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pucksandpower · 1 month ago

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Midnight Sun

Oscar Piastri x astrophysicist!Reader

Summary: for the first time, the girl who studies stars becomes someone’s sun

You are not built for this.

Not the headphones clamped too tight on your ears, not the sterile studio lighting that hums faintly overhead, and definitely not the bright-eyed producer trying to coax a smile out of you like it’s some quantum equation.

“You’ll be great,” she insists, bouncing on her toes like the floor’s electrified. “Just … a little looser, yeah?”

You blink. “That sounds like medical advice.”

She laughs too hard, probably to cover up the silence on the other side of the glass where the sound engineer sits. You glance toward him, but he’s preoccupied adjusting levels. You consider making a run for it.

“You said the guest was from Doctor Who,” you say instead, squinting at the notes you scribbled on the back of an old star chart. “I prepared for someone who at least pretends to know physics.”

“Close,” she chirps, already halfway to the door. “He’s dealt with time — just at 300 kilometers an hour.”

You don’t process that fully before the studio door swings open and someone breezes in with the kind of easy, unhurried energy of a man who lives without traffic or consequences.

“Hi,” he says, and it’s almost apologetic. His accent curls around the syllables like it’s trying to make them less obtrusive. “Sorry I’m late. Cab driver took us to the wrong building. Twice.”

You look up.

And you blink.

“That’s Oscar Piastri,” someone whispers into your headphones — probably the producer, definitely smiling — and suddenly you understand the joke. He’s not from Doctor Who. He’s from McLaren.

You stare at him. He notices.

“I know,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “not exactly Neil deGrasse Tyson.”

“No,” you reply, slowly peeling off one headphone. “But he also hasn’t won Baku.”

“Yet,” he grins.

You’re not smiling. Not exactly. But you’re no longer glaring either, and he seems to take that as a win.

***

They mic him up quickly. He sits across from you, spinning a pencil between his fingers like he’s back in school, half-listening to the rules being rattled off in his ear. When the producer gives the signal, the red recording light blinks on.

“Welcome to Stars Between Us,” you say into the mic, voice steady, clipped. “I’m Dr. Y/N Y/L/N. I study black holes, gravitational waves, and all the strange ways time can bend and fold. Joining me today is — unexpectedly — Oscar Piastri.”

He laughs. “Unexpectedly is fair.”

You glance at your notes. They're useless. None of your questions about the TARDIS or relativity in sci-fi apply now.

“So,” you say, pivoting, “what brings a Formula 1 driver to a podcast about astrophysics?”

He leans in, suddenly serious. “Honestly? I’m curious. There’s a lot about racing that feels … surreal. Like time moves differently when you’re in the car. I wanted to know if that’s just adrenaline or if there’s something real behind it.”

You narrow your eyes, reluctantly intrigued. “You’re asking about time dilation?”

“Is that what it’s called?”

You nod. “Special relativity. When you approach the speed of light, time moves slower for you compared to someone standing still.”

“Sounds useful in a race.”

“Only if you’re traveling at 299,792 kilometers per second. You’re just … fast.”

He smiles. “Thanks, I think.”

There’s a beat of silence. Not awkward, but considering.

“What does that feel like?” You ask, almost against your better judgment. “Driving that fast?”

He pauses, and something shifts in his face. He doesn’t reach for a joke.

“It’s quiet,” he says. “Everything else fades. The noise becomes background. It’s just … instinct and motion. Like the world slows down and speeds up at the same time. You’re nowhere and everywhere.”

You stare at him.

“That’s … poetic.”

He looks startled. “Wasn’t trying to be.”

“That’s worse.”

He laughs again. It’s warm, low, not forced. The producer signals something behind the glass, but you wave it off.

Oscar rests his elbows on the table, eyes fixed on yours like the room’s contracted around the two of you.

“What about you?” He asks. “What’s your version of being in the car?”

You pause.

There’s a constellation blooming behind your ribs now, hesitant and bright.

“I watch stars collapse,” you say finally. “And try to make sense of why they do. I teach, late at night. I go home. I draw them, sometimes.”

He raises his brows. “Draw them?”

“In a notebook,” you mutter. “It’s not important.”

“No, it is.” His eyes flicker. “Why draw them if you already know what they look like?”

You don’t have an answer for that. Not really.

“To remember that they’re real,” you say after a while. “That they’re not just data. That they existed.”

He nods, slow.

“That’s the thing about fame, too,” he says. “People think it’s this massive, burning light. But it’s only a flare. It burns out quick.”

“Like a supernova.”

“Exactly.”

You both sit with that for a minute.

Then he glances down, sees your fingers resting on a battered leather notebook, and grins.

“Let me guess — constellations?”

“Mostly. Sometimes nebulae.”

“You ever draw racetracks?”

You snort. “No.”

He looks disappointed in the theatrical way, like you’ve just told him Santa isn’t real.

“Guess I’ll have to bring my own then.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t tell him to leave.

The red light on the mic blinks off. You both pull off your headphones. The studio suddenly feels smaller.

He stands, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeves, and stretches like he’s been sitting still for too long.

“Thanks for not kicking me out,” he says, half-teasing.

“I considered it.”

“Yeah, I could tell.” He smiles. “But seriously. That was cool. Weirdly calming.”

“You don’t strike me as someone who needs calming.”

He gives a little shrug. “That’s ‘cause I’m good at pretending.”

You should say something polite. Professional. You don’t.

Instead, you ask, “Do you ever wish you’d done something else?”

He looks genuinely surprised by the question. But he doesn’t brush it off.

“Sometimes,” he says. “I don’t know what. But sometimes I think about it. Especially when I’m not sure who I’m doing this for anymore.”

You nod. Quiet understanding passes between you like an electrical current.

“Maybe you should draw more racetracks,” you murmur.

He smiles, opens his mouth to respond-

Then his phone buzzes. A sharp interruption.

He checks it, winces. “I’ve got to go. Team thing.”

You nod, already pulling your thoughts back into your chest like a turtle retreating into its shell.

“Good luck,” you say, casual, a little too clinical.

He hesitates, then starts to walk to the door — stops, spins back.

“Oh. My water bottle-” He looks around. “Did I leave it?”

You glance at the table. “No idea.”

“Damn. Well, no worries.”

He waves, one last flash of a smile, then he’s gone. The door clicks shut.

You exhale, sit for a moment, then begin to gather your things. The headphones. Your notebook. A pen that’s run dry.

And there, tucked just beneath the edge of the table, almost hidden-

His water bottle.

Plain. Scuffed. You reach for it, about to set it on the counter for someone to return, when you see it:

A small sketch drawn in Sharpie.

It’s crude, but deliberate. A racetrack — one you recognize from the way the corners loop, the way the chicane bends back on itself. Monaco.

You pause.

Your thumb runs gently over the linework.

Then, without really thinking, you slide it into your bag.

Later, when the lights are off and the stars are out, you’ll press your fingers to that curve again and try to understand why your heart is moving like it’s found some new orbit.

***

The message arrives two days later.

It’s early evening and your phone buzzes as you’re halfway through transferring rough calculations from a whiteboard to your notebook, elbow-deep in chalk dust and equations about stellar death. You glance at the screen.

Instagram DM from oscarpiastri

Your first thought is why do I even have notifications on for this app?

Your second thought is oh no.

You stare at it. Don’t open it. Just … look.

You’ve barely touched your Instagram account since undergrad. It’s a digital graveyard of telescope selfies and star trail experiments. You don’t even know how he found you. You consider not opening it at all. But curiosity — that wretched, shimmering thing — wins.

The message is short. Innocent.

oscarpiastri

Thanks for the chat the other day. Really enjoyed it.

You don’t reply.

You tell yourself it’s not personal. You’re just not someone who does casual messaging. You don’t like small talk, and Oscar Piastri feels like small talk. Fast cars, bright lights, the occasional philosophical tangent — but none of it rooted in the quiet gravity you orbit.

You close the app.

And then, three days later — another ping.

This time, it’s 2:17 a.m. You’re on your balcony with a mug of tea, too wired from class to sleep and watching Orion climb over the skyline like he owns the place.

oscarpiastri

What’s the name of that star you mentioned? The red one near the edge of Taurus?

You stare at it, baffled.

He remembers. He listens.

You type. Delete. Type again.

Then finally, you send.

yourusername

Aldebaran.

The response comes in less than a minute.

oscarpiastri

That’s the one. Looked it up, but your way of describing it was better.

You bite your lip. He’s probably just being nice. But something flickers inside you anyway — soft and unsettling.

You should leave it there.

But then you type:

yourusername

It’s often called the “eye” of the bull. It’s not actually part of the Hyades cluster, it just looks like it is from here.

oscarpiastri

So it’s a loner pretending to be part of the group?

You pause.

yourusername

Something like that.

***

After that, it unspools gradually. Almost imperceptibly.

Not a flood of texts or calls. Nothing loud or demanding.

Just … voice notes. Little ones. Scraps of sound tossed across time zones.

The first is from him. Late. You can hear hotel AC in the background and the faint rumble of a distant elevator.

“Hey. I’m in Suzuka now. Couldn’t sleep. Watched this video about neutron stars you mentioned in the podcast and my brain hurts. Did you really say one teaspoon of that stuff weighs four billion tonnes?”

He pauses.

“I think that’s the weight of my eyelids right now. Good night. Or good morning. Or whatever it is where you are.”

You listen to it twice.

Then you send one back.

It’s short. You’re walking home after a night lecture, boots crunching over salt-stiff pavement. Your voice is low, breath visible in the cold.

“Technically, it’s about a billion tonnes, not four. But the number’s less important than the idea. Density like that — it defies everything we understand. Anyway. Hope you got some sleep.”

You almost don’t send it. But then you do.

And after that, it becomes a habit.

A quiet ritual.

***

“Have you ever felt like time changes depending on the country?” He says one day. “Like, I landed in Australia and my brain reset to childhood. Haven’t been here in ages. The stars are upside-down.”

You laugh into your phone.

“They’re not upside-down. You just never learned the southern sky.”

“Then teach me.”

And so you do. Piece by piece. Over fragmented voice notes and links to star charts. He sends photos from hotel windows — night skies dulled by light pollution, but earnest in their effort.

One day, you’re in the lab, cleaning equipment after a lecture, and a colleague walks past your open laptop.

“Is that Oscar Piastri quoting you?”

You glance up. “What?”

She points at the screen. A muted interview is playing on auto-repeat from a motorsport feed. You hadn’t realized the tab was still open.

The caption underneath reads.

“We think of time as constant, but it stretches and shrinks depending on your frame of reference. It’s wild.”

— Oscar Piastri, in an interview from Jeddah.

You stare at the screen.

You don’t breathe.

Because that line — that exact phrasing — is yours. You said it to him. Offhand. At 3 a.m. in a voice note while explaining why GPS satellites have to account for relativity.

You sit down.

Hard.

Your heart’s doing something very stupid in your chest. And the worst part?

You don’t hate it.

***

Later that night, he sends you a photo from a Melbourne airport bookstore.

It’s a star map. Rolled up, rubber-banded, creased in one corner.

oscarpiastri

Thought of you. Bought this while flying back from visiting family. Gonna hang it above my bed.

You grin despite yourself.

yourusername

That’s the northern sky. You’re in the southern hemisphere, genius.

oscarpiastri

… Shit. What if I hang it upside down?

Then, a follow-up photo.

It’s blurry. The lighting’s terrible. But the subject is clear.

A tiny telescope. Child-sized. Plastic. The kind you buy in the “educational toys” aisle.

It’s perched on a hotel windowsill.

oscarpiastri

Bought one. Fix it?

You laugh so hard you drop your phone.

***

By the time you realize what’s happening, it’s too late.

You’re used to him now.

To the unpredictable pings of his name across your screen. To the long silences followed by sudden outbursts of curiosity. To the way he says “your stars” like they belong to you.

You don’t tell anyone. Not because it’s secret, but because it’s yours. And that — somehow — feels rarer than anything.

And it’s not romantic. Not exactly.

But it’s also not not romantic.

You’re standing in a grocery store one evening, half-reading a list off your phone when your screen lights up with a new message.

oscarpiastri

What’s the name of the star that’s always behind you?

You frown.

yourusername

Behind me when?

oscarpiastri

When you’re walking home. I see it in your stories sometimes. The one that flickers near the rooflines. Looks stubborn.

You blink.

You hadn’t realized he watched those.

You scroll through your own stories. Grainy footage. A lamppost. A shimmer.

yourusername

Altair. Part of the Summer Triangle.

oscarpiastri

Sounds like a spaceship.

yourusername

It kind of is. It’s spinning so fast it’s not even round anymore.

There’s a pause.

Then another photo comes through. His telescope again, now perched next to a hotel room cup of tea and a very rumpled travel pillow.

oscarpiastri

Gonna find it tonight.

You reply before you can stop yourself.

yourusername

You won’t. It’s not visible from where you are.

Another pause.

oscarpiastri

Then tell me what is. I’ll watch your stars tonight instead.

You freeze.

The message sits there. Not loud. Not pushy. Just … real.

You stare at it for a long time.

Then you record a voice note. Your voice is soft, uneven.

“Look due west. About thirty degrees up. You’ll see Canopus, it’s one of the brightest. You’ll know it when you do. It doesn’t twinkle as much.”

You hesitate.

Then add, almost inaudibly. “It’s always made me feel less alone.”

You hit send.

And the night moves on. But something else stays.

***

A few days later, you receive a package at your office.

No note.

Just a Southern Hemisphere star map — this one beautifully illustrated — and a sleek black journal with faint constellations etched into the cover.

You trace the lines.

And in that moment, for the first time in your measured, structured little life, you let yourself fall just a little bit out of orbit.

***

You’re not supposed to be watching the race.

You’re supposed to be prepping slides for your 6 p.m. lecture on stellar nucleosynthesis — the chart on the evolution of elemental abundances still half-finished, your notes scattered like meteor debris across the desk.

But your laptop, traitorous and gleaming, is open to a livestream. The race is in its final laps.

Oscar is leading.

Your heart is misbehaving in ways you’ve tried to intellectualize and failed. It pounds — not like something mechanical, but like something alive, startled and pacing.

You adjust the volume and pretend this is just … scientific curiosity. A physics-enthusiast’s idle interest in speed, aerodynamics, G-forces. But when his name flashes across the top of the leaderboard, glowing in white against black, you make a sound — soft and involuntary — that doesn’t belong in any academic setting.

When he crosses the line first, fist raised, team yelling in the background, you press a hand to your mouth.

And then, quietly, you whisper to no one, “You did it.”

You don’t message him.

You know his phone’s probably a furnace of alerts. It’d be ridiculous. Presumptuous.

Still, you keep the window open, watching the post-race interviews unfold like a dance you’re learning in reverse.

At one point, he smiles — really smiles — and it’s like the stars blink out for a second, jealous of the attention.

You close the laptop.

Then you do something completely uncharacteristic.

You open your camera.

Not the front-facing one. Never that.

Instead, you aim it upward, from the park bench outside the department building. The sky tonight is low and smeared with a watercolor wash of indigo and silver. There’s a crescent moon tucked behind the clouds like a secret. Your notebook is open on your lap, constellations half-sketched in pencil. A tea flask beside you. Your coat wrapped around your legs like armor.

You take the photo.

And, after five full minutes of hovering over the send button, you DM it to him.

yourusername

Congratulations.

That’s it.

No emoji. No overthinking.

You shut your phone off and go back to your lecture slides, trying not to hope.

***

He calls two hours later.

Not with a voice note.

A video call.

You freeze when you see his name blinking on the screen.

The rational part of your brain — mildly frantic, deeply British — screams, decline it, for god’s sake, you’re not even wearing proper socks.

But your hand moves of its own accord.

You answer.

The screen goes black, then flickers to life.

He’s on a rooftop.

Lit by golden streetlamps and distant city noise. His hair’s damp, curled a little from the shower. He’s wearing a hoodie and eating something out of a paper bag.

“Hi,” he says, like it’s not 3 a.m. in London. Like this isn’t completely insane.

Your mouth opens. Then closes.

“Hi,” you manage. “You won.”

“I did.” He grins, mouth full. “Thought about you.”

You blink. “Sorry?”

“During the cooldown lap. I was thinking about that thing you said. About time. How it stretches.”

“Time dilation.”

“Yeah. It felt like that. Like I was moving through something slower than everyone else. It was … quiet. Clear.”

You stare at him through the screen, barely breathing.

“And then,” he adds, grinning again, “I saw the photo.”

You look down, cheeks hot.

“I wasn��t going to send it,” you mutter. “It’s not even of me, not really.”

“I know,” he says, voice softer now. “But it is you.”

You don’t say anything.

He shifts the camera. Shows you the skyline — soft orange lights, a tower blinking red in the distance.

“I’m on the team hotel roof,” he explains. “It’s quiet up here. I wanted to see stars but there’s too much light. Still nice though.”

You smile without meaning to. “I can tell you which ones are behind the clouds.”

“I’d like that.”

And just like that, you fall into orbit again.

The conversation stretches.

From the sky to the race to the taste of churros from a street vendor (“Life-changing,” he says, waving the bag at the screen). He asks about your students, and you tell him about the undergrad who thought neutron stars were “just edgy white dwarfs.”

He laughs so hard you worry he’ll drop the phone.

Time dilates, just like you said it would.

You only realize how much of it has passed when the sky behind you turns pale.

“Is that dawn?” He asks, blinking.

You glance behind you. “Looks like.”

He rests his chin on his fist. “Should we sleep?”

You consider it. “Probably.”

But neither of you ends the call.

Instead, you both sit there.

Watching a world shift toward morning.

***

You don’t mean to let him in.

Not like that.

But three nights later, it all breaks open.

You’re supposed to be asleep. You’ve got your departmental review the next morning — a committee of stone-faced academics armed with funding reports and agendas.

But you wake up in a cold sweat. Palms tingling. Heart galloping like it’s trying to outpace the past.

You sit on the bathroom floor, knees pulled to your chest, and try to breathe through it.

It’s not your first panic attack. It is your first in months.

You try every trick: grounding, counting, reciting star names like prayers.

It’s not working.

So — on a reckless, breathless impulse — you call him.

He picks up on the second ring.

Doesn’t say anything.

Just listens.

You don’t speak either. Not for a full minute. All he hears is your breathing — ragged, shallow, afraid.

Finally, you whisper, “I’m okay. I just … I didn’t want to be alone with it.”

Still, he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.

He’s there. Solid and quiet as gravity.

After a while, your breathing evens out. You wipe your face. You lean back against the cold tile.

You don’t even realize you’re speaking until the words are already halfway out of your mouth.

“My mother died when I was seventeen,” you say.

Oscar’s breath catches faintly on the other end.

“She was sick for a long time. I’d just gotten my first telescope. She used to sit outside with me, even when she was too tired to stand. Said the stars helped her forget her body was failing.”

You close your eyes.

“After she died, I stopped going outside for a while. But eventually … I came back to it. Because it was the only thing that still made sense. The only thing that felt big enough to hold it all.”

You swallow.

“Stars are all I have left.”

Silence.

Then, his voice — rough, certain.

“You have more than that now.”

You don’t reply.

You can’t.

Because if you speak, you’ll cry again.

But you don’t hang up.

And he doesn’t go anywhere.

***

The next day, your departmental review passes without incident.

Your pulse is steady the whole time.

When you get home, there’s a message waiting for you.

oscarpiastri

I found Canopus again. Still stubborn.

You smile.

And for the first time in your life, the space between stars doesn’t feel so lonely.

***

You say yes to the awards ceremony because saying no would have drawn more attention.

That’s the irony, isn’t it?

You’d rather drink comet dust than be in a room full of polished people and flashbulbs. But this is for a science outreach grant, and your department is quietly ecstatic. You’ve become a reluctant poster child for “brilliant and relatable,” thanks to the podcast and your stargazing voice notes that somehow got repurposed for a university social media campaign without your permission.

You try to laugh it off.

But it feels like your insides are folding.

Because Oscar will be there.

McLaren’s a sponsor of the initiative. Something about youth engagement and STEM and sleek orange backdrops. He texted you about it with the kind of emoji-free confidence you’ve come to recognize as his version of enthusiasm.

oscarpiastri

Looks like we’re both on the guest list. Wear something with stars.

You hadn’t replied.

You couldn’t.

***

The night before the event, you ghost him.

Delete your Instagram account.

Turn your phone off and shove it into the bottom drawer of your desk.

You spend the evening in the astronomy lab with the lights dimmed low, pretending to fine-tune your lecture notes while your chest caves in by the hour. Your email inbox piles up. Your hands tremble.

You try to picture yourself standing next to him. In public. Under bright lights, photographers shouting names you don’t even want to be called.

But the picture won’t form.

Not fully.

Not without a fight inside your skin.

So you stay.

Safe.

Invisible.

***

You don’t expect him to come.

You definitely don’t expect him to show up in person.

But the next day, mid-afternoon, you’re walking across the stone quad on your way back from a student meeting, notebooks clutched tight, trying not to overanalyze a second-year’s strange interpretation of gravitational lensing.

You see the hoodie first.

Then the cap, pulled low.

Then the boy underneath it, standing awkwardly beside the bench under the cherry tree that never quite blooms properly in spring.

Oscar.

Your breath stops.

He’s holding nothing. No bag. No sunglasses. No shield.

Just his hands jammed into his hoodie pocket like it’s the only armor he’s got.

You freeze mid-step. The wind kicks at your coat.

He sees you.

And it’s over.

He walks toward you, slowly. Not fast. Like you’re a scared animal and he doesn’t want to startle you.

“I was going to wait,” he says, voice low and wrecked and somehow still gentle. “But I figured if I waited, I might not get the chance.”

You glance behind you. Around. Anywhere but directly at him.

“Why are you here?”

He doesn’t answer at first.

Then-

“You disappeared.”

“I had to.”

“No, you didn’t.”

You hug the notebooks closer to your chest. “You don’t understand. I’m not built for that world.”

“It’s just an event-”

“No.” You cut him off, shaking your head. “It’s not just an event. It’s cameras. It’s questions. It’s people looking at me like they know who I am because they watched a five-minute clip. It’s being asked to perform a version of myself that I don’t even recognize.”

He steps forward, slow again.

“I wasn’t asking you to perform.”

You’re already unraveling, you can feel it — the tightening in your throat, the heat behind your eyes.

“You don’t get it,” you say, voice cracking now. “You live in the spotlight. You’re seen. All the time. You get parades and podiums. I survive by disappearing.”

He stares at you. Really stares. Not like he’s judging. Just … taking it in.

Then he exhales.

Hard.

“I didn’t come here to drag you into anything,” he says, quieter now. “I just wanted to say one thing.”

You say nothing.

He takes one more step, and you don’t back away this time.

He lifts a hand — carefully — and cups your face like it’s something fragile and familiar all at once.

“Then I’ll find you in the dark,” he says, his thumb brushing just under your cheekbone, “every time.”

The words hit you like gravity.

Your breath shudders out.

And for a moment, it’s just the two of you in that pocket of the world where time bends — somehow still, somehow heavy with the weight of everything you’ve been afraid to say.

“You shouldn’t have come,” you whisper.

He smiles, barely.

“I couldn’t stay away.”

***

The conversation that follows isn’t neat.

You cry. Not in some cinematic, graceful way — your nose runs, your eyes puff, and at one point, your voice cracks so hard you almost don’t recover it.

But you tell him.

You tell him about the version of yourself you’ve had to build over years — quiet, professional, unobtrusive. A woman of data and precision and folded-back emotions, so she couldn’t be mistaken for weak or needy or out of place in a room full of men.

You tell him about being seventeen and seeing your mother’s name etched into a hospital form the day she stopped responding to treatments.

You tell him about watching friends peel away in the aftermath. About learning how to be okay alone.

And then, at the end, you say it again.

“I don’t want to be seen.”

His hand is still on your cheek.

“Too late,” he says.

***

Later, somehow, you end up sitting beside him on that same campus bench, your shoulder brushing his.

He offers you half a chocolate croissant from a paper bag. “Bribery,” he says.

You take it.

Only because your hands are shaking less now.

He nudges you gently.

“I didn’t come here to pull you out of hiding,” he says. “I came here to be wherever you are.”

You look down.

“Even if where I am is nowhere?”

He tilts his head, considering. “Then I’ll make nowhere feel like home.”

***

You stay up all night. Thread between your teeth and needle in hand, stitching constellations you know will be beyond the clouds tomorrow onto the hem of your sleeves.

You only poke your finger twice.

***

The next morning, you show up at the awards ceremony.

Wearing a dress with tiny embroidered constellations along the sleeves.

Oscar’s already there, talking with someone from the foundation, looking infuriatingly calm. He spots you and stills completely.

Then smiles.

It’s not for the cameras.

It’s for you.

And just for a second, you let yourself smile back.

Even if you still want to disappear.

Even if you’re still afraid.

Because maybe you don’t have to do it alone anymore.

***

You don’t speak for weeks.

Not after the ceremony. Not after the photos. Not even after you sat beside each other in a quiet car on the way home, his pinky brushing yours like a question you never answered.

It starts with silence.

Then continues because neither of you knows how to break it.

You think about texting him every day.

You draft a hundred different messages.

Delete them all.

Because what would you even say?

“Sorry I panicked?”

“Sorry I don’t know how to be someone people look at?”

“Sorry I don’t know what you want from me?”

No version sounds like enough. Or safe.

So instead, you disappear again.

But this time, the quiet isn’t comforting. It’s suffocating. You don’t retreat into stargazing or sketching or soft evenings with tea. You just fold inward. Disappear even from yourself.

You cancel two nights of lecture Q&As. You stop checking your work email. You ignore your friends’ texts, your supervisor’s concerned voicemails. You walk home in the rain without an umbrella, letting it soak through your coat, because maybe that’s what it takes to feel something right now.

You convince yourself it’s over.

That you ruined it.

That he must’ve realized what a terrible idea it all was — that you’re too much, or too little, or just too you.

You sit at your desk one night, chin in your hand, staring at the mug of cold tea beside your notebook, and whisper, “You idiot.”

Not to him.

To yourself.

Because why would someone like him wait for someone like you?

***

The package arrives on a Thursday morning.

No sender listed. Just a small cardboard box with a Woking return address you don’t recognize. It’s light, padded, taped up neatly.

You hesitate before opening it.

Then tear the seal.

Inside is a mug.

A simple white ceramic mug with a black line printed around the side.

You stare at it, blinking, because it’s the track.

That track. The one from his water bottle. The one you held in your hands months ago, running your fingers over the tiny, smudged Sharpie lines like they meant something.

And they did.

Now, they’re printed clean and perfect on the mug’s curve, looping around like a silent orbit.

Underneath the track, in unmistakable handwriting:

Still orbiting.

You don’t mean to cry.

But your throat tightens instantly.

You press a hand to your face. Sit down hard in your desk chair. Stare at the mug like it just cracked open a part of your chest you’d buried deep under logical layers.

And then — without thinking — you pick up your phone.

No hesitation this time.

No drafts.

You dial.

He picks up on the first ring. “You got it?”

You close your eyes. “Yeah.”

Another beat. You think maybe he’s holding his breath too.

“I didn’t want to crowd you,” he says. “But I didn’t want to disappear either.”

“I thought you were done,” you say, voice thin. “I thought I pushed you too far.”

He exhales, low and rough. “You could push me into another galaxy, and I’d still find a way back.”

Your hand tightens around the mug. “Oscar …”

“I missed your voice,” he says. “Even when it’s telling me about gamma-ray bursts at 2 a.m.”

You let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“I’ve been a coward.”

“No,” he says. “You’ve been surviving.”

You don’t reply.

You can’t.

Not until your voice steadies.

Then, softly, like the words are being born as you say them. “I want to come to you.”

Silence again.

But this time, it’s charged with something electric.

“You sure?”

“No,” you say. “But I want to try.”

***

You book the ticket that night.

Direct to Nice.

Your first time flying in years.

You don’t tell anyone, not even your department. Just leave a sticky note on your office door that reads back soon, not quitting and hope no one panics.

The airport is chaos. The flight is worse. You nearly turn around three times, your heart hammering at the gate, in the bathroom, mid-air turbulence over the Channel.

But then Monaco.

Sunlight. Sea. Heat.

And him.

He’s waiting just outside arrivals.

Baseball cap. Hoodie. Trainers. A bouquet of white daisies in one hand.

No cameras.

No entourage.

Just him.

When he sees you, his whole face lights up. Not in a dramatic, movie-star kind of way. Just quietly. Completely.

Like the sun came out of him instead of above.

You walk toward him, suitcase wheels humming.

Neither of you says anything at first.

You stop right in front of him.

His hands twitch — like he wants to hug you but isn’t sure if you’ll let him.

So you make the first move.

You step in, press your face to his shoulder, and wrap your arms around his middle.

He exhales against your hair.

And holds you like he’s been waiting a lifetime.

“Hi,” you murmur.

“Hi,” he says, kissing your temple. “You’re here.”

“I am.”

You don’t cry.

But you want to.

***

His flat is all sun-washed wood and minimalist lines.

Too clean. Too quiet.

He tosses his keys on the counter. Offers you a bottle of sparkling water and a blanket, in that order. Like he knows your order of priorities.

You curl up on his sofa, legs tucked under you, mug of tea he made (with sugar, but not too much — he remembered), and your notebook open in your lap.

He sits beside you, one leg folded, body angled toward yours.

You start to read. An old favourite — Sagan or Leavitt or something soft and scientific and laced with poetry. You lose your place halfway through a sentence when his fingers brush your shoulder.

You pause.

“Keep going,” he says.

So you do.

And his hand moves gently — tracing constellations down your back with one finger.

Scorpius. Orion. Cassiopeia.

“Is this creepy?” He murmurs, lips close to your ear.

“No,” you whisper. “It’s … perfect.”

More silence.

“You know,” he says, “I never cared about stars before you.”

You glance sideways. “And now?”

“Now,” he says, his finger drawing a spiral just above your spine, “they remind me of your voice.”

You swallow. Hard.

He leans in closer, forehead nearly resting against yours.

“You’re not just my sun,” he whispers. “You’re the whole damn sky.”

You close your eyes.

Breathe in.

And let yourself believe it.

***

It’s been six months.

Six months since Monaco. Since a rooftop and daisies and a too-clean flat you made imperfect by shedding your cardigan on his floor and your doubts in his bed.

Six months of airports and voice notes and the soft click of your toothbrush beside his.

He still lives fast. You still live quietly. But the distance doesn’t feel as dangerous as it used to. He finds you in every city. You follow him in the night sky, even when you can’t be there.

You leave him notes in his luggage — tiny Post-its with sketches of constellations he hasn’t learned yet.

He sends you blurry pictures of hotel ceilings and titles them missing you, probably upside down.

Neither of you says “forever.”

But you both say “soon.”

And that’s enough.

***

Now it’s September, and you’re standing backstage at the Barbican, adjusting the mic clipped to your collar, trying not to vomit.

The TED Talk team is bustling behind the curtain. Someone hands you a bottle of water. Someone else adjusts your lighting.

You’re dressed in black, simple, classic. Hair tucked behind one ear. Notebook in hand — not to read from, just to hold. A small anchor.

The talk is on entropy.

You’ve practiced it a hundred times.

But it doesn’t stop your hands from shaking.

Not until you glance out past the curtain, eyes scanning rows of shadowy heads, and spot him.

Front row.

Oscar.

No cap. No hoodie. Just a dark jacket and that stupid, perfect grin.

He’s sitting with one ankle crossed over a knee, hands folded in his lap, like he’s never been more at home in his life.

You mouth, you came.

He winks.

You don’t remember walking out onto the stage.

You just know you’re there.

***

“I want to talk to you about decay,” you begin. “And about love.”

A few eyebrows raise.

You smile.

It’s a soft, self-deprecating thing.

“The second law of thermodynamics tells us that entropy always increases. That systems move toward disorder. That heat dissipates. That structures break down. It’s a law. Not a suggestion.”

You let the words settle.

“There’s a strange comfort in that. That the universe doesn’t make mistakes. That even our undoing follows a pattern.”

You shift on your feet, fingers brushing the edge of the podium.

“But I think about how stars collapse — how they burn through all their fuel and still find a way to shine brighter, just once, before the end.”

Pause.

“And I think about love. How it, too, can feel like entropy. Unpredictable. Messy. Disruptive. We spend so much time trying to contain it. Understand it. Prove it won’t fall apart. But maybe …”

You glance down.

Then up again.

Right at him.

“Maybe it doesn’t need to be controlled. Maybe love is beautiful because it follows its own physics.”

You take a breath.

“In my own work — mapping dark matter, tracing invisible currents through the universe — I’ve learned that the things we can’t see often shape us the most. And that some constants are worth holding on to.”

You close your notebook.

And smile directly at him.

“Even if it breaks the rules.”

***

Backstage is a blur of applause and champagne flutes and someone from MIT asking for your slides.

But Oscar is waiting just beyond the wings, hands in his pockets, leaning against the wall like he’s been standing there his whole life.

You spot him the second you exit.

He lifts an eyebrow. “So, entropy and love, huh?”

“Don’t.”

“What?” He says, holding his hands up in mock innocence. “I was just wondering if I’m the heat loss or the unpredictable variable.”

“You’re the interruption,” you say, smirking, stepping into him. “The system disturbance.”

“I’ll take it.”

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, eyes still full of something that makes your stomach twist in that dangerous, lovely way.

“You were brilliant.”

“I was terrified.”

“You didn’t look it.”

“I was staring at you the whole time.”

He kisses you before you can say anything else.

Quick. Certain.

Like punctuation.

Like gravity.

***

That night, back at your flat, you’re the one who’s quiet.

You’re lying across your bed in your TED Talk outfit, heels kicked off, toes brushing the duvet, hair spilling across the pillow like you forgot you’re not supposed to be the disheveled one in this dynamic.

Oscar is sitting beside you, his shirt wrinkled, tie loosened. He’s holding your hand absentmindedly, like he doesn’t want to forget it’s there.

“I’m proud of you,” he says.

You nod, but don’t reply.

He shifts. “Hey.”

You look up.

“You okay?”

You hesitate. “Yeah. Just … I don’t know. That felt like a before-and-after moment.”

“It was.”

You close your eyes. “What if people expect more of me now? What if that was the peak?”

“Then we climb another mountain,” he says, completely serious.

You laugh.

Then sigh. “It’s stupid. I should be happy.”

“You’re allowed to be scared and proud at the same time.”

You squeeze his hand. “Thanks, Professor Piastri.”

He chuckles. “Please. I’d be a terrible professor. I’d forget to assign homework and bring everyone donuts.”

You nudge him. “You’d be great at it.”

“Only if I taught a class on you.”

“That’s creepy.”

“Is it?” He says, standing suddenly and walking to the window.

You sit up. “What are you doing?”

He draws the curtain back.

“Come here.”

You stand, wary. “It’s midnight.”

“Exactly.”

He opens the window wide. The city air rushes in — cool, sweet, a little smoky.

“Lay down,” he says.

You glance around. “On the floor?”

“No,” he says. “On the windowsill.”

You stare at him.

He raises a brow. “Trust me.”

You do.

God help you, you do.

You climb onto the wide windowsill — an old Victorian flat, stone ledge cool beneath you — and lie back, careful not to knock over a half-dead succulent.

Oscar settles beside you, shoulder to shoulder.

Above you: stars.

Scattered faintly, blurred by the city glow, but still there.

He points.

“That’s Orion.”

You smile. “I know.”

“That’s the one with the belt, right?”

“Yes.”

“And over there …”

He squints.

You wait.

“… is the one I’m naming after you.”

You blink.

“Me?”

He nods solemnly. “Yep. It doesn’t have a name yet, so I’m calling dibs.”

“That’s not how astronomy works.”

He shrugs. “Sue me.”

You turn your head. He’s still looking up, eyes tracking some invisible pattern across the night.

“You don’t even know which one it is,” you say.

“I do,” he says. “It’s the one that’s always there. Even when the others fade.”

Your heart lurches.

He turns to you then, face barely lit by the city lights.

“I don’t care about the physics,” he says. “Or the rules. Or entropy.”

Pause.

“I care about this. You. Right now.”

You close your eyes.

His hand finds yours on the windowsill.

And somehow, that’s enough to make the whole sky feel closer.

2K notes · View notes

tonycries · 1 year ago

Text

Go For It, Gojo! [Part 2] - G.S.

Synopsis. Just two weeks ago you could barely stand him - so, really, why is your heart beating so loud? Surely, it’s just the way he’s got you pushed against the wall, face stuffed in your cunt - right?

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, academic rivals to lovers, student president! reader, unprotected sex, semi-public sex, slight angst + comfort, vibrators, banter about physics, cunnilingus, Yaga is tired, oral sex (male + female), college! AU, both reader and Satoru do some growing up, overstimulation, super sappy actually, pet names (sweetheart, hardass), swearing.

Word count. 10.5k

A/N. Passed out five times, here’s Part 2 (joke). PART 1 HERE. Art by @_3aem on X.

Gojo Satoru likes to think he’s hilarious. A real connoisseur of the fine art of comedy. The fifth member of Impractical Jokers, if you will.

Which is probably why, for someone who didn’t know the definition of shutting the fuck up, he sure was intent on staying quiet about whatever this was.

It’s been exactly 2 weeks, 5 days and 17 hours since you and Satoru had entered this weird limbo, and there still wasn’t a peep out of the man about what the two of you are to each other.

Friends? Acquaintances? A booty call that he happens to argue way too much with? You’d smack that pretty nose of his if that was the case - as soon as you admittedly stopped being a pussy yourself…

But, semantics.

And right now, his fingers intertwined with yours as he practically drags you through the aquarium ticket counter - you couldn’t help but wonder - was this a date?

Not exactly lovers, but definitely more than friends, a tense understanding crackling in the air between you two. Something prickly and jittery that pooled in your stomach and made your head spin.

And as someone used to having the answers to everything, it bothered you that you didn’t have the one to this.

You haven’t been to an aquarium since you were a kid - quickly having outgrown it at the ripe age of seven. So, really, it made sense that the 6’3 manchild beside you insisted it was the perfect spot to celebrate finishing your assignment.

“That damn quantum entanglement hell.” you’d called it - and ranted about all the way inside - more so to fill the charged silence than anything. His fingers still tight around yours despite the dissipating crowd, burning into your skin.

“You know for someone who loves the elegance of science, you’re an extra hardass about quantum entanglement.” he titters in-between worried mutters of “doesn’t that old lady look like the mafia queenpin from the café.” as you two try to navigate your way through the aquarium.

You desperately cling onto his remark - a sense of normalcy you could finally breathe in.

“Well, Satoru, for someone who treats life like an improv show, you sure have a knack for avoiding scientific precision,” you retort, some strange part of you delighting in the way his fingers tighten around yours.

“Precision is for pussies.” he chuckles, bringing up a hand to your face, fingers wiggling in a ludicrous attempt at hypnotic suggestion. “Besides, sweetheart, life is a cosmic joke, and quantum mechanics is the punchline.”

“As expected from a Pilot-Wave theorist, that just sounds like an excuse to be lazy. ‘Oh, let’s embrace uncertainty and blame it on quantum mechanics!’”

“It’s also the punchline.”

“At least my punchlines make sense.”

He lets out an exaggerated whine, “And here I thought we were bonding over shared disdain for the hard-headed laws of physics.”

“Shared disdain? I actually respect the laws of physics. They’re the backbone of our universe.”

“Maybe.” he responds, voice a bit uncharacteristically somber. “But, quantum mechanics, uncertainty, whatever. In the end it doesn’t matter the universe, aren’t we all just wandering through a sea of unpredictability? It’s exciting.” he weaves through the crowd with you, gaze flickering between you and the vibrant schools of fish.

And maybe you’re an overthinker - you’ve always been told you were - but it felt like his words carried a heavy tone that went beyond your stupid little debate about quantum entanglement. This was not about physics.

“That excitement often leads to chaos, no matter the universe.”

“Embrace the chaos in every universe then. It keeps things interesting.”

“You’re incorrigible.” you scoff, meeting his intense gaze head-on, skin flaring at the sheer intensity of it. “I bet in every universe you’re an unchangeable hell-raiser.”

“Maybe.” He leans in, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, gaze now locked on you, his lips dangerously ghosting your ear. “Or maybe I’m just more of a hands-on learner?”

It might never have been about physics.

It’s innocent fun, right? Two classmates celebrating the end of an assignment? Innocent, innocent fu-

“Y’know with the way you’re so dripping wet f’me, I’m starting to think our lil’ arguments are just foreplay, prez.”

Sleek plastic cold against your back, Satoru’s mouth hot on yours - hungry and insistent. Lips tangy with the taste of minty toothpaste and the thrill of the forbidden as he cages you against that heady bathroom stall.

“You’re the one that riles me up. Got a degradation kink, Satoru?” you shoot back between gasps as his greedy hands map every curve and dip of your body. Groping. Kneading. Such a fucking tease.

“Mhm~ Love when you talk dirty to me, sweetheart.” he hums into the heated skin of your neck. White-hot tingles of electricity running along your body. “Though, I really prefer when that smart mouth is choking around my cock instead.”

“I’m gonna hah- drown you in the fucking clownfish tank.”

“Kinky, but that’s not that’s not the magic word, sweetheart.”

You grit your teeth - in both pleasure and irritation, but most importantly the need for more more more. He always did drive you insane. Words choked, “P-please.”

A sharp moan rips from your throat as long fingers graze your swollen folds through your soaked panties. Teasing the dainty hem. Pulling it down. Delving in. Curving deftly upwards, easily pressing into that one spot inside. Over and over. In and out in and out in and-

“Teasing hah- teasing bastard.” you hiss, even as your traitorous hips buck into his touch.

Satoru chuckles darkly, breath warm against your ear, sending shivers running down your spine. “Your teasing bastard.” Your heart pounds in your ears, mind caught on the “your”, drowning out the distant hum and bustle of the aquarium outside.

And before you can open your mouth - maybe to say something so utterly stupid - he falls to his knees. Pretty lips ghosting your inner thigh, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. A stark contrast with the cool air of the bathroom stall.

Mindlessly, your legs press together, a bead of slick trailing enticingly down them - aching for an ounce of friction. Down, down, down-

And Satoru notices - of course he notices - because his tongue darts out urgently, tracing the seam of your swollen folds. Eyes rolling to the back of his head, pooling your juices on his tongue before letting them flow down his throat - groaning as if it was his favorite taste.

Shit, you really were his favorite taste.

Nose-deep in your cunt and on his knees in that cramped aquarium bathroom, all he can do is lap up your juices. Cock aching, tasting you, breathing you in like a man dying of thirst.

Pulling down his trousers just enough for his throbbing erection to spring free. Leaking tip smearing against his toned abdomen, trailing down the prominent vein in the middle. A large hand firmly gripping the base, pressing his heavy balls so obscenely on your calf, pulling in sinful little tugs to you.

Blood rushes straight to the throbbing erection in his hands at the way your breath hitches, pretty little mewls of his name leaving those kiss-bitten lips. Such a shame he had to muffle them, two fingers in your mouth, forcing you to taste yourself.

Ah, he didn’t get to see those manta rays yet, but it’s alright - right now, hips bucking helplessly into him, your hands knotted in his hair - you’re his favorite view anyway. His pretty girl.

“Hngh- Jus’ like that, Satoru.” you moan.

He groans into your dripping pussy, vibrations sending a jolt of electricity shooting through your veins, making you clench further around the tongue pushing its way into your heated hole. Cunt aching for release, and his leaking cock not far behind as he fucks his fist urgently. Grinding into you like a fucking dog in heat.

“Please.”

Granting your unspoken request, he moves purposefully. Nose catching on your clit, rubbing it over and over as he alternates between gentle sucks and rapid thrusts of his tongue dipping into your entrance. Satoru’s unspoken pace sends you spiraling into insanity - and the edge.

Almost there.

You lock eyes with him, seeing just as much need for you reflected back in his own eyes. Flitting between his hungry gaze and the thumb teasing his flushed slit. Jerky, desperate strokes of his hand along his veined length - up, up, up - just the way you do it.

Time seems to stand still as with one two three thrusts you shatter all over his tongue. Choked-up cries of his name bouncing off the walls of the empty bathroom as you chase peak after peak on his pretty face.

Your vision blurs at the edges, blood roaring in your ears. Torn between wanting to scream in pleasure and not wanting to be arrested for public indecency. Breathless whispers of pleasure slurring together as your mind clouds with only Satoru Satoru Satoru-

As the haze clears slightly, you realize you’re cradling his head, stroking his silky locks soothingly. Pulling away - embarrassed more at this than what just transpired - you let Satoru rise to his feet, towering over you.

“On your knees, sweetheart.”

Still delirious from your orgasm, you mindlessly drop to your knees before him. Wordlessly, he guides himself into your mouth, precum salty on your tongue and cock glistening in the dim light of the bathroom.

His hips begin to thrust, matching the pace from before as he fucks your hot mouth. You relax your jaw, letting him take control as he plunges deeper and deeper. Fighting the urge to gag as he hits the back of your throat. Saliva drips down your chin so lewdly, smearing on his cock,

Satoru’s breathing grows heavier and heavier as your nose hits the tufts of hair on his pelvis, already wet with precum and spit. Grip searing on your scalp, you look up to meet his gaze - eyes half-lidded and tears clinging to your lashes.

Maybe it was the carnal look in your eyes, or the way your glossy lips stretch so prettily around him - because with a guttural groan, Satoru spills his load down your throat. Grasp steady on your hair, making you sputter and drink every drop as his cock twitches on your tongue. Cum dribbling down the corner of your lips, the tap! tap! tap! of it ringing in your ears.

As his high passes, you feel as if you’re in a daze as Satoru helps you up. Voice shot and throat burning as he cleans the both of you up.

Gentle hands on your cheek, a thumb caressing your lips. Your face burning at the way he looks at you. Why does he look at you like that.

A soft smile plays on his lips - kiss-bitten and prettily glossed with your juices. Wordlessly, he leans in, pressing a tender kiss to your lips, sending a sudden tug at your heartstrings.

“I bet in every universe we sneak around and choose the worst lil’ hideouts.”

Yeah. Yeah, maybe you did.

And you don’t know why it hurt.

It’s almost like you’re on autopilot as you quickly smooth down your clothes and follow Satoru outside, back into the bustling aquarium as inconspicuously as possible.

As you walk side by side, you can’t help but feel the previous euphoria inside you coiling into something more. Something uncomfortable.

Passing by a group of kids excitedly pointing at a giant tank of tropical fish, you feel a wistful ache as you’re reminded of simpler times. Back when you didn’t analyze everything interaction. Maybe back when things were better.

Pulling back, “Satoru…”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“About what happened…about us-” you sputter out, uncharacteristically inarticulate. “I don’t want-”

“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, y’know.”

Your head snaps up. Unspoken words lingering in the air - is it me or you that doesn’t want to talk about it.

Your eyes catch on the shine of his hair in the cool light. The subtle flex of muscles beneath his shirt as he leads the way through the mesmerizing corridors of the aquarium, the soft glow of the tanks casting an ethereal light on his silhouette.

His hand warm in yours, and that little dimple at the corner of his grin as he turns to you. Devastating.

It was like something snapped. And it hits you with a pang. All glory and beautiful.

He wasn’t yours.

And he probably might never be.

Somehow that terrified you.

Because in the end, weren’t you just playing along in his elaborate cosmic joke? Just part of his unknown?

But why did that hurt so much?

“Gojo, I’m going home.”

Fear.

---

There have only been three times in his life that Gojo Satoru has truly felt fear. The first, of course, was right after kissing your pretty lips in that dingy closet - if there was ever a true “ah, if I live I’m making this my legacy” moment then that was it.

The second was when he accidentally walked in on Yaga practicing his interpretative dance routine in the faculty lounge. The man had some moves - but it was something that Satoru saw nightmares about for days.

And the third time? Well, that’s the ongoing saga of trying to decipher you and why the hell you were sitting in another row during Advanced Quantum Physics, so gorgeous and unbothered ignoring him.

No texts, no calls, no snarky debates on anything since the aquarium a few days ago.

Almost as if he was back to square one - worse even.

So yes, Gojo Satoru is scared. In fact, some might even say he’s utterly terrified.

But even more than that, he’s so so stupid.

Because for the life of him he couldn’t remember what he’d done to mess up that fragile little connection that you two had formed.

Maybe you just liked seafood too much to visit the aquarium? That couldn’t be it…

Did you find out he accidentally knocked over that stack of books in the library and blamed it on you? No, he’s heard you blame worse things on him to his face.

Have you finally gotten sick of him?

…

Nahhh.

He steals a glance in your direction. Eyes mapping your ramrod posture, the way you’re hanging off of Yaga’s every word, and that slight frown marring your features. Ah, you looked so beautiful there even when you looked like you’re about to have an aneurysm.

It’s as if you’ve erected an invisible fortress around yourself, and he’s outside looking in. Desperately calling for you.

Satoru sighs inwardly, realizing he’s going to have to pull out the big guns. With the subtlety of a sledgehammer, he clears his throat, shifting his chair a little too loudly to yours in the row in front of him.

Paying no mind to the irritated glance that Yaga (and you) shoot at him, he whispers loud enough that it probably carries to the entire classroom. “So, prez~ Did I accidentally stumble into an alternate universe where you still hate me or have you just been avoiding me like I’m a contagious disease.”

You flinch - probably both at the audacity and at him addressing you. Eyes still firmly trained on the now-disgruntled Yaga, you reply curtly, “This is not an alternate universe, Gojo. And I haven’t been avoiding you, I’ve just been busy.”

“Busy ignoring me? Space might’ve worked for Neil Armstrong but it won’t work for me, sweetheart. Just tell me what I did so I can get on my knees and beg for forgiveness.”

Your brows furrow, eyes rereading the same sentence on your textbook over and over. “Just focus on these causal dynamical triangulations, Gojo.”

“Oh yeah, I had one of those once.”

“Satoru. I swear to-”

A sharp call of your name - followed by his. Professor Yaga’s irritation, now palpable, hangs in the air like a storm. “If you two can't maintain some decorum, I suggest you continue your discussion outside.”

Satoru grins unabashedly, batting his long lashes, “Why, Yaga, I thought you enjoyed our discussions.”

“Out, both of you.”

Each word clipped and shattering your dreams of becoming Professor Yaga’s protégé into tinier and tinier pieces.

“You heard the man, prez. Let’s take this show on the road.”

Hastily, you gather your belongings, shooting an apologetic glance at Professor Yaga, who gives you a sympathetic look in response. As the door slams behind you, noise ringing in your ears, you stand frozen in a mixture of shock and disbelief.

Satoru, however, seems unfazed. “Well, that was an unbridled success.”

Irritation spikes as you hiss out, “What?”

“I mean, you called me Satoru for the first time in days so I consider that an unbridled success.”

A strange stab at your heart, and maybe for the first time since working together on that quantum entanglement assignment, Satoru’s joke doesn’t land.

Your eyes narrow at him, “This isn’t a joke, Satoru. I needed Professor Yaga’s guidance - how else am I going to get a research position with him?”

“It wasn’t a joke.”

Following your weighty silence, Satoru lets out a heavy sigh. The expression on his face looked more serious than you’d ever seen it as his eyes search yours. “Look, prez, I didn’t mean to mess things up for you - though Yaga basically worships the ground you walk on so-”

At your raised eyebrow he gets back on track, “Anyway, something’s wrong and I just wanted to understand what’s going on between us.”

A humorless laugh leaves your lips, “Now you want to talk about us?”

You clench your fists, frustration and confusion boiling over within you. You know you’re part of this too. You know you’re not blameless in this tangled mess. And right now, the sheer warmth of his gaze made a strange little part of you consider just giving in and running to his arms. Fuck what he wants of you. Fuck all the uncertainty.

And that’s exactly what scared you.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady the whirlwind of thoughts within your mind. “I don’t even know what ‘us’ is, Gojo. And I don’t think you do either.”

Your voice is surprisingly steady - as are your feet as they carry you away from Satoru. You’d caught one, final glance at the slump of his shoulders, and the silent plea in his eyes.

Purposeful steps sound in your ears as you walk to God-knows-where. Yet, they still stutter - as does your heart - as Satoru’s voice rings in the hallway behind you, “Take all the time you need, prez. I’ll win you back with my world-renowned Gojo charm again~”

Light words following a heavy admission, his humor attempting to bandage over the cracks of what you two had not too long ago. The echo of his words accompany you down the corridor, and despite yourself, you find your lips tugging into the slightest beginnings of a smile. The slightest.

It’s okay. This is okay. Things can go back to whatever they were now - normal, steady.

“World-renowned Gojo charm.” you repeat under your breath, ready to find a quiet corner of campus where you can throw yourself into causal dynamical triangulations.

Gaze unwavering, Satoru stands still, searching for any signs of you looking back. Turn around. Turn around turn around turn-

“Mr. Gojo, are you going to find the building exit with the same enthusiasm you exhibit when spouting lines from your imaginary romance novel?”

“Ah. Yaga, I was just- wait imaginary? I can assure you that my charm is as real as quantum mechanics - just ask your star student! Although these days even quantum mechanics might have trouble explaining why she’s-”

“Mr. Gojo.”

“Understood. On my way.” A comical salute, “May your lectures be as riveting as my girl when she’s threatening to drown me in clownfish tanks~”

“Good. And please, spare us all from any more ‘unbridled success’ in the future.”

---

The following week turned into a delicate dance, a waltz of cautious side steps and tense half-glances - all of which were met by that fond gaze that made your heart clutch so involuntarily. Like a silent drama where neither of you knew the next line.

The sprawling campus now seemed so tiny, a tension connecting the two of you like an invisible thread. From Professor Yaga’s class - now so dull without that usual bickering - all the way down to that café just off-campus where the stuffy air hums with old banter and unspoken words.

Yet, the routine remained unchanged, you still found yourself visiting there time and time again - by that little booth in the corner, right next to the window. Just without your familiar companion.

You never realized how quiet the café could get without someone talking your ear off about everything from the Pilot-Wave theory to why the little girl at the grocery store who mistook him for a Kakashi cosplayer is definitely conspiring against him.

It’s thrown you off - and you’re sick of thinking of that stupid smirk when you’re trying to meticulously sort through the overflow of student archives.

Ugh, you’ve been losing sleep over these for days. Feeling hot under your temples, you try to push away the pressure behind your eyes - If you don’t get this categorized before the next meeti-

“Whatcha reading, sweetheart?”

Speak of the devil.

Startled, you look up from your sea of paperwork.

Ah, there he was. All nonchalance and grace, eyes twinkling with mischief and an easy grin curling his lips. And for a moment - a brief, fleeting moment - you’re filled with a familiar warmth, tension from the past few days melting into nothingness.

“Oh, just some archives.” you blink, with a measured calmness.

“Absolutely fascinating.” Satoru chuckles, sliding into the chair across from you with the casual elegance of someone who’s completely unaware of the mess he left in his wake. “What’s next, a riveting analysis on the historical significance of paperclips?”

Ignoring his banter, you focus diligently on the task at hand - Gakuganji would have your head. “If only. Now what do you want, Satoru? I’m busy.”

His grin widens, undeterred. “Busy with what? Cataloging the thrilling history of staplers and notepads?”

You shoot him a pointed look, “The secret lives of archives can be more scandalous than you think, Gojo.”

“Just how do you contain your excitement, prez?”

“I don’t.” you drone out. Shuffling your papers, gathering them with a deliberate focus. “Now, if you’re done with your stand-up routine, I actually have work to do.”

Satoru straightens up, the playfulness in his eyes dimming ever so slightly. “Wait wait, sweetheart, we need to talk.”

You let out a sigh - there it is. And maybe you were being petty. Maybe you were slightly scared. “Oh, now, we do? How convenient.”

“Can’t we just go back to the way things were? I don’t want things to be weird between us.” He runs a hand through his silky locks, a gesture that usually accompanies his frustration.

A bitter laugh escapes your lips. “Weird? Gojo, things have been weird between us for a while now. You just never bothered to notice until it got inconvenient for you..” You stand up, your archives now neatly organized. “I have to finish seven files of these now, excuse me.”

A subtle ache takes residence in your bones as you walk away, his gaze hot on your back. The barista, a friendly soul who had witnessed countless interactions between you and Gojo, offered you a sympathetic smile as you made your way out.

The café's atmosphere, once cozy with laughter, now suffocatingly laced with unease. That invisible thread connecting you both feels strained. Hanging by the thinnest of threads - on the verge of snapping.

And, yet, through it all one thought rings clear.

You missed him.

Satoru didn’t know what hurt more - the way you called him “Gojo” or the way he didn’t even get a giggle out of his paperclip joke.

“Gojo, things have been weird between us for a while now.”

Yeah, definitely the way you called him “Gojo”.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the cloud of doom himself. I can barely enjoy my Earl Grey. What’s eating at you, young man?”

Satoru’s head snaps up at the curious croak, tone a mix of concern and amusement. His eyes meet sharp, perceptive ones that seem to cut through his sulky haze. Oh, it’s the mafia queenpin.

At his wordless staring she plows on, taking a seat opposite him, “Oh c’mon, boy. Don’t think I haven’t seen you lurking and moping about. You’ve got as much subtlety as my late husband - and he once tried to hide a mistress by having her disguise as a potted plant.”

A half-hearted grin makes its way onto his face, “No potted plants here, just the usual existential crisis. You know how it is.”

The old lady snorted, unimpressed. “Please, spare me the theatrics. I’ve seen drama queens with more subtlety. Now spill.”

Satoru hesitated, wincing at the stare that seemed to cut right into his soul. It reminded him of a little someone.

Finally, he sighs relentingly, “It's complicated. Things with someone... changed. I miss the way it used to be, you know?”

A sharp cackle, echoing in the empty space around them. “Ah, love troubles. You youngsters make it sound so dramatic. Look, boy, if you want something, go and get it.”

He huffs in defeat, now way more into impromptu love counseling than he initially thought he’d be. “I tried but-”

But the old lady cuts him off, sharp and incisive, “Trying isn’t the same as doing, kid. And let me tell you, I’ve seen enough guys like you wasting time pondering instead of acting.”

It seems this mafia queenpin brought out all the childish, petty sides of him. Because Satoru whines in a way that he definitely wouldn’t if you hadn’t been avoiding him and if you hadn’t called him “Gojo” and-

“But she hates me, and she’s sick of me.” A rare vulnerability creeping into his voice. “Maybe things were better the way they were.”

“Life’s too short for that crap. And trust me, that girl does not hate you, you’re just scaring her off. I would have smacked you after that first dumb comment about paperclips.” The old lady snorts, dismissing his complaint. “Uptight academics, always scared of their own feelings. Afraid that if they acknowledge them, the world might end.”

Satoru blinks, taken aback by the unexpected insight. “Scaring her off? I'm just being myself.”

She leans in, sharp eyes drilling into him - picking him apart. “Being yourself doesn't mean avoiding the real conversations. You’ve got feelings, boy. Instead of playing the joker, try being sincere for once. Maybe you’ll be surprised.”

Taking a patient sip of her tea, “Now, go and fix whatever mess you made. Or better yet, just grab the girl and give her a damn good kiss. Works wonders.”

Satoru blinks, taken aback by the unexpected advice. The old lady cackles again, a knowing twinkle in her eye.

“Now, scram, and let an old lady enjoy her coffee in peace.”

He nods, more to himself than her, feeling a strange mix of determination and embarrassment at being given advice by the same lady he had a silent bet with you about being an underground overlord.

Immediately standing up, he salutes her goodbye before rushing out - only to stop abruptly halfway out the door. Turning and speedwalking back to the table, with a mix of curiosity and urgency.

“Hey, granny, I have a question.”

“Anything as long as it isn’t my age, boy.”

“Would you happen to have any mafia connections by chance?.”

Ah, you think you’re dying.

Or maybe that’s just what the towering stack of papers on your cluttered desk want you to think…

It mocks you. A painful reminder of the mundane world you were now in. That invisible thread connecting you to that little booth in the corner of the café now feels like a noose tightening around your neck.

What’s done is done. And right now you have bigger fish to fry - fish shaped annoyingly like the unresolved chaos of these archives.

You rub your eyes, room swaying slightly as you squint at the tiny print, letters melting into one another and conspiring against you. Rereading the same sentence over and over, sweat beading on your forehead.

God, was the heater on too high?

The documents on the desk seem to dance, a mocking waltz that laughs in the face of your feeble attempts to restore order. Chaos.

Stop it.

An incessant pounding on your temples, blood roaring in your ears.

You reach for a pen, your fingers fumbling as it slips through your grasp. Falling onto the floor with a clatter that reverberates in your throbbing head. Chaos.

The room is stifling, walls closing in on you. Breaths hot and labored. Temples drumming louder. And louder. Urgent and insistent. Chaos.

“Open up! It’s Satoru!”

Satoru.

Body acting before your brain, you stagger out of your seat, the world spinning dangerously as you clutch onto the desk for support.

Satoru?

Your unsteady feet carry you towards the door - almost subconsciously. You wince at the stab of pain in your temples as it throbs in time with the urgent knocking.

Hands unsteady on the doorknob, vision bleary, yet you’d recognize that shock of cloudy hair anywhere. His words hit you before the realization that Satoru was here, and why was he here looking so adorably disheveled like he’d run here and what was he rambling about now-

“I'm so so sorry. I messed up, I should’ve noticed. I know I’ve been avoiding the real conversation and I didn’t realize how much-”

His voice, tinged with a vulnerability you’re not used to hearing, is abruptly cut off as Satoru looks up from where he was fumbling with his fingers in nervousness - wide blue eyes taking in your glassy eyes and clammy skin. In your hazy vision you make out the deep concern creeping its way onto those pretty features.

“Sweetheart?”

A sudden wave of dizziness hits you. The room tilts, and for a brief, disorienting moment, you feel like you’re floating in space. Ah, didn’t know you could breathe in space. Wonder if you’ll win a Nobel for this discovery?

A sharp call of your name cuts through the haze, the last thing you register before the world folds around you like a delicate paper. Fading to black., and perhaps the warm arms around you are the only thing grounding you right now. The chaotic waltz has won.

Now, the great Gojo Satoru usually calls his mother for only one of two reasons - 1. His beloved ramen shop is closed, or worse - out of his favorite special spicy sauce, and 2. A dire and life-threatening emergency.

“Mama! I’ve got an emergency and no it’s not the ramen this time.”

His mother’s voice crackles through the phone, a mix of concern and amusement. “Satoru, are you sure it’s that dire? I’m at a work meeting, y’know”

Dramatically, “Of course, mama. Someone I care about is sick. Yes, I have a heart under this fabulous exterior. A real one.”

A brief pause, “Oh my lil’ Toru~ You mean you finally confessed to that student prez you’ve been swooning over for months? The one with ‘a brilliant mind like a quantum computer’ and ‘eyes like-’”

Squirming in embarrassment, “Well- not exactly, but-”

“Spill.”

“I need the recipe to our secret family chicken soup, like, urgently. It’s a life-or-death situation.”

His mother’s laughter echoes through the phone. “Life-or-death, huh? Alright, my little drama king, I’ll send it right away. But you owe me a detailed account of what's happening.”

“Deal!”

With a click, the call ends, and Satoru is left in your hallway, holding you in his arms, desperately awaiting the secret weapon - his mother’s legendary chicken soup.

In the meantime, he shifts you in his arms, steady hands carefully lifting you off the ground, cradling you to his chest.

Face burning at the practiced way his feet carry him to your room. “Come on, sweetheart. Wake up. Don’t make me regret not calling an ambulance. Should I call an ambulance? No, chicken soup first, then maybe an ambulance. Ugh, I should've paid more attention in first aid.”

Slow, deliberate steps through the corridor. Heart dropping as his eyes catch on the mountains of scattered papers and files. Next time he passes by Gakuganji’s office he’s gonna swap the keys on that fossil’s keyboard.

The soft click of the door closing seems too loud in the quiet room as he lays you gently on the bed. Heart clenching at the way you bury yourself mindlessly into the covers, pretty eyes still screwed shut, he mutters to himself “What am I going to do with you?”

His gaze drifts to the scattered papers on the floor, starting to gather them, creating a semblance of order amidst the chaos. Satoru glances at you, noticing the creased lines on your forehead even in your unconscious state. A pang of guilt hits him.

“Avoiding the real conversation, huh?” he mumbles, more to himself than to you. He risks a glance at your sleeping figure again, “I’m sorry, my sweetheart.”

Finishing his impromptu cleanup - and after taking maybe one picture of you all snuggled up - he gets up determinedly to make the legendary chicken soup. “I’ll make it right, prez. First, chicken soup. Then, we'll have that real conversation, no matter how scary it gets.”

You wake up to the cacophony of pots and pans, and a voice…cursing bad cooking for being genetic? The aromatic smell of chicken soup hits you - as does the cold sweat beading on your forehead.

Joints aching, you try to sit up, the room still spinning - but ever-so-slightly less than before. Recollections from earlier slowly come to you, you don’t even have to look at the figure now standing at the doorway to know who it is.

“Whoa, there, sweetheart. Lay back.”

Your weakened smile is met with a worried frown. Satoru’s gentle tone, masking his franticness, rings in your ears like a song you loved but haven’t heard in a long time. He rushes to guide you gently back onto the bed, a thumb wiping away the sweat trickling down your temple. “Soup’s on the stove. But first, let’s get you cleaned up. Is that okay?”

Before you can protest - as if you had the strength to - Satoru scampers off to your bathroom. You lay there in the deafening silence as he does. You had an image to uphold, archives to categorize, and a Satoru to distance yourself from.

But right now, your eyes meeting his like constellations aligning in the night sky as he returns with a small basin filled with warm water, a soft cloth draped over his shoulder, you think that you wouldn’t mind falling apart for him.

Sitting down beside you, his gaze never leaving your face, “Just relax, sweetheart. I’ve got you.” A tenderness in his voice matching the warmth of the damp washcloth gently dabbing your forehead.

A heavy feeling settles in your gut. You want to shy away from the fondness in those blue depths as they never leave yours. You want to block out the hushed whispers of reassurance as his fingers trail lightly across your skin, uncomfortably hot. You want to cry.

And you don’t realize you are until Satoru’s hand stiffens, eyes widening with emotions you can’t name.

Oh.

Satoru has seen you strong, capable, and fiercely independent. He’s seen you turn his elaborate equation into a doodle of a ramen bowl with the caption, “Even my ramen has more substance than this theory, Satoru.”

But Satoru has never seen you like this.

“Hey, hey, c’mon. It’s okay, prez. I’m here. I’ve got you.” Satoru whispers, as if afraid that speaking louder might shatter the fragile reality you both find yourselves in.

His words hanging in the air, and the sincerity in his eyes coax you to unravel the knot of emotions you’ve been suppressing ever since you were pushed into that damn closet with him.

“Satoru.” And it spills out. “I’m scared. And I missed you. And I’m scared that I missed you - scared of what that could mean, and scared of where this might lead. Because I missed you and you’re here.”

His brows furrow in concern, but he remains silent, urging you to continue.

“I've built walls, convinced myself that I can’t afford to be vulnerable out of fear of the unpredictable. Yet, here we are. I can’t escape it, and it terrifies me.” you confess, eyes flickering away from the intensity of his gaze as if avoiding the reality of your words.

Satoru inches his hand closer to cradle yours. “You don’t have to be scared, prez, I’m not going anywhere.” His voice a steady anchor, “Though, I was scared too. Scared that if I confronted these feelings, you’d run away. So, I waited, telling myself that I was giving you time, but honestly it was just a shitty excuse.”

His thumb caresses the back of your hand, a gentle rhythm matching the beating of your heart. “Because for all I spout about chaos and uncertainty, facing these feelings head-on is scarier than any angry Yaga.”

A fresh wave of tears - both at his admission and at that familiar attempt to lighten the humor. “You’re an idiot you know.” you sputter.

“I know.”

“And your theories on life and the universe are stupid.”

“Absolutely.”

“And your overpriced glasses make you look like the fourth blind rat from Shrek.”

“Now that’s too far, he’s a mouse, sweetheart.”

A watery chuckle as his fingers interlace with yours. Satoru leans in, his forehead resting against yours - no care in the world for how contagious you might be. Because fuck if the sickness might not be then these feelings sure were.

“You scared me, y’know.” he confesses.

“I’m sorry. I should have taken care of my-”

“Not that.” Satoru’s unspoken words echo in the small, charged space between you two.

Your heart clenches, understanding. “For that, I am sorry, too.”

Disappointment spikes your heart as he withdraws slightly, hand feeling cold at the sudden absence. But before you can question the impending doom at his mischievous glint, Satoru produces a pen from your top drawer.

“What are you up to now, Satoru?” you drone, raising a brow at his antics.

“Just a little insurance policy.” he smirks at your confused hum, taking your left hand back in his. Pen poised over your ring finger, ink cold on your skin.

“Insurance policy against what?”

“A promise.”

A delicate infinity sign, it draws your gaze and locks it there. You almost miss the flush creeping up on Satoru’s ears, “Just a symbol, y’know- We can get an actual ring if you want, my mother is actually best friend’s with-”

The sight of him makes something bloom in your chest. It hurt. Not because of fear, but because you felt so full.

Cutting off his rambles with your lips on his. Steady, and electric, molding together as if they were meant to fit perfectly. A lingering promise.

When you finally pull away, he huffs out an euphoric laugh. “I was gonna say you look like you wanted to kiss me so bad, but you already did.”

Rolling your eyes, “Think if I tell you something now you can write it off as me being sick and delirious?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Satoru, I love you.”

And that’s all Satoru ever wanted to hear.

“And I love you, in every universe.”

---

The sleep that follows Satoru’s “world famous Gojo family chicken soup” - and that heavy conversation - is the best you’ve had in days. You dream of manta rays in tuxedos, the guests of honor at yours and Satoru’s Nobel prize ceremony.

And, 12 full hours later and finally clear-headed, you find yourself groggily standing in the middle of your room. Blinking in disbelief at the perfectly categorized files of archives, and the sparkling organization of your once-scattered space - Satoru, peacefully snoring at your desk, pen still tightly gripped in his hand.

He…finished all of it?

Your heart clenches, warmth flowering all over your body.

As you approach, Satoru stirs, those familiar blue eyes slowly opening to meet yours. A dazed smile stretches across his face as he sheepishly scratches the back of his head.

“Got a bit carried away. Guess you really are rubbing off on me, prez.” he chuckles, his voice still laced with sleep.

“Good then, soon your brain won’t be a black hole of theoretical abstractions.”

Eyes sparkling, he throws his head back to laugh, carefree. “There’s my girl. Feeling better now, hm?”

Your face burns at his words, and his proximity as he stands from his chair to tower over you. Heat radiating off his skin. “Yeah, all thanks to your mother’s recipe.”

“And my charm, of course.”

“Oh, yes, the begging on your knees.”

“Hey it worked, didn’t it? Don’t insult the world-renowned Gojo charm that way~!”

You raise an eyebrow, unable to suppress a smirk. “Yes, yes of course. That world-renowned ‘Gojo charm’ strikes again. Is that why Yaga sent me a gift basket apologizing on your behalf?”

“Listen, sometimes collateral apologies are inevitable. And I learned the hard way that wishing Yaga’s lectures are as riveting as my girl when she’s threatening to drown me in clownfish tanks does not go well.”

A startled laugh escapes your lips, sound bouncing off the once-heavy walls, and you almost miss the captivated expression on Satoru’s face. A tender smile spreads across his lips.

Laughter bating, you throw your hands around his waist in one, fluid motion, relishing at his flustered expression. “We should go to the aquarium again sometime.”

“Mhm~”

A beat of silence. One. Two.

“Satoru?”

He leans in, minty breath fanning your face. “Yes, sweetheart?”

“Thank you.”

Body moving almost subconsciously, your lips crush against his. Hungry and yearning. Kissing each other with a desperation that eclipses the need for air. He didn’t mind dying if it meant suffocating by your lips anyway - both of them.

You let out a muffled moan as he pulls on your lips, hands snaking down to grip your ass, squeezing possessively. His tongue was sloppy, intertwining with yours with matching urgency. Trapping yours between his ruby lips, sucking so lewdly.

Large fingers bruising on your waist, pulling you flush against his body till you could feel the incessant banging of his heart against his ribcage - or maybe that was yours.

His shirt is all but ripped off of him - as is yours, and if you were in a clearer state of mind you’d feel sad at the tattered state of your favorite Steins;Gate t-shirt. But all that flies out of your mind at the creamy skin of Satoru’s chiseled chest.

You raise your hips to meet the throbbing erection now straining against his pants, fabric stretched and precum forming a pool right at the tip of his leaking head. A low groan is stifled into your mouth, almost as if it hurt to be apart.

Satoru’s fingers dig into your hips, moving you to grind against his achingly hard length at a maddeningly sensual pace. Up and down, up and down, up and-

A white-hot jolt of electricity runs down to your cunt each time the prominent vein down his side catches on your covered clit, thin panties now soaked with your slick and his precum.

You almost don’t recognize the disappointed whine that leaves your lips as he pulls away, delicate strings of spit snapping.

“You drive me insane, sweetheart.” he murmurs, breathless with lust.

“The feeling’s mutual, Satoru.”

And it was like something snapped - maybe his sanity, probably you by the end of this.

Because with a low, carnal growl, Satoru picks you up as if you weigh nothing. Seating you roughly onto your nearby desk and pinning you down. Papers scattering everywhere in the heat of the moment, rendering his earlier hard work useless.

Satoru crowds your space, ravaging your mouth, grinding against your heated core till the only thing you can see is him, the only thing you can feel is him, the only thing you can think of-

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer. The friction is maddening, driving you closer and closer to the edge.

Yet, Satoru, as always, disrupts your plans. Breaking the heated kiss, he trails his lips down your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. You cry out - both in pain and pleasure - as he continues his assault, digging your nails into his sculpted back.

“I won’t be the first one to cum.” he mutters into the crook of your neck as a hand roams up your thigh, deftly pulling off your shorts. You writhe beneath him as lithe fingers tease the hem of your dripping panties, relishing in the choked gasp that leaves Satoru’s mouth as your swollen lips catch on his tip.

“Oh yeah? Damn well won’t be me either.”

You’ve barely gotten the words out before he tears off your panties, pocketing this pair as well for a lonely night - though, with the way your cunt quivers at his touch, he doubts it’ll be any time soon. “Wanna bet, prez~?”

He plunges his fingers inside you with a savageness that steals your breath away. Easily finding that magical spot, thrusting inside to hit it with scary accuracy over and over. Your plush walls convulse around him, crying out his name. Ah, he missed this.

But you weren’t gonna sit there and be one-upped. A trembling hand moves down to urgently tug down his tight boxers. Rock-hard cock springing out, glistening with precum, your favorite shade of pretty pink. It made your mouth water.

Satoru’s eyes roll to the back of his head as he feels your tight grip on his length, thumb swirling deftly under the sensitive slit. Spreading his precum along his flushed head. Torturing him. Warmth pooling at your core at the way he fucks your fist in mindless, shallow thrusts.

“Fuck. You really do drive me insane.” he groans, voice strained with desire as he keeps up the punishing pace of his fingers in your dripping cunt. Both of you unrelenting. Both of you in a fight for the other’s release.

It’s a close tie.

“Oh- oh, sweetheart I’m-”

And Satoru spills into your hand in thick, hot spurts and pornographic moans. Your fist still pumps up and down his twitching length, milking him for all he’s worth as you tip over the edge as well, walls fluttering around his merciless fingers.

“I win.” you challenge, eyes half-lidded as you still reel from the intensity of your orgasm. Satoru’s fingers quiver inside you as he pulls out with a hiss. Pupils blown-out, the look in his eyes feral.

A slow grin spreading across his lips, words breathless and tinged with a bit of insanity that made your pussy clench, “Best out of three?”

“Always knew you were a sore loser.”

“Nah, I’d win.”

“You’re on.”

Before you know it, you’re being thrown onto the bed, bouncing at the sheer force of the throw - cut short as Satoru looms over you, pinning you down onto the mattress.

His lips graze yours with a tenderness that doesn’t translate to his hips as they grind on yours. You moan as his still-painfully hard erection throbs against your wall, head falling back in surrender as your swollen folds envelope him in his favorite heaven. Sensitive - so sensitive.

Hands moving to your breasts, cupping them, teasing. Rolling your nipples between his deft fingers as your hips buck wildly into his. Precum and slick smearing obscenely. Faster. More desperate. Absolutely filthy. Racing towards the end.

And your voice cuts through the heady air, “W-wait, Satoru, wait. As the winner last time…” Words trailing off enticingly, a hand reaching hastily underneath your pillow.

Oh, just when Satoru didn’t think you could surprise him any more.

A jolt goes through his body at the thick, pink vibrator that emerges from beneath the pillow. Sleek metal catching the light, his eyes trailing up, up, up, intimidatingly large in your hands.

Eyes widening, Satoru’s breath hitches in his throat as he watches you handle it with practiced ease. Flip, switch - bzzzzz-

It rings in his ears and resonates through the room. A surprised smile stretched across his lips, despite himself. “Oh, who knew the esteemed student prez was such a little minx. Shit, sweetheart, gonna give me a heart attack.”

“You’re not the only one with lonely nights.” You nod pointedly at his pants - strewn across your bedroom floor and panties stuffed safely in his pocket.

You bite your lower lip in a way that has probably all the blood in Satoru’s body rushing to his pulsing cock. Aching for something. Aching for you.

Sensually, you press the buzzing toy against your clit, hips bucking at the immediate and intense stimulation. A jolt of pleasure making you gasp.

Satoru watches, spellbound, as you writhe beneath him - eyes locked so dangerously with his. He can see the slick beading at your folds, pooling onto your bed sheets.

Impulsively, he reaches out, wrapping a large hand around yours, guiding it to your dripping hole. “Now…” your eyes light up in excitement at his predatory tone. “That’s just playing dirty, prez. I might just cream myself.”

Agonizingly slow, Satoru eases the vibrator inside you, walls clamping down so deliciously. A clever hand draws tight, little circles on your throbbing clit.

You arch off the bed at the sensation and the stretch - full. So full. Full and so in heaven.

A fresh wave of slick coating the already-glistening metal, Satoru begins to fuck the toy into you, matching the rhythm of the vibrations. Relentless, he was absolutely relentless. Base meeting your swollen lips, tip kissing your cervix.

It drives you insane. He drives you insane.

“Fu-fuck Satoru-” Breathing ragged, tears pricking your eyes at the sensitivity, it only takes one two three more thrusts of the vibrator stuffing your cunt before you’re cumming with a loud cry of Satoru’s name, till you see stars behind your eyes.

“Ah, I’m so glad we made it to the bed this time.”

“Idiot.”

“Love you too~” Satoru continues to fuck into you mercilessly with it over and over, drawing out your high until you’re left limp and boneless beneath him. The only thing you can do being to take it.

As the shocks of electricity in your body fade, Satoru carefully removes the vibrator. You whimper at the sudden emptiness.

“Round 2 goes to me.” smugness evident in his words, slightly muffled by your lips.

“Shut up and kiss me. It’s the tie-breaker.”

His lips capture yours in a deep kiss. You can taste the salt of your sweat on his lips, and the desperation of the moment. It’s intoxicating. More addictive than any drug in the world.

Wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him against your body - sticky with sweat and cum - till you can feel his rock-hard cock once more. Eager and aching for you. Teasing your folds with his leaking tip, readily spreading for him.

Finally, after what feels like hours - maybe even weeks - of buildup, he sheaths himself in your snug cunt the way you’d been dying for these lonely nights with just your vibrator. And with the way Satoru lets out a low, desperate moan - head thrown back - you think he might share the sentiment.

“God. Hah- Ah you look so beautiful under me, sweetheart. Hngh- wouldn’t get used to this in my lifetime.”

“Then hngh- find me in the n-next.”

He presses in slowly, languidly - a sensuality that envelopes you and makes you keen at the stretch. Finally bottoming out, he savors the heavenly feeling of being completely inside you. You really were heaven on Earth.

Pulling back, prominent veins grazing that spot just right, he rams back into you with purpose. Savoring you. Torturing you. “Satoru oh- f-fuck me like you hah- mean it goddamit.”

But it’s not long before the great Gojo Satoru loses his handle on himself. Maybe it was the tears clinging to your lashes. Maybe it was the way your legs wrap so tightly around his waist, meeting him thrust for thrust. Or maybe it was the fucked-out whines of his name spilling from your mouth.

Because he’s fucking into you desperately. Feral, deliberate strokes that make you ass sting at the smack of his heavy balls. The harsh slapping of skin on skin echoing in your heady bedroom at his unforgiving cadence.

The air charged so tensely that you could barely breath - or maybe that was the way Satoru’s furious tip kissing your cervix over and over knocked the air out of your lungs. Every nerve ending in your body felt alight with white-hot pleasure, electrifying you from the tips of your toes to the crown of your head - filled only with Satoru Satoru Satoru-

Vision blurry, head dazed so lustfully, you barely notice the way Satoru reaches down between you, his fingers familiarly finding your clit to rub harsh circles on it in time with his thrusts. It’s too much. Ah, you were going to pass out.

Instead, you cum - all over his twitching cock. The sensation almost too much as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you. Especially when your walls clamp down, milking his cock so sinfully as Satoru spills into your snug cunt.

Balls tightening as he thrusts thick ropes of seed into your dripping pussy, your juices mixing with his as he thrusts animalistically into you, fucking it deeper and deeper. Decorating your plush walls white, cum spilling out of your sloppy hole as it overflows.

Flashes of light behind his eyes at the sensitivity - pain, pleasure, yearning all melting into one, gooey mess that mirrored his heart right now. Desperate calls of your name leaving his lips like a prayer. Because maybe you were his salvation.

With a moan of pure ecstasy at the feeling of being so full you think you’d explode, you pull Satoru to you, nails dragging down his shoulder and every part of you wrapped around him so impossibly tight. As if you never wanted to let go - and you didn’t.

You don’t, even as you both gasp for air - and sanity. Even as he collapses his sweaty body onto yours, careful to not crush you with his weight. And you especially don’t let go as those dazed eyes bore into yours, a tender moment in the weighty silence.

Because right now, no words were needed.

“I love you.”

“And, I love you. In every universe.”

Except maybe those.

It’s only once reality is setting in, exhausted and intertwined so tenderly in his arms, that a sense of familiarity permeates the heavy air.

“I win.”

An agitating, grating voice that you loved so much.

You let out a dragged out groan, rolling your eyes. “That’s only because I went easy on you.”

“Oh yeah? Well, I’d love to prove you wrong, sweetheart, but I think my dick is out of commission for the next week at least.”

A sharp bark of laughter startles its way out of your lips as he bounces you two on the mattress, laying on his stomach and swinging his feet as if he was at some slumber party.

“Soooo~ Now that we’re finally dating, I can finally stop holding back on the quantum entanglement puns, I’ve got a list on my Notes app that-”

“I’m gonna entangle your face with my fist.”

“Jokes on you I’m into that.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“But you love it.”

“Unfortunately.”

---

Gojo Satoru likes to think he’s hilarious. A real connoisseur of the fine art of comedy. The fifth member of Impractical Jokers.

So, of course, he had to barge into the hell that was his new 8am class with style. Bursting in through the swinging doors, imaginary cape flowing in the wind. Sue him, so what if he’s an attention-whore?!

His bright gaze sweeps over all the students barely keeping their eyes open, before finally landing on you - on the edge of your seat, brows furrowed so adorably and eagerly drinking in every word Yaga droned on about. Who the hell found advanced quantum physics that riveting?

Intrigue piquing as he makes a beeline to you, Satoru’s heart lurches at that weird little part of him that wishes your attentive gaze was on him instead. Strange.

Sliding into the empty seat beside you, of course he immediately turns on his world-renowned Gojo charm. You’ll be putty in his hands in no time~!

“Any closer to Yaga and you’d be fucking his wife, y’know.”

“...”

Okay, maybe that didn’t come out as suave as he expected, but damn, not even a giggle?

You couldn’t blame the guy for getting nervous in front of a pretty girl! Nor could you really blame him for plowing on despite that - not after the jolt of electricity that ran through his body the second your irritated eyes met his.

Oh wow. So that’s what it’s like to have your soul pierced and buried six feet under.

It was sort of addicting.

And if Satoru thought his knees were weak at just a glare from you - well, he was not ready for the way you snapped at him and told him to shut the fuck up. Ah, truly a woman of his dreams.

Not even half an hour into the lecture and if you asked Satoru to recall a word spoken by Yaga then he wouldn’t have been able to tell you. The words went in one ear and he couldn’t even remember if it went out the next - too focused on getting your attention on him at least once more.

He just wished you’d look at him - let him see all the shades of your eyes, and the exact degree at which your lip curls in annoyance. What would that smart mouth say to him next?

“Now, would anyone here be able to discuss the interpretations in the debate between the Copenhagen interpretation and the Pilot-Wave theory?”

Which is why he positively jumped at the chance to show off his academic prowess to you. Only to find…you teetering on the edge of your seat as well?

Your voice is even, a fiery glint in your eyes. He’s entranced.

“The Copenhagen Interpretation uses Heisenberg's uncertainty principle and emphasizes measurement to state that quantum-level particles can act as both waves and particles. It’s the most widely accepted and pragmatic theory.”

Oh. This was going to be interesting.

Heart banging against his ribcage, voice slightly shaky, “Not to be the devil’s advocate but the Pilot-Wave theory makes way more sense practically.”

Thus, Gojo Satoru, in his failed attempts to flirt, starts a rivalry with you that shakes the entire physics department - and his heart.

He was sure if he told Shoko and Suguru the real reason why he was suddenly spending hours poring over his physics textbooks then they’d definitely laugh their asses off - after giving him a good smack for being so ridiculous.

It’s not that he didn’t like being on the receiving ends of your snarky remarks and death stares - but it’s just that he also wishes you’d kiss him silly while you do it. God, for someone voted campus hottie three times in a row, why was it so hard to just ask you out?

Which is why, seeing you being dragged into their little circle at that off-brand frat party, he thinks - ah, this might just be fate.

Silently thanking Shoko for her accidental wingmanning, Satoru watches in amusement as you reluctantly scribble your name on that crumpled piece of paper. And if he slipped in a couple extra with his name on it, well, he was only glad you were too busy cursing his entire bloodline out to catch him.

The smell of cheap beer filling his senses, strobe lights matching the banging of his heart against his chest. Even if he did cheat at the game a little, Satoru didn’t think he’d end the night with your soaked panties burning a hole in his pocket - and the whisper of your lips on his searing even more. He was dazed.

Was that…a dream?

It must be, right? There’s no way the gorgeous student prez who hates his guts would suddenly be in the same proximity as him - let alone let him tonguefuck you into insanity.

You tasted so sweet.

Yeah, must’ve been some hallucination.

Months later, your soft grumbles in his ear, and your hand warm in his, swinging playfully between you two in the buzzing aquarium - a part of Satoru still thinks he’s hallucinating.

“Slow down, Satoru! The fish aren’t going anywhere.” you huff as he flits excitedly from tank to tank, eyes sparkling like a kid in a candy store. Yet, you couldn't help the beginnings of a smile curling at the corners of your lips at his childlike excitement.

“Can’t! I couldn’t show you this last time, even a hardass like you’d love it.”

Whatever retort on the tip of your tongue is cut off by the breathtaking sight before you.

A grandiose tank - a kaleidoscope of an underwater world that stretched beyond your field of vision. Hues of blues and greens glimmering before you. Marine life you wouldn’t be able to name - no matter how many hours of watching NatGeo - in an ethereal dance across the water.

“Last time we were here we talked about multiverses. I know now, I hope that in every universe, we’ll be here together. Standing side by side, watching the deep blue and arguing about physics.”

Eyes widening at the beauty - and his words - you turn to Satoru, only to see his piercing gaze already on you. Satisfied grin bathed in a soft blue light from the tank, his twinkling eyes reflecting you and the lights and you. It was beautiful. He was beautiful.

“See? Didn’t I tell you you’d love it? I’m always so great at these thi-”

You shut up that big mouth - with your lips on his.

Tender and weighty - as if you two had all the time in the world. And, your hands electric under Satoru’s touch, cold metal of the infinity sign searing into your ring finger - you think you probably do. Because Satoru’s tastes like candied apples and everything you could ever want. A promise.

“T-told you I was irresistible.”

Confident words, muffled by your lips. You pull away with a disbelieving huff of laughter, and you’re glad you did - because you catch a glimpse of the nervous twinkle in his eyes and the flushed cheeks betraying him.

“You wish.” you chuckle, brushing your fingers over his cloudy white locks. That familiar, easy grin tugs on the corners of your heart, and for a moment - just this moment - it feels like just the two of you in this bustling aquarium. In this uncertain world.

“Sure do.” he whispers, as if a secret - meant for just the two of you.

“Now, my prez, wanna go to our little booth at the café and debate the Copenhagen interpretation and the Pilot-Wave theory?”

A/N. Can you tell the title was inspired by Go For It, Nakamura?

Also so sorry for posting only sporadically this week, for some reason my posts refuse to show up under any tags and as a creator that’s really discouraging. But here’s to next week being better hopefully!

Plagiarism not authorized.

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@bbyxxm @maskedpacific @mrs--imperfect @dunixxd @scarammouch

#gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo x you #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk #jjk fic #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #tonywrites

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