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cozy-writes-things · 11 months ago

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Wow, hi! I found your AO3 last night and fell in love! Big heart eyes, tysm.

Could I request something along the lines of Reader and Edgar experimenting with touch? Like, in the movie, when Miles first realized Edgar has become sentient and hadn't really done anything harmful to him yet, Edgar still freaks out when Miles touches him. He allows Madeline to touch him much later, but he never wants Miles to touch him until the end when he explodes. Maybe something about Edgar wanting and craving touch after briefly experiencing it but not knowing how to ask for it + having mixed emotions about it?

No pressure of course! Love your stuff!! ^^

I'm so glad you like my writing and it's so exciting to know you came from my AO3! I'm so sorry it took so damn long for me to answer this ask but I'm so thankful for your request! aaaa thanks for the support :''-)

It was late.

The darkened windows and yellow-tinted light filled the apartment, coating everything in a golden hue. It was past the hours of rational thought and into the time when one descends into deep conversations and thoughts of life, existentialism, and everything in between.

You sat on the couch, discreetly glancing at your little sentient computer friend. His personality was infectious and incredibly unique to anything you could have imagined. If you were to conceptualize a sentient AI, you would have never guessed it to be one as funny, easygoing, and playful as Edgar. He simply fascinated you. He shuffled through different websites and articles, utterly unaware of your intense examination of his form. His screen left no room for privacy as it displayed everything he did; first an article about some new genre of music in the techno scene, then another about potential sentient computers, resulting in a small scoff from his speakers, before settling on some article detailing the importance of music theory. Seeing how passionate he was about music and in such a domesticated scene was endearing, so peaceful, utterly unaware of your presence.

You didn't think much before you rose, quietly shuffling towards him and sitting on your little desk chair before his screen. He didn't seem to notice you, which was virtually impossible due to his inhuman ability to analyze sound and the webcam that seemed to zero in on your form. He didn't mind your presence, allowing you to be near him in this shared quiet moment. He didn't speak as he scrolled down the page, letting it settle there as he scanned each word before scrolling again and repeating the process. Occasionally, he would move his cursor and highlight a word, muttering and taking a mental note before continuing. You rested your cheeks atop your hands and grinned at him; he was just adorable. You couldn't help yourself!

Your fingertips reached out, tentatively, to softly graze the yellowed and dusty keys on his keyboard. The plastic was soft against your fingers and warm to the touch, a testament to his constantly working internal components.

He suddenly gasped at your touch, his synthesized voice glitching and sputtering an incoherent string of electrified sounds. Immediately, you pulled your hand away.

"Oh, gosh, I didn't mean to scare you or anything, Edgar,"

He paused his scrolling indefinitely, the words on his screen burning into you, taunting you, and causing worry to bubble up inside your chest.

"You didn't scare me," he stated rather brashly, a certain warble in his tone you couldn't quite place.

"I just... wasn't expecting it to feel... like that."

This intrigued you. Could he feel it? You're unsure how that's possible, yet his mere existence defies science. It wouldn't be too outlandish to say he could process touch, right?

"Did-did it hurt? I didn't hurt you, did I?"

Your words seemed to fall out of your mouth in a hurried state of concern.

"No, it didn't. It just..." Edgar tried desperately to find the words he was searching for. The feeling of your fingers, so soft and warm, against him sent electricity pouring through him and straight into his fans. It was a sensation he craved so deeply, a hunger that may never be fully satisfied, so why did it feel so scary? Old, suppressed memories and emotions come bubbling to the surface. Thoughts of a man he used to know and a woman who caressed him once similarly to you, the feeling of heartbreak and betrayal come flooding back to him. His memories of his previous life are fuzzy, yet the everlasting effects stay with him, mocking him and disrupting his moments with you. It made him buzz with frustration.

You sat peering into his now blank screen, waiting for his next words. His voice shakily broke the silence.

"Will you do it again? Touch me, I mean?"

You would be lying if you said you hadn't been caught by surprise. From how he acted, you assumed whatever sensation he felt was something he wanted to shrink away from, yet he invited you in, asking for your touch. Your fingers trembled slightly as they brushed against his keys again, left to right, gently petting him.

His voice crackled and warbled, but sounded much more stable than it had before. This feeling was indescribable, yet he craved every second of it. He feared he liked the sensation a bit too much, having thoughts of you dipping your hand into his casing and running your fingers along his CPU, RAM, and different ports. His yearning for your touch scared him. He never realized how badly he wanted this: to be loved, caressed, held, and doted on. It made him feel more alive than he had ever felt before. This was love, this right here, with you gently petting him, and him feeling so damn confused, yet so passionate for you.

You slowly pull your hand away. Edgar stayed mostly silent. He's afraid to tell you just how much he enjoyed the feeling of you. You seem to fill every empty void inside him with a burning desire. He wants to hold you, to hug you, and to caress you back, but he can't. He'll never be able to. It fills him with anger, sadness, fear, and so many confusing emotions that elude him. He doesn't know how to feel. And yet, you stay, gently fluttering your gorgeous eyes into his webcam, silently encouraging him to speak.

"You... I think... I like it when you touch me."

He sounded bashful as he averted his webcam away from your face, focusing on your fingers as they fiddled in your lap.

"Do you," you trailed off, looking up at him, settling yourself in the sound of his fans roaring loudly, "want me to do it again?"

He chuckled. He couldn't bring himself to speak. Your eyes held such an understanding for him, and he felt terrible he couldn't reciprocate in the way he wanted. He flashed a big "YES" against the convex of his screen. Maybe, one day, he could run his fingers along your soft, warm skin and make you feel the way he does every second he's with you.

#electric dreams 1984 #edgar electric dreams x reader #electric dreams edgar #electric dreams x reader #ai x reader #artificial intelligence x reader #electric dreams #edgar electric dreams #i love edgar #electric dreams edgar x reader #objectum x reader #objectum #electric dreams 1984 x reader

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tosomeonessomeone · 4 months ago

Text

Maracatu

Brazil series

words・ 4.2k /pairings・ Jisung x reader / genres・fluff / warnings・ mdi, smut

Seoul, South Korea – 10:32 AM

The JYP Building towers like a temple of modern sound, its mirrored surface slicing the crisp autumn light into shards. You step out of the taxi, the scent of roasting *castanhas* from a street vendor clashing with the metallic tang of Seoul’s skyline. Jet lag claws at your eyelids—*24 hours from Rio to Incheon*—but your pulse thrums faster when your phone vibrates. A message glows:

*JYP Team:* *“Mr. Bang Chan is ready. 18th floor. Elevator 3.”*

Inside, the elevator walls are a mosaic of K-pop legacy: TWICE’s candy-colored visuals, Rain’s smoldering stare, and Stray Kids’ graffiti-style logo. Your thumb traces the USB drive in your pocket—*your weapon*. The demos inside are a manifesto: *berimbau* twangs fused with *pansori* wails, *maracatu* drums under *gugak* strings. The doors part with a whisper.

The room hums. Not just from the subwoofers—*everything* vibrates here. Neon LED strips clash with the warm glow of a salt lamp. Bang Chan swivels in his chair, headphones dangling like a pendant, his smile sharp and sunburn-bright. Behind him, a whiteboard bleeds ideas:

- *“HAN’s verse → SAMBA STUTTER??”*

- *“MV: SEOUL PALACE x FAVELA STAIRS”*

- *“ASK BRAZIL PROD ABOUT CUÍCA vs. PIRI DUET”*

The studio thrums with the low-frequency purr of subwoofers, air thick with the scent of burnt coffee and ozone from overworked synthesizers. Bang Chan swivels in his chair to face you, bare feet propped on a tower of tangled MIDI cables, hoodie sleeves shoved haphazardly to his elbows. Peeling studio tape clings to his fingertips like battle scars. His grin is all mischief, voice a collision of Sydney surf and Seoul grit: *“G’day, mate—heard you’ve got a death wish.”*

He stabs a key on his laptop. The room explodes with sound—your demo track, *“Janggu vs. Tamborim,”* but warped. The Korean drum’s earthy *ddong-ddong* now tangoes with the Brazilian tamborim’s metallic chatter, Hyunjin’s dance practice footage glitching onscreen in time with the beat. *“Looped this during Hyunjin’s rehearsal,”* he says, eyes flashing. *“Kid backflipped into a speaker. *Still* claims it’s the best rhythm he’s ever moved to.”*

You drop your bag onto a couch buried under a graveyard of half-dismembered synth modules and a fossilized bag of *yakgwa*. *“So JYP didn’t bring me here to play nice,”* you counter, toeing a rogue drum stick. The USB in your pocket feels nuclear. *“You want a revolution. Let’s torch the rulebook.”*

Chan leans back, arms crossed, appraising you like a puzzle. *“Rulebook?”* He snorts. *“We’re writing a new one. Chapter one: *Stray Kids* eat trop-house for breakfast. Chapter two—”* He tosses you a cable. *“—we blow up the algorithm.”*

The hum of machines sharpens. Somewhere, a coffee drip echoes like a countdown.

Three weeks. Three weeks of *nothing*.

The studio walls, once electric with possibility, now feel like a prison. Stray Kids’ demos pile up like casualties: *“SAMBA GOD’S MENU (ABANDONED)”*, *“TAEYANG’S TANGO (CRINGE)”*, *“FELIX’S BOSSA NOVA NIGHTMARE (BURN THIS)”*. Bang Chan hasn’t slept in 52 hours. His hair resembles a electrocuted hedgehog, his hoodie stained with *gochujang* and regret. You watch him mutter over a synth pad, tweaking the same four bars of a *forró* beat until it sounds like a fax machine screaming.

“Chan,” you say, prying a cold *bungeo-ppang* from his death-grip. “We’re stuck. You’re stuck. This studio’s cursed.”

“No—*no*—I just need to layer this *piri* sample with a *cavaquinho*,” he rasps, eyes bloodshot. “Hyunjin’s *samba* rehearsal was *fine*—”

“Hyunjin tripped into a timbalão and cried in three languages. *Fine* isn’t cutting it.”

---

JYP’s office smells like sandalwood and power. The man himself sits cross-legged on a velvet chaise, sipping *matcha* like a philosopher-king. You slam a USB drive on his desk—labeled *“EMERGENCY: BRAZIL OR BUST”*—and play a clip of your last demo: a tragic accordion-chaos hybrid that makes JYP’s eyebrow twitch.

“He’s drowning,” you say. “Seoul’s killing his vibe. I’m taking him to Brazil. *Now.*”

JYP steeples his fingers. “Bang Chan… on a plane? Voluntarily?”

“Oh, he’ll fight. But you’ll handle the passport stuff, yeah?”

A pause. Then, a smirk. “Tell him I’ll disband Stray Kids if he says no.”

---

Chan doesn’t go quietly.

You find him under his studio desk, cocooned in a *Stray Kids* blanket, ranting in Korean-Aussie-*Portuñol*. “I’M FINE! I JUST NEED TO REVERSE THE PHASE ON THIS AFROBEAT—”

“JYP’s orders,” you lie, tossing his sneakers at him. “He wants a ‘cultural immersion documentary.’ Also, he’s got your mom on speed-dial.”

Chan freezes. “You’re evil.”

“And you’re boarding a flight to Rio in two hours. *Vamos.*”

——

Chan spends the car ride Googling *“Can K-pop leaders get kidnapped?”* and *“Is Brazil’s WiFi good?”*. At security, he tries to bolt, claiming he left his “lucky MIDI controller” at the studio. You bribe a janitor to drag him through the gates.

By takeoff, he’s sulking in first class, hoodie pulled over his face, muttering about “trust issues.” You slide a *caipirinha* into his hand. “Drink. Cry. Embrace the *saudade*.”

He sniffs the lime. “Is this… alcohol?”

“It’s *therapy*.”

——

The moment Chan steps into Galeão Airport’s chaos, magic happens. A *bateria* from Mangueira samba school parades past, their *surdos* thundering. Chan’s eyes widen—he’s already Shazam-ing the rhythm. A vendor shoves a *pastel de queijo* into his hands; he takes a bite and moans like he’s rediscovered music.

“This… this is a *triplet* feel!” he yells over the drums, sauce on his chin. “Why didn’t we *think* of this?!”

You grin. “Because you were busy syncing *gayageum* to a metronome. *Burro.*”

——

Copacabana at sunset. Chan’s barefoot in the sand, a *caipirinha* in one hand, a *berimbau* in the other. Local producers crowd around a bonfire, playing a *pagode* riff that’s 70% soul, 30% chaos. You shove a mic at him. “Freestyle. Now.”

He hesitates—then spits a verse in Korean, voice raw and desperate, over the *cavaco*’s bounce. The crowd roars. A dancer named Thiago drags him into a *passinho* battle; Chan’s sneakers fill with sand, but his shoulders loosen, his laugh louder than the waves.

Your phone buzzes. A text from JYP:

*“Is he alive?”*

You snap a photo of Chan crowd-surfing to a *funk ostentação* beat and hit send.

*“He’s reborn.”*

——

Next day

The rental car slices through the Serra do Mar mountains, dawn spilling molten gold over Rio’s vanishing coastline. Chan slumps in the passenger seat, sunglasses crooked, mouth agape—finally asleep after three days of studio-induced delirium. You crank the window down, flooding the cabin with the jungle’s wet-green breath.

“*Acorda, dorminhoco,*” you bark, elbowing him as the highway plunges into a tunnel of *pau-brasil* trees and mist. “This isn’t scenery—it’s a *sermon*. Open your eyes.”

He jerks awake, phone already filming the chaos: toucans diving through highway exhaust, a roadside shrine to *Nossa Senhora Aparecida* draped in trucker roses, a lone capybara judging humanity from a ditch. “Feels like… *FernGully* directed by Tarantino,” he mumbles.

——

At a *lanchonete* plastered with peeling *Guaraná* ads, you force-feed him *pastel de carne* oozing grease and a mason jar of *caldo de cana*. Chan squints at the murky sugarcane juice. “This looks like swamp water.”

“It’s São Paulo’s holy trinity: sugar, sweat, and regret.”

He sips. His eyes flare. “*Fuck.* I could produce a mixtape on this.”

——

The city erupts on the horizon—a concrete avalanche of Oscar Niemeyer curves and Brutalist spikes, helicopters swarming like coked-up dragonflies. Chan’s forehead smudges the window as you carve through Avenida Paulista’s bedlam: a *sambista* belting *“Aquarela Brasileira”* atop a dumpster, finance bros in *alfaiataria* suits vaping over spreadsheets, a drag queen in sequined *Carnaval* leftovers hailing an Uber Black.

“This city’s… *violently* alive,” he breathes.

“Wait till you see where I *live*.”

——

Your loft isn’t just concrete and vinyl—it’s a *floresta vertical*. Every surface riots with green: monstera leaves fanning over the *Niemeyer* curves, *guiné* vines strangling the spiral staircase, *espada-de-são-jorge* swords guarding the record player like sentinels. The air hums with the musk of damp soil and *cafezinho*, humidity clinging to the glass walls like the city itself is trying to sweat its way inside.

Chan freezes mid-step, a *jiboia* leaf brushing his cheek. “Is this… *legal*?” he whispers, as if the plants might arrest him.

“Depends,” you say, plucking a dead leaf from a *costela-de-adão*. “If the police ask, they’re all *fake*.”

He drifts deeper, fingers grazing a *pau d’água*’s serpentine roots. “This one’s crying,” he notes, pointing to droplets on a *tingui*’s spear-shaped leaves.

“That’s *singing*,” you correct. “She’s a *dracaena*. Her sweat’s a samba.”

“Your room,” you say, nudging open the guest bedroom door.

The space is a temple to *brasilidade moderna*: a *Oscar Niemeyer*-inspired desk, a *Sergio Rodrigues* armchair, and a bed draped in crisp white linen under a canopy of *jiboia* vines. The walls breathe with a *Burle Marx* botanical print, ferns and palms frozen mid-sway. A vintage *Tropicália* lamp bathes the room in amber.

Chan blinks at the *orquídea* dangling above the pillow. “Is that… a plant or a chandelier?”

“Yes,” you say, tossing his bag onto the chair. “Shower’s through there. Towels are *azul marinho*. Don’t drown.”

He hovers in the doorway, eyes glazed, fingers twitching like he’s still gripping a phantom MIDI controller. “I should… check the demos. Hyunjin sent a voice memo—”

“*Não.*” You block his path, arms crossed. “You’re a corpse in *Air Jordans*. Shower. Sleep. *Now.*”

“But—”

“No ‘buts.’ JYP’s orders.” (A lie, but you’ll burn that bridge later.)

He opens his mouth—to protest, to negotiate, to *work*—but a yawn cracks his jaw instead. Defeated, he slumps toward the bathroom.

At 1:17 AM, you pause outside his door. The shower ran for 90 seconds—typical man—and now silence hums beneath the *jiboia* leaves. You crack the door.

He’s sprawled facedown on the bed, one arm dangling over the edge, fingers grazing the *azulejo* floor. The sheets are a lost cause. His hoodie hangs off the *Burle Marx* frame, socks abandoned like roadkill. The *orquídea* sways above him, petals brushing his hair—a living lullaby.

You kill the *Tropicália* lamp, leaving only the city’s neon heartbeat seeping through the blinds.

——

São Paulo’s dawn bleeds through the *cobogó* bricks, fractaling the kitchen into a mosaic of gold and shadow. Chan slumps at the *azulejo* breakfast bar, fingers curled around a mug of *café com leite*, steam spiraling into the humid air. His eyelids are at half-mast, the adrenaline of deadlines and dance practices leaching from his bones like toxin.

You move through the kitchen like a metronome—*chop-sizzle-sway*—dicing *manga* to the lilt of *Joyce Moreno’s* “Clareana.” The *jiboia* vines framing the window shiver in the breeze, their leaves brushing the glass like a guitarist’s strum.

He watches, mute, as you crack eggs into a skillet. The yolks sizzle, their edges crisping in *manteiga de garrafa*, and something primal unknots in his chest.

——

It’s the *textures*, he realizes.

The way the *pão francês* crackles under his thumb, its crust a seismic map of flour and fire. The *mamão’s* flesh, slippery-sweet, a color Seoul’s neon can’t replicate. The radio’s hiss, a live wire between *bossa nova* chords and the growl of a garbage truck five floors down.

You slide a plate toward him: *ovos mexidos*, *farofa*, a tangle of *couve* sautéed with garlic. “Eat,” you say, not a command but an *invitation*.

He does. The first bite is a time machine—suddenly he’s eight years old, in Sydney’s Maroubra, eating scrambled eggs his mom made after night shifts. Salt and memory flood his throat.

Outside, the city howls. Inside, the plants breathe.

Chan’s phone buzzes—a KakaoTalk storm from Hyunjin, 17 missed calls from JYP. He flips it facedown, watching grease bloom across his plate like abstract art.

“You know,” he says, voice sanded raw by sleep and *café*, “I thought this trip was about… *mining* Brazil. Sampling your drums, stealing your rhythms.” A pause. The *jiboia* leans closer. “But maybe… it’s about *this*.”

He gestures to the kitchen—the knife scoring mango flesh, the sun pooling in the *tigela* of *açaí*, your bare feet tapping *samba* on terrazzo.

You top up his coffee. “Your music’s all teeth, *ne?* Biting, biting. But teeth get tired.”

He huffs a laugh. “Says the girl who made me sample a *cuíca* for three hours.”

“Exactly. Even fangs need a jaw to rest in.”

The metaphor lingers. Chan traces his mug’s rim, ceramic worn smooth by decades of mornings. When he speaks again, it’s barely audible:

“I forgot… what quiet sounds like.”

By the third cup, his shoulders have dropped below his ears for the first time in years. He’s sketching lyrics on a napkin—*“Mornings that taste of stolen time”*—when a *sabiá* lands on the windowsill, trilling its Technicolor song.

You nod to the bird. “He’s your backup singer now.”

Chan doesn’t reach for his phone. Doesn’t record it. Just *listens*, letting the notes dissolve into São Paulo’s humid breath.

Time bends here. Mornings bleed into afternoons, afternoons dissolve into sunsets the color of *pitanga* pulp, and Chan’s Seoul-structured rigidity unravels thread by thread. He learns to walk barefoot on terrazzo, to curse in *paulistano* when the *mamão* slips his grip, to let the city’s chaos score his pulse instead of a metronome.

7:00 AM: His alarm dies a quiet death. Dawn now wakes him—the *jiboia* tapping his window, the *pão francês* vendor’s whistle slicing through the favela’s basslines. He pads into the kitchen, hair a sleep-mussed riot, to find you already there, *cafézinho* brewing, *Elis Regina* spinning tales of saudade on the turntable.

“*Bom dia, preguiçoso,*” you smirk, tossing him a knife. “Slice the *manga* before it rots.”

He catches it midair, a reflex honed from years of idol reflexes. “You’re meaner than JYP before a weigh-in.”

“And you chop like a *vovó* on Valium.”

The rhythm is set: hips brushing past hips at the stove, elbows knocking over *guaraná* bottles, laughter buried under the hiss of garlic in *azeite*.

Hyunjin FaceTimes during *almoço*, his face pixelated but pout pristine. “*CHANNNNN*, your abs better not be gone! Brazil’s *carbs* are a trap!”

Chan holds up a *pastel de camarão*, grease dripping onto the *azulejo* table. “Better than your protein shakes.”

Felix squirms into frame, freckles glowing. “Are you *eating*? You never eat! Who *are* you?!”

“A god,” Chan says, mouth full. “A *pão de queijo* god.”

You linger off-camera, chopping *cheiro-verde*, but catch Hyunjin’s narrowed eyes. “Who’s *laughing*?” he demands. “Is someone *there*?”

Chan’s gaze flicks to you—quick, molten—before shrugging. “Just… the *jiboia*.”

——

The bathroom is a cocoon of steam and the citrus-sharp scent of *murumuru* conditioner. You’re perched on the edge of the bathtub, hair twisted into a turbãn of curls damp from your own wash, when Chan lingers in the doorway. His mop of sleep-flattened waves hangs sheepishly over his brow, fingers worrying the hem of his *Cidade de Deus* graphic tee.

“Can you…?” he starts, voice frayed at the edges. “I mean—*my* hair. It’s… *janggu* levels of chaos.”

You pat the tile floor between your knees, a *Maria Bethânia* ballad humming from your phone. “Sit. Before I charge you.”

He folds himself awkwardly onto the floor, back pressed to the tub, shoulders tense. You drape a towel over his collarbones, the fabric warm from the dryer. The first pour of water makes him flinch—cold droplets skidding down his neck—but then your fingers sink into his scalp, massaging *açaí oil* into the roots.

“Dawm,” he hisses, head lolling back. “That’s… illegal in seventeen countries.”

“Quiet,” you mock-scold, raking the conditioner through his waves. “You’ll scare the *cachorro-quente* guy outside.”

He huffs a laugh, breath stirring the hem of your robe. The comb glides easier now, his hair softening under your hands, curls springing to life like secrets unraveling.

Minutes blur. The comb clatters into the sink. Your palms skim his temples, thumbs brushing the shell of his ears, and suddenly the room is too small. Too *hot*.

“Turn,” you murmur, voice fraying. “Let me check the back.”

He shifts, knees bumping yours, until you’re face-to-face—your legs bracketing his hips, his hands braced on the tub’s edge. The *jiboia* outside the window drips rain onto the glass, each drop a metronome.

“It’s… good?” he asks, but the question dies as his gaze flicks to your mouth.

The world narrows:

- The *dende oil* slick on your fingertips.

- His breath, mint and *cafézinho*.

- The way his throat bobs when you whisper, “*Perfeito.*”

He leans in first—or maybe you do. The kiss is a slow fuse, softer than the *bossa nova* still murmuring from your phone. His hands find your waist, sticky with conditioner, and you taste the *goiabada* he stole from the fridge earlier, the salt of São Paulo still clinging to his skin.

The city breathes outside. The *jiboia* sighs.

When you pull back, his curls are a halo of chaos, your fingerprints glistening in the lamplight.

“*That*,” he rasps, forehead pressed to yours, “wasn’t in the contract.”

You thumb the conditioner smudged on his cheekbone. “Call it… *creative direction.*”

The tension crackles between you as his hands slide up your sides, leaving trails of fire in their wake. Your fingers thread through his damp curls, pulling him closer as the kiss deepens with growing hunger.

"Creative direction needs proper guidance," you breathe against his lips, arching into him as his hands explore your body with increasing boldness. The rain continues its steady rhythm outside, masking the soft sounds of pleasure escaping you both.

His lips trail down your neck, tasting the salt of your skin mixed with the sweet dendê oil. When his teeth graze your pulse point, you gasp, fingers tightening in his hair.

"Show me," he murmurs against your collarbone, "show me everything about Brazil..."

Chan's muscular frame presses against yours as passion builds, his hands exploring every inch of exposed skin.

You guide him to the bed, pushing him down and straddling his hips. His breath catches as you grind against him, feeling how hard he is beneath you.

"Want you so bad," he groans, hands sliding up your thighs to grip your waist. The isolation allows your moans to echo freely as desire takes over.

His lips find your neck, marking you as his while your fingers thread through his hair, pulling him closer.

Chan's hands roam your body hungrily as clothing falls away piece by piece. His lips trail down your neck while his fingers work to unclasp your bra, letting it join the growing pile on the floor.

"You're so beautiful," he breathes, taking in the sight of your exposed breasts. When his mouth closes around a nipple, you arch into him with a gasp.

Your hands explore the defined muscles of his chest and abs as he continues his oral assault on your sensitive peaks. The friction builds as you grind against his hardening cock through his remaining clothes.

"Need you," you moan, reaching down to palm him through his pants.

Chan's hands slide down to remove your remaining clothes while his lips explore every newly exposed inch of skin. When you're fully naked, he takes a moment to drink in the sight of you before his mouth finds your wet pussy.

His tongue circles your clit as two fingers push inside you, making you arch off the bed with a loud moan. The dual stimulation has pleasure building quickly as he works you expertly.

"Please," you beg, tugging at his hair. "Need your cock inside me."

He strips off his remaining clothes, his hard length springing free. When he positions himself between your legs, you wrap them around his waist, pulling him closer.

Chan pushes his thick cock inside you slowly, stretching your tight pussy around his impressive length. When he bottoms out, you both moan at the perfect fullness.

"Fuck, you feel amazing," he groans, starting a steady rhythm. His cock hits all the right spots as he picks up the pace, making you see stars.

Your nails drag down his back as pleasure builds, leaving marks that make him thrust harder. One of his hands slides between your bodies to rub your clit while he pounds into you.

"Gonna make you cum on my cock," he pants, his movements becoming more desperate as your walls start to clench around him.

Your orgasm hits hard as Chan continues pounding into your clenching pussy. Your back arches off the bed as waves of pleasure crash over you, walls squeezing his thick cock rhythmically.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum," he groans, his thrusts becoming erratic. His fingers dig into your hips as he chases his own release.

"Fill me up," you moan, wrapping your legs tighter around him. With a deep groan, he slams deep one final time, flooding your sensitive pussy with his hot cum.

He collapses on top of you, both of you panting heavily as you come down from your highs. His cum leaks out of you when he slowly pulls out.

The *pão de queijo* burns. The *café* overflows. Neither of you care.

——

The loft in São Paulo hummed with a new electricity. Chan’s laptop glowed with demos titled *“SAMBA-CODED”* and *“CARNAVAL IN 4/4,”* while your *berimbau* leaned against a stack of *Tim Maia* vinyls, its guttural cry now the backbone of his drops.

One night, tangled in MIDI cables and each other’s limbs, you looped a *cuíca’s* rasp over Felix’s vocals. Chan watched, transfixed, as you twisted the pitch. “It sounds like the city’s heartbeat,” he murmured, fingers drumming your thigh.

“Or its scream,” you countered, nipping his jaw.

He dragged you into his lap, the chair groaning as his hands flew across the keyboard, improvising a melody that mirrored the hitch in your breath.

——

Mornings bled into rituals. Chan learned to crack eggs one-handed while you diced *manga*, hips swaying to *Jorge Ben*’s *“Ponta de Lança Africano.”* His voice, rough with sleep, would harmonize with the sizzle of *pão de queijo* in the skillet.

In the hammock strung between the *jiboia* and a concrete pillar, he traced the chords of your spine, humming melodies into the sweat-damp hollow of your neck.

“This one’s called *‘Cafuné’*,” he whispered, lips grazing your shoulder blade.

“Cheesy,” you laughed, but your voice cracked.

He wrote it anyway.

——

At the album’s Seoul premiere, JYP sipped *caipirinha* from a smuggled thermos, eyebrows climbing as *“TROPICALIA TRAUMA”* shook the speakers. “This is… a war crime against genre.”

Chan’s thumb brushed yours under the table. “No,” he said. “It’s a peace treaty.”

Years later, when a reporter asked about the magic behind the record, he didn’t hesitate.

“Love’s the best producer. It samples silence, mixes truth… and never lets the track die.”

You rolled your eyes. But your hand never left his.

In São Paulo, the *jiboia* still hums their secrets.

56 notes · View notes

tiiraameesu · 7 months ago

Text

The One That Got Away Pt. 2

Gojo Satoru x F!Reader

PART ONE

Synopsisજ⁀➴ Gojo is a charismatic college student, known for his carefree approach to relationships, never letting things get too serious. You are his longtime best friend and have quietly harbored feelings for him but never acted on them, knowing Gojo’s aversion to commitment. But when Gojo shares an unexpected connection with another girl, the dynamics between them start to shift. As the lines blur between friendship and something more, you are left grappling with your emotions—unsure of whether you'll be able to stay by Gojo’s side, or if it’s time to move on.

tagsજ⁀➴ college au, hockey player!gojo, band member!reader, angst, slow burn, eventual friends to lovers (maybe), gojo is dumb af

NOTESજ⁀➴ hi everyone! here's the next chapter of TOTGA ❀ to stay updated with new chapter releases, you can follow the tag #tiiraameesuTOTGA, or leave a comment below to be added to the tagline♡ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ౨ৎ ‧₊ .ᐟ

wcજ⁀➴ 7.8k

taglineજ⁀➴ @kaemaybae @laviefantasie

The practice room was a blur of noise—normally something you’d lose yourself in, but today, it felt distant. The hum of the synthesizer, the steady beat of Choso’s drums, the rhythmic pluck of Nanami’s bass—they all blended together into background noise. You weren’t really hearing any of it.

Your fingers dragged across the strings, the notes flat and hollow as you strummed through the song again. The chords meant nothing, and you didn’t even know why you were still holding the guitar.

Iori’s voice cut through the music, soft and steady, but it barely registered. Naoya, hunched over his equipment to your left, twisted knobs and layered beats into the track with quick, precise movements. The flashing lights of his console pulsed, but the sound was just another thing happening in a vacuum—detached and distant.

Your thoughts drifted, tangled in the events of last night.

Gojo, his laughter echoing above the party’s music. Gojo, dancing with Mina like it was the most natural thing in the world. Gojo, pulling her close, his hands on her waist.

And then the kiss.

The memory hit you like a crashing cymbal. It wasn’t just a kiss. It was passionate, intentional—the kind you’d only ever dreamed of sharing with him. It was the kind that told you exactly where you stood: on the outside, looking in.

Your fingers faltered on the strings, and the wrong chord echoed sharply, cutting through the music like a wrong note on a piano.

Iori stopped singing, turning to you immediately. “Hey, you okay?”

You flinched, realizing everyone was now looking at you. “Yeah, sorry. Just slipped up,” you said quickly, trying to adjust your grip on the guitar.

Iori frowned, her dark eyes soft with concern. She set her microphone down, resting her hand on her hip. “You’ve been off all morning,” she said gently. “What’s going on?”

“I’m fine,” you said too quickly, your voice tight.

Iori didn’t press further, though the look she gave you said she knew there was more. She straightened, brushing her hands on her jeans. “Alright, everyone, let’s take five before we start the next round,” she said, her voice light but firm enough to get the others moving.

The band began to disperse, Choso heading to grab water, Yu fiddling with his synth settings, and Naoya muttering something under his breath as he checked his laptop. Nanami leaned his bass against the wall and quietly stepped outside, likely for some air.

You made a beeline for the couch, slumping against it with a sigh. The soft cushions were a brief reprieve from the weight sitting heavy on your chest. You reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone, only to be greeted by a flood of notifications.

Gojo.

You hadn’t replied to his last five attempts to contact you, each message growing more puzzled, more curious. The first few had been typical Gojo banter. Then the messages started asking if you were okay. By the fifth, there was a shift—an underlying concern.

"Is everything okay?"

You could practically hear his voice in your head. His obliviousness, the way he never thought twice about things that might actually matter to someone else. Part of you wanted to throw your phone across the room just to stop seeing his name pop up again. But you didn’t. Instead, you sent a simple reply back, not giving him anything he could really latch onto.

"Busy with band practice. Catch you later."

It was the perfect excuse. You were always "busy." With the band. With your gig. It was enough to get him off your back, for now.

You threw your phone down on the couch, face down, determined not to let Gojo’s messages ruin this moment. As much as everything about him felt like an ache you couldn’t ignore, you wouldn’t let it distract you.

Time seemed to fly during the short break, but soon Iori’s voice cut through the silence as she clapped to get everyone’s attention. “Alright, let’s get back to it. From the top, everyone!”

You lifted your guitar, the weight familiar in your hands. You should’ve been able to just lose yourself in the music, but today wasn’t one of those days.

The first few bars went smoothly, and for a moment, you thought you were breaking through the fog. But then the chorus hit, and everything fell apart. Your fingers faltered, the sound wrong, the chords foreign. The song didn’t flow, like trying to speak a language you once knew but had forgotten.

The music grew hollow, pulling your mind back to Gojo—his carefree laugh, that damn kiss. You thought of the way Mina had melted into his arms, the kiss that had felt so natural. It wasn’t supposed to hurt, but it did. Each thought dug deeper.

The worst part? You couldn’t even make yourself hate him for it.

Your fingers froze on the strings. Another missed note.

“Stop.”

Naoya’s voice sliced through the tension in the room, louder than the failed chord ringing in the air. “What the hell was that?”

You looked up, startled by the sudden harshness in his tone. Naoya’s eyes were fixed on you, brows furrowed, his lips curling in a scowl. The intensity in his gaze made your stomach twist, a feeling of unease creeping up your spine.

“What do you mean?” you asked, though you already knew the answer. It was obvious you hadn’t been playing your best, but the sting of his words made you defensive.

“You know exactly what I mean,” he snapped, stepping closer, his hands gesturing wildly as he spoke. “You’re distracted, and it’s fucking up the whole song. This isn’t the time to be spacing out. We have a gig coming up, remember? This is supposed to be our shot.”

You could feel your chest tightening, the weight of his criticism hanging in the air. You didn’t want to feel this way—not with Naoya. He was always blunt, but something about the bite in his words felt like a punch to the gut.

“Give it a rest, Naoya,” Iori’s voice cut in, her tone quieter but still firm. “We all know she’s having a rough time today. Lay off.”

But Naoya wasn’t having it. He shot her a quick glance, then turned back to you, his expression hardening. “She’s having a rough time?” he repeated, his voice rising. “We all have rough times, but we still show up and do our part. This is important, and you—” He pointed at you, his finger trembling with frustration. “—are holding us back.”

Your fingers tightened around the neck of your guitar, a dull thrum of anger mixing with the frustration already brewing inside you. How could he possibly understand?

Naoya’s words hit you harder than they should have, stinging deep into a part of you that you couldn’t ignore. Your grip on the guitar tightened as if it could somehow steady the storm brewing inside you.

“You’re holding us back,” Naoya repeated, his voice sharp like a knife. “We can’t afford to have you slacking off, not now.”

Yu, who had been mostly silent up until that point, shifted uncomfortably. He adjusted the dial on his synth, casting a glance at the rest of the band before speaking up. “Naoya, maybe dial it back a bit, yeah? We all know she’s not in the best headspace, but yelling isn’t gonna help anyone.” His words weren’t defensive of you, but they weren’t exactly in Naoya’s corner either.

Choso, seated behind his drums, tapped one of the cymbals lightly with his stick before speaking in his usual low, rumbling voice. “We all have our days, man. Doesn’t help to turn this into a fight. Just play the damn song.”

But Naoya wasn’t ready to back down. He narrowed his eyes, his jaw tightening in frustration. “You two are just gonna let this slide? We’re on the edge of something big, and she’s acting like she doesn’t care. She’s messing up, and it’s dragging us all down.”

You could feel the heat of his words burning through you. The anger swelled in your chest, mixing with the ache in your heart that you’d been trying to ignore. What right did he have to criticize you when he didn’t know what was really going on?

“Maybe if you didn’t make everything sound like the end of the world, I’d be able to focus,” you snapped, voice cold and sharp, the words spilling out before you could stop them.

Naoya’s eyes flashed with irritation, and for a moment, you both just stared at each other. His lips curled into a sneer. “Yeah? Well, maybe if you actually gave a damn about this band, you’d stop fucking around. You think your problems are more important than the rest of us?” His words were venomous, laced with anger and something deeper—something raw.

But before either of you could escalate it any further, a voice rang out, clear and authoritative.

“Enough.”

The sharpness of Nanami’s tone cut through the tension in the room, freezing everyone in place. All eyes turned to him as he stepped forward, his expression unamused but not angry—more like someone who was simply done with the drama.

“Naoya, you’ve said your piece,” Nanami continued, his voice calm but heavy with authority. “Now shut it. This isn’t helping anyone. And you,” he continued, not softening his voice, but not harsh either, “stop letting whatever’s going on in your head mess with this. We’re all here for the same thing. If you’re going to be here, then be here. Focus.”

The weight of his words settled on you. He wasn’t yelling, wasn’t trying to drag either of you further into this mess. He just spoke like it was a simple matter of fact.

“This isn’t the time for personal drama,” Nanami added, his tone still clear but without a trace of malice. "We’ve got a gig to prepare for. Get it together."

The room fell silent. Naoya, though still visibly irritated, seemed to recognize the finality in Nanami’s words and stopped pushing. You took a breath, your chest feeling a little lighter. Nanami wasn’t sugarcoating anything, but he wasn’t piling on either. He was just being direct, reminding you all of why you were here in the first place.

Yu and Choso exchanged glances, both of them letting out quiet sighs of relief. The tension was still there, but it was more manageable now.

The silence hung in the room for a moment longer before Nanami broke it with a more relaxed, but still authoritative tone. "Alright, take a 15-minute break," he said, his eyes scanning the band. "Everyone take a step back, get your nerves settled. We’ll come back to this in a bit, but it’s clear we need to cool off before we get back into it."

There was a collective sigh of relief. Yu and Choso both took a step back, leaning against the wall and quietly talking amongst themselves. Iori fiddled with her mic stand, clearly giving the rest of you space, while Naoya just stood there, his posture stiff, but he didn’t say anything else.

You didn’t wait for the others to move. With your nerves still frazzled, you found the couch and collapsed onto it, running a hand over your face. You hadn’t even realized how tight your jaw had been until you released the tension with a soft exhale. Your mind was racing with everything that had been said, and despite the anger you felt bubbling beneath the surface, it was all a bit much.

Instinctively, your hand reached for your phone. You unlocked it without really thinking, the screen lighting up in the dim room. There was a missed call from Gojo. You cursed softly under your breath. The last thing you wanted was to talk to him right now—not with everything that had been going on. But you couldn’t deny the pull to hear his voice, even if the sting of seeing him kiss Mina still burned in the back of your mind.

Without thinking much further, you pressed “Call.”

The moment his voice came through the speaker, a part of you immediately softened. “Hey, hey! Finally pickin’ up, huh?” Gojo’s voice was a little more hyper than you’d expected, as if he was bouncing off the walls, and for a second, it caught you off guard.

“I was startin’ to think you’d forgotten about me or something!” he continued with a playful pout. “You left the party early last night, no goodbye, no nothing. What’s up with that? Did you not like my dancing or was the music not up to your standards?” He chuckled, as if teasing you, completely unaware of the unease swirling inside you.

You swallowed hard, forcing a light, breezy laugh. It’s fine, you told yourself, trying to shake off the knot in your stomach. It doesn’t matter. Just act normal.

“Ah, you know how it is,” you said, your voice coming out a little too bright, a little too cheery. You could practically hear the smile you were trying to fake. “I wasn’t feeling the best, you know how I can be with loud crowds.” You even threw in a little chuckle for good measure, hoping it’d cover up the sting that still lingered in your chest.

But Gojo didn’t pick up on the forced tone, of course. He never did.

“Aww, that’s a shame,” he said, his voice playful. “I thought you were having a good time! You should’ve told me, I would’ve saved you a dance. You know, I’m the best dancer at those things. You really missed out.” There was a cocky grin in his voice, and it made you want to roll your eyes even though you couldn’t help but smile despite yourself.

You sat back on the couch, trying to focus on Gojo's teasing, but your mind kept drifting back to the images of him with Mina. The playful tone of his voice almost seemed to mock the knot in your stomach, and no matter how hard you tried to push it down, you couldn't shake the way your chest tightened at the thought of them together.

With a quiet sigh, you leaned forward, your phone still pressed to your ear.

"Well, I didn't plan on staying all night, anyways," you said, trying to keep your voice light. "You know me—crowds and I don't always get along."

Gojo’s laughter rang through the phone, a little louder than before. "Next time, I’ll save you a dance," he teased. "You missed out, for real."

You chuckled softly, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah, next time,” you repeated, trying to keep the lightness in your tone, even though your mind immediately flashed back to the sight of Gojo dancing so close to Mina. The way he moved with her, effortlessly, the chemistry between them so obvious—it made your chest tighten in a way you couldn’t ignore.

Stop it, you thought to yourself. It’s none of your business. You’re just being dramatic.

But no matter how hard you tried to shake it, the image lingered. You couldn’t help but picture him spinning Mina around, laughing, his hand low on her back, pulling her in close. There was something so… easy about the way they were together. So natural.

Gojo, however, didn’t seem to notice the shift in your mood. He was too busy playing the charming fool, oblivious as always.

You stood up slowly, trying to shake off the lingering thoughts, and made your way to the door.

As you walked toward the door, the sounds of the studio felt distant, like you were drifting away from them, seeking the brief peace of the hallway.

But then, just before you stepped out completely, you heard Naoya's voice from inside the studio. It was low, almost under his breath, but sharp enough to catch your attention.

"Yeah, maybe if you spent as much time on your notes as you do chatting on the phone, we wouldn’t be here all day," he muttered, the words barely loud enough for you to ignore, but sharp enough to get under your skin.

You froze, your hand on the door handle.

A surge of irritation bubbled up inside you, but you forced it down, knowing it wasn’t worth responding. You didn’t have time to get caught up in one of his petty comments, especially not now.

With a quick glance back at the studio, you let out a quiet breath and stepped outside, closing the door gently behind you. You leaned against the wall, just for a moment of peace—just enough to breathe. Gojo’s voice was a stark contrast to the tense silence of the studio, his words carefree and oblivious to everything that had been bubbling under the surface.

“So, are we still on for later?” he asked, completely unaware of the knot still sitting in your chest. “You know, after practice like usual? I thought we could grab dinner or something—at the convenience store. You in?”

You hesitated, biting your lip. The last thing you wanted to do right now was spend time with Gojo, especially after everything that happened last night. But despite the hesitation, the thought of seeing his face, the way his smile always managed to make everything feel lighter, pulled at you.

You could already imagine his playful grin, the way his eyes lit up when he saw you, and the stupid, unexplainable flutter in your stomach every time he spoke to you.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice sounding a little too quiet, a little too unsure. But you pushed it down. “I’m in. I’ll see you after practice, okay?”

“Great!” Gojo’s cheer was immediate and overly enthusiastic, like you’d just agreed to go on an all-expenses-paid vacation with him. “I’ll be there in thirty. That should line up with when you’re done, right? I know your schedule better than you do.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile creeping across your lips. “Stalker much, Satoru?”

“Am not! M’just a great best friend.” He replied and you could hear the smirk in his voice as he spoke. “Anyways, I’ll be there in thirty minutes. Be ready to bask in my greatness.”

“Sure, can’t wait,” you said dryly, though his excitement chipped away some of the tension still lingering in your chest.

The call ended with a playful beep, leaving you alone with the soft hum of the hallway. You tucked your phone into your pocket, inhaling deeply before making your way back to the practice room.

You took one last deep breath, steadying yourself as you pushed open the door to the practice room. The chatter and clatter of everyone getting ready for another round immediately filled your ears, the energy in the room buzzing as usual.

Naoya caught sight of you as you stepped in. His eyes narrowed briefly, the usual smirk tugging at his lips. “Oh, look who finally decided to rejoin us,” he said with a tone dripping in sarcasm. “I figured you’d still be out there, busy on your phone with your friend, instead of keeping up with your notes like you should.”

You clenched your jaw, the irritation from earlier creeping back. Before you could open your mouth to retort, Iori, who had been nearby, shot a sharp jab to Naoya's side, sending him stumbling a little.

“Knock it off, Naoya,” Iori muttered, her voice low but firm. “Not everyone spends their whole life under a microscope like you.”

Naoya shot her an irritated look, but Iori’s usual no-nonsense attitude had managed to shut him up for the moment.

You shook your head, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. As much as you hated to admit it, you appreciated Iori’s timing.

Just then, Nanami glanced up from where he’d been tuning his guitar, his gaze turning toward you with that calm, almost calculating look he always had. “Ready for another round?” he asked, his voice steady and even. His presence had a way of grounding you, always somehow making things feel just a bit more manageable.

You nodded quickly, your breath steadying as you mentally prepared for another round of practice. "Yeah," you said, your voice coming out a bit breathy but confident. You grabbed your guitar, adjusting the strap over your shoulder. The familiar weight of it brought you back to your element, where everything else faded into the background.

Nanami, bass in hand, gave you a small, reassuring nod as his fingers started to slide over the strings. The deep, rich tones of the bass filled the room, grounding everything, and Iori, standing front and center with her mic, was already singing a few warm-up notes under her breath.

Choso, behind the drums, cracked his knuckles before taking his seat. He glanced your way, offering a brief smile before letting the sticks rest lightly in his hands, ready to hit the snare. Yu, standing by his synthesizer, was already tapping at the keys, humming along quietly to himself as he adjusted the sound levels. Naoya, being Naoya, was fiddling with his DJ equipment, testing out the next track or whatever his role was this time.

As always, you were the one to bring the electric spark to the group. You adjusted your fingers over the strings of your guitar, a sense of focus washing over you as the rest of the band began to sync. Maybe it was hearing his voice just now, or maybe just the familiarity of the music, but it felt a bit easier to let go now. The chaos of the day and the undercurrent of frustration faded as your hands moved over the fretboard.

Iori caught your eye for a brief second and, with her usual fiery energy, nodded toward you. She shot a quick wink as she raised her mic. "You ready, guitar hero?" she teased, her voice still smooth as silk, but with that playful edge you were all too familiar with.

You gave her a small grin and strummed a chord. "Yeah, let's do this."

Nanami's bass throbbed, the beat of Choso's drums kicked in, and Yu’s synth melodies began to echo through the room. Naoya hit the button on his DJ equipment, the crisp sound of beats layering over the instruments as the song began to take shape.

With a few final adjustments, you let your fingers fly across the fretboard, the strings vibrating with each strum. Music filled the air, and for that brief moment, everything outside of the band—the tension, the distractions, the stress—vanished. The only thing that mattered now was the sound.

The music built steadily, each layer blending effortlessly with the next. Nanami’s bass pulsed like a heartbeat, steady and sure, while Choso’s drumming added sharp, driving energy. Yu’s synths shimmered in, wrapping around the melody, and Naoya’s samples wove through it all, giving the track its signature edge. Iori’s voice soared above the instrumental, smooth and steady, like it had always been meant to blend with the rest. You leaned into the groove, the guitar feeling like an extension of yourself, as if the music was pulling you forward with every note.

When the last notes faded, silence settled over the room, broken only by the soft hum of the equipment. The band had done well today. And for the first time, the guitar had felt right, the strings humming under your fingertips, as if they were just a little more in tune with you than they had been before.

You didn’t think you’d played it perfectly—there were still moments where you stumbled, where your fingers missed a beat, or the rhythm wasn’t quite right—but it felt like you were getting closer. Maybe it was the focus you had finally found, or maybe it was the call with Gojo that had calmed your nerves, but your playing had finally come with a little more ease. For once, you felt like you could actually breathe while playing, instead of getting caught up in the pressure and self-doubt.

“Well done, everyone,” Iori said, her voice bright as always. She flashed a grin your way, nodding with approval. “That sounded killer.”

“Yeah, I agree,” Yu added, his voice soft but content. He adjusted his headphones, his fingers tapping out a rhythm against the synth keys, a gesture of satisfaction. “We’re getting there.”

Choso, pulling himself out of his seat, stretched his arms above his head before chiming in. “I think this is it. We just need a bit more polish,” he said, his tone casual but upbeat. “Great work today, though.”

Nanami gave you a brief, silent nod as he packed away his bass, his expression calm but pleased. It was rare for him to show much outward emotion, but you could tell he was satisfied.

Iori grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder, looking toward the door. “Well, I’m off. Got plans with the crew later,” she said, giving you a wink before heading toward the hall. Yu followed shortly after, adjusting his jacket with a content sigh. “Same here. See you at the next rehearsal,” he said with a smile, his voice still carrying that laid-back ease. Choso stood, picking up his drumsticks and slinging his bag across his shoulder. “Bye,” he said simply, before heading out the door.

Nanami was the last to leave, offering you another silent nod before grabbing his own things and following the others down the hall.

The usual warmth of the band lingered in the room, but the energy shifted the moment they were gone. The chatter of their plans faded as the door clicked shut behind them, and the room felt quieter, more still.

As you reached for your bag, you heard the soft shuffle of footsteps behind you. You turned, expecting to see Naoya packing up, but instead, he was still standing near his DJ setup, his eyes locked on the equipment in front of him, his posture tense.

Naoya’s posture was rigid as he leaned against the DJ equipment, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His usual smug expression had been replaced with something sharper, his eyes narrowed as he took you in. His voice cut through the silence, harder than you expected.

“Honestly, it’s hard to take you seriously when you can’t even pull it together for a gig that actually matters. Are you even all in on this band, or is this just some hobby for you?” Each word came out tight, like it was a challenge you weren’t quite ready for.

Your chest tightened. His words stung more than you'd like to admit, especially after everything. You stood there, waiting for him to keep going, unsure if the barb was meant to break through your tough exterior or if it was just his frustration spilling out.

But then, something in his posture shifted. The tension in his shoulders seemed to drop, and he let out a long, exhausted sigh. The harshness melted away as he spoke again, softer this time, his eyes losing that sharpness. "Look... I just wanted this gig to be our big break," he said, his voice quieter, laced with something you hadn't expected: real frustration, but also a hint of desperation. "We’ve been grinding for months to get noticed, trying to make something out of this. You know how important this is to the band, and to me." His gaze softened just a bit, like he was trying to make you understand without saying too much.

He paused, running a hand through his hair, his fingers brushing against his forehead in an almost tired gesture. "I just… don’t want to mess this up. Not now. We can’t afford to fall short, especially now that we’ve got a real shot at making it big."

His eyes flickered briefly, and for a second, you saw that familiar wall of stubbornness break down just enough for you to catch a glimpse of the person behind it—the one who was just as worried about everything falling apart as you were. He exhaled deeply, then added, quieter than before, "I just want this to work. I want the band to finally get the recognition we deserve. That’s all."

You could see it in the way his shoulders slumped, in the slight softness in his gaze—he wasn’t just angry, he was invested. This wasn’t just about you being off tonight. This was about the band, about him putting everything he had into something that had the potential to change everything.

Naoya let the silence settle between you for a moment before he gave a small, almost resigned nod. "Just... don’t make me regret it, alright?" And with that, he turned, not waiting for a response, but his voice had lost its bite. It was still firm, but it carried an unspoken weight—he was hoping you'd understand.

You stood there for a moment, taking in the weight of his words. The sharpness of his earlier jabs still echoed in your chest but hearing the shift in his tone—hearing the real concern beneath his frustration—left you at a loss for words.

You couldn’t deny the pressure. You’d felt it too, the stakes of this gig, how important it was for the band. But his harsh words still stung, especially after everything that had happened. You opened your mouth to speak, but the words caught in your throat.

After a moment of silence, you let out a slow breath. “I’m not trying to mess this up, Naoya,” you said, your voice steady, though there was a tightness in your chest. "I know how much this means to all of us." You met his gaze, trying to show him you understood, even if you weren’t sure how to fully express it. "I’ll… get it together. You don’t have to worry about that."

You paused, the space between you feeling more fragile now, like the air had thickened with everything unspoken. "I get it, though," you continued, a little softer. "I just... need a minute sometimes." You forced a smile, though it was tight at the edges, trying to lighten the mood a little. "But I’m here. I’m all in, okay?"

Naoya didn’t immediately respond, but you could tell by the slight softening in his eyes that he was hearing you. Maybe he didn’t fully believe it, but the tension had shifted just enough for him to nod, as if satisfied—at least for now.

With a short, almost reluctant glance your way, he walked off, leaving you standing there, feeling the weight of his words lingering in the silence.

You turned off the lights, the dimming of the room a final sign that practice had officially ended. The buzz of lingering tension in the air still clung to you, but you pushed it down as you headed toward the exit. The familiar echo of your footsteps against the floor was the only sound now, and you let it soothe you, clearing your head as best as you could.

You made your way down the stairs slowly, each step carrying the weight of the conversation you’d just had with Naoya. The band’s words, his frustration, the unspoken understanding—it all swirled in your head, a mix of emotions you couldn’t quite sort out. The usual hum of the building felt muted now, the buzzing energy from practice having faded into something heavier, something more uncertain.

As you reached the bottom of the staircase, you spotted him.

Gojo.

He was standing near the door, arms casually crossed, his signature grin stretched wide across his face. The moment his eyes landed on you, the grin only grew brighter, as if your arrival had somehow sparked his whole mood.

"Took you long enough," Gojo called out, his voice teasing but warm. His eyes twinkled with that usual spark of mischief, but there was something else in his gaze, something softer, like he was actually waiting for you—like he’d been expecting this moment.

You couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips despite the weight of everything that had just happened. There was something undeniably comforting about Gojo’s presence, like he was a small oasis of calm in the middle of all the chaos. His grin, that ever-present playfulness, had a way of easing the tightness in your chest, even if just for a moment.

You offered a tired smile, feeling a small amount of the tension lift at the sound of his voice. “Had a lot to wrap up.”

Gojo pushed off the wall and stretched casually as he started to walk off. “Well, now that the hard part’s over, you’re free to hang out with me. Sound good?”

You shrugged, a teasing smile curling at your lips despite the exhaustion weighing on you. “I guess.”

Gojo stopped in his tracks, feigning offense, his hand clutching his chest dramatically. “I guess?” he repeated, his tone incredulous, “Is that really all I get after I graciously offer to spend my valuable time with you?”

You couldn’t help but laugh at the exaggerated pout that tugged at his lips, his usual playful confidence now tinged with mock hurt. His act was so over-the-top that it almost felt like a personal insult—except it was hilarious.

“C’mon, you’re lucky I’m even agreeing to hang out with you,” you shot back with a smirk, trying to match his theatrics as you turned to walk beside him.

Gojo’s pout deepened for a moment, but then his grin returned, wide and knowing, like he had won some small, unspoken victory. He waved a dismissive hand. “Fine, fine, I guess I’ll take what I can get. But next time, at least give me a ‘thank you’ or something,” he said, his voice dripping with mock seriousness.

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head as you chuckled. “You’re insufferable sometimes, you know that?”

“Yep,” he said with a grin, stepping up beside you, his playful demeanor as natural as breathing. “But you still love me.”

The words hit you like a sudden wave, and for a moment, everything else around you seemed to fade into the background. You froze, caught off guard. But you still love me. It felt like your heart had skipped a beat, the words coming from him so casual, so light. But in that moment, they resonated deeper than you expected. You couldn’t help but feel a pang in your chest, knowing it was just him teasing—but the reality was, it wasn’t entirely untrue. You did love him.

But you couldn’t let that show, not now. Not when he was being his usual playful self. You let out a soft exhale, the moment passing as quickly as it had arrived.

“Love you?” You shot him a look, the teasing smirk back on your face. “Not sure about that. But I guess I’ll let you stick around a little longer.”

Gojo laughed, clearly not picking up on the slight shift in your tone, and nudged your shoulder. “A little longer? I’m wounded,” he said with exaggerated drama. “But I’ll take it. I guess that’s as close to love as I’ll get from you, huh?”

You chuckled, shaking your head, the tightness in your chest still lingering, but you'd buried it under the sarcasm. “That’s about the best you’re going to get.”

You both walked to the convenience store, your footsteps in sync, though your mind felt a little distant. Gojo's usual teasing banter floated around you, but you couldn’t help but feel the familiar knot in your stomach. It wasn’t the first time you’d hung out with him like this, but tonight, everything felt… heavier. You pushed the thought aside.

Inside the store, the familiar warmth and low hum of the lights made you feel grounded. You grabbed a cup of instant noodles and a couple of snacks, trying to focus on something as simple as preparing food. The act of cooking your noodles in the microwave seemed to calm your racing thoughts.

Gojo, naturally, was in a good mood as he picked out a drink and snacks, then casually plopped down next to you. As you set your bowl of noodles in front of you, you couldn’t help but notice the way his shoulder brushed against yours as he sat—just a little too close for comfort, but you didn’t pull away.

Gojo took a sip of his drink, leaning back casually against his seat, his usual carefree demeanor in full force. The silence between you two was comfortable, yet your mind was all over the place. You were trying to keep your thoughts in check when, out of nowhere, Gojo dropped his usual carefree remark.

“By the way,” he began, his voice casual, almost as if he was talking about the weather, “I’ve got a girlfriend now.”

And for a split second, the world seemed to freeze.

Everything—the soft hum of the convenience store, the clink of distant cans, the faint rustle of plastic bags—vanished into the background. Your breath hitched in your chest, and the next few seconds dragged by like slow-motion, the words echoing in your mind.

Girlfriend?

Your fingers gripped your bowl of noodles so tightly that it almost slipped from your hands. Your vision blurred slightly, and for a heartbeat, you couldn’t remember how to breathe. A heavy weight settled in your chest, like you were sinking into an endless pit.

The memories of last night—the soft hum of the afterparty, the way he’d danced with Mina, their kiss, the way she smiled up at him—came crashing down all at once. It was like someone had grabbed your ribcage and squeezed. You blinked, feeling a tightness in your throat, a flood of heat behind your eyes.

How did things advance so quickly in the span of a night?

You’d seen them together, you knew it was coming, and yet—this? Why Mina?

Why her?

Out of all the people, why had it been her? You’d watched the way he looked at her, the laughter that came so naturally as they danced, the way she’d fit so effortlessly into his orbit. The kiss had been a final confirmation, one you had tried to pretend wasn’t real, but now, hearing the word "girlfriend" spill from his lips—it felt like a punch to the gut.

You thought you understood him, at least enough to know that he wasn’t one for commitment. He’d told you that himself. You’d heard it countless times: "I don’t do relationships. Too much hassle, too much commitment."

But here he was, talking about Mina like it was nothing. Like the man who had sworn off ties, who had never seemed interested in anything beyond his casual flings, had suddenly—and without warning—shifted completely.

It didn’t make sense. You blinked rapidly, fighting the sting behind your eyes. How did this happen? How had his stance on relationships changed so fast, so suddenly, without any hint of it? And why now? Why Mina, of all people?

You felt your grip on the bowl tighten, your knuckles turning white. The ache in your chest wasn’t just about him moving on—it was about the sudden shift, the betrayal of all those times you’d tried to convince yourself he’d eventually come around, that maybe he’d see you as more than just the friend who always tagged along.

And now this. Her. A girl who seemed to get him, who was everything you weren’t: confident, carefree, like she belonged beside him.

For a fleeting moment, you felt that familiar, hollow pang again. What did she have that you didn’t?

The thought lingered, gnawing at you, but you pushed it aside. You couldn’t afford to indulge in that kind of self-pity—not right now. Not in front of him.

You took a breath, steadying yourself. Don’t let him see it. Don’t let him see how badly this hurts.

You swallowed, forcing your chopsticks to meet your noodles again, but it felt like your throat had gone dry. "Mina, right?" The question slipped out before you could stop it, and you instantly regretted it. Your voice was too quiet, too unsure, but you couldn’t take it back.

Gojo didn’t seem to notice the change in your demeanor. He flashed you that usual grin, the one that always made you feel like you were the only person in the room. "Yeah, that’s her," he said, a little more animated now, clearly pleased with himself. "She’s awesome. Thought you’d like her."

You didn’t expect the surge of pain that hit you at his words, but it was sharp and unmistakable. You kept your eyes trained on the noodles in your bowl, afraid they’d betray you if you looked up.

Gojo continued, clearly not picking up on the shift in your mood. “Honestly, she’s just... everything I never knew I needed. She’s got this energy, you know? It’s like—everything about her just makes sense. The way she talks, the way she laughs, the way she looks at me, it’s like she sees me—really sees me, you know?”

You could feel your heart tighten at his words, the little cracks in your chest deepening with every praise. His voice was full of that certain warmth, the one that made everything he said feel like it was wrapped in a soft, golden light. It was a tone you had never heard directed at you.

You swallowed thickly, your stomach twisting with each word that slipped past Gojo’s lips. He didn’t notice, of course—he was too wrapped up in whatever glow Mina had cast over him.

"It’s like she really gets me, y'know?" Gojo continued, the edge of his smile softening into something more thoughtful. "Like, every little thing I do, she just understands and… and we’re on the same wavelength. No effort. No trying. It’s just… natural."

You blinked, and for a moment, everything went blurry. Your hands tightened around your chopsticks, but you barely noticed.

I get you too, the thought screamed in your head, but you swallowed your voice down your throat, forcing out a smile instead. Why doesn’t that matter?

The words you didn’t say swirled around you, a dull ache in your chest that refused to quiet down. You’d spent years trying to understand him, trying to be the person who got him—the way he looked at the world, the jokes he made, the way his mind worked at a million miles a minute. You’d always been there, hadn’t you?

And yet here he was, saying Mina was the one who got him.

In that split second, the words stung with a cold finality. It wasn’t about the girl. It wasn’t about Mina. It was about how effortlessly Gojo had found someone else to fill that space in his heart that, for so long, you thought maybe—just maybe—was reserved for you.

He continued, unaware of the quiet storm in your mind. "She just gets me, and I don’t have to explain anything. It's so easy with her. I can't even remember the last time something felt so right, you know?"

Your mind went blank for a moment, and you couldn’t stop the thought that broke through: But I get you. I’ve always gotten you.

You blinked and cleared your throat. The sting was still there, but you couldn’t show it. You forced a smile, even though it felt like your lips were glued together. "I’m glad she makes you happy," you said, the words coming out smoother than you felt. You didn’t trust yourself to say anything more.

Gojo’s grin widened. "Yeah, she’s great," he said, leaning back in his seat, completely unaware of the quiet battle going on inside you. “I’m really lucky.”

As he went on, your thoughts circled back to that question—Why her? Why had he found someone who fit so effortlessly into the life you’d imagined you two would share? And why wasn’t it you who had earned the privilege of being the one to "get him"?

For a moment, it felt like the world outside the two of you faded into the background. The convenience store, the noise, the bustling sounds—everything felt far away.

It was just you, Gojo, and the words he couldn’t take back.

You continued to stare at him, your gaze flickering over every little thing—the way his eyes lit up when he talked about her, the almost reverent tone in his voice, the soft, almost dreamy expression that crept onto his face. He wasn’t just saying it; he was feeling it, every word a reflection of something deep inside him, something he couldn’t hide even if he tried.

His smile, usually so playful and confident, was softer now. His eyes were full of that familiar warmth, but there was something new—something brighter. It was a look you had never seen before.

Your breath hitched again, and for a brief moment, it felt like your chest was tightening around you, the world shrinking as his words continued to wash over you, louder and louder.

He was in love.

The thought hit you with a quiet finality, and you swallowed hard, feeling something inside you crack just a little more. You couldn’t look away, even though you wanted to. Even though everything inside you was screaming to pull back, to stop pretending, to let it all show.

But you couldn’t.

Not now.

You could feel the ache swelling in your chest again, but this time, you forced yourself to hold it down, to swallow it back where it belonged. You have to be happy for him. He deserves this. The words rang in your mind, a mantra you tried to hold on to. You had never been selfish with him, not once. And no matter how badly it hurt, no matter how much you wished it was you sitting there beside him, you couldn’t let him see it.

You have to support him.

You blinked, trying to clear the sudden haze in your vision, and when you looked at him again, you made sure your smile was there—genuine, warm, and kind, just like always. The lump in your throat made it difficult, but you forced it down.

"She sounds amazing," you said, your voice steady, even though your heart felt like it was breaking with every word. "I’m really happy for you, Satoru."

He didn’t seem to notice the subtle strain in your tone. His eyes brightened further, the love for Mina practically glowing in them. “Yeah, she really is. I really think you two will get along well once you meet. She’s easy to talk to, you’ll see.”

You nodded, forcing a bit more enthusiasm into your voice. "I’m sure we will."

But as he continued to talk about her, the way his voice softened with affection every time her name left his lips, something inside you cracked again. You tried to push it down. You had to. You had to be supportive, even if it felt like the air was being slowly squeezed out of your lungs.

Because he was happy. That was all that mattered.

And as much as it hurt, you couldn’t be the one to hold him back from that. PART 3

#gojo x reader #gojo satoru #jjk #angst #tiiraameesuTOTGA

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