#this is step one in getting it all in physical copy

[funkylittlebidiot]

Anyone remember About Him? yeah i'm re-editing lmao

[serv0z]

im normal chat

[cephalog0d]

Thinking about the Ghost!Steph AU again (which I am still determined to actually write at some point, when I've had a chance to do the hefty amount of rereading and note-taking necessary) and Steph's reaction to Jason's big plan to go beat up the current Robin to make a Point.

And on the one hand laughing in his face and pointing out that she got actually killed by an actual villain instead of just beaten up by a theater nerd with guns and it didn't seem to make much difference to Batman, so good luck with that, bud.

(And on the other hand thinking that maybe it would be different if it's Tim instead of her. Batman might actually give a shit then.)

[bibiana112]

I hadn't picked up my 999 rng run in a while and I just gotta once again highlight how this is the closest feeling to whatever Akane's going through having to watch Junpei go around making bad choices after just watching everyone and herself die horribly because of a different bad choice he made last time haha don't go through Door 7 after going through Door 5 don't doom us at the last second for the millionth time don't do that haha you're so sexy

[saatorus]

whisper of the heart — a nerdjo fic

synopsis — after reading about a book series that mirrored everything you’d loved about a past favourite, you were thrilled to find it in your college library. the copies were old—worn enough to still have checkout cards—but what caught your attention was the same set of initials, G.S., scrawled across nearly every one. the same G.S. who had filled the margins with sharp, thoughtful annotations. you couldn’t stop yourself from thoroughly enjoying the silly little comments written in the margins, leaving your own notes alongside theirs. it wasn’t until much later that you realised G.S. wasn’t some long-gone bookworm. it was none other than the man you had sworn to hate. gojo satoru.

pairing — nerd! satoru x reader

genre — academic rivals to lovers

word count— 32k (oops)

warnings — sexual content (unprotected sex), swearing, mentions of not eating, slight angst.

small playlist i listened to while writing

"You all can come and grab the papers now—do not ask me for any re-evaluations, the mark presented on the paper is your final mark—"

You barely listen. The professor could be reading a grocery list for all you care. Your focus is already on the stack of midterms in his hands, your heart pounding like a drum against your ribs.

The exam had been brutal—200 marks, covering classical mechanics and electromagnetism, some of the toughest material in your Physics II course. Past students had called it a horror show, a midterm designed to crush dreams and expose weaknesses. It was weighted heavily in your final grade, which meant every single mark mattered. The room is filled with a tense hum, a mixture of eager whispers and anxious murmurs. Some students hesitate in their seats, mentally preparing themselves before facing their doom. But you? You don't wait. You weave through the aisles, manoeuvring past people, determined to be one of the first to grab your paper.

And, of course, Gojo is right behind you.

"Jeez, you could at least pretend to be patient," he muses, his tone dripping with amusement as he strolls lazily down the steps, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie. You roll your eyes. "Not all of us have the luxury of cruising through exams without trying."

"I do try," he says, flashing you a grin. "I try just enough." Before you can shoot back a response, you reach the professor’s desk. Professor Takeda raises an unimpressed brow as he sorts through the papers.

"You two again," he sighs. "Half my life as a professor has been spent watching you bicker."

"Don't be dramatic, sir," Gojo says smoothly, resting an elbow on the desk. "It's only been three years." Takeda shakes his head, muttering something under his breath about headaches before handing you your paper. You grab it without waiting, fingers slightly shaking as you flip it over.

98.

The relief rushes through you instantly, so strong you can’t help the triumphant burst of excitement. "Ninety-eight!" you blurt out, beaming as you hug the paper to your chest. It’s a damn near perfect score, and after all those sleepless nights, all those hours of grinding through problem sets—you earned this. Gojo, still waiting for his turn, glances at you with an expression you can’t quite place. His usual smirk is still there, but there’s something else—something quieter, almost thoughtful, before he smooths it over with his usual easy confidence.

Takeda hands him his paper. Gojo flips it over, barely reacting as he reads the number at the top.

"Ninety-five." Your grin widens.

"You mean I beat you?" You practically bounce on your heels. "Me? The one you said was ‘too uptight’ and needed to ‘relax and accept second place’? Me?"

Gojo exhales through his nose, shaking his head, as he folds his paper out of your sight. "Don't get too cocky," he drawls, shoving the paper under his arm. "It’s just three points."

"Three points above you."

"For now," he corrects smoothly, nudging your shoulder as he moves past you.

It’s been this way since freshman year. You and Gojo had ended up in the same introductory physics course, and from the very first midterm, it was clear: you were the only two truly competing at the top of the class. But while you poured everything into studying—late nights, flashcards, equations scribbled on napkins—Gojo seemed to barely put in the effort. He’d show up late to lectures, half-asleep in sweatpants, glasses slightly skewed, yet somehow still aced every exam. He never took notes, never stressed, never seemed to break a sweat. It drove you insane. Because no matter how hard you tried, how much effort you put in—he was always right there with you. Sometimes ahead, sometimes just behind, but never far enough to ignore.

And worst of all? He made it look easy. By now, the entire physics department knew about your rivalry. Professors expected you to fight over test scores. Study groups would take bets on who would score higher. Even during practical lab sessions, it was always a silent battle—who could get through the calculations faster, who could figure out the trick questions first. You hated him. And now, after years of this, you finally had something over him. A small, almost imperceptible shift in the universe.

You beat Gojo Satoru. As soon as class ends, you’re practically floating out of the lecture hall, midterm still clutched in your hands. The second you step into the cafeteria, your eyes scan the room for your friend, and when you finally spot her at your usual table, you don’t even bother with a greeting. “I got a ninety-eight,” you announce, sliding into the seat across from her with an undeniably smug grin. “And I beat Gojo.”

Her head snaps up from her laptop. “Wait— Gojo Gojo?”

You roll your eyes. “As opposed to what? Some other Gojo in our department?”

“Oh my God, you actually did it?” she gasps, setting her drink down as she stares at you in something close to awe. “I thought that man was unstoppable.”

“Well, turns out he’s not.” You lean back in your chair, stretching your arms above your head. “Guess he finally met his match.” Your friend is still blinking at you in disbelief when a voice cuts in from behind you, slow and amused.

“One good score, and you think you’re the shit.” You freeze. Then, before you can even turn around, Gojo is already there, stepping up behind you like a shadow that refuses to be ignored. You feel the presence of him—tall, lazy, entirely too smug—before you even lift your head to meet his gaze. He’s leaning in just slightly, close enough to loom, his hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie. That familiar, insufferable smirk is plastered on his face, condescending and infuriatingly amused.

You huff. “Can’t a girl enjoy her victory in peace?” 

He tilts his head, that same damned smirk never wavering. “Victory?” he echoes, voice dripping with mockery. “You’re getting ahead of yourself, aren’t you? One midterm doesn’t erase three years of domination.” You scoff, crossing your arms. “Oh, please. Like you’ve actually dominated me.”

“Oh, you want me to bring out the stats?” Gojo hums, slipping into the seat beside you like he owns the place. He props his elbow on the table, resting his cheek on his palm as he begins, “Physics I final—97 to your 96. Thermodynamics midterm? 95 to your 91. Electromagnetic Fields exam—”

You groan. “Jesus Christ, you memorized all of them?”

“You think I don’t keep track?” He arches a brow, eyes glinting with amusement. “It’s not my fault I have a consistent history of kicking your ass.”

Your friend snorts into her drink. “He kinda has a point—”

You shoot her a glare. Gojo, meanwhile, is clearly having the time of his life. He leans in, that imposing height of his making his presence impossible to ignore, his voice dropping just slightly, almost teasing. “But sure,” he drawls, chin resting in his hand. “Enjoy your one win, (name). I’ll let you have it.”

You grip your cup so tightly the plastic crinkles. “Let me have it?”

“Mmm.” He tilts his head, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Wouldn’t want you to cry when I obliterate you on the final.” Your friend nudges you under the table, mouthing he’s so full of shit, but you barely register it—because the air between you and Gojo is charged in a way that makes your stomach twist. You won’t admit it out loud, but part of you wonders— is this how he always talks to you?

So close, so taunting, like he enjoys watching you bristle. You hate how natural it feels, how effortless the rhythm of your bickering has become. But more than anything, you hate the way your heart stutters when he pushes himself out of his chair, hands still stuffed in his pockets, and grins down at you like he already knows how the next round of this fight is going to end.

“You should really start studying,” he hums, walking backward toward the exit. “You’ll need it.” And with that, he’s gone, leaving you fuming at the table. Your friend watches him go, eyebrows raised. “So, uh,” she says slowly. “Are we sure you guys aren’t flirting?” You glare at her.

“I hate him.” She smirks. “Mhm.” You seethe a little, realising—with a stab of annoyance—that yes, that motherfucker is actually leading right now in terms of grades and rankings. It’s not even about the marks. Okay, maybe it’s a little about the marks. But you’ve always been the smart woman in your course. The one who professors hold up as an example. The one whose name has been printed on merit lists and whose email is always flooded with internship offers and research opportunities. You’ve spent years perfecting your academic standing, earning every achievement through sheer effort and discipline. But for some odd reason, none of it ever seems to matter until you’ve compared it with Gojo Satoru. You glare at his name on the leaderboard, one place ahead of yours. A single midterm shouldn’t be enough to infuriate you, and yet—

Your eye twitches. How the hell did you even get here?

Well.

Actually.

You know how. You just try not to think about it because, frankly, it’s one of the most mortifying moments of your entire academic career.

—

It was the very first week of freshman year, and you were, for lack of a better term, an insufferable know-it-all. Not in a bad way—okay, maybe in a slightly bad way. But it wasn’t your fault that you took your education seriously, or that you actually read ahead in your courses, or that you genuinely cared about learning. If anything, you were doing everyone a service by answering questions when no one else raised their hands. So, on that particular day, when your physics professor asked the class a question about vector components, you barely hesitated before speaking up.

“The perpendicular components of a vector are independent of each other,” you’d answered smoothly, sitting up a little straighter as you prepared to elaborate. “That’s why we can analyse them separately using—”

“Ohhh, wow,” someone cut in, voice dripping with mock wonder. “Look at that. We got a genius in the house.” The interruption had been so unexpected—so audacious—that it completely derailed your train of thought.

And when you turned around, irritated beyond belief, there he was. White hair, round glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, an undeniably punchable smirk tugging at his lips. You had no idea who he was at the time. Just some tall, obnoxious guy slouched lazily in his seat, all limbs and arrogance, tapping a pen idly against his notebook as he stared at you with barely concealed amusement.

Your brows furrowed. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying,” he shrugged, “you must be so fun at parties.” The class chuckled. Your jaw clenched. “Well, someone has to answer when no one else even tries.”

“Right, because we’re all just too stupid to understand vectors,” he drawled, stretching lazily in his seat.

“I didn’t say that,” you shot back.

“Didn’t have to,” he grinned, tapping his temple. “I could feel the superiority radiating from you.” You exhaled sharply through your nose, forcing yourself to turn back around before you said something that would get you in trouble on the first week of class.

“Okay, okay,” your professor cut in, looking thoroughly unbothered by the exchange. “Let’s keep the debating to actual physics concepts.” That should have been the end of it. But then you heard a low tsk from behind you.

“I bet she memorized the textbook cover to cover before the semester even started,” the white-haired menace mused under his breath to his friend with the long, black haired locks, who seemed disinterested in what his friend had to say.

You whipped around. “I did not—”

“Don’t lie, nerd.”

“Excuse me?!” The class chuckled again. And when you shot a glare toward your professor, expecting some kind of reprimand, he just sighed and muttered, “God, I already know you two are going to be a pain in my ass.” From that moment on, it had been war.

Your first set of midterms was when you realized he wasn’t just talk. You walked into class with a 97 on your physics exam, feeling confident—only to glance over and see Gojo slouched in his seat, grinning as he casually flipped his test paper over to show a 99. He made eye contact with you as he tapped his fingers against the big red number. You nearly broke your pen in half.

And so it began.

Every exam, every assignment, every single class discussion became a battleground. You would argue over formulas, nitpick each other’s solutions, and constantly try to one-up the other. You worked your ass off to close the gap, pouring hours into perfecting your work. And Gojo? Gojo barely looked like he was trying. That was what infuriated you the most. He never seemed stressed, never looked exhausted, never talked about pulling all-nighters. He just showed up, half the time looking like he hadn’t even studied, and still somehow stayed ahead. Until now. Until your 98 finally beat his 95. A single win isn’t enough. But damn, does it feel good.

—

You step into the lecture hall, already bracing yourself for the inevitable. Sure enough, Gojo Satoru is exactly where you expect him to be—sprawled out in his usual seat, legs stretched obnoxiously far like he has no concept of personal space. His sunglasses rest on top of his head, keeping his messy white hair from falling into his annoyingly pretty eyes, and the second he spots you, that familiar smirk tugs at his lips. You’re already exhausted. 

“You’re early,” you mutter, slipping into your seat and pulling out your laptop.

“And you’re predictable,” he shoots back. “What, do you set an alarm just to make sure you get here before me?”

“You wish.”

“Nah, you wish.”

You pause, narrowing your eyes. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

He shrugs, propping his chin on his hand. “Still got under your skin, though, didn’t it?”

You make a sound of irritation in the back of your throat, ready to tell him exactly where he can shove his smug attitude, but your friend plops into the seat next to you, completely unaware of the storm brewing between you and Gojo. You exhale sharply, forcing yourself to shift gears—there’s something more important than your ongoing war with him. Something much, much more important.

“Okay, so, I found this book series last night,” you begin, your fingers twitching excitedly as you pull out your phone. “I was going through one of those book recommendation guides—you know, the niche ones that aren’t full of the same ten bestsellers—and this one just caught my eye.” Your friend hums in interest, booting up their laptop. “What’s it about?”

You practically buzz with excitement. “So it’s kind of like—ugh, how do I explain it—it’s this really well-written like narrative, mystery, suspense, romance, but with, like, existential themes? And this insane world building? And apparently, no one talks about it because the publisher went under before it got the recognition it deserved, so it’s kind of a hidden gem.” As you speak, Gojo, who had been staring blankly at the front of the room, blinks. That sounds familiar.

“You’re really selling it,” your friend teases.

“Right?! And apparently, it’s super hard to find, but I checked, and our library actually has a few copies.” You tuck your phone away, already feeling a rush of excitement. “I’m gonna borrow the first book after class.” Gojo leans back in his seat, eyes flickering with something unreadable.

Yeah, he thinks. I’ve definitely read that.

He doesn’t say anything, though. Just rests his chin in his palm and listens as you keep gushing. Because now that he thinks about it, he really liked that series too. It had been one of those random books he picked up between classes, half expecting to get bored, but then something about it hooked him. The way it wove together philosophy and adventure, the quiet melancholy lingering in the prose—it was the kind of book that stuck with you. But he never finished it. Midterms had hit, and between exams, research papers, and group projects that made him want to rip his hair out, he just… forgot. He never went back to check out the last few books. He had meant to, but by the time he had free time again, his brain had moved on. And now here you are, unknowingly digging it back up.

His fingers drum idly against the desk, and for some reason, he can’t shake the thought: She’s gonna love it.  He steals another glance at you. You’re still talking, eyes bright with excitement, flipping through your phone as you read off little details from the guide you found. The enthusiasm is contagious—he can’t remember the last time he saw you this animated about something that wasn’t academics. Usually, all your energy goes into perfecting equations, arguing with him over points lost on exams, and trying to one-up him in every possible way. This is… different.

And weirdly, he finds himself kind of liking it. Not that he’d ever admit it.

–

So after class finally finishes—thankfully, your professor had been going through a hard topic that he kept droning on and on about, emphasising how likely it was to appear in the final exam—it was enough to sate even Gojo, who, for once, shut up and took notes diligently. You head out at lightning speed, managing a small “see you later” to your friend before disappearing into the hallway. Honestly, ever since the new year of college had started, you’d barely had time to indulge in activities you actually enjoyed.

Sure, you squeezed in a few books here and there when you had the chance, but it was difficult finding ones that hit just the right way—ones with the same kind of engaging plot, the same writing style that kept you hooked. You’d tried, but nothing had stuck with you the way your favorite books used to. It had been frustrating, going through these long periods without anything to read. But this time, you had a feeling it would be different. 

Turning a corner, you step into the vast college library, its sheer size never failing to impress you. The high, arched ceilings, the rows upon rows of bookshelves, and the dozens of students scattered across large wooden tables, heads buried in textbooks—it’s an environment that should feel welcoming, yet all it does is remind you how much work you still have waiting for you. You shake that thought away.

Right now, you’re here for one thing.

You glance at your phone, rereading the author’s name one last time before slipping it into your pocket and heading straight for the fiction section. It’s tucked away in one of the quieter corners of the library, past the heavier academic texts, and while it’s not as large as the science or philosophy sections, it still has an impressive selection. The shelves here are a little dustier, the books a little more worn—proof that they don’t get checked out as often as the physics or chemistry textbooks. You trace your fingers lightly along the spines, scanning for the title. When you finally spot it, you feel a flicker of excitement. There it is.

The first book in the series. The cover is simple yet striking, the title embossed in slightly faded silver lettering. You pull it off the shelf carefully, glancing around to see if the rest of the series is there. To your delight, every single book is lined up neatly in order. Some of them look well-loved, the edges softened from use, some even slightly bent, as if they’d been carried around in bags, read and reread countless times.

You flip the book over and read the blurb. Even though you already know the gist of the story from your research, there’s something about reading the official summary that makes your excitement spike. It’s exactly what you’ve been looking for—an underrated but brilliant story, the kind that feels like a hidden gem. Unable to resist, you take the book with you and settle down at one of the smaller, tucked-away tables. You’re a slow reader, someone who likes to absorb every word, letting the imagery settle in your mind before moving on. But the moment you turn to the first page and begin reading, you’re immediately pulled in.

The writing is crisp and immersive, the kind that hooks you effortlessly. Within moments, you’re completely lost in the world of the book, eyes darting across the pages, flipping to the next before you even realize it. The characters are compelling, the descriptions vivid, and the dialogue sharp. You can already tell this is going to be one of those stories that sticks—the kind that lingers in the back of your mind long after you’ve finished. Just as you reach a particularly interesting part, your phone buzzes.

You blink, momentarily disoriented before glancing at the screen. It’s a reminder you set for yourself. Right. You still need to study. A sigh escapes you. As much as you want to keep reading, you know you can’t afford to waste too much time. With some reluctance, you close the book and stand up, making your way toward the borrowing counter. You check it out quickly, securing it in your bag, already planning when you’ll carve out time to read it between your study sessions. It’s something to look forward to, at least. And if you had known just who had been the last person to check it out before you, maybe you wouldn’t be so eager.

–

The ringer from your Pomodoro timer goes off, its sharp chime cutting through the quiet of your dorm room. With a sigh, you drop your pencil onto your open notebook, rolling your shoulders back as you stretch in your seat, feeling the slight stiffness from hours of hunching over your desk. Lazily glancing at the glowing numbers on your laptop screen, a small grin tugs at the corners of your lips.

Four hours of focused work.

Good. You’ve finally finished studying for the night, trudging through a mountain of tricky concepts and endless equations—just enough to ensure you’ll keep up with the next few lectures before the actual final exam looms over you. The weight of the work you’ve put in settles in a satisfying way, a quiet reassurance that you’re keeping up. Yawning, you grab your phone, thumbing through a few unopened texts, sending half-hearted replies where needed.

Your mind is already half-tuned out, already drifting toward what you actually want to do now that your responsibilities are out of the way for the night. Pushing yourself up from your chair, you shuffle toward your bed, sinking into the softness of your mattress with a pleased sigh. And then, with an eager flicker of excitement, you reach for the borrowed library book resting on your side table, fingers running over the slightly worn edges of the cover.

Finally.

Opening it to the page you had left off, you settle deeper into the blankets, eyes scanning the words slowly, absorbing every detail. The prose is effortless, pulling you into the world woven between the lines. The atmosphere is rich, each description vivid and carefully placed, the characters full of depth. There’s a certain feeling you get when a book is just right—something that clicks into place, the rare kind of story that makes the outside world blur at the edges. You don’t rush through it.

You savor every word, taking in the dialogue, the intricate details of the setting, the careful unraveling of the plot. Then, just as you shift slightly, readjusting your grip, a small slip of paper flutters from between the pages. You blink, momentarily pulled from the trance of the story, watching as it lands lightly on your blanket.

Frowning, you reach for it, fingers brushing against the slightly yellowed, aged texture of the paper. It’s rectangular, not quite as thick as a regular bookmark, with neat printed lines running across it in faded ink.

A borrowing card.

You stare at it for a second, a vague memory surfacing. Back during your university orientation in first year, you remember a librarian offhandedly mentioning that some of the older books in the collection still had checkout cards inside them, relics from a time before everything became digitized. But since you’d only ever borrowed course-related books—ones that were constantly replaced with new editions—you’d never actually come across one. Huh. 

Your fingers trace the faded lines as you sit up slightly, eyes scanning the list of names scrawled across it—

Except… there are no names. Just one. Or rather, just a set of initials, written neatly in blue ink

G.S.

The date beside it is from a while ago, though not too long. But the strange thing is, it’s the only entry on the entire card. You blink, flipping it over, checking the back. Nothing. So… no one else has borrowed this book? You hesitate, gripping the card a little tighter. You’re supposed to write your name down now, right? That’s how these things work. It’s a log of borrowers. But then—why had this person only written their initials?

A weird feeling stirs in your chest. Not unease, exactly—just something you can’t put a name to. It’s probably nothing. Maybe this book just wasn’t that popular. The only reason you found it was because of some obscure online guide, after all. Maybe no one really checked it out over the years, and the one person who did just didn’t feel like writing their full name.

Shaking your head, you push the thought aside, grabbing a pen from your nightstand. Without thinking too much about it, you write your own name neatly beneath G.S., along with today’s date. Then, you tuck the card back into its place and return to your book, letting yourself sink back into the story. A few more pages in, about a quarter of the way through the book, your eyes catch something that makes your brow furrow.

Are those… scribbles?

Your annoyance flares up immediately. Who the hell desecrates a library book? It’s practically sacrilegious. Your fingers tighten slightly around the spine as you bring the book closer to inspect the crime against literature, fully prepared to be enraged—

Wait.

They’re not just random scribbles. They’re annotations.

Your irritation dims slightly, curiosity piqued as you squint to make out the neat, slightly slanted cursive handwriting running along the margins. Some words are underlined, a few sentences circled, and in a crisp blue ink, a note is scrawled beside a particularly tense conversation between two characters:

“I can just tell he’s gonna be the one dead first. He’s overreacting to everything.”

You blink. Then, despite yourself, a small giggle escapes. Because—okay—whoever wrote this isn’t wrong. You literally thought the same thing just a few moments ago. As much as you love a good, well-written novel, you’ve read enough books in your life to recognise the telltale signs of an early death flag. And this character? He’s practically begging to be taken out of the story. Your amusement lingers as you scan the page again, eyes flitting to more scribbles running alongside the printed words.

"God, she sounds so insufferable."

You smirk a little at that, suppressing a chuckle.

"I like this line—the quote kinda speaks to me."

Your gaze follows the arrow pointing toward a particularly well-crafted piece of dialogue. Huh. You actually like that line too.

"I take the previous statement back—no way did he say that entire motivational monologue just for him to throw his morals aside..."

A small, surprised laugh escapes you. You love when characters do this kind of thing—spend pages waxing poetic about their grand principles, only to completely toss them out the window at the first sign of trouble. It’s frustrating, but also wildly entertaining, and you find yourself nodding unconsciously in agreement.

You shift slightly, adjusting your grip on the book as your initial annoyance starts to morph into something else—something you don’t want to admit is enjoyment. Because as much as you usually hate unnecessary markings in books, these annotations don’t feel disruptive.

They feel… engaging. Like you’re reading with someone. It’s a strange feeling—an unexpected, quiet kind of companionship in the margins of the book. You scan ahead, flipping a few pages forward, wondering if this mystery annotator—G.S., you assume—has left their thoughts scattered throughout the entire book.

Oh. They have.  Almost every page has at least something scribbled in the margins. Some annotations are sarcastic, others incredulous. A few are simple observations or predictions about the plot, and some are just random, dramatic reactions that make you snort.

"Oh my GOD, just kiss already!"

You huff out an amused breath, shaking your head.

"He is so painfully oblivious it’s almost impressive."

Honestly, you were thinking the same thing. Before you realize it, you’ve started reading out loud—not the annotations, but the actual book. It’s something you do sometimes when you’re alone, when a scene is particularly well-written or emotional. And now, with G.S.’s thoughts scattered alongside the text, it almost feels like you’re having a conversation with them. Like they’re some ghostly presence in the book, reacting alongside you in real time.

You catch yourself before you say something back to one of the notes.

Which is insane. Because this is just a random person’s handwriting in a library book. And yet—

You exhale through your nose, fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of the page. You kind of… want to know who they are. Who is G.S.? Because if their annotations are anything to go by, they have the exact same thoughts as you while reading. The same exasperation, the same eye-roll-worthy observations, the same appreciation for the well-crafted lines. And you can’t help but wonder—just who was sitting with this same book in their hands, reading the same words, thinking the same things? It’s an odd, fleeting curiosity, but you push it aside for now, shaking your head as you turn the page.

You settle deeper into your blankets, the book resting comfortably in your hands as you turn the page. The words on the paper blur slightly in the dim light of your bedside lamp, but you don’t mind—you’re too immersed now, drawn into both the story and the unexpected presence of G.S. in the margins. The next chapter begins, and you take a slow breath before diving in, eyes flicking between the printed text and the handwritten notes.

"Oh, I just know this is going to go terribly."

You glance at the line it’s referencing—a scene where the protagonist makes a bold, arguably reckless decision. Yeah, G.S. is probably right. A few more pages pass. The tension in the book rises, and you’re so absorbed that you nearly miss the next annotation.

"There it is. The classic ‘staring at the moon in emotional turmoil’ scene. Authors love this one."

You snort. Okay, but they’re right. You tilt your head, momentarily pausing your reading to stare at the note. It’s a little strange, this dynamic you’ve somehow fallen into with a complete stranger. You feel like you know them, or at least, their reading habits. Their humor. The way they react to the exact same things that pull at your attention. It's unsettling in a way that’s not entirely unpleasant. You flip forward, skimming ahead to see if the notes continue—and they do.

"I KNEW IT. I CALLED IT. HE’S A TRAITOR."

You blink, pausing mid-sentence. Your gaze darts back to the text, where a major plot twist has just been revealed. Your mouth parts slightly, rereading the words to make sure you’re seeing them correctly. Damn. You did not see that coming.

You exhale, a small smirk tugging at your lips. Fine. Point to you, G.S. You keep reading, now almost waiting for the next annotation, like it’s a second voice in your head providing commentary as you go. And when the protagonist makes another questionable decision—

"Why are men in fiction like this?"

—you laugh, shaking your head. It continues like that for pages. Every now and then, G.S. 's notes make you chuckle, or nod in agreement, or roll your eyes because come on, that was an obvious metaphor. And as much as you want to be annoyed by the interruptions, you find yourself… enjoying it. Maybe even liking it. At some point, you shift your position, getting more comfortable against your pillows, completely absorbed. The words feel alive, and not just the printed ones, but the ones scribbled in blue ink alongside them. It’s a conversation you never expected to have—one separated by time, by anonymity, by the unlikelihood of ever knowing who G.S. is. Your fingers brush over the ink of the annotations, slightly faded but still legible. Thinking back to the date listed on the library card from quite a while ago, you wonder if G.S. has even thought about this book since then. Or if they’ve forgotten about it entirely. You stare at the letters for a moment longer before shaking your head, pushing away the odd sensation curling at the back of your mind.

It’s just a book. Just some random person’s annotations. It doesn’t mean anything.

A reminder notification pops up on your phone—one you’d set earlier to keep your study schedule in check. You sigh. Right. You should get some sleep soon. Reluctantly, you close the book, running your fingers over the cover one last time before placing it on your nightstand. You’ll finish it later—between classes, between assignments, between all the little gaps in your schedule where you can steal a moment to read. And maybe, you’ll keep an eye out. Because now, you kind of want to know if G.S. ever came back for this book.

–

By the time your next Physics lecture rolls around, you’ve already finished the first book in the series. It had consumed your nights, pulling you in with its immersive world-building and gripping storyline—but, if you were being honest, the experience had been made infinitely more enjoyable because of the annotations left behind in the margins. The presence of another reader, someone who had walked the same narrative path as you and left breadcrumbs of their thoughts along the way, had made the book feel less like a solitary escape and more like a shared secret. So, naturally, when you stride into class that morning, you’re already prepared to discuss it at length with your friend.

What you aren’t prepared for is Gojo Satoru.

Not that you ever are, really. He has a habit of making his presence known, like some self-appointed force of nature existing solely to get under your skin. And today is no different—he walks past you with an easy, sauntering gait, the kind that’s deliberately slow enough to be obnoxious. There’s a telltale smirk tugging at his lips, the glint of mischief in his strikingly bright eyes as he leans in, as if he’s about to say something insufferable just to throw off your morning. You pretend not to see him.

Your willful ignorance must be obvious because you hear him scoff under his breath as he passes by, but you don’t give him the satisfaction of looking.

Instead, you beeline toward the row where your friend is already seated, setting your bag down with an eager bounce in your step.

“Dude,” you start, flipping open your laptop with a flourish, “remember that book I told you about a few weeks back?” Your friend raises a brow. “The one from that super niche book guide you were raving about?”

“The very same one,” you confirm, barely able to contain your excitement. “I finally finished it, and oh my god, it was so good. The plot? Phenomenal. The pacing? Perfect. But you know what actually made it even better?” 

You don’t notice the way Gojo hesitates just as he’s about to settle into the seat behind you. He freezes, fingers hovering above the keyboard of his laptop as his ears zero in on your conversation.

“You found another book to obsess over?” Your friend teases, but you shake your head fervently.

“No, no, listen,” you insist, your voice lowering slightly as you lean in, “someone left annotations in it.” 

Satoru’s fingers twitch.

“You mean like, study notes?”

“No! Like, actual thoughts—comments, reactions, opinions. And not just boring analytical stuff, either. They were funny. Snarky. They made fun of the characters at the exact moments I wanted to. It was like reading the book with someone, you know?”

A very distinct, yet invisible, sense of dread creeps into Gojo’s chest.

Oh. Oh, shit. The annotations. He had completely forgotten about those. He had scrawled them in the margins ages ago—mostly on a whim, partly out of boredom, and entirely because he physically could not read a book in silence. If there was one thing Gojo Satoru was incapable of, it was shutting the fuck up, even when he was the only audience for his own commentary. So, naturally, when he had found himself enjoying the book way more than expected, he had started treating it like a private conversation with himself, writing down whatever thoughts came to mind.

He never expected anyone to see them. And now, sitting barely a foot away, he’s listening to you—of all people—excitedly gush about his stupid little scribbles, completely oblivious to the fact that the person you were praising, the one whose humor you found entertaining and whose insights you had agreed with, was him. He schools his expression, keeping his head tilted just enough to appear disinterested. But his ears are wide open.

“Whoever wrote those notes,” you continue, flipping your pen between your fingers, “had some serious opinions. And honestly? I kind of love them. Like, I think we have the same brain.”

Satoru presses his lips together, biting back a grin.

You? Agreeing with him? That was new. 

Your friend hums. “So you’re basically having a book club with some anonymous person who read it before you?” You chuckle. “I mean… kinda? It’s weird, but it’s nice in a way. Like, usually when I read, it’s just me and the book. But with the annotations, it’s like there’s this extra layer of interaction. I get to see how someone else processed the story, how they reacted to the same moments I did.”

Satoru knows he should stop listening. He should. But he doesn’t.

Because something about this whole situation—the fact that you, of all people, had unknowingly connected with him through a book—has him equal parts amused and intrigued. You, who always huffed when he teased you. You, who rolled your eyes at his antics, who made a point to ignore him even though he knew you were hyper-aware of his presence.

You had spent nights poring over words he had written in passing. And you had liked them. God, if you knew, you’d probably strangle him on the spot.

“I actually wanna see if this person has read the rest of the series,” you muse, mostly to yourself. “Like, maybe they annotated other books too.” 

Satoru exhales through his nose, staring at his laptop screen but not actually registering anything on it. Well. This was going to be interesting.

–

You make your way to the library once again, the first book of the series clutched in your hands, ready to be returned. It feels weird, parting with it. As if you’re saying goodbye to something that had, for the past week, been a quiet companion during your late-night reading sessions. But not to worry, there’s still like five more books in the series. Your steps slow slightly as you approach the return counter, fingers absently reaching into your bag’s open pocket for a pen. Without much thought, you flip open the book and scrawl the date of return onto the inside of the back cover, where the borrowing card is located. Your thumb absentmindedly drags across the faded blue ink of the initials scrawled in the row above where you’ve signed your name. 

G.S.

Whoever they were, they had made your reading experience infinitely better with their wry, sarcastic observations and strangely thoughtful insights. It was like reading alongside a particularly sharp-witted friend—one who, frustratingly, was just out of reach. You’re lost in thought, mulling over the mystery of G.S., when you abruptly walk straight into something firm and unmoving. And warm.

Something that smells like sandalwood and fresh linen and something inexplicably, irritatingly familiar.

You barely have time to stagger back before a voice—deep, lazy, and dripping with its usual brand of smugness—drawls, “My, my, pretending to walk around with your nose in a book so people think you’re more studious than you actually are?”

Your stomach sinks. You do not have the patience for this right now.

“Fuck off, Satoru,” you mutter, not even looking at him as you try to sidestep. Predictably, he moves right in front of you again, blocking your path with that insufferable ease of his. Hands in the pockets of his impeccably tailored slacks, sleeves of a stupidly expensive cashmere sweater pushed up to reveal the sharp line of his wrists and veiny forearms, and his ever-present glasses glinting under the dim library lights—he looks as if he owns the place.

His head tilts, white hair falling slightly over his frames as he glances down at the book in your hands. That smile—all teeth and smugness—spreads across his face like he’s caught you in something scandalous.

“Oh? Reading a book that isn’t course-related? Scandalous. What happened, got bored of being a try-hard? Or are you just begging to score lower than me on the final?” He exhales dramatically, shaking his head. “Tsk, tsk. Not that I’d expect you to actually be on my level, but it’s cute that you try—”

You stop listening after that. Normally, you’d throw something equally sharp-tongued back at him, tell him to go get hit by a bus or something equally creative, but you’re too drained to bother. The exhaustion from back-to-back lectures, plus the fact that you haven’t eaten anything substantial today, has dulled the sharp edges of your patience. A dull ache pounds at the base of your skull, and every word out of his mouth makes it throb even harder. Your expression must give away more than you intend because, for a split second, Gojo falters.

It’s quick—barely there. But you see it.

A flicker of something almost resembling concern flashes behind his glasses, like he’s actually noticed how drained you look. The moment is gone before you can process it. His usual smug expression slides right back into place, and you don’t have the energy to care.

“I need to return this,” you say flatly. “Get out of my way.”

Instead of stepping aside like a normal person, he falls into step beside you, hands still lazily stuffed in his pockets. “Oh? So now you acknowledge my presence,” he muses, voice light. “What, you didn’t miss me in class today? I even waited for you to roll your eyes at me like you do every morning. Felt almost lonely without it.”

“I genuinely do not care,” you reply without looking at him. He presses a hand to his chest as if wounded. “Ouch. Someone’s moody today. Low blood sugar? On your period? Brain finally given up trying to keep up with mine?” 

You don’t dignify that with a response, instead sliding the book into the return pile with a little more force than necessary. Gojo watches, his gaze flickering between you and the book.

“What book were you returning, anyway?” The question is so casual, so offhanded, that you almost don’t clock it as strange. Almost. You narrow your eyes at him. “Didn’t take you for someone interested in my life.”

His lips curl into something unbearably smug. “Oh, I’m not.” He rocks back on his heels, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “I just like knowing what my rival is up to outside of class. You know, studying your weaknesses. Gathering intel. The usual.” 

You stare at him. “You are so full of shit.”

“I really am,” he agrees cheerfully. You exhale through your nose, patience wearing thinner by the second. “Shouldn’t you be off somewhere being a general public nuisance?”

“This is me being a general public nuisance.” He grins. “And you’re the lucky victim of the day.”

“God, I hate you.”

“Aww, that’s cute. But you should be honest with yourself,” he says, following you as you make your way toward the exit. “I think you’d miss me if I suddenly disappeared.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You so would.”

“I would thrive in your absence.”

Gojo makes an exaggerated show of wiping away an imaginary tear. “How cruel. And here I was, thinking we had something special.”

You push open the library doors, stepping out into the crisp afternoon air. Finally, freedom. But, of course, Gojo keeps following you.

“…Why are you still here?” you ask, tiredly. He hums. “Dunno. Walking this way.”

“You don’t even know where I’m going.”

“Exactly,” he says, grinning. “A mystery. How exciting.” You consider throwing your bag at him. You settle for walking faster. You quicken your pace, hoping Gojo will get bored and wander off. He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He easily keeps up with you, long legs making it effortless, his stupid grin never fading.

“Walking faster won’t shake me, you know,” he muses, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you enjoy my company.” You don’t bother responding, gripping the strap of your bag tighter and staring straight ahead. He walks backward in front of you, head tilted, watching you with an almost lazy amusement. “So, where are you going? Café? Student lounge? Maybe a secret nerd meeting where you all discuss the best highlighters for maximum efficiency?”

You give him a deadpan look. “Yes, Satoru. That’s exactly what I’m doing. We’re all going to sit in a circle and ritually sharpen our pencils while whispering incantations about final exams.” He gasps dramatically. “I knew it. I bet you have a shrine dedicated to good grades too. And, like, a little altar where you sacrifice people who get higher scores than you—”

“I don’t need to sacrifice anyone,” you cut in, dryly. “Because I get the highest scores.” His grin widens. “Not all of them.”

You bristle, and he knows it. You both know that you and Gojo have been locked in a constant academic battle since the semester started. It’s maddening how often you end up in the top two spots. Even more maddening that he acts like he doesn’t even try. You exhale slowly, trying to focus on literally anything else. “I’m going to get food. Why don’t you go fuck off somewhere, like, I don’t know, ruin someone else’s day?” 

“You wound me with such crass language,” he says, clutching his chest like you physically struck him. “I’m just being a good friend.”

“You’re not my friend.”

“Wow.” He sighs dramatically, as if genuinely offended. “All this time we’ve spent together, and you still call us enemies? I’d like to think of us more as… frenemies.”

“I would like to think of us as strangers.”

“And yet,” he says, smirking, “you still talk to me.”

You roll your eyes. “Only because you won’t shut up.” 

Gojo shrugs. “Details.” 

By now, you’ve reached the campus café. The smell of coffee and freshly baked pastries drifts through the air, making your stomach growl embarrassingly loud. You knew skipping lunch was a bad idea. Gojo hears it, of course.

“Oh?” His eyebrows lift, delighted. “Was that your stomach? Should I be worried? Are you dying of starvation? Is this how our rivalry ends?” You ignore him and step inside. The café is buzzing with students, some hunched over laptops, others chatting over coffee. You head straight for the counter, scanning the menu, debating if you should just get something quick and easy or actually sit down for a meal. Gojo, uninvited, leans casually against the counter beside you.

“Getting a drink too?” he asks, peering over your shoulder.

“Why do you care?”

“Maybe I wanna know what fuels my biggest competition,” he says, tone exaggeratedly thoughtful. “What’s the secret? Triple shot espresso? Pure willpower? The tears of your academic rivals?” You give him a look. “You’re projecting. You probably run on the suffering of others.”

“Obviously,” he says easily. “But I like to mix in a little sugar sometimes. Keeps me balanced and shit.” You’re about to tell him to go bother someone else when the barista glances up. “Next?” You quickly place your order. Just as you’re about to pull out your wallet, Gojo’s voice rings out:

“I’ve got it.”

Your head snaps toward him. “What.”

“I’m paying.” You stare at him, genuinely baffled. “Why?”

He grins. “Because I’m so generous, obviously.” You narrow your eyes. “No, really. What’s the catch?”

He puts a hand over his heart, feigning offense. “You think I’d trick you? I’m hurt.”

“Yes.”

Gojo just laughs and hands his card to the barista before you can argue further. You glare at him. “This better not be some elaborate scheme to hold this over my head later.”

“Oh, it definitely is,” he says cheerfully. “I plan to bring it up all the time.”

“Of course you do.” Your drink– tea to be specific– is ready a moment later. Begrudgingly, you take it, mumbling, “Thanks.” Gojo gasps, eyes wide. “Did you just thank me?” You exhale. “Never mind. I take it back.”

“No, no, it’s too late, you already said it.” He grins. “You like me.”

“I hate you.”

“You adore me.”

“I tolerate you at best.” Gojo sips his drink, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “That’s basically the same thing.” You groan and turn to leave.

Thankfully he doesn’t make the move to follow you this time.

–

Your… somewhat friendly interaction with Sa—No, Gojo—was forgotten by the time the next week rolled around. Not deliberately, of course. But between your physics assignments, math problem sets, and an unrelenting pile of lecture notes to review, your brain had simply discarded the memory. College had a way of pushing everything that wasn’t directly necessary for survival to the furthest corners of your mind. Currently, you were in the library, hunched over a thick textbook, your fingers curled into your hair as you skimmed the same paragraph for what felt like the tenth time. Nothing was sticking.

You groaned, tilting your head back against the chair and letting your gaze drift to the high ceilings of the study space. It was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of pages and the rhythmic clicking of laptop keys. Your physics notes sat in front of you, covered in a desperate sprawl of formulas and diagrams, but the more you stared, the more meaningless the symbols became. You needed a break. Your eyes flickered toward the fiction section.

It wouldn’t hurt to get another book.

A moment later, you were standing in front of the shelves, fingers tracing the spines as you searched for the second book in the series. It didn’t take long to find—it was positioned neatly with the rest of the series, the cover slightly fading due to how long it had probably been there. As you turned to leave, your thumb brushed against the inside cover, where the borrowing card was located.

And there, scrawled in the same faded blue ink as before, were the initials:

G.S.

You paused. Your mystery commentator had been here before you. Again. You traced the letters absentmindedly, your mind flickering back to the first book. Their annotations had been witty, sometimes mocking, but always sharp. You had enjoyed them—more than you expected.

You flipped to the borrowing card. G.S. had checked out this book multiple times. At least three dates next to their initials. A strange feeling settled in your chest. Who were they? You shook your head, pushing the thought aside as you made your way to the borrowing counter. It doesn’t matter. It’s just some random person. Still, as you returned to your study space, setting the book beside your untouched notes, your fingers itched to open it.

You tried—really tried—to focus on physics. For maybe ten minutes. Then, with a sigh, you slid your textbook aside and cracked open the novel. This one picked up right where the last had left off—the protagonist, an ambitious scholar, now forced into an uneasy alliance with a rogue historian, both of them hunting for a long-lost manuscript said to contain the secrets of the universe. Their journey took them through ancient libraries, shadowy alleyways, and grand halls of academia filled with intrigue and suspense that you thoroughly enjoyed. 

It wasn’t long before you noticed the annotations.

"What an idiot. Why would you trust someone who literally betrayed you three chapters ago?" You huffed a quiet laugh. It was scrawled in the margins of a tense conversation between the protagonist and the historian, who had indeed been suspiciously untrustworthy.

Another note, a few pages later: "This argument is painfully dumb. If they just communicated, we wouldn’t need three more chapters of tension." You found yourself smiling. Whoever this was, they were blunt, maybe a bit cynical, but entertaining.

Then, another annotation caught your attention—this one different. It was scribbled beside a passage where the protagonist was deciphering an ancient mathematical equation, trying to understand the patterns behind the manuscript’s code. The handwriting was just as casual, but the content—

"This is basically just Fourier analysis but dressed up in fancy old-world academia. If the author actually wanted to be accurate, they’d at least mention waveforms. But nooo, we get poetic nonsense instead."

You blinked. That was… oddly specific. And not the kind of thing your average literature enthusiast would comment on. For a fleeting second, you wondered—

Does G.S. study physics?

The thought was strange, lingering in the back of your mind even as you continued reading. Minutes turned into hours. Slowly, students trickled out of the library. The rustling of papers faded, the soft murmur of whispered conversations disappearing into the silence of the near-empty study space. You didn’t notice.

Not until the overhead lights dimmed slightly, signaling that the library was closing soon. With a sigh, you shut the book, stretching your stiff limbs. Physics could wait a little longer.

–

A few days later, you found yourself in yet another grueling lecture. The classroom was buzzing with low chatter as students filtered in, some sleep-deprived, some over-caffeinated, and most looking like they’d rather be anywhere else. You were somewhere in the middle—tired but functional, flipping through your notes with half-hearted interest as you tried to prepare yourself for another two-hour session of mathematical physics. You adjusted your laptop screen, took a sip of your tea, and just as you settled in, you felt a presence.

A familiar, irritating presence. 

“Morning, rival,” Gojo Satoru said cheerfully, dropping into the seat next to you with all the grace of an avalanche. You didn’t even look up. “Go away.”

He tsked. “Is that any way to greet your favorite classmate?”

“You’re not my favorite classmate.” He grinned, propping his chin on one hand.

“Don’t lie. You’d miss me if I wasn’t here to make class interesting.”

You ignored him, resolutely staring at your notes. The professor arrived a moment later, quickly settling into the day’s topic—wave equations and their applications. The discussion meandered through standard examples, Fourier transforms, and the different methods used to break down complex waveforms.

You barely registered the name of the theory—just a fleeting recognition of something familiar—before you were back to jotting down notes. At first, you were focused, diligently taking notes and absorbing the information. For the first thirty minutes, you managed to avoid paying him any attention. You scribbled down notes, underlined important formulas, and even managed to listen without feeling the urge to slam your head into the desk.

But then—of course—Gojo had to open his mouth.

“So, hypothetically,” he mused, voice carrying just enough to be heard by the surrounding students, “if we were to apply this to a broader model, say… nonlinear oscillations, wouldn’t that mean—”

You immediately frowned. He was already trying to sound smarter than he was.

“That’s not how that works,” you cut in before the professor could even acknowledge him. Gojo turned to you, looking far too entertained. “Yeah, it is.”

“No, it isn’t.” You shifted in your seat, twisting to face him fully. “You can’t just apply Fourier analysis wherever you want and expect the results to be useful. Nonlinear oscillations don’t break down the same way because of the introduction of chaotic behavior—”

“Oh, come on,” Gojo scoffed, waving a hand. “It’s not that deep. Sure, chaotic elements make things messier, but that doesn’t mean the framework is useless.”

You let out a sharp breath. “It means the entire assumption of the analysis changes. You can’t approximate a nonlinear system with linear components and expect the results to hold up—”

“You can if you use a perturbative approach,” he countered smoothly.

You almost growled. “A perturbative approach only works when the nonlinear term is small relative to the linear system. If the nonlinearities dominate, your entire model collapses.”

“Not always,” Gojo shot back, shifting in his seat with that insufferable smirk. “It depends on how well you construct the higher-order terms—”

You threw your hands up. “At that point, you might as well scrap Fourier analysis entirely and just use a different decomposition method!” A few students had stopped taking notes. Some were watching out of curiosity; others, out of sheer amusement.

Gojo, completely unbothered, shrugged. “But that wasn’t the question, was it? The point is that Fourier methods can still be useful, even if the system isn’t perfectly linear—”

You gritted your teeth. “Useful doesn’t mean accurate, dumbass.” Gojo gasped dramatically. “Did you just call me a dumbass? Right here? In front of our professor?”

“Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you stopped saying objectively incorrect things—”

“Oh, please,” he drawled, leaning back in his seat. “You’re just mad because I’m right.”

Your jaw clenched. “You’re not right.”

“I am right.”

“No, you’re—”

A loud cough. You both froze. Slowly, you turned toward the front of the room, where the professor was staring at you both, unamused.

"Would you two care to bring your literary debate outside of my physics class?" You swallowed. Gojo scratched the back of his neck, looking entirely unbothered.

"...No, sir."

"Good," the professor said flatly. "Then kindly stop interrupting the lesson." You resisted the urge to sink into your chair. Gojo, of course, had the audacity to look amused. As the lecture resumed, you shot him a glare.

"This is your fault." 

He winked. You swore you were going to strangle him one day. As soon as class ended, you were out of your seat, shoving your laptop into your bag with slightly more force than necessary. Behind you, Gojo was taking his sweet time, stretching like he hadn’t just spent the past two hours actively making your life worse. “Man,” he sighed dramatically. “That was a great discussion, don’t you think? Nothing like a little intellectual sparring to keep the brain sharp—”

You spun around so fast he almost bumped into you. “Discussion?” you repeated incredulously. “That wasn’t a discussion, that was you talking out of your ass like usual.”

Gojo placed a hand over his heart, feigning offense. “Wow. You wound me. You know, I feel like I say that phrase a lot. Would you prefer it if I said thee painfully wrench mine own heart with such careless words–”

You rolled your eyes and stormed out of the lecture hall, weaving through the crowd of students. Of course he followed, long strides easily keeping pace with yours. “I’m just saying,” he continued, completely ignoring your clear irritation, “it’s kind of funny how you always shoot me down but never actually prove me wrong—”

Your jaw clenched. “I do prove you wrong. Every time.” 

He smirked. “Do you, though?”

“Yes!” You turned on your heel, walking backward so you could glare at him properly. “Just because you talk like you know everything doesn’t mean you actually do—”

Gojo’s smirk widened. “So you do think I sound smart.” Your eye twitched.

“That’s not what I said.”

“Sounds like that’s what you said.”

“Go kill yourself.”

“Only if you join me, sweets.”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Why, you don’t like being called sweets?–”

You groaned, turning back around and quickening your pace. You weren’t going to stand here and let him twist your words into whatever self-indulgent nonsense was brewing in his head. Gojo, naturally, kept up with ease. “You know, it’s weird how you always get so mad at me. Maybe you should work on that anger problem of yours.”

“Oh, I have an anger problem?” You spun around again, narrowing your eyes. “You’re literally the most aggravating person I’ve ever met.”

“Really?” He tilted his head in mock thought. “I dunno, you seem to get pretty riled up over nothing—”

“You are nothing.”

Gojo laughed, the sound bright and infuriatingly genuine. “Damn, that was actually kinda good. You been practicing comebacks in the mirror?”

“Leave me alone, for the love of god, before I strangle you, bastard–”

“Oooh, kinky–.”

Before you could actually commit violence, someone stepped between you. “Alright, enough,” a smooth, tired voice interrupted. You looked up to see Suguru Geto, Gojo’s ever-patient best friend, standing between you with the exasperation of a man who had dealt with this before.

“Satoru,” he said, dragging a hand down his face, “leave her alone.” 

Gojo pouted. “But we were bonding.”

“We were not bonding,” you snapped. Suguru gave you a knowing look. “And you,” he sighed, “stop encouraging him.”

You scoffed. “Encouraging him? I—”

A hand suddenly clamped down on your shoulder. You glanced up to see your own friend standing beside you, looking just as exasperated as Suguru. “Come on,” she muttered, tugging you away. “We’re going to lunch before you actually try to kill him.” You didn’t resist, only because the temptation was strong. But as you turned to leave, you caught a glimpse of Gojo flashing that stupid, insufferable grin at you.

You stuck your tongue out at him. Gojo only winked again in response. Why did he keep winking at you? It made you wanna puke. You definitely needed lunch. Maybe something very, very spicy.

–

You're sitting in your dorm again, cross-legged on your bed, laptop open in front of you, but your mind is elsewhere. The textbooks and notes are pushed to the side of your desk, proof that at some point you had every intention of being productive tonight. A third empty cup of tea is perched precariously on your nightstand, and the finished second and third books of the series stacked besides your laptop. 

It had been a slow burn, working your way through them between lectures and study sessions, but now, the empty feeling of finishing a book you enjoyed is settling in. Worse yet, it's late at night, which means you can't borrow the fourth book until tomorrow. The thought alone makes you sigh as you shut your laptop and flop back against the pillows.

You flipped open the third book, fingers brushing over the slightly worn borrowing card tucked inside. The neat, slanted initials ‘G.S.’ were there again, written in blue ink. And just like before, the pages had been marked with the same sharp, and sometimes frustratingly perceptive annotations that had made you laugh, scoff, and even—on some particularly well-argued points—begrudgingly nod along. Your mind drifts, replaying some of your favorite annotations from the books.

There was the one where G.S. had written, "Oh, he's totally gonna betray them," followed by a later note that read, "I CALLED IT. WHERE’S MY PRIZE?" That one had made you laugh out loud in the middle of the library, earning a few disapproving stares. Another one of your other favorites from the third book had been an annotation scrawled in the margins of a pivotal scene:

“The irony of this moment is almost painful. She sees herself as the heroine, but the real tragedy is that she’s just another character in someone else’s story.”

You had reread that line about five times before closing the book and staring at the ceiling, feeling somewhat existential. Another annotation had been pure sarcasm:

“Yes, because when faced with adversity, the best solution is always to run directly into danger. Genius.” That one had also made you laugh out loud in one of the study halls located in some part of your university, earning a weird look from the girl across the hall. But the annotation that had really stuck with you—really made you pause—was in the third book, written in response to a section that delved into the intricacies of time and choice:

“If you think about it, this entire dilemma can be broken down into a fundamental question of physics. If time is just another dimension, then isn’t every choice we make just another coordinate on an already-existing map? So is it really ‘free will’ if we’re just tracing a path that’s already there?”

That one had thrown you for a loop. It was the kind of thought that lingered, weaving its way into quiet moments when you least expected it. And, you hated to admit, it made you think—whoever this person was, they were kind of brilliant.You sighed, snapping the book shut. You needed to get the fourth one. Now. But a quick glance at your phone reminded you that it was almost midnight, and the library had closed hours ago. You groaned, letting your head submerge deeper into the pillows. You grabbed your phone, scrolling mindlessly, until your eyes flicked to the messages her friend had sent earlier—recommendations for movies she’d been meaning to watch. You scrolled absentmindedly, not really expecting to find anything interesting, until your thumb hovered over one title:

Whisper of the Heart.

Something about the name tugged at your memory. Wasn’t this the one with the girl who loved books and a mysterious boy who shared them? On a whim, you pressed play. The soft hum of the opening scene filled the quiet of her dorm, and soon, you were drawn in. The gentle storytelling, the warmth of the animation, the way the main character, Shizuku, slowly became obsessed with the name written in all the books she borrowed—

Oh. Oh, shit.

Your face grew hot as you sat up straighter, eyes darting to the books stacked beside you. You weren't doing that. Right?

…Were you? Because if you really thought about it—if you really thought about it—weren’t you kind of doing the same thing? You buried your face in your hands. This is so embarrassing. And yet, as you peeked between her fingers at the screen, you couldn’t help but draw the comparison between Seiji Amasawa and your mysterious, faceless G.S. Seiji had been intriguing, a presence felt long before he actually appeared. Just a name scribbled in books, a person she hadn’t met yet but somehow felt connected to. And wasn’t that exactly what G.S. was?

You groaned, flopping back onto your bed, kicking your feet against the mattress. “I need to stop,” you mumbled into your pillow, but your shoulders shook with barely contained laughter. It was stupid. This whole thing was stupid. You didn’t even know this person. For all you knew, G.S. could be some forty-year-old professor or a girl who just happened to find the same series as you on the niche book guide you were on. And yet, there was this tiny, ridiculous, completely unserious part of you that wanted to believe—

What if it was some guy? A guy with sharp wit, someone who thought deeply about things most people glossed over, someone who liked this series enough to leave behind thoughts for others to find. A guy who— No. Nope. Nope. You were not about to mentally script herself into some shoujo romance anime over marginalia.

But the damage was done. Because now, your brain had latched onto the idea, spinning daydreams faster than you could stop them. Some dramatic, cinematic first meeting. Some passing moment where you’d reach for a book, and a hand—slender fingers, ink-stained maybe—would brush against yours, and you’d look up and—

You shot up again, shaking your head violently. God, this is pathetic. But even as you scolded herself, you couldn’t wipe the stupid little smile off your face. You were allowed to have a little fun, right? Just a tiny bit of harmless romanticising? You collapsed back into the pillows, eyes drifting back to the ceiling as the movie played on. And as Shizuku’s voice echoed through the room, musing about stories, destiny, and the people we stumble upon by chance, you thought—just for a second—Maybe, maybe, you kind of liked this. The idea of it all. The way life sometimes felt like a story waiting to unfold. Maybe it’s silly, maybe it’s unrealistic—but right now, in the quiet of your dorm, with the soft glow of your laptop screen and the remnants of Whisper of the Heart playing in the background, you don’t really care.

–

Satoru Gojo had always been considered a prodigy. A genius. Someone born with an innate brilliance that set him apart from others. It had been that way since he was a child—where other kids had to struggle and study, he breezed through school without breaking a sweat. It wasn’t just academics, either. He was quick-witted, sharp, and effortlessly charming in a way that made people gravitate toward him. But when you grow up with everyone expecting greatness from you, it becomes suffocating. 

So he learned to play the fool.

It started as a mask—being overly cheery, always teasing, never taking things too seriously. It was easier that way. No one could see the weight of expectations if he always had a grin on his face. And at some point, the mask became second nature. Satoru Gojo, the carefree, insufferable genius. The only person he could ever drop it around was Suguru. His best friend, the one person who could keep up with him, who understood what it meant to carry something too heavy to put into words. Then, freshman year of university, he saw you.

He had noticed you before—how could he not? You were diligent, meticulous in a way that fascinated him. You always sat at the front of the class, always had color-coded notes, always took everything so seriously. And maybe that was what caught his attention first. You were everything he wasn’t. Where he coasted through life, you worked hard for it. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t quite know how to communicate with someone. So he did what he always did. He teased.

“The perpendicular components of a vector are independent of each other,” you’d answered smoothly, sitting up a little straighter as you prepared to elaborate. “That’s why we can analyse them separately using—”

“Ohhh, wow,” he cut in, voice dripping with mock wonder. “Look at that. We got a genius in the house.” He had meant it playfully. A joke. But the way your expression hardened, the way your eyes flickered with irritation, made something click in his brain. You didn’t like him. And yet, he couldn’t stop teasing you. Even when he knew it annoyed you, even when he knew you hated him. Maybe it was because you challenged him. Maybe it was because, for once, someone didn’t look at him like he was untouchable. Or maybe it was because he liked you.

Not just because you were pretty—though you were, infuriatingly so—but because you were determined. Because you cared about things deeply. Because you fascinated him in a way nothing else did. He found himself watching you more often than he cared to admit. The way you bit your lip when you were concentrating, the way your eyes lit up when you finally understood something, the way you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear when you were nervous when results came out. It was all so... endearing.

And maybe that’s why he finds himself watching you sometimes—when you’re scribbling furiously in your notebook, when you’re biting the end of your pen in deep thought, when you’re rolling your eyes at something he says but still, still responding. He watches, because for the first time, someone makes him want to understand more than just equations and theories. And if the only way to keep your attention was by being your rival, then so be it.

–

The next morning, you had a practical class, a hands-on session designed to reinforce the theory you’d been learning. Since it was held in a laboratory, students were sorted into small groups to share lab tables. Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on how you looked at it—you weren’t grouped with Satoru, but by some cruel twist of fate, his group was at the same table as yours. The setup was simple: four students per group, two groups per table.

A long, clean expanse of black lab benches stretched across the room, each one covered with neatly arranged equipment: a set of metal ramps, photogates, a timer, and a set of small carts. Today’s experiment was a classic: measuring acceleration using a motion sensor. Each group was supposed to release a cart down a ramp and use the photogates to measure velocity changes over time. Simple, right? Satoru, of course, had already started causing trouble before the experiment even began.

“You know, it’s kinda unfair that I wasn’t put in your group,” he mused, leaning against the lab bench with a smirk. “Would’ve been fun watching you pretend to know more than me.” You didn’t even look up as you adjusted the height of the ramp, focusing on making sure it was aligned properly. “Oh please, Gojo, you would’ve just copied all my calculations and then taken credit for my hard work.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” he said, feigning offense. “I’d let you take, like, fifty percent of the credit.” Your lab partner snorted beside you, shaking their head as they double-checked the photogate placement. Satoru, undeterred, watched as you bent over to place the cart at the starting position. His group was still setting up, which meant he had time to bother you before he actually had to do any work.

“I bet my group’s results will be more accurate than yours,” he declared. You rolled your eyes, finally sparing him a glance. “You do know accuracy depends on precision and minimising errors, right? Which means—” you motioned to his group, where one of them was currently struggling with the timer, “—your chances of that happening are slim to none.” 

Before he could retort, your professor called for everyone’s attention, signalling the start of the experiment. Both of you fell into your respective tasks, measuring, calculating, and recording values with practiced ease. You got so caught up in fine-tuning your results that Satoru didn’t get the chance to throw more taunts your way. That was until, while waiting for your next trial to begin, you turned to your friend beside you, excitement bubbling over.

“Oh my god, I finally watched Whisper of the Heart last night,” you gushed, voice dropping into that high-pitched, dreamy tone reserved for things you were completely obsessed with. Your friend gasped, clutching your arm. “Stop. You did not.”

“I did.”

“DID YOU CRY?”

“OBVIOUSLY.” 

Satoru, who had been focused on adjusting his group’s ramp, stilled slightly. He knew that movie. More than that, he could predict exactly why you were talking about it. Casually, he glanced over, pretending to check his photogate readings while shamelessly eavesdropping. Your friend squeezed your arm excitedly. “I told you it was perfect. The vibes, the music, the slow-burn romance. Tell me you loved Seiji.”

“Oh, I loved Seiji,” you sighed, eyes sparkling. “Like, the way he was so ambitious but still so soft? And the way he believed in her? And the fact that he left little signs for her without even realizing how much they’d mean?” You could feel yourself getting lost in the emotions of it, and your friend was right there with you, nodding along enthusiastically. “It was so romantic,” she said dreamily. “The idea of someone quietly believing in you and pushing you forward. It’s just—”

“SO good,” you finished for her, and the two of you squealed quietly before catching yourselves and trying to focus again. Then, almost absentmindedly, you added, “Honestly, I feel like I’m in Whisper of the Heart right now.” Your friend perked up. “How so?”

You nudged her lightly. “Because of G.S.”

Satoru, who had been handling the cart for his next trial, fumbled slightly. Your friend’s eyes widened knowingly. “No way. You mean your G.S.?” 

You groaned. “Don’t call him that. But yeah. The whole leaving-annotations-in-the-books thing? And how I keep borrowing them? It’s totally giving Seiji and Shizuku. Like yeah I kinda sound corny right now–”

“Not really honestly, I get it–”

“Exactly! See? I knew I wasn’t crazy. Imagine G.S is like Seiji– scratch that, imagine he’s better, like some sweet, studious, hot book nerd–”

Satoru swallowed, suddenly feeling warm despite the sterile chill of the lab. You thought he was like Seiji? More than that, you thought G.S could perhaps even be better than Seiji? That was—that was something.

“And next week,” you continued, stretching your arms over your head, “after I finish studying, I’m going to borrow the next book.”

Satoru barely heard the rest of the conversation after that. His brain had latched onto one horrifying realisation—

The last four books weren’t annotated. Oh, shit. He hadn’t really expected you to grow this attached to his stupid thoughts scribbled on the edges of the frayed pages, hadn’t expected you to burn through the series so fast. He completely forgot that he didn’t bother annotating the last few books because he had gotten so busy with work. But you had just sat there, eyes sparkling, gushing about his notes like they were some grand romantic mystery. You liked them. You liked his words. Not just the books themselves but the tiny, scribbled thoughts he had left behind. Satoru’s stomach did a weird little flip. It seemed to be doing that a lot every time his nosy ass overheard you talking about his writing.

You really liked his writing. The writing you’d been gushing for about two weeks now. You really found it special. You liked it so much that the thought of continuing the series without it made his chest ache. Because what if you borrowed the next one and found nothing? What if you flipped through the pages, searching for his voice, only to be disappointed? No. No way. That wasn’t happening. Initially he had done it as a way to, y’know, simply yap, maybe desecrate the pages of a book from a library with his oh so superior commentary. But now? He was going to do this for you. Because the way you had talked about Whisper of the Heart—the way your face had gone soft and dreamy, the way your voice had gotten all excited—he wanted that. He wanted to hear you talk about how much you enjoyed the little quips that made their way into his head every time he read something. He wanted to be the reason you spoke like that again. Maybe it was pathetic, but he wanted– really wanted to once again be the reason why your cheeks slightly went pink when your friend called him yours. Even if they were his initials, they were his, and it insinuated he belonged to you, right?

The second class ended, Satoru bolted. There was no time to waste. He had four books to annotate, and he didn’t care if it took him all night. If you wanted G.S., then G.S. was going to be there.

–

Satoru burst into his dorm, heart pounding as he dumped his bag onto the floor. His fingers fumbled with the zipper as he yanked it open, pulling out the four books you were inevitably going to borrow next. He stacked them on his desk, staring at them like they were some kind of urgent mission—because they were. You liked his notes. You liked his notes. That thought alone sent a weird, warm feeling blooming in his chest. He flopped into his chair, running a hand through his hair as he exhaled sharply. This wasn’t just about keeping up the act anymore. It wasn’t about maintaining the mystery of G.S. or feeding into some casual curiosity you had. No, this was about you. About the way your eyes lit up when you talked about the books. The way you had called him—unknowingly, of course—your own Seiji. The way you were so excited to continue the series, fully expecting to find more of his little thoughts nestled between the pages. He wasn’t going to let you down.

Satoru grabbed the first book off the stack and flipped it open, his pen poised over the margins. He scribbled his initials in the borrowing card in the same blue ink that he always used– he always thought the blueness of the ink was much better than any other pen colour out there. Before he started reading, he did this in all the library cards, and made sure that the date corresponded to the previous dates– so you wouldn’t think it was suspicious that the last remaining books were all borrowed on the same day. He then started reading—not just skimming, but really reading, more carefully than he ever had before. Thankfully he did remember the plot of the first three books, so catching up with what was going on wasn’t too hard. Every sentence was weighed, every line considered. What would make you pause? What would make you smile?

When he hit a particularly poetic passage, he underlined it and wrote in the margin: Bet whoever is reading this– I just know this made your heart do that stupid fluttery thing.

He smirked to himself. If only you knew. 

A few pages later, he found a scene with the protagonist staring out a train window, deep in thought. The description was vivid, full of melancholic longing. He tapped the pen against his lips before jotting down: Ever feel like this? Just existing, watching life happen? He could already imagine you reading it, tilting your head slightly, considering his words. Would you reply in your head? Would you wonder what kind of person wrote something like that? The thought of it sent a thrill through him, and he leaned in closer, more invested than ever. Hours passed, but he barely noticed. The desk lamp cast a warm glow over the pages as he worked, annotating with a mix of teasing, sincerity, and the occasional cryptic remark just to mess with you. In the fifth book of the series, there was a passage about finding comfort in routine—about how little, familiar things could feel like home. He thought back to all the times during your early morning classes, how you’d bring a steaming thermos filled with a tea of some kind, something to sip on while you reviewed the lecture slides before the professor started the lecture. The half cold tea in that same thermos, he’d seen you nursing it outside the exam hall before a midterm while your eyes furiously scanned your meticulous, colour coded notes. Satoru probably guessed that it was a habit of yours– to have a warm comforting drink while you read– lecture notes, physics textbooks, or fiction.

He hesitated for a second before writing: Hope anyone who ever reads this is reading this with a warm drink. Tea, in my opinion, is the best kind of beverage to drink while reading a book series like this. 

Would you pause when you read that? Would you glance around, suddenly hyper-aware that maybe G.S knew you? That someone had been paying attention? Or maybe you’d think he’s just like you? The thought sent a rush of satisfaction through him. By the time he reached the second last book, his hand was cramping, but he didn’t care. He stretched briefly before diving back in. This one had more banter between the characters, something he knew you loved. He played into it, adding sarcastic commentary in the margins. When the heroine had a particularly dramatic internal monologue, he scribbled: Relax, you’re not in a soap opera.

And a few pages later: Actually, never mind, maybe you are.

He could already hear your reaction. The annoyed little huff, the way you’d roll your eyes but secretly love it. You always did have a tendency to refute things first, only to realise you enjoyed them later. He’d sometimes see it in the way when you’d roll your eyes or let out a disapproving noise at Satoru plainly criticising one of the professors under his breath during a lecture– but Satoru’s eyes were sharp, he never missed the smallest twitch of your lips as soon as you’d finished your melodramatics. The last book was the longest, and by then, the city outside his window had gone quiet. His dorm was dim except for the glow of his lamp, and his body was buzzing with a mix of exhaustion and excitement. He was too far in now, too absorbed in the thought of you reading all of this soon. This book had a recurring theme about missed chances—about words left unsaid and moments that could have changed everything if only someone had spoken up. It hit a little too close to home, but he didn’t let himself dwell on that. Instead, he carefully underlined a sentence: Sometimes, we don’t realise what we mean to someone until it’s too late.

Beneath it, he wrote: I hope this never applies to y̶o̶u̶ whoever is reading this.

And then– and then he wrote another little thing, but it felt a bit too intimate, a bit too revealing so he neatly crossed it out. His pen hovered over the page for a moment. That was the most honest thing he had written all night. Satoru exhaled, rubbing his eyes before sitting back, staring at the stack of books now filled with his thoughts. He had done it. You wouldn’t get a single blank page. You’d find him in every single one.

–

Satoru strolled across campus with a tote bag slung over his shoulder, weighed down by four thick novels. The books—now thoroughly marked up, pages lined with his messy scrawl—felt heavier than they should have, but maybe that was just him. He’d spent the entire night annotating them, barely stopping to eat, sleep, or think about anything that wasn’t you reading his words. Now, all he had to do was return them before you got to the library. He wasn’t about to let you see him checking them in like some lovesick idiot. He carefully managed to place them back on the shelf after scanning them as ‘unborrowed’.  He was a few steps from the library doors when someone rounded the corner, and before he could react—

Bam. The collision wasn’t hard, just enough to jostle him off balance, and he barely had time to reach out and steady you before you could stumble back. “Damn, could at least pretend to watch where you’re going,” he drawled, glancing down at you with a smirk. “Or do you just like running into me?”

You scoffed, adjusting your bag over your shoulder. “Yeah, I totally planned that. Just desperate to bump into you of all people.”

“Oh, come on,” he teased, stepping aside so you could walk past him. “If you wanted an excuse to see me, you could’ve just said so.” You rolled your eyes, clearly unimpressed. “Please. I’m actually on my way to the library, unlike some people who just loiter around.”

His grip on his tote bag tightened for half a second, but he kept his expression easy, unreadable. “Library, huh?”

“Yeah,” you said, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “I finished this book from a series I’m actually enjoying, so I figured I’d borrow the next one today.” You didn’t even know why you told him that, but you figured it was an improvement from the usual bickering you two always had going on. He hummed, nodding slowly. “Oh, okay. Well…” He took a step back, flashing a lazy grin. “Have fun with that.” You narrowed your eyes at him. “Why do you sound weird?”

“I always sound weird.”

“Yeah, but more than usual.” 

Satoru shrugged. “Dunno what you’re talking about.” You stared at him suspiciously for another second before shaking your head. “Whatever.” And with that, you pushed past him, making your way toward the library doors. Satoru watched you go, fighting the smug grin threatening to take over his face. He could already picture it—the way you’d flip through the pages, expecting plain text, only to find the familiar, scrawled handwriting in the margins. He wondered if you’d smile. If you’d talk about it again the way you had in class. He shook his head to himself, finally turning away. Yeah. He was so in trouble.

–

You settled into your usual spot at the campus café, tucking yourself into the corner by the window with the newly borrowed books. Yes, books. Not a book. You figured that if there were just four more books left in the series, you’d just borrow them now, instead of continuing the annoying walk from your dorm or lecture rooms to the library. The familiar scent of aged paper and coffee beans wrapped around you, grounding you in your routine.

With your drink beside you and your phone silenced, you flipped the fourth book open, eager to dive in. You didn’t even bother to check the borrowing card this time, neither had you written your own name in it yet, heart beating a little faster as you childishly hoped that the familiar cursive scrawls were still present in the weathered pages.  You had barely made it past the first few pages when your eyes caught something in the margins next to one of the more romantic lines.

Bet whoever is reading this– I just know this made your heart do that stupid fluttery thing. You blinked. Your stomach did an odd little flip, completely unprovoked. Honestly speaking, your heart did that little flip more in regards to the familiar blue handwriting rather than the line on the page. You knew exactly whose handwriting that was. 

G.S. had struck again. A slow smile pulled at your lips as you traced the ink with your fingertip. You had gotten so used to these notes, the little jokes, the occasional deep thoughts, that it almost felt like a conversation now. Like you weren’t reading alone, but with someone who understood exactly what you’d linger on, what you’d pause to appreciate. And yet… something about this one felt slightly different. You glanced at the ink again. It looked a little… darker? Not as faded as some of the earlier notes in the series.

You frowned slightly but shook the thought away. Maybe it was just your imagination. You kept reading. A few pages later, the protagonist stared out of a train window, lost in thought. The description was melancholic, vivid, and all too relatable.

Ever feel like this? Just existing, watching life happen? You exhaled sharply through your nose. Yeah, you thought. All the damn time. You tapped your fingers against the table, feeling that same strange connection as before. Whoever G.S. was, they had a way of making their presence known—not just through the words they chose to underline, but in the little thoughts they left behind, the questions they posed, the moments they chose to comment on. It was like they could hear your thoughts before you even formed them, like they knew exactly where your mind would linger on the page.

The sun dipped lower outside the arched windows of the campus café, casting long shadows across the floor as golden light pooled over the tables. The afternoon crowd had begun to thin, students trickling out one by one, their conversations fading into the hum of the espresso machine and the occasional clatter of cups behind the counter. The once-busy space was quieter now, more intimate, like the world had momentarily shrunk down to just you and the book in your hands. You traced the ink of the latest annotation with your thumb, barely skimming the words but feeling them all the same. It was a strange thing—to be so affected by someone you had never even met. Had you met them? The question pressed at the edges of your mind, unspoken yet persistent. The specificity of some of these notes, the way they seemed to know you—it made your stomach flip in a way you weren’t quite sure how to name.

You glanced at the café entrance, as if expecting to see someone standing there, watching you, waiting to see your reaction. But no one lingered. Just the usual stragglers—people buried in their own work, in their own stories. Still, the feeling remained. With a quiet exhale, you pulled your focus back to the page and turned it, sinking further into the book. The story continued, but now, each annotation felt like something more. Like a conversation waiting to happen. And by the time you could hear the cicadas chirping outside, you had successfully finished the fourth book.

–

Your luck today had been astoundingly awful. The first sign was your hair—a complete disaster from the moment you woke up. Brushing it down did nothing. Water made it worse. Mousse? A grave mistake. You finally resorted to tying it up, accepting defeat. Then came the sharp pain on your forehead, a telltale sign of a forming pimple, because of course your skin had decided to betray you too. But the true betrayal came from your kettle, which, after years of faithful service, had chosen this morning to stop working. No tea. No caffeine. No hope. And now? Now, as if the universe hadn’t already tested you enough, you were seated next to Gojo Satoru, his chair pushed obnoxiously close, his long legs stretching out under the desk like he owned the place. His expression was insufferably smug, like he had personally orchestrated all of this just to get under your skin.

Have you ever mentioned that you shared more than one class with Gojo? Sure, you were both in the same physics course, but once again, your luck with picking extra subjects was nothing short of terrible. That’s how you ended up in psychology—a field that couldn’t be further from the world of physics you were so deeply immersed in. You had figured it would be a nice change, to explore a different kind of science. 

Unfortunately, a certain white haired freak seemed to share the same thought process. 

You exhaled sharply, crossing your arms. “We’re not choosing your dumb topic.”  Gojo gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. “Excuse you, my brilliant topic.”

“You want to write about the psychology of humor.”

“Exactly! It’s fascinating.” He grinned. “What makes something funny? Why do people laugh? Why am I so naturally hilarious?” You pinched the bridge of your nose. “We’re in a psychology class, Gojo, not a stand-up workshop.”

“And yet, humor is deeply psychological.” He leaned forward, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Maybe if you had a better sense of humor, you’d agree with me.” You scowled. “I have a perfectly fine sense of humor.”

“Sure you do,” he teased, “in the same way a brick has mobility.” Your jaw clenched. “I’m not doing a research paper on why people laugh.”

“And I’m not doing one on cognitive dissonance,” he shot back, drumming his fingers against the desk. “It’s been done to death.”

“It’s interesting,” you argued. “It actually ties into real-world behavior.”

“So does humor.” You stared him down. He stared right back, his lips curving just slightly, like he was having the time of his life getting you riled up.

A muscle in your jaw twitched. “Rock, paper, scissors?”

Gojo snorted. “What are we, five?” You held out a fist. He sighed, then did the same.

Rock, paper, scissors, shoot. Your scissors to his rock. Your eye twitched. His grin was downright gleeful. “Looks like we’re writing about humor.”

“You are insufferable.”

“I’m a visionary,” he corrected, stretching his arms behind his head. “You’ll thank me when we get a great grade.” You grumbled something under your breath, flipping open your notebook to at least try and plan the assignment. You weren’t about to let him ruin your GPA over jokes. But Gojo wasn’t looking at the notebook. He wasn’t even thinking about the project anymore. His gaze lingered on the way a few wisps of hair had escaped your ponytail, framing your face. He wasn’t used to seeing your hair tied back—it made your features more striking, somehow. It made him notice the little things, like the way your brow creased when you were annoyed, or the way your lips pursed slightly when you were trying really hard not to snap at him. And it was funny. All morning, you’d been looking at him like he was a headache, while he… well. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t kind of enjoying himself. He propped his chin in his palm, watching you jot something down in your notebook.

“You know,” he mused, “for someone who’s so against my topic, you sure do make me laugh a lot.” You shot him a suspicious look. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Gojo smirked. “Just an observation.” You scoffed. “An annoyance is not the same thing as amusement.”

“Tell that to your cognitive dissonance.” You rolled your eyes, but before you could fire back, something distracted you. A shift in the air, a fleeting scent—something clean and warm, like cedar and the lingering spice of cologne. You blinked. You didn’t know why you noticed it now, of all times, but the way he smelled was… oddly pleasant. You shook it off, focusing on your notes again. Only, now you were very aware of other things, too—like the fact that his hand, resting casually on the desk, was a lot bigger than yours. His fingers were long, his knuckles prominent, and his nails were annoyingly well-groomed for someone who clearly put zero effort into most things. You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to refocus. It’s just Gojo, you told yourself. He’s just being annoying. As usual. I’m probably ovulating or something. Gojo, meanwhile, had caught the way your eyes flickered over to him, how you quickly looked away after.

He tilted his head. “Something on your mind?”

“Yeah,” you muttered, deadpan. “How fast I can finish this project so I don’t have to deal with you.” Gojo chuckled, and despite yourself, you felt the sound of it—low and amused, like he found you far too entertaining. “Oh, sweets,” Gojo drawled, his voice lilting with amusement, “no way in hell am I gonna let you finish this project fast enough to escape me. C’mon, in our three beautiful years of rivalry, you’ve never once tried to get to know me—”

“Let’s just start the project,” you cut him off, already pulling out your stationery and notebook, flipping to a fresh page with more force than necessary. You barely resisted the urge to groan at the topic glaring back at you. Humour. Ugh.

Gojo, of course, noticed immediately. He didn’t even have to try—he just always noticed things. The way your lips pressed into a thin line, how your fingers fidgeted with the cap of your pen, how your shoulders tensed slightly, like you were already resigning yourself to suffering through an assignment you hated. His smirk faded—just a little. And then, before he could think about it too hard, he sighed.

“You know what?” he said, nudging his notebook aside. “Screw it. Let’s do your topic.”

You blinked, pen hovering mid-air. “What?”

“You heard me,” he said, waving a hand. “Cognitive dissonance, weird little psychology experiments, all that jazz. It’s fine.”

Your eyes narrowed. “This feels like a trick.”

“Wow, you think that low of me?,” he said, clutching his chest in mock betrayal. “I am capable of compromise, you know.”

You gave him a flat look. “Since when?”

Gojo rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he leaned forward, elbows propped on the desk, watching you with a lazy kind of curiosity.

“Seriously, though. If you hate my topic that much, let’s just do yours. No big deal.”

You stared at him, suspicious. Gojo Satoru? Giving up? It felt wrong.

“Wait,” you said suddenly, narrowing your eyes further. “What’s the catch?”

“There’s no catch,” he insisted, but the way he said it, all breezy and casual, made you even more suspicious.

“… You want me to owe you a favor, don’t you?”

He gasped, scandalised. “Sweets, I would never manipulate you like that.”

You scoffed. “You absolutely would.”

“Okay, yeah, I would,” he admitted easily, grinning. “But this isn’t that.”

You hesitated, drumming your fingers against the notebook. Then, you exhaled, shaking your head. “No. We’ll do humor.”

Now he was the one taken aback. “Huh?”

“I don’t want to hear you complain about how boring cognitive dissonance is for the next two weeks,” you said, scribbling down a rough outline. “And you’re actually interested in humor, so we’ll get it done faster.”

Gojo just stared at you, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing.

“Hold on. You’re giving in?”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“Oh, I’m definitely making it weird.” His grin was slow, teasing, like he had just won something. “This is, like, a historic moment. I should get it framed.”

“Gojo.”

“I mean, imagine if people knew—”

“Gojo.”

“—that you actually care about my interests? That you—gasp—want to make me happy?” You kicked him under the desk.

“Ow!” He laughed, rubbing his shin. “That was uncalled for.”

“You deserved it.”

“But really,” he said, still grinning, “this is kinda nice.”

You quirked a brow. “What is?”

He shrugged, tilting his head. “Usually, we’re arguing for ourselves. This is the first time we’ve argued over, like, what’s better for the other person.” Your lips parted slightly. You hadn’t thought about it like that. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, absurdly, a little laugh slipped out of you. Just a small one, but it was enough to make Gojo’s eyes flicker with amusement. And before you knew it, he was laughing, too. It wasn’t even that funny, but somehow, the realisation of how ridiculous this entire thing had been—bickering for fifteen minutes over who should get their way only to insist on the opposite—had you both quietly shaking with laughter in the middle of the library.

“Okay, okay,” you finally said, breathless. “Let’s get this outline done before we completely fail this class.”

“I’d never fail,” Gojo said, flipping open his notebook. “I’m naturally brilliant.”

“You would if I weren’t here keeping you on track.”

He grinned. “See? You like being my partner.” You rolled your eyes, but as you both started drafting the project together, something about this—about working with him, actually working—felt… nice. And even though he was still Gojo, still distracting, still annoying, still insufferably smug, for once, he didn’t feel like an opponent. He just felt like Satoru. Not Gojo, but Satoru. Of course, the moment things got too productive, he ruined it.

“Y’know,” he mused, leaning back in his chair, “I am gonna make sure our humor project includes at least one joke at your expense.”

You deadpanned. “Then I’m making sure our references include an article on the psychological effects of annoying classmates.”

Gojo gasped. “I would love to read that.”

You smacked his arm with your notebook. And, as usual, he just laughed. You two managed to get a lot of the work done– not just a solid outline of your project, but the finer details too. Gojo suddenly shoved his chair back, standing up so abruptly that you startled. “I need to do something,” he announced, brushing imaginary dust off his clothes. You frowned, confused. “What? Where are you going?”

“Just wait here,” he said, already turning on his heel. Your brows furrowed. “Wait—what? Gojo—”

“Just wait!” he called over his shoulder before disappearing down the hallway. You stared at the empty space where he had been, utterly bewildered. What the hell was that about? For a moment, you debated packing up your stuff and leaving just to be petty, but curiosity got the better of you. Huffing, you tapped your pen against your notebook, drumming your fingers impatiently. Three minutes passed. Then five. Then—

Gojo reappeared, striding back toward your table with an obnoxiously triumphant grin. In one hand, he held two drinks, in the other, a small paper bag. He set them down in front of you like he was presenting some kind of grand prize.

You stared. “... What is this?”

“Snacks,” he said, like it was obvious. “I see that,” you said, eyeing the drinks. One was clearly milk tea—yours, probably—but the other was some sugary monstrosity topped with whipped cream, which was obviously his. “But why?”

“Well, we’ve been working,” he said easily, plopping back into his seat. “Figured we deserved a break.” You blinked, then looked down at the tea again. It smelled… exactly how you usually ordered it.

Suspicion prickled at you. “Did you—did you get this on purpose?” 

Gojo took a sip of his own drink, unbothered. “Yeah?” 

Your eyes narrowed. “How do you even know what I drink?”

Gojo shrugged. “Dunno. Guess I just noticed that one time when I ended up paying for it.”

You paused. The thought of Gojo Satoru noticing anything about you—remembering how you liked your tea, going out of his way to get it without even asking—made your brain short-circuit for a second. You weren’t sure what to do with that information, so you just focused on unrolling the top of the pastry bag, peering inside. There were two croissants—one chocolate, one plain.

“… Okay, but the pastries?”

“I didn’t know what you liked, so I got both.” You squinted at him. “That doesn’t make any sense.” He smirked. “Sure it does. If you like chocolate, I got it right. If you don’t, more for me.” You stared at him, then at the pastries, then back at him.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, shaking your head.

“Unbelievably thoughtful?” he supplied.

“Unbelievably annoying.”

Gojo grinned. “That too.” Rolling your eyes, you took the chocolate croissant anyway, breaking off a piece. The tea was still warm when you took a sip, and you hated that it was perfect—hated that Gojo Satoru of all people had somehow memorized exactly how you liked it. He propped his elbow on the table, chin resting in his hand as he watched you. “Y’know, for someone who’s been roasting me for the last five minutes, you seem to be enjoying that a lot.”

You shot him a look. “Don’t push it.” He only laughed, reaching for his own pastry. “No promises.”

–

Over the next week, you and Gojo fell into an oddly stable rhythm. It wasn’t immediate—nothing with Gojo ever was—but slowly, the sharp edges of your interactions dulled. The bickering still happened, but it felt different, less like clashing swords and more like an inside joke neither of you wanted to drop. Your study sessions were always in the same corner of the library, where Gojo insisted on pushing the limits of how far back he could tilt his chair before it inevitably crashed to the floor.

(“Gojo, if you fall and crack your head open, I’m not calling an ambulance.”

“Nah, you totally would.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Yes, you would, sweets. You like me too much to let me die like that.”)

You’d grumble and go back to your notes, but a traitorous part of you was starting to find his antics almost… endearing. Your actual progress on the project was steady. It surprised you—Gojo might’ve been infuriating, but when he actually focused, he was sharp. He had a way of cutting through useless information, pinpointing the most interesting angle on a subject, making connections you hadn’t considered. Begrudgingly, you kind of understood why he was always neck to neck with you in grades.

(“So, humor as a psychological coping mechanism?”

“Mhm.”

“And you want to include self-deprecating humor as a subsection?”

“Well, yeah,” he said, twirling a pen between his fingers. “It’s like, prime material.”

“You literally never make fun of yourself.”

“I make fun of myself all the time.”

You scoffed. “Oh, really?”

He smirked. “Yeah. I mean, look at me—six-foot-three, gorgeous, built like a god—my life is so hard, y’know?”

You stared at him. “That was not self-deprecating.”

“No?” He shrugged, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to make your stomach do something weird. “Maybe I just want you to compliment me.”

You threw a balled-up piece of paper at his head.) 

There were… moments. Small, fleeting things you didn’t know what to do with. Like the time your pen rolled off the table and he picked it up, spinning it between his fingers before handing it back to you, and you noticed—really noticed—how big his hands were. Or how, sometimes, when he was reading something on your laptop, he’d lean in too close, and you’d catch the faint scent of his cologne—fresh, clean, but with something warm underneath. You ignored these things. Obviously. 

But then came the gym. You were only there because you needed to de-stress. The project had been long, your classes demanding, and you just wanted to move your body and clear your head. You weren’t expecting to see him there. At first, you didn’t even realize it was Gojo. You were just filling your water bottle, minding your business, when your gaze flickered to the squat rack and landed on a very tall, very shirtless figure. And then your brain short-circuited. Because it was Gojo.

And Gojo was—

Built.

Like, really built. You had known he was tall. You had known he was in shape. But knowing and seeing were two different things. His usual oversized hoodies and button-ups had hidden the fact that his entire torso was carved like a damn statue. Broad shoulders, lean muscle, a defined chest, abs for days and—

Your gaze dropped lower.

—Happy trail. Something inside you malfunctioned. Because, okay, fine, sure—objectively speaking, Gojo Satoru was attractive. You had always known that. But this? This was different. This was some kind of cruel joke. This was the universe personally handing you a vision of a half-naked Gojo and saying, Hey, enjoy struggling with this one! You were staring. Oh, god, you were staring. You needed to leave. You were about to spin on your heel and get the hell out of there, but that was when he noticed you. His gaze locked onto yours in the mirror, and something slow and amused curled across his lips.

“Yo,” he called, turning around fully now, like he knew exactly what he was doing. You were so close to pretending you hadn’t heard him, but there were only so many places to run. You forced yourself to walk over, as if this was normal, as if your brain hadn’t just imploded from seeing Gojo Satoru shirtless. “You work out?” he asked, wiping sweat off his forehead with a towel, and you hated that even that was distracting.

“Yes, Gojo, I work out,” you said flatly, crossing your arms. He grinned. “Huh. Never would’ve guessed.” You narrowed your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He just shrugged, all easy confidence and knowing smirks. “You don’t exactly look like the gym type, sweets.”

“Because I don’t look like I can deadlift a hundred kilos?” you shot back. 

He tilted his head. “Can you?”

“… No.” 

He laughed, tossing the towel over his shoulder. “Then I rest my case.” You scowled. “You’re annoying.”

“And you’re staring,” he quipped, and your breath caught in your throat. Your face heated. “I—I am not.” His smirk deepened. “Sure you aren’t.”

You clenched your jaw, trying to school your expression into something neutral. You refused to let him know he was right. But as you turned on your heel and all but stomped to another part of the gym, you could still feel his gaze on you. And the worst part? You didn’t hate it. 

The next day, you almost considered canceling your study session. Not because you were avoiding Gojo. Obviously. You were just busy. Lots of work. Essays. Big academic responsibilities. But you weren’t a coward. (And okay, fine, maybe a tiny part of you was curious to see if things would be normal again. Not that things were weird, but—well. Whatever.) When you arrived at the library, Gojo was already there, feet kicked up on the chair across from him, lazily flipping through his notes.

“Look who decided to show up,” he said without looking up. You dropped your bag onto the table with a little more force than necessary. “Shut up.” He smirked. “Feisty today, huh?” You ignored him, pulling out your laptop. “Did you actually get any work done?”

He held up a single, crumpled page. 

You groaned. “Gojo.”

“Hey, hey,” he said, leaning forward, “in my defense, I was busy yesterday.” You knew exactly what he was referencing. You refused to react. Instead, you snatched the page from his hands. “We’re never finishing this at this rate.” 

Gojo leaned on his hand, watching you with a lazy smile. “Maybe I just like dragging this out so I can keep seeing you.”

Your fingers twitched around your pen.

He was messing with you. Obviously. That was what he did. But it was getting harder and harder to pretend you didn’t notice the way his gaze lingered sometimes. Or the way your stomach dipped when he said things like that. You cleared your throat, forcing yourself to focus. “We’re getting this done today, whether you like it or not.”

“Bossy,” he murmured, still watching you. You gave him a look. And then you got to work. And as much as you hated to admit it, your study sessions with Gojo had started to feel… comfortable. It was weird. In some ways, nothing had changed—you still bickered, still teased, still rolled your eyes at each other every five minutes. But there was something different underneath it now, something you couldn’t quite name. And you weren’t sure you wanted to. Not yet.

–

The lecture hall was packed, the dull hum of students settling in filling the air as you pulled out your notes. Today’s topic was something about fluid dynamics—not that you were paying too much attention. Mostly because you were tired. And, maybe, because there was a certain someone sitting behind you.  You don’t know when or why it had started– maybe it was the fact that you’d, well, always been deprived of male attention (since you were hyper focused on academics instead. Those men won’t bring you scholarships, but your GPA will!), or the fact that you had seen him multiple times in the past weeks without feeling the urge to rip his head off, or maybe you actually were ovulating, you hadn’t checked your cycle on your period tracking app yet but it was likely—

You had been doing your best to ignore it, to ignore him, but Gojo had a way of making his presence known. Even when he wasn’t doing anything, you were now even more hyper aware of him—the occasional shift of his chair, the absentminded tapping of his pen against the desk, the quiet sighs of boredom that you knew were dramatic. And then, just as you were finally starting to concentrate, you felt it. A presence leaning in behind you, the faintest brush of breath against your ear.

“Sweets,” Gojo whispered, his voice low, teasing.

Your whole body went rigid. “What,” you hissed, barely moving your lips, keeping your eyes trained on the professor at the front of the room.

“There’s a fatal flaw in this lecture,” he murmured, his voice laced with amusement. You refused to turn around. “Gojo, I swear—”

“I mean, really,” he continued, like you hadn’t spoken, “how can they expect us to focus on physics when you’re sitting right in front of me?” Your grip on your pen tightened. Your face was definitely heating up. Slowly, finally, you turned your head just enough to glare at him. “Are you seriously flirting with me in the middle of a lecture on fluid dynamics?”

Gojo grinned, chin resting on his palm, looking utterly unrepentant. “I’m not flirting. I’m just… y’know… testing like behaviourism, or whatever.”

You inhaled sharply, willing yourself not to react. Noticing your silence, his smirk grew.

“Or,” he whispered, tilting his head, “is the idea of me flirting with you not so bad?” Your brain short-circuited for half a second. Then you turned back around, focusing very hard on your notes, pretending you hadn’t heard him, pretending your heart wasn’t doing something very annoying in your chest. Behind you, Gojo chuckled softly, and you could feel his smirk.

You hated him. You hated him. Nah, you didn’t.  You just… now mildly disliked him.

–

By the time the physics final rolled around, your life had been reduced to a frantic cycle of cramming formulas, flipping through notes, and barely surviving on caffeine. The psychology project with Gojo had taken up way more time than you expected—not just because of the work itself, but because of him. His constant presence, his insufferable teasing, the way he somehow made long study sessions more bearable with his antics. It was irritatingly easy to fall into a rhythm with him, and by the time you’d turned in your joint paper, you were too mentally exhausted to even think about anything else. Which was probably why you forgot about book five. When you finally let yourself have a break, that you found it tucked away in your bag.

The sight of it sent a flicker of guilt through your chest—you’d been so eager to read it, and then you just… hadn’t. You curled up by the window, the campus café bustling quietly in the background, warm drink in hand as you flipped open the book. This one was slightly smaller than the other ones in terms of length– you’d be able to finish it in an hour or so. The familiarity of the prose was comforting, like stepping back into a world you knew well. And then, right beside a passage about finding comfort in the little things—the warmth of a cup of tea, the quiet joy of returning to a familiar book—was an annotation.

Hope anyone who ever reads this is reading this with a warm drink. Tea, in my opinion, is the best kind of beverage to drink while reading a book series like this.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Okay. That was… oddly specific.

A chill—not unpleasant, but strange—crept up your spine. It wasn’t just the words themselves, but the fact that G.S. knew this about you. It was as if they’d noticed your habit of your love of tea. But it was probably a coincidence. I mean, tea is enjoyed by millions of people in the world, right? You exhaled slowly, shaking the feeling off as you flipped a few more pages. The wittiness of the quips grew, and you eagerly read through each one with heightened interest. In about forty five minutes, you had managed to finish the fifth book with ease. Since you had some free time to spare, you started on the second last book.

The first note you came across was pure sarcasm, scrawled beside a particularly dramatic inner monologue from the protagonist.

Relax, you’re not in a soap opera.

And a few pages later: Actually, never mind, maybe you are.

You huffed a quiet laugh, rolling your eyes. The teasing was familiar, familiar enough to imbue a sense of relaxation in you. The annotations drew you in, the ink curling across the margins like whispered thoughts meant just for you. It was easy to imagine G.S. sitting beside you, their presence warm and familiar, flipping through the pages with quiet amusement. Someone who knew exactly which passages would make you pause, who understood the way certain lines lingered in your mind long after you’d read them.

Your fingers traced over the words they had left behind, and for a moment, you let yourself daydream. You imagined meeting them—G.S., whoever they were. The two of you sitting in some hidden corner of a library, books stacked high around you, the world outside fading away. Maybe their voice was soft, thoughtful, the kind that made you want to lean in a little closer. Maybe they smiled when you argued about a particular passage, when you pointed out something they’d written in the margins.

Maybe they would look at you like you were something worth understanding.

The thought sent a strange warmth curling through your chest. It was silly, this little fantasy, but you let yourself indulge in it anyway. And that was when your brain betrayed you.

For a brief, horrifying moment, the faceless idea of G.S. wasn’t faceless anymore. The image of Gojo flashed into your mind, unbidden and unwanted. But it wasn’t just him reading beside you, wasn’t just him scrawling out these notes with his long, annoyingly pretty fingers.

It was him kissing you.

Gojo’s lips brushing against yours, lazy and confident, like it was the most natural thing in the world. His hand sliding up your spine, the heat of him pressing against you, that teasing voice of his murmuring something you wouldn’t quite catch—

Your entire body froze.

No.

No, no, no.

You tried to shake it off, tried to focus on the book in front of you, but the words blurred together, unreadable. Your mind was stuck, caught on the vividness of the thought that had just invaded it.

Gojo.

Not just Gojo sitting across from you, running his mouth like he always did. Not just Gojo tossing a wadded-up paper at your head or poking at the end of your pen when you were trying to write. No—your brain had conjured up something else entirely. Gojo leaning in too close, his breath warm against your lips. The weight of his hand pressing into the small of your back, fingertips splayed across your lower back, your waist, your sides. The slow, unhurried way he would kiss you—because of course he’d be like that, because he was always so damn self-assured. Because he never did anything halfway.

And worse—worse—you could almost hear him. That stupid teasing voice, low and amused, murmuring something between kisses, something only meant for you. Your fingers twitched, and you slammed the book shut.

No. Nope. Not happening.

Your pulse was erratic, your skin burning like you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t. You blinked rapidly, as if that alone could erase the thought from existence, but the sensation lingered, the imagined heat of him refusing to dissipate. It was just stress. That’s all it was. You were exhausted, overworked, and had spent way too much time in Gojo’s orbit lately. Of course your brain was short-circuiting. You exhaled sharply, forcing yourself to reopen the book. Back to reality. Back to G.S. 

Back to anything that wasn’t Gojo Satoru and the absurd, fleeting idea of what kissing him might feel like.

–

Gojo’s deep voice cut through your thoughts, pulling you back into the present as he tapped the end of his pen against the open physics textbook in front of you both.

“And then—are you even listening to me?” You blinked, realizing you’d been zoning out. “Yeah—yeah,” you mumbled, scrambling for something relevant to say. “Professor Takeda can be an ass sometimes, even if he’s awesome at teaching.” Gojo grinned, apparently satisfied with your response, and continued yapping as he absentmindedly worked through some small equations on the paper in front of you both. His handwriting was quick and fluid, annoyingly neat for someone who acted like he never took anything seriously.

You didn’t quite know how it had happened, but after the two of you had finally submitted the psychology project, something between you shifted. It wasn’t spoken aloud, wasn’t even acknowledged outright, but it was there—an unspoken understanding. You still bickered, still argued over trivial things, but there was something else now too. A companionship. A quiet, reluctant camaraderie that neither of you had actively sought out but somehow settled into with surprising ease. And now, you were in the library with him, ironically revising for the upcoming physics final, less than a week away. You weren’t sure when he had become your unofficial study partner, but here he was, scribbling down formulas as he complained about Takeda’s obsession with fluid dynamics.

“You’re still struggling with Bernoulli’s principle?” you teased, shifting your chair slightly to get a better look at his notes. 

“Struggling is a strong word,” he said, twirling his pen between his fingers. “I prefer ‘strategically choosing to ignore it until I absolutely have to care.’”

You scoffed, but before you could argue, your eyes landed on the book beside your bag—the sixth book in the series you’d been slowly working through, the second-to-last one before the finale. You had completely forgotten about it. You were pretty sure you had hit the maximum borrowing period, and at this rate, you were lucky the library hadn’t sent you an overdue notice.

“I need to go return this,” you muttered, grabbing the book and standing up.

Gojo glanced at it, tilting his head slightly. “That again?”

You blinked at him. “What?”

“That series,” he clarified, nodding towards the book in your hand. “You’ve been reading it forever. What’s the deal?” You hesitated for a moment, not really sure why you felt the sudden urge to explain, but then the words slipped out before you could stop them.

“I… I don’t know. It’s comforting, I guess,” you admitted. “It’s one of those series that just sticks with you, you know? And it’s not just the story—it’s the annotations.”

Gojo raised an eyebrow. “Annotations?”

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other. “Yeah. Someone else read these books before me, and they wrote all these little notes in the margins. Some of them are funny, some are insightful, some are just straight-up teasing—but they make the whole experience feel… shared, I guess.” For once, Gojo didn’t say anything. He just listened, head tilted, watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite decipher.

You coughed, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Anyway, I should go return this.” You turned before he could say anything else and made your way to the library’s return section—only to find the drop-off shelves completely blocked off with construction tape. A small sign informed students that book returns had to be made manually at the front desk. With a sigh, you made your way to the librarian’s desk. She smiled at you as you set the book down.

“Returning this?” she asked, flipping open the cover to check the borrowing card.

“Yeah,” you said, nodding. She hummed, scanning the barcode. “You know, someone else borrowed this whole series a while back.”

No way.

No way, no way, no way.

Is this how you were going to finally find out who the faceless stranger you had grown attached to was? Your heart skipped a beat. You forced yourself to keep your voice casual. 

“Oh? Can you recall who?” 

She paused, tapping her chin as if trying to recall. “Give me a moment dear. He’s a male…about the same age as you, actually. Well I think he might be the same age as you. Hmm, he was tall, quite tall, had this head of brilliant white hair, and glasses. His eyes were startlingly blue too. I can’t remember his name but you two’d get along, he seemed very interested in these series too!” She chuckled, taking the book from you to store it under one of the accompanying shelves.

Your blood ran cold.

She continued, oblivious to your internal panic. “Had this little keychain on his bag too. It tinkled a lot when he came in to borrow the books.” Your mind flashed back to the small jingling sound of Gojo’s keychain— a digimon one. The one that always made a tiny noise whenever he slung his bag over his shoulder. Oh my god.

Your grip tightened on the desk. “Right. Thanks.”

Somehow, miraculously, you managed to return the book without your hands shaking. But the moment you turned away, the weight of the realization slammed into you like a tidal wave. Your breath hitched, your vision tunneled slightly, and for a second, you weren’t sure if your legs would carry you back to the table.

Gojo.

Gojo was G.S.

The knowledge settled in your bones with a dizzying clarity, making the library around you feel unreal, like you were wading through a dream you couldn’t wake up from. The notes, the teasing comments, the underlined passages—it had all been him. The same Gojo Satoru who drove you insane with his arrogance, who somehow wormed his way into your study sessions, who made physics revision bearable with his endless chatter. And he had never said a word about it. By the time you reached the table, your emotions were tangled beyond recognition—embarrassment, frustration, something dangerously close to hurt. You dropped into your seat, a little too forcefully, the noise drawing his attention.

Gojo barely glanced up from his notes. “You okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

You swallowed, pulse thrumming against your ribs. Your fingers curled into fists against your lap. You felt like you were standing on the edge of something sharp, something that could cut you open if you weren’t careful.

“It’s you,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

He finally met your gaze, his pen stilling against the page. For a second—just a second—there was nothing but blankness in his expression, as if he truly didn’t understand what you meant. But then, recognition flickered in those bright, unreadable eyes. And slowly, like he had been waiting for this exact moment, he grinned.

“Took you long enough.”

A sharp breath escaped you, like the wind had been knocked from your lungs. Something twisted in your chest. He knew. He had known. You exhaled shakily, trying to hold onto your composure, but your voice wavered when you spoke again. “You—” You swallowed hard. “You knew it was me reading those books, and you just—”

He didn’t deny it. Didn’t even try. You hated the way he was looking at you, like this was funny, like this was just some game he had been playing all along. Like he had been waiting for you to connect the dots, to put the pieces together while he sat back and watched. Something inside you cracked.

“You were just messing with me.” The words came out quiet, but there was something raw beneath them, something unsteady. “That’s what this was, right? Just another one of your games?”

For the first time, his smirk faltered.

“That’s not—”

But you didn’t let him finish.

You stood up too fast, your chair scraping loudly against the floor. A few heads turned, students shooting you mildly annoyed glances, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. You felt like the library was closing in around you, like you needed to get out before you drowned under the weight of it all.

“Forget it,” you muttered, voice tight. You grabbed your bag, barely able to look at him. “I’ll see you in class.” And before he could stop you—before he could say something that might make you stay—you turned on your heel and walked out of the library. Your pulse roared in your ears, your face burned with humiliation, and your heart—God, your heart was a tangled, aching mess you weren’t ready to unravel yet.

–

You didn’t talk to Gojo for three days. Not once. Not in class, not in the library, not even in passing. If he was in a group conversation, you found an excuse to leave. If he tried to sit next to you, you conveniently needed to be somewhere else. And if you caught even a glimpse of him from across campus, you turned in the opposite direction before he could call your name. It wasn’t out of pettiness. At least, you didn’t think so.

You were hurt.

The weight of it had settled deep in your chest, a slow, heavy ache that didn’t fade no matter how much you tried to distract yourself. You felt stupid, looking back at all those late nights spent tracing the loops of G.S.’s handwriting, at the way you had let yourself get caught up in the fantasy of someone—someone you thought understood you. Someone who had felt just as deeply about those books as you had. And the whole time, it had been him.

Had he just been laughing at you? Watching you get wrapped up in his words, in him, while he sat back and waited for you to figure it out? Had it all just been some kind of joke? You didn’t know what answer would hurt more. Gojo, however, wasn’t making your avoidance easy.

He noticed, of course. The first day, he seemed ashamed. You saw it in the way he frowned when you brushed past him after class, in the way his gaze lingered when you sat on the opposite end of the library instead of your usual table.

The second day, he got annoyed.

“Are you serious right now?” he had muttered when you blatantly ignored him outside the lecture hall, your fingers tightening around your books as you sped up. By the third day, his frustration had given way to something else—something quieter, something bordering on concern.

He caught your wrist as you passed him in the hallway that morning, his grip loose enough for you to pull away if you wanted.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “Are we—?” He hesitated. “Did I—?”

You looked at him then, really looked at him, and for the first time in years, you saw it—uncertainty.

Gojo Satoru was scared. But you weren’t ready to talk. Not yet. So you shook him off and kept walking.

He let you go. For the rest of the day, you tried to pretend like it didn’t feel like a mistake. That night, unable to sleep, you reached for the last book in the series—the one you had borrowed before you found out. You had been meaning to return it. The thought of flipping through those pages again felt wrong after everything that had happened. But something about the weight of it in your hands made you pause. Before you could talk yourself out of it, you curled up in bed and opened to the first page.

And read.

At first, it was mechanical. You skimmed. Skipped paragraphs. Let your eyes pass over the words without really taking them in. But then—somewhere along the way—you found yourself slowing down. The story was familiar, but it felt different now. The annotations were there, just like before. The same small, thoughtful notes in the margins. The same underlined passages, the same occasional sarcastic remark scribbled beside overly dramatic monologues.

And it still felt intimate.

Your chest ached. Gojo’s handwriting had always been a little messy, but now, you could hear his voice in it. The playful quips, the teasing corrections, the occasional rambling thoughts that trailed off mid-sentence. He hadn’t just read these books. He had shared them. With you. But it wasn’t until you reached the end of the book that you froze.

A note, scrawled beneath a passage about missed chances. About how sometimes, you don’t realise what someone means to you until it’s too late.

To whoever is reading this, I… really hope that this never applies to you. 

And then, right underneath it, you spot a small sentence. Your eyes narrow as you lean in, catching the faint blue ink beneath the initials G.S., nearly lost beneath the hurried strike-through. It’s messy, almost like he had written it in a rush, then panicked and scratched it out before anyone could see. The ink is slightly smudged, the letters not quite as crisp as they should be. But you can still read it.

T̶o̶ y̶o̶u̶, I̶ h̶o̶p̶e̶ I̶ d̶o̶n̶’̶t̶ m̶i̶s̶s̶ t̶h̶e̶ c̶h̶a̶n̶c̶e̶ t̶o̶ t̶e̶l̶l̶ y̶o̶u̶ h̶o̶w̶ m̶u̶c̶h̶ I̶ r̶e̶a̶l̶l̶y̶, r̶e̶a̶l̶l̶y̶ l̶i̶k̶e̶ y̶o̶u̶.

Your breath catches. The frustration twisting in your chest falters, cracking under the weight of what you’re seeing. This wasn’t just about G.S. This wasn’t just about some stupid rivalry, some elaborate, long-running inside joke only he was in on. He had liked you.

All along.

The truth of it presses against your ribs, turning your anger into something else—something hot and unbearable and aching. Because of course Gojo Satoru wouldn’t have just let you take that book without noticing. Of course he wouldn’t have just been some faceless mystery behind the initials. He had been right there, all this time. Watching. Waiting. Never saying a damn thing. You press your lips together, gripping the book tighter, torn between wanting to shove it in his stupidly smug face and the overwhelming realization that this—this whole thing—had never been a game to him.

Not really. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the page, heart pounding. You should be mad. You are mad.

But now? Now you don’t know what to do with the way your chest is clenching, your stomach twisting, the words replaying in your head over and over again. He really, really liked you. And he had been too much of an idiot to say it.

It wasn’t just a game. It never had been. Your fingers curled around the edge of the page, heart hammering against your ribs. And in that moment, without a second thought—

You didn’t hesitate.

You barely registered slipping on your shoes, grabbing your jacket, heading across campus toward the dormitories. Your pulse roared in your ears as you climbed the stairs, the weight of the book heavy in your bag. You remembered the way he’d joked about it once—how it was almost too easy to find his dorm because the boys’ rooms were stacked directly above the girls’.

("It’s like fate, babe," he’d drawled, slinging an arm over your shoulders. "You’re literally sleeping right below me."

"Don’t say it like that," you’d deadpanned, shoving him off.

He’d only grinned, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "What? It’s true. If you ever get lonely, just know I’m right there—" he pointed up dramatically "—in room sixty-nine."

You’d groaned at that. "Of course it’s sixty-nine."

"Oh, absolutely." His smirk had been positively insufferable. "The universe practically insisted on it.”)

And now, here you were. Standing in front of his stupid door, his stupid room number glaring at you, mocking you, reminding you of how easily he had wormed his way into your life. You knocked. There was a pause. Then—footsteps. The door cracked open, and Gojo blinked down at you, disheveled, his glasses slightly askew. He was in a hoodie and sweatpants, and for once, he looked genuinely caught off guard.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he whispered sharply. “What if the dean catches you? It’s past curfew.”

You ignored him. “Explain.”

Gojo stared at you. Then, with a sigh, he opened the door wider and let you in. His dorm was surprisingly neat, save for a few open textbooks on his desk. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling before leaning against the edge of his bed.

“You want an explanation?” Gojo muttered, rubbing his temple as if trying to collect his thoughts. His voice was uncharacteristically hoarse, lacking its usual teasing lilt. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before meeting your gaze.

“Fine.”

And then—something shifted in his expression. That raw, unguarded look returned, cracking through the facade of the cocky, untouchable Gojo Satoru.

“I liked you this entire time.”

Your breath caught. His words were quiet, but they landed like a stone in your chest, sending ripples through every assumption you had made about the past few months. No—longer than that. Yes, you had gathered from that scribbled annotation that he had liked you, but hearing it was different from reading it. The weight of what he was saying pressed down on you, curling around your ribs, making it hard to breathe. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His gaze flickered away for a second, like he was considering taking it back, like he was still terrified of saying it out loud. But then, with a short breath, he pressed forward.

“I—” He licked his lips, shaking his head slightly. “When I overheard you talking about the books, about G.S., I thought… I don’t know. At first, it was funny.” He let out a weak laugh, but there was no humor in it. “You, of all people, getting caught up in my annotations.”

A pang of hurt flared in your chest at that, but Gojo’s face twisted almost immediately, like he regretted saying it that way.

“I don’t mean it like that,” he murmured. “I just mean—” He sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “You always had this way of looking at me, like you had me all figured out. Like you already knew what kind of person I was. And I guess… part of me thought it was funny that I got to be something different in your head for once.”

Your fingers curled at your sides. You weren’t sure how to respond to that, but Gojo wasn’t done. His fingers flexed at his sides, like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. His eyes darted back to you, searching, waiting for you to interrupt, to tell him he was ridiculous. When you didn’t, he exhaled sharply through his nose, like he was bracing himself.

“But it wasn’t just the books,” he admitted, voice quieter now. “It wasn’t just some joke to me.” His lips pressed together for a moment before he continued. “Because the truth is, I—” He hesitated, then finally met your eyes again, his own brimming with something raw and unguarded. “I’ve liked you since freshman year.”

The air between you shifted. Your fingers curled at your sides as his confession settled in. You wanted to say something—anything—but all you could do was stare at him, pulse pounding in your ears.

He let out a breathy chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Long time, huh?” His voice was softer now, tinged with something almost self-conscious. “It sounds stupid when I say it out loud. But I did. I do.”

Your mouth felt dry. “Since freshman year?”

His lips twitched, like he wasn’t sure if he should smile. “Yeah.”

Your mind reeled. Freshman year. That meant before the rivalry, before the teasing had turned sharp, before you had convinced yourself that he was just some cocky, insufferable show-off who loved to push your buttons. Before you had started believing he only saw you as an opponent to one-up. Gojo sighed, dropping his head back slightly, staring at the ceiling for a moment before looking back at you. “You remember that first day of class?”

You blinked. “Where we had to introduce each other to the class?”

He nodded. “You were wearing that stupid oversized sweater that practically swallowed you, and you kept tugging at the sleeves like you wanted to disappear. I just– at first I thought you were just so cute” His lips quirked slightly at the memory. “And then you opened your mouth when we argued for the first time in class– remember? When you answered that question on vector components and I poked fun at you or something, and when you responded back to me, you had this… fire in you. You wouldn’t let me get a single word in edgewise, like you had something to prove.”

His expression softened, something unbearably fond flickering in his gaze. “And I just remember thinking—shit.”

Your breath hitched.

“I wasn’t supposed to like you,” he murmured, like it was a confession he had never meant to say out loud. “But I did. And when we started arguing all the time, when it turned into this whole thing between us, I thought—fine. If I couldn’t have you the way I wanted, then I’d settle for getting under your skin.” He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “And trust me, I tried to stop thinking about it. About you. But I couldn’t. And then you started borrowing those books, and it was like—” He exhaled sharply, like he didn’t even know how to put it into words. You swallowed hard, heart hammering. 

All this time.

Every argument, every smug grin, every lingering glance across the room—he had liked you this entire time.

“But then you kept reading them.” His voice had softened, like he was talking to himself now as much as to you. “You kept flipping through those pages, talking about how much you liked G.S– and god, who am I to deny you when you speak like that? When you speak like that about my thoughts, my feelings, spilled onto the pages of those stupid books? And suddenly, I was waiting for you to borrow the next book. Waiting to see which parts you’d pause on, which annotations you’d react to. Waiting to hear what you’d say about G.S. So I–”

He exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around the fabric of his hoodie.

“– I borrowed the remaining four books or so. I annotated every last one of them, annotated them so maybe, maybe I’d get to hear that gorgeous voice of yours talking about it in class again. I’d get to see that giddy smile when you’d refer to me as your Seiji Amasawa again. As your G.S. And honestly, it was worth the entirety of the long night I spent, just so I’d see you fucking smile throughout the day and snap less at me because G.S. wrote something that made you think he was similar to you– because in reality, with the way you viewed me– entirely my fault by the way– it would never be possible.” He took a deep breath after saying that.

“And I realised—” He paused, just for a second, like he needed to steady himself. “I liked it. I liked you. Not that I didn’t already like you, but— but I was falling. Like really deep.”

Something inside you twisted painfully. Your lips parted, but you couldn’t force out a response. You had spent the past three days agonizing over the idea that he had been toying with you, that this had all been some elaborate joke, but this—this was different. This was Gojo Satoru, stripped of his usual bravado, laying his feelings bare in a way that felt like it might physically hurt him.

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Gojo let out a sharp, humorless laugh. He looked away, shaking his head as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Because I’m an idiot?” he said dryly. Then, quieter, “Because I’m Gojo Satoru, and I figured you’d never take me seriously?”

Your chest tightened at that.

Before you could process that, he spoke again.

“I know I was arrogant. I know I still am arrogant,” he muttered, his lips curling bitterly. “I push too hard. I’m too much. I act like I know everything, and maybe I do most of the time, but—” He swallowed thickly. “Those annotations… they were the only time you ever saw me.” His voice had dropped lower now, almost vulnerable, and something about it made your pulse stutter.

“Not the dumbass you argue with in class. Not the rich kid with the perfect grades. Not the guy who has to prove he’s the smartest person in the room.” He let out a slow breath. “Just… me.” 

The silence between you stretched, thick and charged.

Gojo’s hands clenched at his sides, his knuckles going white. He looked like he was bracing for impact, like he had just thrown every last piece of himself at your feet and was waiting to see if you’d step on them. Your fingers trembled slightly as you reached for him.

Then—

You stepped forward. Gojo stilled the moment your fingers brushed against his hoodie, his breath catching in his throat. He stood up, towering over you, an unfamiliar glint in his cerulean eyes. You hesitated, your fingertips barely grazing the fabric before curling into it, fisting it lightly like you needed something solid to hold onto. His whole body went tense under your touch, his usual easy confidence absent now, replaced with something far more uncertain—far more vulnerable.

“You really are an idiot,” you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath against the space between you. His lips twitched, like he wanted to smirk, wanted to tease, wanted to be Gojo—but he didn’t. Instead, he just let out a shaky breath. “Yeah?”

You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening against his hoodie. “Yeah.” 

The word hung in the air between you, weighty and full of something neither of you had the strength to name. And then—before you could second-guess yourself, before doubt could creep in—you surged up onto your toes and kissed him. Gojo made a startled sound against your lips, his whole body going rigid for half a second, like he couldn’t quite believe what was happening. But then—slowly, desperately—he melted into it. His hands found your face, cupping it with a tenderness that made your heart twist. His palms were warm, his grip firm, like he was terrified you’d slip away, like he needed you to know this wasn’t a joke to him. That it had never been. He kissed you like a man making up for lost time—deep, searching, like he had been waiting for this moment far longer than even you had realized. When he tilted his head, his lips pressing more firmly against yours, you felt it—all of it.

Every unspoken word. Every missed chance. Every moment that had teetered on the edge of this but never quite fallen. His fingers slid into your hair, his thumb brushing softly against your cheek, like he was memorising the way you felt beneath him. Your heart was a wild, unsteady thing in your chest, thundering against your ribs as you pressed yourself closer, your hands sliding up from his hoodie to clutch at his shoulders. Gojo let out a quiet, almost desperate sigh against your lips, like he had been holding back for so long that finally getting to kiss you was unraveling him.

And maybe it was.

Because as much as you had spent the past few days convincing yourself that this had all been a game to him, this—the way he was holding you, the way his fingers trembled just slightly against your skin—told a different story. Gojo Satoru didn’t play games with things that mattered. And you—somehow, impossibly—mattered. When you pulled back, slightly breathless, Gojo just stared at you, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

Then, slowly, he grinned. “So,” he murmured, his thumb tracing your cheek. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t step away. “Don’t push it.” Gojo laughed, bright and real, before pulling you back into his arms.

“God, do you know how beautiful you fuckin’ are? It drives me insane,” he mutters, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine. His breath is warm against your lips before he swoops down, capturing your mouth with his own again, his large hands grounding themselves against your waist as if he’s afraid you might slip away.

You giggle against his lips, trying to push him off, but he refuses to budge. “S-Satoru—wait!” Your protest is muffled, barely audible between the kisses he keeps stealing, his lips soft but insistent against yours. 

He lets out a quiet, needy sound, almost a whimper, his grip tightening on your hips. “Shut up,” he murmurs breathlessly, squeezing lightly at your waist as if that alone will silence you. “Been waiting to kiss this pretty mouth for sooo fuckin’ long… Let me get my fill, yeah?” You barely have time to respond before his tongue swipes across the seam of your lips, coaxing them open. The second you allow him in, he kisses you deeply—desperately—his tongue sliding against yours, tasting, claiming. The soft little noises you make against him seem to spur him on, his fingers pressing firmly into your sides as he tugs you even closer. His legs bump against the edge of the bed, steadying you between his parted thighs, and the world around you fades, leaving only the two of you tangled up in each other.

A surprised squeak leaves your lips when his thumbs slip just beneath your shirt, brushing against your bare skin. His hands are cold, the contrast against your warmth sending a jolt of electricity through you. He laughs—a quiet, smug chuckle—and then the bastard has the audacity to bite your bottom lip in amusement. “Shh,” he teases, lips brushing against yours. “Don’t wanna get caught sneakin’ into my dorm after hours, do you?”

Before you can even process a response, his hands move to the backs of your thighs, gripping firmly as he lifts you off the ground with ease. A gasp leaves your lips, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he manoeuvres you to the bed. He turns smoothly, lowering you down onto the mattress before climbing over you, his movements slow, deliberate, eager. And this time, you don’t hesitate. Your hands fist the front of his hoodie, yanking him down in a clumsy rush to kiss him again, your breath mingling with his as your noses bump. His glasses shift slightly from the movement, and with an annoyed huff, he pulls them off, setting them aside carefully before his gaze returns to you—hungry. His mouth is back on yours in an instant, moving with a mixture of urgency and something softer, something deeper. His lips trail from yours to your jaw, to the delicate skin of your neck, to the dip of your collarbone—his hands following the path his lips leave behind, fingers toying with the fabric of your open jacket. He pushes it off your shoulders tentatively, almost testing, waiting for you to stop him.

You don’t.

A pleased hum vibrates against your throat as his confidence grows, his hands sliding over your arms, your waist, memorizing the shape of you beneath him. Your arms wrap around his neck, tugging him impossibly closer, like you could mold yourself against him if you just tried hard enough. The kiss is more than just the heat of the moment. It’s more than just the weeks—months—of built-up tension. It’s the culmination of years of frustration, of stolen glances, of biting words laced with something deeper neither of you had wanted to acknowledge until now.

And maybe, maybe, it’s also the weight of finally realising—fully understanding—that the only person who had ever been able to keep up with you, to challenge you, to drive you absolutely insane, yet make you feel like this… was him. Satoru groans against your skin, nipping at your neck as his hands slip beneath your shirt, his fingers splaying across your waist. But even in the heat of the moment, he’s calculated. His lips map out a path of possessive little marks just below your collarbone—places that can be covered easily. Even now, he’s thinking things through. Your breath hitches when his fingertips skim the skin of your hips again, this time firmer, testing. Your cheeks burn, and the words slip out before you can stop them.

“You can—you can take it off.” 

Satoru goes very, very still. You swear you can feel the exact moment he processes what you’ve just said, the exact moment he realizes that you mean it. His hands tighten slightly against you, his breath coming out a little shakier than before. And for once, for once—he doesn’t have some cocky remark ready to go. Because this? This is real. And for the first time, Gojo Satoru doesn’t want to ruin it with a joke. He gently tugs your shirt up and over your head, eyes eyeing the new expanse of skin that has just been made available to him.

“My gorgeous girl…”

He whispers out, before he’s back to lavishing your skin with attention, paying close attention to your breasts, lips lovingly, reverently moving across your skin with gentleness you hadn’t thought possible by him. You don’t know what possesses you, but something suddenly clicks and shyly, you unclasp your bra, leaving your entire upper half bare, making Satoru’s breath hitch. And then, in a moment that takes you completely by surprise, he does something that makes your heart both melt and swell—if that was even possible.

Because instead of his usual teasing, instead of his cocky grin or some flirtatious remark that would make you roll your eyes, Satoru simply looks at you. Really looks at you. His intense blue eyes don’t dart downward like you half-expected, don’t darken with some unchecked hunger. Instead, they stay locked onto yours, unwavering, all traces of playfulness and impulsive need fading away. What replaces them is something quieter—something gentler. A tenderness that makes your breath catch, your chest tighten. 

Satoru, who always had a joke ready. Satoru, who always teased and never took anything too seriously. Satoru, who could have had anyone but had spent years bothering you instead—staring at you now like you were something fragile, something precious, something he wasn’t sure he deserved to touch. His throat bobs as he swallows, and then, carefully, softly, he speaks.

“Are you sure you wanna… do this?” His voice is quieter now, laced with something that sounds an awful lot like uncertainty. Like he’s terrified of ruining whatever this is. “I’m not—pressuring you or anything, am I?” His fingers twitch slightly at his sides before he hesitantly lifts a hand, reaching out toward you—not to pull you in, not to take what you’ve offered, but to tuck a few strands of your hair away from your face. His touch is featherlight, barely there, but it sends warmth spreading across your skin.

“I just—” He exhales, gaze flickering between your eyes, searching, as if trying to read your thoughts. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to. If me kissing you made you think you needed to… y’know, do anything more—then I’m sorry.” The words leave his lips like a confession, like the idea of you feeling obligated to be with him hurts him. And that—that simple fact—makes something inside you ache. Because Gojo Satoru, for all his arrogance, for all his relentless teasing and larger-than-life presence, was standing before you now with uncertainty in his eyes. Not because he didn’t want this—God, did he want this—but because he needed to be sure that you did too. For a moment, you just stare at him, your heart pounding so hard you can feel it in your fingertips.

Because this isn’t how you thought this moment would go. Not with him—not with Gojo Satoru. You had braced yourself for teasing, for him to say something infuriatingly smug, to grin like he had won some long-fought battle. But instead, he was looking at you with quiet hesitation, with care. With something that felt like love. Your throat tightens.

“Satoru.” His name– his first name, not Gojo– leaves your lips in a breath, barely above a whisper. His hands—so sure and confident only moments ago—remain frozen where they rest against your sides, like he’s afraid that if he moves, you’ll change your mind.

“I want this,” you say, and you make sure there is no room for doubt in your voice. Your fingers curl around the fabric of his hoodie, grounding yourself in the feel of him. “I’m not saying it just because you kissed me, or because I think I have to. I want this.” His lips part slightly, but no words come out. His grip on you tightens just a fraction, like he’s trying to make sure you’re real.

You take a breath, steadying yourself, because you need him to understand—really understand. 

“I’ve wanted this for longer than I want to admit,” you confess, a nervous laugh bubbling up in your throat. Your fingers flex where they rest against his chest, feeling the steady thud-thud-thud of his heart beneath your palm. He’s warm, impossibly so, like he’s radiating heat just for you. “And it scares me, Satoru. You scare me.” His brows furrow, the corners of his mouth dipping slightly downward. “Scare you?”

You nod. “Because you make me feel things I don’t know how to deal with. You drive me crazy. You make me want to strangle you half the time, and the other half I—” Your voice catches, and you swallow thickly before continuing. “I want to be near you. I want you to look at me the way you’re looking at me right now.” His hands slowly slide up your sides, not rushing, not pushing—just holding. His thumbs brush against your ribs, barely ghosting under the underside of your chest, but even that light touch sends a shiver up your spine.

“You have to know this isn’t just some impulsive decision for me,” you tell him, voice softer now, filled with something you can’t quite name. “I don’t do things just because they’re convenient, or easy, or expected. I do them because I choose to.” You reach up, cupping his face between your hands, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your palms. His breath stutters when you stroke your thumb over his cheekbone, and for the first time since you’ve known him, he looks completely lost. “I’m choosing you,” you whisper, staring straight into those brilliant blue eyes. “Not because you kissed me. Not because of some annotations in a book. But because I want you, Satoru. I want this.”

A shaky exhale leaves his lips, and for a second, you swear he stops breathing altogether. His grip on you tightens just enough for you to feel it, his fingers pressing into your waist like he’s holding himself back. Then, slowly, so slowly, he leans in, forehead resting against yours. His breath is warm against your lips when he speaks.

“You can’t take that back now, y’know,” he murmurs, his voice low and almost reverent.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

In a flurry of kissing and movement, his hands roamed over your breasts, fingers pressing and kneading with a slow, deliberate touch that sent shivers down your spine. Every brush of his palm left a burning trail in its wake, making you arch into him, craving more—needing more. His lips never left yours for long, only breaking away to breathe, to murmur your name against your mouth like a prayer, before diving back in, desperate to claim every inch of you. Your own hands found their way under his hoodie, fingertips exploring the firm ridges and planes of muscle beneath. He was all taut sinew and warmth, his body solid beneath your touch, the faintest tremble betraying just how much he wanted this too. Heat pooled in your lower belly, a slow and delicious ache, as you pressed your palms flat against his stomach, feeling the way his muscles flexed under your touch.

And then you felt it—the thin trail of hair below his navel, soft against your fingers, leading downward. Your breath hitched at the realisation, a flush creeping up your face as your hands lingered there, tracing along his happy trail. The sensation made him shudder, his breath stuttering for just a moment before he let out a low, breathy chuckle. “You’re teasing,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rougher now, his grip tightening slightly where he held you.

You shook your head, though your fingers betrayed you, still trailing feather-light touches just above the waistband of his sweats. “Just exploring,” you whispered, emboldened by the way he reacted to your touch, the way his muscles tensed as if he was barely holding himself back. His entire body felt heavier now, weighted with desire as he sucked in a slow breath. His fingers twitched against your sides, like he was restraining himself, before he finally gave in.

With one fluid motion, he pulled his hoodie over his head and tossed it aside, leaving his torso bare. The sight of him knocked the air from your lungs. He was beautiful—lean but strong, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths, skin warm and golden in the dim light. The definition of his abs trailed down to his happy trail, disappearing beneath the waistband of his sweats. There was something intoxicating about seeing him like this, vulnerable yet utterly self-assured, the usual cocky glint in his eyes replaced with something softer, something just for you. You traced your fingers lightly over his stomach, watching the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch. His breath came a little heavier, his hands gripping your waist like he was holding onto the last thread of his restraint.

"You're staring," he teased, though his voice was lower now, rough around the edges.

"Maybe," you admitted, dragging your fingertips just a little lower, reveling in the way his breath hitched. His lips curled into a smirk, but there was a heat in his gaze now, something dark and wanting. “Careful,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “I might start thinking you like what you see.”

Your pulse thrummed wildly, heat licking at your skin as you met his eyes.

“I do.”

He gave you a full-blown grin, the kind that made his eyes crinkle at the corners, his canines glinting in the dim light of his dorm room. It was a look you had seen a hundred times before—mischievous, teasing, effortlessly confident—but now, there was something else underneath it. Something softer. Something real. His hands, warm and slightly rough, hesitated at the waistband of your sweats, fingers grazing the fabric as if waiting for permission. His touch sent a shiver down your spine, anticipation coiling tight in your stomach. But despite the heat in his gaze, despite the way his breath was uneven and his chest rose and fell just a little too fast, he didn’t move forward. Not yet.

“Are you sure?” His voice was lower now, quieter, cutting through the thick silence that had settled between you. His usual bravado was nowhere to be seen—no teasing remark, no cocky smirk. Just Satoru, looking at you like you were something delicate, something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to have. Like he was terrified of doing something wrong, of ruining this moment before it could fully begin. You could feel his hesitation in the way his fingers flexed against your waist, could hear it in the way his voice wavered just slightly, as if he was bracing himself for you to change your mind.

It made your heart ache. You reached up, cupping his face gently, your thumb brushing over his cheek. His skin was warm under your touch, and he leaned into it instinctively, like he couldn’t help himself. His breath hitched, just slightly, and you saw the way his lips parted, the way his lashes fluttered when your fingers traced along his jaw.

“Satoru,” you murmured, voice steady despite the way your heart was hammering against your ribs. His eyes flickered to yours—deep, cerulean, searching.

“I’m sure,” you whispered. “I want this. I want you.” For a moment, he didn’t move, like he was letting the words settle, like he needed to make sure he heard you right. And then—

He exhaled, something tight and heavy leaving his chest, and his hands finally gripped your waist properly, fingers digging in just a little, grounding himself in the reality of the moment.

“God,” he muttered, his forehead pressing against yours, his voice almost shaky. “You have no idea how much I fucking love hearing you say that.”

He gently coaxed you out of your sweatpants, hand finding itself atop your underwear, breath hitching at the dampness that was present. Seems like this fueled his ego a little bit too much, because the next thing you knew, the Satoru you knew was back.

“Dang you’re wet as fuck.”

You gave him a pointed look and he faltered, the smirk on his lips morphing into a grin as he ushered out apologies. Your hands clutched the sheets when his fingers began to gently touch you, your bottom lip caught between your teeth as you eyed his hand with need. You couldn’t stay mad with him for long the way his fingers tugged the flimsy material down and began to work his hand between your legs. He grinned, experimentally probing around, ocean eyes half lidded.

“This is where you’re weak, right?” He murmured sensually, fingers finding your sensitive nub, eyes flickering up to watch your reactions, his pretty pink lips parted open in pleasure as he watched you come apart under him. He was precise with his fingers, circling you, teasing, pinching and rubbing, before thrusting in all the right spots, reaching places your own hand was unable to take you. Before long you had to let out muffled whimpers into his big palm that he had slapped gently across your lips; it covered almost the entirety of the lower half of your face– you were a bit loud. 

Unable to take it anymore, you finally reached your breaking point, squirming underneath him as you came all over his fingers. Your chest was heaving, rising and falling in rapid succession, your breath coming in short, uneven pants as the aftershocks of pleasure rippled through you. Every nerve in your body felt like it had been set alight, over sensitised and trembling in the lingering warmth of his touch. Your skin was flushed, heat radiating from every inch of you, and the room felt impossibly small, like it was holding the weight of everything that had just passed between you. 

Hungry for more, you made quick work of his sweats, sliding them and his boxers down (pokemon boxers but you were too needy to make fun of him for it). Satoru loomed above you, shakily guiding himself to your entrance, pale lashes fluttering as he looked down at you. He was hard– had been hard the moment you two had started kissing, pressing up against you in a needy manner.

“Su–Sure you can take it? Don’t need a break?” He breathed out, referring to the fact that you had practically jumped at the opportunity to take things further right after having an earth shattering orgasm thanks to his lanky fingers.

“So fucking sure– please, Satoru.” You flutter your eyelashes up at him, and he swears he almost comes from the sight. He nods, leaning down to kiss your lips gently, all the while he ushers himself inside you slowly. 

Now you knew he had meant you not being able to take it because you might have been tired after your first orgasm, but now it felt more like he was warning you, because he was long, pressing inside of you deliciously. Once he had buried himself to the hilt, he halted in his tracks, giving you time to adjust. His face was screwed in pleasure, likely trying not to give in the urge to move. After a few minutes, when you deemed the feeling of him inside you as highly pleasurable and not the slight uncomfortableness that you initially felt while being split open in two, you murmured out a small “I’m ready,” and that was all it took for Satoru to start moving.

He kept up a slow, steady yet deep pace, his muscular form looming over yours, and for a moment, all you could do was look at him. The dim light of his dorm cast shadows along the sharp lines of his body, emphasizing the taut muscles in his arms, the sculpted contours of his chest, and the way his abdomen flexed with each controlled movement. His skin was flushed, a faint sheen of sweat glistening over his toned physique, catching the light in a way that made your breath hitch. His broad shoulders framed his lean build perfectly, his biceps taut as he braced himself above you, his fingers curling into the sheets as though restraining himself from losing control entirely.

And then there was his face. Messy white hair fell into his eyes, strands sticking to his damp forehead, and his lips—God, his lips—were parted, slightly swollen from kissing you breathless. His sharp jaw clenched subtly, his throat bobbing with a swallow, and when his gaze flickered down to meet yours, you felt like all the air had been sucked from the room.

His usual cocky grin was nowhere to be found. Instead, his expression was intense—raw, focused entirely on you, like nothing else in the world mattered. His impossibly blue eyes, darkened with something deep and consuming, dragged over your face, your body, drinking you in like you were something precious, something his. “Satoru—” you breathed, voice barely more than a whisper, but it was enough to make him groan, his grip on your waist tightening as he dipped down, pressing his forehead against yours.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice rough, strained. “You have no idea how good you look right now. How good you feel right now.” He moved his hands from your waist, his fingers trailing over your skin as he shifted, bracing his forearms on either side of your head. The new position brought him even closer, his body pressing against yours, heat radiating between you as he continued to move within you. His breath was heavy, mingling with yours, and for a moment, it was all-consuming—the feeling of him, the weight of him, the slow, deep rhythm that sent shivers down your spine. When you had imagined being with Satoru like this, you’d thought it would be… different. You had expected teasing, cockiness, maybe even some ridiculous commentary, because that was just who he was. You thought he’d smirk down at you with that usual self-assured gleam in his eyes, crack some joke between kisses, whisper something infuriating just to make you blush. You had even braced yourself for the possibility of him being downright kinky, because he was Gojo Satoru, and he loved pushing limits.

But this? This was something else entirely.

This wasn’t just cocky flirtation or the result of years of pent-up rivalry and tension—this was intimate. It was raw, real, and so incredibly him, stripped of bravado and playfulness, leaving behind only the man in front of you. The one who had been waiting, wanting. The one who had loved you quietly, even when you didn’t know. His movements were deliberate, his touch reverent, his normally mischievous eyes dark with something softer—something deeper. When he leaned down, his lips ghosting over your cheek before pressing to the corner of your mouth, it wasn’t just a kiss—it was a silent confession. A plea. A promise. His fingers threaded through your hair, brushing over your temple, before trailing down to cup your jaw with aching gentleness. “You okay?” he murmured, voice hushed, almost breathless. You swallowed, overwhelmed by the warmth in his voice, the concern laced into every syllable, and you nodded, reaching up to lace your fingers through the soft strands of his hair. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I just… I didn’t expect this.”

A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He tilted his head slightly, pressing another lingering kiss just beneath your jaw, his breath warm against your skin. “Didn’t expect what?”

“For it to feel like this,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “For you to be like this.”

Satoru stilled for half a second before exhaling softly, lowering himself further so his chest was flush against yours. His nose brushed against yours, lips hovering just out of reach, and when he spoke, his voice was almost fragile. “I don’t think you realise how long I’ve wanted you,” he murmured. “It was never just some passing thing, y’know? It was always you.” Your chest tightened, your fingers gripping his hair just a little harder as his words settled deep within you. The air between you felt electric, charged, as if the weight of every unspoken feeling had finally caught up with you both. He kissed you again—slow, deep, purposeful—and you melted into him, your hands roaming over his bare back, nails lightly dragging along his spine. He let out a shaky breath, his forehead pressing against yours as he moved, his body fitting against yours so perfectly that it made your heart ache. There was no rush, no urgency—only the quiet, lingering touches, the shared breaths, the whispered words against flushed skin. It wasn’t just about desire or need anymore. It was about something much more.

And before long, you were coming again, whispered cries of his name leaving your mouth as you tightened around him– and if he had indulged in the feeling a second longer, he would have finished inside. He splattered on your stomach, hissing at the feeling, pale eyes fluttering shut. After a few seconds of basking in the afterglow, he quickly went into his bathroom, grabbing a warm washcloth to wipe your stomach down. Your breath came in quick, unsteady gasps, each inhale failing to steady the trembling in your limbs. A slow burn lingered beneath your skin, every nerve alight with the remnants of his touch. The air felt thick, pressing in around you, charged with everything that had just transpired. Heat clung to you, pooling in the spaces where his hands had been, leaving you adrift in the aftermath.

Your fingers curled into the sheets beneath you, gripping them like an anchor, like you needed something to steady yourself against the dizzying sensation still coursing through your veins. A shuddering breath escaped your lips, and you swore you could still feel the phantom imprint of his hands on your skin, the way they had mapped out every inch of you with a reverence that made your chest ache. Satoru was watching you.

You could feel his gaze—heavy, intense, something unreadable flickering behind those endless blue eyes. His hands hadn’t left your body entirely, his fingertips still resting against your hips, warm and grounding. There was something in his expression that made your breath catch—a mixture of awe and something softer, something tender. Like he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened, like he was committing every second of this moment to memory. He swallowed, his own breathing uneven, before he leaned down, pressing a kiss to your shoulder—slow, lingering, like he just needed to feel you. His lips brushed over your skin again, trailing up toward your jaw, soft and unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world.

–

​​The room was bathed in the dim glow of his bedside lamp, casting long shadows across tangled sheets and discarded clothes. Your body still hummed from the aftermath, warmth pooling in your limbs as you lay half-draped over Satoru, your cheek pressed against his bare chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear, grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected. For a while, neither of you spoke. His fingers idly traced shapes along your spine, the touch featherlight and absentminded, while his other hand rested lazily on your hip, holding you close. You could still feel the heat radiating from his skin, the aftershocks of everything you had just done settling between you in the form of comfortable silence.

It was intimate, more than anything. More than the way he had touched you, more than the way he had moved inside you—this moment, the stillness, the way he exhaled softly like he was content, was what made your chest tighten.

Then, of course, he ruined it.

“So,” he drawled, breaking the peaceful quiet. “Would it be weird if I rated that experience a solid twelve out of ten?” You groaned, weakly smacking his chest, but he only laughed, the vibrations rumbling beneath your palm. “Oh my God, Satoru—”

“I mean, I am the strongest,” he continued, completely undeterred, stretching one arm lazily above his head. “So it makes sense that I’d be great in every department.”

“You have got to be kidding me.” 

He grinned, tilting his head to peer down at you. His hair was a mess, white strands sticking out in different directions, and his lips were still kiss-bitten, smugness radiating off of him in waves. “Oh, don’t worry, sweets, I’d never joke about my performance in bed—”

You smacked him again, this time harder, and he let out a dramatic oof, clutching his chest like you’d wounded him.

“You were being so sweet just a second ago,” you muttered, pouting as you nestled closer against him. “Why do you have to ruin it?” Satoru chuckled, his arms wrapping securely around you as he pulled the blanket over both of you. “C’mon, you wouldn’t want me any other way.”

You sighed, exasperated, but deep down, you knew he was right. He shifted slightly, rolling onto his side so he could face you properly, one long leg tangling with yours. His hand came up to brush a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch softer than you expected after all his teasing.

“…Was it really okay?” he asked, voice quieter this time. Almost hesitant. Your heart ached at the sincerity laced in his words, the way he was still Satoru, even after everything. Still checking in. Still making sure. You smiled, cupping his face in your hands as you pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. “It was perfect.”

A slow, almost shy smile spread across his face, and for a moment, the cockiness was gone, replaced by something softer. Something real.

Then, of course—

“Perfect, huh? So you are saying I’m the best you’ve ever had—”

“GOJO SATORU, I SWEAR TO—”

His laughter rang out through the dorm, loud and unfiltered, and despite yourself, you couldn’t help but laugh too, the warmth of it curling around your heart. The warmth of his body, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the lazy way his fingers traced along your spine—it was all lulling you into the kind of peace you hadn’t felt in a long time. The teasing had settled into something softer, something quieter, and as sleep tugged at the edges of your consciousness, you thought that maybe, just maybe, you could stay like this forever. Satoru shifted beneath you, his hand sliding from your hip to your waist, pulling you just a little closer. His lips brushed your temple, his breath warm as he murmured, “Hey.”

You hummed in response, not quite opening your eyes. His fingers tapped against your skin, hesitant. “Be my girlfriend.”

That woke you up. Your eyes fluttered open, your head lifting slightly to look at him. “Huh?”

He huffed out a soft laugh, like he couldn’t believe he had actually said it. The Satoru everyone else knew was loud, arrogant, untouchable. But right now, he was just a boy with messy white hair and sleep-heavy eyes, holding you close like he was afraid you might slip away.

“I mean,” he continued, clearing his throat, “we’re already doing all this. And I like you. A lot. So…” He exhaled sharply, his thumb brushing over your waist. “Be my girlfriend.” Your heart clenched at the quiet sincerity in his voice, at the way he was looking at you like you were the only thing that mattered. It wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t just another one of his playful remarks. This was real. A slow smile spread across your lips. “Wow. That was kind of romantic.”

He groaned, tipping his head back against the pillow. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be, sweets.” You giggled, shifting to prop yourself up on one elbow, fingers threading through his hair. “You really like me?”

He turned his head back toward you, his eyes—those striking, endless blues—soft in the dim light. “Yeah,” he said simply. “I really do.” Your chest felt too full, your heart racing faster than it should have been after everything you’d already done tonight. But it wasn’t nerves or fear—it was excitement, warmth, the dizzying rush of knowing Satoru Gojo, of all people, wanted you in a way that wasn’t fleeting.

“Okay,” you whispered, leaning down to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I’ll be your girlfriend.” He grinned instantly, arms wrapping around you as he rolled you onto your back, settling half on top of you with a triumphant look. “Took you long enough to say yes,” he teased, but the relief in his voice gave him away.

You laughed, shaking your head. “I hate you.”

“Liar,” he murmured, kissing you again, slow and deep, like he was trying to seal the moment in time. And maybe he was. Maybe you both were.

—

Getting into a relationship with Gojo Satoru was like being swept into a whirlwind—one that was loud, chaotic, and entirely consuming. Everyone around you had the same reaction when they found out: About time. 

Shoko had rolled her eyes, exhaling smoke from her cigarette as she smirked. “Honestly, I thought you guys were already dating. You’re both just that disgusting.” Nanami had simply given Gojo a long, knowing look before shaking his head, muttering something under his breath about finally. Even Geto—before everything—had grinned, clapping Satoru on the back and saying, “I was starting to think you’d never get your head out of your ass.”

Satoru, naturally, took it all in stride, tossing an arm around your shoulders and grinning like he’d won the lottery. “What can I say? She couldn’t resist me forever.” 

Your life since then had been… a lot. In the best way possible. Because being with Satoru meant being at the center of his world, whether you liked it or not. And he was obsessed with you. Absolutely obsessed. It was the way he always had to be touching you—his hand warm on the small of your back, his fingers playing with yours, his arm slung around your shoulders. It was how he looked at you, like you were the most fascinating thing in existence, eyes always following you, filled with nothing but admiration. It was the teasing—“I get it, babe. I’m super hot, but please let me study for five seconds without you getting distracted by me.”

It was the sweetness—bringing you your favorite snacks when you were stressed, pressing kisses to your temple when he thought you weren’t looking. Intertwining his large hand with yours and placing it in his coat pocket And, well, it was also the other things—

“Satoru, we have a lecture in twenty minutes—”

“Plenty of time, sweetheart. What, you don’t want to study with me?”

“This isn’t studying. You’ve been making out with me for the past ten minutes. And you really do need to stop. What if someone catches you in my dorm?”

“C’mon, I can’t resist you–”

“Sure you can, ‘Toru.”

“But you love me.”

You did. God, you did. And he loved you. He never let you forget it. You’d studied together for your physics final, working hard side by side. Even though Satoru acted like everything came easy to him, he did work for it. And so did you. You spent countless nights pouring over equations, bouncing theories off each other, fighting over who got to use the good highlighters.

And when results day came—

“Oh my God,” you whispered, staring at your score.

100%. Your hands trembled slightly as you clutched the paper, the weight of all those late-night study sessions, the stress, the endless debates with Satoru over formulas and theories—everything culminating in this moment. Pure, unfiltered pride swelled in your chest. Before you could fully process it, a loud whoop filled the air.

“YES! I knew it!”

Suddenly, you were lifted off your feet, spinning in a dizzying circle as Satoru’s wild laughter bubbled over. His strong arms wrapped around you, keeping you pressed to him as he twirled you around the hallway like an overexcited kid. 

“My baby’s the smartest person in the world!” he crowed, not caring about the amused stares from your classmates. “Geniuses bow to you! The world kneels before you! Einstein weeps in his grave—”

You were laughing breathlessly by the time he finally set you down, his hands still firm on your waist as he grinned down at you. Your heart swelled at his excitement. “You did well too, right?”

“Pfft, of course.” He flipped his own paper up dramatically, flashing his score.

99%.

“I mean,” he sighed, shaking his head with mock sorrow, “you totally obliterated me, absolutely wrecked my pride, but it’s fine. Matter of fact, I think it was the fact I didn’t revise Bernoulli’s principle enough that resulted in me getting only 99%-”

In another world where he wasn’t your boyfriend, you would've smirked and gloated about beating him, and he would’ve snapped back with something equally smug. But instead, all you felt was pride—pure, unrestrained pride for him. You threw your arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug. “I’m so proud of you.” Satoru melted into you, his arms encircling your waist as he hummed into your shoulder. “Mmm, say it again. I like hearing that.” You chuckled, pulling back slightly—just enough to see the sheepish grin creeping onto his face.

“Actually…” he started, rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes glinting with something suspicious. You frowned. “What?” He exhaled dramatically. “You’re probably gonna kill me when you hear this.” Your eyes narrowed. “Satoru.”

“Okay, okay—” He raised his hands in surrender, before leaning in like he was telling you a juicy secret. “Technically, I got a 99 on the midterm.” You blinked. “…What?” He grinned. That smug, trouble-making, up-to-no-good grin. “Buuuut you looked so beautiful when you were all happy about your score, so I lied and said I got 95 last minute.”

Your mouth dropped open. “You—WHAT?!” 

Gojo Satoru—the cockiest, most competitive man you knew, the one who never let anyone forget how brilliant he was—had lied about an exam score for you? He burst out laughing at your expression, reaching out to ruffle your hair. “Don’t go feeling all bad about it, sweets. This final weighed more than the midterm, so technically—” he booped your nose, “—you’re better than me.”

You were still reeling, warmth spreading through you as you realised he had lied to see you happy. “You changed your answer for me—”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waved off your shock, smirking. “I’m the best boyfriend in the world. You can say it out loud, babe.” You rolled your eyes, exasperated, before tugging him down into a kiss.

He instantly responded, his grip on your waist tightening, his lips warm and eager against yours. The teasing faded for just a second, replaced by something softer—something real. When you finally pulled back, he looked way too smug.

“…Still smarter than you, though,” you teased, just to knock him down a peg. Satoru gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “Oh, you absolutely crushed my heart and then ate it—”

Before you could react, he suddenly straightened, towering over you with a wicked glint in his eye. His large hands slid around your waist, ushering you closer until your bodies were flush against each other. His voice dropped, suddenly deep and velvety, amusement laced with something more sensual. “Guess you’ll just have to make it up to me in bed, huh?”

You groaned, immediately shoving at his chest. “You’re the worst.”

“Your worst.” He waggled his eyebrows, entirely unashamed. You shoved his face away, laughing as he grinned, easily catching one of your wrists in his hand. Instead of saying anything else, he simply lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a lingering kiss to your wrist, his lips warm against your skin.

–

Later that night, you were curled up in his dorm, forcing him to watch Whisper of the Heart. He had grumbled and groaned, saying he’d already watched it way back in high school and that he "totally got the whole love and dreams thing," but you still made him sit through it. He spent the first twenty minutes sulking, arms wrapped around you from behind, chin resting on your shoulder like a spoiled cat.

“I’m way better than Seiji,” he huffed after a particularly sweet scene. “Like, a million times better.” You snorted. “Jealous of an anime boy, Satoru?”

“I’m just saying,” he drawled, tightening his arms around you. “If I was in this movie, she wouldn’t even look at him.”

“Uh-huh.” You leaned back against his chest, enjoying the warmth. “Sure, babe.” His fingers absentmindedly toyed with the hem of your sleeve, and for a while, you both watched in silence, the glow of the laptop screen painting soft shadows over the room. Halfway through the movie, you reached into your bag to grab your laptop, but something tumbled out and hit the floor with a soft thud. You blinked at the familiar cover of the last book.

“Oh crap,” you muttered, picking it up. “I forgot to return this.” 

Satoru turned his head, eyes narrowing. “Wait…” He plucked the book from your grasp, flipping through the pages with an expression that immediately made you suspicious. “You didn’t return this yet?” You nodded, smiling sheepishly. “Guess I kinda forgot.” His fingers slowed as he reached the back cover, eyes landing on the borrowing log where the name “G.S.” had been scrawled in blue ink.

For a moment, he just stared. His thumb ran over the initials like he was absorbing the weight of them, of what they had meant to you before you knew the truth. His usual teasing expression softened, something almost nostalgic flickering in his eyes. Then, in a slow, deliberate motion, he grabbed a pen from his desk, twirled it between his fingers, and, without saying a word, carefully crossed out “G.S.”

You watched as he replaced it with something else—his full name, written neatly, in the same familiar shade of blue ink in the column beneath the crossed out G.S. He paused, then handed you the pen. Understanding settled between you like an unspoken promise. Without hesitation, you leaned down, pressing the tip to the page to the column under his name, adding your own in smooth, looping letters.

The same date. The same ink. Together.

Satoru stared at it for a long moment, his usual cocky grin nowhere in sight. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his lips, something softer, something fonder. He looked at you with that unreadable, almost reverent gaze—the one that always made your breath catch. And then, with absolutely no warning, he grinned and yanked you straight into his lap.

“Sooo,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear as his arms locked around you. “How does it feel to know you’ve been fantasising about me this whole time?” You groaned, swatting at his arm. “Satoru—”

He just laughed, effortlessly dodging your weak attempts at smacking him. “Nah, nah, don’t try to deny it! I knew you had a crush on me.”

“I did not—”

“G.S.,” he sing-songed, his breath warm against your skin as he nuzzled into your shoulder. “You thought I was some mysterious, tortured genius. Bet you used to daydream about me in class, d’you think I showed up as some mysterious faceless guy in your wet dreams?—” You grabbed a pillow and shoved it into his face. His muffled laughter rang through the room, and when he pulled the pillow away, he was still grinning. He kissed your shoulder, lingering there for a beat longer than necessary.

And this time, you let him gloat.

a/n: summary of this entire fic basically (art creds to su2kuna on 𝕏)

sorry if there are error/grammar mistakes or slight plot issues uni is lowkey gnawing at the folds of my brain and a girl gets sick of reading 32k words over and over again.. but i hope you all enjoyed reading this because i really enjoyed writing it :) huhuhuhu much love

[circe69]

your first mission with simon ghost riley didn't go very well.

cw: smutty, ghosts a brat

the cell door you had been working to override had slammed in ghost's face, and at his attempt to open it, you could hear him mutter a curse under his breath.

"fuckin' hell."

"what happened?" you walked over to where he was, and once you tried to pull on the same door, you realized. you two were stuck in the cramped, dark and wet jail cell.

"fuck,” you exhaled and pinched the bridge of your nose.

"stop copying me, cunt."

"oh go to hell, ghost."

"no thanks, i'm trying to get as far away as possible from ya, baby."

you groan out in frustration and banged your head against one of the bars, the condensation sticking to your hair, and all ghost could do was chuckle at you.

"you're so fucking dense."

"eat shit," you hissed out as you swung a closed fist at his chest.

once you made contact, you knew that it was very possible it was your last moments before death.

simon crossed his arms in front of his chest and looked down at the floor while shaking his head, "tsk," he took a step towards you, "always gotta be so physical," he shoved you back, causing your body to slam against the brick wall.

and guess what? you shoved him the fuck back.

"if you think for one second," you shoved him again, this time pulling his shoulder strap down so he was at eye level with you, "that I'm gonna let you throw me around just cause you want to, you're fucking hilarious. you've got a lotta nerve to even think about touching me, let alone push me back when I've pushed you first-“

ghost grabbed both of your arms from the front of you and shoved them behind your back, pushing your tits out from your shirt and right below his face. he looked down at your cleavage before bouncing back to your eyes, "y'wanna know what I think?" he spat right down the valley of your breasts and watched his saliva snake down your shirt, "i think you like it."

you squirmed under his weight, under his eyes. "fuck. you."

"you. wish."

ghost wasn't an idiot. he could feel the way you were rubbing your thighs together, how your pupils were dilating by the second and the soft pants coming out of your mouth.

"I'm saying all this, baby 'cause I know, if I were to fuck you right now, you'd probably be the best pussy I'd felt in years. maybe ever. I'd wanna take you home and do it over and over again until you're gasping for a break. I'd feed you well. id take care of you. I would fucking love you until death. but that's not who I am, and that's sure as fuck not who you are."

you watched his eyes gaze down to your lips as he lowered his head to yours.

"why not?" you whispered.

"because, baby, I don't fuck women who don't want to. I like wet pussy, not scared pussy. I want it hard and rough but I don't wanna break you forever. and unfortunately, I'll bet you a million dollars that if I reached down and checked right now, your sweet pussy wouldn't be wet. not even close. right?"

you gulped as his fingers realized one of your wrists and snaked down the side of your thigh, "that's a lot of money."

he slithered his hand back up to your waist band before sneaking a finger inside, "isn't it?" you could barely hear his smirk through his words over the intense volume of your heartbeat. you knew for a fact, that someone just lost a lot of money.

as ghost swiped a finger down the middle of your panties, he groaned, "fuck, I'm gonna be bankrupt aren't I?"

"its a stupid bet to make after spitting on a woman's tits."

[makingqueerhistory]

Reminder to Request Queer Books from your Local Library

If you're panicking about the state of the world, one of the easiest ways to make a difference right now is engaging with your library.

There is a reason that libraries are targetted by fascists. They are sites of immesurable power. Both just on their own, and also because of their patrons. So first step is, if you haven't, sign up for a library card ASAP.

Next, find out how your library takes requests (almost all libraries do), and start filling out the forms. Make it a ritual, go through queer books that interest you (here is an affiliate link for 165 queer books to get you started), and request as many as you can. It also helps if you take queer books out. Both digitally and physically.

Many libraries have a system in place where they have to rebuy the rights to a digital copy of a book after a certain amount of borrows. This is not contingent on you reading every single book you check out. No one will know if you read it or not. Though, I will admit that reading the books is also a good strategy to keep you invested in this very important discussion.

Regardless of your personal reading habits, you have space to make real change in your community with just a small amount of effort. Borrowing and requesting queer books backs up the irrefutable fact that queer stories are worth telling, and it pays queer authors for their work. I will say it until my face is blue, request queer books, read queer books, and engage with your local library.

[fallenbratfiction]

Gym Crush ~ older joel miller x f!reader

A/N: there’s a guy in my gym that looks alike joel in season 2 and he’s scrumptious delicious but I can’t make any moves because I’m an awkward fuck and I'm afraid I'll be a homewrecker howeverrrr today he helped me with the hip thrust machine and that's as close as I'll ever get to him.

warnings: large age gap (reader is in her twenties and joel is around his fifties), sexual tension (no explicit smut yet, but heavy physical tension, intimate kissing...), mild language "bitch", sexual verbal harassment (not from joel!!), protective behavior, threat (joel threatening someone else)

✧ minors dni with me or my blog. i'm not responsible for your consumption.

✧ do not repost, copy, or translate my work  

⟡━━━━━━━━━━⟡

Joel watched you from a short distance as you picked up a weight almost three times your size and carried it—with all your strength—to the middle of the weight area.

He watched as you got into a squat position—a wrong one—and started moving in a squat motion. He shook his head slightly.

Either you were new or overestimated yourself trying to pull a squat with a 30kg kettlebell. He thought about minding his own business and continuing his own set—but he couldn’t just let you hurt yourself.

He tapped your shoulder gently, and you dropped the weight. Startled, you pulled out one of your headphones and looked up at him.

“Don’t mean to disturb you,” he said, calm and low, “but I couldn’t just stand by and let you get hurt. You should try with a different weight—lower, maybe.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Are you saying that cause I’m a woman?”

“No, I’m saying it ’cause I’ve seen it before—and I’ve felt it. You don’t want to throw out your back or wreck your knee. Trust me—once you hit my age, you’ll regret it.”

You chuckled and crouched to pick the kettlebell back up. Strange—five minutes ago, it hadn’t felt this heavy.

Joel watched your struggle and stepped in again, lifting it easily with one hand.

“Allow me, doll.”

You watched him carry it back to the rack and pick up a different kettlebell. He wasn’t trying to diminish you really, he brought a 25kg weight in one hand and a 20kg in the other.

“Since you seem mighty powerful,” he said with a teasing glint in his eye, “you could probably handle either of these.”

He set them at your feet.

“Try.”

You reached for the 25kg and tried a set. It was okay—but heavier than you wanted to admit. Still, no way you were about to embarrass yourself in front of the gorgeous, gruff man standing over you.

Joel seemed to sense it. He set a hand on your shoulder and gave it a gentle pat.

“That’s alright, shake it off. Try the other one"

You nodded, biting your lip, and picked up the 20kg. Better. Still heavy—but manageable.

“There you go, doll,” he said, smiling like he was proud. “Don’t worry—you’ll get stronger and lift heavier. The key is not to mess up your back.”

With that, he walked off. Back to his own set—but now with one eye still on you. Just in case. If you grabbed another too-heavy weight, he’d be there.

By the end of your workout, you crossed paths again—this time at the walking pads.

“Hey, savior,” you smiled, setting your water bottle in one holder and your phone in the other.

He chuckled at the nickname.

“You save lives often around here?”

“I don’t mean to, I just observe a lot and happen to intervene”

“You new here?”

“I try not to,” he said with a shrug. “I just watch a lot. Sometimes I step in.”

You nodded, heart still a little elevated.

“You new here?” he asked, glancing sideways at you as you started the pad.

“Yeah,” you nodded. I moved to the city about a month ago. Still getting used to it. New job, new apartment, new gym…” You smiled. “Figured I’d build a routine before the chaos set in.”

“Smart,” he said, nodding. “You’ll get the hang of it.” Then, a small smirk. “Already off to a strong start.”

You laughed at that—something about his voice made compliments sound earned, not empty.

The treadmill kept humming under your feet. Comfortable silence. Just the two of you walking, letting the post-workout adrenaline settle.

“You come here every morning?” you asked after a beat.

“Most days,” he replied. “Early’s quieter. Fewer idiots, usually.”

“Except for me and my tragic squat form.”

He chuckled low in his throat.

“You’re not an idiot. Just new. Big difference.”

You smiled to yourself and let that be the end of it.

After that day, you continued showing up. And so does he.

It becomes a routine without either of you naming it. He spots you during your sets sometimes. You bring him a spare protein bar once. He teases your playlists. You tease his ancient headphones.

You think about him more than you’d admit. But you never cross the line. Not even when he lets his hand linger on your back a little too long. Not even when he brushes your fingers as he passes you a weight.

You don’t make a move.

Because—what if?

What if he thinks you're just a silly girl with a crush on the hot older guy?

What if it makes things awkward? Or worse—makes him leave?

What you don’t know is he’s thinking the same damn thing.

He watches you out of the corner of his eye every time you laugh at one of your own jokes. Every time you push through a hard set. Every time you flash that proud little smile when you hit a PR.

He tells himself he’s just being friendly.

He tells himself he’s too old to be looking at you like that.

But it’s getting harder every day.

Then, the tension happens.

You both stayed a little longer than usual, finishing up extra sets. The gym is quiet—just a few stragglers and the soft echo of music bouncing off the walls.

You’re at the stretching area, tying your hair up again, when Joel walks over, towel slung around his neck, shirt damp with sweat.

“Still at it?” His voice is low, that rough rasp even more gravelly this late.

“You know me,” you say, sitting back into a stretch. “Trying to prove I can handle more than a 20kg bell.”

He huffs a laugh and crouches beside you, adjusting the towel on his shoulder.

“Told you—you’ll get there. Already stronger than most.”

“You always say that, but I'm still stuck with 20."

“Easy tiger, you're getting there"

There’s a beat of silence. You glance over. He’s already looking at you—his gaze soft but unreadable.

And that’s when it happens.

A flicker. Something unspoken is rising between you.

“You ever train with someone?” you ask, a little quieter now. “Like… actually work out with a partner?”

He tilts his head and thinks.

“Not in a long time. Why?”

You shrug, trying to play it off.

“Just thought—maybe you and I could try it sometime. I mean, you already spot me half the time.”

His eyes linger on you a little longer than usual. Like he’s deciding if it's the right thing to do.

“Yeah,” he says finally, voice lower. “I’d like that.”

There’s something there in his tone. Something new.

You nod slowly, holding his gaze. He nods back.

The air gets a little too still. You’re too aware of how close his knee is to yours. How good he smells—sweat, cedar, something warm and masculine.

And then, almost, he reaches out—just brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

But then someone drops a weight behind you.

The spell breaks.

You both flinch and turn.

He stands up quickly, clearing his throat.

“I should… probably head out.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

You walk out together, but a little quieter than usual. Something's shifted. Something happened.

Not everything, but just enough.

The next morning feels...different.

Not in a bad way—just off. A little too aware of each other. You say “morning” like always. He tosses you a spare sweat towel like he usually does. But your fingers brush a little too long. His gaze lingers a little too low before darting away.

Still, you both pretend nothing happened.

You warm up on your own, trying to shake the strange buzz in your chest. You chalk it up to sleep deprivation. Or the pre-workout drink. Or him.

You're mid-set—deep in a tough rep—when some asshole guy you don’t know struts over. Smirking.

He’s the type who lifts just to be loud. One of those guys. Probably couldn’t spell “glute” if you spotted him the G and the L.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he grins, stepping too close. “You always squat that low, or is this just for me?”

You pause mid-motion. Eyebrow twitching. Trying to ignore him.

“Busy,” you say, short and clipped.

“Come on, don’t be shy. You in those little shorts—can’t expect a guy to keep his eyes to himself.”

He’s way too close now, crowding your space.

That’s when Joel appears.

You don’t even see him come over. You just feel the shift in the air.

He steps between you and the guy. Slow. Calm. But his shoulders are tense. Jaw set.

“You heard her,” he says, voice low. “She’s busy.”

The guy scoffs.

“Who the fuck are you? Her dad?” He laughs. “Why do you care, grandpa?”

Joel doesn't blink. Doesn’t flinch.

He steps forward—just barely. But it’s enough. The tension radiates off him like heat.

“I think you better walk away,” Joel says, voice like gravel, “before you regret it.”

The guy’s smile falters.

He opens his mouth—then closes it. Realizes what he's dealing with.

“Whatever,” he mutters, backing off. “Bitch isn’t even worth it.”

You flinch at the word. Joel’s hand flexes like he’s holding back from knocking teeth in. But he lets the guy walk.

He turns to you.

“You okay?”

You nod, cheeks burning. Embarrassed. Angry.

“Yeah, I just—” You shake your head, suddenly too aware of your own body. “I probably had it coming. Dressed like this in these shorts.”

Joel’s expression changes. All that quiet fury shifts—not at you, never at you—but at the fact you’d even think that.

“Don’t say that.”

You glance up, surprised at how serious he sounds.

“There’s not a damn thing wrong with you or what you’re wearin’. That guy was a prick. That’s on him. Not you.”

You open your mouth to argue—but nothing comes out.

He softens. His hand grazes your arm gently.

“You hear me?”

You nod, throat tight.

“Yeah. I hear you.”

Truth was, Joel had been staring at you, too.

It was impossible not to.

He told himself it was pride—he’d helped you with form, corrected your weight, spotted your squats more times than he could count. He should be proud your glutes had grown the way they had.

But lately?

Pride was harder to separate from something else.

He kept it subtle. Discreet. Respectful. Not like that asshole. Joel knew how to look without making you feel small. Without making it about him.

Still, when you bent over to re-rack your weights, or dropped low into a perfect squat… Yeah. His gaze lingered a little longer than it should.

And he hated himself for it.

But God—you were a sight.

After that scene, Joel insists on walking you out.

“Just to your car,” he says, like it’s nothing. Like his hands hadn’t just curled into fists over you.

You don’t argue. He walks a half-step behind you, gaze still sharp like he’s expecting another problem to round the corner. Silent the whole way.

When you reach your car, you turn to face him, hand on the handle and smile up at him.

“Thanks,” you say, voice quieter now. “For stepping in. And for walking me.”

He gives a small nod, hands in his pockets.

“Didn’t sit right. That guy was outta line.”

“Still…” you hesitate. “I’m sorry he said what he said...about you.”

His jaw tenses, but he shrugs.

"He's just an asshole. Words don’t mean much comin’ from someone who can’t even rack his own weights.”

You laugh softly, then pause—because you can feel it. The shift. That weight between you.

Joel glances at your car, then back at the gym, hands still in his pockets.

“You good to continue alone tomorrow?” he asks, voice rough. Then, more carefully— “Or… you wanna train together?”

The question lands softly—but it lingers. Like he’s testing the waters. Like he’s not just asking about sets and reps. Like maybe he wants to be there for more than just that.

You look at him in the light—really look. Hair damp at the edges from sweat. That gray t-shirt hugging his chest. Hands flexing like he’s trying not to reach for something.

You nod, heartbeat picking up.

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

He starts to turn, giving you one last nod, and turns around to step away—

That’s when you do it.

Quick, instinctive—you reach for his wrist. He stops. Looks down. Then up at you.

You step in closer.

The sunlight makes everything sharp. No shadows. No excuses. Just you and him standing there in plain sight.

Joel’s eyes search yours—quick, wild, unsure—pupils blown wide even in the harsh daylight. His chest rises like he’s holding his breath.

You kiss him.

No warning. No words. Just your mouth on his, hands curling into the fabric of his shirt like it’s the only thing anchoring you.

He freezes—for the briefest moment.

Then he kisses you back.

Harder.

One hand grips your waist, the other slides up your back, pulling you flush against him. His mouth moves with heat, control slipping by the second. It’s not gentle. It’s not frantic either.

It’s pent-up.

Like every lingering look, every soft-spoken “good job, sweetheart,” every moment spent standing a little too close in the weight area—was leading here.

And in the full light of day, right there in the gym parking lot, he kisses you like he’s starving.

When it ends—when breath becomes necessary—he pulls back just an inch, eyes still closed, like the sunlight might take it all away if he opens them.

You break apart just enough to breathe.

Just enough for him to whisper against your lips:

“Wasn’t expectin’ that.”

You manage a shaky smile, heart pounding.

“Would’ve done it sooner if I thought you wanted me to.”

He lets out a breath—half-laugh, half-growl—low and wrecked.

His forehead rests against yours. He shakes his head once.

“Shit, darlin’…” His hand grazes your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. “You have no idea.”

There’s a pause. Long enough for the silence to throb between you.

Then he leans in again, lips hovering beside your ear—

“Hope you’re ready for what comes next.”

You step back, just enough to breathe again. Smile—nervous, dizzy.

“See you tomorrow?”

Joel smirks, slow and sure, like a man already plotting something dangerous.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

You get in your car, still shaking slightly, and look at him one last time through the window.

He’s standing there—hands in his pockets, chest rising slow.

His jaw is clenched.

But his lips?

Curved into the faintest smirk.

Not cocky. Not smug.

Just… wrecked. Quietly wrecked.

Like a man trying hard to look composed— but already ruined by the taste of something he knows he’s not going to stop wanting.

You drive away.

And he watches you until you’re gone.

⟡━━━━━━━━━━⟡

Part Two coming soon...

✧ reblogs, likes & comments are deeply appreciated ♡  

✧ do not repost, copy, or translate my work  

[xazse]

I don’t know about the anon but I freaked out when I saw the new fic. It was so good 🤤. I love how you’re giving us so much content nowadays and I’m here for it! Anyway, I was hoping that maybe you could figure something out for snow leopard Gojo and cat hybrid reader (him as a cat jest feels right) ? Imagine Satoru having this in mind ever since he saw you, I mean, big cats mate practically for the solo reason of breeding ?and he's no different- having many pups is a necessity to prove you're his and the best way to show how much he adores you! He’d be very protective about you while you’re carrying, never stepping away from your side and he’s become so needy too because you smell so divine with all those hormones to him.

It makes me think back to that kitty tiger fic where he would lick her and I see this as a continuation of short!

Well, not really since I mentioned a leopard but honestly if you did a tiger and really wrote it as a continuation l'd be thrilled. Do you think you’ll write more because I’d love some Satoru tiger/leopard fics. Have a nice day lovely 💕

Notes: SORRY ITS SO SHORT I HOPE YOU LIKE IT, I HAD FUN WRITING IT!!

Warnings: Pantysniffing + breeding + hybrids + little hybrids + pregnancy + overprotective!Satoru

Pairings: SnowLeopardSatoru + KittyHybrid!Reader

Oh yes of course SnowLeopard!Satoru was in love the day Suguru brought you home, you smelled of that icky place but eventually when you got comfortable he began cleaning you of that filthy, licking you everywhere to ensure you smelled exactly like him.

After scenting you to smell just like the touching started, it starts small with Satoru laying you in his lap or letting you stroke his hair until it got even more physical he was having you bent over balls deep inside of you, this became a daily occurrence where he’d pump you full load after load.

The leopard loved you so much, of course when you started showing signs of morning sickness he was so damn excited, well when he had said that you gave him the nastiest look ever but he had to phrase it as he was excited for the baby!

The first few months were absolute hell for you, Satoru could not and would not leave you alone, he insisted mining everything and anything with you.

You needed a shower? He’s in there helping you get in places your cute little belly prevents even in public he’s always making sure your near him, he keeps a tight grip on your arm so he doesn’t lose you.

He also keeps close because you smell, so fucking good, it drives him damn insane, he keeps you in his lap for hours just sniffing your neck or even having your legs wrapped around his head so he can smell your cunt.

He loves getting into your dirty laundry and smelling your panties, who cares if you catch him jerking off with it around his fat cock, he’ll look you dead in your face as you slowly close the door to let him have that privacy, he can’t fuck your pussy like he used to anymore so this’ll do.

When the babies come it’s so hectic around the house, you and Satoru are constantly chasing the little ones around, they don’t give either of you a break some days. It’s so cute to see how they look exactly like Satoru in some ways, two of them have his hair and the third one looks exactly like you, a carbon copy is what she is.

Their little ears and tail swish behind them so freaking cute, the amount of photos Satoru has in his phone is astonishing, he also posts them on his instagram always, everytime, Suguru also does his hair share with helping with them when you and Satoru are stressed. He’s like their uncle and it’s so adorable to see them braiding his hair or him reading to them.

When you finally get alone time, Satoru’s fucking you like he wants to put even more babies in you, the way he’s groaning is so damn loud it pairs with the way you sound when both of you meet in the middle, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t fucking back on him just as hard, it’s already been multiple orgasms and you’re both still going at it.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Hi! I would love an imagine for the boys that includes the reader getting held captive and they rescue her, maybe a little Angst to Fluff?

Love your work btw ❤️❤️❤️❤️

Only a little angst? Friend, I may have gone and made this more angsty with just a sprinkle of fluff. I can't help myself sometimes. So, fair warning to y'all, that it is angst-ridden with a bit of fluff at the end of each. Sorry?

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Reader (can be read as gn!reader)

Content & Warnings (MDNI): angst, canon-typical violence, swearing, reunions, light fluff

Word Count: 1.7k

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

John’s heart is thunderous, beating so loudly it’s like a bass drum in his ears.

To be successful, to execute this rescue with precision, he needs to remain calm, to be the leader he knows he is. It’s not a lack of confidence, but a growing dread that he might be too late. There is no room to show fear—to let everyone in on how important this is.

Because it is important.

You are important.

Not just to the team but to him. Maybe the team knows. Laswell likely does, but the boys might not. Sure, they have suspicions, but you and John have always been discreet, have always tried to keep the relationship between the two of you private.

Now, with the mission ahead, all those secrets and subversion might overflow. Become known to everyone.

John breathes in through his nostrils, and exhales through his mouth. Box breathing. It’s helping. But only a little.

“We’re ready, Captain,” says Gaz, crouching beside him, gaze scanning the land before them.

There’s open ground and then a building. Someone stands guard near the door, head on a swivel. Soap silently appears next to Kyle, taking a knee. Simon is somewhere in the dark, ready to snipe every enemy in sight before they enter the building.

Price nods, and then speaks into the walkie. “You’re clear, Ghost.”

“Copy.”

Seconds later, the man guarding the door jerks like he’s been electrified before crumpling silently to the ground. A few more moments and a body plummets from the top of the building, landing with a sickening crunch.

“No signs of life,” comes Simon’s voice over the comms.

Soap snorts. “Cheeky bastard.”

John wants to join in, but you’re consuming his every thought. It’s only been twenty-four hours since you were taken, yet it feels like an eternity.

“Let’s move,” murmurs John.

They advance in unison with Simon emerging from the dark to bring up the rear. Entering the building is easy, but they’ll have to go slowly and silently inside. Up close and personal is the way to go in a place like this. One wrong move might spook the rest.

Kyle and Soap take the front, breaking necks and slicing throats. It’s clean. Efficient.

John signals with his hand and everyone shifts down a different hall, heading toward the internal bunker. That is where they’re holding you, along with other hostages.

A few more quick deaths and then John is kicking in the door.

There are screams. Shouts. Rapid gunfire.

John is already searching, seeking your face.

“Targets are down, sir,” shouts Soap.

There are cages. Rows of them. He searches each one, looking at every face.

“Contact base and tell them we need civilian pickup,” says John.

“On it,” answers Kyle, already leaning his head to the side to speak into his radio.

John searches. And searches.

“John.” Your voice cracks but it’s soothing. Soft.

He murmurs your name, going down on one knee, reaching through the bars to grasp your hand.

“I’m here,” he murmurs.

“I knew you’d come,” you reply, smiling. “I knew.”

With his back turned to the rest of his team, John silently mouths three little words. “I love you.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

Johnny is on the mission, but he isn’t. Not really.

He’s watching it all on monitors at a safe distance. Others are taking the lead. Others are executing the mission. And Johnny must step aside because while he is physically capable, he’s too emotionally invested.

Too explosive. Too irate. Too volatile.

But this is about you. Of course he’s going to be angry.

Yet here he is pacing, gaze glued on the screens, listening to the chatter. Every muscle is primed for movement, ready for action, but Johnny cannot expel the energy. It’s building—shifting into anxiety.

“What’s taking so bloody long?” he growls.

Laswell glances over her shoulder at him. Though she appears calm, Johnny notices a small flicker of sympathy.

“They’re returning,” she replies. “Waiting on e-t-a.”

Johnny’s pacing worsens.

“You’re going to wear a path in the concrete,” says Laswell.

Johnny opens his mouth to reply, but the sound of helicopter blades reaches his ears. It’s not loud, just a hint of sound, but as it increases, his heartrate spikes.

Laswell doesn’t have to say anything. Johnny is already moving, rushing out to the landing pad, watching as the helicopter approaches and descends. The seconds pass in small eternities. Nikolai is in the pilot’s seat, and it is Captain Price who opens the sliding door just as the helicopter lands. Johnny is rushing forward, almost throwing himself inside in his search for you.

“Johnny.” It’s Simon, his large hand coming down on Johnny’s shoulder.

Johnny wants to tell him to move, to get the hell out of his way, but it is your voice that Johnny hears. As the helicopter blades slow, the air calms, and it is easier to understand—to recognize your familiar tone that Johnny has missed for all these days.

There’s a blanket around your shoulders and a sunken quality to your features that speaks to malnutrition. Other than that, you appear fine. Unharmed.

Johnny, no longer impeded by Simon’s hand, moves toward you, coming down on one knee. You immediately reach for him, and Johnny takes your hand. You’re cold, and it pains him. Placing both of your hands between his, he brings them to his lips, brushing kisses along the knuckles, attempting to warm them with his own heat.

You bend forward, and as Johnny glances up, you rest your forehead against his.

The fight is over. You’re here.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

There is a hunger in Simon.

Like the snake, he will consume his prey headfirst.

It is eerie how calm he is—how focused. A mission is a mission is a mission—until it isn’t. Until there is no target, no capture or kill, no sense of duty. This is all primal rage boiled down into a thick, viscus consistency. It is invisible, smeared over Simon’s eyes, drenches the world around him into a grey haze.

Simon could be the rapid dog let loose from a broken chain. Poisoned saliva. Bared teeth. Prone to biting.

The knife in his hand is bright and hot and burning. It itches for blood, for Simon to take these fuckers down a peg. He has it in him, but all Simon needs from his superior officer is the affirmative. And then, like the ghost he is, they won’t ever see him coming.

Come on, Price. Call it.

A part of him is missing—shredded. He did his best to protect you, to keep you secret from the world. Cruelty and deception move quickly though, and now your life is in danger.

Give the fucking word.

“Path is clear,” comes Captain Price’s voice over the radio.

It’s all the affirmation Simon needs. He is up and moving in seconds, a wraith in the dark, a silent shadow out for blood. His blade is his guide, sheering and cutting, leaving a trail of bodies behind him. There are no shouts, no cries of pain. Simon is clean, brutal, efficient.

But there is only one thing—one person on his mind. And that’s you.

A set of stairs. A hall. Rooms. More stairs.

Ascending. Ascending. Ascending.

The rest of the team isn’t far behind, but they stay back and leave Simon to it. They know this mission is for him. That he’s not only doing it for you but for himself.

It’s a wonder his knife doesn’t grow dull. It cuts true. Cuts clean. And it isn’t until the last enemy has fallen that some of the tension in Simon’s muscles melts away. He has consumed his prey, and there is only a singular door left to open.

There is the moment before he opens it, a space of breath that feels like eternity packed into single moment. The hinges creak, revealing a tiny room no larger than a walk-in closet. And there you are, on your side, ankle chained to the wall.

“Simon?”

You sound so broken. So…hollow.

As he sinks down onto one knee beside you, the unsteady confusion on your face gives way to hope. Simon’s arms reach out instinctively, wanting nothing more than to be around you. You throw yourself into him, and there is nothing sweeter in this moment.

“I’m here,” he whispers. “I’m here.”

Your sobs of joy nearly break him, nearly fracture Simon into pieces. But the fact that you’re alive, that you appear unharmed���at least physically—is more than he expected.

“I’m here,” he repeats, even as your tears stain his balaclava. “I’m here.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

It is impossible to measure the love you have for someone until they’re taken from you.

Kyle thought he understood. Yet for these last few weeks, he’s been a fractured creature. A small illusion. A flicker of a man.

But you’re not gone, just far away. Alive, he hopes.

Alive, is what he repeats. A mantra in his head. If he says it enough, it will be true.

Price, Soap, and Ghost are in front of him, moving like shadows through the building while Kyle brings up the rear. With them beside him, there is calmness in the chaos, a softening to his chaotic emotions. They are his support, the ground that he can stand on.

Price motions, and then Ghost kicks in a door.

There are shouts first. Then gunfire. Then silence.

Each of them enters, walking amongst the corpses.

Price digs around in the pockets of one of the men, and then tosses a set of keys over to Ghost. Kyle is already following, moving into position as Ghost unlocks a nearby door. He points the firing end of his gun inside, and then steps back.

He glances at Kyle, and nods.

Lowering his weapon, Kyle pushes the door wide, the light bleeding into the dark, revealing a shape he knows well.

Kyle’s surroundings melt away, leaving only you. He cradles your cheeks, thumbs rubbing away the dirt and blood and tears. You’re smiling, but there is red there, too.

“I knew you’d come for me.”

“Always,” he whispers, voice cracking in pain.

Captain Price appears at his shoulder, glancing down at the two of you on the floor, face grim. He speaks into his radio. “I need a med evac now.”

“You’re going to live,” reassures Kyle. “I promise.”

“Please don’t leave,” you murmur, fresh tears pooling in your eyes.

Kyle shakes his head. “Never. I’ll never leave again.”

[vanteguccir]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤMIDNIGHT COMPANY * CHRIS STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　while filming a car video, the triplets witness a girl - Y/N - arguing with her boyfriend. When he smashes her phone and leaves her alone at midnight in the middle of a random parking lot, Chris steps in.

FEATURING　Chris Sturniolo x reader　REQUESTED?　yes.

WARNINGS　::　toxic relationship, yelling, fighting, being hurt physically and emotionally, manipulation, panicking.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

Y/N didn't meant for things to end up like that.

She really didn't.

She was just walking alongside her boyfriend through the Target aisles, her eyes darting nervously between the shelves and the floor.

But she should know better. He had already been irritated when they left the apartment - something about her taking too long to get ready - and now, every move she made felt like a mistake.

"Stick close." Her boyfriend had muttered, his voice low but firm. His eyes darted around the store, scanning the aisles of brightly colored products with an air of impatience. "I don’t want to spend all night in here."

Y/N nodded quickly, her throat dry.

"Okay."

They made their way down the main aisle, her boyfriend grabbing a few items and putting them into the cart with little regard. It was always like that; he made the decisions, and she just agreed and moved on.

He paused at the end of that same aisle, scanning the shelves with a discerning eye. She lingered a few steps behind, observing.

He grabbed a box of granola bars from the shelf, tossing it into the cart with a louder thud. She winced at the sound, her stomach knotting with unease.

"Why are you standing there? Do you see the cereal we get?" He asked, his tone clipped.

Her throat tightened. She scanned the shelves frantically, her eyes moving over the rows of colorful boxes. She wasn’t sure if it was the green box or the blue one.

"Um, I think..." She started, reaching hesitantly toward one of the options.

"Don’t think. Look." He snapped, already sounding exasperated.

Her hand faltered, and she pulled it back. Her heart was pounding, and her palms had grown clammy against the leather strap of her purse. She wanted to go home.

They turned into the household goods section, where shelves were lined with glass containers, picture frames, and other fragile items. Her boyfriend stopped abruptly, examining a set of drinking glasses with a critical eye.

"Do you think these match the ones we already have?" He asked, holding up a box with pretty crystal wine glasses.

Y/N hesitated, unsure if he wanted an answer or was just thinking out loud.

"I-I think so."

Her boyfriend sighed, setting the box down with a clatter.

"You’re not even paying attention."

"I am." She said quickly, her voice barely above a whisper, desperately searching for his free hand. "I promise."

"Whatever." He muttered, letting her squeeze his fingers once before dropping hers, moving on.

Y/N quickly followed, trying to stay out of his way, her eyes fixed on his tall figure, crossing her hands in front of her body and forcing her brain to pay more attention to anything he touched or pointed out. She couldn't risk him thinking that she didn't care.

As she passed by one of the shelves, her purse brushed against a precariously balanced display of small vases. Time seemed to slow as the first vase teetered, then fell, hitting the shelf below it and sending a chain reaction through the display.

Crash!

The sound was deafening. Glass shattered across the floor, the pieces glinting under the white lights. Y/N froze, her breath catching in her throat. She stared at the mess, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might burst out of her chest.

"Oh my god. Are you serious?" Her boyfriend hissed under his breath.

She dropped to her knees instinctively, trembling as she tried to gather the pieces with her bare hands.

"I’m sorry." She whispered, her voice trembling and desperate.

"You're fucking nbelievable." He muttered under his breath, loud enough for her to hear.

She stopped for a moment, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. She wasn’t crying because of the spilled glasses. It wasn’t even about the moment itself. It was about the weight of knowing that every mistake she made was a reason for him to get tired of her. To leave her.

"I’m sorry." She whispered, again and again, the words tumbling out of her mouth as though they might undo the damage. "I’m so s-sorry."

But it wasn’t just an apology. It was an instinctive response, born from the fear of making him feel any sort of negative emotion at all. She knew that he wouldn’t brush this off, wouldn’t laugh, and say it was no big deal. He would be mad, and she couldn't let him get mad at her. Not again.

She desperately wanted to shrink herself down into something more digestible for him at that moment. Something he could chew up, spit out, and discard - like gum.

A woman at the end of the aisle glanced over, her expression a mix of surprise and concern. A man on the opposite side peeked around the corner, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene.

Y/N’s face burned with humiliation. She felt their stares on her, for sure, full of judgment. Her hands fumbled over the shards, shaking too hard to pick them up properly.

Her boyfriend crouched down beside her, his expression now unusually calm. His hand landed on her shoulder, but the grip was firm, bordering on painful.

"Y/N, honey, stop. You’re going to hurt yourself."

"I’m sorry." She whispered again, the tears on her eyes starting to burn her orbs with the force she used to stop the drops from escaping. She couldn’t let him see her break. She’d learned the hard way that crying only made him angrier.

"Stop it." He said more firmly, moving his hand through her arm, grabbing her wrist and pulling her hand away from the glass. He looked up at the people looking back at them and forced a polite, almost apologetic smile. "She’s... a little clumsy. Always has been. Right, honey? I know you didn’t mean to. You can’t help it, can you?"

Y/N stiffened, her stomach churning. She forced her head to move up and down, the movement coming out almost robotic.

"You’re just... distracted. All the time." He continued, his smile cold and tight. "That’s why these things happen. You can’t focus."

She wanted to argue, to tell him that she wasn’t some careless mess, but the words died in her throat. What good would it do?

"Here." He said, taking an empty cardboard box near them and shoving the pieces to the side with it, taking it all out of the way. "There. Fixed. See?"

She nodded, swallowing hard.

"Now, get up."

She stood, her knees wobbling slightly as she adjusted the strap of her purse. He grabbed her arm, his fingers digging into her skin.

"It’s okay." He continued, speaking louder now so the others could hear. "She just gets a little overwhelmed sometimes. Don’t worry, we’ll take care of this."

The man at the end of the aisle nodded, giving her boyfriend a small, understanding smile. The woman pursed her lips and turned away, muttering something about how 'accidents happen'.

"Let’s go." He said through clenched teeth as he started walking toward the exit.

"But-"

"No." His voice was low, but the warning was clear. He smiled tightly at the few remaining onlookers as he dragged her past them.

Her face burned with humiliation, but she kept quiet, her eyes glued to the floor. His grip tightened when her feet seemed to disobey her brain, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out.

The automatic doors slid open, and the cool night air rushed over her, but it did nothing to calm the storm inside her head. Her boyfriend’s pace didn’t slow, his hand still gripping her skin as he led her toward the parking lot.

Her heart was pounding, her thoughts spiraling into chaos. She felt like a child being scolded, small and powerless, her voice locked somewhere deep inside her throat.

When they reached the car, he finally let go of her arm, shoving her away as if she were a piece of garbage. She stumbled slightly, catching herself against the side of the car, waiting for whatever came next.

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

From the other side of their spot in the parking lot, the triplets were parked, their van slightly away from the main entrance. It was Wednesday night, and they were filming their weekly video, the interior of the van alive with yells and laughter.

"... No, seriously, people do that sometimes." Chris said, turning slightly towards Matt while trying to prove his point. "Patches O'Houlihan, he did that."

Matt scoffed, looking at him with an 'are you serious?' look.

"From Dodgeball? The fictional character?" He laughed incredulously, looking at Nick through the rearview, ready for another weird thing to come out of Chris's mouth.

Nick's attention, however, wasn’t on him - or them, for that matter. It was on the world outside. He always had a habit of scanning his surroundings, probably in a way of caring for himself and his brothers.

As Chris kept going, earning a loud groan from Matt, Nick’s eyes caught movement across the parking lot, almost exactly in front of their van. Near one of the parked cars, a couple stood in the golden glow of a streetlamp.

Nick’s stomach twisted. Something about the way the guy loomed over the girl, his gestures sharp and erratic, immediately set off alarm bells. The girl was visibly distressed, her arms crossed over her chest, her posture shrinking with every second.

Without thinking, Nick leaned forward and slapped Chris on the shoulder, interrupting him.

"Nick, what the-" Chris began, turning sharply, his annoyance evident.

"Shut up." Nick hissed, his voice low but firm, cutting through Chris’s protest. He nodded toward the couple. "Look."

Chris frowned but followed Nick’s gaze, his expression shifting from irritation to curiosity and then to concern. Matt, who had been in the middle of adjusting his hoodie, leaned closer to the windshield.

"What’s going on?" Matt asked, his voice quieter now.

Nick didn’t answer, instead reaching for the button to lower his window, easing it down. A faint, angry voice carried into the van, growing clearer as the man’s yelling intensified.

"... do you even understand how embarrassing you are?"

The girl stood frozen, her arms clutching her sides as though trying to hold herself together. Her head was bowed, her hair shielding her face from the world. She didn’t respond, didn’t dare to look up, and that only seemed to fuel his anger.

"What the fuck?" Matt muttered, leaning forward slightly to get a better look, his eyes glued to the scene.

"You think I’m joking?" He snapped, stepping closer to her. "You think I enjoy having every pair of eyes in that store on me because you can’t manage to walk without causing a damn scene?" The man continued, stepping closer to her.

Her response was so soft that it barely reached the triplets’ ears.

"I’m sorry..."

"Sorry?" The man laughed bitterly. "You’re always sorry. You’re sorry when you spill coffee, you’re sorry when you trip over your own feet, and now you’re sorry for knocking over half a shelf like a goddamn child?"

The girl flinched at his words, biting her bottom lip while taking a small - almost imperceptible - step back.

Chris tensed after watching her reaction, his jaw tightening.

"This guy’s a piece of-"

"Chris, shush." Matt snapped, his voice low.

"I told you before, didn’t I? Stop acting like a fool every time we’re out in public. This is for your own good." The man spat.

"I didn’t mean to-" She started, but he cut her off quickly.

"Shut up!" He barked, his voice echoing across the lot. She shrank back, her body trembling. "You know better than to talk back to me." He growled, taking another step closer.

"I wasn’t-"

"Stop talking!" He barked, his voice echoing across the empty lot probably louder than intended. "Every time you open your mouth, you make it worse. Do you even understand that? Or are you too stupid to figure it out?"

Tears accumulated inside her eyeballs, shining below the lights.

"Look, I’ll call an Uber, okay?" Y/N murmured, her voice cracking. "You can go home and calm down. Please."

"Oh, you’ll call an Uber? Sure, let’s waste more of my money on your screw-ups." The man’s laugh was sharp and bitter.

She reached into her purse, her hands shaking as she pulled out her phone, unlocking it and trying to search for tha app, being harshly interrupted when the man snatched the device from her grip with such force that she stumbled.

Chris shifted uncomfortably, his fists clenched on his lap.

"Do we step in?"

"I don't think we should, not right now." Nick whispered.

"Give it back. Please, baby." She asked, her voice weak, trembling.

"Why? So you can text your little friends about what a terrible boyfriend I am?" He sneered, holding the phone high above his head.

Y/N's mouth dropped open, her wet eyes widening as if he had just committed the worst crime.

"Baby, please." She begged, her tears now falling freely, causing her voice to break. "I would never ever do that. I love you so much, you know that, right?"

He ignored her. With a single, violent motion, he hurled the phone to the ground. The sound of glass and plastic shattering against the pavement echoed in the silence.

She recoiled as though the blow had landed on her instead of the device, a squeak involuntarily escaping from her mouth. Her arms wrapped tighter around herself as she stared at the broken pieces. Her whole life, broken.

"Should've had taken that shit from you sooner." The man spat, shaking his head. "Pathetic. Can’t do anything right."

Matt and Nick exchanged horrified glances through the rearview, Chris's face pale by their side.

"P-please, don't leave me here, baby. I love you, I'm so sorry." The girl begged, gluing her hands in a praying gesture in front of her body. "I promise I'll do better."

"I can't even look at your face right now." The man shook his head. "I need some time, okay?" He didn't wait for an answer before storming off to the driver-side of his car, slamming the door and speeding out of the lot, tires screeching against the asphalt.

Y/N stood frozen, her trembling figure illuminated by the lights and the moon.

Chris didn’t think. One second, he was staring at her, and the next, his hand was on the van door handle, yanking it open.

"Chris!" Matt hissed from the driver’s seat. "What are you doing?"

"Chris- what the fuck?!" Nick added, his voice urgent but not loud enough to stop him.

But Chris couldn’t wait. He couldn’t sit there any longer, watching this girl suffer alone.

He bolted from the van, the cool night air hitting him like a slap, but he barely noticed. His long strides carried him across the parking lot, his heart pounding not from his pace but from pure urgency.

"Oh my god, he's crazy!" Matt’s groan echoed from behind him, but it was distant, like background noise.

He didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.

The closer he got, the more his stomach churned. Her face was streaked with tears, her cheeks blotchy and raw from crying. But she wasn’t just crying. She was panicking. He could see it in the way her hands trembled uncontrollably, and in the way her breath came in short, sharp gasps.

Chris slowed as he approached her, not wanting to startle her. She was staring at the exit of the parking lot, her wide, unfocused and tear-filled eyes locked on the gate arm as though it was the only thing anchoring her to the ground.

"Hey." He said softly, his voice gentle but firm.

She flinched, her head snapping up, and her gaze locked on him as she took a step back. For a moment, she looked utterly terrified, and Chris's throat tightened.

He quickly held his hands up, palms out, trying to show her he wasn’t a threat.

"Hey, hey, it’s okay." He said quickly. "I just... I saw what happened, and I wanted to check if you’re okay."

Her lips parted as if she wanted to say something, but no words came out. Instead, a fresh wave of tears spilled down her cheeks. She shook her head, taking another step back, her back almost hitting the metal post of the streetlight.

"You don’t have to be scared." Chris said, his voice softer now, almost pleading. "I’m not going to hurt you, I swear. I just want to help."

She looked at him again, her watery eyes studying his face as though trying to figure out if he was lying.

Chris took a cautious step closer, keeping his movements slow.

"You’re shaking." He said gently. "It's freezing out here. Can I... can I give you my hoodie?"

She blinked at him, her brows furrowing slightly.

"Why?" She croaked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Because it’s cold, and you’re upset, and I’d feel better if you weren’t standing out here like this." Chris said honestly, shrugging off his hoodie - ignoring how the hairs on his arm fully stood up with the cold air - and holding it out to her.

She hesitated, her eyes darting from his face to the piece of clothing, then back again.

"It’s okay." Chris reassured her. "You don’t have to take it, but I promise it’s clean. And warm."

After what felt like an eternity, she slowly reached out and took the hoodie from him. Her hands were trembling so much that she almost dropped it, but she managed to pull it to her chest, pressing it against her covered skin.

"Thank you." She mumbled, her voice shaky.

Chris exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

"Of course. What’s your name?" He asked in a soft tone. "I'm Chris."

She blinked her eyes at him, frowning, clearly surprised by the question.

"Y-Y/N." She said hesitantly.

"Y/N." He repeated, offering her a small, reassuring smile. "It’s really nice to meet you... Um, do you want to sit down? You look like you need a second."

She looked around the parking lot again before nodding slowly, and Chris gestured to the curb nearby. He waited until she sat down before taking a seat a few feet away, giving her space but staying close enough that she wouldn’t feel alone.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

"I’m fine." She finally said - even though it wasn't what Chris was expecting to hear, her voice cutting through the silence, hoarse and shaky.

Chris tilted his head slightly, his brows furrowing.

"I don’t think you are."

"I am." She insisted, but her voice cracked on the words, betraying her.

Chris turned his face slightly to the side to meet her eyes, curving his upper body, trying to make himself seem less imposing.

"I know you don’t know me. Well, only my name now." He said softly. "But I can tell you’re not fine. And that’s okay. You don’t have to be. Not after that."

She bit her lower lip hard, and for a second, Chris thought she might break down again. But instead, she straightened her spine, her trembling hands wiping at her tear-streaked face.

"It's not as bad as it looked. He was just angry." She said quietly, almost as if she was saying that to herself. "It’s not his fault. I... I messed up."

Chris’s heart sank at her words.

"You didn’t mess up." He said firmly, his voice laced with conviction.

She shook her head, her hands gripping the fabric of his hoodie tightly.

"I did. I dropped something, broke it, actually. It was stupid, and it drew attention to us, and... and he doesn’t like that. He was just trying to make me understand."

Chris stared at her, his chest tightening painfully.

"That’s not okay." He said softly. "No one should treat you like that, no matter what happened."

"You don’t understand." She said, her voice rising slightly as she hugged herself tighter. "He just... he gets frustrated sometimes, but it’s because he cares. He doesn’t mean to be mean."

Chris’s jaw clenched, a mix of anger and sadness boiling inside him.

"Love isn’t supposed to be like that, Y/N." He said gently. "It’s not supposed to hurt you and leave you standing in a parking lot crying, shaking, and alone."

Her eyes filled with fresh tears again, and she looked away, staring at the ground as if she couldn’t bear to meet his gaze.

"You don’t know him." She whispered, shaking her head vehemently.

Chris wanted to scream, to grab her shoulders, and shake her until she understood that what she was describing wasn’t love. It was control, manipulation, and abuse. But even though he had never helped a victim of a toxic and abusive relationship before, he knew he should keep his voice calm, so he did it, maintaining his tone soft and steady.

"You’re right." He said. "I don’t know him. But I know what I saw, and I can only imagine what it feels like to have someone make you think you’re the problem when you’re not."

Her head whipped toward him, her eyes narrowing.

"You don’t know anything about me."

Chris held up his hands.

"You’re right again. I don’t. But I’m not here to judge you. I’m here because I want to help. No strings, no expectations. Just... let me help. I can't leave you alone here for the rest of the night."

She shook her head again, her hands trembling as she brushed her hair out of her face.

"I shouldn’t even be talking to you about this. It isn't fair to him. He’d be so heartbroken if he knew."

Chris watched her for a second too long.

"But you deserve to talk to someone." He finally said. "You deserve to feel safe."

"I am safe!" She snapped, her voice ringing out in the empty parking lot. The declaration sounded hollow, as if she was trying to convince herself more than him.

Chris took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a second.

"I just want to help you." He said, his tone pleading. "Do you have someone you can call? A family member, a friend? You can use my phone-"

Her reaction was immediate and panicked. She shook her head furiously, her eyes wide with fear as her body tightened, seeming ready to stand up and run.

"No! No, I can’t call anyone."

"Why not?" Chris asked gently, though his heart was racing, his eyes traveling quickly to his car where his brothers were before going back to Y/N. "They’d want to help you, just like I do."

"I said no!" She cried, her voice cracking. Her breathing was shallow and quick now, teetering on the edge of hyperventilation. "You don’t understand. I can’t just call someone. And you... you need to go. God, you shouldn’t even be here."

Chris frowned, his brows knitting together.

"Please, I’m just trying to-"

"You don’t get it." She interrupted, her voice hushed but frantic. She glanced around the parking lot as though expecting her boyfriend to be there somewhere, watching them. "He’s going to come back. And if he sees you here, if he thinks... you need to leave. Now."

Chris’s stomach dropped at the sheer terror in her voice.

"Y/N, he won't hurt you in any type of way while I'm here with you. I can promise you that." He moved a bit closer again, careful not to make any sudden movement. "Let me do something for you. Anything, please."

"You can’t." She whispered, her voice barely audible. "No one can. Please, just go. He’s going to be here soon, and I-I can’t let him see you."

She was holding onto that story like it was a lifeline, but the way her hands trembled and her breath hitched betrayed her doubt.

"What if he doesn’t?" Chris asked gently. "What if he’s not coming back tonight?"

Her face fell for a brief moment before she quickly masked it, straightening up.

"He will." She said, though there was no conviction in her tone. "He always does."

Chris nodded, looking around dismissively.

"Okay. Maybe he will. But just in case... maybe you could let me help you. You don’t have to trust me, I get that. I'm a stranger. But let me offer you something. A safe place to wait."

"I don’t have anywhere to go." She admitted, her voice so quiet it was almost lost in the night air. "Just our house. And I don't think I should go back there now."

Chris’s heart twisted at her words and how uncertain they sound, but he kept his expression neutral, careful not to show pity.

"Okay." He said softly. "Then maybe you can just... talk to me. You don’t have to get in my car. We can sit out here. I’ll stay right here in the open where you can see me."

She hesitated, her eyes darting to the ground.

"Why do you care so much?"

Chris crossed his legs above the pavement, relaxing his posture further.

"Because I know what it’s like to feel like you’re on your own." He said simply. "And because I don’t think anyone should have to go through something like this alone. You don’t deserve that."

She hesitated, her gaze watching her hands above her thighs.

"I won’t call the police unless you want me to." Chris added. "I won’t push you to do anything you don't want to do. But you don’t have to deal with this alone."

Her lip quivered, and she closed her eyes tightly, her voice barely a whisper.

"I don’t even know what I’d do."

Chris’s heart ached for her, but he kept his tone steady.

"How about this." He said. "I’ll stay with you until you figure that out. If you want, I can take you to a hotel, or I can help you find somewhere else to stay for the night. But whatever you decide, I’m not going to leave you here."

She was silent for a long time, her shoulders rising and falling with each shaky breath. Finally, she nodded, just once.

"Okay." She said.

Chris exhaled slowly, relief washing over him.

"Okay." He echoed.

For the first time that night, she looked at him fully, her eyes filled with a mix of fear and cautious hope.

He opened his widest smile in response, leaning back slightly with his palms against the curb behind his back and glancing up at the sky.

"You know." He started, his tone casual. "This isn’t exactly the way I imagined spending my Wednesday night."

Her eyes scanned his face carefully, frowning, feeling like she was the one to destroy his day - or night.

"What do you mean?" She asked hesitantly, her voice hoarse.

Chris shrugged, being careful not to mention his career. He didn't want to overwhelm her.

"Well, usually on Wednesdays, I’m sitting in my van with my brothers, arguing over who gets to pick the fast-food spot. We’re probably debating something ridiculous, too."

That earned him the smallest, almost imperceptible twitch of her lips. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was something. It encouraged Chris to continue.

"My brothers are idiots, by the way." He said, his tone light. "Don’t tell them I said that, though. They'll get big heads thinking I actually pay attention to their nonsense."

Her brow rose slightly, curiosity tugging at the edges of her expression, her body instinctively leaning towards him.

"What are they like?"

Chris chuckled, throwing his head to the side, laying his cheek against his shoulder and looking at her eyes.

"They're amazing. Weird, but amazing. They're so funny in their individual way, always making me laugh so hard that sometimes I feel like I could pass out."

This time, she let out a soft, breathy laugh, and Chris felt a flicker of warmth in his chest. It was small, but it was progress.

"You’re close with them?" She asked quietly.

"Yeah." Chris said, nodding. "It’s hard not to be when you all live and do everything together. But they’re good guys. Annoying as hell, but good."

She looked down at her hands, her fingers fidgeting with the frayed edge of his hoodie sleeve.

"Must be nice." She murmured.

Chris’s smile faltered for a moment, but he recovered quickly.

"It is." He admitted. "But, you know, we fight sometimes. Like, really fight. Last week, Matt threw a punch at me because I wouldn’t stop talking during his game."

Her lips twitched again, and this time, it was a small, shy smile.

"What were you saying?" She asked, her voice soft but carrying a hint of amusement.

"Oh, some random shit. Can’t even remember now. Probably something embarrassing, knowing me." Chris grinned. "Matt said I was ruining his concentration, but honestly, I think he just doesn’t appreciate my brain work."

She shook her head slightly, her smile lingering.

"You’re ridiculous." She said softly, almost reflexively, but as soon as the words left her mouth, her expression shifted. Her body tensed up, her shoulders pulling in as her eyes darted to him in alarm. "I didn’t mean-"

"Guilty as charged." Chris smoothly interrupted her, opening a smirk while looking at her, trying to express through his eyes that it was okay. "But, hey, if ridiculous is what it takes to make you laugh, then I’m all in."

Her looked down again at the pavement, scraping her shoes over the small rocks.

"Thanks." She said quietly.

"For what?" Chris asked, his voice gentle.

"For... keeping me company." She said, her gaze fixed on her lap. "I don’t feel... as bad right now."

Chris felt a lump in his throat but pushed it down, keeping his tone light.

"Anytime." He said. "I’ve got a whole arsenal of dumb stories and good jokes if you need them."

She looked at him then, her eyes softer than before.

"You’re really nice." She said, pressing her lips in a fine line.

Chris shrugged, a faint blush creeping up his neck.

"I just don’t like seeing people hurt." He said honestly. "And, I don’t know, you seem like someone who deserves a lot better than... all this."

Her eyes filled with tears, and for a moment, Chris thought she might start crying again. Instead, she took a deep breath and nodded.

"Thanks." She said again, her voice steadier this time.

Chris gave her a warm smile.

"No problem. Now, how do you feel about bad puns? Because I’ve got a killer one about a duck and a lawyer."

Her laughter filled the cold night air, causing a large smile to stretch across Chris's lips. He would do everything in his power to help this girl.

© vanteguccir

[drytacomeat]

Yandere!Femboy who keeps “accidentally” sending you nudes.

It started with intentional soft porn basically: him making little videos or taking little pics showing off some new lingerie he bought. He just wanted your opinion of course! No ulterior motives.

Then he began exclusively sending close ups of the front of his panties, cock hard through them or close ups of his ass.

Still…you thought nothing of it. He loved you, but he hated how oblivious you could be so he reasoned that it would be best to get more…intense.

First, he sent you one particular picture in a pair of pink panties. He was standing up in front of the camera with his arms holding up his (your) fluffy pink hoodie that he hadn’t washed since he stole it from you. His slight abs were on show for you as was his tiny waist.

But that wasn’t the star of the show, no. If you would be just a little more observant, the tip of his leaky cock was sticking out of the hem of the underwear!

When you mentioned it to him, he was quick to defend and claimed he hadn’t even noticed! Silly him!

The next occurrence was a step much farther than the previous one because…why the fuck hadn’t you made a move on him yet?

You both had lecture that morning, but you noticed that your yandere had not come to class. He usually never missed a class, so you thought that was weird.

Just when you were about to text him and ask him about his absence, you noticed he had sent you a video!

You figured the poor thing was probably sending you a rant about how sick he was feeling or how his car broke down or something!

But no, when you clicked on the video, there he was laid upon his bed of pink and white covers. Sure, that wasn’t weird, but he was lying there completely bare accept for a pair of knee high socks.

Your eyes widened as you realized that he was pumping his oddly thick and long cock quickly. It was so pretty too, nice and pink right at the tip. He had put lots of lube on his cock so it was shining and shlicking as he pumped himself. Thank god you had your headphones in!

His moans were so sweet, and his whimpers were oh so needy.

He was staring directly into the camera as he began to speed up his movements, biting his bottom lip harshly. His tongue lolled out of his mouth as he began pumping himself faster. Drool dripped down his tongue, his stomach flexed and tightened, and he was pumping himself at the speed of light almost.

Next thing you know, you heard a particularly whiny and high pitched moan as he came all over himself. His face was scrunched so prettily and lewdly, white pearly droplets of cum falling all over his hand and stomach.

As he came down from his high, he began to smile cutely at the camera before dipping his finger down into the cum and sucking it off with a loud *pop!*

He fluttered his eyelashes prettily before he reached for the phone, ending the video.

You came back to yourself, mouth gaping and eyes blinking as your screen went dark. Nobody sat behind you or beside you expect for him, so you were able to take a second to just process what you were sent.

When you gained function of your brain again, you shot off a text:

“Did you mean to send this to me?”

The situation that really ticked you off though?

You were assigned a group project for your physics class. The group you had been assigned to happened to be some people who were mentors in an association you were planning to join.

You were so excited about getting an opportunity to converse with them, you had forgot that you and your yandere had planned on watching movies together that night.

He was so pissed off when you canceled on him last minute that he had to figure out a way to sabotage the entire meeting.

He snuck into the study room you all had booked for the evening and cut the wires on the projectors. Then, he stole all of the paperwork you had for the project and shredded it! Don’t worry, he made copies so you wouldn’t receive a complete zero! He know how important your studies where to you.

But, your project was practically done for and your colleagues thought you were incompetent and irresponsible.

Don’t you worry, though. Your sweet yandere had a nice, lovely surprise for you.

As you arrived back to your dorm, absolutely drained from the day, you unlocked your phone to check up on any unread messages.

Of course your yandere has bombarded you with messages. You open up you guys’ chat to be met with a bunch of random messages and other stuff. You sighed as you continued to stroll down until the very bottom.

Weird. It seems he sent you video the exact moment you got home. The video had a cover photo of two kittens with the caption “us” on it.

You smiled as you clicked on the video, but your face quickly dropped as the cover photo went away. After about a second, you were met with you yandere sat directly in front of the camera, sat on his knees on the floor. He was bare ass naked on the hardwood floor of his apartment and his ass sat taut faced away from the direction of the camera.

He had a clear dildo nestled between his cheeks. He looked towards the camera with a pout before positioning the dildo towards his hole and dropping down onto it immediately.

His eyes rolled to back of his head as he let out a lewd mewl.

You quickly gasped and shut your phone off.

What the fuck was his problem?

Sorry for any errors! I’m a bit of a lazy writer and hoping to answer some requests soon!

[lazysoulwriter]

safe here. - pedro pascal. ── .✦

requested! thank you. content: fluff overload, cuddly Pedro, big arms, big hands, small girlfriend energy, fans noticing how he melts into her hugs, gentle physical intimacy, relationship goals vibes

---

Pedro gives the best hugs.

Like, award-winning. God-tier. Can-he-suffocate-me-with-love level.

It’s the arms, really. Thick and strong, always wrapping around you with this all-consuming kind of warmth. One second you’re upright, the next you’re fully cocooned in him—your cheek to his chest, your entire body dwarfed under the size of him.

And those hands? His palm practically covers the entire top half of your back when he presses you close. It’s ridiculous. Unfair. Euphoric.

He always holds you like he’s afraid to let go. Like he’s making sure you know: This is home.

Even when people are around, cameras flashing, interviews waiting—he’ll take a second, wrap his arms around your waist from behind and rest his chin on your shoulder.

“I needed this,” he’ll murmur into your neck. “You okay?”

And the thing is, he never lets go first.

Even when you start pulling back, he holds on just a beat longer. Like you get to decide when the hug ends, not him.

It drives the internet insane.

After one red carpet, a clip goes viral:

You’re hugging him before stepping back for photos. Pedro’s arms are fully around you, your face pressed to his chest. His hand spreads massive against your back, and people start timing it—

“she pulls away first and he doesn’t even move 😭” “you can see his thumb rubbing her back just once before she steps away omfg” “this is PEAK boyfriend behavior” “his hand is literally half her back. i would never recover.”

And the zoom-ins? Unhinged.

Fans start calling them “Pedro Hugs™” and begging for a hug POV video. Some say they’d pay rent just to be held like that once. One person starts a countdown of how long it takes him to let go in public hugs.

Pedro finds it all hilarious. And maybe a little blushy.

“They’re obsessed with your arms,” you tease one night, scrolling.

He raises a brow, smug. “Jealous?”

You snort. “Only because I have to share you with the internet.”

He kisses the top of your head. “Nah. These arms?” He wraps them around you again, snug. “Exclusively yours.”

And he holds you until you say when.

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

taglist: @sarahhxx03 @lloydmustache @lolareadsimagines @greenwitchfromthewoods @silksepia @pascalswiftie @itstokyo-cos @mani-pedro @llsister @authorbriannarae13 @introvrtedjellyfish @aj0elap0l0gist @spencercmlover @cixrosie @cherrqbaby @cup-half-full-of-anxiety @joelmillerpascal @freakbobcult @sunlightpleasure@barnes70stark @mooniscrying @ohnaurshayla @croissantbakerylws @nellispunk @kasienka @taylorswiftsrep-blog @emerencedaily @byzyz @noovaarq @kristend512 @alltounwell @libbyaller @beaagiannelli @broad-shouldrs @oceanmcu @kysosa @melloispunk @jollycupcakeblizzard @angvlicsoulll @needz1nk @daddypascal17 @agustdpeach @mrsbilicablog @k4t13ispunk @hotdadlvr95 @lnnysnts @pedropascalfan221 @queenofklonnie22 @christinamadsen @ilovecheriies @stvr-bloom

[clairewritesfanfics]

Inside an Otoge: Mister Dragon, Let Me Love You Chapter 4

Pairing: Dragon!Sylus x Non-MC!Reader

CHAPTER 3 | Series Masterlist <<read the synopsis and trigger warnings first>>

A/N: Another update, because apparently, my brain will do anything except study anatomy.

The science of world-hopping is far from your expertise, but even with your high school-level grasp on physics, you understood the sheer miracle of getting transported into a dimension where the environment is not hostile and shares similarities with Earth’s atmosphere. Perhaps even more impressive is the fact that there is no verbal language barrier between you and Sylus. 

That’s why you are currently sitting on a gold and velvet chair while he lies on his side, cheek on his knuckles, and listens to you read your worn-out copy of The Little Prince,[1] the only reading material in your bag that isn’t related to your job.

When he first saw the cover, he was unimpressed, calling the titular prince “ugly.” You didn’t blame him. When you first laid eyes on it, you also didn’t like the artstyle, but you were young and prioritized realism and beauty. When you grew older, you appreciated the unique and cute character designs. 

“She cast her fragrance and her radiance over me. I ought never to have run away from her . . . I ought to have guessed all the affection that lay behind her poor little strategems. Flowers are so inconsistent! But I was too young to know how to love her . . .”

You are about to start another chapter when you catch Sylus with his eyes closed. Chuckling, you put a detached can tab between the pages. Maybe this novella is too boring for the great fiend. You move to stand, but he pinches the material of your shirt. “What’re you doing? Why did you stop?”

“I was going to let you sleep.”

“‘m not sleeping, I’m just resting my eyes.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I want to know what happens between him and the flower.”

“... fine. But if I catch you dozing off I’ll stop and you’re going to have to learn to read these words yourself.” You love this book but it is too long to be recited in one go. 

As you have predicted, by the time you reach the chapter about the Businessman, a lonely and pathetic man who counts the stars and only sees them as “little glittering objects” to be possessed, your throat has become too raw and you couldn’t continue. 

Fortunately, your spoiled dragon is too busy sleeping to protest. You bookmark the page and quietly set it down. “Sweet dreams.”

You take this time to find the exit, not to escape, just to know. You eventually find it. The cave opens to a cliffside overlooking a city boasting a castle that resembles a gothic Neuschwanstein Castle.

You breathe in the fresh air. Crisp and cool and not a trace of smog. 

Left alone in silence, all the questions that you forced into a vault have pushed their way to the front and center of your mind. 

Why were you brought here? What forces were behind this? Was it on purpose or an accident? Was this world  truly real? Did you get run over by a truck, end up in a coma and now stuck in this dream? Maybe the wormhole was a convoluted way for your brain to rationalize this.

You stretch your hand toward the sky as if trying to touch the clouds. If this was a dream, then…

You close your hand. 

“It doesn’t matter.”

A strong gust of wind howls at you. You grab onto the wall of the cave, almost falling over to certain death.

You raise your brows. The skies remain clear, but for a moment, it seemed like a storm was brewing. 

Shaking your head, you step back inside and explore more of the cave.

That evening, Sylus awoke to see you standing over him, watching him. He had to shut his eyes again. He would sooner stick needles into his tongue than admit that you scared him for a moment. 

“Did I scare you?” You tease him.

“...”

It is unnerving to have someone read him so easily.

Loathing, revulsion, disgust–he is all too used to these looks from humans. As a child, he would have done anything to have something different, something softer. He even tried to cut off his horns and tail, but nothing changed. When he grew up, he discarded such desires. A monster could never receive anything but the darkest tar of human emotion. 

“Hey, can I ask a question about dragons?”

“If you’re interested in making a deal with me, don’t bother. Your soul is too…” Your greed is nothing he has ever encountered before. It is there, he can sense its weight in you, but it resembles a tamed beast. No, rather than tamed, your greed is like a wild animal that had lost hope of ever escaping its chains. As if you’ve given up hope for anything more. “You have nothing to offer me.”

“Oh, no, I don’t want to make a deal.” 

He snickers. Of course. “Fine. Tell me your question.”

“Do dragons have two penises?”

“...”

“...”

“...”

“...?”

“Repeat the question for me.”

“Do dragons have two–”

“–so I wasn’t hallucinating.” He rubs his temples. “You… I have no words.”

“Is that a no?”

“Do try not to sound so disappointed. Also, I advise that you not ask this type of question to anyone, regardless of species.”

“But I’m only interested in what you have to say.” 

He glances at you. There is not a hint of shame or deceit on your face. Ever since you arrived here, you have never looked at him the way others have. You always meet his gaze head on, steady, unafraid but never arrogant or angry. You told him that he reminded you of the sunset. If that were so, then you are a clear sky. 

He could never stand mornings. The light makes him weak and irritates his eyes. But if he were an ordinary man, a human, would the sun that used to burn him be kind and gentle like what he was feeling right now?

You did say that you belonged to him now, so it shouldn’t matter if he gets greedy.

“Sylus?” 

He stops his hand mid-air before it could reach you. “Your voice is hoarse.” 

“Gee, I wonder why.” 

He gets up from the bed, stretching his wings. “Don’t pout. I’ll make it up to you.”

“Will you?”

He smiles. “A dragon never goes back on his word.” 

He leads you to the cave’s entrance and gestures towards the black castle below. “At the foot of this mountain is Tarus City. It’s considered the lowliest of all the cities here. But its markets have a lot of interesting things. Perhaps you will even find an object that can meet your impossible standards.”

He offers you his hand and you hold it without hesitation. He stares at your fingers, small and fragile next to his claws. This is not the hand of a fighter. If he applies just a little bit more pressure, the bones would break like eggshells. He could have never imagined something so delicate would willingly approach him.

“I’m assuming that your kind cannot fly,” he says.

“You would be correct,” you reply, already knowing what he is planning as he bends over and scoops you into his arms. 

“Better hold on tight then.”

His bat-like wings spread to their full length and push the two of you upward. 

This scene feels exactly like a CG scene from an otome game, or even a shoujo manga, where the darling female lead wraps her arms around the male lead. But you keep your hands to yourself as Sylus soars across the moonlit night. 

“You’re stiff. Got nothing smart to say?” He asks.

That steady gaze of yours remains on him. “I’m admiring the view.”

“I caught you doing the same thing while I slept. Will you get tired of it?”

“I don’t think that’s physically possible.”

“Normally, people would be admiring the scenery below. It’s not everyday a human can live like a bird.”

“I don’t need it.” This world is lovely, without a doubt, but whatever is below you is nothing compared to Sylus’s face which could be part of the Seven Wonders. Besides, you want to ingrain every one of his pores into your memory. 

“We’re here.” He slows down and drops a few meters away from the city entrance.

You make no effort to hide your disappointment as he sets you on the ground. 

“Did you enjoy being held by me that much?”

“Why ask when you already know the answer.” You then let out an exaggerated, playful sigh.

“Now, now. There are plenty of chances to hold each other in the future.” 

“Sure, sure.” You shrug and then realize something. “Oh, wait–my clothes…”

“Don’t fret, you may end up getting some strange looks but ultimately, the citizens here have their own problems to worry about. They can’t afford to be nosy about a harmless thing like you.”

“Fair enough. Let’s go then.” 

The city was designed after the word “gloom,” with a silent dread perpetually hanging over every person you pass. This place is like Gotham in medieval times. 

“Your eyes are sparkling,” Sylus notes, amused at how your head swings back and forth with childlike vigor.

A normal NPC would be affected by this darkness, but not you. You find yourself wishing you had a working phone so you could take pictures. A true, obnoxious tourist. 

“In my world, this type of trip wasn’t affordable to me. And even if I had the money, going on alone would’ve made me too stressed to enjoy myself.”

“Is that so?”

You rub your palms together as you admire the iron lamp post that lined the streets. “Yeah, and I would have never gotten an opportunity like this in the past.” You turn to him, beaming uncontrollably. “So thank you, Sylus.” 

Sylus stops walking. 

You stop too. “What is it?”

He touches his chest and opens his mouth, but no words escape. He narrows his eyes, but not at you.

“Sylus?”

He lets his arm drop to his side as he looks up at the sky. “It’s nothing.” 

You silently watch him, your own face blank, then you grin. This time, your smile is subdued. “All right.”

He holds out his hand. You put yours on top and he places a pouch of coins on it. 

“Feel free to look around. I have some business to attend to, it won’t be long and if you need me, just call my name. I’ll come to you, no matter what.”

“Okay.”

You watch him walk away, disappearing in the shadows. You let out a breath, the cold air fogging in front of you. “‘Nothing,’ huh.” You didn’t think it would happen so fast. 

Whatever.

Deciding to do as you promised, you approach some of the stalls. You haven’t eaten anything since that pack of Pocky and since you would rather not touch the meat here, you opted for the pastries. 

As you sit on a bench chewing your second pretzel, an elderly woman dressed in a black hooded robe wobbles towards you. She points an accusatory finger. “You… you are not of this world.”

Oh?

You continue to eat, ignoring her.

“You shouldn’t be here. You need to leave!” With a burst of energy, she rushes forward and clamps her hands over your shoulders, knocking the pretzel away from you.

You don’t fight back though. You keep your expression unreadable and let her ramble.

“It doesn’t want you here. You need to leave. You will doom us all…and you will die!”

“Everyone dies, though, granny. And you may end up going before me.”

She seems taken aback by your apathy. Her shock then morphs into rage. “I’m warning you! If you’re not careful, you will get killed!”

It is your turn to grab her–you hold her fingers tightly and lean forward. “Really? How does it happen? More importantly, who gets to kill me? Are their eyes as gorgeous as polished rubies? If not, then can you tell me how to get that person to kill me? I have no interest in getting murdered by anybody but him.” Your questions come after another in rapid succession.

“Answer me, granny, who kills me?” 

The old woman’s legs shook and you let go. With a sigh, you retreat. “I didn’t mean to scare you, ma’am, but you should be careful when telling people about their destiny.”

“Granny!” Two little boys run towards the shaking old woman. “So you were here, mother has been looking everywhere for you.”

One of the boys bow to you. “We’re so sorry if she offended you in some way. She’s sick so please pardon her.”

You wave them off. “Apologies are not needed, but you should keep a close eye on her.”

“We will…” The boys move to help their granny walk.

“Wait.” You pick up the bag full of pastries and give it to the boy. It isn’t just the granny, all three of them are frail enough to be knocked down by a faint breeze. 

“But…”

“Just take it.”

“T-thank you!”

Picking up your other purchases, you go to find a different place to wait for Sylus. You feel bad for picking on an old lady, but you wanted to see if she were an authentic fortune teller. To be honest, the information you’ve gathered can only result in an inconclusive answer because this whole “reality” could not be trusted. Still, it is better to lean into caution. 

You hold your chin. That woman saying that you are “not of this world” is too specific, but this place co-exists with different species and acknowledges the existence of a metaphysical plane like the Abyss, so there is a chance that she saw your abnormal clothes and thought you were a non-human similar to Sylus. The statement doesn’t necessarily have to refer to a different reality.

It doesn’t want you here. 

It. 

“Killed, not die…” This is quite the pickle. “...killed…not die.”

Hm.

Hmmmmm…

You have decided. 

“This is tomorrow’s problem.” You wish your future self good luck because you don't care anymore.

Before you can stand, a shady-looking man stumbled towards you, eyes glossed over and posture uneven. A drunk. “Haven’t seen you here before.”

You grab your things. 

“Hey now, no need for that, I just want to… want to talk with you.”

He is a malnourished drunk so you could probably push him away, but it’s always better to avoid a confrontation. 

“Hey… hey! Don’t ignore me!” He lunges forward, but is blocked by a solid wall forming between the two of you. No, not a wall.

Sylus stands in front of you. “Did you need something from my companion?”

“Huh? Who the hell are you? Don’t get in the way of our fun!” He throws a punch but your dragon dissolves his fist up to his elbow.

“Um, Sylus…” You tap your savior’s shoulder. 

“Do me a favor and turn around and cover your ears, puppy. I don’t think I have the right mind to be clean about this.”

“Well, sure, but before that, I have a request. Please don’t kill him.”

He glances over to you. “You can’t be serious. If you could see and hear the… filth that he was planning to do to you…” His right eye glows dangerously. “I cannot possibly leave this garbage alone.”

“Leave? All I want is for you to keep him alive.”

Sylus pauses. “You mean–”

“–think of it as a personal request, but if you really want to kill him I won’t hold it against you.” 

You are a person from the 21st century. It would be difficult to continue knowing someone died because they were related to you in some way. You are fine with them being barely alive though. 

You then turn around and cover your ears. You have to hum and whisper-sing random songs to distract yourself. Even if you were happy to vote for torture, that doesn’t mean you could stomach the sound of a living creature screaming in agony. 

“...making my way downtown walking fast and I’m homebound–ah.” Something warm and fluffy ends up on your shoulders. 

“It’s done,” Sylus says, adjusting the cloak. “He’s still alive. The amputation was successful, all five of them.”

“Good to know–hey!” 

He uses his body to block you from taking a glimpse of the carnage. The smell of rust and urine permeates the air.

“It’s an ugly sight.”

“...All right.”

“Are you not going to fight me on this?”

“It’s sweet that you remembered that I don’t like gore. I’ll trust your judgment.” Reading and watching records of criminal cases is a different experience from a real life slaughter. 

“I thought I told you to call for me if you encountered trouble.” He secures the gold clasp of the cloak around your neck. 

“Yes, but you arrived before I got the chance to scream. I appreciate the assist.”

He shakes his head lightly and pulls the hood over your head. “Your composure is astounding.”

“I hope your business meeting or errand went well.”

He hums in response before pinning a brooch on the left breast of your new coat. 

You examine the shimmering accessory. “I’ve never seen red thorn apples before.” The primary florals are made with garnets framed by gold leaves and complemented by tiny dots of diamonds that resembled tuberose flowers.[2]

“Is it too gaudy?”

You laugh softly at his pettiness and caress the wine-red blossom. “Not at all. It’s beautiful.” You hope your customer service smile would be enough to trick him.

“Not as beautiful as my ‘polished ruby’ eyes, I hope.”

“You heard that, huh.” 

“I think the whole market heard the commotion you made.”

“It was more of a kerfuffle.” 

He quirks his brow.

“It wasn’t a big deal. I wanted to teach her about manners, but now I’m starting to feel guilty.” You then dramatically draw circles on your belly.

He grins and offers his hand. “Come. I’ll treat you to something delicious.”

“I refuse to eat Wanderer’s meat.” You put your hand in his. If he fed it to you then maybe you would consider partaking in technical cannibalism. 

He cocks his head to the side. “You are impossible to please.”

“Really? I’d say I’m quite low maintenance.” You surprise yourself every time you say such lines. It is getting ridiculously easy to spout out these half-truths.

Important author’s notes:  [1] The Little Prince is a novella by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. If you haven’t read it, I suggest giving it a try. The book explores the innocence of youth, loneliness and isolation, human relationships and the responsibilities and vulnerability that come with these relationships.  Why does Y/N carry a pocket-sized copy with them to work? Speaking from personal experience, I like to have a good, comforting book with me when I feel sad. A security blanket of sorts.

[2] Thorn apples: Datura stramonium. Other common names are devil's trumpets, moonflowers and jimsonweed. In floriography, they mean “I dreamed of thee.” In the right doses, this plant can be used in treating various ailments. However, it has hallucinogenic properties.  Tuberose: Agave amica. An expensive blossom that is used in perfume-making. These flowers can mean “dangerous pleasures.” References: Floriography - the language of Flowers. Flowers by Flourish. (2015, January 27). https://www.flowersbyflourish.com/floriography/  

Fun fact, according to a post on the LoveAndDeepspace subreddit, the flowers present in the Sylus: Abyssal Blossom card are most likely thorn apples. The original poster (OP) makes a lot of good points. You can read it here.  

@phisen @leryg0 @capribun @sinnamon-bunn @wegottastayfocus @erisnxxi @syyyy4ever @limerenceisserenity

Thank you to everyone taking the time to comment. I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Part 5: here Masterlist: here

[voidhope]

The Other Woman

(Part 2 FINALE)

—

Synopsis: Miguel had left Y/N for another version of his old wife in hopes of getting his old life back. To only realize the mistakes he’s made.

Link to Part 1

Pair: Miguel O’Hara x Spider!reader

Warnings: very heavy mental health, ANGST LIKE A LOT OF ANGST, ALL OF THIS IS ANGST, mentions of death/almost dying, long term establish relationship, cheating, swearing, therapy, physical fight, blood, feral protective miguel?

—

A/N: hello again! this one is more heartbreaking and longer than the first part oof… Very low dialog up until closer towards the end! wanted to just get through telling the story itself and the emotions. It’s just a very heavy storyline!! I want to say thank you so so much for showing so much support for part 1 i had no idea it would receive that much attention :O !! i wrote this out kinda fast as i didn’t want to loose the momentum of the idea. so apologies for any mistakes! all feedback is greatly appreciated ~

—————————————————

You used to make Miguel coffee everyday, with one cream two sugars, and he would nag about how he hated the taste. It was to your liking, not his. As you would sneakily take sips out of his mug while working next to him. Why didn’t you just get your own coffee? You claimed you could never finish it and just wanted a taste out of his. Miguel would roll his eyes at you every time he caught you but he adored it. He had secretly grown to love the way you made it and had become his only way of making coffee after meeting you.

Now as this version of his older wife made it the way he is suppose to like coffee, bland and straight, he found himself bothered by it. Going as far to correct her even though this was what he had been claiming to have missed so much. He was now seeing himself teaching someone else how to love him like you did…

He was only a shell of the man he was when he had Gabriella. Even though the copy of his old wife has her same personality, the relationship couldn’t be exactly how it was before because he had changed so much. You had helped him become whole again. His tastes and likings had all switched to everything about you. The charm he found in his old wife doesn’t hold a light to you now and he was getting frustrated. He had wanted this so badly. He felt like those babies who whine and cry wanting to eat a lemon and once they get their way they realize the sour truth.

Miguel never truly realized what it was like to loose you until three weeks after he told you the truth. Over the years the idea of losing you terrified him but he only ever thought of it being in death. He never considered separation when everything was perfect for both of you then. There were times he believed that you were made just for him and he treated you like his queen. Which you truly were to him in his spider society. Why would he ever throw that away? Look at what he did.

He gave himself every excuse in the book before you knew he was cheating on you. ‘This is only for research.’ he would think every time he found himself back in that universe. As everyone knew he was so serious about his work, obviously this is just him getting to know more about certain universes and canons. Lyla was the only one seeing straight through him knowing where he was actually going. Things kept tumbling and the more he found out about the place and spent time with her the more his grief and yearning returned. It was all just there, so reachable.

There was a time his mind tried to snap him back out of it while cheating on you and made him realize the guilt. The first time he kissed this woman you were there in his mind. He came home right after and held you without saying a word. You never questioned him, just showed him comfort as much as you could. Lightly stroking his back, you never over stepped or pushed him when he was vulnerable with you. He only closed his eyes and held onto you tighter processing how you were always too good for him. He was converting to living two different lives; his old self during the day and then coming home to you. He didn’t want to let go of either at the time.

Once he found out he could safely have Gabriella again was when he became distant with you. The shame of using you for research made him become stoic. He didn’t want to admit how wrong he was treating you. All while you were always being so loyal and trusting towards him. Things were slowly slipping through the cracks and he knew he couldn’t up keep it. He wished he could have had that conversation with you so much differently but it was over. Now he had his old life back, a dream he had his mind set on.

He ignored the shakiness in his hands when he returned to her after letting you go. ‘It’s all for the best.’ is what he would repeat in his mind as a mantra. His new girlfriend truly had no idea who he really was or what his background was. Miguel continued to feed her lies to the point where he even started believing them himself getting too lost in avoiding what he’s done. He believed he was happy as he spent time with her.

When she got too close to finding the truth after finding his wedding ring in one of his pockets, he set her off course from it by revealing his spider identity and taking her to HQ. This was the day that everything felt like it was crashing around him. Being reminded of his marriage, having to face his friends with his new lover, sharing his personal spider life, his work with someone who wasn’t you. He excused himself rushing to an unused office room while his chest was tightening. Pupils dilating as he realized it was his first time having a panic attack.

Nevertheless he continued to push it all aside and act completely normal with his girlfriend. He was feeling your absence the most while working. You had became an extension of him. He had trained you from scratch and you helped him build this society he has now. You knew the ins and outs of everything and fought perfectly alongside him. Now that he was on his own he let his girlfriend be there for him when he got stressed, but there always was a knot in his stomach he never could get rid of.

The more his mental health ate at him late at night the more he considered searching out for you. There was no closure between both of you and he never got to listen to how you feel. What was your opinion on all that happened? Do you hate him?

He wanted to speak with someone so badly but he dug himself in a hole too deep. You were gone, he was lying through his teeth to this poor woman he’s kept for some fantasy, he felt too ashamed to say anything to his friends, he would rather die if all his workers found out how big of a piece of shit he is. Anytime Lyla tried peeping a word that wasn’t work related he would snap. He had pushed everyone away and now he just felt alone.

Regardless he would wake up in the morning and swallow all his dark feelings. He would remember his grief of when he lost his family and it would put him back in the moment. He has another chance. He was happy with the direction he was going in now.

Right?

—

The day he found out you were at HQ he felt his heart stop. He was mid mission trying to call for Lyla but she wouldn’t answer. Frustrated he tried looking into what was happening only to see her busy having a conversation with you. It felt like something took over him when he opened a portal in less than a second. Without thinking nor wasting a heartbeat he rushed back. Just a glimpse of you, maybe just to hear a word out of your mouth. The feeling of having you back in HQ was making him ignore all his insecurities. How he would coward at the thought of trying to reach out to you before. You were in his home, your home, and the thought drove him wild.

You were already long gone though. Lyla stared at him not saying a word. The quietness in the room making his ears ring but his thoughts were screaming in his head. He stood there frozen still trying to recollect himself. He was the one that left you, what is wrong with him?

Again he went back and forth in his own head trying to convince himself ‘You wanted this.’ but if he did why is he feeling like someone just killed a puppy in front of him? Why is he here fighting with his self if this is really his dream? Why did he try chasing after you? The wounds of his past grief were too deep. He never took the time to properly heal and now look at what he’s become.

“Miguel, what’s this?” He was startled turning around seeing his girlfriend holidng your watch and skimming through the divorce paperwork addressed to him.

There was no more hiding, no more lying. He swallowed hard even though his throat was dry. He let everything he had kept away rise to surface. It hurt him to see the beautiful face his old wife shared contort into such anger and pain while finding the truth.

She didn’t stay, but for some reason he wasn’t upset. Though he longed for his daughter, he knew it would have never been the same now. He finally closed the door on his past. His heart had made the choice this time but it’s too late. Now grasping onto the divorce papers left by you, emptiness spread through his soul.

—

You on the other hand did not find yourself crying by yourself on a rooftop for long. The shift in the air from your arrival alerted the local spider-man immediately.

“It didn’t work out, did it?” He crouched down next to you as he noticed your watch gone and your missing wedding band.

Peter Parker knew both you and Miguel. Your husband had come to do many rounds of research in this universe when he took you. Eventually offering this Peter a spot in the society, which he politely declined due to just being busy enough here. You both never spoke much but always had an appreciation for each other.

“Do you need a place to crash at?” He continued while trying to get you to look at him. Reaching his hand towards you.

You had absolutely no one and you had been gone so long you couldn’t even go back to the little you had. When you met Miguel you didn’t hesitate to never look back and now it filled you with regret. How naive were you to put all your trust and reliance on him.

You took Peter’s hand. You were ready to start your own life and be your own person now.

—

Peter Parker was nice enough to let you stay with him as long as you needed it. You both had became ‘besties!’ as he would love to poke at you. The first month with him you were a disaster really but he showed you how he liked to cope using his spider abilities.

The first thing he helped you with was getting a new suit. Your old one resembled too much to Miguel’s and you felt suffocated every time you put it on. Peter had taught you to use your current emotional pain on whichever sad little villain was making trouble out in Brooklyn that night.

“Come on, we got multiverse spider-woman helping me keep these streets clean now!” He would taunt at the men while watching you easily take them out a little bit too aggressively. His feet kicking up and down while he sat on the side of a building watching you. The crime rate did go down a bit once word got around how strong your punch was. Peter’s just happy he can now spend some nights to himself.

You got yourself a job at the mart on the corner to help cover bills for Peter and save up. You were grateful enough the owners never batted an eye when you would disappear during a shift to either suddenly go cry uncontrollably or beat the shit out of someone at a nearby robbery. Next thing you were enrolling yourself back in university, wanting to finish that degree you never did.

It wasn’t too long that some of your older spider friends would stop by to check in on you. Seeing them was difficult sometimes, you were internally itching to ask about Miguel. Things were going okay for you on a very slow path of breathing step by step. You never wanted to feel that hurt again and so you very well pretend like Miguel didn’t exist if you could.

You couldn’t ignore the hurt resurfacing when you passed couples on the street. Or when you found yourself going to fidget with your wedding ring just to remember it’s gone. You can’t just move on from a relationship that was so deeply apart of you and lasted so long. You gave everything to him and it will take you much time to get yourself to build trust again.

After two semesters, you finally had your graduation. All the things you learned while in Earth-928 paid off as you barley had to study. Passing top of the class, you immediately got an offer for an internship opportunity with Alchemax and was able to get an introduction tour of the building beforehand.

What you hadn’t realized was that Alchemax had been looking for that girl who snuck into their offices a couple years ago. Who made another dimension’s spider appear and then went missing herself soon after. They had kept as close tabs on you as they could and how foolish you were to think your little break in wouldn’t come back to bite you. The moment you stepped foot back in their building, it was over for you.

—

Miguel had spent a whole year in much deserving therapy. Nothing could stop the embarrassment he felt when Peter B signed him up with HQ’s best spider-therapist after 3 months of constant out bursts. No one could come near the man when he felt like he had lost everything. Those first initial months were difficult for everyone around him.

Therapy did help, he hates to admit it, but it was a very rough ride. He finally was able to understand his deep inner term oil and heal his issues but moving on from you? No, he could never.

You were the only one who had sincerely stood by his side, always rooting for him. He never fell out of love with you despite of everything that he did. He just pushed everything down too deep and was blinded by obsession. Till now he could never deny that he still loves you. Maybe if he just would have went to therapy years ago instead of acting out on unsolved grief none of this would have happened. The guilt always making him toss and turn at night.

He would have big temper tantrums when he would find his coworkers going to visit you time to time and not sharing any details. He needed to know if you’re okay. Did you already move on? He longed to find you and speak with you but he knew he wasn’t ready yet. He was so self destructive and this was what he deserved.

Everyone avoided him completely when he overheard someone saying you were living with Peter Parker. Fighting crime with him and having a cute little home life. Peter followed you around now like a puppy. Miguel did not take the news well at all. Let’s just say, the large bill replacement for his monitor screens was what snapped him out of that rage.

He also wanted to strangle Hobie Brown every time he saw a glint in his eye when your name was mentioned around. Yet Miguel couldn’t hate the kid either, as Hobie was one of the people to try help repair the damage he did to you. How badly he just wanted to hold you and shield you in his arms from any other people taking you from him as if he wasn’t the idiot to let you go in the first place.

Everyone’s big, powerful, scary boss was really just a grumpy, wallowing-in-self-pity, sensitive, lonely man now. Mention your name too much to him and watch him start crying or take it out on whatever he could find nearest to him. He would some nights scroll through your wedding photos while listening to your last tracked log with Lyla. Your words cutting through him deep like long sharp knives. How he urged to go tell you it was all wrong and how guilty he was for making you feel like this.

Despite it all, he still believed in being the best of the best. He used his work to distract himself from his sorrows, to become numb. Even though his divorce paperwork were set next to him on his desk to remind him the pain. He never signed it.

—

“We can’t tell him!” Jessica gritted through her teeth. Small group of spider-people were hovered around Lyla taking in the new found information.

“Her canon events have always been uncertain, we can’t just stop and fix this one?” Gwen Stacy suggested in hopes.

“We have never prevented a canon event of hers or the people involved in it. It could be even more dangerous than a regular canon.” Peter B spoke grimly.

“When ‘as danger ever stopped us?” Hobie spoke up.

“Everyone get your gear.” Lyla added to the stress of the situation.

—

You couldn’t open your eyes properly with a strong blinding light being held above you. Arms and legs secured on top of a metal surgical table. You could feel the warmth of blood scattered on certain parts of your body, slowly starting to dry. It was a mix of yours and the people you had tried fighting through to get out of here when you realize the trap you were reeled into. Different people in lab coats poked and pried all around you while you were tied. Your mask was thrown on another table and your suit had large gashes across it.

Soon you also could feel the presence of Peter Parker being brought to the room, thrown slumped in the corner breathing heavily. They had gotten you too good. They knew everything and had planned this so detailed.

“Now you’re going to help me open the multiverse.” Kingpin loomed around you. All you could feel was searing pain as a laser aimed right at your chest.

—

Miguel was already staring out the window to the glowing night lights of Nueva York when he saw a big hole appear in sight of the skyline. His eyebrows furrowed while he was trying to process what he was looking at. It wasn’t a second later when all alarms started going off in his office.

“Qué carajos?” He exclaimed seeing the alerts of a possible universe collapse. “Lyla! Why wasn’t this being taken care of already?”

“I already sent people.”

“Then what are they doing?” He yelled. His confusion and anger only furthered when he saw a red alarm for a canon event.

“Canon event?” He whispered to himself. He always knew when these were happening, there were none scheduled for today. There was no way he would let one passed him, it’s not like this could magically appear? His jaw dropped in realization… a new canon event.

“Lyla, tell me the truth. Why wasn’t this reported to me?” He made the atmosphere turn cold. She knew he already figured it out.

“A new canon event was received this morning being given to Peter Parker. Of Y/N L/N’s death.” The words from Lyla made Miguel’s body go still. His eyes raced side to side while he processed it.

“No!” He roared, a fist slamming into the nearby desk. His massive strength breaking it in half.

“Boss, you can’t go on this mission only using your emotions.” Lyla warned. However Miguel was already half way stepping through a portal to find you.

He appeared, watching his team struggle to shut down the machine causing the collapse. Outnumbered by the amount of Alchemax puppets. A different kind of rage filled him as he saw you, for the first time in a year, suffering. Miguel was never one to act reckless while on missions but he had no plan here and just ran off the pure adrenaline the fight or flight had hit him with.

His claws tore into the backs of his enemies as he jumped beast-like across the room. Not hesitating spilling blood across the wall while he took everyone down as fast as he could. His team could only watch wide eye with an unsettling fear as they saw Miguel lose himself to his spider sense. While he fought they took the opportunity to take apart the machine.

Miguel was panting heavily, pupils blown wide glowing red, and fangs dripping with venom as the room slowly silenced. Kingpin laid on the floor slowly trying to drag himself after being beaten to a pulp. It was over. Peter B stopped him from doing anything further. Knowing Miguel would kill the man, Peter B let the team finish up to give Kingpin to authorities. Miguel turned frantically to look at you seeing the other spiders step away. Peter Parker was hunched over you in tears. Miguel fought the urge to snap at Peter and grab his hands off of you.

Your vision was too blurry and everything felt like it was burning. A shape that seemed too familiar came into your peripheral vision and you tried to push yourself up.

“Miguel?” Was the last thing you croaked before slumping back passing out. Miguel catching you in his arms before you could hurt yourself further.

“It’s her time.” Jessica spoke behind him. Yet he was refusing to let go. He had never defied the way the timeline worked since he created his society. He would never break the rules and you both had promised each other before not to. If there was a situation like this you both agreed to save the universe first. How stupid was he to think he would listen to that now facing it in-front of him.

He never got to tell you what happened. He never got to apologize. He never got to tell you one more time that he loved you. Even if you in result just spat in his face, at least he was able to talk to you one more time. You were never a placeholder or someone to fill a hole in his heart. His whole heart belonged to you and he couldn’t let you go thinking you didn’t mean anything to him. No matter the consequences, he needed to tell you.

“Call all the teams to control the damage of a possible universe collapse.” He turned to Jess with Y/N tightly in his arms. The spider-people watched speechless as he opened a portal and disappeared.

—

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—

—

—

—

Two weeks you laid motionless in the HQ’s medbay.

The clean up after breaking the canon was a little intense. They were able to get it under control as the event started to fade from your timeline once you were returned and starting to heal in Earth-928.

The spider society would remain silent near the medbay. The lights always being dimmed and hushed whispers between staff to not bother the distressed O’Hara. He refused to leave.

Your Peter Parker had now joined the team, much to Miguel’s dismay. Everyday your friends would come in and check to see how you were. Some telling stories about their day or any gossip updates you missed, in hopes that it would get you to wake up. They would ignore the gloomy Miguel who was basically glued to the seat next to you not saying a word to anyone.

At night Miguel would play with your fingers and softly stroke your hair all while pleading “Please don’t leave me, please don’t leave me. Por favor mi alma.” He knew it wasn’t his place to beg this after what he did, but he didn’t mind the words falling on deaf ears.

Miguel hadn’t eaten in days, he felt too nauseous from anxiety to even try anything. Pavitr had done the favor to bring you and Miguel’s favorite empanadas from a small street vendor downtown. Hoping to get Miguel to at least try the food before he ended up in a hospital bed next to you due to starvation.

You started to blink open your eyes, spots surrounding your vision. You could hear a soft breathing to your right side and you slowly felt your sense come back one by one. It felt like you just had a really rough nap.

“Oh my god that smells so good.” You moaned, sitting yourself up to try to look at where the smell of food was coming from.

You were met with a wide eyed Miguel holding a box of empanadas. His jaw slacked open acting as if he’s seen a ghost looking at you. Confusion hit you first for a second and then you start to panic.

Why was he here? Why was your ex-husband sitting right here? You started to push away from him and Miguel caught on to your panic.

“No, no, no mi amor stop.” He tried calming you. “You’re hurt, you’re going to open your stitches.”

You suddenly remembered everything that happened right before you blacked out. At that moment you forgot the hurt you had towards your ex-lover. Gathering yourself you just stared at him. “I’m suppose to be dead.”

Tears rimmed your eyes. Why did it feel like life just hated you so much?

Miguel engulfed you in his arms as you started to cry. You didn’t care right now. You had ached for this feeling again, so alone, with the comfort Miguel used to bring you. Just for a moment you could pretend like how it was before.

“We can’t do this Miguel.”

He knew what you were thinking. He didn’t want to let you leave his arms yet, as he let his self hold harder and push your head closer into his the crook of his shoulder. The tickle of your breath on his neck, he just wanted this forever.

“She left. Almost a year ago.” He let out to you. A big weight coming off of his chest. You pulled back from him and looked up into his eyes while you watched him avoid your gaze. You felt bad to say you could feel a bit of satisfaction bubbling in you.

“Good, she deserved better.”

“So did you.” Miguel sighed playing with his hands. Your eyes widened when you saw the ring still on his finger. He let you stare. “I-I could never. I couldn’t.” The emotions struggle to come out of his mouth. You understood him though. You always did. Placing your hand on top of his you just nodded.

“Please stay here.” He whispered.

Miguel had broken you in so many ways. Yet he almost ruined another universe just to keep you alive. You both needed time to talk and coming out a coma right now isn’t good timing.

“I finally became my own person when I went back in my universe. I enjoyed my independence.” The words pelleted at him. He could only hold his breath as he waited for you to continue. “I’ll stay… but not for you.”

It wounded him deeply; but he deserved it. This place will always be a home for you even if he wasn’t apart of it. Before he can tear his gaze and turn away, you reached out to hold his face close to yours. Your fingers gently rubbing on his cheeks as you slowly look at him properly after so long. You let your thumb smooth over his frown lines and he leaned into your touch closing his eyes.

“Let’s give us time.” Was the words you blessed that opened every door of hope he could find. He would take it, he would absolutely take it. He has to fight for you, he has to prove to you. He would do anything but for now he’ll be on his best patiently waiting for you.

Both of you sat comfortably without speaking, only the faint background beeps of the hospital monitor making up for the silence, while passing small glances. For once both of you felt a missing warmth you didn’t realize you needed. Sharing empanadas with each other, just maybe it will be alright…

—————————————————

The end!!! Thank you so so much for your time in reading my story. i really really was so happy with all the comments and feedback on pt 1 it really meant a lot!!!

i hope this was ok ~ i apologize for how long it was i was thinking of doing another part but just wanted to finish this up. I was in such a conflict how to end this. i hope it wasn’t too cliche or anything i’m just a sucker for very wanty needy dramatic stories. It’s a hopeful ending tho~ i couldn’t pick with just happy or sad.

So many of you had tons of amazing suggestions which I appreciated so much. I was such a mess trying to figure it all out. Many of you wanted to see Y/N move on with another person but I ended up going this route. I used Peter Parker as an obv character in y/n’s universe but it’s not tied to any specific one and you guy can think of him more to your liking if you want to!

If any of you would like a small drabble or imagine of another route of this story or just anything angsty/possessive and rarwrarwbarkbark miguel. I’d be glad to help lol!! My request box is wide open~ i had so much fun writing this!

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[mercy-burning]

Of Bases & Supernovas

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Summary: You’re a bartender whose hookups keep ending up dead, and he’s an FBI agent who goes undercover as your newest fling to catch the culprit. Category: MATURE (18+) Content: Strong language, violence, kissing, groping, allusions to sex. The smut here is not extremely explicit, but still depicted through heavy space metaphors. Word Count: 2.8k

MASTERLIST

NOTE: If there was ever a man who was sooooo pussy-whipped and stupid around a beautiful woman that he completely risked his job just to Get It On, it would be Doctor Spencer Reid. I wholeheartedly believe that 😂 Written for @imagining-in-the-margins Undercover Writing Challenge ❤️

---------

As your fingers thoroughly comb through his hair, weaving and tugging and eliciting the most pathetic sounds from his mouth, Spencer Reid briefly reflects on how he got himself in this situation.

Two murders in the last two months, and then a third. Escalation. Bruised, bloody faces and shattered glass lodged into the throats of three single men, all of whom no other obvious connections could be found. Until one finally walked into the station...

Until you.

It was clear soon into your questioning that you didn't kill these men—at least not physically. Somebody seemed to be killing them either on your behalf, or merely for the fact that following the pretty bartender back to her house, and then following her suitors back to their homes, was a simple means to an end. Regardless, the BAU was determined to get to the bottom of it.

And so, the plan had taken shape.

Your teeth take a gentle tug at Spencer's bottom lip, pulling him back into the moment as a powerful surge of lightning courses through his veins. Heat pools in his belly and his pants suddenly feel tighter. He's hard and aching for you.

His hand rests firmly at your chest, groping you through your shirt. You're hard, too, he notices, even through layers of fabric.

He revels in the feel of your firm breasts weighted in his palm and remembers something you said only mere minutes ago in vivid detail. The recent memory allows this—your attraction and desperation for him, lethal to the bone—to feel more real and less like a dream.

"We're in the house now. Everything is secure," he says into his tie. The wire.

"Copy that," Morgan says in his ear.

"So... What now?"

Spencer looks over at you and offers a sympathetic smile. "Now we wait."

You can sense the pent-up, nervous tension in his voice, he just knows it; With the way you arch your eyebrow and take a step closer to him, the way you tilt your head...

"And... What do you suppose we do while we wait?"

Derek snickers in Spencer's ear, already having been highly amused at the situation thus far and definitely planning to tease him for it later.

He stands his ground, though, holding his chin high and channeling his authority and professionalism. "You should get some rest."

"Come on," you press, now standing toe-to-toe. His heart is beating wildly, something tugging at his insides when your hand reaches for his. "You wouldn't be a very good undercover agent if you didn't cover all your bases, now, would you?"

The plan... for Spencer to show up at your bar and for you to take him home. To lure out the unsub. You were assured that it would be safe, and to your credit, you went through the whole plan with ease.

Spencer found it mesmerizing watching you work, to say the least.

You made drinks and talked to strangers and friends alike, moving with a grace that put even the most nimble dancers to shame. If it wasn't for the fact that he was supposed to be looking out for you, you were exactly the type of woman he'd avoid at all costs for fear of making himself look stupid.

But alas. To do his job, there was supposed to be something charming enough about Spencer to make you want to go home with him. At least that's how he thought of it. But really, you were putting in all the work anyway, between refilling his soda and sliding it over with a wink, calling him pet names, and giving him plenty more than a fair share of appreciative once-overs with your glittering, curious eyes...

He convinced himself that your attention was all part of the plan, trying desperately to ignore the overwhelming plague of desire that clung to his beating heart and spread through his bloodstream like wildfire, but ultimately failing.

And then, when you stood before him, in the safety of your own home where the act could end, you only fed the fire and shattered every argument he could have conjured with a singular sentence.

"You wouldn't be a very good undercover agent if you didn't cover all your bases, now, would you?"

Spencer releases a giant breath, resisting the urge to damn it all to hell and kiss you right then and there. Still, you didn't actually, in clear enough words, tell him what you wanted. So he would stall until you did or until you dropped the act and went to bed alone.

"So, you know what bases I need to cover, do you?" he muses, keeping his tone even despite the rapid beating of his heart.

"Damn it," Derek huffs behind the scenes, and then directly to Spencer, "Down, Pretty Boy. Focus, please."

Meanwhile, you're smiling, pulling him in by the wired tie, and telling him, "I know what bases I want you to cover..."

And now, ever the giver he is, he's in the midst of fulfilling that want, the wire and ear peace discarded somewhere in the entryway of your home as the bright echoes of your sultry voice call to him more vividly with each second that follows.

Though, he'd be lying if he said he wasn't being a bit selfish in this pursuit; It'd been so long since the opportunity to sleep with someone had fallen so deliciously into his lap. And despite being on the job and the fact that sex isn't necessarily important enough for him to pursue on a regular basis, you were distracting in just about every perfect, possible way. The burning he had for you was rare. All-consuming.

It was not a smart move by any means, and he'll definitely get shit for it later, but now that he's had a taste of you, he knows he won't stop until he's tasted all of you.

The thought alone pulls the most obscene sound from his lips, which draws you impossibly closer to him as you tilt your head and kiss him deeper. His palm tightens around your breast, and your fingers grip at the collar of his unbuttoned shirt. In an instant, you're shifting yourself to straddle his thigh, moaning into his mouth the second he hikes his knee up just a bit higher to give you more friction to work with.

The warm weight of you grinding on his leg is a sensation that has him feeling way more powerful than he'd like to admit. It's usually rare for him to take a more dominant approach in bed, more than happy to let his partner take the wheel, but the desperation that emanates from your every move and every sigh is feeding something deep within himself... something that aches for your submission.

Spencer revels in that feeling for what feels like hours, drinking up every lazy lap of your cherry-coated tongue, soaking in every press of your body into his own, and committing every sound you make to memory. Soon enough it feels like he's drowning in you and refusing to come up for air as your sweetness fills his lungs.

You break away first, resting your forehead to his and catching your breath as his hands come around to dip into the back pockets of your jeans.

"What do you want, baby?" he sighs roughly into your mouth, the words surprising himself as you shiver into his body, rolling your hips again. The way you're reacting to him is agitating that hunger deep inside, pulling out a seductiveness he hadn't really realized he possessed until you existed in his orbit.

Is this what it feels like, he wonders, to be so lust-drunk on somebody that you'd be willing to embrace the parts of yourself that scare you just to get a taste of them?

"I like the way you make me feel," you confess. You brush your nose over his and swallow, shivering as his hands roam back up the length of your body. "I want you to make me feel like this forever, even after you're long gone and you've forgotten all about me..."

Spencer laughs, unable to help it, his lips quirked up into a delicious smirk. "I have an eidetic memory... I couldn't forget you even if I wanted to."

You laugh back, leaning in to kiss him once more. "Mmm, so not the point, G-Man."

As you smile against his lips and let your hands roam down the expanse of his chest, he has a hard time remembering what he's truly here for. Every moment spent in your presence, so inherently and potently beautiful, chips away at his ability to think logically. Gone is the task at large, the looming anxiety of being bait for a vicious murderer, and in its place is the overwhelming simmering of you—deep in the marrow of his bones, threatening to swallow him whole, and he'd gladly allow it.

"And the point is..." he urges, longing for you to beg him— to hear those fatally salacious words tumble from your equally fatal lips.

You grant his wish, a small shaky sigh of desperation exhaling from you before you whisper hotly against his mouth, "I want you to fuck me."

Spencer doesn't waste any more time with pleasantries, lifting you off his lap and flipping you over on the couch. Your wish is to feel him long after he's gone, and in this moment, with your hungry pleading eyes and your wrists pinned above your head at his mercy, he vows it to be so.

His mouth comes down over yours, hovering, teasing you with a grin and a low hum of amusement before he slurs, "'Atta girl..."

He swallows your whimper as soon as it leaves your throat, finally closing the gap and kissing you once more. Your hands become desperate immediately, tugging at his clothes as you kiss him back with a fervor that makes his heart stutter.

Despite the gentle dominance he's physically displaying with you—even now as he takes to pinning your wrists again, this time at your side—you will never truly know the power you're holding over him inside. Every kiss, every touch, every sigh, is slowly transforming him. Everything about you is altering the chemistry in his very being. And because you're a stranger, because you will soon be only a vivid memory and nothing tangible, he cannot tell you that feeling with words.

But, he can make you feel it.

And so, he fulfills your wishes, base by base.

He takes his time. His hands meticulously undress you, lingering on certain sensitive expanses of skin until you're covered in goosebumps from head-to-toe. He handles you limb by limb, peppering you with kisses and caresses, and after you're finally exposed to him in all your angelic glory, he sits up and admires you as he undresses himself.

He watches as your bare chest rises and falls, your curves and valleys calling to him like a longing wind.

Your eyes are watching him, too, following his hands as he slowly but surely exposes himself to the same air, the same universe, as yourself. It's not that Spencer doesn't particularly think he doesn't belong in the same universe as you, just that it doesn't feel real. You simply don't feel real.

That is, at least, until your bodies finally meet in the middle.

Bare and thrumming with life and fire and starlight, the two of you are inevitable. Bright. Hot.

His arms are strong as they hold you, his hips even stronger as they collide with yours. Spencer's name falls like comets from your lips, a spectacle that grounds him and reminds him of his place in the universe. He works his hips expertly to draw it out of you, touches you like you're the sole reason for everything good and pure and beautiful, and then he's burning.

And you're burning right with him.

Your time together is coming to a close, but not before the grand finale; Your bodies are a supernova, the brightest expression of a dying star. Everything is fire. It's sharp thrusts and taut limbs. You're holding onto each other, knowing the end is near but trying to prolong it.

Even long after the explosion has subsided, your lust settles, remnants twinkling in the air like stardust. It lulls you to sleep, your consciousness floating along a river of stars until all that remains is Spencer's head on your chest, your heartbeat thrumming under his ear.

He tries to relax. He focuses on the rhythm of your heart, letting it clear his mind until he knows what he has to do.

It pains him to leave. His clothes go back on, his hand shakes as it searches for his phone, and his chest heaves in disappointment as he reads the texts of concern that flood his screen.

Still, as he quietly covers your bare body and scrawls you a short, hurried apology on the back of a paper towel, it's like you're begging him to stay longer.

As such, mere visions of you aren't the only thing staking their claim. The sound of your voice rings out, carried by the wind as he steps outside. He knows there is possible danger coming for him now that he's left the safety of your home, but he can't bring himself to be alert. And how could he, really, when you've left him so wrecked—so altered by your perfection?

God, I am in so much trouble, he thinks to himself, sighing and turning a corner.

As if the thought had permeated his brain and tempted the universe, suddenly a sharp pain blasts out of nowhere and knocks Spencer to the ground.

All he knows for a split second is panic and the deep sting of glass, the sound almost as loud as the blood rushing to his head. Warmth—blood—pools at his eyebrow and trails down the side of his face, where your kisses had once lived.

The thought of you, of your predicament and the danger at hand, wipes the panic clean from his nervous system and replaces it with preservation. He tries the best he can to toss the pain aside and deflect another blow, but there's a swift kick to his gut that renders him breathless, and it's becoming harder each second to get the upper hand.

Spencer forces his eyes open, to look at his attacker head-on and gather any information that he can.

All he sees is a blur, a rage-filled man with a shattered bottle in his hand as he comes down for a final blow.

And then, the shot fires.

The unsub falls, and Spencer guides him to the side, unwilling to be blanketed by him. He's still alive, squirming and yelling, and looking everywhere for the glass that had fallen and shattered in the echoing aftermath of the gunshot. The pain in Spencer's head is so strong he barely even registers the cuts that mar his palms and knees as he apprehends the man.

Not even a second later, hands are pulling him away and checking him for injuries, Derek's voice cutting through the chaos as he cuffs the unsub.

"Hope she was worth it..." It comes out as a tight, irritated huff, though when he gets the unsub up off the ground and hands him over to someone else—one of the officers from town—he and Spencer lock eyes, and there's a brief pause before Derek breaks out into a small laugh.

"How much trouble am I in?" Spencer asks, and he can hear Emily snicker beside him as she looks at his cut-up hand.

"I think we'll leave that answer up to Boss Man over there," she says, nodding towards Hotch.

Spencer looks at him, his stomach dropping when he sees how pissed he looks.

Still, your phantom touch lingers, calming him through the rest of the evening, through the berating and lecturing and the empty threats of suspension, through the snickers and teasing pats on the shoulder from his friends, and even through his restless attempt of sleep in the motel.

The only thing that puts his mind at ease is you. Your memory offers comfort, especially knowing he will be able to say goodbye to you and follow-up with the end of the case tomorrow morning. And though it pains him to think of leaving you behind, it would pain him more to have left in the middle of the night like he did without seeing you one final time and issuing a proper goodbye.

As pathetic as it sounds, he falls asleep imagining what your goodbye will look like—what it will feel like. He remembers the smell of you, the planes of your body shivering gloriously under his hands, and your arms as they curl over him, drawing him closer and keeping him there.

Before his final breath into slumber, he thinks to himself, Yes, she was entirely worth it. All of it. Every last second.