair and peering down at his eyes that watch you unravel with his touch.

He pulls away for a moment, a string of saliva hanging between your pussy and his lips, before he spits right onto your sensitive bundle of nerves, a wave of goosebumps sent over your skin and heat pooling low in your loins. “Way better than any fuckin’ milk I could’ve bought at the store.”

And he looks almost upset at the prospect that they could even be likened, but before you have a chance to make a snarky remark, he’s back and lapping at you like a starved dog.

“K-Kuna!” You yelp out, your stomach forming several knots that threaten to release the longer he plays at you like this. His wet muscle finds itself pressing against your pulsing hole, before slipping in and making you fall back against the table, curving your spine in a sinful arch.

His hands splay around the globe of your ass, spreading you nice and wide so that his tongue can fuck you deeper and deeper with each pump, dragging against your syrupy walls and swallowing every dribble of honey you give him.

“Right there right there right there,” you shriek out, tongue hanging out from your mouth as his thumb finds your neglected hood and pressing against it harshly. Your fingers begin to fist his neat hair, not sure if you wanna push him away or stuff him deeper into your cunt.

“Gonna drain you of every drop of milk,” he sighs, almost lovesick and doglike, leaving a few echoing slaps against your pussy that make your thighs clench against his skull. Thankfully, his hands force your legs open enough for him to drag his nose against your clit and press his tongue even deeper into your needy hole.

“C-Cumming!” You manage to scream out, a wiry taut string in your core snapping and feeling yourself hit that noiseless and euphoric orgasm that leaves your ears ringing and dots your vision with blots of white.

And what you don’t realize until your eyes crack open, is that your built up hormones ended up… in you squirting all over Sukuna’s face.

Your eyes go saucer wide, leaning up on your elbows as you drop your quivering legs from his shoulders. His eyes are shut, one hand dragging the liquid off his face as you feel your gut drop.

He’s never going to want to do this again.

“I am so fucking sorry I-I didn’t—.”

He lifts a hand to shut you up and you curtly purse your lips and wait for him to speak.

His claret eyes flicker open, something hungry and carnal swirling in them before a throaty growl leaves him.

“Think you can do that again?”

[nariminsstuff]

gf reader who looooves satoru's cock sm and not even always in a sexual way but he's always trying to get you to take a break from sucking it or playing with it because even the strongest can only take too much before getting too messy!!

you love holding it on soft, even though that doesn't last very long because he's so obsessed with you that just a glance in his direction gets him half chubbed sometimes :3 half the time you aren't even trying to jerk him off, but you treat his dick like a long stress ball (squeezing, stroking, slapping it against his tummy for the funny noise it makes) that youre almost always surprised when cum spurts from the tip and gojo is giving you a sheepish look.

dont get it twisted though, you love taking his cock. in fact he is often the one that has to keep up with you. he has stamina for days and still ends up breathless every time you insist on riding him!! he lays beneath you all fucked out and pretty with his flushed face and messy hair, still smiling up at you all dumb as he begs for a break. but when you lean down and kiss his lips and ask if he has just five more minutes for you, he nods like an obedient little puppy and lets you have your way :)

of course he does. he lives to serve and you live for his cock. win win scenario <3

[nariminsstuff]

──── ℛ𝐔𝐈𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅 ₎ა ˙˖

ᘛ ꒰ 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃!𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐗 𝐖𝐈𝐅𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 ੭

gojo satoru didn't love, he lusted. that's what the rumours said. and blissful, innocent you assumed better of your husband to be. arranged to marry— or perhaps doomed? your dream come true turned nightmare once you realise that your new husband; man of your dreams, despises you. and worse, that you'll do anything for his affection. including ruining your own innocence in a desperate endeavour for his attention in the only way you know how. . . lust.

𝒜𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑎 𝑠𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑡 𝑠𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑑, 𝐼 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑏𝑒 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑒

ᘛᰍ𝅄 ׁ 𝐂𝐖 ⨾

arranged marriage :: unrequited love :: slow burn :: explicit content :: infidelity :: broken marriage :: loss of innocence :: satoru doesn't know how to love :: sexism (not from satoru) :: side samurai!suguru x reader :: side advisor!nanami x reader. ꒱

ᘛᰍ𝅄 ׁ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 ⨾

matrimony

tba

──── comment to be added to the taglist ₎ა ˙˖

© 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒔𝒎. no plagiarism or ai training authorised. divider: @/uzmacchiato. art cred: @/_3aem (twt)

[nariminsstuff]

MILKING POPPIES M. LIST || S. GOJO ||

TAGS: College AU, Best Friend!Gojo x Fem!Reader, but also CEO!Gojo (but it's different), slow burn, friends to lovers, fwb, smut, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, Gojo is a simp for reader, like a hardcore simp, so down bad, whipped, obsessed, I am not joking, yandere!Gojo (perhaps a little)

WARNINGS: MDNI, suicide, drug addiction, drug overdose, drug-induced psychosis, alcohol consumption, obsession, SA, violence, physical abuse, emotional abuse, toxicity, depression, manipulation, explicit sexual content, explicit language, cheating, reader is OBLIVIOUS, everyone is making bad decisions, but it's fun, slow burn, slow burn, slow burn, the angst in this is heavy at times, please keep that in mind if you choose to read :)

SUMMARY: You meet a new friend, Satoru, who helps you navigate your screwed up, toxic relationship with your boyfriend. According to him, friends always do it better, even if you're too oblivious to notice that. Little do you know, your friend isn't the perfect guy you think he is, which leads you to being a pawn in his family's fucked up game. "...But how could Satoru stop when your skin was dusted in the sweetest-smelling cocaine, your mouth dripped liquid ecstasy, every breath from you was like a plume of the most concentrated intoxicant, and fuck, the sounds you made for him lulled him so deep into his overwhelming high– you were inescapable. You were sent to tempt a reckless man like him, and it’s never made him feel so weak."

theme song: Angel- Massive Attack

CHAPTER INDEX - word count: 228k PART ONE: LIMITS & INSTINCTS BOUNDARIES & EMOTIONS DELUSIONS & HESITATIONS FALLACIES & INEBRIATIONS CLARITIES & IMPULSES MISTAKES & RECOLLECTIONS CRAVINGS & FIXATIONS PSYCHOSIS & ANXIETIES RESOLUTIONS & FATIGUES DEGREDATIONS & DISCONNECTIONS PART TWO: INAPPETENCE & AVOIDANCE LUCIDITY & ENERGY EUPHORIA & BRADYCARDIA ISCHEMIA & APHASIA NUMBNESS & ANAKUSIS FAILURE & DEATH RESUSCITATION & PULSE

DRABBLES I. IJICHI'S RASH

|| art by _3aem on X || taglist open || || playlist ||