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Half of Me

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One night, one mistake—and a lifetime you didn’t expect.

☕︎ Pairings: Baby Daddy!Gojo x f!Reader ☕︎ Content warnings + tags: 18+ MDNI, modern AU, friends to lovers, complicated relationships, angst with a happy ending, unplanned pregnancy, eventual smut, drinking, pining, toxic relationship dynamics, implied infidelity (emotional and physical cheating), discussions of strained family dynamics, mention of past physical abuse, light cursing, reader and suguru mention? (wink wink), angsty with some soft moments, reader and satoru are a mess tbh wc — 7.3k words

The night unfolds with quiet realizations and lingering tension. You find yourself caught between moments of comfort and unresolved feelings, unsure where the lines are drawn but unable to ignore how much you still care.

Step Thirteen: Hold What You’re Afraid to Lose

The evening stretched longer than you expected.

By the time Suguru’s car turned onto your street, it was past nine, and the world had felt softer, edges blurred by the dim glow of streetlamps and the distant hum of city life winding down. The sidewalks were nearly empty now, save for the occasional car cutting through the quiet, its headlights washing brief, ghostly shadows across the pavement. From an open balcony a few blocks away, a saxophone played a thread of jazz, a melancholic tune that curled through the cool night air.

Suguru’s sweatshirt hung loose around your shoulders, sleeves swallowing your hands. It smelled faintly of fresh laundry and something woodsy and clean—something distinctly him. He’d tugged it over your head at the end of your shift, catching the way you kept tugging at your apron as if it might magically turn into something more flattering.

“You don’t have to look perfect,” he’d said with an easy grin. “You already do.”

You rolled your eyes at the time, called him cheesy. But you hadn’t taken it off since.

Now, as you sat beside him, the fabric felt like a small shield against the world, a little cocoon you could disappear into for just a moment.

If you were being completely honest? You’d been nervous. Overthinking everything from your fizzy work hair to the smudge of eyeliner you hadn’t had time to fix. It had been a long week, and you weren’t used to the idea of dates anymore. Especially not when your body felt foreign these days, your jeans tighter around your belly, your reflection carrying changes you weren’t sure you were ready to see.

Before you clocked out, you’d ducked into employee bathroom to reapply lip gloss and a touch of powder. It didn’t transform you, didn’t make you feel brand new, but at least it gave you the illusion of control.

But this wasn’t really a date, was it?

Just dinner. Just noodles. Just Suguru.

He met you outside at six sharp as promised, leaning against his car like a scene stolen from a film, his hands in his pockets and a playlist already queued up on the speakers. But then he opened the passenger door for you, smiled in that effortless way, and told you that you looked beautiful. And it felt…different. Like it was more than just a casual meal.

You couldn’t even remember the last time someone had told you that and meant it. Satoru certainly hadn’t.

The restaurant hadn’t been extravagant, just a small soba shop tucked between a laundromat and a used bookstore. The hand-written menus curled at the edges, the bowls mismatched, the air rich with sesame oil and fried tofu. It wasn’t the kind of place you’d ever think to choose on your own, but with Suguru, it made perfect sense.

You stole half of his soft-boiled egg. He let you. He stole the last gyoza. You let him.

And for a while, it was easy to forget everything else.

You’d let yourself enjoy it.

The cadence of his voice, how he didn’t rush to fill the silences between you. He talked to you the same way you remembered from college, like time had never passed. Back when you’d sit cross-legged on the library floor, vending machine snacks between you, swapping your worst dating stories and laughing until you were shushed by someone two tables over. His gaze held none of the pity or hesitation you’d grown used to from others. Just warmth. Understanding.

You hadn’t realized how much you missed that.

Suguru had always been like this—steady, sharp, with a quiet kind of charm. He was a little cocky at times, but never cruel. He made you laugh without trying. He remembered things you didn’t think anyone else noticed—the exact way you took your tea, the song you mentioned offhand months ago. And when he listened, it wasn’t just waiting for his turn to speak. It felt like he really heard you.

So was it really so wrong to admit that maybe you liked him?

Or at least, you liked how it felt to be seen. To be cared for without hesitation.

You always had, even if you’d buried it beneath years of friendship, bad timing, and complicated circumstances. Suguru was patient. Attentive. A good man who made you feel safe when everything else in your life had started to splinter.

But still…

A knot of guilt lingered.

Not because of Suguru, no.

Because of Satoru.

The version of him that you couldn’t quite let go of. The Satoru who used to pick you up after work with boba waiting in the cupholder, texting Hurry up, I’m cold while he leaned against the hood of his car in sweats. The version of him who kissed your cheek without thinking twice about it, who pressed his hand against the curve of your belly to feel the baby. Who whispered, just once, about a future that almost sounded like it could belong to the two of you.

You weren’t cheating.

Not technically.

But it felt like you were betraying the ghost of what could’ve been.

And maybe that version of him didn’t exist anymore. You knew that. But the ache for it remained. The ache for something resembling a family. You, him, and the baby.

As Suguru slowed the car in front of your building, that ache twisted tighter. None of this was his fault, but the grief still burned. A grief for all the things you’d wanted with Satoru, for all the things you knew were slipping away.

“Do you want me to walk you up?” Suguru asked softly, glancing at you.

You nodded before your mind could talk you out of it. “Yeah….that’d be nice.”

He smiled and killed the ignition.

You could feel your phone pressed against your back pocket, feel the weight of it like a stone. You still hadn’t checked. Hadn’t read the preview that flashed on your lock screen.

It buzzed once during work. Then again, during dinner.

But you told yourself it didn’t matter.

Not anymore.

Satoru already had his chance. 

He made his choice when he refused to stand by you.

You unbuckled your seatbelt with a soft click, the sound almost echoing in the quiet hum of the parked car. The interior lights blinked on as the passenger door opened, spilling a warm glow across your lap. Outside, Suguru was already waiting, hands buried in the pockets of his jacket, posture relaxed, but patient, as if he knew you needed a few extra seconds to step out of the little bubble the evening had created for you both.

The street was hushed, softened by the late hour. Only the faint hum of distant traffic carried over the low whisper of wind weaving through the trees. You could smell damp grass, that earth promise of rain that hadn’t quite arrived. The sky had deepened into a shade of inky blue, and the nearby windows glowed like little pockets of borrowed warmth.

You slipped out of the car, feeling the cool air brush against your cheeks and the weight of the evening settle into your shoulders, a mix of fatigue and something else—contentment, maybe. You didn’t want the evening to end yet. So, you fell into step beside him as you climbed the stairs to your building, letting your keys jangle loosely in your hand, stalling the inevitable.

There was no awkward silence with Suguru. There never was. He didn’t push to fill the quiet just to hear his own voice. He let it breathe, let it exist, easy and natural.

At your door, your fingers lingered over the lock. You didn’t turn it open right away. Didn’t want to face the lonely stretch of space waiting inside, curled up on the couch with leftovers from the fridge, Bear asleep against your growing bump, the echo of a night that might feel too quiet after this.

“Thanks for tonight,” you said softly, finally breaking the silence. “Really. I had fun.”

Suguru leaned a shoulder against the railing, watching you with that same calm, unshakable expression he’d worn all evening. “You don’t have to thank me, weirdo.”

You smiled at that, small but genuine. Your fingers toyed with the sleeve of his sweatshirt, the fabric worn soft from use. “I know you didn’t have to. That’s…kind of why I’m saying it.”

His gaze warmed, eyes dark and steady. “You talking about dinner?”

“I mean all of it. This. Me.” You gestured vaguely at yourself, a humorless laugh escaping before you could stop it. “I’m just saying, you probably have better things to do than hang out with a pregnant woman with baggage. And heartburn from those soba noodles. So much heartburn.”

“You mean,” he said, stepping just slightly closer, “a woman I’ve known for years, who I genuinely like being around, who works her ass off, laughs at all my dumb jokes, and looks really cute in my hoodie?”

You flushed, rolling your eyes, but the words caught somewhere in your throat. “Suguru—”

“Stop being so hard on yourself.”

“I’m pregnant,” you muttered, sharper than intended. “I feel like I barely have the energy to exist some days. I’m not exactly—” You looked down at yourself, frustration simmering under your skin. “I’m not exactly easy to be around right now.”

His tone was simple, but solid. “You don’t have to be 'easy' with me, Y/N.”

That made your breath falter. “I’m serious, though. You don’t owe me anything. You don’t have to feel obligated or responsible or like you have to pick up the slack. I mean, I appreciate tonight. I do. But just because Satoru can’t get his shit together—”

“I’m not doing this because of him,” he said, cutting you off. His voice softened, deliberate. “I’m here because I want to be.”

You froze under his gaze. He didn’t look away, didn’t fidget or flinch. Just held your eyes like he needed you to believe him.

“And I don’t care that the baby’s not mine,” he added after a moment.

Your heart caught on the words, skipping for reasons you didn’t fully understand. It didn’t sound like an empty promise, not when he said it. It felt startlingly honest.

“I mean it,” he continued. “If anything, they’re just a little bonus.”

“A bonus?” you asked, half-smiling despite yourself.

He grinned, shrugging as if it were the most natural thing in the world to him. “I like babies. Especially when I get to give them back at the end of the day.”

That made you laugh, like really laugh, surprised. The sound felt lighter than it had in weeks.

“You already know about Nanako and Mimiko,” he went on. “I’ve got them half the week. Their mom and I split a while ago, so I…I know what it’s like. What it means to show up for someone who needs you.”

You stared at him for a moment, his face dimly lit by the lobby’s light. “You’re good at it,” you murmured.

“I try.”

Something in you threatened to unravel right there. The weight of the day crept back in, the weight of months spent fighting to stay strong. You wanted to pull away before it dragged you under, but Suguru’s presence made it hard. Made it tempting to let go just for a moment.

“I don’t want to make this harder for you. I know you’ve got a lot on your plate. But I like spending time with you. Always have.”

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “Even like this?”

“Especially like this.”

The words landed in your chest like a soft ache. It shouldn’t have made you want to cry, but it did. Not from sadness, but just from the exhaustion of feeling unseen for so long.

“I know it’s not easy,” he continued. “Being on your own. Especially when you shouldn’t have to be. You and the baby deserve someone who won’t walk away. You deserve consistency. You deserve…having someone to count on.”

You swallowed hard. Your teeth caught your bottom lip as you looked down, the lump in your throat making it impossible to speak. You wanted to tell him how much that meant to you. But you couldn’t. Not yet. Gratitude and grief tangled together until all you could do was nod.

Instead, gratitude and grief tangled together until all you could do was nod. You reached for the hem of his sweatshirt, “I should probably give this back…”

“Keep it,” he said almost instantly. “Looks better on you anyway.”

You tried to find a comeback, some teasing remark, but the way he looked at you made your words dissolve. 

He didn’t kiss you, either. Though, for a moment, you thought he might. And if he had, you didn’t know what you would’ve done in response. Instead, he leaned down just enough to press a warm, lingering peck to your cheek. His fingers brushed your elbow as if to say I’m here. I’ll stay. A quiet promise.

“Goodnight, beautiful.”

“Goodnight, Suguru…”

You stayed in the doorway until his figure disappeared into the muted glow of the streetlights. When you finally slipped inside, closing the door with a soft click, you realized you were still clutching the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

Not ready to let go just yet.

The warmth of the building wrapped around you as the door shut, but it didn’t bring the relief you’d hoped for. Not really. The evening still clung to your skin—Suguru’s kindness, his quiet presence, the way he made you feel appreciated in a way you hadn’t realized you’d been missing. It would be so easy to just sink into that. To let yourself have the small comfort of someone who didn’t look at you like you were a burden or a problem to solve.

A part of you didn’t want to lose that feeling.

Was this the start of something new? Not a relationship, not necessarily, but maybe the simple possibility of being wanted again. Of being more than just the pregnant woman with no plan, drifting between what was real and what was already slipping out of reach.

Or maybe you were just clinging to another fleeting moment. Another distraction that wouldn’t change the fact that you were still tied to Satoru in ways you couldn’t untangle, no matter how much you wanted to.

The thought alone made something stir anxiously.

You climbed the rest of the stairs slowly, fingers absentmindedly fumbling with your keys. The hallway sounded so quiet, with just the soft hum of old light fixtures and your tired breath. Maybe you did miss the quiet of your apartment, even if that quiet sometimes felt more like a void. At least there, you could collapse into bed and pretend for an hour or two that the world and its expectations weren’t waiting outside your door.

Your thumb brushed the edge of the key as you reached your floor—

And then you stopped.

Because someone was sitting in front of your door.

Satoru.

He didn’t look up when you froze at the end of the hallway, like he hadn’t even heard you approach. His back was pressed against the wall beside your doorframe, long legs stretched out in front of him, hands resting loose on his lap. He looked…tired. Not in the way he usually tried to play off, not in some careless I-partied-too-hard way. No. His shirt was wrinkled like he hadn’t cared to change out of his work clothes, his tie hung crooked, and his usually polished dress shoes were scuffed and streaked, the leather marred as if he’d been pacing outside for hours.

But it wasn’t his clothes that really caught your attention.

It was him.

The way his shoulders slumped, the weight of the world finally caving in. His face, usually a mask of smug jokes and easy confidence, looked unguarded. Fragile, even. And beneath his lashes, you could see faint, dry tracks where tears had already carved their way down his cheeks.

Your heart gave a hard, unwelcome jolt.

What the fuck was he doing here?

The last time you’d seen each other, you’d fought. You had been the one to push him into a corner, to force him to admit the truth—that he needed to tell Hana, to tell his parents about the baby. He hadn’t wanted to. He’d dragged his feet, avoided it for months, left you carrying the responsibility while he hid in his silence.

So why now?

Why here?

The questions collided in your mind, stacking one over the other, but none of them mattered as much as the anger that still lingered. You had every right to be pissed at him. He made you feel small and invisible when you and the baby deserved better. He avoided choosing you out loud, left you standing alone in the mess of it all.

And yet…

There he was. Sitting in the hallway outside your apartment like he didn’t have anywhere else to go.

You swallowed, your steps slowing as you approached, wary and conflicted.

He just seemed so hollow. Like someone had taken every ounce of that impossible, blinding light of his and dimmed it to nothing.

You should just turn around.

Call Suguru, go back to his car, crash at his place instead.

But your feet didn’t move.

Because no matter how much anger you still carried, no matter how badly he had hurt you—

You couldn’t stop caring.

Not when he looked like this.

You’d seen him at his worst before, but this? This felt different. Some part of him had cracked open, something raw and unspoken spilling out in the quiet way he just sat there, waiting.

You wanted to stay angry. You really did.

Wanted to hate him, to tell him to go home.

But more than that, you just wanted to know if he was okay.

You weren’t sure how long you stood there before he finally looked up.

Maybe he felt you before he saw you, the weight of your stare, how your breath faltered without meaning to. His head lifted slowly, and when his gaze met yours, it was almost startling. He looked worse than you initially thought, his eyes red-rimmed, lashes still clumped together from dried tears. 

Neither of you spoke. His lips parted with something he wanted to say but couldn’t. You clutched your keys tighter, hoping that maybe the jangle of the metal might ward him off like a spooked animal.

Then he scrambled to his feet, brushing his palms down his wrinkled shirt like that could erase the fact that he’d been sitting by your front door like a man completely unraveling. He tried to find some semblance of composure, but it didn’t quite work. Not when he stepped closer and cupped your face with both hands, thumbs brushing over your cheeks like he was checking that you were real.

“You’re okay,” he murmured, half to himself. Relief softened the lines of his face, pulling something fragile and unguarded into the open.

You blinked at him, startled by the touch. Concern tugged at the back of your mind, but confusion won out. “Uh…what are you doing here?”

“I—” He let out a shaky exhale, and for a moment, he didn’t answer. His palms felt warm against your skin, steady but also desperate, as if he’d been holding this tension for hours.”One of your neighbors left the lobby door open. I just…ducked inside before it closed.”

You frowned. “That’s not an answer. You still haven’t said why you’re here.”

“I know…” He rubbed the back of his neck, brilliant eyes darting briefly to the floor before returning to you.

“I texted you,” he said, like that explained everything. “And I called. A few times.”

You shifted your weight, glancing down at your phone still tucked into your back pocket. You hadn’t checked it. Not since…well, not since Suguru.

“I didn’t see,” you said quietly. “I was working.”

“Yeah, I called your job too,” he admitted sheepishly. “They said you left hours ago. I didn’t know where you were. I didn’t know if you were—” His voice faltered, and he cut himself off, shaking his head. “I just…needed to make sure you were okay. So I drove over. Figured I’d wait.”

You just stared at him, unsure what to even say.

“I wanted to talk to you—about last night, the fight. About everything.” He paused, exhaling hard through his nose, his thumbs resting just beneath your jaw. “I couldn’t stand not knowing if you were okay…”

Your heart ached uncomfortably, not wanting to admit how much his sincerity started to crack through your walls. His hair was a mess, a faint shadow of a bruise on his cheek. He looked like hell, like someone who hadn’t stopped thinking, or breathing, since you saw him last.

“God, Satoru…” you whispered, more to yourself than to him. How were you supposed to stay pissed at him when he was so pathetic?

His arms lifted hesitantly, unsure if he had the right to touch you anymore. But then, slowly, he wrapped them around you, pulling you tightly against his chest. One hand splayed between your shoulder blades, the other threaded through the back of your hair. Your cheek squished against the fabric of his shirt, and you could hear it—his heartbeat, pounding fast and uneven, like it was trying to climb out of his body. He held you like he needed it, like if he let go for even a second, you’d disappear on him again.

You stayed stiff for a beat, still caught between confusion and frustration, and anger. But his warmth, his scent, the faint mix of rain and cologne and something distinctly him, slowly chipped away at your resolve.

“You didn’t have to come all the way here just because you were worried about the baby,” you muttered into him, the words soft but laced with that lingering tension you couldn’t ignore.

His arms tightened slightly, his breath warm against your hair. “No,” he said quietly. “I was worried about both of you.”

When you pulled back, just far enough to look up at him, that’s when you fully processed it—the faint purplish bruise blooming along his jawline, catching the dim hallway light. It wasn’t stark yet, but it was there, deepening already, an ugly flush beneath pale skin.

You sucked in a shaky breath before you could stop it. “Satoru…”

His brows only furrowed, confused by the sudden change in your tone, like he didn’t realize what you meant until your hand moved. You hated yourself for it, hated that your fingers reached for him almost instinctively, concern overpowering anger still simmering in your chest. But you touched him anyway. Your fingertips brushed hesitantly along his jaw, barely grazing the tender skin, and a sharp hiss slipped through his teeth at the contact. 

“What…happened to you?” you asked, your voice quieter now, cutting through the heavy silence of the hall.

He turned his face away, trying to hide it. “It’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing.”

His throat worked as he swallowed. “It’s fine, Y/N. Just—my dad.”

Your brows drew together. “Your dad?”

“Yeah…” he muttered, eyes darting anywhere but you. “I went to the office after…everything. My parents—they know. About the pregnancy. About you—us. About all of it. He wasn’t exactly thrilled. Gave me one across the face.”

He said it so casually, like he was reciting some meaningless fact, like it was just another box on a list of bad days he’d endured. “It’s whatever. Stuff like that just…happens with him. Old habits. No big deal.”

You could only stare at him, disbelief coiling tight. “Satoru, that’s not—”

“Don’t,” he shook his head, cutting you off. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s fine, it’s happened before. I’ve had worse. I just…don’t want to talk about it, alright?”

Something twisted in you—uncomfortable, heavy. You couldn’t stand how he just brushed it off, like he thought being hit by his father was just part of life. Your frown deepened, but the words wouldn’t come. There was too much unsaid between you, too many things you wanted to scream but couldn’t.

So you just sighed, letting the breath leave your lungs in one long exhale.

Your hand fell slowly from his jaw. You could argue with him. Say that it wasn’t normal, that he didn’t deserve it. But the look on his face, the quiet exhaustion, the way his shoulders still sagged as though he’d already spent all the fight he had, kept you silent.

Without another word, your hand slid down, brushing his fingers. Before you could second-guess yourself, you laced yours with his. His warmth seeped into your skin, and the simple contact made something flutter traitorously.

“Come on,” you murmured, unlocking your door with your free hand.

The lock clicked, and the two of you stepped inside. The familiar scent of laundry detergent and that unlit candle greeted you, warm and faintly sweet. Bear appeared almost immediately, tail flicking high, weaving excited figure-eights between your legs like he’d been waiting all night. His fur brushed against your shins with a cheerful trill before circling Satoru’s shoes.

Satoru’s expression softened into a small, genuine smile for the first time in days. “Hey, buddy,” he said, crouching down with a quiet groan. Bear purred like a rusty little motor when Satoru scratched under his chin, leaning into his hand with obvious affection. “It’s been a while, huh?”

You lingered for a moment, watching the two of them, before you caught yourself smiling too. Just a little…God, it was unfair, the way he could stay make you feel this way after everything.

“Stay put,” you said, turning toward the kitchen.

“Why?” He looked up from where Bear butted his palm with his soft little head.

You dug through the freezer, pushing aside the half-eaten pint of ice cream until your hand landed on a bag of frozen mixed vegetables. “Because you’re holding this on your face before that bruise gets worse.”

You shut the door and walked back to where he was crouched on the ground, one hand still buried in Bear’s fur, looking like he’d rather sink to the floor than admit he was hurting. The bag of vegetables crinkled softly in your hand, condensation already slicking the outside.

“Here,” you said, holding it out to him.

He eyed it, lips curling into a faint, tired smirk like maybe he could charm his way out of this. “I’m fine, you know. I don’t need—”

“Don’t start.”

Before he could protest, you reached down and gently pressed the cold bag to his jaw yourself. He hissed softly at the sudden chill, shoulders tensing, but he didn’t move away. His skin felt warm under your fingertips, and you realized how close you’d gotten—how close he’d let you get.

“Y/N—”

“Do you ever shut up?” you asked quietly, trying to keep the bag steady. “Just hold still.”

His lips parted like he might argue, but the words stuck in his throat. He just stared at you instead, his too-bright eyes blinking stupidly like he didn’t know what to this with this proximity. Like he wasn’t sure if he even deserved it.

“You don’t have to take care of me,” he said finally, almost uncertain.

“I know I don’t have to,” you replied, your gaze unwavering on his. “But…I want to.”

The words landed heavier than you intended, catching him offguard. They settled between you, fragile and unspoken. You couldn’t take them back now, and maybe you didn’t want to. His lashes lowered briefly, then lifted again as he looked at you, trying to figure out if you actually meant it.

Bear continued to purr loudly at your feet, brushing against both of your legs like he wanted to sew the two of you back together.

You let the quiet stretch a little longer before breaking it. “I’m still mad at you,” you said softly, eyes flicking to the bruise darkening under your touch. “I need you to know that.”

His jaw twitched beneath your hand, but he didn’t pull away. “Yeah. I know…”

“It’s not just about the fight,” you added, forcing the words out because if you didn’t say it now, you might never say it at all. “Sometimes it feel like…like me and the baby, we’re not your priorities…Like you’re ashamed of us or something.”

The words hit him like a slow, deliberate punch to the chest, sinking like stones. He wanted to refute it, to tell you that it couldn’t be further from the truth. Because didn’t you realize that you and the baby were the only things that mattered anymore? The only things in his life that felt real, that he hadn’t ruined beyond repair?

But what had he done to prove that? What had he given you but reasons to doubt him? Every choice he’d made so far must have looked like proof of the opposite, like confirmation that you’d always come second to his fear.

His jaw flexed under your palm. He wanted to tell you You’re it for me. You and the baby are everything. The words were there, pounding against his ribs, but they wouldn’t fucking come for some reason.

Was it fear?

Was he terrified that even if he said it, announced it proudly to the world, you still wouldn’t believe him?

His throat burned as he swallowed, lifting a hand like he might reach for you—might cup your cheek, close the inch of space that suddenly felt too wide—to do something, anything, to make you understand. To apologize for every moment you’d spent feeling unwanted, when the truth was that you were the only thing he wanted. But he stopped, his hand stalled midair.

His voice cracked when he finally said, “You’re so fucking wrong about that. But…I get why you think it.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t pull your hand back. The bag was cold between you, but his skin was so warm, his presence so close, it felt like something was humming under your skin. Your thumb brushed over the corner of his mouth without thinking, making every thought in his head stumble to a stop. It felt too intimate, something you shouldn’t be doing anymore, not after everything. But he didn’t back away either. He couldn’t.

His breath hitched, slow and unsteady, and he found himself leaning just slightly into your touch. Close enough that the edge of the bag of mixed vegetables was nearly forgotten. Close enough that if either of you shifted, even an inch, there’d be no more space left to hide behind.

The silence stretched so thin between you that it felt like it might snap. His breath brushed lightly against your cheek, and for a moment, the world narrowed down to this—the heat of him, the quiet rasp of his breathing, and the way his eyes clung to your face like he was trying to memorize every little detail.

He leaned in without meaning to. Close enough that the air felt heavier than before, charged with something new. Enough that you swore you could feel the ghost of his breath on your lips. A proximity that made every muscle in your body coil tight, waiting. Your heart stuttered painfully, and you wondered if he could feel your pulse jumping beneath the skin of your wrist. 

But then he blinked, and at the last second, he pulled back.

Not far, just enough to break the current. His hand, which had hovered at your waist, dropped to his side. He let out a shallow, uneven breath like the moment had cost him something.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “You just—you look at me like that and I…forget where we stand.”

The words cut through the quiet, leaving a hollow ache in their wake. You didn’t know what to say. Hell, you weren’t even sure what “where we stand” meant anymore, or if he did either. So you let the silence linger, suffocating in its weight.

He cleared his throat and straightened, stepping back like he desperately needed the distance. Then, as if the moment had never existed, he rubbed the back of his neck, needing something to do with his hands, and said softly, “It’s late. I should…probably go. Let you get some sleep.”

You just stood there, staring at him, disappointment twisting in your chest. He bent to grab his coat from the counter, Bear weaving happily around his ankles, oblivious to the sudden tension. Satoru didn’t look at you as he slipped on his shoes, his movements deliberate, like he was quietly undoing the last half hour with every tug of a shoelace.

For a second, you considered letting him leave. Letting the door click shut behind him. Pretending you didn’t feel this raw, restless longing every time he walked away. Maybe that would be easier.

But the thought of sitting alone in bed, with the dingy ceiling fan humming and your doubts circling like vultures, made your stomach turn. You were tired. Tired of being the one left behind. Tired of being strong all the time.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, your hand moved. Your fingers brushed his wrist and curled around it. Maybe it was pathetic, but a part of you just still wanted him there.

He stilled instantly.

When he turned to look at you, his blue eyes were wide, startled, but soft. Unsure if he should hope for anything.

“Stay,” you said quietly. The word slipped out too fast, unpolished, but you didn’t take it back. “Just…stay. Please?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. He just looked at you, something unreadable in his expression, like he was teetering between stepping forward or stepping away.

“Are you sure?” he asked finally. “I can—I’ll crash on the couch, it’s fine. I don’t want—”

“Don’t be stupid,” you interrupted, rolling your eyes even as your voice softened in betrayal. “Just…come on.”

You didn’t give him room to argue. Tugging his wrist, you led him past the threshold of the kitchen and down the narrow hall toward your room. He didn’t resist. Didn’t say a word. Just followed, quiet and dazed, like he’d been waiting for you to ask all along.

Bear padded after you both, tail flicking like he approved of this arrangement.

The bedroom felt too small with both of you inside.

Satoru hovered near the doorway like he didn’t know where to put himself, hands buried in his pockets, shoulders hunched as if he could somehow make his frame smaller. The faint lamplight in the corner cast a warm glow across the walls, washing everything in soft amber.

You crossed to your dresser, tugging the drawer open, the quiet thunk of wood on wood breaking the hush. You rummaged around for pajamas, pulling out a pair of cotton shorts and an oversized sleep shirt when you caught him glancing your way from the corner of his eye.

“What?”

He cleared his throat, looking away quickly, the tips of his ears flushing pink. “Nothing. Just…should I, like, look at the ceiling or something while you—”

“Change?” You arched a brow over your shoulder. “I mean, it might be a good idea. Unless you want a show or something.”

He turned around so fast his head almost smacked the doorframe. “Right. Ceiling. Got it.”

A faint smile tugged at your lips. “You’re acting like we haven’t seen each other naked before.”

His shoulders stiffened. “Yeah, well, context is everything,” he grumbled, and you swore his voice cracked just a little at the end.

You peeled off the hoodie—Suguru’s—and tossed it aside, catching a brief flicker of his attention when the fabric landed on the floor with a soft rustle. He stared at it for a second, something curious passing over his expression like he was trying to place it, like it seemed familiar in a way he didn’t like. His brows furrowed, and before he could piece it together, you cleared your throat.

“Do you want something to wear?” you asked, folding your jeans over the dresser. “I’ve got…uh, I don’t know, sweatpants or something. A shirt?”

He glanced down at his wrinkled slacks and then back at you, shrugging. “Nah. I’ll survive.”

“Suit yourself,” you murmured, tugging the sleep shirt over your head.

You didn’t expect him to actually strip right there. But he did, loosening his tie and tossing it aside. When you glanced back, he was unbuttoning his dress shirt, slow and careless, his long fingers clumsy with the fabric. He shrugged it off his shoulders, and you were not prepared the moment you saw it—the lean muscle of his back, sculpted and smooth, shifting under pale skin. A map of tension and a faint trail of scars you never noticed before. Heat climbed up the back of your neck, your gaze trailing from the sharp lines of his shoulder blades down to the dip of his waist. 

Fuck, pull it together, you scolded yourself, forcing your eyes away before your brain betrayed you.

Why was he so unfairly pretty?

He toed off his slacks until he was left in just his boxers, throwing the rest of his clothes onto the chair by your desk. “Bed’s all yours,” he said casually, though his voice carried a nervous edge.

“Right…bed,” you swallowed hard and climbed in first, sliding under the comforter and pulling it up to your chin. He followed, stretching out on the other side, careful to leave space between you. The mattress dipped under his weight, and you tried not to think about how close you both were to touching.

Bear hopped up onto the foot of bed with a chirp, curling in the warm pocket of space between your legs. The soft rumble of his purr filled the dark room.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

You stared at him, eyes adjusting to the darkness, tracing the outline of his profile—his jaw, his nose, the faint bruise shadowed against his cheekbone. His breath was slow but heavy, like he was thinking of something he couldn’t quite say.

The silence almost felt unbearable.

Then, quietly, unexpectedly, his hand reached over. His fingers brushed a loose strand of hair away from your eyes, tucking it behind your ear. His touch lingered at your temple, so gentle that you almost didn’t realize it at first.

But you did. “Satoru…”

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly. His voice sounded rough, stripped of its usual teasing lilt. His hand dropped back to the sheets, curling into a loose fist. “I’m sorry for…all of it. For not telling Hana sooner, for waiting so long with my parents. For being a coward. For…for dealing with all of this like a fucking idiot and leaving you to do it alone.”

You swallowed, the words heavy in the space between you. 

“I’ve been an asshole,” he continued. “You deserved better than the mess I gave you. And I hate that I let it get this far.”

For a moment, you just looked at him. At the sincerity, raw and unpolished, breaking through his usual facade of charm.

“I can’t forgive you just like that,” you admitted softly. “I’s not that easy, Satoru. I’m still angry. But…I want to try.”

Something in him eased at that, a flicker of relief sparking in his eyes. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“I know I keep saying it, but…I want to do better. For you. For the baby, too. I want to be a good dad, and a good partner.”

You let that sink in, the words curling somewhere deep in your heart where a shrivel of hope still lived.

After a long stretch of quiet, you asked, barely above a whisper, “Are you still…with Hana?”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “…I don’t know,” he admitted honestly. “I haven’t even figured out what to say to her. It’s…complicated.”

The answer stung, even if you knew it shouldn’t. So you nodded anyway, looking down at the blanket between you. “Yeah. I get that…”

The silence stretched long after his answer. Neither of you knew where to go from there. Words felt like too much, and yet the quiet left everything unspoken echoing between you.

Satoru stared at the ceiling, jaw tight as thoughts clawed through his head like a storm. He wanted to tell you the truth, not just the watered-down apology, not just the regret. He wanted to tell you that Hana didn’t matter, not anymore. That she’d never matteered in the way you did. That when he pictured his future—ten years from now, twenty—it wasn’t Hana in the frame. It was you. You, and the tiny heartbeat you’d both heard on the ultrasound. A kid who didn’t even exist in the world yet but already had him by the throat.

But the words stuck like glass in his throat, because what right did he have to say any of that when he’d hurt you so much? What if you didn’t believe him anymore? What if he said it all out loud and you just looked at him like it was too late?

He turned his head slightly, watching your profile in the soft dark. The way your lashes brushed your cheeks, the faint crease between your brows like you were holding back a storm of your own.

I’d choose you now, he wanted to say. I’d choose you every time, if I wasn’t such a coward back then.

Your mind wouldn’t quiet either. You wished he could just say it. That Satoru would choose you. That he could have chosen you back in college, when you were both too stubborn and too scared to admit what was already there. Maybe then, things wouldn’t hurt this much. Maybe then, you wouldn’t be lying here beside him, still unsure if you were something he actually wanted, or just something he felt obligated to care about.

You wished you didn’t have to second-guess where you stood in his life, didn’t have to fight for scraps of clarity when what you wanted was so achingly simple: a place where you, him, and this baby weren’t some mistake to fix.

The weight of it all pressed down until you had to exhale, slow and shaky, just to keep your lungs from locking up. The tension between you felt so tangible. He couldn’t stand it.

Without thinking, he shifted closer, reaching for you under the comforter. His fingers brushed the fabric of your pajama shirt, hesitant at first, testing the waters. When you didn’t pull away, he took a shaky, but decisive breath, and drew you in.

You stiffened in surprise when he gently tugged you toward him.

“What are you…?” you started.

“Just—” he murmured, his breath warm against your hair, “—let me hold you. Just for a minute.”

The protest died on your tongue.

Because the truth was, you wanted this too.

His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you carefully into the warmth of his bare chest. You couldn’t stop yourself from melting, your forehead brushing his collarbone. Your hands found their way to his skin, the steady beat of his heart thudding under your palm as if it had been waiting for you to notice.

His other hand slipped carefully down to your bump, fingers splaying across the curve of it. He cradled both of you, trying to memorize the shape of this moment.

You closed your eyes.

“You okay?” he asked barely above a whisper, as if the quiet between you was too sacred to shatter.

You nodded against his chest, “Yeah. Just…tired.”

“Me too…” he replied softly.

Neither of you dared to move.

Because even if everything was complicated, even if tomorrow would hurt again, right now he was here. And right now…that felt like something.

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Art by: @mmsks_ on X

[artbligh]

gojo!satoru x blind reader

For all of his life Satoru has been profiled, the strongest, the prettiest, the cockiest, seen by the world as Gojo. Until you bumped into his circle. Literally.

Satoru was walking around Tokyo, in no rush, not paying attention whilst eating kikifuku, when something hits his infinity. You.

All he saw was pretty clear eyes, a gorgeous face and… coffee all over your dress.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-“

“Don’t apologise, it was my fault. I’ve ruined your dress.” He was tired, exhausted actually, his usual teasing out of the window. He wanted to be a regular person, speak without people expecting an act, so he did. And you said nothing, just smiled.

“I have ruined many without anyone else’s help.”

Smirking, Satoru crouched down, petting the golden retriever sitting by your side. “Still, I’m sorry I ruined it, and your coffee. Let me buy you another.”

“Dress or coffee?”

“Both.”

And that was your first date, him speaking to you, buying you things, because it felt nice, and more importantly it felt right, to discuss little thing which held no weight, to not have to act up or play anything down. For the first time in years Satoru could be his unapologetic self.

Things moved on from there, he had the honour of calling you his girlfriend, he moved you and Sandy, your dog, into his home and he took on your burdens.

He cooked for you while you discussed an audiobook you had both listened to, he bathed you and helped you paint your nails and do your hair, he laid out outfits you discussed on his side of the bed in the morning.

Satoru took care of you, and you him in ways you didn’t understand but that he assured you of.

As for you, what you loved about Satoru most of all was that he didn’t treat you differently. Sure, he helped you with lots of things that you would otherwise struggle with, but he never saw it as a chore, never mentioned you couldn’t see him or any of the places he took you, he let you enjoy it in your own way.

He had shown you a side of life full of rich foods, textures and smells, described sights for you so you could imagine them in your head.

Above all he made you feel. Physically and emotionally.

He touched you with passion and longing, snuggled against you at night, bear hugged you when he got home from work, kissed you sweetly as he told you how much he missed you.

In his arms you felt accepted, and in yours so did he.

[artbligh]

❝ 𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐃 ❞

❝ EVERYONE WANTS SATORU GOJO, SO WHY ARE YOU THE ONE STUCK GUARDING HIM ? ❞

✧ pairing: rich boy! gojo x bodyguard! reader

✧ summary: after the gojo family receives threats to their lives, you're hired to protect the heir to the company, satoru gojo - you just didn't realize how charming the rich heir would be - and just how hard it would be to resist his advances.

✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, smut, fluff, reader is around the same age as gojo (both in their 20s but age is vague), virgin! gojo, switch! gojo, oral (f + m), handjob (m), dry humping, fingering (f! receiving), sex (p in v), depictions of violence, mentions of yakuza, dirty business dealings, gojo's made up dad and suguru make an appearance

✧ wc: 15,311 (i don't know what to say at this point)

✧ for my 2k celebration event: item 1 has been sold to @forest-hashira and two anons!

“So, is this your first time?”

Satoru Gojo would be the end of you — one way or another. 

One way would be you sacrificing your life to protect him — fairly run of the mill when it came to guarding someone, the risk of putting your life on the line, though the chance of death usually was fairly slim. You had only come close — twice. 

You didn’t care to make it a third. 

The other, increasingly more likely, way was that you would lose your mind to his incessant yammering before you even had a chance to neutralize any threat to his life. 

You nearly spit out your drink at the question, wiping your mouth with a napkin, before managin to choke it down, “Excuse me?” 

And his lips annoyingly curl, “Your first time guarding someone,” 

The heir seemed fairly nonchalant, even after his father had sat the both of you down in a room filled with more security agents than the prime minister of Japan himself had, and had lectured him about the importance of staying with you the entire time and to respect your authority — well one out of two wasn’t bad. He’s eating a piece of cake instead of a meal, his fork digging into the back of the cake again and again, toying with his food as he did with you, “I mean, you seem fairly young, but old enough to be entrusted with my safety,” 

“Well, since you insisted on going to school, your father needed someone unassuming who looked around your age,” you lean against your hand, your other drumming against the table, as your eyes scanned the area — table of frat boys, group of girls sneaking glances at Gojo, various other students, no real threats — unless you counted the girls’ death daggers towards you, “someone who wouldn’t look out of place with you, raise any suspicions, but who could still protect you,” 

His lips curl, as your eyes find their way back to the young heir, “So basically, you had to look like my girlfriend — shouldn’t I hold your hand? Sell the act? All in the name of my safety,” 

You jerk your head towards his group of admirers, “I think what we’re doing now is plenty — unless you’d like your guard to get mauled by a bunch of hormonal college girls,” 

His eyes slid to his adoring fans, as he pities them with a wave, erupting squeals from them, “I think you could take them,”

“How flattering,” you reply drily, picking at the food in front of you, “now finish your lunch so we can get to our next class on time,” 

“Are you still upset that we were late this morning?” 

“No, I’m upset that we missed half the class and I had to take the fall for it,” the heir had oh so kindly told the professor that you had made them run late (even though he was the one who spent far too long in the bathroom). 

And even though you wouldn’t be attending this school for long, you hoped that you wouldn’t have to make yourself look like a fool the entire time you were here — but — your eyes found Gojo’s again — sticking with Satoru Gojo almost made that a guarantee that you would look like a fool — one way or another. 

And you were already the fool — for thinking that a college aged boy would have any real food in his refrigerator. Although, Satoru Gojo was a different breed — instead of alcohol and questionable containers of takeout, there was...sweets. 

So. Many. Sweets.

Not just cookies and candy — but literally six different kinds of mochi (for some reason?) and almost any pastry you could possibly think of was stocked in the house. And the freezer was more of the same — seven different containers of ice cream and one aged bag of edamame stuck in the back. 

“Gojo?” you stare into the open refrigerator, while Gojo lays back on his couch, scrolling on his phone mindlessly. 

“Yeah?” 

“Do you have any food?” 

“What do you mean? The refrigerator is full of food?” and his voice is thick with genuine confusion and you’re almost wondering how this man survived to this age. 

Oh yeah, he’s rich. 

You sigh, closing the refrigerator doors, and striding over to him, only to snatch his phone out of his hands, “Sweets are not real food — how do you eat like this and function?” 

He only shrugs, lips curled into a grin, “I’m just built different,” 

“You mean like a person who won’t make it to age fifty?” you toss his phone back at him, “get up,” you grab your sweatshirt hanging by the door and throw his jacket at him. He barely catches it, as he sits up, his face displeased with your sudden need to get him up. 

“Where are we going?” 

“So,” Gojo says, his hands in his pockets, as you both walk the aisles of the grocery store, “why did I have to come with you?” 

“Because I’m going to show you how to actually shop for groceries, so you don’t have a heart attack and die before my stint with you is up,” you grab essentials and basics — oil, rice, cereal, pasta, spices, flour, sugar (although did he really need sugar with the amount he was already consuming?), “you know it would suck if my client died before we eliminated the other threats on his life,” before you add with a smile, “though I think your eating habits are more likely to kill you,” 

“You know men really hate sarcastic women,” he bites back, before something catches his eye in the aisle and he places it in the cart, “major turn off,” 

“Well, mission accomplished then,” you roll your eyes, as you look back at the cart to see a box of cookies, “you know when I said you were a moron, I was half kidding, but now,” you lift up the box of cookies, “you have a million cookies at home,” 

He pouts — why do you feel like a mother refusing their child their candy at checkout? — “Not these ones,” you take the box and put it back on the shelf where it belonged, and he relents. 

“Did you eat like this before college?” 

He shook his head, “My meals were prepared for me by the chef at my home, I never really had much of a say in what I ate, or anything really,” and you shake your head, “my father wasn’t really the type to let me handle anything on my own — thus the need for a babysitter,” 

You nod, “So no one really taught you how to take care of yourself?” and he shakes his head. 

“Guess not, but I guess no time like the present to learn,” he examines the box of baking powder you had just placed in the cart, “like what this is,” and you snort, taking the box from him and placing it back in the cart. 

“Maybe by the end of this trip, we’ll have you making it past the age of forty,” 

He raises an eyebrow, “I thought you said fifty?” 

“The cookies made me lose more faith in you,” 

The two of you continue to shop, as you help him pick out vegetables, meat, and other necessities for the house. You separate the things for you and for him meticulously, as the two of you head over to the checkout, and he’s placing everything on the conveyor belt together, including your own things, “No wait, those are mine—” 

“Consider it payment,” he stops you, as you continue to try to argue, but he’s only blocking you from the conveyor belt with a raised arm, a real smile on his lips, “just let me do this for you,” And you can’t find any words, so your mouth shuts, and you nod — as you watch him speak with the older cashier with his patented charm. 

And the cashier stops you right as you’re leaving, whispering, “That’s a good one, don’t let him go, ok?” and you pause, her words sinking in as blood rushes to your cheeks. 

“We’re not—” 

“I know,” the older woman chuckles far too knowingly, as she hands you the receipt, “but you never know.” 

“You coming?” Gojo calls, turning to look back at you, as he pushes the cart of groceries, and you look from the cashier to him, before fleeing with a quick ‘thank you.’ 

And as you go home, you glance at Gojo, maybe there was more to him than you initially thought. 

“This is so boooooring,” Gojo’s whining for, what you assume is, the billionth time, “I hate philosophy, moral arguments? It’s such bullshit,” 

“You know philosophy is literally a subject that encompasses everything right?” you tilt your head watching him lay on the floor as the two of you sit at the table, his head right next to you, as you sit cross legged, “there’s no avoiding it in life,” 

“Well can’t I avoid it in school at least? Because college feels very different from real life,” and you roll your eyes, flicking him between the eyes. 

“Just write your paper, I already finished mine,” and he perks up. 

And he slides his laptop over to you, “Then you can write mine,” 

“That’s not happening,” and he groans again, “you know if you spent all the time that you whined working on your paper then you’d be done,” 

“Were you this much of a buzzkill when you were in college?” Gojo stares at you, “what do you even do for fun?” 

“Why is this relevant to you writing your paper?” 

“Why is writing my paper relevant to protecting my life?” and you open and close your mouth, “c’mon give me something, anything,” 

“How about this — when you finish a page, I’ll answer a question, any question,” you offer, and he grins, as he sits up and begins to type away at his laptop. 

You sit back, lying back and using your phone, until about fifteen minutes later when he’s holding his laptop up, showing you that he completed a page, “That fast?” you’re skeptical, and then you grab his laptop, skimming the page, wondering if he was trying to trick you — he wasn’t. It was good, more than good — it was a wonderful discussion of deontological ethics. 

“How did you finish this so fast?” you raise an eyebrow, “you complain so much, but you wrote this page far too quickly,” 

He shrugs, “I’m good at everything, sweetheart,” and you roll your eyes, “jealous?”

“Totally,” you scoff, before grinning,  “so get back to work,” and he gapes at you, before groaning dramatically, lying back on the floor again. 

“Ugh, this is too much work,” he whines again, “I don’t know why I had to take this stupid class,” he grumbles. 

“Then why did you?” you scroll through your phone, checking for any new alerts or updates from his father or any other member of the security team, “you have a choice in what classes you sign up for, don’t you?” 

And for one of the first times, you saw Satoru’s playfulness ebb away, replaced with almost a bitterness — as bitter as his words were usually sweet, “Maybe most college kids do, but I don’t have a choice in most of the things I do, including the classes I pick,” 

You tilt your head, “Your father?” And he nods, “did you even choose your major?” 

His eyes drift to the ceiling, “Is it a choice when your father tells you you’re either being groomed to run his company when you graduate or he’s not paying for you to go to school at all?” 

“No, it isn’t,” you admit, “but it could be worse, he could have stuck you with a glorified babysitter on top of it,” 

He cracks a smile, “I don’t know, maybe I have a thing for babysitters,” and you roll your eyes, cracking a smile. 

“Get back to work.” 

“Fuck,” Satoru muttered, watching the rain come down as he waited outside the university awning of the building he had just finished his class in. You had left him to go to class by himself — you trusted him enough not to get murdered while in class and on the walk back (high praise) — and said you’d likely just meet him back at the apartment. But now, he didn’t know how he’d get home without getting soaked. 

He checks his phone for any rideshares nearby, but there were none. And he would rather go drown in the rain than call his father’s driver, and guarantee a lecture about being prepared for “any given situation.” 

Shit. Maybe he would just risk walking. 

So he did. The rain soaked through his clothes all too quick, the wet fabric clinging to his skin, and the cold leeching the warmth from his body. And he couldn’t help but think if you were with him, you would have remembered to bring an umbrella. 

Weird, when did he ever really rely on anyone else? 

Yes, his father had maids, cooks, and personal shoppers when he was growing up — but they weren’t people he relied on — he did, but it was expected. It was their job. And yes, he was a job for you too — but…it was different. 

Satoru didn’t know when it happened but he had gotten used to your presence in his life. Whether it was at home or in class, you were always there. And it wasn’t as annoying as he thought it would be. It was…nice to have someone there to lean on. But, as he glanced up at the storm clouds, holding a hand above his eyes — rolling dark clouds with no signs of the rain letting up — this would be his reality once the threats were a distant memory. 

“Gojo!” He blinks, his eyes snapping forward, and he sees someone coming over the horizon. 

It was you — umbrella in hand, as your footsteps echoed with the splashes of water from the rain that collected on the ground. And you found your way to him, holding the umbrella over his head. He stared at you as you grew closer, wondering if you were real. And he wasn’t surprised you found him —

“How did you know?” He asks when you stand, catching your breath, short pants, as your eyes flicker up to his. 

“You always forget your umbrella, so I figured you needed one,” you shrugged, “plus I finished my meeting early so I came to get you,” and he only stares at you, “what?” 

And he only shakes his head, as he takes the umbrella from your hand, fingers brushing, as he holds it up over the both of you, your shoulders brushing as you begin to walk home. And he found himself wishing for a split second that the threats would never stop. 

“Just wondering if it’s in your job description to protect me from colds too,” and you snort, lips curling into the same smile he loved to see. 

“With you? It is.” 

“A party?” 

“Yes, known as a gathering of people where—” 

“I don’t need you to define the word,” you grit your teeth, as you watch him pull out shirts from his closet, holding them up, before shrugging, “do you know the kind of danger you could put yourself in by going?” 

“I know, the party might go into a frenzy at the sight of me, think of all the students who’d glare at you then,” he grins, as he finally settles on an outfit — charcoal gray shirt and a blue button down, “might have to call another bodyguard to guard you instead, princess,” 

“Aren’t you the princess if you’re the one being guarded?” you bite back, and he only laughs, hands in his pockets, “Gojo, you have serious threats that have been levied—” 

“Against my father—” 

“And you, the heir to your father’s company,” you cut him off, crossing your arms, “are you seriously going to risk our lives because you want to get drunk and fuck around with a bunch of idiots?” 

The answer was yes, of course. 

And now here you were, stuck babysitting this spoiled heir at a party. You hadn’t really been to any parties — hadn’t bothered to. You had gotten through college at a young age, perks of skipping a few grades, and you ended up in the family business regardless — so you didn’t bother to party much. Not when you had things to accomplish — babysitting a drunk heir wasn’t one of them. 

It has started as you expected. Gojo had flitted away from your side the first moment he got, disappearing into the throng of horny and drunk college students. You wove your way through the crowd, careful not to trip over the students making out, dancing, or drinking on nearly any available surface. The smell of beer and cheap cologne wafted through this dorm. And you had almost given up on finding him when you spotted him stuck to the sides of three girls, all of them far too eager to hang off his every word. 

You sighed, this was going to be a long night. 

“You one of Satoru’s girlfriends?” you glance to your side and see Suguru Geto in person. You had learned all about Satoru Gojo and the people he hung around. Like those three girls — one of them had a long distance boyfriend, the other had a cheating situationship she was trying to make jealous, and the other just wanted to fuck him for the experience. Suguru Geto was one of the only friends of Gojo you had liked from what you had read about him — humble background, on scholarship at the college, but one of the best students here — and a philosophy student of all things, the very subject his best friend hated. 

You want to say no, but unfortunately, you have no idea what the idiot has been saying to other people, “Something like that,” you sip at your drink to make the bitter words slide down, “why? Are you?” 

A chuckle slips past his lips, as he takes a swig of his drink, “Well I already like you better than the others. You have a sense of humor and seemingly more than two brain cells,” 

“Don’t give me too much credit,” you snorted, leaning against a wall, “I did end up here after all,”

“Fair enough, how’d he convince you to come?” And you shake your head — good question. What choice did you really have? You could have let him go alone, but probably not a good look 

“I don’t even know honestly, feel like I’ve been dragged here to make sure he doesn’t do something stupid,” you glance at him and the gaggle of girls, “though maybe I already fucking failed at that,” 

Geto shrugs, as his gaze slips from Gojo to you, “I mean until he sticks his tongue down one of their throats, I think you’re doing pretty well,” 

You laugh, “Good to know,” and you both continue to chat, and unbeknowst to you, while your focus is torn away from Gojo, his attention is fully on you. 

If looks could kill, Satoru imagined his crystal eyes were nothing more than daggers ready to strike, as he watches you and Suguru talk. 

It was his fucking idea to come to this party, so why were you having more fun than he was?

He swirled his drink miserably — he had barely taken a sip of the beer poured for him — why would he when it tasted like piss? He didn’t understand why people liked to drink — especially when they could eat mochi instead — but now, as he stares at you and Suguru, maybe he was starting to understand. 

He can’t hear what either of you are saying over the blaring music and the chatter of students surrounding him, but he can see the smile on your lips and the laugh that left them. 

Why the fuck do you look so happy to talk to Suguru? 

You seemed so bored when he was with you—and did you just fucking laugh again at something Suguru said? 

The crinkle of plastic and the distinct feeling of a spill made his gaze snap to his hand — he just crushed his plastic drink cup. He sighed, as he simply placed it among the other abandoned drink cups on a nearby table, before wiping off his hand with a napkin. 

Why did he even care? You were nothing but a nuisance anyway. All you did was follow him around, make him go to class on time, make sure he was safe, care about his well-being— 

What the fuck was he thinking? 

His eyes couldn’t help but slide back to you as he tried to enjoy the girls' company, their slight touches and soft pouts and sweet words not going unnoticed by him. But that was how it always was. Once people found out he was rich, people wanted to be his friend, they wanted to date him, they wanted him — but not really him, they wanted his money. 

First world problems, right? 

But you — you hadn’t been like that. You were irritatingly punctual, unfazed by his money, didn’t care in the slightest about his father or who he was — you just wanted to do your job. And he was your job, for the time being. 

And now he got to see you smile — your lips perfectly curled in a smile that both he wanted to see all the time and grated on his nerves — but you were smiling at someone else. And Suguru no less. 

“C’mon Satoru, you gonna make eyes at your boyfriend all night?” Aiko said, nudging him teasingly, her words far too slurred. 

“Help us finish these shots,” Yumiko whines, as she offers him a shot, urging it into his hands. 

He’s grimacing, he hates alcohol — he hates how he feels during and after; he hates the disgusting, metallic taste; and if it couldn’t get worse, he’s a lightweight. He stares at the shot. 

“It’s just one shot,” Misaki grins, holding up her own, clinking hers to his, “you’re already three shots behind everyone else,” 

And he’s about to open his mouth to refuse — make up an excuse of having to wake up early or stomach being unsettled — and that’s when you catch his attention. You were laughing now, a noise far too pretty for his liking, as you shoved Suguru’s chest playfully. 

Fuck it. 

He downs the shot, the liquid searing down his throat, dragging down until it settles in a burning pool in his stomach. Finally he tears his gaze away as the girls offer him another shot — as you grin at Suguru — this was going to be a long night. 

“Hey,” Geto jerks his head, “you might want to deal with that,” 

You whip your head around. 

“Oh what the—“ 

Gojo was hanging all over the girls he was with, barely able to stand on his two feet, as he swayed from side to side — his cheeks glowed with the telltale glow that told everyone he had been drinking (if that wasn’t obvious by literally everything else). 

Fuck. 

You had kept an eye on him. You swore he had only taken two shots of alcohol, how was he this drunk already? You examine and sniff the two shot glasses he used — no peculiar smell or residue — you run through the gamut of tests you could do on hand and conclude two things: 1) Gojo wasn't drugged and 2) he was a lightweight. 

But that didn’t stop him from acting like he wasn’t, as girls egged him on to take more shots, and from the way they were eyeing him, their intentions were anything but pure. 

You sigh, walking over, slipping past a drunk couple making out, a person passed out and sleeping on the floor, and a cluster of cheering onlookers as a student chugged what you can only assume was a disgusting concoction of alcohol. 

Until you finally reached his side. 

“I think you’ve had enough, isn’t that right, Satoru?” And he’s blinking at you, before he’s grinning, slurring your name.

“You’re no fun,” and he’s clinging all over you, his hands curled around your waist, “such a buzzkill, don’t even like to have any fun with me,” 

“Looks like you had too much fun without me,” you murmur, your arm slinks around the middle of his back, “let’s get you back to your dorm,” 

“Hey he’s fine, he’s having fun with us,” Aiko glared at you, a hiccup leaving her lips, “don’t go crashing our good time because he’s not interested in you,” 

“Yeah why don’t you go hang out with Geto or whatever? We’ll take good care of him. C’mon Toru, let’s go to my place in Shibuya, I have a huge house there,” Yumiko says, barely coherent, and you raise your eyebrows at the nickname, as she leans in to whisper, alcohol wafting off her breath, as she lifts up her middle finger, “fuck off,” 

Honestly the only reason you can understand the gist of what she meant was because of her middle finger. Their other friend is passed out on the couch. 

“I don’t think any of you can even care for yourselves,” you scoff, and Satoru is hanging all over you already, mumbling words you can’t make out in your ear, “I’m taking him home, you should take your friend home,” 

“Geto, wanna help me out?” And Geto nods, trying to take Gojo other arm, but Gojo pushes him away, instead clinging to you, you stumble a moment before catching both of you, “Gojo—“ 

“No, wanna go home with just you,” he’s officially whining, and you’re having flashbacks to the summer you spent babysitting, but — you look at the drunk white porcupine clinging to you — somehow this idiot is worse than the kid. 

You sigh, “Geto, make sure that girl gets home safe,” you gesture to the one passed out on the couch, “I’m going to deal with this one,” 

Geto stares at the two of you, the far too tall Satoru hunched over onto your body, “Can you—“ 

But you’re already walking away, able to drag Gojo away with relative ease (it’d be far easier if he’d pull his own weight, but at least he was quiet). 

That was, until you got outside. And then the whining began again. 

“How can you treat me like this?” Gojo’s hands cling to your arm, his face buried in your shoulder, “you shouldn’t ignore the one you’re supposed to protect!” and he’s shaking his head like a petulant child, his bottom lip quivering. 

“You’re the one who left my side, not the other way around,” you grumble, as he’s finally beginning to walk by himself but he’s still stuck to your side like an overgrown cactus, “you’re the one who wanted to go to this goddamn party,” 

“Yeah but you’re the one who's supposed to protect me,” he pouts, as he stops right in front of his building, “I can’t do your job for you,” and he’s finally standing in front of you, his cheeks and nose still flushed from the alcohol, his hand still clutching at yours, “do you even know how to do your job?” 

You grit your teeth. Would punching the person you’re hired to protect be a breach of contract? You rub your temples, it may come to that. 

“You’re an idiot,” you jerk your hand away, shaking your head, “my job is to protect you, not to stop you from doing stupid college boy shit,” 

He’s crossing his arms, “I could have been in danger — what if that alcohol was poisoned? I feel really sick,” he grips, holding his stomach with pursed lips, and you’re thoroughly unimpressed. 

“I looked at it, it wasn’t poisoned,” you raise an eyebrow, before sighing, and shrugging your shoulder bag off your shoulders, rooting around in the pouch, “but if you want, I have something in my bag that will turn your stomach inside out and we’ll be sure to get the poison out,” 

“Nooooo, no! I’m fine,” he’s shaking his head, his voice grows soft, “I just need to get to bed,” he mutters, and you roll your eyes, but grab him by his wrist. 

“Come on, we’re going inside,” and it’s a struggle to get to his apartment — more like a luxury penthouse — on the top floor, but somehow you get him inside and shepherd into his bedroom. And he’s shrugging off his button up before pulling off the shirt underneath. 

Your gaze snaps away, cheeks burning, your eyes trying to erase the glimpse of his fucking unfairly chiseled physique — complete a surprisingly broad chest and shoulders — how the fuck was that hiding under his clothes? He looked like a stick normally with his clothes on. 

“See something you like?” he’s snickering, as you hear the click of his belt and the and sounds of rustling — assuredly stepping out of his jeans. 

“No, just not used to clients stripping for me,” you turn your back to him, as you hear the creak of the mattress and the crinkling of his comforter and sheets. 

“Am I just a client to you?” his words were still mildly slurred, and you knew he’d be pouting if he had enough brain cells to do so, “you can turn around, I’m under the covers,” he adds with a grumble. 

You turn and see him curled up under his blanket and you have to bite back your smile — now he most assuredly looked like one of the kids you used to babysit. 

“Well what else am I supposed to see you as, Gojo?” you cross your arms, and he’s muttering under his breath, “what?” 

“That’s just it. You don’t even call me by my first name,” he’s brooding, face twisted in a scowl, “I don’t have a lot of people I trust. Most people are just after my money or my looks,” he looks at you, “you’re different. Kinda weird,” 

You quirk an eyebrow, “is that a good thing?” 

“Well I trust you,” he admits, and you note the tips of his ears barely visible outside the comforter are red — is it still the flush from the alcohol? “I don’t really have many of those,” 

And you’re taken aback — you thought you were nothing but a nuisance to this party obsessed prince, but maybe there was more to him than you thought. You toyed the ring on your finger, maybe you had more in common than you thought. 

“Thank you, I’m glad you do, because you can, trust me that is,” you say softly, “good night, Satoru.” 

And he does sleep after that, as you spend the night keeping watch, half to ensure his safety and the other to make sure he slept on his side in case he threw up

(and he did, twice). 

“I need to talk to you,” Suguru Geto barely looked up from his phone when he saw Satoru in front of him, his best friend looking more irritable than usual — his usually bored affect seemed to be on holiday, “Suguru?” 

“I heard you the first time, what is it?” and Satoru snatches the phone from Suguru’s hands, “what the fuck—“ 

“What were you doing last night?” and Suguru tilts his head, before rubbing his temple.

“Give me my fucking phone—“ 

“What did you talk to her about?” And Suguru stares at him, his brow furrowed, smart mouth ready with a reply about a stint in a spa or a retreat was needed before his lips curl. 

“Oh. Her,” and he’s leaning back, a lazy shrug, “this and that,” 

“Cut the shit, Suguru, do you like her or not? Did you get her number?” And Satoru is trying to unlock Suguru’s phone, as Suguru watches with a tilt of his head and a wry grin on his lips, “huh? what is it?” 

“So you like her, that much is clear,” and he’s crossing his arms, “I assume you didn’t tell her or you wouldn’t have come in swinging and stealing?” 

Satoru stares at him, slack jawed and cheeks turning a deep pink that only carnations could rival, “No! She’s just a…friend of the family, and she’s not supposed to be with—“ 

“She told me she liked you,” his heart catches, mouth falling open, before Suguru’s lips curl, “well, she said that she was one of the many, rather,” 

Satoru’s cheeks burn, “It’s not like that, she barely even fucking looks at me. Can you believe that? Me?” and he gestures up and down his body. 

“I see your ego is still intact,” Suguru scoffs, shaking his head, before leaning back on his palms, “just tell her how you feel, Satoru, what’s the problem?” 

“The problem is I have no idea how she feels and it’s all your fault!” And Suguru raises an eyebrow, “you charmed her and I’m sure you’re the only one she’s thinking about now,” he covers his face, “and after what I said to her last night…” he couldn’t believe he admitted that you were the one of the only ones he trusted. And he called you weird. 

He honestly didn’t know what was worse. 

“What did you even say?” 

“Say to who?” and Satoru turns, finding you standing behind him, arms crossed. 

And Satoru cuts Suguru off before he can say a thing, “Not important. What are you doing here—“ you grab him by the wrist, a wave of heat makes his nearly burn red as you begin to drag him away, “what are you—“ 

“Bye Geto,” you say, waving at the raven haired student, before taking Geto’s phone and tossing it back to him, “I’m taking the idiot—“ 

“HUH?” 

“Good luck. He might need to be fed — he’s in a mood,” and he waves back, same smile on his lips. 

“What did you two do, adopt me?” Satoru grumbles as you pull him away, “where the hell are you dragging me? How did you even find me?” 

“The post hangover suits you well, we have to get to class, and I placed a tracker on you,” and he’s jerking his hand away, staring at you, “I have to be able to find you, don’t I?” 

“Where?” 

You tilt your head, “Why would I tell you? Don’t worry about, I’ll remove it after we’re done here,” 

You weren’t going to budge on this — and if he argued more, you would take it up with his father. And he would like to avoid that as much as possible. He sticks his hands in his pockets, , “I’m tired, can’t you just go and take notes for me?” 

“I thought you’d be more concerned about the threats against your life, instead of sending your bodyguard off to your class for you” you hiss, and he’s pouting again, unable to meet your gaze, “what’s your problem, Satoru?” 

And he pauses, the retort on lips dying as his brain looped in an infinite spiral of his name on your lips, “You called me ‘Satoru,’”

You tilt your head, “you told me to last night,” and then you add with a wicked grin, “remember? When you said I was one of the only people you trusted,” you tease, but he’s too busy hearing his name repeat in his head again and again, “Satoru—“ 

“Better be careful, sweetheart,” his lips curl into that annoyingly charming smile, “keep calling me by my first name and I may fall for you,” 

You glare at him, before rolling your eyes, “I see you’re feeling better now,” you walk forward, glancing back at him, “you coming?” 

And his wrist tingles still tingle from your touch, his lips quirk into a smile, “Yeah.” 

“Why did you become a bodyguard?” Satoru asks you, the movie you had haphazardly chosen still ongoing had all become background noise while you spoke, the illumination from the television screen being the only thing that kept your faces lit in the dark living room (he had insisted on shutting the lights off for an “authentic movie watching experience”). 

It had been a few weeks, with no signs of the threat posed ever being eliminated — still new threats were being made, and the Gojo family was still on edge. 

But you were on edge for a whole other reason. 

His fingers were still shoved in the bag of kettle corn he had been snacking on this entire time, but you could feel his gaze on you, instead of the movie. 

“What do you mean?” your eyes slide to him, as your phone’s ringer goes off with a spam email, and you silence it, keeping it on vibrate for emergencies, “and what’s with the sudden question?” 

The two of you had settled into your routine — days spent in class, meals shared, grocery shopping, and nights spent either in or out — but again, always together. And, it wasn’t bad — some of it was fun, to the point you almost forgot you were working. 

But you were working. Even now, as your legs are thrown up on the couch, crossed underneath you, your knee brushing against his thigh. 

He shrugs, “You owe me a question, remember?” and he reminds you of your promise from weeks ago — you had wondered why he had never asked you anything that night, “You never talk about yourself. You implied you have your degree, but not much else. From what I’ve seen of you, you’re intelligent — you could have done anything, why this?” and his lips curl into that mischievous, “unless you just had to guard me when you found out it was me,” 

You toss a throw pillow at him, but he catches it with ease, “If only your body was as bulletproof as your body,” and he huffs out a laugh, as you sigh, “why are you interested anyway?” 

“Because I am,” you scoff. 

“Nice reasoning,” he only grins, a thousand watt even in the dark. 

“I thought so,” and he’s holding the pillow to his chest, “c’mon, can you not tell me even one thing about yourself?” 

He wasn’t going to let this go was he? And you relent, chewing on your lip, “My family has been in this business for years — my grandfather, my father, my uncles, and my cousins, and I wanted to be one too. To protect people — it’s a lot more work than it seems. It’s quick thinking, critical reasoning, and analytical skills. It’s all I ever wanted to do after watching my dad do it,” you say softly, “but he didn’t think I was capable of it. He thought I was too soft. Too weak. So I decided to prove him wrong,” 

“You weak? Has your father met you?” and you huff a laugh, “I’m serious,” his cerulean pools meeting yours with not a ripple of hesitancy in them, “I’ve seen you — I don’t I’ve met anyone this determined, or stubborn,” he adds with a smirk. 

“I’m stubborn?” you gape at him, “this coming from the king of stubborn,” 

“Only if you’ll be my queen,” and you roll your eyes, but your cheeks burn, as your gaze turns back to the movie — why did your heart catch at his words? “but trust me, I’m very flexible in other aspects,” 

“Oh my god, is every other sentence that leaves your mouth a pick-up line?” and he opens his mouth, “don’t say ‘only for you,’ or I will be the only threat you have to worry about,” 

“Promise?” you grab another pillow, but he catches your wrist before you can toss it. Your breath catches, and you can’t meet his gaze — you can’t, because you know if you do— but then he whispers your name. 

And you can’t help it. You look at him. His eyes are so pretty. They were really the first things that struck you when you met him — that was before he opened his mouth. They looked like they contained multitudes, a far too beautiful ocean tucked behind sunglasses and an irritated scowl. But it wasn’t a secret that Satoru Gojo was attractive — especially not when every other person glared at you for simply being in his presence. But physical attractiveness meant little if a person wasn’t good — because superficiality could only take you so far. 

And you knew what it was like to be only judged superficially — and by the way Satoru’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes when these people chatted him up, he was far too used to it. 

And once he did speak, you had written him off as another rich kid — you had seen them a dime a dozen throughout your schooling and from the people your family was protected to hire. But there was something about him — something you couldn’t quite shake, even though every part of you was telling to do so. 

“What is it, Satoru?” And his fingers tug you a little closer, gently, his hand loose enough for you to slip away, but you don’t. Why don’t you? 

“You don’t always have to have your guard up,” his voice is soft, far too soft for the far too loud heir, “it’s okay to open up,” 

You shake your head, but still unable to pull away, “It’s dangerous,” and he laughs, a sound that only warms the thin icy barrier between you both, melting it to nothing. 

“Isn’t danger the whole reason we met?” And now his thumb brushes up and down against your wrist, and you wonder if he can feel your pulse roaring just underneath. 

You pull away again, shaking your head, as you cross your arms, trying to hold your resolve together, “I can’t do my job if I’m distracted,” and you couldn’t, even now, you weren’t evaluating any risks, you weren’t trying to find the source of the threats — no, you were too busy trying not to inch closer to your client, trying not to look at his lips, trying not to give in to what you wanted. 

“And I’m a distraction?” he looks far too pleased, but a thought seems to sour his smirk, “I thought Suguru was more of one,” and his lips are caught in a slight pout. 

“Geto was just keeping me company while you entertained those girls hanging on your every word,” you can’t dull the point to your words, and it replaces his pout with a grin. 

“So you were jealous,” 

“You’re the one who was jealous — you could have killed Suguru with your glare alone,” 

“But you didn’t deny it,” and it makes you stop — why didn’t you deny it? 

“I can’t do this,” and you’re pulling away, before flicking off the tv and rising from the couch your phone in hand, turning towards the hallway, “it’s late we should go to bed—“ but he’s catching your wrist again, “Gojo—“ 

“Satoru,” he corrects, and you hated how gentle his fingers felt around your wrist, “how are you supposed to protect me if you’re too busy running away from me?” 

“I’m great at multitasking,” and he’s drawing closer to you, his soft footfalls against the carpet, even as you step away from him, “my job is to protect you, we can’t get distracted—“ 

“I thought you were so good at multitasking,” he chuckles, his fingers find your wrist again, slipping to intertwine with your own, fingers interlaced, and your phone falls from your fingers and onto the couch, “what I said that night when I was drunk was true — I don’t have a lot of people I trust. People don’t understand. They put me on a pedestal or they don’t want me, they want the concept of me — not the reality,” 

“I’m not licensed as a therapist you know,” and he’s sighing. 

“Do you always have to deflect with humor? Because if we both do that, we’ll never get through a conversation,” and he squeezes your hand, “which I guess I don’t mind if that means you’ll stay,” 

“Satoru—“ 

“We don’t have to do anything now — we don’t have to do anything at all,” and you can feel his words warming your skin, “but don’t you feel something?” 

You hesitate, and you can’t look at him,  “No, I don’t,” 

“You’re not a very good liar — don’t they teach you that in bodyguard academy?” 

You snort, holding your head, “Is that where you imagined I got my training done?”

“Well, you don’t exactly like to share, now do you?” he’s stepping forward again, and you can’t bring yourself to run away anymore. 

“I shouldn’t,” and you hear the faint sound of his breath hitching, “but I do,” 

You don’t need to look at him to hear the smile on his lips, “so maybe it’s a distraction worth having,” 

“But—” and he’s gently turning you to face him, his fingers brushing a stray hair from your face, heat blooming with his touch, “Satoru…” 

“Why do you keep saying my name when you know I like hearing it?” he’s teasing, but you’re not shying away from his touch, as his fingers cup your chin now, upwards, so you meet his gaze, “maybe we should have had you pretend to be my girlfriend,” 

You chuckle, “Oh I could see that going wrong in so many ways,” and he’s leaning even closer, as he’s left the line you’d drawn far behind, marred it with his touch, and is luring you over to stumble over the edge with him. 

“Is this one of them?” 

“Probably,” and his lips brush against yours — he tastes sweet, the taste of kettle corn lingers, as his fingers cup your cheek now, and find purchase on his shoulder. It’s brief, a soft press that leaves you far too breathless, as if his touch had taken the air from your lungs, only to leave heat behind, “definitely,” 

“Is that a good thing or—” and your lips find his this time, a gasp you swallow with a smirk, and he melts into your touch, eager fingers grasping at the front of his shirt. And he responds in kind, his fingers tracing a path, as they tuck a strand of hair behind your ear before his hand settles on the back of your neck. 

His touch set every nerve ending on fire — a desperate wildfire that burned a trail across your mind and body — leaving only the crave of his touch behind, that left you wanting more, needing more.

“Was that good?” you murmur, as you take in your handiwork, his pink lips were bitten red by your kisses, his marble skin a lovely flush, and his gaze far too needy. God, it’s far too easy to get lost in him — pull your anchor from the shore and get lost in his gaze and touch, “god I shouldn’t ask that, we shouldn’t be doing this—” but your body refuses to pull away, and you don’t think by the grasp he has on you, that you’d be able to anyway. 

But he only gives you the same answer to each of your statements — he kisses you again, slower and more languid this time, as the two of you walk towards the bedroom, your hands reaching for each other and the walls, as you both stumble into his bedroom. 

“We don’t—” he says, between kisses, “I didn’t—” 

“I didn’t either, but—” you can’t stop touching him, you don’t want to, despite the logical part of you screaming at you to leave his room, it’s overridden by just how much you want him. He’s frustrating, he’s an idiot, he’s sweet, he’s cute, and he’s a little pathetic — but you liked that in a man. Every sense of logic is screaming at you to stop — but it all turns to white noise  “but I don’t want to stop.” 

He’s grinning as he pulls you into another kiss, his arms wrapping around his waist, pressing you against him, “That addicted already?” lips parting as he kisses down your neck, pulse jumping under his touch. 

“You’re just lucky Geto didn’t get to me first,” and he furrows his brow, before his teeth graze against the juncture of your neck and shoulder, drawing a gasp from your lips, “Satoru, what was that for—”  

“So everyone knows you’re mine? Including Suguru,” he’s sucking lightly at the mark, soothing his tongue, “and I’ll make sure he knows,” 

“Oh, I trust you’ll be subtle,” and he’s guiding you towards his bed, both of you falling onto it, his knee pressing your legs apart, as he hovers over you, his ocean gaze dark as a storm ridden sea. 

“Oh you know me, princess,” and his knee presses against your clothed cunt, rubbing against it teasingly, “subtlety is my specialty,” 

“Subtle as a truck,” you murmur, and he’s laughing as he kisses you again, making your lips curl, as his hands slide up your sides, squeezing your hips, “Satoru, please,” 

“What’s the fun if I don’t get to tease you?” he’s kissing needy kisses to your neck, as his knee doesn’t relent, grinding lightly against your increasingly wet core, slick leeching through the thin material of your shorts, “gotta make sure you want it right?”

“You treat all the people you bring home this well?” and he’s pausing, lips against your neck, “I didn’t mean anything—” 

“You’re the first,” you stare up at him, and he’s hesitant for once when usually he’s always barreling forward, “I’ve never brought anyone here,” and he licks his lips, a deeper flush settling over his porcelain skin, “I’ve never actually—” 

And you blink, “Really?” 

He huffs, “Is it that surprising—” 

“I mean a little, from the way everyone acts around you, and the way you act—” 

“Well, ‘act’ is the key word, now isn’t it?” he’s licking his lips as he looks down at you, “it’s easy to act when you know what they expect from you — a role to play,” 

“Well, the role’s been filled, so how about you just be yourself for me?” you murmur softly, a featherlight touch as you trace the curve of his jaw, and his lips find his smile under your delicate touch, “so I can ask, is this your first time like you asked me?” 

And he’s leaning up to kiss you, your hand resting against his chest, his heartbeat galloping under your touch, “And if I said yes?” 

You smile, before flipping him onto his back, his gaze wide as he stares up at you, “Then we better make it memorable.” 

“Please, I want to—“ his soft pants left his perfect lips, chest heaving as your fingers curled around his erection, far too hard from just what you had done. You’d stripped yourself and him bare — your inhibitions left far behind — as your lips kissed the tip of his aching cock.

“Lemme make you feel good, Satoru,” you murmur, looking up at him with fluttering eyes, your fingers smearing his pre cum along his length, and he’s pressing his head into the pillow, “s’big, can’t wait to feel you inside me,” you murmur, and you slowly pump him, drawing moan after moan from his lips. 

“Won’t last long—can’t—“ he’s biting his lip, his hips thrusting into your touch, before your lips suck at his tip again, and he’s gone, cumming hard all over your face and fingers. God, it never felt that good when he touched himself. Your fingers even brushing against him made him want to cum almost instantly, your soft touch and lips were enough to send him over the edge over and over again.  

He’s panting, eyes fluttering open to see you licking your lips clean with your tongue, as you meet his gaze with a grin, slowly sucking on each one of your fingers until you’ve cleaned yourself of his cum. 

“Princess, fuck,” he’s lying back on the pillow, as your lips slowly kiss back up his body, your tongue dragging between the fluttering muscles of his stomach and chest. 

“Already hard again?” You murmur, a smirk on your lips, “so sensitive for me,” 

He’s keening at your words, a whimper leaving his lips. His eyes are blown out in pleasure as he meets your gaze, and you kiss him again, sloppy and messy, as his tongue brushes against yours, your clothed pussy grinding against his erection. 

“Please,” he can’t help the words leaving his lips, “I need you,” 

“Is this the first time you’ve begged for something?” You tease him, smirk on your lips as your thumb teases one of his nipples, pulling a gasp from his lips, “such a good boy,” 

He hissed at your praise, “fuck—“ 

And you’re grinding against him, he’s already embarrassingly hard, blood rushing back to his cock as if it never left, as it drags against the all too wet fabric of your panties. And every small moan that leaves your lips leaving him needing more, his pre cum mixing with your cum that seeps through your panties, and is the second time he comes with you gonna be just grinding against each other on this bed? But he can’t help it if you keep nibbling at his neck like that, your pretty little pants in his ear, the head of his dick catching on your clit — so fucking good. 

“Toru, c-close, ngh, g’nna cum—“ and he’s nodding, forcing his eyes open to watch you cum, your chest shaking, as you hover above him, your eyes squeezed shut and lips parted as you said his name. 

“S’good,” he’s grunting, “Cum f’me,” and you both do, the slick and stickiness between your bodies almost unbearable, as you both pant, as you rest your head against his shoulder. 

The silence sinks in for a moment, as you kiss his cheek, “we can stop here if you want,” your voice is soft, nose brushing against his neck, “don’t want to make you—“

And he’s flipping you onto your back, his fingers finding the waistband of your shorts, your breath hitching as he drags the material down your legs, and tosses it behind him, “I want this, I want you, and I won’t stop saying it until you believe it,” he leans down, breath warming your breasts through your shirt, before his lips suck at your clothed nipples, making you shiver, “you like that, huh?” 

“Shut up,” your cheeks burn, but he’s only tugging your shirt over your head and off, his gaze hot as he drags his eyes down your exposed body, and it makes you squirm, “Satoru — please—“ 

“Now who’s the one doing the begging?” he leans down to suck on your nipple, while his fingers toy with the other between his thumb and forefinger, “I wanna learn what makes you feel good — wanna make you cum under my touch, wanna taste you,” he switches sides, his teeth grazing the skin of your breast, sucking a mark before soothing it with his tongue, “mine,” 

“Satoru, fuck, I want—“ and his fingers trace down your body, making you gasp, he’s kissing down your chest and then your stomach, tongue dipping into your bellybutton, “you fucking—“ 

“Gotta make you feel good don’t I?” he has a shit eating grin on his lips, as he settles between your thighs, and his fingers press against the growing wet patch on your panties, “though it looks like you’re already feeling good,” 

You bite back a whimper, “Are you gonna make me feel good or are you gonna keep talking—“ you moan when his thumb bears down on your needy clit, rubbing it through the nearly translucent fabric of your underwear. 

“What was that, sweetheart?” And he’s snapping the waistband of your panties against your skin, “couldn’t hear you,” 

“You fucker—“ and he’s kissing your clothed cunt through the wet fabric, nose brushing against your clit, making you nearly shake, as he inhales before he moans. 

“So sweet, must taste even sweeter,” he murmurs before tugging your underwear down, before you’re kicking it off, making him chuckle, “so eager,” and you scowl up at him, ineffective from the way lips are parted, “you’re so cute,” 

“I’m not cute,” you pout, and he’s laughing, a noise you could drown in, just as you do his eyes. 

“You’re very cute, and I’ll tell you as many times as it takes you to believe it,” and his lips press soft kisses to your thighs, “my cute bodyguard, you gonna guard my heart as well as you do my body?” 

And before you can reply his breath is warming your soaked cunt, his fingers parting your folds apart, your clit was puffy, your sex slick with your mixed juices, “so pretty, this all just for me?” And you hiss as he holds your outer lips apart, “so this is what your pussy looks like, huh?” And your thighs are twitching, trying to shut, but his palms hold you apart, his heated gaze meeting your shy ones, “you’re perfect, don’t hide from me, you’ve done enough of that,” and he kisses your clit, making you moan, “and I won’t have that anymore,” 

“Satoru—“ and his tongue drags over the length of your dripping pussy experimentally, tip of his tongue flicking against your clit, fuck, how can he this good at this? Your toes are already curling as he groans, his fingers sliding under your thighs, and tugging you impossibly closer to his face. Your fingers weave into his white locks, “‘ngh— 

“Be a good girl and take it,” he grunts against you, slurping your juices, the sounds of his tongue buried in your cunt, fucking you open, dragging across your walls, “taste s’fucking good, how’d I hold out this long without tasting you?” And your eyes flutter open at his groans, seeing him grind down on the sheets, so fucking horny from eating you out, “g’nna just cum from your taste alone, Princess,” you’re so incredibly soft, so soft, despite your walls being so tough, and it makes only eat you eat you from the inside out. 

You’re so close, and all you hear is the sounds of his greedy tongue swallowing you whole, and the sound of your heartbeat and short gasps. Your walls flutter around his tongue, your thighs twitching under his touch, hips jolting forward to meet his touch, his tongue so fucking deep that you can’t see straight, “Toru, please, I’m so close—“ 

And you feel him groan into your pussy, redoubling his efforts before his fingers find your clit and rub at it while he sucks at your cunt. You cum hard, fingernails digging into his scalp, as your back arches as he eagerly eats you out through your orgasm. The wet squelch of your cunt and his tongue slurping against you, drinking every drop you offer him. 

And then finally he’s pulling away with a pop, his chin and mouth dripping with your release and his spit, pink tongue darting out to clean up your cum from his face, wiping off the rest as he looked up at you from white lashed half lidded eyes. 

And you can’t even speak, still coming down from your high, as he kisses up your body again, your thighs still shaking from your orgasm, your fingers reaching for his cheek, tracing his jaw, before cupping his cheek. 

“How the fuck do you know how to do that well?” And he flashes a pretty smile, as he drags his thumb down your lips. 

“I said I was a virgin, I didn’t say I didn’t know how to do some things — and as you know, I’m an excellent student,” and you huff, raising an eyebrow, “and I’m naturally good at everything,” 

“And always so humble,” he laughs, before he kisses you again, letting you taste yourself on his sweet lips, and you’re rolling him over onto his back, his erection slick with precum, pressing against your sensitive cunt, “let me make you feel good now,” you murmur, his cock twitching against you, “wanna ride you, Toru, need you in me,” 

And he’s hissing, as he moves to sit against the headboard, “You keep talking like that princess, I’m g’nna cum before you even—“ and your fingers are reaching between your bodies, and you’re stroking him, smearing his precum over the length of his shaft, making his hips jerk, “fuck—” 

You’re so fucking pretty — your teeth baring down on your bottom lip, as you straddle him, hovering still, his aching tip barely brushing against your dripping cunt, “are you sure?” you murmur, eyes meeting his own, and his lips quirk into a smile. 

“Never been more sure of anything,” and you sink onto him, thick length parting your folds, and he groans, as you fit him in your pussy, inch by inch, until your hips are flush. And fuck, he’s never felt anything better — pleasure runs up and down his body, as his hands find their way to your hips.

You’re tense at first, your back slightly arched, and when he shifts under you, a moan is ripped from your lips, as you begin to adjust to his size, “s’big, Toru, gonna make it hard for me to last too, feels too good,” you’re mumbling, and he’s holding his hips taut, making sure not to move — or else, he’s sure he’d cum in one stroke, “g’nna move ok?” and he’s nodding desperately, your walls already fluttering around him — slick and warm, better anything he’d ever felt. 

You lift up to the tip, before beginning to rock steadily up and down, as he moans, your sweet cunt swallowing him eagerly, as you began to fuck yourself on his cock. Your chest bounces as you ride him, and he can’t resist leaning forward to take a hardened bud in his mouth, your moan making his cock twitch inside you. And he knows why people become addicted to sex — hell, he knew was an addict for it now, but only with you. 

“Fuck, never felt anything this good before, sweetheart, feel s’perfect for me,” he’s grunting, the coil in his stomach growing tighter, as your pace grows more and more sloppy. He wasn’t going to last long, and neither were you from the way you were groaning his name again and again. The wet squelch and smacks of your bodies meeting again and again, only making it harder to hold back, and when he looks to see a white ring of your precum pooling around the base of his dick, he’s nearly gone, “fuck, baby, need you to cum with me,” 

“It’s okay, pretty boy, cum for me,” he keens at the praise, but he’s stubborn, as you established, and he won’t cum until you do too — and so he ensures it, reaching between your bodies to rub meanly at your clit before meeting your thrusts with his own. 

And his tip brushes against that spot that has your vision blurring and toes curling, “Toru, ngh, I’m—” and you’re cumming hard around him, making him spill his warm and thick seed inside your cunt, and he’s groaning you name as he does, your body slowing as you both come down from your highs, your head resting on his shoulder, as your bodies grow limp, resting, his back pressed to the headboard of his bed. 

His fingers trace the curve of your back gently, as he turns his head to press soft kisses to your neck, “Am I still just a distraction?” his lips curled into a smile, and you chuckle, burying your face in his shoulder. 

“Definitely,” but you lean back to cup his cheek, and look at his pretty face again, “but one worth having.” 

You don’t wake from your alarm the next morning. 

Instead, you wake to banging on the door. You both jolt awake, and he’s pulling you into his arms, even as you move to get up, he won’t let go, strong arms around your waist. You’re easing his arms off, trying to be gentle, “Toru, let go, and wait here, your father had a panic room installed in your closet, you hear anything, go inside—” 

“No, I’m coming with you,” and you shake your head. 

“I’m hired to protect you, not the other way around,” you leave his embrace, and face him, his crystal eyes blurred over with worry, “I can handle this,” you reassure him, your fingers intertwining with his, as you press a kiss to his knuckles, “I promise,” 

“But—” and you kiss him gently, silencing his protests, before you slip away into the hallway. 

You enter the living room, shutting the bedroom door without a sound, stalking through the hall, as you grab a knife and pepper spray from the chest of drawers that was pressed to the wall of the hallway — you had several self defense tools hidden all over the apartment. Your heartbeat thunders in your ear, mouth dry, as you approach the door from the side. 

“Who is it?”

“It’s Mr. Gojo, open this door,” and you sigh, relaxing, as you check and unlock the door for him. 

Shinsaku Gojo was only a man you were able to meet once before your work for him began. And it was a privilege even to see him then. His schedule was always packed — multiple meetings, multiple clients, and multiple women, all vying for his attention. Even as you spoke with him the first time, his eyes were on his phone the entire time, except when he had warned you, not to let anything distract you from protecting his son. 

And you had done just that — and even worse, his son had done the distracting, “Mr—” 

“Where’s my son? He hasn’t answered his phone all morning, and neither have you—didn’t you hear from your agency?” his voice is raising, as he dials your number again, and your phone vibrates on the couch. He scoffs, disconnecting the call, as his hard gaze turned back to you, “what if there was a threat? You left your phone—” 

“Dad,” Satoru emerges from the room, his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, “it’s not her fault, she forgot it last night when we were watching a movie,” 

“Watching a movie?” he sneers, his cerulean gaze the same as son, but without any of the warmth Satoru had — an icy tundra compared to a warm pool, “she should be watching you, that’s her job—” 

“She was watching me — something you never bothered to do,” and his father’s eyes narrow, “she’s shown more concern for me than you ever had — and she only met me a few weeks ago. What’s your excuse for being a pathetic piece of—“ 

“Satoru,” your fingers brush his shoulder, shaking your head, “sir, I take responsibility for this lapse of judgment. Don’t blame your son,”

Satoru lowers his voice, “it’s not your fault—“ 

“It is. I disregarded by duty to protect you,” your cheeks burn with shame — “what if i had missed an alert you were in danger? What if I failed to protect you because I wasn’t focused? What if—“ 

“Nothing happened,” he says softly, and the twitch of his fingers tells you he’s gonna reach for you, but you step forward, shaking your head. 

“Nothing did,” and you turn to his father, “I’ll protect Satoru until you can find a suitable replacement for me. But I compromised my mission to protect him. I would like to resign as soon as possible,” 

“No! I—“ 

“Agreed,” his father says, “I’ll have your replacement here in an hour, make sure you’re packed up by then,” and his father leaves without another word. 

You brush past him to gather your things, but he’s caught you by the wrist, “Why did you do—“ 

“Gojo,” and you can’t bear to see the hurt in his eyes, “I can’t let my feelings get in the way of keeping you safe—“ 

“I don’t care—“ you cut him off. 

“I do, I couldn’t stand if something happened to you because of me. What it was an emergency last night and you got hurt because of my own carelessness—“ 

“It wasn’t careless what happened last night—“ 

“It was,” you say, walking to your room, “and it won’t happen again.” 

You left. You had expected a fight, an argument, a dramatic show of tears — but nothing. Satoru hadn’t even opened his door to watch you leave. The other bodyguard arrived quickly, and you left the penthouse and didn’t look back. 

It was for the best. 

You had a duty, a role to play, and more than that, you couldn’t let him get hurt because of your inability to compartmentalize. Even so, Satoru’s father was kind enough not to have told your father what happened — or you supposed it was pity in exchange for your quick and easy resignation. 

Fuck. Why were you still thinking about this? You rolled over in bed, burying your head under your comforter. A week out, and you still couldn’t stop worrying about Satoru, about his safety, about the hurt on his face, about that night… 

You had fucked everything up, and fucked Satoru up in the aftermath. 

You poke your head out, and stare at your phone on your bedside table — 7:45 PM, no new messages — you had written out six different messages to him again and again, before deleting them. You wondered how many more you’d write before you finally would rid your mind of him. 

Would you ever rid your mind of him? 

And that’s when your phone rings. But it’s not flashing Satoru’s number — it’s his father. You scramble for the phone — why was he calling? And you can only think of one reason. You can’t say a single word when you pick up — his father already hissing his first question.  

“Where is he?” your words are lodged in your throat, stuck on your heart that had leapt from your chest. 

“What?” 

“Where’s Satoru? He came to you didn’t he?” he growls, and you hear a slam, assumedly his fist against his desk, “he shook off his new bodyguard, and his phone is off,” 

“He hasn’t — I haven’t talked to him since I left—” your mind is running a mile a minute, racking your brain, placing the call on speakerphone, as you text Satoru, where are you? “Where did the bodyguard see him last?” 

“He had him at the dorms, he said he was going to see a friend, and then gave him the slip,” his father groans, “you hear anything from him, otherwise—” 

“I’ll let you know,” you cut him off at the threats — you had more important things to do. You checked your messages, but your messages hadn’t gone through, and you tried calling him — but it went straight to voicemail. Satoru was upset — he could’ve blocked you or turned off his phone to piss off his father, but you didn’t see him doing that. He was an idiot, but he knew his father would lose his shit. 

And then you remembered. The tracker you placed on Satoru — you never took it off. You had sewed it into the insole of his daily shoes (the man had far too many clothes and shoes, but he rarely found the energy to not wear anything besides the shoes he always wore). 

You turned it on, biting your lip as you watched the tracker loaded, and his location popped up — and it wasn’t at his apartment. 

It was in Shibuya — you typed in the address and he was at a house. 

You furrow your brow, who did he know who lived in Shibuya? And then it clicked. 

Fuck. 

Those girls. 

Satoru groaned, fuck, why is his head hurting so badly? 

It wasn’t exactly unusual the last few days. He hadn’t been sleeping much since you left, he spent most of his nights watching TV and rotting in his bed. But everything reminded him of you — his bed, his couch, and even the shows he watched (he had continued one of the shows you both had started one late night). 

His apartment was a disaster — a mess of empty soda cans, empty wrappers of candy and old takeout containers. But he couldn’t be bothered with it — to clean it up or call someone to clean it up. His bodyguard had taken up residence in your room — or rather the guest room — and hardly emerged, keeping an eye on him through cameras his father had installed around the doors and hallway. 

Not that he really needed to, Satoru rarely left his apartment, even had skipped classes for a week — sending an email that he had a very contagious illness and that he’d be happy to attend class if necessary. They sent him materials to work on classwork from home, piled untouched on his kitchen counter, with a possible smudge from the hot fudge he had last night. 

He had made progress — instead of staying in bed, he moved onto the couch for his afternoon nap, and he had just fallen asleep when there was a banging on his door. He groaned into the couch pillow he had just gotten comfortable on, before pulling it onto his head, trying to block out the sounds of the knocking. 

“Satoru! Open up,” he hears Suguru’s voice through the door, “open the fucking door, I know you’re not sick,” 

He pulls himself up, groaning, as he wipes the small amount of drool from his lips, as he meanders to the door, throwing it open. 

“You look like shit,” Suguru says, brushing past him to enter. 

“No ‘hello, you look like shit?’” He mumbles, still rubbing his eyes, “what are you doing here?” 

“I should be asking you that,” he stands, hands in his pockets, as he takes in the mess with a wrinkled nose, “although I see you’ve decided to redecorate,”

“Hilarious,” Satoru replies, lying back on the couch, “did you come here just to hassle me?” 

“I’d be lying if I didn’t say that wasn’t part of it, but the other was to see if you’re ready to pick yourself back up after your breakup—“ 

“It wasn’t a breakup,” Satoru snaps. 

“If it wasn’t, then why does it look like you haven’t showered in several days since she left?” Suguru raises an eyebrow, and Satoru scowls. 

“I’m sick,” he turns away to face the couch, “I don’t have the energy to shower,” 

“But you have the energy to eat about half a dozen mochi doughnuts?” Suguru holds up an empty doughnut box, and Satoru holds a couch pillow to his chest, “Satoru, come on, it isn’t like you to wallow like this,” 

“I’m not wallowing—“ 

“Yeah, yeah, you’re sick, right?” Suguru says sarcastically. Satoru doesn’t need to look at his best friend to know he’s rolling his eyes, “well you don’t seem like you’re sneezing or coughing so go take a shower or something,” Satoru gives a weak fake cough, and he could feel Suguru’s glare, “fine, rot in bed, but you have to get up sometime, just text me when you’re ready to,” 

And Satoru hears Suguru’s footsteps recede to the door, swinging shut with a click behind him. He buries his face in the pillow. It wasn’t a break up. How could it be when you didn’t even have a relationship to begin with? You had made that clear enough when you left without another word to him. He didn’t leave his room until he heard the door shut behind you, and he made his way out to watch you leave out the front door of the apartment. And you didn’t even look back. But you weren’t the type to. 

He felt like he was always looking back — one way or another. 

And even now, as he came to — he was trying to remember what he had done after Suguru left. Someone else had shown up — knocked at his door. Offered to get him out of the house — offered him free alcohol and a distraction. 

And he had agreed — if only to forget about you for a moment. Drinking was the only thing that made him forget — if he only could somehow forget how terrible alcohol tasted. 

His head spun, so was this a hangover? It’s certainly worse than the one he had before — the last one felt like his brain was fuzzy and nausea clawed at his stomach — this time, it felt more akin to someone taking a blender to both of those organs. And his neck, he stretched it both ways. How had he fallen asleep? 

And then he tried to lift up his hand to rub his eyes, and he couldn't, wrist straining against something — his brow furrowed, what was arm caught on — and his eyes fluttered open. It was dark — the only light came from another room, peeking through the crack at the bottom of, what he assumed was, a door. And then as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he looked at his arms. 

Ropes. Twisted around both his arms, binding his wrists and forearms to the arms of a chair, and his vision blurs — what? His legs jerk instinctively, but ropes dig into the flesh of his ankles, and he glanced down only to find what he expected. 

“You’re awake,” the light flicks on, he lifts his head, blinking away the fog in his head and the burning tears slipping from his eyes, “didn’t realize the drug would knock you out for that long,”

He blinks again and again, light flooding his eyes, until he can see and sees a familiar face — “Misaki?” the light sends a piercing jolt through his head, “or is it Yumiko?” 

“Well that’s flattering, you can’t even remember my name?” she sighs, crossing her arms, “well I unfortunately don’t have the same luxury,” and then she adds with a quirk of her lips, “it is Yumiko,” and she steps forward, as his eyes squeeze shut, his head still banging, “sorry what I gave you to knock you out can cause some light sensitivity,” 

It’s slowly sinking in, “I don’t know what kind of weird kink you have, but I’m not interested,” and she scoffs, pressing her knuckles to her chin, “where am I?” 

“Do you think I’m really going to tell you that?” she raises an eyebrow, “I did send you threats after all, you don’t think I’d be that stupid to tell you where I am,” 

He needed to buy time, he needed to find a way to get out of here, and to do that, he needed time, “What? Are you obsessed with me or something? Do you want my body?”

“I’m going to stop your overinflated ego there,” she sighs, leaning against a table that was behind her, “I have a debt to pay and you’re the price,” 

“Debt?” he repeats, “is this where you explain your whole plan? And villain speech? Because I usually I could care less, but I’m feeling a little generous with my time, as I’m a little tied up at the moment, so—” 

“Do you ever shut up?” 

“It’s known to happen on occasion,” she rubs her temples, and then something occurs to him, “how did you get my address? You showed up and invited me,” 

She shakes his head, “You think I couldn’t find out your address after sending you threats?” and she sighs, “You know this is why I tried to do this at the first party — get it over with so I wouldn’t have to deal with this. But then you crushed your beer cup, your little girlfriend got in the way, and that idiot Misaki accidentally switched her shot glass with yours, so I couldn’t get you dosed,” she grits her teeth, “and then the rest of the semester, your girlfriend was up your ass the entire time — but she wasn’t your girlfriend was she? She was your bodyguard,” he says nothing, “you don’t need to confirm it for me, I already found her information, her name, her address—” 

“What do you want? Money? My father will pay anything to get me back. Tell me who you need to repay and he’ll do it,” and her lips curl. 

“So serious now — and so cooperative, maybe I should have kidnapped her too while I was at it,” she shrugs, while she grabs her phone from the table — a burner — “my father will be here to escort you to where you need to go. The yakuza will take it from there,” his blood runs cold, “Don’t cause a fuss and i can promise your girlfriend will stay safe,” 

He grits his teeth — he was so stupid. This was exactly the kind of shit you were trying to protect him from. And it was the thing he landed himself in the moment you left. But he didn’t care — because it was better this way, because you were safe this way.

“Wow, you’re pretty cute when you’re all quiet,” and she’s walking over, and he’s flinching as she drags a manicured nail down his cheek, before tilting it up, “it’s just that mouth that’s a problem,” and her thumb brushes down his lips, “don’t bite, or we might have a problem,” 

And he doesn’t, but then he smiles back, “you might like it when I bite,” he smirks, “why don’t you come here and find out?” And she raises her eyebrows, leaning closer, and he smashes his forehead into hers, “fuck off,” 

She stumbles back, losing her balance, and leaning against the table as she clutches at her forehead. Satoru watches her, trying to wriggle out of his constraints, rope chafing against his skin, red welts rising on his skin, but he only manages to get one hand free before she’s starting to get her bearings, and then he’s trying to free himself, his chair tipping over. And now he’s lying helplessly as she stumbles forward over to him, clutching a knife she grabbed off the table. 

“I have to hand you over to the yakuza, but they didn’t say you had to be completely unharmed,” she presses the tip of the knife to his cheek, “maybe we’ll do something to that pretty face of yours,” he grits his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. 

CRACK. 

He hears a body slump over, and the clatter of the knife against the cement floor, and his eyes open to find you kneeling beside him. He’s blinking, murmuring your name, “What are you—” 

“Well I never did remove that tracker did I?”  You’re cutting the ropes on his wrists and ankles with the knife, “and I’m lucky you wear the same damn shoes everyday,” 

“Why did you come for me?” he says, as you finally free him his restraints, your fingers gentle as they examine the welts and bruises left on his skin, “you could have just told my father where I was or the police,” 

“I could’ve. I saw where you were and I figured it out—“ and your voice wavers, “but all I could think was that I wanted to find you. And I didn’t wanna wait for anyone else. I didn’t want something to happen just because someone else was too slow,” the lump in your throat grows only larger, as you sit, “I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you,” 

“Why?” he asks softly, his fingers brush against your cheek, and he knows why — he does, but he needs to hear it. 

“Because I just want…to be the one to protect you,” you admit, tears burning at your eyes, as your thumb traces over his rope burns and bruises, “I wish that I could have,” 

“You did a pretty good job, considering I almost was about to get my face cut up,” and he gently wipes your tears away, “imagine what a tragedy that would be,” 

You give a watery chuckle, cupping his cheeks, “I’m sorry,” and he opens his mouth, “no i really am. I shouldn’t have slept with you, only to cut and run after. I thought…I thought I was doing you a favor,” 

“How?” And you sigh, blinking away your tears. 

“I put your life in danger by doing that. I couldn’t do that. I knew the only way you’d let me go is…if I lied to you and said I didn’t care about you,” you bite your bottom lip, “and I’m sorry because I only hurt you more in the end,” 

He kisses your lips gently, chastely, his breath warming your lips as he parts from them, “you did,” and you scoff, pushing him playfully, “but as long as you promise not to do it again, I think I can find it in my incredibly generous heart to forgive you,” 

You kiss him again, softly, your fingers sliding to the back his neck, into his undercut, “I promise,” and he grins, before leaning back to kiss you again, when a cough behind you catches your attention. 

“My father will be getting here shortly you idiots, while you gaze fucking stupidly into each other’s eyes,” she sneers, and you raise an eyebrow. 

“You think I’d come here without calling the police? They already have picked up your father — and they should be almost here—“ and the sounds of an ambulance and police sirens come into earshot. 

“Good timing,” Satoru mutters, as Yumiko tries and fails to stumble to her feet, and you get up and pin her to the ground. Satoru raises an eyebrow, and watches, as you glance back at him, tilting your head in question, “nothing, it’s just…hot to see you in action,” 

You laugh, “Did she hit your head too?” And he shrugs, as he gets onto this feet with shaky legs, “Satoru—“ 

And he sits next to you, leaning on your shoulder, “just let me rest here for a minute,” he mumbles. 

For the first time since you left, Satoru felt like he could finally rest. 

And Satoru did rest, he realized as he blinked awake to the ambient sounds of the hospital room, the distinct beep of the heartbeat monitor, the dim light of the moon filtering through the shades, and the distant sounds of people walking through the hall. He hears the sounds of sheets rustling, and his gaze snaps over to his left. 

His gaze softens. You were fast asleep beside him, your arms tucked under your head, your breaths were soft, as they were the night you two had spent together. He sat himself up — fingers running through your hair gently. You had fallen asleep before him that night, face buried in the crook of his neck, and your legs entangled with his. And now you slept beside him on a chair, leaning on his bedside. 

His fingers carded through your hair again, and you stirred, as he swore under his breath, your eyes fluttered open, “Toru?” you mumbled, still half asleep, and he hummed. 

“Sorry, sweetheart, I didn’t mean to wake you,” he sighed softly, “why are you sleeping here? You should have gone home,” you sit up, stretching, as you furrow your brow, eyes scanning him for any sign of an injury or distress. 

“I wanted to make sure you were okay — you were unconscious, but no concussion thankfully. I tried to wake you up but you wouldn’t wake,” you sigh, words tumbling out almost faster than you can think of them, “they mostly kept you for observation, but are you feeling okay? Should I get the nurse—“ 

And he’s pulling you into a hug, arms wrapping around you, as he sighs, burying his face in your neck, “I just want to stay like this for a while,” he murmurs, “I got everything I need right here, got it?” He feels you nod, and he feels the hint of your tears on his skin, but says nothing, only his lips quirk, “you did mean your promise?” 

“I did, I won’t leave like that again,” and he’s leaning back, head tilted, and you chuckle, “I mean I won’t leave you at all, how’s that?” 

“Good girl,” he murmurs, leaning closer, and his heart squeezes when he hears your breath hitch as he does. His eyes flicker to your lips and back, “can I kiss—“ 

But you kiss him first, softly, your fingers brushing his cheek, and god, why was it that a single touch from you melted him away to nothing? Whittled his world view to a pin where all he could feel, all he could see, was you. 

And then you kiss his cheeks, his chin, his jaw, and then your teeth graze the soft part of his neck, drawing a pretty gasp from his lips, as you suck lightly on his skin. 

He’s whispering your name, breath sucked from his lungs as if your teeth had pierced through his throat instead of just his skin, “what was that for?” 

And you smile, “so everyone knows you’re mine.” 

“You’re changing your major?” Suguru raises his eyebrow, as he lounges on Satoru’s couch, holding his head up with his elbow propped against the top of the couch, “your father must’ve been thrilled about that,” 

“He lost his shit, but that geezer can fuck off,” Satoru shrugs, “he threatened to not pay my tuition, but once I threatened to go public with his dealings with the yakuza, he saw it my way,” 

Suguru tilts his head, “His what?” 

You bring over tea from the kitchen, placing it on the table, “After what Satoru found out from Yumiko and her father, their debt to the yakuza would have been paid off by kidnapping one of Satoru’s father’s close relatives, but I was wondering why was the yakuza so eager to do so?” 

“Apparently my old man had the brilliant idea of entertaining the yakuza on some deal he was making,” Satoru explains, leaning back on the couch, as you sit against his legs, “and when he backed out, the yakuza wanted to push it through anyway — and well, thus their blackmail of Yumiko’s father, once they found out his daughter went to school with me.” 

“Yeah, turns out her father had gambling debts owed to the yakuza,” you sighed, “she got caught in the crossfire — I almost feel bad,” 

“Speak for yourself, she drugged me, tied me to a chair, and held a knife to my face,” Satoru scoffs, sipping his tea that he had you drown in sugar. 

“Well you didn’t complain when I did that last night,” you reply, making both Satoru and Suguru choke, and you laughed, squealing when Satoru lifts you into his lap to bury his face into your back. 

“You two are officially sickening to be around,” Suguru grimaces, still coughing from choking down his tea, “I think I liked it better when he was wasting away in his apartment,” 

“You wasted away after I left?” You turn to look at Satoru, who shoots a glare at Suguru, “sorry Geto, that’s not happening again,” and Satoru softens his gaze, pressing a kiss to your head. 

“Alright, that’s it, I’m leaving,” Suguru gets to his feet, as he glances back at you two, “don’t rush to get up, I’ll see myself out,” he rolls his eyes. 

“Don’t worry we weren’t going to,” Satoru pulls you closer, and Suguru narrows his eyes, before his lips curl into a grin. 

“Just for that, I’m sending your girlfriend a picture of the mess you looked like when she left,” Satoru gapes at him, while you bite back a laugh. 

“Suguru!” Satoru calls, but the door’s shut, and you’re starting to giggle. He’s pouting now, “so my girlfriend thinks it's funny to see me in the pathetic state she left me in?” 

“Oh your girlfriend finds it very funny, and she might even make it her boyfriend’s contact picture,” you smirk, and he’s biting back a smile, “What?” 

“This is just the first time we called each other that,” he mumbles, a slight dusting of pink on his cheeks, “it’s nice,” he admits. 

“Well, I am yours, aren’t I?” you smile, and he presses a kiss to your lips, as he would again and again. 

“My one and only.” 

✧ a/n: so this fic was so freaking long. i'm sorry it took so long to post this - i got a little sidetracked by prof geto haha. but i'm hoping to start on the next one soon :). i think i'll put a poll up on which one i should write next! edit: forgot to tag the people who requested this, its now added in T_T

✧ taglist: @teatreeoilll, @intrxspectiv, @marvel-fanaticz, @ilovemybabes, @lwustyz, @jayathelostdragon, @vampzys, @sleazymac-n-cheesy, @soilmayo, @iwassentfromhell, @lobotomy-kaisen, @gojoallmine, @forest-hashira, @h3artpiecexx, @lailarratx, @gummibat, @hanlay, @ilovewoo9, @nvmlolo, @h6avenly, @eriyvesa, @alexandraioann4, @eclipsephase, @sokkasmoon, @aizzon, @makotome9, @daddytojji, @fluffy-pancakes01, @imjustmememe, @spookyy-gracee, @forest-fruits-jam, @that-goth-bisexual, @hatsunemitskislobotomy, @lookinreality,

[artbligh]

Traitor — gojo satoru

a/n: barely proofread lol, enjoyyyy <33 finally wrote some gojo after being stuck on tim bradford for the past few days.. forgive me guys, I'm still loyal to the honoured one

“How could you?” Your eyes are like daggers, staring at your husband, who looked back at you with guilty eyes.

“Baby, please let me explain myself,” he says, voice full of regret, trying to mend something that could not be fixed.

Such were the consequences of his actions.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so lust driven. Maybe then he wouldn't be in this predicament with his wife, his soulmate, his other half.

Betrayal is a funny concept.

“No, Satoru,” he winces, knowing he was in real trouble once you pull out the full name. Not ‘toru, Satoru. “I don't even wanna listen to your half ass excuses,” you say, looking him dead in the eyes, “How could you? How could you do this to me? To your children…to your family?” 

“Baby, please, it was a mistake! Please listen to me, I won’t let it happen again!” he pleads. 

If he had to get down on his knees and beg for forgiveness, hell, he just might.

“Stop with your shitty excuses. You should be lucky your son isn’t home, or else he would’ve bore witness to your sins.”

You scoff, head held high and words unforgiving. Your once relaxed posture is now rigid.

“Gojo, how could you do this to me? How could you do this to him… what will he say when he comes back from school, and sees his father…” Your voice trails off.

“Darling, just listen to me,” his voice cracks, fingers digging into your t-shirt, holding onto you from desperation.

“No."

Your voice was sharp like a knife, and he was your unfortunate target.

"Your gluttony is a sin, I can't believe you would break your son's trust and…eat his last cookie."

𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐌 — do not copy, translate, repost or modify my works on any platform.

[artbligh]

my heart 🥲❤️

🔹pairing — photographer!gojo satoru x pop star!reader

summary — it's just another tokyo night — lights too bright, hearts too loud, and him, a stranger with snow-white hair and a camera that sees more than it should. you didn’t expect to end up in a photo booth with him. you didn’t expect him to notice the things you tried to hide. and you definitely didn’t expect the way your heartbeat synced with every flash of his shutter.

🔹word count — [ 16 k]

🔹content warnings — strangers to lovers 18+, explicit smut, performance anxiety, mentions of panic attacks, emotional vulnerability, comfort after anxiety, kissing, light crying, gentle handling, gojo being soft and reassuring, mutual yearning, lots of tender affection.

please read with care. your mental well-being matters. 🕊️

🔹a/n — this piece is close to my heart. it began as a simple one-shot inspired by a song, but, as always, the emotions carried me somewhere deeper. it's my first time writing for satoru gojo, and though i was nervous at first, it slowly found its rhythm. this story gently explores anxiety, panic attacks, and intimacy—written from a place of understanding and experience. if you’ve ever felt overwhelmed, i hope this brings you comfort. put on some soft classical music, take a breath, and let the words hold you for a while.

It would be believable if you said no — no, not completely.

That you never wanted fame. That the stage just found you one day and you woke up in Tokyo surrounded by diamonds, deadlines and strangers who knew your name.

But that's not the truth — it never will be.

Since the beginning, you wanted it all. The stage lights. The stadiums. The screaming fans who made you feel like a god.

And now you have it.

But, they never knew — the heartache of sacrifice, the isolation of fame and the loneliness of love, like tonight you can barely breathe.

Your shaking body curled up on the edge of a hotel bed, that costs more than your first apartment. Mascara smudged. Champagne untouched. The only light in the room flickers from your phone screen. Not a ‘how are you?’ Not a ‘you okay?’ Just —

Manager ,

“I know it's been a long week, but remember why you're here. This is what you wanted. Millions of people would kill to be in your shoes”

You exhale bitterly — that's just how they are, it's how they've always been since the day you signed that contract — name written in black ink to feed their eager souls. A team of stylist, handlers and publicists left half an hour ago, thinking you were getting ready for the after party.

But you're still in your hoodie. Knees pulled to your chest. Crying into silence. In this dark, lulling empty room you could feel the loneliness creep within your heart — shredding it piece by piece. And as tears shed, your voice barely audible, you let out a scream — a scream, these luxurious empty rooms would never seem to understand.

A neon light caught your eyes — no several neon lights.

The city below, it was alive. Neon. Noise. Freedom.

“Freedom,” you whispered to yourself as you stood up and walked towards the polished glass windows. It was freedom that you so deeply craved and yet in here — you feel like you're trapped in a glass case — on display, but invisible.

But tonight, you don't want to be seen.

You want to be felt.

You want something real tonight, even if it was temporary.

Something quiet. Something that doesn't ask for your name.

So you wipe your face — no makeup, nothing fake. Pull the first thing that isn't branded. Tuck your hair under a hat and you slip out the back exit. For once — no bodyguards , no cameras, no lies. Just you, a hoodie and the hope that someone, somewhere, might look at you and not see her.

The hallway echoes with the sound of your boots. The back exit of the hotel opens with a hiss — the cool warm air clug to your legs like moisture.

You were finally in Tokyo — not the city built with cameras, but the one that's known for living after dark — the city that never sleeps.

You smile to yourself as you look up and see the Neon signs flicker pink and orange. Drunken laughter spills out from a nearby karaoke bar. The air smells like summer rain and fried chicken, your breath fogs just slightly, warmth hitting the summer night. You walk with your hands buried in your sleeves, passing strangers who don't recognize your face — faces that don't ask anything from you.

You let your body melt within the crowds — normal you thought, for once…. not being seen feels like a relief. It's as if you can finally breathe for the first time in such a long time — you can breathe.

Having no direction and no way of understanding where you are heading, you see it. A small shop wedged between a 24 - hour bookstore and a laundromat. A single paper later sways outside the door, its soft orange glow lighting the kanji painted above the curtain entrance.

Deep down you had no idea what guided you there or — solely how you found this place. But it smelled like broth, the kind your mother used to make back home and the kind of peace that never lingered for long. You chew your bottom lip without realizing, cuff your sleeves tighter and finally slip inside — a little shop that, somehow, felt like home.

The moment you step in, the quiet wraps around you. There are maybe four other people — older men, a couple, one woman reading a magazine and a cat sitting on the counter top, eyes closed like a true old man.

The chef behind the counter looks up. His eyes linger on you for a bit too long — not unkind, just… unsure. Someone mummers something in Japanese and you offer a small bow — not sure if it is the right thing but hoping it's enough. The chef guides you to an empty seat near the far end of the counter. You nod and sit.

The chef gives you a menu before he leaves and you sigh softly — all the words are in kanji. And you can't read a single thing, the only thing you can manage to do now is show the chef a picture when he comes back.

You set the menu down — let your shoulders drop. Finally, you can breathe even if it was just for a moment.

The door hasn't even closed behind you yet, when you hear it.

Click

Soft but sharp. You hear a camera shutter. You glance up at the small window, you see him.

A man with shock-white hair and a loose coat with a camera strap hanging diagonally across his chest. He's standing in the street, angling the lens towards the glowing lantern above the shop — framing it against the dark sky.

Click

Then he tilts the camera, just slightly. Not aiming at you, not really — but he captures something, something close. You stiffen, your entire body tenses like you've been slapped — your body betrayed you again.

Not this again.

It starts slow. Not with tears, not with sobs — just the tightening. Your lungs are folding in on themselves. Like the air in this tiny shop was too thick, too sharp — like your breathing through a cotton and glass at the same time.

But suddenly, you hear the door open.

It was him.

He noticed, lowered his camera and the slight crease between his eyebrows was enough to confirm he didn't know you.

Behind you, you could hear the small door close.

He wasn't in a rush, you could feel his presence— suddenly like he was the only one that would understand you — whether that was through the agonizing pain you felt at the moment or through differentials you both shared.

He slid into the seat beside you, set the camera gently on the counter, for a moment — you glanced at it, instinctively. It didn't look like the cameras the paparazzi used. No flashy lense. No cold metal. This one was vintage — worn leather strap, scuffed corners, like it had lived more lives than most people.

“I didn't mean to startle you,” he says, voice light — almost amused. “I wasn't taking your picture. Not exactly…”

Oh, he speaks English.

You didn't answer right away — still coming down from the edge of a panic you'd barely concealed. Still unsure if you were imagining the gentleness in his voice.

“It's just —” he gestures vaguely towards the small window. “The light. The way the steam framed your face. The whole shop looked like a movie set for a second.”

And for the first time that night you looked at him.

He was tall, slightly disheveled, but with a kind of easy charm most people had to rehearse. A soft gray hoodie tucked beneath his dark coat, collar folded just so.

But it was the glasses that caught you. The thin frames that somehow made him look both bookish and ridiculous. And behind them —

Those eyes.

Ice - blue, startling in contrast to the warmth of the room. Not sharp, not cold — but clear. Like a winter sky before snow.

You hated how quickly you felt seen. And how badly you wanted to keep looking. Your cheeks rushed to pink, like a blooming sunset longing to be hidden beneath the horizon.

But you still say nothing. Your gaze never leaving his — chewing your bottom lip out of habit you could only stare even though the blooming sunset never left to hide beneath its horizon.

He scratches the back of his neck, “Okay, yeah. That sounded weirder out loud.”

Then suddenly holds his hands up in surrender. “I swear I'm not creepy — I'm a photographer. Street stuff. No models. Just… beauty when it shows up, you know?”

He nods towards you, and scratches his neck yet again.

“You showed up, ” but of course this time he was the one with a blooming sunset. He sighs and mumbles something only he would understand.

And for the first time you laugh, you don't know why you laugh — but you do. It's small. Tight. But real.

He grins like he's just scored a win in a silent game you weren't playing. “See I told you I'm charming,” he says. “I'm Satoru by the way.”

He beams with happiness, but you…. you're hesitant. You can't trust anyone in the world you live in, you two are from different worlds and that is why you could only shrug. But deep down you wish you were someone else — even just for a moment to give him some piece of yourself.

But he doesn't push it. Just nod.

“Mystery girl. Got it”

His hands tap against the wooden counter and finally take the laminated menu and squints at it.

“Wait — can you read any of this?”

You shake your head, and the crease between his snowy brows were more than enough to convince you that he was indeed worried.

“Ah no wonder — that explains your panic - order.” He waved over the chef. “She'll have the miso with garlic and egg.”

You didn't understand a thing he was saying to the chef but you were very thankful.

He finally looks back at you “I think you'll like the one I just ordered. Trust me. Best cure for whatever you're running from.”

For the slightest moment you felt naked — he could read you like a book. And this was something you were never used to… no one could ever peel your layers back that easily. But…. for some reason this Satoru Gojo man…. knew how to and he wasn't afraid to say it — fearless.

“Do you always talk this much?”

He suddenly chokes on the water he was sipping , and you couldn't keep yourself from laughing — this only made him smile deeper, much more warmer than usual.

“Sorry — about that…” he started and leaned in just slightly. “But yes, only to the people who look like they stopped being happy a while ago.”

He taps the side of his camera and smiles “Or to people the light seems to like”

You smiled at his little gesture — and just on time the chef brought your miso.

As you reached for your chopsticks, Satoru leaned over the counter and scribbled something on the napkin. You didn't notice at first — not until now. He slid it closer with a grin that said nothing at all. You glanced down. It was a messy doodle of a ramen bowl and a stick figure with spiky hair giving a peace sign. Below it written in surprisingly neat handwriting :

‘The light still likes you’

You don't say anything. Just fold the napkin, slow and careful, and tuck it into your hoodie pocket like it was nothing.

It wasn't nothing.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡//

Moments pass by and to your surprise the miso was perfect. So perfect, in fact, you didn't realize how much you needed it until the very last sip. Warm broth. Soft egg. Garlic that made you feel something again — you hadn’t tasted comfort in weeks.

“Told you,” Satoru said, watching you with a pleased grin of a man who knew he'd done something right. “The miso here changes lives.”

You roll your eyes playfully, but lift your gaze, the warmth from the food still lingering in your chest. “You hang around ramen shops, offering therapy often?”

“Only on Tuesdays,” he replied, without missing a beat. He paused for a moment and looked out the window, and you couldn't help but notice the grin forming on his pale pink lips. “Are you doing anything right now?”

The question caught you off guard — you hesitate. You had no plans. Just your empty hotel room, a blinking phone screen, and a list of other things you didn't want to think about. By now you knew that your managers, securities and even teams were looking for you.

“I was thinking….” Satoru stood, stretching like a cat that's been napping all day. “Come with me.”

He held out his hand, eyes sparkling like he knew this was the part where you'd say no — but hoped you wouldn't.

“Promise I'm not some serial killer. Just a guy who knows a good view when he sees one.”

You squint your eyes, “Don't all serial killers say that?”

He only laughed at your question.“Do you trust me?” he says, still holding his hand out — enough for your fingers to reach his own.

You were quiet for a beat too long. And then —

“... Where are we going?”

You finally press your hand in his. And they were soft but yet the corners filled with callouses from the works of his camera. They were cold, but touching him felt just like summer just beginning — slow, soft, and full of promises . Your eyes never left his and he grinned like you'd just said yes to the universe.

“To fall in love with Tokyo”

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡//

You weren't sure what you expected when you stepped out into the Tokyo night — but it wasn't this.

Neon signs blinked lazily above you, casting pink and gold on every slick surface. The streets buzzed with life. It was loud but not chaotic, full but not suffocating. The city didn't feel like it was closing in — it felt like it was opening up.

And for the first time in a long time… you were finally opening up too.

Satoru — walking beside you like he'd known you longer than a single bowl of miso — looked completely at ease. Hands tucked in his pockets, head tilted towards you with a half - smile that tugged something quiet inside your chest.

“Ever had takoyaki?” he asked.

You blinked, “Tako…. what?”

“Octopus balls” he replied, grinning like it was the most casual thing in the world.

You stopped in your tracks, arms crossed. “Absolutely not.”

He burst out laughing, bright, unfiltered, boyish Enough to earn an eye roll, but also enough to make you smile in spite of yourself. You weren't used to this kind of reckless ease but God… it was nice.

“Okay, okay bad intro, sorry for making you turn into a red tomato —” eyes twinkling like he'd discovered something private about you. “But they're good. Warm, crispy, gooey. Little fireworks in your mouth.”

“I'm not red. And that's the worst food pitch I've ever heard.”

“Mystery Girl, you trusted me with the miso,” he said confidently.

“I might not understand Japanese but I swear you bribed that chef,” you narrowed your eyes.

“Details.” He grinned. “Come on.”

He steered you gently toward a small stall, glowing under yellow paper lanterns. A man stood behind the counter, flipping golden spheres on the grill. The scent — buttery, savory — hit you by surprise.

“One box,” Satoru told the vendor.

Then to you :

“No running away”

You pouted instinctively — and he smiled like he was collecting every reaction.

You watched him pay. His profile under the lights made something in your chest thump — ridiculous, really. He was just… easy to look at. Familiar in a way he shouldn't be. You'd only just met — and yet it felt like you'd known him longer than the life you were running from.

He handed you a toothpick and motioned to the steaming takoyaki between you. “You first.”

“Do I have to….?” you asked — eyeing them with doubt.

“Trust me," he murmured, smiling. It came out more like a statement than a question.

You hesitated — then poked one and brought it to your lips. Hot. Soft. Salty. Just like he explained.

Your eyes widened.“...Holy shit.”

Satoru gasped theatrically. “A cuss word from the mystery girl?”

You laughed, hand over your mouth. “Okay, okay — they're good.” You confirmed as you continued to devour the delicious takoyaki.

He gave a dramatic bow. “Another win for the charming stranger."

“You're so dramatic, Satoru, like…. ” you paused for a moment to think of the right word”... drama king.”

“Excuse you but king is enough for me.”

And for some reason you couldn't help but again. It was a feeling nobody could describe, the feeling of being free, being you, being open — but mostly you weren't pretending.

Satoru picked up one too and blew on it — you caught him glancing at you. Just for a second too long.

“What?” you asked.

He shrugged. “You're smiling again.”

You blinked

You were. That real, rare kind of smile. The kind you hadn’t worn in months — not in photo shoots, not in press releases, not even in your dressing room mirrors.

“Told you,” he said. “Best cure for running.”

You looked down, cheeks warm, when suddenly—

Click.

The soft sound made your spin straighten just slightly but the sound wasn't loud, it wasn't aggressive. His camera hung around his neck, and this time you caught him in the act.

“Satoru.” you warned. Not with anger — but with a kind of hesitation that lived in your bones.

He froze, sleepish and unashamed

“Sorry… I couldn't help it. The light really does love you.”

You didn't panic. Not this time. There was no cold sweat. No racing thoughts. Just quiet. Him. His presence. His words. Somehow, the click wasn't loud enough to trigger the fear. Somehow… he wasn't.

“Delete it.” you said.

“Do you really want me to?” he asked, voice softer now — quiet like a baby's lullaby.

You didn't answer. You just kept chewing — a little slower this time.

He didn't delete it — because he never would. Because in the very second, you were real — and real was rare.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡//

The streets bustled with laughter and glowing lanterns. Drinks clinked in plastic cups. Skewers crackled over charcoal.

“Come on,” he said, grabbing your hand again, “We still got Tokyo to fall in love with.”

And all you could do was smile as you held your hand tightly. Hoping that this feeling would never pass by.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡//

The night air filled your lungs but it wasn't enough like the laughter you both are sharing beneath the glowing moonlight. Satoru playfully pulls your body flush against his warm one — maybe it was the beer you both shared earlier, maybe it was the chaos of laughter but…. the warm feeling within your heart was unbearable.

You were both halfway through your second beer when you stopped outside another glowing stand. A weird looking machine sat humming quietly

“You've never done a capsule toy before?” Satoru asked, pointing to it.

You blinked and it was enough confirmation to Satoru that you've never seen a gachapon machine before. “What did you do as a kid — work full-time?”

You cough, cheeks warm from beer and grilled skewers. “I was too busy trying to be someone, I guess.”

He feeds a coin in and twists the crank. A loud clunk — then a capsule rolled out blue and shiny. He cracked it open — eyes lighting up.

“Oh hell yeah.” he says. “It's a ring, you're mine now.” He slips the plastic ring on your finger dramatically, bending a knee in the middle of the market — not a care in the world on who was watching . “Married by skewers and squid balls. Peak romance, right?”

You snort so hard it hurts.

But don't take it off, not even when you pass the next stall. You look at the plastic ring scattered with all the fake diamonds — you smile.

“Guess that makes me Mrs Gojo?” you mumble the last part — flushed by your own words

“Damn right,” he smirks.

When the crowd noise faded and the drink wore off, you found yourself leaning on him. Arms wrapped around his. Eyes closed against his shoulder.

He looked down, watched your lashes flutter, then said quietly, “You look peaceful. But we've still got a lot of places to explore.”

You smiled without opening your eyes.

“Then take me wherever you want Mr Satoru Gojo.”

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡//

The night pulled you deeper — like a song you couldn't stop humming.

Lantern light faded into electrical ones. The street narrowed, signs flashing in kanji you couldn't read and somewhere between the laughter, grilled meat and your fingers still curled around his, you forgot to look back — just like how you are starting to forget the different version of yourself.

“Another stop,” Satoru said, grinning next to you.

“Where are we going,” you asked — your grip never falters. “Another food stand.”

He didn't say anything at first, just grinned like it was a secret. “ Better.”

You followed him through a small alley that opened into a bright buzzing corner lot with color — pixelated music playing from the inside. Glass walls framed a row of claw machines and retro cabinets, blinking in challenge.

“An arcade?” you asked, eyes widening.

“The arcade,” Satoru said with pride. “The best one in Tokyo, I swear. Been coming here since I was a kid.”

The childish grin on his face was enough to make you laugh. And before you could even protest — his hands tightened in yours.

The arcade buzzed with life. Neon lights spilled across the floor, reflecting in scattered patterns across your shoes. You paused at the entrance — slightly overwhelmed by the chaos and noise, but his hand… still wrapped around you, grounded you and it was enough to take all the sudden fear away.

“Come on,” he said, tugging you gently. “You're not going to chicken out on me now, are you?”

“Not yet,” you smirked, your voice softer now — lighter.

Satoru darted over to the claw machine, all glass and plastic, filled with colorful plushies, shaped like cats, frogs even a few questionable dinosaurs.

“I used to be a god at this,” he declared, inserting coins. “Watch and be amazed.”

You crossed your arms, arching an eyebrow. “I'm watching.”

He concentrated like a man diffusing a bomb. The claw dropped and…. missed. Then again. Missed.

And again.

“I swear it's rigged,” he muttered, frowning.

For a moment you caught the smallest pout — like a kid who just dropped all his candy. It made you laugh, quietly, like the sound belonged only to the space between you. And then —

Click

Only this time, your eyes locked with his…and he smiled.

But the strange thing was — that usual twist in your chest? That flutter of panic in your ribs? It didn't come. Your heartbeat stayed steady, like it trusted him. Your breath slowed. Your cheeks carried a warm flush like someone had painted them soft with sunrise. Your fingers didn't twitch to hide your face.

And you knew, in that moment, that whatever spell he'd cast — it was working.

“Don't show it to anyone,” you whispered, not even looking away. It felt like a secret you wanted him to keep.

He nodded but what you didn't see, what you didn't even think to say — was ‘delete it.’

Because deep down… you didn't want him to.

“So the ‘god’ of claw machines got defeated by plushie with bunny ears?” you questioned, while turning towards the machine — Satoru was quick to join your side.

“That bunny has attitude, can't you see its face?”

You giggle. He turned to you, mock wounded “Okay. Your turn.”

You gripped the joystick,carefully guided claw, and with an effortless click — the claw latched onto a soft, white cat wearing glasses plush and dropped it into the bin.

You turned to him with a proud as ever grin

“God, huh?”

“.... I let you win.” he scowled with an unreadable expression.

You held up your prize, grinning. “Sure you did.”

Then— quietly, without thinking —you extended it toward him.

“Here. For your collection of humiliating defeats.” you teased, tugging it towards his hands.

But he didn’t take it.

“Keep it,” he said, suddenly softer. “Something to remember tonight by.” And he suddenly smirked too proudly, “Plus if you look at it — kinda looks like me.”

“Shut up Satoru,” you said, shoving him playfully.

But he was right.

It did look like him.

Your fingers curled tighter around the plush.

Then you felt it — his hand, wrapped like silk in yours — his fingers no longer hesitating like they used to. This time they felt like home. Like the kind of touch that belonged to an old lover. His hands weren't anymore — they danced against yours to the rhythm of a heart slowly, but surely, falling for the lens that has been seeking your truth all along.

“Oh look — there's the Dancing Machine,” he murmured, smiling as he pointed ahead. “Let's go. You'll like this one.”

The machine flickers to life with neon fury as you approach it. It's screen pulsing like a warning sign — and in that moment you knew you were doomed.

“Satoru, I don't dance, ” you lie to him flatly, letting go of his hand, while you clutch your hoodie like it's a parachute.

Satoru smirks — smug and easy. “You won't be dancing sweetheart. You'll be surviving.” he winks and just like that your cheeks betrayed you.

“You know… whatever.” You scowled, gripping your hoodie tighter, like it could erase the color now blooming across your face . “Same thing. I'm not doing it."

Suddenly he was in front of you — close. And for a heartbeat, the light within his eyes rivaled the neon blues that wrapped around you both.

“You scared all of a sudden Mystery girl , don't cry on me now,” and the smirk was enough to make your heart skip a beat. And the sudden remarks you had were gone

“I'm…. not gonna cry,” you whispered, voice small — like a secret you were scared he already knew.

He smirks, and finally hops onto the left side of the machine — like muscle memory, arms loose at his sides, confidence radiating. You sigh, but follow — hesitant at first, shoes squeaking slightly as you step on the platform. The music begins — loud, fast and unapologetically chaotic.

The arrows fly up like an anxiety attack.

You step. Wrong.

You step again. Still wrong.

You mutter a curse, quietly, and Satoru lets out a laugh, not mocking — just delightful to see the sudden crease between your brows. “You said you didn't dance. You didn't say you'd actually be fighting for your life.”

“Shut up,” you say, grinning despite yourself, trying to keep up.

He's moving with rhythm and swagger,like he's showing off. And you're over here trying not to trip over your own two left feet — who knew a star like yourself couldn't keep up with a dancing machine.

Then in the midst of your own thoughts — a hand brushes yours.

He doesn't look at you, but you feel it, the flicker of it, like a little jolt of something unspoken. The tiniest accidental spark in all this ridiculous movement.

And maybe… maybe the beat isn't the only thing messing with your heart.

You laugh too hard when you stumble into him. He steadies you, hands instinctively around your waist, his face closer now than it's ever been all night.

His breath smells like cherry soda, while you can't make out the color of his lips under the neon sky but you were sure they were pink due to all the snacks you had earlier. His eyes — amused, curious — as they linger just a little too long.

“Still think you are gonna win?” you ask, recovering.

He shrugs, cocky. “I already did sweetheart.”

And then he jumps back into it, dancing like the floor belongs to him.

You smile, cheeks warm, feet still wrong — but somehow the rhythm doesn't feel so foreign anymore.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡//

The song ends with a whirlwind of light and breathless laughter. Satoru hops off first, barely winded, brushing imaginary duds off his shoulders like he just performed at Madison Square Garden.

You? You're clinging to the side rail like it's a lifeline, hoodie damp with effort, lungs dragging in air like you've just survived a war.

He glances over at your state and grins.

“Damn, that bad?” you pant, pushing the hair out of your face.

He clutches his chest dramatically. “Are you kidding? That was the most fun I've had in days. And look at that,” he gestures smugly at the screen. “Victory: Me. Humiliation: You.”

You roll your eyes but can't stop the smile tugging at your lips. “The machine is obviously rigged.”

He taps his temple. “Nah. Just superior coordination and let's not forget, legendary charm.” And then — a wink. It's always that damn wink of his.

You shove his arm, playfully, the kind of shove that says : you're ridiculous, but maybe I like it.

And the lights from the screen fade behind you, you follow him through the arcade. The neon glow softens now, quieter corners waiting for the next part of your night.

Then — he stops.

Right in front of the photo booth.

Your breath catches.

You stare at it like it's a ghost. A glass coffin dressed up in lights and silly props. You don't move, not at first.

Satoru’s the first one to notice — of course, ever since the ramen shop incident he's been very attentive, but he plays it easy. Hands in his pockets. That usual lazy grin on his adoring lips. “I've got a rule,” he says in a quieter voice than usual. “Any date that doesn't end with a photo strip isn't worth remembering.”

Your lips twitch. “This isn't a date.”

“Could've fooled me,” he hums, and steps towards the curtain of the photo booth.

You freeze. He turns back at the stillness of your silence. And then you say it, soft, and honest.

“Satoru…. you know how i feel about photos.” the small in your voice betrays you enough, your grip your sleeves once again as your eyes try to avoid his very own striking blue ones.

But you can feel him watching you, not with confusion, not pressure. Just… care. Like maybe… just maybe if he reached hard enough for you, you'd be able to see yourself through his lens.

And then — with the kind of gentle mischief — he lifts his camera instead. The one, slung casually over his shoulder, the one that's already taken two photos of you… and maybe two of you secretly. The one he never parts with.

“Then… let me remember you the way I see you.”

His confession ran dry, enough for you to finally look up and blink… enough for your heartbeat to increase.

“Satoru…”

“No pressure,” he says softly. “We don't have to look at it. I just…want to remember you here. With your hair all messy from fake dancing. And your face is still pink from dancing. That's all.”

Your throat tightens, but somehow — you nod.

He lifts the camera, and you hear it —

Click

One shot. No poses. No warning. Just you — bathed in arcade glow, hoodie clutched in one hand trying not to smile too hard.

You don't ask to see it.

He doesn't show it.

But you both feel it. The way the moment sinks into silence between the two of you. The way the laughter of people around you slowly fades away… and the way he suddenly reaches for your hand…was enough to filter through your aching heart.

He gestures to the photo booth again, you smile and whisper, “Only if we wear stupid hats.”

He lights up like the jackpot just hit.

“Deal,”

So you go in, hands still wrapped around his like it's meant to fit in your, like it's second nature.

The booth is cramped — closer than either of you expected — knees bumping, shoulder touching, the heat of Satoru’s arm brushing yours like summer heat.

He's fiddling with the touch screen like it's his first time. “Okay, okay. We've got ten seconds per frame. That's enough time to be iconic right?”

You're laughing nervously already, finger twitching in your sleeves again, your heart thudding harder now that the curtain is closed — private — but also vulnerable. The small space swallows sound. Neon slips through the edges of the curtains, the world hushed behind the curtain.

And then, it hits.

The pressure of the lense. The stillness. There is no way to hide. Your breath suddenly stumbles. The laughter fades from your lips. You glance towards the exit, and you want to bolt. It's stupid, it's just a photo —but your chest tightens all the same.

But then —

“Hey.”

You hear his voice, it was low, soft, the kind of gentleness that anchors.

You turn, close to tears — but he's already looking at you. Not impatient. Not annoyed — just there. Inspecting each and every little detail of your eyes, nose, lips… any sign of hesitation.

You nod quickly. Then shake your head. “I… I don't know if I can do this. I know it sounds dumb…”

“It's not dumb,” he says immediately, and shifts closer — just enough to keep you in the present, not enough to make it worse. “You don't have to explain anything to me. We can leave, right now.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, as your fingers clutched deeper within your skin. You hate this — the spiraling, the doubt, the unease, the hopelessness — you hated everything.

But then again —

You felt his hand within yours. This time it was different. This time he made you look at him as he whispered “It's gonna be okay.”

And smiles — not the bright, cheeky, confident grin he always wears if he won a silly plush or if he beat you with his swagger dance moves, but the soft private one… you've only witnessed two or three times for the night.

The one just for you.

“I'm right here,” he murmurs, not letting go of your hand. “And tonight…” he says looking around for the hats. He finally finds them, but he grabs a crooked plastic tiara off the side hook and jams it gently onto your head. “You're royalty.”

You blink. “And you?”

He dramatically slaps on a giant red nose, and a cone hat so crooked that it nearly falls off. “I'm your humble jester.”

You let out a breathy laugh at his words. He reaches over and selects the frame settings, tapping rapidly like a game show contest, and the countdown begins:

3…2…1

You try to smile — really, you do — but you end up just blinking, lips parted, unsure.

Flash

And you could feel yourself, squeezing Satoru’s hand so tightly — but suddenly he laughed, head thrown back as the crooked hat slowly fell from his snowy white hair. And in that moment you felt true peace — like he was grounding you, unconsciously.

“Okay, okay! Let's do better! C’mere — lean into me a little.”

You hesitate, then inch closer. His one arm slid behind you this time, not quite around you — but enough. You don't realize how close your faces are until the second countdown starts.

3…2…

He whispers, “Pretend you're having fun.”

Flash.

And you do — barely — your smile crooked, shy, but real this time. His nose brushes your temple

Third shot : You both try to make peace signs, but yours come out backwards and he ends up in front of your face. And for the first time in that tiny booth you burst out laughing.

Flash.

Last one

He suddenly grows quiet. You ace at him unsure of what to do but he doesn't move. Just stares at you, seriously this time, like he's memorizing something important.

You sift nervously under his gaze, “Satoru —?”

Flash.

You blink, caught off guard. The final frame freezes the moment you're staring at him — surprised, breathless — as he looks at you like you're the last photograph he ever wants to take.

The screen flashes white for a second longer, then fades. A soft mechanical whirring begins and the trip of photos starts to print.

The sound of photos printing was the only thing that consumed the tiny photo booth. You exhale like you've just come up with air. And Satoru — he leans back first, stretching his arms overhead like the whole thing was no big deal. But then he turns to you — really looks at you — like you've done something brave.

“You did good,” he says softly tugging the tiara forward so it sits more securely on your head.

“Like… really good.”

With his hands no longer wrapped around yours, you tug them in your sleeves again, unsure how to reply, the sound of your heartbeat slowly increasing yet again and the warmth that surrounded you both was still buzzing within your chest.

His eyes never left yours once, like he's watching a movie with each and every movement you made. And that's when the photo finally slides out — but still he doesn't budge.

“Satoru the photos…” you whisper, feeling slightly intimidated by his eyes.

“Right,” he grins, snatching them. “Let's see the damage.”

You lean in slightly as he holds them up into the neon light. The first one makes you both laugh — your awkward blink, his ridiculous grin — but it's the last one that quiets you.

He tilts the strip toward you. “This one's my favorite.”

You stare at it — at you, frozen mid - breath, wide - eyed and uncertain. And him, beside you, unflinching, like he has always meant to be in your frame.

“You can have it,” you whisper to him softly, while studying the stripped photo.

And just when you thought you could win with him — he does the unexpected. Tore it down the middle — carefully, gently, making sure he doesn't ruin the picture.

“Nope. Half and half,” he replied, popping the ‘p’. “That way I have an excuse to see you again.”

Your breath hitched slightly at the little confession but you didn't say anything , as you stared at the torn strip resting within your palm. At the way your faces were pressed together, at the way you both grinned, at the way…. you both looked ridiculous but yet… so happy.

And for the first time that night, you saw the girl you once were — slowly being unwrapped by a ‘stranger’ you barely knew. A stranger who doesn't even know the real you — guilt was one thing, but you knew that all of this will end by tomorrow.

You watch him fold the half torn strip and tuck it into his wallet, like something precious, you think your heart might actually stop.

And at that moment, you didn't want the arcade lights to dim.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡//

He nudges your shoulder. “Come on royalty. Let's get out of here before someone challenges you for the throne.”

You smile, slipping out of the booth behind him. The air outside the curtain feels cooler somehow — looser like the weight in your chest has lightened.

The rest of the arcade fades around you — the beeping buttons, the singsong clatter machines — until it's just the two of you walking slowly towards the exit. Your hands brush once, twice, before he finally laces his fingers through yours.

The night air kisses your cheeks soft and chilled. And from the warmth of your hoodie, the tiny plush—the one he claimed looked like him — peeks out again — a quiet reminder of the comfort you didn’t know you needed.

You glance up at Satoru, his white hair catching the glow of streetlamps. And he’s already looking at you again.

“You hungry?” he asks, swinging your joined hands. “Or are we surviving off that one victory cat plush for the rest of the night?”

You snort, tugging the little thing from your hoodie pocket and holding it up. “Well he's got more substance than the popcorn you inhaled, at the stalls earlier tonight.”

“Hey!” he clutches his chest, feigning heartbreak . “I'll have you know that popcorn was gourmet.”

“Sure,” you smirk. “If ‘gourmet’ means microwaved cardboard with fake cheese dust.”

He gasps — actually gasps — and spins you gently gently like your mid - argument in a fairytale dance. You stumble with a breathless laugh.

“You wound me princess,”

The sudden name caught you off guard, as the familiar warmth rose within your cheeks. “I'm not a princess, thank you very much.”

You're still giggling when the warm yellow glow of a 7 - Eleven appears up ahead.

Satoru perks up like a kid. “Wait. Emergency sugar run.”

You blink, confused by the shift —but he's already tugging you inside.

Fluorescent lights hum softly overhead, casting pale halos across neat rows of snacks. Satoru beelines for the sweets, arms sweeping across shelves like he's conducting a sugar–fueled heist. You trail behind, amused, a quiet shadow to his child like chaos.

He's already piling instant puddings,mystery cakes, and sweets you've never seen into his arms.

You raise an eyebrow, “This is extremely concerning.”

“This here Mystery girl,” he says solemnly, turning dramatically, “is called balance.”

You stare, “You're buying three types of cake in a cup. And soda. And whatever that pink thing is.”

“Exactly,” he grins, holding up a melon soda. “Fruit group: covered.”

You roll your eyes, but follow him to the counter . As he pays, your gaze drifts upwards —to the security screen behind the register. One angle captures you perfectly, standing behind him, the plush cat once again peeking from your hoodie.

You watch yourself, absentmindedly fixing your hair. And then —

Click

Your head snaps around instantly. But Satoru's already lowering the camera, that smug grin already blooming.

To your surprise, you don't flinch. Not this time. Instead you met his eyes and the way he looked at you, the way he smiled — warm, easy, and sincere makes your heart skip a beat.

The fear you usually felt in front of the lens to fades… because —

He was the one behind the lens.

“Satoru!”

“What?” he says, mock-innocently, twisting the camera’s worn leather strap around his finger. “Candid art. The lighting was perfect. ”

He scratches his neck awkwardly. “Plus… you looked kinda cute.”

You bite your lower lip, looking away. But then you spot his cakes — and a familiar, mischievous grin forms.

“I'm gonna steal your cakes.”

“You wouldn't —”

But you already are. You snatch the bag and sprint towards the exit.

“Oh no, Royal rebellion! ” he shouts , behind you chasing. “Come back here, you traitor!”

Outside you break into a sprint, laughing as you hold the cakes hostage. He follows — dramatic and loud — yelling something about dessert theft and snack justice. You round a corner, nearly tripping on your own feet as you shriek with laughter, and then —

Then — you trip.

Well, not quite. You both stumble into a heap onto a patch of grass. Not hard — more like a clumsy trip that ends with him catching you, kind of. Your back hits the grass, and suddenly he's hovering over you, one knee on the ground, one hand beside your head to brace himself.

His face is right there.

Both your chest rise and fall — laughter fading into silence. Laughter suddenly dies out, slowly — like the world no longer exists.

His glasses are foggy slightly but you can still see the way his gaze drops — from your eyes, to your lips and then back again.

Time holds its breath.

You reach up, fingers brushing the fogged lenses, gently adjusting them enough to see him again — clearly . In that moment you couldn't help but reach out for them — adjusting enough for the fog to clear. His eyes — sea-glass blue, aglow with some kind of softness you've never quite seen before.

He doesn't lean in. But he doesn't move away either.

The world has yet not awakened, it's just the two of you — breath tangled, time frozen — with only the night sky watching. And in the stillness your hearts are loud.

“You're red,” you hear him whisper, just above your lips.

You swallow. “And you're… heavy.”

That breaks it. He exhales a breathless laugh, and rolls onto the grass beside you. “You ran, with all my pudding.”

“You photographed me on a surveillance cam!” you argued.

“You're welcome.”

You both lie there side by side, the stars half-hidden above the city haze. His hand soon found yours again — lazily, comfortably lacing his fingers within yours — like it's been that way forever.

After a while, he sits up and offers you his hand.

“Come on, the night’s still young.”

You groan and pout slightly. “Ugh, where are you taking me this time you sugar demon?”

He smirks, “It's a surprise, Mystery girl. Plus I need to enjoy those cakes on the way.”

You eye him, “Fine. But I get a bite.”

He hums thoughtfully, smirking “So the princess does like sweets”

Your cheeks warm.“You know damn well I'm not a princess.”

The plush cat peeks out from your hoodie like it's judging you. You sigh and let him pull you to your feet.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡//

The elevator dinged softly, as the doors slid open, revealing a hallway bath in soft neon lights and muffled pop music coming from down from the corridor.

You blinked. “Wait — karaoke?”

Satoru strolled out ahead of you, casually licking a spear of frosting off his thumb — still working his way through the second mini cup he snuck from the convenience store, like a mischievous child.

“Suprise-” he singsinged with a grin over his shoulder. “Figured you can loosen up a bit before turning back into Cinderella.”

Your brows rose. “You planned this…?”

“Yup. Booked the room an hour ago. Had to pretend it was for a bachelorette party.” He wiggled his brows. “Don't worry. I asked for pink lighting and everything.”

In that moment you couldn't help it — the laugh slipped out before you could catch it. God, he was stupid. Stupid and tall and funny.

Inside the karaoke room was cozier than you expected. A plush L shaped couch wrapped around a glass table cluttered with menus, spare mics, and tiny lights. The screen on the wall rolled through generic music videos, waiting for input.

You lingered never the door for a second longer than necessary. Your throat tightened a little. It's just karaoke, you told yourself. He doesn't know.

Satoru plopped down dramatically, cake in one hand, remote in the other. “Beer’s coming soon. You're up first, pop princess.”

“I'm not a pop pri —”

“Don't even start,” he said pointing at you. “You already got convenience store staff smiling at you like you're a Disney character. I bet you sing like one too.”

You rolled your eyes, slipping beside him on the couch. The beer arrived minutes later, frosty bottles with enough bite to dull the nerves. One turned to two, and two turned to three. He challenged you to do Britney Spears in a bad accent. You dared him to sing Whitney Houston, and he tried — very, very badly.

You were laughing so hard your cheeks hurt.

And when you finally picked a song for yourself — something light, something dreamy — Satoru went quiet.

He leaned back, legs man spread, beer in one hand, watching you with that fond smirk of his — like you were some rare vinyl record playing in a quiet room.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you asked, lowering the mic after the first chorus.

“Just… didn't think you'd be that good,” he said with a grin, a little slower now, a little heavier from the drink. “You're kinda showstopping.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, “You're drunk, Satoru.”

“Not yet,” he winked. “But you keep singing and I might just… fall in love.”

For a moment, your eyes met his — once again it felt like the air was heavier within this room. He's watching you closely — but he's already close — you lower your head enough to keep yourself from heating up, yet again.

You nudged his knee with your own, “ You couldn't hit a note if it hit you.”

“Ride.I'm emotionally injured now princess.”

You both kept going — singing, teasing, the kind of tipsy closeness that made you forget the world outside. You kept dancing around the room at one point, mic in one hand, laughing as he howled off-key from the couch. You didn't realize how close you'd gotten until you dropped beside him again, still catching your breath.

His eyes flicker to yours.

You're softened.

And a quiet beat filled the air.

His hands brushed your knee, but you didn't move.

“Can I… please take a picture of you?”

His voice wasn't teasing this time. It was quiet. Hopeful. A little shy in the way you never imagined Satoru Gojo could ever be.

The barriers which surrounded you two, were slowly fading in the little karaoke. You could feel the veil you've used to cover yourself instinctively lifting and for him to finally open that door — was the girl you used to be.

You blinked, heart catching on the sudden turn. “What, now?”

He nodded slowly. “You look…” He fumbled, thumb tapping the lens nervously. “You look like something I don't want to forget. ”

Your stomach flipped. And still — you reached out gently, finger brushing his. “Yes. Only you can Satoru Gojo.”

He grinned, boyish and bright, and fumbled with his camera — suddenly all clumsy fingers and slightly drunken nerves. The flash didn't fire. He didn't need it.

You stood on the table again, this time slower, more deliberate. Singing softly into the mic, hips moving like they remembered the stage — but the stage was gone, and it was just him, just this moment.

Click

And Satoru lowered the camera slowly, like the moment had stolen something from him. His gaze locked on yours — blue azure eyes wide and soft with something achingly real.

“You're beautiful,” he said, barely audible over the music.

You froze. He blinked, as if realizing it had slipped out. “I mean — you've always been, I just — shit, sorry I didn't mean to say it like that —”

A warm flush crept up his neck. His words tangled. And you… you were just about to say something real — when —

Your phone buzzed

The screen lit up : Manager

And right then and there your stomach sank.

“Give me a sec,” you murmured, climbing off the table and stepping into the hallway, far enough so that he couldn't hear. You pressed the phone to your ear.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?”

Her voice was sharp, loud cutting through the high you'd been floating on just a few minutes ago.

“I told you to come to the event, you didn't come. You wander out in Tokyo and you can't even lie low either. There are photos, real ones this time — don't play dumb, we've already seen them.”

You froze in place. “Photos…?”

“I told you to be careful, and you're out there — dancing? Singing? God Y/N, if this breaks, it's not just you. It's the label. It's the tour. We had control. Now we don't.

“I'm sorry,” you whisper, your throat thick. You could slowly feel the lump in your throat.

“You're not just some girl who gets to play dress-up, and run around like no one's watching. You, out of all people know that.”

You didn't realize a tear had slipped until it hit your collarbone.

You took a shaky breath. And then —

Flash.

Right.Blinding.

Your name echoed down the hall.

“Y/N! OVER HERE!”

Panic snapped its fingers inside your chest like a rubber band.

More flashes. More clicks. More people. And the more your name slips from their lips.

Your breath caught.

The phone slipped from your fingers like gravity itself and that's when you cave.

You were no longer normal.

You were the star you were always meant to be.

And you were cracking, like bones with each and every flash.

Your knees gave out as the noise closed in, the flashbulbs stuttering like lightning in a storm — lights that were once your comfort, are now your enemy. Voices were overlapping — your name, your name —over and over again, like it didn't belong to you anymore.

Your chest constricted violently. You couldn’t get air. Not even a sip, as the crowd chanted your name from left to right.

Your hands clawed at the wall behind you. You didn't move. You couldn’t move. Couldn't speak. Couldn't run. You didn't even know where to go. You didn't have anywhere to go. Every part of you felt too small for the panic crawling under your skin — a screaming, suffocating thing that curled itself around your ribs like a vice.

You were choking on your own name.

A name loved by so many, but hated by the one person that created it — and it was you. The name you loth so deeply now, that you wish you could turn back time and live the life you've once wanted to escape.

But then —

Warmth.

Two hands. Familiar. Gentle. Steady.

“Shhh. Hey,Hey, I got you — hey. I'm right.”

Satoru.

You barely heard him through the noise rushing in your ears. Your vision was tunneling and the familiar tears rushed down your warm cheeks. Your hands shaking violently in his grip. You couldn’t look up. Couldn't face him like this. Not now. Not as the girl crumbling under the spotlight she asked for.

But he didn’t let go.

You felt his hand slide down your back,the other curling gently around your wrist — grounding you like he was trying to pull you out of the storm with nothing but touch.

“Breathe,” he whispered, right at your ear now, close and steady. “Come on, princess. Look at me. Just look at me. I need you to breathe, okay?”

You tried — you really did — but the tears came harder.

“Can't — can't breathe —” you gasp.

“Yes, you can,” he said, firmer now but still soft. “I've got you. I promise, I've got you.”

He lowered you both to the ground gently,away from the camera, behind the stone pillar just outside the entrance — somewhere quiet where no one could find you. He pressed your back against it and knelt in front of you. The city still screamed behind you, but he became your world.

Then he did something simple. Something so stupid but beautiful. Something that only Satoru Gojo would do.

He took your hand and placed it firmly against his chest — right over his lively beating heart.

“Feel that?” he whispered. “That's me. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere.”

You could feel it — the steady thump of him, beating for you when yours couldn't.

You clung to it. Clung to him.

Like he was the only oxygen you could ever need.

And slow… the tightness in your chest loosened. Not gone. Not entirely. But enough to breathe.

Enough to finally cry.

You let your head fall against his shoulder. And he held you like he'd done it before, like he knew how to carry someone breaking within his very hold.

“I didn't want it to be like this,” you whispered hoarsely, “Not like this…”

He cupped your cheek with one hand, tilting your face to him gently.

“I know,” he said, like it broke his heart too. “You didn't deserve this.”

And maybe it was the adrenaline, or grief, or the way he looked at you like you were still human — but you leaned in.

And he didn't stop you.

The world felt like it was pooling beneath your own palms. The beating of his heart keeping you steady enough to find, your own drumming against your ribcage

And finally —

His lips met yours — soft, slow, reverent. A promise and a plea. It wasn't perfect. It wasn't polished.

But it was real.

You melted into him, like you've been waiting all night. And when you pulled back, breathless, you rested your forehead against his and whispered —

“Please stay.”

His hand still pressed yours to his heart.

“Always.”

It wasn't a promise made in grand declarations — it was whispered barely, audible, something to shatter if you breathe too hard.

And somehow, you believed him — every word, every vow, and little letter that seemed to leave his promised lips was something to believe in.

It was the hope you held onto — it was his heart you clung to.

You stayed like that for a while. Neither of you moved, like the ground beneath you might vanish if you did. The world — the cameras, the noise, the name you hated — all blurred out behind the steadiness of his chest and the hush of shared breaths.

Eventually, Satoru stood, brushing his thumb under your eye to catch the last remnants of tears, that treating to leave you with more stains of heartache.

“Come on,” he said, quiet but steady. “Let's get out of here, I'm sure we lost them by now.” He added as he looked around every corner.

“Hopefully you'll like my apartment.” he whispered against your ear. And finally his hand reached for you unconsciously — making sure to lace his fingers through yours, to ground you, to hold you, to let you know that you are with him — and only him.

The walk to his apartment was wordless. Not because there was nothing to say, but because nothing needed to be said. He walked close, his finger brushing against your knuckles now and then, like a question he was scared to voice. The night air was thick with silence — not cold, not tense, just full.

His apartment was tucked between the city's smaller spots, inconspicuous and soft-lit, a place clearly meant for peace, safety and disappearing. He tucks your hands against his own as you both made your upstairs — a dim light shone against the walls, making it earlier for the both of you to find your way to his door.

“I know… it's not much you're used to,” he says smiling softly, while opening the door. “But it's home.”

Once inside, the darkness held you both, like little stars waiting for any source of light to ignite.

Satoru flickered the switch, and the apartment came to life with a quiet hum — not loud, not invasive, just soft light against cream coloured walls and scattered mangas. A half-empty mug sat on the shelf with a half eaten cake next to it and to your surprise — you smile. The faint scent of bergamot and cedar hung in the air, it was the scent that clung to him at times.

It wasn't grand. It wasn't polished. But it was warm — lived - in, in the way hearts are when they finally stopped running — from truth, hope, love and just finding acceptance.

He watched you for a moment, as if memorizing the way you stood in the doorway, unsure of whether to come closer or bolt. You weren't the stage name he heard minutes ago. You weren't the headlines. You were just a girl with tired eyes and a trembling heart.

“You can sit wherever,” he said gently, scratching the back of his neck. “Or — uh — I can make you tea. If you want. Or we can just —”

“Satoru, can I just…. be here?” you asked, your voice soft, like it might just shatter.

His expression changed — something between a breath and a vow.

“Yeah,” he said. “You can just be.”

You nodded, and for the first time in weeks — maybe months — you let yourself sink down, into the couch of an apartment — of a place called home. It creaked beneath you, like it was trying to familiarize your weight. Satoru sat beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed.

You couldn't help but lean against his shoulder, the warmth of his body slightly, warming your cold heart. There was silence yet again. But this time it wasn't it was full — full of something different.

Something much more meaningful.

There was no pressure. No panic.No fear. No anxiety.

Just his presence was enough to sing the word — calmness.

He didn't ask about you. He didn't mention the tears or the world you just escaped. He just leaned back, exhaled slowly, and let his hand find yours again, like it was always meant to be that way.

And that was the moment you realized —painfully, achingly — that he was the only person that hadn't asked you to be anything.

“Satoru,” you whispered his name, softly as if you were afraid he'd vanish any second,as if this was a dream you were never meant to have. “I…. I'm so sorry.”

And finally you felt it again — slowly tears started to weld within your eyes. You grip his hand softly, making sure it was the only thing grounded you within this moment.

“Princess…” he whispered, arms wrapping around you, as if holding you could keep you from falling apart as if he could catch every little piece before it hit the ground.

He gripped you tightly — not out of desperation, but out of certainty. Like this was something you've always wanted throughout all your years. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, and he held you through the tremble of your body, the apology in your tongue, the grief you've been carrying for God knows how many years… ever since you've entered your world of glamor and fame.

“You don't have to apologize,” Satoru murmured into your hair, voice low and quiet and steady,like the ocean pulling at the shore. “Not to me. no to anyone.”

You didn't respond. You couldn’t. You just held him tighter, like he could numb all the pain you've felt. And somehow in some way he understood.

He let his lips brush against your temple. Light. Soft. Reverent.

“I'm here remember.” he said gently, mimicking his action prior — and you could feel his heart again, beating beneath your palm.

“And you can breathe,” he whispered, barely audible.

The way he held you — not like some rescuing a damsel,but some who had been waiting for a very long time to find you — to come home — undid something in you. The kind of care you've always wanted, craved, dreamt of day after day. And this time…. therethere was no masks. No pretending. No demands.

He knew you now, he knew the real you.

You pulled back slowly,just enough to see him — your foreheads almost touched, your breaths mingling in the air between you. His eyes searched for yours, not for permission this time but for you.

And you were there — every broken, soft, tired part of you. Finally seen.

His heart still beneath your palms slowly started to increase, as your lips brush against each other, so close to kissing.

“Your heart is racing,” you whispered gently.

His gaze drops to your lips and back to your eyes. “It's because of you…”

The quiet between you changed. The kind of quiet that felt like gravity — pulling, heavy, inevitable.

His eyes flickered to your lips once again and then slowly — almost cautiously — Satoru leaned in.

He kissed you for the second time that night, like a secret he's been keeping too long. Like a prayer. Like he didn't know how to be gentle, but was trying anyway.

Your hand slid to the side of his sculpted face, holding him close,and his arms wrapped tighter around your waist, anchoring you both in a moment that neither of you wanted to end.

It was warm. Deep. Real.

You didn't realize how long you've been kissing until your lungs started to burn, until your hands were trembling and your body was pressed so fully against his that you could feel the flutter of his heartbeat, feel the soft rise and fall of his chest.

Satoru pulled back, just slightly, just enough for you to breathe — noses brushing together slightly as his lips parted like he was about to speak — but no words came. The outline of your lips, nose, eyes… everything was enough for him to be struck in awe — in awe only for you.

His eyes never left yours, he was studying you — like you were something fragile wrapped in starlight. Like he couldn't quite believe you were real. His long slender finger hovered just above your cheekbones — a slight pause — just to grasp this moment of truth, that you were truly real. The fear of touching you too quickly might just break the spell, he so desperately wanted to cling.

“You're…” he started, then laughed — shy, breathless. “You're so damn beautiful it actually hurts.”

You blinked, and he kissed your eyelids — slow, soft. “All of you. Even the parts you hide. Especially those.”

Your eyes fluttered closed for a brief moment — just long enough to feel the weight of his words settle in your chest, to let them echo in places that had long been quiet. Then, like instinct, your finger reached for him — the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his cheek. The cool rims of his glasses kissed your finger tips, and you hesitated… then gently slid them off.

“I've always loved your eyes,” you whispered more to yourself than to him — like it was a secret you held far too long.

He stilled.

The quiet tension passed between you — something fragile, something reverent. Your fingers drifted lower, brushing the button of his shirt, trembling slightly as they ghosted across fabric and heat. But before you could move further, his hand caught yours — not to push you away, but to hold it, to bring it to his lips.

“As much as I'd love for you to take control,” he murmured against your skin, pressing a wet kiss into your palm. “I'd rather be the one to pleasure you.”

Your breath hitched, shallow and sweet, as his teeth grazed tenderly across your wrist. He trailed higher over your arm, your shoulder, up the column of neck until his mouth hovered just beside yours. And then —

He kissed you.

Softly, reverently, like it was the only thing he'd ever been meant to do. The kind of kiss that melted time, unspoiled the tension between your ribs, and made you forget that pain ever existed. You melted into it — into him.

You — past the flickering lights of the kitchen, past the couch that still held your shape — and into the bedroom. The walls were muted blue, the kind that held onto moonlight like a secret. Everything felt still, as though even the night was holding its breath for you.

He laid you down carefully, slowly, like you were made of something too precious to be rushed. Your fingers found the hem of his shirt again and this time he didn't stop you.

His name was a breath on your lips.

And the way he looked at you — God, it was worship.

No — more than that. It was reverence wrapped in longing, the kind of praise woven into silent prayers only an angel like you could understand. Satoru's hand lifted to brush your hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered on his cheek, like he couldn't bear to stop touching you — not now, not after everything.

Your eyes shimmered with grief, but nestled between the pain, the frustration and the ache — there was still hope.

“Satoru… you're staring.” you whispered, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth, as your fingers continued to toy with the hem of his shirt, pulling it slightly.

“Can you blame me?” he whispered back, his gaze drifting to your lips. “You're so… unreal. I don't think you understand”

You glance down, flushing under his gaze, shy — but not pulling away.

Then you felt his hand slide beneath your hoodie. The sudden warmth of palm against your bare skin made your breath hitch, your back arching slightly — aching for more of his touch, for more of him.

And when your eyes fluttered open, he kissed you.

But this time, the kiss wasn't tender.

It was desperate. Messy. A collision of want, of apology, of finally. You gasp against his mouth when you felt his fingers flick against your nipple — and it only makes him smirk.

“You've been naked under this hoodie this whole time?” he murmured, his tone dark with mischief and then did it again — that teasing flick, enough to make your back lift off the bed as soft cry escaping your lips.

His mouth dipped to you exposing neck, pressing warm kisses against the sensitive skin there. “God, you smell amazing.” he breathed between kisses, voice raw, low, reverent.

Your hoodie began to to ride up, under his touch, his finger dragging it slowly, teasingly — until the swell of your breasts was fully exposed.

And then he stopped.

His gaze lingered longer than you expected, as if he was memorising every part of your body — like you were something holy, as if your body was a scripture and he was about to learn every verse by heart.

When his mouth finally descended, his tongue flicked softly against your nipple, earning a whimper from you, that had your hands flying to his hair, clutching at the strands for support. He hummed against your skin, savoring the way you fell apart so easily for him.

“Satoru…” you moan, your eyes squeezing shut, hips twitching gently beneath him.

A gentle pop echoed in the room as he pulled away from your breast with a soft suck, giving the other one equal attention as much as possible.

“You're so fucking perfect,” he whispered — and there was a tremble in it, as if even he couldn't believe you were real.

He shifted slightly, his finger grazing your inner thigh beneath your hoodie. You felt his mouth press one more kiss to your nipple, before he moved lower, his lips dragging down the curve of your stomach, hot and open, slow enough to make you whimper again.

Your back arched subtly when his hand cupped your heat — warm, calloused fingers reading your body like scripture. He watched your every reaction, patient, devoted, drinking in the way your breath hitched and your legs shifted beneath his touch.

Satoru found the band of your shorts and hooked his fingers beneath it, dragging the fabric down with excruciating slowness. His lips followed the trail, pressing hot, reverent kisses to your thighs as he bared you, inch by inch.

“God,” he breathed, voice low and rough, “your skin’s so soft…”

His lips ghosted over your ankle, then the arch of your foot, and higher still—open-mouthed kisses blooming like fire across your inner thigh. Wet, deliberate, worshipful.

You squirmed beneath him, whimpering, “Satoru, please…”

He glanced up through silver lashes, the corners of his mouth curling just slightly as he reached your center—thumb grazing the sensitive skin just beside it, like a tease, like a test.

The wet patch against your ribbon pink underwear didn't go unnoticed.

“You're so wet,” he whispered, his tone dark.

Your breath hitched when he reached the band of your underwear, his thumb hooking into the elastic. But he paused — not to tease this time but to look up at you.

“You okay?” he asked, and it was so soft — the way he always asked like you were something delicate, breakable, precious.

You nodded, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy.

“Good,” he smiled, voice low, sultry and he began to pull your underwear down with agonizing slowness. “Because I want to taste the way you mourn.”

He whispered it like a vow.

And when he settled between your legs, his breath ghosting against your core, you knew —

He wasn't just going to touch you.

He was going to ruin you

His breath was hot against your thigh. You felt it before you felt his mouth. Nipping slightly at your clit, teasing you like a man that's ready to take on his meal.

“Satoru please—” you whine beneath his gaze.

Then — he finally kissed you there, where you needed him most — slow and deep, as if offering a prayer. You gasp his name “Satoru…”

He hummed in response, the low vibration of his voice rumbling against your wet folds, like a secret that's only meant for you. His tongue was slow, tender but sure, parting you with care, as if he was reading grief straight from the folds of your body.

You writhed beneath him, your hands tangling in his snowy white hair, pulling slightly — not to stop him no, but to anchor you from the waters that's been daring to release. You needed something to hold onto and right below you was, the man that's devouring from within — was the only thing keeping you from unraveling completely.

“That's it,” he whispered, pausing to kiss your inner thigh, dragging his lips up, then returning to your core one again. “Let me hear you.”

You felt him spit on your clit, that's when he sealed his mouth around it — sucking gently, sending a jolt of pleasure that made your back arch instinctively.

“Oh my god —” you gasp at the sudden sensations that's about to take over.

Your thighs trembled around his shoulders, when he continued to suck, lightly, slowly, deliberately. His fingers gripping your hips, grounding you - guiding you through it. He was so attentive. So focused. Like he was trying to memorize the sound of your pleasure, the movement of your body, your weaknesses, your strengths — as if he was trying to replace every single memory of your pain with something sacred.

“You taste… like sweets,” he murmured against you, voice dripping with awe, like he was losing himself in it too. “I could spend a lifetime right here.”

And then you felt it — a single digit — no two, his fingers pushed within your walk. The sound of you clenching walks wrapped around his fingers like they were made for him.

“Can you hear how wet you are,” he asked, as his tongue flicked against your clit. One here, one there. A kiss on your thigh as his fingers continue to work through your went hole.

“Satoru… I..” you couldn’t even finish your sentence, and he continued to pump faster. Your eyes squeeze shut at the sudden sensations of pleasure — and for the second time that night his lips sealed your clit sucking — faster, deliberate — his tongue flattened, stroked long and slow, curling just right.

You back arched as a moan ripped through you, messy and high pitched. You felt tears prick the corners of your eyes. Maybe from the pleasure, maybe from the grief still lingering at the edges. You didn't know anymore.

“Good girl,” he said again, and you could hear his voice — how much he needed this, how much he needed you. The way he kept pulsing his fingers within your walls, the way he kept sucking and licking you like you were his last prayer. “God, you're perfect. I've got you baby. Let it go.”

Your body obeyed before your mind could. Your thighs clamp tight around his head as the heat built and broke — wave after wave until you were trembling, chest rising and falling as your hands covered your face.

Satoru only kissed your inner thighs then your knee, softly as he continued to work you through your orgasm. And finally, he moved up your body slowly, carefully, like he was putting the pieces back together with every kiss he pressed to your warm, dewy skin.

His voice was hoarse when he asked, “Still with me?”

You nodded, barely able to form words, your chest heaving, heart still pounding lively in your throat.

You reached for him this time. And as your lips met his desperately, tasting yourself on his tongue — you knew :

He wasn't trying to heal you.

He was mourning with you. And this was his prayer. His body a psalm. You, the alter.

Your kiss deepened, slow at first — like a silent exchange between sorrow and want — and then something stirred within you. And yearning not to receive, but to give. To worship him, just the way he had worshipped you.

Your fingers trailed down the planes of his back, to the hem of his shirt, tugging it upwards with shaky hands. He broke the kiss only to let you pull it off him, and when your palms met bare skin, the heat between you deepened. He was beautiful — not just physically, but in the way he looked at you, like you were salvation in human form.

“Satoru… let me touch you, ” you whispered against his jaw, voice fragile but full of promises.

His breath caught, and for once he didn't hide behind teasing words nor cocky smirks. He nodded — almost shyly — and let you shift you onto his back.

You move over straddling his hips, fingers trailing down the expanse of his chest. His hand came into contact with your hips, as you kissed him again, slower now, your lips brushing over his and your hand drifted downward. When you palmed him through his pants, a low groan escaped his throat — like a silent plea — waiting for your touch to flood him.

“God,” he rasped, “you're… dangerous.”

You smiled, soft and sure, “So are you.”

You unzipped his pants with care, letting your fingers linger just a moment too long over the skin beneath his waistband. When you finally pulled him free, his head tilted back against the pillow, a quiet, broken noise leaving his lips.

You couldn't help but bite your lower lip, his member was glistening with precum. It was large, and you couldn't help but wonder if it would ever fit. Slowly you took your time, kissing down his chest, his stomach, until your breath hovered over his aching member.

And then with one last glance upward, your eyes met his. “Let me mourn you too.”

Then — you took him in your mouth.

You began slowly, the same way grief moved through the soul — carefully, respectfully like you understood the weight he carried — just like he carried yours. He tasted like skin and sorrow, like everything he couldn't say pressed against your tongue.

His hand found your hair, not to guide you but to anchor himself — just like you did — to remind him that this was no dream, that was reality itself

That you were here, offering the kind of solace no prayer could match.

“F-fuck… ” he breathed, voice already shaking. “F-feels… so good, fuck.”

You moved with tenderness, each stroke of your tongue an act of devotion, not lust — and he felt it. Every piece of it. Felt like it was stitching something inside him back together, only to tear him open again.

His head tilted back, eyes squeezed shut, and then he looked down at you, breathless.

“Don’t look away,” he whispered. “Stay with me, baby… please.”

You hummed softly around him, and his whole body trembled.

“God– your mouth,” he groaned, hand tightening just a little in your hair. You could feel him shutter at your touch. A broken sound escaped him when you deepened your pace, slow and purposeful, and he covered his eyes with the back of his hand like he couldn’t take it.

You pulled back slightly, lips still kissing along his length, eyes locked with his. “I'm mourning you too,” you whispered again. And then you took him in fully, and he let out a quiet, aching, “Fuck, I'm gonna come — please — princess.”

His hips stuttered, and he reached for you blindly, not to stop you, but to hold on. As if letting go meant losing you again.

You let him fall from your lips with a soft gasp of breath, and you kissed your way back up his body, letting your chest rest against his, letting him feel your heartbeat—fast and full and alive.

He cupped your cheek when you reached his face, and when he kissed you, he could taste himself on your lips.

“Say my name,” he asked softly.

You smile, cheeks warm. “Satoru Gojo.”

You couldn't help but giggle at his sudden behavior. He smiled, and when he kissed you it was much different — his lips lingered longer on yours, not hungry,not rushed just… aching. Like he needed to taste every breath you offered, like your kiss could resurrect something lost. You felt the shift in the air — the kind of silence that held meaning. The kind of silence where one would reminisce in silence.

When he rolled you gently beneath him, it wasn't dominance — no this time it was him surrendering to you, and you to him. He looked down at you, like you were something fragile, sacred. Like he feared you might just be a dream, ready to slip from his hold if he moved too fast.

His forehead pressed to yours, his breath still warm and uneven. “Are you sure?”, voice tight almost pleading, “I don't want you…” but before he could even continue you kissed him.

Kissed him — pulled away, nodding as your fingertips brushed along the curve of his cheek. “You were the first man to make me feel normal…” your voice half broken, soft, “Make me remember I'm here, with you.”

And so he did.

He entered you slowly, inch by inch, and you gasped — not from pain but from the depth. From how full it felt. From how deeply it fit, like he was carved for you.

Neither of you moved at first. He just held you – inside and out — letting your bodies adjust, letting the moment stretch.

His lips pressed to your shoulder, to your collarbone, to the hollow of your throat. “You feel like… heaven, I swear.” he murmured, voice breaking against your skin as he marked the flesh.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, your legs wrapped around him instinctively, pulling him deeper, closer. “Oh my god —” a soft gasp leaves your trembling lips.

He started to move, slowly, reverently like every thrust was a vow. Ever sigh a confession. You clung to each other like salvation.

The sound of your bodies — soft breaths, whispered names, the quiet rhythm of skin meeting was the only music the moment needed.

“There — right there…” you let out a breathy cry, your voice shivering with need as his rhythm deepened, unhurried but sure, like he knew every itch of you by instinct.

“Yeah? Right there, princess?” he whispered into your skin, his breath hot and trembling, forehead pressed to yours. “You're taking me so well — fuck your perfect.”

Your body moved as one, the type of synchronicity that didn't come from practice, but from the depth within both of you. From mourning. From reverence.

His hand slid between you, fingers circling your swollen clit, with aching gentleness. “I want to feel you fall apart,” he breathed heavily, voice cracking. “I want to feel you lose yourself. Can you do that for me?”

You could only nod, not trusting your voice enough — your hands clawing at his back, trying to keep yourself grounded as the pressure inside you coiled tighter, your breath hitched with every thrust. Behind you — you could hear the soft thud of the headboard tapping the wall with each deep thrust — a quiet rhythm that matched the desperate way he moved inside you.

“Satoru —” his name tumbled from your lips like a prayer, and he groaned in return, lips pressing to your cheek, your jaw, your mouth.

“You're so beautiful like this,” he rasped. “Fucking breathtaking. I could die right here.”

His movements grew a touch more desperate, not rough, never rough with you — but like he was trying to memorize you from the inside out. Like he was etching his soul into yours with every motion.

“I'm close,” you whimper, voice trembling.

“Me too princess. Fuck — me too. Let go for me, yeah? Come with me,” he pleaded, the sound of it wrecked and unfiltered. “Please…”

You felt it hit — the crash of sensation, white-hot and consuming. Your body arched, your vision blurred, and his name left your lips in a broken sob as you clenched around him.

He wasn't far behind.

With a strangled moan, he spilled inside you, holding you so tight like he was afraid you would disappear. His whole body shook, and for a long moment neither of you breathed — just trembled in each other's arms, undone and reborn.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was full of everything unspoken. Grief. Healing. Worship.

And the echo of your names on each other's lips.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡//

You stayed like that for a long time, your chest rising and falling against his, breaths uneven, skin still warm from what had just passed between you. Satoru's fingers remained tangled in your hair, your cheek pressed to his shoulder, your legs still curled around his.

No one spoke.

The silence wasn’t suffocating—it was sanctuary. It was the lull after a storm, where hearts beat softer and the world fades away to nothing but skin and soul.

And then —quietly, you shifted.

You rolled to your side, his hand reluctantly slipping from your body, but not far. It found your waist instead, grounding you in the afterglow.

You stared at the ceiling for a while. So did he.

“You have a beautiful name,” he whispered, his eyes never leaving the ceiling. As his hands slowly started to form shapes against the warmth of skin.

You could only smile, you realize now that he knows you. He knows the other part of your life — he knows the you , you've been hiding from him too long.

And suddenly you realize just how vulnerable you both were in this moment, your voice was almost too soft to be heard.“Do you ever get scared of your own art?”

Satoru turned his head toward you, brow furrowed.

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. “I used to sing to heal,” you whispered, “but somewhere along the way, I started singing just to be heard. And now… I don’t know the difference.”

There was a pause — just long enough to hurt.

“I think I take pictures for the opposite reason,” he said. “Not to be heard. Just to see. To really see. And sometimes… to help people see themselves again.”

You swallowed. Slowly. Delicately. “I used to hide from the flash,” you confessed. “Like it might capture something I didn’t want anyone to see. That’s why I panic. I think… I thought the lens could turn me into something I’m not.”

He didn’t say anything. But his hand squeezed your waist.

You finally turned to face him, naked in every sense of the word.

And then, voice like dusk, you asked:

“Will you show me what you see?”

Satoru didn’t smile. He didn’t tease. He sat up slowly, reaching for his camera near the edge of the bed — far forgotten after your flush encountered, the lens glinting faintly in the city light seeping through the curtains.

He offered it to you, gently, like it was sacred, a secret he only shared with you.

“Come here,” he murmured, scooting back until you were both sitting cross-legged on the bed, legs barely touching. “Look through this.”

You took it with tentative fingers. Brought it to your eye. And for the first time, the world didn’t spin. Because through that lens, you saw him — Satoru Gojo. Raw. Beautiful. Tired. Honest.

The kind of man who listened with his whole body. Who didn’t ask for more than you could give. Who saw you without trying to fix all your broken parts.

“Now,” he whispered, brushing a hand over yours, helping guide your grip, “gently press right here.”

The shutter clicked. You lowered the camera.

And he was smiling.

Something warm bloomed in your chest. It didn’t have a name, but it sat beside the ache of goodbye. You handed the camera back to him.

And then you laid beside him again, not touching, just watching his face as he admired the photo you'd taken.

“Is that how you see me?” you asked.

He looked at you—not through the lens this time, but with the same stillness.

“No,” he said, voice rough with sleep and truth. “That’s how you see me.”

You didn’t say anything after that.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡//

Eventually, you drifted. His breathing slowed. And when you were sure he was asleep, you kissed him—just once—like you were pressing the memory of him to your lips.

Then you rose quietly, redressing in silence.

And as dawn crept in behind you, you slipped out the door and back into the world that never stopped watching.

But for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you were running.

You felt seen.

You saw yourself, through his lens.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡

3 MONTHS LATER

The soft hum of the aircon the only sound. Your phone lay facedown beside you, but you hadn’t touched it in hours. The headlines had already done what they always did — Pop Star’s Breakout Ballad 'Bliss' Stuns the Charts. A Song That Sounds Like a Goodbye.

They called it haunting. Beautiful. Vulnerable.

They didn’t know it was a confession.

You blinked slowly, lashes wet with unshed tears. The room felt too big tonight, like the shadows had grown long enough to reach inside you.

The clock flashed 2:17 AM. The same hour you left him in Tokyo. The same hour you slipped back into your skin and out of his arms. A sob broke from your chest before you could stop it. You gripped the sheets — but it wasn’t enough. You stood, restless, and with a sudden, angry motion, you kicked your suitcase over.

Its contents spilled everywhere. Clothes. Sunglasses. Lipsticks.

And then… something else.

A hoodie. The hoodie you wore that night.

Your breath caught in your throat.

You dropped to your knees. One by one, the memories fell out.

The tiny cat plushie that looked just like him — smug, sleepy-eyed.

The bent photobooth strip — the two of you caught mid-laugh, eyes crinkled, cheeks pressed together. He was staring at you in the last frame.

Your fingers shook.

Then you saw it — a polaroid. You. That night. Hair tousled, bare face , glitter clinging to your collarbones. Eyes soft and tired, looking right at him.

He took it when you weren't looking, while you were singing.

You flipped it over.

His handwriting.

You were always my lens.

If you ever need to find me…

- G.

(xxx-xxx-xxxx)

Your breath hitched.

And then you were dialing. Hands trembling. Tears dotting the screen.

The phone rang.Once.Twice.Three times.

Your heart clenched.

Then—

“Hello?”

His voice.

Rough. Sleep-warmed. Gentle.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

“…Is it you?” he asked, softer this time. “Is it really you?”

You pressed the phone tighter to your ear, choking back a sob.

“I wrote it for you,” you whispered. “The song. I—I didn’t know how else to say it.”

Silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t cold.

It was breathing.

And then, in that quiet, you heard it — the sound of him exhaling like he’d been holding his breath for three months.

“…Come home,” he said.

🔹author's note — i can genuinely say i’m proud of this piece. it took me two weeks to complete—not just because of the writing itself, but because i had to step away at times. some parts were intense, emotionally and mentally, and i wanted to give them the care they deserved. if you’ve made it this far, thank you for reading. i’d love to hear your thoughts, so feel free to let me know what you think. your support means the world.

much love always,

katherine ♡

🔹taglist — @angelkiyo, @imjustheretoreadgeto, @emochosoluvr, @lazyjellyfish300

📌 for updates or to be added to my taglist, please use the link in my navigation, i'll also add the link here for the taglist —> 💌 ♡

ps i do not own the art used in this post. credits goes to the original artist (unknown).

©lafleurperdue. please do not copy, translate, repost, or claim my writing, art, or designs. dividers, words, and worlds belong to me. katherin, with soft ink & heavy heart 🤍

[artbligh]

WAIT!!! I seen the tag about wanting more foreign gf ideas, so what about how foreigngf! Deals with jealousy? Like let’s say someone else is flirting with gojo, I need it I NEED IT AUGHH

if only you could keep him to yourself, being satoru's foreign!gf wouldn't be so stressful ✧

→ f!reader, jealousy, nsfw

if it were up to you, you'd keep your native boyfriend locked in a cage.

he's too much of a commodity -- too striking on the eyes, pulling attention like a six-foot magnet. you two haven't been together long enough to truly see it, but the idea of sharing your extremely handsome, mysterious, charismatic boyfriend with the world might just be more than you can handle.

and gojo doesn't make it any fucking better.

the last time you felt it, it was like a thrown brick to the skull, knocking you sideways. this time, it's like a knife in the heart -- gojo never talked to you like he's talking to this stupid, frilly little food tourist with her perfect hair and makeup.

it was supposed to be your day. finally, gojo has an evening free from work -- not even an entire day, and he still chose to sneak in a food tour into his schedule just to carve time out with you.

still, she stands right next to you two at a stand, clapping as he takes an entire pork skewer into his mouth, pulling it clean with is drag of his sharp teeth. you're at his opposite, arms crossed over your chest, cursing this day and that stupid fucking skewer and your stupid fucking native tongue that doesn't match his.

it's what's pissing you off right now -- the fact that he can ramble on about his favorite restaurants in fluent, homegrown japanese and you not being able to understand nearly every other word.

it's also what makes you ignore him the entire way home, pushing down his silent attempts to hold your hand through the busy sidewalks.

after all, he didn't hold your hand in front of that desperate tour guide -- he didn't deserve to have it now.

"whatever i did wrong, i know and I'm the worst person ever. are we good now? yes? okay, let's kiss."

"tell me," he muses, chest pressed to your back, hips grinding in such a lazy, languid pace that it's more intimate than sexy.

his big body closes over yours like a glove, voice sweet and lingering in the air long after it leaves like his cologne. your face is buried in your arms, wet tears making your skin prune and ache as he works you over so beautifully. you can feel every dip and divot in his sweet cock as it pierces you in a way it never has before.

you shake your head, ashamed to admit the obvious -- but taken enough with the circumstance that it may tumble out with one more divine, internal hit.

a year in, gojo knows your body inside and out better than you ever have. he touches you in places you didn't even know felt good -- he whispers pet names spanning every one of his known languages only to bring you closer to the edge. he's your biggest vice, and biggest insecurity.

and right now, loving you all the way down in pronebone, he's clutching your hips in a tightness that may have been uncomfortable if he was anyone else. now, his burning touch feels possessive. you shiver out a whine.

"...why you've been quiet."

"nothing..." you breathe, delicate fingers tugging at the fabric on the pillow under your grip.

"liar." he repeats, joking or not. you don't care, his lips are like hot coals pressing into your skin every time he leans down to kiss your shoulder. "you can't hide it from me."

"so what, i'm insecure." you mumble, like your body would swallow it before it can reach his ears. little do you know, gojo can hear every single beat of your heart -- the rush of blood straight from your veins like rushing rivers. "hate seeing other girls make you laugh like that."

against your damp, naked shoulder, he smiles -- you can feel it. "they could never care for me like you do."

[artbligh]

buried treasure - s. gojo

ᯓ ✈︎ first class ticket to north carolina's outer banks 𓇼

𓇼 surfer!satoru gojo x f!reader [non-curse au]

𓇼 oneshot - part of @lily-bisque's summer bash collab

❝ you're back home for your last summer of college, and what could be a better way to pass the time than a treasure hunt? just one problem- your map is drawn in crayon, and your memory of the outer banks is lacking. luckily for you, there's a handsome surfer just waiting for any excuse to leave work for the day, and has there ever been a better excuse than a treasure hunt with a gorgeous woman? ❞

𓇼 cw ; strangers to lovers. slow burn. two sweethearts mutually pining for one another. satoru's a massive flirt but what's new? lowkey nerdjo. fluff, so much fluff. the slightest bit of hurt with the most comfort. big summer romance vibes.

𓇼 words ; 13.5k.

𓇼 a/n ; welcome to my collab with the lovely @lily-bisque, please show her all the love <33 get yourself a good summer drink and please enjoy the good vibes, comfort, and sweet little adventure these two go on!

main masterlist || bisque's summer bash masterlist || ao3 link

The tide washing over your feet is cool compared to the warmth of the sand beneath them. The refreshing chill of the early morning won’t last long, the sun will soon greet you and kiss your skin as it does every day in Dare County, but despite the heat, you thrill at the thought.

Being home for your last summer of college is a treat you weren’t sure you’d be able to afford this year, but you’re lucky enough that your parents were willing to pay to see their beloved daughter. It’s strange, to think that this might be your last summer off like this, but you look forward to the horizon of a new career and a change of pace, as terrifying as the thought is.

You tilt your head as a seagull lands a small distance away from you. Its feet pad across the sand quickly as it avoids the incoming tide, following it back down to the shoreline and waiting for some sort of mollusk or seaworm to rise from the sand for a moment too long. It pecks at the sand and comes up with some sort of worm when the tide washes over its feet again.

Squawking, it nearly drops the worm as it flaps its wings violently when some sort of bottle nearly barrels into it before it can take off. The worn glass bottle catches your attention as it topples over into the sand. Before the water can pull it back in, you jog over and pick it up, tilting it within your hands.

The glass is weathered by years of being at sea, but it doesn’t seem as old as you originally thought. It looks to be no older than twenty and you can just barely make out the silhouette of something rolled within. It takes a good amount of effort (and the help of a sharp shell from nearby) to pull the cork from the bottle and dump the contents into your palm.

Unfurling the paper reveals a map of sorts, if it can even be called that.

It’s not that it’s not a map, it is, but it was clearly drawn by a kid. There’s an approximate drawing of the Outer Banks in black crayon, with landmarks drawn to the best of the kid’s ability in blue, and a path marked in red, leading to an ‘X’ which seems to be somewhere just off the coast of the nearby town Kill Devil Hills.

With a lopsided smile, you read the poorly written scrawl across the side of the map.

“1. find key picture At Avlon beAch bridge 2. get A boAt by the key 3. go to boot islAnd 4. dig up prize!!!”

You can’t help but laugh at how sweet it is, though it’s mostly nonsense from what you can tell. You may not have been back to the Outer Banks in a year, but you don’t recall Avalon Beach having a bridge, or there being a Boot Island. That’s not even beginning to mention the fact that there’s no way the ‘key picture’ is still wherever the kid left it all those years ago.

Still, you can’t bring yourself to put the page away.

Your old friends are working throughout the week and you won’t see them for a couple of days, and Avalon Beach is a ten minute drive away. You could at least check out the beach, maybe see if something is tucked away somewhere far out of reach. Worst case scenario, you could use the time as an excuse to rent a kayak and relax with some serene time to yourself.

Sliding your thumb over the paper, you shrug to yourself decidedly.

Fuck it.

Hopping in your parents’ old car, you make your way in the direction of the beach, dropping by a surf shop on the way after grabbing a bite to eat.

A bell jingles overhead, signaling your arrival to the small shop. A tall man with dark hair pulled up into a bun lifts his head tiredly from the counter, shooting you his best smile, albeit a tired one. “Welcome,” he greets you.

Another employee is on the far side of the shop wiping down a surfboard. He’s tall too, a short-sleeve red button-up shirt with a palm tree pattern clinging to his broad shoulders, while a pair of black shorts hang loosely from his hips. He lifts his head, white hair falling in front of his startlingly blue eyes as you catch his attention. He greets you with a much more lively and awake smile.

And god your stomach flutters at the sight. He’s hotter than the goddamn sun on a summer day. Which says a lot around here.

“Anything I can help you with?” The white-haired man asks.

“Hey,” you greet, trotting up to him with a smile. “Do you do rentals?”

“Of course,” he grins. “Whatcha lookin’ for?”

“I’m thinking a kayak?” You hum to yourself, fiddling with the folded paper between your hands.

“Sure, is it for something in specific?” He queries with a tilt of his head.

“Uh-” you chuckle, unfolding the paper in your hands. “Yeah, actually. I found this map, I know it’s dumb and I probably can’t finish it, and I don’t know what ‘Boot Island’ or the Avalon Beach bridge is, but-” you shake your head, interrupting your own rambles as the surf shop employee peers over your shoulder at the map in your hands.

His expression flickers from intrigue to genuine shock, you assume because you’re following a map set out in crayon, before it settles into something softer. “Huh,” he chuckles, pushing a hand through his hair to better look at it. “Avalon Beach bridge is probably the pier,” he points out.

“Oh!” You peer up at him, nodding in agreement. “Yeah, that makes sense. Still, I doubt I’ll find anything. It says there’s a picture there I think, but this looks pretty old. It’s probably long gone.”

The man hums in agreement.

“And I still don’t know what ‘Boot Island’ is supposed to be.”

“It’s, uh-” he pauses, scratching at the back of his head. “Actually, are you from around here?”

“Kinda,” you shrug. “My parents moved a bit south of here when I was in my teens, I’m just back for the summer.”

“Do you need a tour guide?”

You blink, somewhat taken aback, although something within you bubbles with excitement at the thought of having his company. You could use more friends around here, even if you’re only back for a bit.

“I mean, yeah! That would be great,” you grin. “But aren’t you working?”

“Yeah Satoru, aren’t you working?” The other employee chimes in with a lifted brow, looking unamused at Satoru’s near-immediate offer to leave. “Or did you forget?”

“C’mon, Suguru! It’s Wednesday, it’ll be slow today. I’ll owe you one,” he grins, wiggling his brow at his colleague.

With a forlorn sigh, Satoru’s co-worker, Suguru, slumps further over the counter and mutters out a ‘fine’, dropping his face into his crossed arms. “You owe me a full day, though,” he mumbles, muffled behind his arms.

Satoru grins. “Yeah, yeah,” he brushes his friend off with a grin, laying the surfboard he’s still clutching across a back counter and plopping the rag atop it. He jogs off into the back, coming back with two paddleboards and a single lifejacket.

“Are we sharing?” You quip, eyeing the only safety gear he’d deemed necessary.

“If you want,” he smirks. “I can swim, though. Figured you might need one since you’re not from around here.”

Rolling your eyes, you brush off both the flirting that makes your stomach flip with anticipation and the casual dig at your swimming skills. “I moved here when I was like sixteen, I can swim,” you retort, though you do grimace at the sight of the paddle boards over your much-preferred kayak.

“Just making sure,” he shrugs. “Wouldn’t want a pretty girl like you to drown on my watch.”

You actually scoff at that. Okay he is hot, but maybe also a little annoying. He seems friendly enough, though, so you set aside his somewhat poor attempts at flirting in favor of shoving the map into his arms as well.

“In that case, you can hold this too.”

He pouts as he doesn’t get the reaction to what he wants, but bounces back quickly as you begin making your way towards his co-worker. “How much for the rental?”

The raven-haired employee casts a glance at his co-worker, some sort of silent exchange taking place between them, before he shakes his head. “It’s fine,” he sighs, leaning his cheek on his knuckles, propped up on the counter. “Now you doubly owe me though, Satoru.”

“Oh,” you turn towards Satoru. “Thank you!”

He hums, a boyish grin on his face that’s almost giddy in a way you can’t quite make sense of. He looks a little bit too excited to be following a map drawn in crayon.

“Alright, let’s head to Avalon Pier, then,” you grin, beckoning the surf-shop employee along with you. He walks in pace with you, an infectious pep to his step as he turns to silently thank Suguru.

As soon as you’ve loaded the paddle boards into your car, you hop in the driver’s seat with Satoru in tow.

“You know,” he starts as he buckles in, “I should probably get the name of the pretty girl who could kidnap me.”

You giggle at the realization that no formal introductions actually ever took place, pushing past the kidnapping point. In fact, you kind of just mindlessly said yes without knowing anything about him, either. You were too busy ogling the pretty aqua shine of his eyes. He’s hot. Unfairly so.

Reckless? Maybe. Fun? Definitely.

You introduce yourself with a sweet smile as you pull onto the road. “I’m visiting my parents for the summer. Next year is my last year of college.”

“Sounds fun! I’m Satoru,” he greets you in return. “My family moved here when I was two, the grumpy guy we left behind is my best friend.”

“In his defense, I’d be grumpy too if you left work to hang out with a girl.”

The snowy-haired man’s smirk widens. “Nah, he gets it. You don’t pass up the opportunity to go on a treasure hunt with the prettiest girl you’ve ever seen.” He lounges back in the seat, staring out the window casually as he pulls a pair of dark shades from the pocket of his shorts. “When life gives you lemons, right?”

Heat rises up your neck, climbing to your cheeks as you giggle at his shameless flirting. “You know our map is written in crayon, right?”

“So?” He runs a hand through his hair, facing you in the passenger seat. “The real treasure is getting to join you, anyway.”

“Did you just hit me with ‘the real treasure is the friends we made along the way’?”

“Sure,” he shrugs one shoulder. It drops down to his side as he leans the other one on the seat. “I mean we’re either gonna find a lollipop or the One Piece or something, right? Win, win.”

“A lollipop? It would be at least ten years old by now,” you laugh, raising a brow as you pull into Avalon Pier’s parking lot.

“Still! Isn’t that every kid’s most prized possession?”

You can’t help but smile, Satoru’s energy is completely contagious. “My prized possession was a plush Octopus from the aquarium in Georgia.”

“Mine was a Digimon DVD. So, po-tay-to po-tah-to. Love the Octopus, though.”

“Aw, that’s cute,” you giggle as you hop out of the car. The sea breeze is refreshing against your cheeks, the smell of salt water hitting you the moment the door opens.

“I’ll have you know it’s very cool and fun of me,” he retorts, shutting the door as he leans over top of your vehicle while you laugh. He sets the map on the hood and spreads it out, his palms splaying over the surface as he looks it over. “Well, our instructions are pretty vague,” he comments.

You fall to his side, looking over the poorly drawn Outer Banks. “I told you this probably won’t lead anywhere. I mean, there’s no chance the picture is still here, anyway.”

“Why bother if you think there’s no chance?”

You shrug. “I just figured it was a fun thing to do to pass the time, even if ‘Boot Island’ doesn’t exist. It’s a fun story even if I find nothing, right?”

He tilts his head down at you, his bubbly attitude replaced with something softer, considering your words. “I like it,” he hums, his octave lowering a decibel.

“Yeah?” You peer up at him, your stomach erupting with a fluttering sensation at the tone of his voice.

“Yeah. It’s spontaneous. I dunno, I like that,” he shrugs, like it’s the easiest thing he’s ever said.

You feel your cheeks warm again, averting your gaze. “Well, come on then. Time to-” you pause, glancing at the map, “find a key picture.”

“Aye aye,” he agrees with a salute, his grin returning as you lead the way to the pier. “So, you think it’s a photo that got tucked somewhere, then?”

“I think it probably was,” you shrug, staring out across the long pier as wind whips around you without the cover of the land. “Or a drawing, maybe. But there’s no way it’s still here.” You wave your hand out at the pier, where the wind has gotten rather dramatic now that you’re standing over the ocean. A couple of clouds hang high in the sky, though it’s otherwise clear, the sun now shining far above you.

Seagulls squawk and caw high overhead, floating in the currents of the wind, curiously eyeing you and your new companion as though you might conveniently drop their next meal. The wood creaks beneath your feet, worn from years upon years of heavy use. You can remember sitting at the edge of this pier with friends as a kid, at the very same spot where you now stand.

“There’s literally nowhere to hide a photo out here,” you mumble mostly to yourself, forgetting you have a companion until he moves into your peripherals.

With hands in his pockets, he shrugs, a lopsided smile on his face. “Maybe it’s not a photo.”

“I guess,” you hum in agreement, looking around the worn algae-covered wood. The waves are calm and steady right now, leaving a tall gap between the top of the pier where you stand and the calm flow of the ocean beneath you.

Satoru steps forward, sitting at the edge of the pier and watching the ebb and flow of the waves.

You join him at the edge, kicking your feet as you brace your hands at the edge of the wooden structure. “Why’d you join me?” You query curiously.

“Why not? It gets me outta work anyway.”

“I could be a murderer,” you point out.

He shoots you a disbelieving look. “Please. You’re following a crayon map.”

You click your tongue, staring out at the broad expanse of blue. “Touché,” you murmur, brushing his shoulder as you adjust where you’re seated. Chewing on your lip, you peer curiously over at Satoru. His white locks blow in the breeze, catching on the corners of his sunglasses. “Are you in school?” You ask to fill the air. It’s not uncomfortable by any means, but you’d like to get to know the man who dropped his job for some girl he’d never met and the promise of a very old lollipop.

“Yeah, I’m a business major,” he explains, leaning his head back to admire the blue skies and coasting birds overhead. “I’m supposed to take over the family business.”

You tilt your head as you examine the way his enthusiasm seems to drain. “I feel like I don’t know you well enough to say that you don’t seem too happy about it, but-” you shrug, “- I’m not really that type of girl. So, you don’t seem too happy about it.”

He snorts. “You’re fine, pretty,” he brushes off your concerns. The casual way with which he calls you ‘pretty’ keeping that fluttering in your chest alive. “I’m not. My major is business and my minor is marine biology.”

“You wanna do marine biology?” You confirm.

He nods, a sparkle catching in his irises that makes it mirror the waves out in front of you. “Yeah. I wanna study the animals out around the OBX,” he comments, referring to the Outer Banks by its local name.

“But… parents?” You ask casually.

“Parents,” he confirms.

“Well,” you kick your feet out, staring at the flower-patterned sandals adorning your feet. “I hope things work out for you.”

“Thanks,” he smiles, something soft in the way he regards you. “But hey, why don’t we check under the pier?”

“Under? There isn’t even anywhere to stand.” You peer down beneath the pier, but before you can even think twice, Satoru is twisting around and dropping down under the pier onto the ‘X’ shaped support beams below, balancing in the crossed portion. “Oh my god, no way. This is all you.” Shaking your head adamantly, you lean forward as far as you can to catch a glimpse of your fellow treasure-hunter, but he’s extending his hand out to you.

“C’mon, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“Uh, fall in, hit my head, sharks?”

“It’s an adventure, right? Live a little.”

“A kid couldn’t have gotten down there!” You protest.

“You never know,” Satoru shrugs.

“I would know if you would look for it and tell me,” you insist, peering warily down at the water that laps at the base of the beams crossed near Satoru’s feet.

He leans over a little more, his hand gently brushing your calf. “Trust me.”

“I just met you!”

“You put your faith in me as your guide!”

“Ugh, fine!” You groan, chewing on your lip as you hold yourself at the edge of the pier, grateful you chose to wear shorts today instead of a dress. “Oh god,” you breathe, arms somewhat shaky as you lower yourself carefully, eyeing the water below.

“I gotcha,” Satoru grunts as he wraps an arm around you and pulls you flush to him, tucking you into his extremely noticeably buff side. It’s not like you didn’t notice his veiny forearms or the way his shirt clings to his biceps, but still.

Your entire body heats up, pooling in the pit of your stomach with just how oddly sweet and attractive this is as a whole. You barely even know the guy, but-

Yeah, would.

You reach out, grabbing the support beam opposite you with one hand while clinging to his shoulder with the other, attempting to balance your feet on the top of the ‘X’ of the beams as well. There’s not a lot of space, sandwiched pretty firmly between Satoru’s built form and the beam.

“Thanks,” you manage once you’ve gotten your bearings and feel somewhat like you have a hold on where you are.

“You alright?”

“Mhm,” you nod, masking your doubts with the confidence of being stuck between two very sturdy supports. “Now,” you glance around, “see anything?”

Satoru hums, twisting to get a better view behind him. “I see a lot of dried seaweed,” he mumbles, his arm tightening around your middle as he leans back to get a better view of the bottom of the wooden planks. “What’s that?”

“The carving that says ‘T + L had sex right here’? Ew, by the way. I hope they used a blanket.”

Satoru snorts. “Not that. To the left,” he tries to explain, his hands too preoccupied to point at anything.

You lean in, feeling unusually safe within his grip. “Oh my god! I think it’s supposed to be a carving of a key!”

“Supposed to be?”

“I mean yeah, it kinda looks like one.”

For a split second he almost looks offended, but you brush it off as misreading his squinting expression.

Leaning in a bit further and grateful Satoru still has a strong grip on you, you’re just barely able to make it out. “Looks like it says ‘in hAymAn house bridge’.” Leaning back into Satoru’s grip and clinging to the support beam closest to you, you turn to peer up at him. “What in the world is that meant to be?”

“Uh-” he shrugs, glimmering blue eyes flickering around the pier as though in search of an answer. “The kid thinks piers are bridges, right?”

“A house pier, though?”

Satoru shrugs. “Dunno. I think there’s something slimy on my hand, though,” he states in distaste, casting a glance at the hand he’s got tightly gripping the support beam at his side. “Let’s head back up.”

Nodding, you attempt to adjust your grip on the man to be able to reach the top of the pier and pull yourself up, but with the way you’re both contorted into the crosssection of the beams, you can’t get a grip on the wood above. Even if you could, there’s no chance you could pull yourself up.

“I can’t reach,” you pout up at him as you fall back into his arm, though your stomach churns at the sight of the water below.

“Uh- shoot,” he mutters. He glances around, before making a decision. “I got it, here.” He shifts so that you can grab the beam he’s perched on, precariously balancing at your side.

“Oh, it is slimy.”

“Told ya,” he chuckles, sliding his foot out from under you. “Okay, I’m gonna jump, then I’ll catch you.”

“What- Wait-!” You gasp as Satoru pockets his sunglasses and plunges into the ocean below. The water splashes up to your shins, his impact causing the waves to lap and break around the beams supporting your figure. You nervously glance around the rocking tides until Satoru resurfaces, shaking his head of white hair like a dog and getting sea spray all over you. “God, you scared me!”

“Sorry!” He calls from a good few feet below. “It’s pretty warm today, though. Come on in, it’s nice!” He grins as he beckons you into the water.

You cling to the beam, peering below and chewing on your lip. “Um-”

“You can swim, right?” He confirms when you hesitate, a look of realization cast over his expression as it occurs to him you could have been lying earlier to save face.

“I can, I can!” You peer back down at the dark shadows that your new friend is wading in. “I’m just… Not a big fan of water,” you mutter with a wince.

Satoru blinks a couple of times. “Oh. Shit, okay. Uh, hold on.” He dips back under the gently lapping waves, though you can’t make out what he’s doing in the depths of the shadowy water beneath. He resurfaces and shakes his head again, sending more seaspray flying through the air. “No barracudas!” He confirms with a grin, as though a toothy fish was the reason behind your disdain for the ocean.

“That’s not-” you groan, throwing your head back, though something about his boyish smile and actions puts you a bit more at ease.

“It’s not that deep! Here,” he wades forward a bit. “I’ll catch you. Trust me.”

“There’s an awful lot of trust going on for someone I just met,” you mutter from your perch, though you do reposition to jump.

“I trusted you first, you could have murdered me,” he points out.

“You could murder me now!” You point out, glancing around, though there’s no one to see you right now. He really could.

He snorts. “Yeah, the marine biologist serial killer really has a ring to it.”

“Shut up,” you whine, readjusting your stance. “Ugh, and I’m wearing denim shorts,” you mutter at the thought of getting them wet as you mentally prepare yourself.

“We can go get changed, just trust me,” he holds his arms out again, just as you manage to work up the courage to take a leap. You don’t go plunging straight down into the water as you’d thought either as he manages to keep you mostly above water, using one arm to wade, while he holds you close with the other. “See? Like I promised,” he grins when your hands find purchase on his chest.

Your cheeks warm as he gives you a small reassuring squeeze. Glancing away, you nod. “Thanks, Satoru.”

“I gotcha,” he grins as he speaks, his eyes lit up behind the shades he’s still wearing as he looks towards the beach. “Can you swim back? Or do you need a big strong man to-”

“I got it,” you interrupt, making a point of splashing him with salt water as you do. He laughs heartily as he trails behind you, keeping a steady eye on you to make sure you reach the shore safely. As soon as your feet hit the sand, you let out a breath of relief and jog ashore, the sand sticking to your wet skin, warm under the late morning sun.

Satoru follows shortly behind you, pushing his hands through his hair before ringing out his soaking wet shirt. As it continues to drip on the sand below, he unbuttons it, revealing his unfair and frankly godly sculpted abs.

Catching you staring, Satoru raises a brow as a slow smirk spreads across his lips. “Like what you-”

“Don’t finish that,” you press a finger to his chest. God, he has an ego, but it’s the fact that he’s right that has your gaze narrowed as you stare at him. His eyes sparkle, his smirk growing into a grin that’s entirely too sly.

“Am I too-”

“Nope!” You interrupt, turning on your heel and heading towards the area where the grass and sand meet, still dripping wet but grateful for the warm sun.

Satoru snickers to himself behind you, pulling his shirt off to wring it dry as best as he can, not bothering with his shorts that seem to be some sort of swim trunks anyway. He slips his arms back into the sleeves of his wrinkly red shirt, leaving it unbuttoned. He musses his hair with a hand as he comes up behind you, meeting you in the grass at the shore.

“God, my shorts,” you mutter, wringing out your tank top as the denim of your shorts clings uncomfortably to your thighs.

“Got a change of clothes?” Satoru queries genuinely with a tilt of his head.

“I’ve just got a hoodie,” you grimace.

“I think that’d give you heatstroke in this weather,” he chuckles. “My place is like a mile north, why don’t we drop by?”

“Oh-!” You blink at the offer, a kind one, but one that leaves you wary as you’re reminded that you really don’t know this guy. Then again, he had every opportunity to drown you and he didn’t, so- “Yeah, why not?”

He grins. “Great! I’ll give you directions.”

Thank god his place is as close as he says, because by the time you arrive, you feel like a sad wet cat. At least your makeup and hair isn’t too bad given that Satoru managed to catch you before you plunged under the surface fully, but your clothes are chilly and wet by the time you get out of your car, which is now equally soaked.

Satoru leads the way up to a small coastal shack, more or less, fishing a set of keys from his pockets and opening the door for you.

“Come on in,” he offers, stepping aside. “It’s a bit of a mess, sorry.”

‘A bit’ is an understatement, but there’s almost a sense of organization to the chaos. His interest in marine biology and the ocean is apparent in every piece of the mess, but it somehow adds to the seeming intention behind the disorder.

The shack is about as big as a studio apartment, littered with clothes and unwashed dishes, but there’s some sort of story behind each corner of the single-room home. There are dried corals and shells along the wall, posters of species of sharks and whales, and surfboards with a longboard pushed up against the wall. His bed is in a corner with an ocean blue blanket atop it and a pile of papers that Satoru must have been going through before work. There’s a desk littered in all sorts of textbooks and papers with pens scattered across the surface and a half-finished energy drink typical of any college student, while his kitchen has an odd mix of experiment-like specimen jars and food.

The pickles being beside a jar with a preserved squid in it has to be some sort of curse.

Why are the pickles on the counter in this heat anyway?

You shake your head and continue peering around, taking in the Digimon plush sitting atop a cabinet and a small stack of very old, very tattered, Yu-Gi-Oh cards. You wouldn’t have gathered from talking just how nerdy he is, but it’s pretty cute and the shack has a very homely feel once you move past the squid in a jar.

“I like it,” you smile, eyes settling on a photo of who you presume is likely a young Satoru in Scuba gear sitting on the back of a boat. You’re only reminded that you’re still dripping wet when Satoru opens the fridge near you and a cool breeze hits your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms.

“Thanks,” he grins, setting a couple of bottles of water on the counter. “Let’s get you something warmer.”

You nod, following close behind him as he makes his way to a dresser near his bed, pulling it open and digging through it. “I don’t think I have anything your size,” he mumbles, pulling out a plain red shirt and tossing it towards you. “Here,” he tosses a pair of shorts at you as well, shrugging. “These have a drawstring.”

You nod, thanking him as he strips his own shirt off to change. You turn away to head for the only door in the shack which you assume is the bathroom before you can get distracted by the muscles rippling along his back.

You quickly get changed, smoothing the wrinkled shirt down over your hips. Going commando isn’t ideal, but it’s better than being soaked. Maybe if you just leave your clothes in the back seat of your car they’ll dry faster in the sun.

You re-emerge from the washroom, feeling fresher, albeit a bit self-conscious in Satoru’s baggy clothes.

He looks up from where he was hunched over his laptop, strands of white hair falling into his vision as water drips down his cheek. His eyes widen slightly as he looks you over, eyes lingering on the way the oversized shirt hangs over your hips. “Looks good on you,” he murmurs genuinely, lightly drumming his fingers along the side of his computer.

“You think so?”

He smirks, but there’s something sincere within this that every sly grin he’s shot you today has otherwise lacked. “I know so.”

Your cheeks warm as you return his smile. The air grows tense with thoughts that neither of you need to read too far into in order to understand, and you’re increasingly glad you let this overly cocky man with a surprisingly genuine interest in your fun little activity join you for the day. You kind of hope this isn’t a one-time thing, honestly. You could see yourself spending a lot of time with him.

“So,” he grins. “The next pier.”

“Right,” you agree, averting your gaze from those gorgeous seas of blue within his irises. “It said Hayman, right?”

“Yeah, it must be near Hayman Boulevard. It’s a road a bit south of here. It ends at the shoreline, there’s probably a pier there.”

“Let’s do it.” You grab your keys from the pocket of the shorts Satoru had lent you, heading for his front door.

“I’m bringing towels just in case, this time. Oh! And a shovel.”

“Good call,” you chuckle.

As you begin to head to the south, the sun gets higher in the sky, growing hotter until your car air conditioner isn’t doing you any favors and you almost miss being cold and wet. The drive to the pier is also so short that you barely get to enjoy what coolness the pitiful A/C can provide, stepping out of your car again to face another pier, this one with a gazebo at the end.

“House bridge,” you breathe in understanding as the phrase clicks at the sight. You lead the way past a colorful trail marker and down the old pier, grimacing as some of the boards wobble beneath your sandals and creak when Satoru steps on them behind you. “So old,” you murmur to yourself as you stop at the end of the pier beneath the cover of the Gazebo roof.

Your white-haired companion agrees with a hum, reaching a hand beneath his shirt to scratch at his chest, revealing a portion of his abdomen. Before you know it, you’re caught up staring at the snail trail of pale white hair that curls beneath the waistband of his swim trunks. You blink to yourself when his shirt falls. God, how did he get blessed with everything? Good looks and an endearing personality, not to mention he’s sweet and funny- his only sin seems to be knowing that he’s a full package and having the ego to match.

Before he catches you getting hung up on him again, you begin circling the outer edge of the Gazebo. “This is kinda like geocaching, it’s fun.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I mean, except for the fact that nothing can be above five feet since a kid hid the geocache.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, I guess so, huh?”

You lean down to look beneath the railings for the metallic glimmer of a key, though you can’t imagine it would remain hidden here all these years later. It’s fairly open and there’s way too many seagulls overhead to not see a shiny thing and plummet down to add it to a nest. Still, if nothing else, you’re just having a good time.

After circling a couple of times to no avail, you begin looking upwards to see if the kid climbed the railing, but you can’t find a hint of a key. “I think we’re SOL,” you sigh.

“Maybe we’re looking for another drawing?”

“You think?”

He shrugs with a lopsided smile. “Who knows?”

Something in the way he says it makes you narrow your eyes for a moment, but you brush it off and begin searching for a somewhat key-shaped carving again, when something catches your eye. “What’s that?”

Satoru follows the line of where you’re pointing at the beams above, where there’s something colorful shoved between two beams. He jumps and grabs the beams, lifting himself up just enough that he can grab it.

You’re too busy ogling his biceps to really notice that he’s holding it out to you.

“You alright?” He grins.

Snatching the item from his outstretched hand, you ignore him and unravel it. It’s an old piece of paper that’s been taped with masking tape in order to attempt to preserve it, though water has still managed to seep through it and cause the markers used on this to bleed. The outside of the roll of paper has blue, yellow, orange, and red, while the inside has another drawn photo of a key, but that’s it. No words, and no other clues.

“It’s just a drawing,” you hum, flipping the paper over a number of times.

“Did the water get rid of words, maybe?”

“I don’t think so,” you mutter as Satoru leans over you, the heat of his body causing you to shiver at such a close distance despite the sweltering warmth of the day. You turn back towards him, holding the paper between you as you contemplate what it could mean. “Maybe the colors mean something?” You posit.

Something sparkles behind his eyes as he shrugs. “Maybe.”

How unhelpful. Given Satoru’s lack of insight, you take a look around the Gazebo, but this rolled paper is the only evidence of anything colorful within the gazebo itself, so it has to be- Your brow raises, lips pursing as your gaze lands on the trail marker you passed earlier that has matching colors.

“What about that?” You point towards the pole, flipping the paper to hold it up.

“Well, shit.” Satoru compares the two, nodding. “Come on, then!” He grins as he grabs your hand, dragging you along with him as he jogs down the worn pier. Boards creak beneath your feet, but you’re caught up on the way his hand envelops yours, connecting like pieces that just fit. Like maybe they even belong. Your eyes crinkle at the corners as you giggle when Satoru comes to a halt at the grassy shoreline, looking the trail marker post up and down. Just like the paper, the pole has a stripe of blue at the bottom, then yellow, orange, and red.

“I told you it’s like geocaching.”

“I just can’t believe all this stuff is still here,” Satoru comments, his hand remaining clasped around yours. His skin is calloused, but his grip on you is soft, almost gentle. “You said the map looks old, right?”

You nod, separating your grip from him to circle the pole. “Do you see a key?”

He hums in thought as you poke around the pole, kneeling down and sticking your fingers into a small opening cut into the metal. “Not up here,” he frowns, watching what you’re up to.

You can’t see what you’re doing, but can feel something against your fingers and just barely manage to get a hold on a piece of tape, pulling out a piece of masking tape attached to a small key. “Found it!” You exclaim, a thrilled smile taking over.

Grinning, Satoru tugs you close to him, squeezing your shoulders. “We’re having better luck than I thought with this.”

You twist your head to get a better view of the handsome man, the sun gleaming on his snowy locks. “We are,” you agree as your cheeks warm with the way he’s looking at you. You can’t deny just how hot Satoru really is. It’s not just his stunning looks, either. Between his charm and cheesy jokes and just how easy he is to talk to, you could see yourself getting close to him. Hell, there’s an itch in the back of your mind that his lips look kissable and honestly? It takes you a moment to convince yourself that now’s not the time.

Turning your attention back to the key, you hold the small piece of metal with a string of tape attached closer to yourself to get a better view of it. It’s smaller than even a mail key and the teeth on it are surprisingly uncomplicated, as though whatever it’s guarding isn’t all that secure.

In fact, it might be made out of a flimsy metal, or maybe even a sturdy plastic. Either way, it looks… like a toy.

You suppose it’s fitting of your crayon map.

“This looks like it’s from an old jewelry box I had when I was a kid. It had a little dancing ballerina in it and played music when it was open.”

Satoru nods. “I think I know what you mean. My mom had one.”

You smile softly up at him, something about the little bits and pieces of his life that he divulges as the day goes on gradually warming you up to him.

“Alright, well I guess that just leaves us with ‘Boot Island’,” you state, pulling the map from the pocket of the shorts you’d borrowed from Satoru. “It’s supposed to be here,” you point to the spot on the unfolded map where a red ‘X’ is scrawled, “but honestly based on the map, that could be anywhere off the coast of Kill Devil Hills,” you sigh.

“Well, it’s probably shaped like a boot, right?”

“There’s like four boot-shaped islands,” you point out. “And I don’t know how we’d even find it when we get there. There’s no instructions after that.”

Satoru reaches around you to pull the map from your hands, pulling out his phone to compare it to a real map of the area. “The last two spots we went to on the map were pretty close together, the kid couldn’t have gone far, right?” Satoru observes, pointing between Avalon Beach and the Gazebo you’re standing in front of. He zooms out on his phone and lo and behold, the closest island is… sort of boot-shaped. “Voila,” he grins. “We head to West 5th, then we can paddleboard from there.”

You hum in agreement, though you aren’t sure what you’re meant to do past that. By all means, it’s a small island, but you’ll still be digging all day just to find this thing with so little instruction.

Satoru seems even more determined than you though, his happy-go-lucky attitude and boyish grin lighting the way back to your car as though the sun above wasn’t already doing it for you. It seems that’s just the kind of guy he is, never too worried about anything and just enjoying whatever life throws at him, even if it’s business school.

“So, why do your parents want you to take over their business?” You ask as you hop back in your car and buckle your seatbelt.

“It’s like my dad’s one big expectation,” he sighs, a forlorn expression settling over his features that dulls the very light you were just admiring.

“What business is it?”

“He owns the airport here.”

“Oh, which one?” You tilt your head as you turn down a road.

“All of them,” he shrugs. “As well as like… everything… else,” he mumbles the last part, grimacing as he stares out the window.

“Everything else?” You query, unsure exactly what that’s even meant to mean.

He sighs. “Yeah, he uh…” He waves his hand dramatically. “He bought out most of the OBX commercial property,” he explains. “So yeah, everything. Pretty much,” he mutters, pulling his sunglasses back out from his pocket to block his eyes as though he suddenly remembered they exist again.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” you offer as you pull up to the end of the cul-de-sac he’d directed you to, although there doesn’t appear to be any public areas to reach the water, so you’re not sure what he’s planning.

“No, I-” He sighs, lifting his glasses up for a moment to rub at his eyes before dropping them back down to the bridge of his nose. “It’s just tough, I guess. Being expected to take over the whole ‘Gojo’ name around here.”

Gojo? Even you’ve heard the name and you moved here pretty late into your teens, only to move away for school. “Could you not do both? Business and marine biology?”

He laughs dryly. “I appreciate it, but nah. My dad’s never around, he’s always busy. I won’t have time to surf, or dive, or anything really.”

You frown at the genuine disheartenment that he exudes. “I’m sorry, Satoru.”

He flashes you a smile as thanks, running a hand through his hair. “I mean, maybe I can at least swap some of the businesses over to more ocean-friendly waste or something, right?” He states as though it’s a sort of silver lining, though his tone remains dejected.

“Maybe,” you agree with a tight-lipped smile.

He pats your shoulder gently. “C’mon.”

You nod, hopping from the driver’s seat and staring out at the water. A fence blocks the shoreline, which you can just barely make out through the houses along the street. “Satoru, we can’t just trespass.”

“It’s fine,” he brushes you off, waving his hand through the air. “I know the people that live here,” he explains as he pulls the paddleboards from your car. He tosses them into the grass over the fence before hopping it himself.

“I really don’t think-”

“Don’t worry about it,” he grins, “just grab the shovel.”

You hesitate as your gaze flickers between the overly confident surfer, the shovel in your back seat that makes it look like you’re about to commit a crime, and the paddleboards you aren’t all that confident in.

“It’ll be fine,” he assures you again, “I promise.”

You examine his gaze for a moment before giving in, taking the shovel and locking your car behind you. Satoru offers you a hand as you hop over the fence, making sure you don’t hurt yourself before grabbing both paddleboards and the paddles and tucking them under his arms as he makes his way into the backyard of the house you’re closest to.

He navigates the yard as though he’s been here before as he mentions for you to watch your step, leading the way to a narrow dock that looks to have been built somewhat recently.

“Have you been here before?”

“My dad’s friend,” he explains vaguely as he points a thumb over his shoulder to the house behind you both. “He won’t mind.”

You’re not sure why he didn’t start with that, or why you had to trespass in that case, but it does ease your worries. Satoru sets either board down at the edge of the dock, sitting and dipping his feet in as he waits for you to join him.

You approach the water with a bit less confidence, comfortable to dip your feet in, though you wish you’d pushed for the kayak you originally wanted, rather than settling for a paddleboard. Still, it can’t be that hard, right? You know how to longboard, after all.

Satoru turns his attention to you as you realize he’s attached a cable of some sort to his ankle. “You done this before?”

You shake your head.

“No worries, it’s super easy. These are SUP boards so you stand on them, they’re really steady so don’t worry about balance.”

You nod, grateful that it seems your worries are for naught.

Then again, the island is far.

“Just attach this to your ankle,” he explains, handing you the cable attached to your board, “then you’re gonna kneel down on the board and stand up. You’ll want one foot on either side of the logo to keep your balance,” he explains, doing so himself to demonstrate. He uses the paddle to keep himself in place as he watches you shakily do the same. Once you’re standing, it actually doesn’t feel so bad, though. “There you gol!” He grins. “Now just adjust your paddle and you’re good to go.”

Once you’ve got yourself set and you’re feeling a bit more confident, you use the paddle to move forward a bit and slowly begin to relax into the motion. Aside from drips coming from the paddle itself, you aren’t even getting wet and the waves are calm today. It’s actually kind of fun.

You smile over at Satoru as you get the hang of it. “Okay, I think I’m good.”

“You’re doing great!” He grins, beckoning you to follow him. You manage to paddle up to him, keeping steady on the board as you glide along the water in his direction.

“How long do you think it’ll take to get there?” You query.

He hums in thought. “Fifteen minutes, maybe?” He replies, setting a steady pace.

You nod. “What’s on this island, anyway? Have you been?”

“Uh-” he pauses, narrowing his eyes behind his sunglasses as he considers your question. “It’s probably just a reserve, or somethin’. I don’t think there’s anyone there.” He shrugs, pushing himself forward with the paddle.

“Have you been?” You ask again.

“Once or twice,” he shrugs. “It’s been a bit. It’s nice, though. You’ll love the beach, it’s pretty untouched.”

You smile at the thought, hoping to have some time to enjoy the sights while you’re there. “So, no trespassing?”

“We weren’t trespassing, I swear!” He chuckles. “Have I led you wrong yet?”

“I guess not,” you admit with a small smile, rolling your eyes for the sake of dramatics.

“Well, there you go.”

Shaking your head with a smile, you focus on the expanse of open water ahead, enjoying the feeling of the sun on your skin. It’s a bit too warm as you feel perspiration running down your back, particularly now that you’re in baggy and oversized clothes, but the breeze hitting you from the side offsets the heat enough that it’s still enjoyable. On top of that, it’s just plain gorgeous and you’re forever grateful that your family decided to settle in North Carolina.

“Do you think we’re around halfway?” You ask with a pause to glance back at the dock you’d pushed off from a few minutes ago. As nice as it is, you’re getting eager to be back on land as the sea opens up beneath you the further out you get.

“Going too slow for you?” Satoru teases, using his paddle to splash some water up at your bare legs. It catches you off-guard and you just barely manage to catch yourself, blood roaring in your ears as you stare at the deep water below.

Trying to brush off your uncertainty, you tear your gaze from the waves lapping at your board which wobbles beneath you. “I was just curious,” you murmur in an effort to cover your uncertainty.

He chuckles as he pushes his board towards yours in an effort to tease you more easily. “I can speed up if you want, just say the word,” he grins with a sly smirk as his board collides with yours. He has no intention of throwing you off quite as much as it does, but his board knocks yours with enough force that you’re thrown off balance and just about off the board, too.

“Satoru!” You gasp, trying to catch yourself but the motion only causes your board to rock into his again. You stare down at the murky water below, fear jolting straight up your spine at the thought of being caught in the deep water. “Stop, please stop!”

His eyes widen as he senses your genuine distress and quickly reaches out to steady you with a hold on your arm. It sends him a bit off-balance as well, so he lowers you both until you’re kneeling shakily on the board, staring down at the sea beneath you. Your chest rises and falls unevenly as you shift to sit down with your knees beneath you, keeping yourself completely out of the water.

Satoru sits on the edge of his own board, his feet and shins dipping into the warm ocean waves. He keeps a grip on your board to keep it even and to keep you next to him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-” he scrambles, his eyes flickering across your face. “I forgot you don’t like water, I didn’t…” he trails off, regret swimming in the depths of his shimmering irises. “God, I’m a dumbass, I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re fine,” you shake your head, shooting him an apologetic smile. “I should have told you back at the shop that I’m afraid, that's why I wanted a kayak. It’s just… deep water.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t apologize, I’m the dumbass here. I wasn’t thinking.”

You offer him a smile. “It’s okay, really. It happens. I only told you I don’t like water, I didn’t tell you I’m afraid.”

Still, he sits there with a regretful frown on his lips, looking you over as one hand hovers in the air uncertainly while the other clutches your board. He isn’t quite sure how to comfort you, or what to do in this case. He doesn’t know you all that well, but he’s sure he doesn’t want this incident to muddle your thoughts on the day, or him.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he breathes again, his hand rising as he seems to contemplate offering you comfort, though he isn’t quite sure how to do it.

You reach out and take his hand, grateful for his support and understanding as he attempts to rectify the situation. “I didn’t fall in or anything, anyway,” you point out.

“I would have saved you, if you did,” he’s quick to add.

“Thanks, Satoru,” you chuckle as your heart begins to calm within your chest, no longer pumping in your ears. “Good thing I didn’t, though,” you point out in a more lighthearted tone. “You would have felt so bad.”

“Oh, I would’ve felt terrible,” he agrees. “You have no idea.”

You giggle, feeling a bit more comfortable with Satoru’s firm grip on your hand and the board. As you begin to relax again, his thumb works small circles into the skin of the back of your hand. He watches and keeps you steady as you shift to sit in the same position as him, your legs settling between his within the water.

“Can I ask why?”

“Why I’m afraid of water?”

He nods.

You chew on your lip, nodding as you stare down at the spot where your hands are joined. “My parents had me take swimming lessons before we moved here for-” you make a motion towards your surroundings, “- obvious reasons.” Chuckling, you shake your head. “It was fun and I liked it, but I slipped on the diving board and I almost drowned,” you explain ashamedly, shaking your head. “It’s stupid, but-”

“It’s not stupid,” he interrupts. “It happens.”

You lift your head, examining his expression. His brow is knit at the center of his face, a serious pout on his pretty lips. “Thanks, Satoru.”

He nods, squeezing your hand. “Shit, sorry I dragged you into the water at the pier earlier, too.”

“It’s fine,” you brush it off. “I do like water, it’s just…”

“It can be a lot,” he fills in the blanks.

You nod, offering a tight-lipped smile.

“Is paddleboarding okay for you, then?”

You nod again. “It’s fun once you get the hang of it.”

He cracks a sweet smile, before his eyes light up as an idea pops into his mind. “Would you wanna sit on the front of my board? We can hook yours to mine and I’ll just tow it, but it’ll be pretty steady.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Might take a bit longer to get there, though.”

You nod slowly, grateful for his accommodation of your fears and willingness to bounce back so quickly. He’s pretty sweet, in spite of his teasing. “That sounds like fun, yeah,” you agree, letting him help you detach your board from your ankle so he can hook it to the back of his board before helping you shift to sit in front of him.

It is slower on his board and the drag from yours is pretty severe, but he doesn’t complain. He’s completely content watching you drag your hand through the water as you sit cross-legged at the front of his board, sharing light conversation on the way there. You learn quickly that Satoru absolutely loves sea creatures, but he particularly loves shrimp and would keep a tank of them himself if he had more time.

He also goes on a very long tangent to explain the unique way that Pipa frogs give birth (through their back, ew), which was not on your bingo card of things you would find out this summer, but you certainly did.

In fact, you’re not sure anyone would have that on their bingo card.

Either way, you shake the thought as you near the island. With a shove of his paddle into the sand, Satoru pushes the board ashore and offers his hand to help you up from your seated position. He pulls both boards further up the sandy beach to make sure they won’t wash away before stretching his arms up over his head. His shirt rides up, revealing a sheen of sweat over the ridges and valleys of his abs.

You smile to yourself as his shirt lowers once more, raising your gaze to find him watching you with a smug smirk. Your cheeks warm as you avert your gaze, immediately making your way further ashore before he can confront you, or say a word.

The island is fairly small, all things considered. Maybe about four blocks total, which is more than easily explored in less than an hour, except that you have to assume your treasure is buried. There’s no way you can dig up every square inch of the island in search of an old music box. Even with company, that sounds like it would take forever.

Tossing the shovel over his shoulder, Satoru takes a look around, as well. It looks like he was right about the island having no one on it. It doesn’t even seem like many people step foot on it at this point, most of the sand and trees going untouched. The shrubbery thickens to the center of the island, though the thin ‘L’ shape of the island doesn’t allow much space for the greenery to truly flourish. It seems as though it’s primarily mollusks and birds that have found their way out here, along with some palms and shrubs.

“You’re right, it’s gorgeous out here,” you comment, rolling the sleeves of the oversized tee you’re wearing up to your shoulders as the sun beats down on you. “It’s kinda nice being somewhere so quiet.”

There’s no sounds of engines, no chatter of the outside world. It’s a far reach from what you’re used to at college, letting you take a breath of fresh air without the reminder of civilisation and responsibility.

Satoru nods, glancing to either side of the island. “That’s the best part about the ocean and these little islands,” he agrees, making the executive decision to lead the way towards one of the far ends of the island. He turns back towards you, a sort of bittersweet smile spread across his lips as he walks backwards. “No one owns them.”

There’s a pang in your chest at the implication, but you follow after Satoru regardless, taking in the sights of the small island. A pair of seagulls peek their drowsy eyes open at the sound of approaching footsteps, though neither move as you continue to keep your distance. A smaller bird with long legs, an orange beak, and a stout build follows the tide as it comes in, doing quick pecks at the sand as the tide recesses back to the ocean.

“That’s a plover,” Satoru explains as he catches you watching the small creature’s movements. “They eat worms and little crustaceans.”

“Do they not like water?” You query as the bird curiously backs up anytime the water nears it.

“They don’t mind it,” he states, “but they don’t swim.”

“Amen,” you mutter, earning a genuine laugh from your white-haired counterpart.

You grin in response, continuing to follow him further along the shore. The resplendent rays of the sun sparkle along the waves and tidepools at the edge of the island. A variety of mollusks and small insects send bubbles to the surface of the still pools, gleaming a beautiful sun-kissed golden color.

“I could stay here forever,” you mumble, mostly to yourself. Satoru still catches your words, his eyes softening as they crinkle at the corners. His gaze lingers on you for a moment before he follows your line of sight out to the horizon.

“Yeah. Sometimes I forget how lucky I am to be out here, you know?”

You nod along. “I’m glad I got to hang out for a couple of years before leaving for college.”

“Do you think you’d come back?”

You shrug. “The world is my oyster.” You flash him a cheesy grin, knowing he’ll eat up your cheap marine life joke as he perks up at the mere mention of sealife. “But yeah, I could. Depends on what job I can get out of school. So, maybe.”

He nods, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he mulls something over. Setting the thought aside, he drops the tip of the shovel into the sand, leaning on it. “Alright, let’s get to work.”

You lift a brow at his optimism. “What, are you gonna start here and dig up the whole island?”

“Nah,” he chuckles. “Though it doesn’t sound like too bad of a day with you,” he offers, his tone shifting to put more meaning behind his words as you feel that familiar tension crackle between you.

You teasingly scoff, brushing him off. “You use that on everyone you flirt with?”

“Nah, just the ones that put up with my frog facts.”

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles in the back of your throat. “Yeah, I’m sure that one always goes over well.”

“Give me a couple more hours, then we’ll see,” he grins, running a hand through his hair in an effort to move it from his line of sight and get a better view of your laugh as you shake your head at the cheesy man standing in front of you.

“Alright, alright,” you shake your hands between you both as you come down from your giggles. “How do you think we tackle this?”

“Dunno,” he shrugs honestly. “Figured we’d just look around.”

“Satoru, there’s gotta be-” you pause, looking back the way you came, “like a mile of ground to cover just on the shores alone. There’s no way we can just look around.”

“Do you have any better ideas?” He leans towards you with a knowing smirk as your expression falls.

“No.”

“Well, let’s start walking, then.” He leads the way down the shore, scrutinizing every little detail of each tree, rock, or lump on the ground in an effort to discern if it could maybe be your treasure.

You follow shortly behind with the map in-hand, but you can’t make out even what side of the island the treasure is buried on based solely off of the shaky crayon drawing. As far as you can tell, if the treasure is still here at all, you’re on your own. Folding it back up and shoving it in the pockets of the shorts that Satoru lent you, you look over every tree or bump in the ground in hopes of finding some sort of clue, or sign.

“Do you think it’s that?” You ask, pointing to a small gathering of dirt near a tree.

“Maybe?” Satoru tilts his head, throwing the shovel into the dirt without question and beginning to dig. He declines any offers for help, but after a good few piles of dirt and sand stack up, he sticks the shovel upright in the sand again. “Or, maybe not,” he sighs, a sheen of sweat gathered on his biceps.

Lifting your gaze from the distraction of his veiny forearms, you sigh. “I guess maybe we should take a look at the whole island before we dig up every bump in the ground.”

Satoru’s grin is a little bit too knowing of your distracted stare as he hums in agreement. “Lead the way, pretty girl.”

Fighting your bashful smile, you cast a glance up at him, unable to help the way your lips quirk up at the corners and a quiet giggle bubbles up in your chest. Funny to think that somewhere between the constant flirting and the quiet genuine moments shared between you, his flirting started working.

Like, a lot.

Throwing the shovel back over his shoulder, Satoru proceeds to fall in step with you, asking questions about your life. Anything from what you study, to where you’d like to work, your bucket list vacations, and the music you listen to.

After rattling off a list of your favorite musicians and bands, you repeat the question back to him, but his mind seems to be elsewhere, distracted by something in the tidepools at the edge of the island. Mindlessly, he makes his way towards a bright orange blemish in an otherwise natural landscape, where he kneels down to take a closer look.

You follow suit, kneeling beside him as you get a better look at what caught his eye. Doing what it can to hide from the snowy-haired man’s presence is a small hermit crab, attempting to hide in what seems to be a bright orange thimble. Satoru carefully sets the shovel at his side, using both hands to gently nudge the creature onto his palms.

“Poor thing,” he mutters, running a thumb over the orange plastic it’s trying to take cover in, though it can’t hide well in the man-made shell.

“Could we find a new shell for it?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, “but this…” he pauses, tilting his head to take a look at the crab, “this girl won’t last long out here anyway.”

“Why not?” You query, curious as to how he figured out so quickly that the crab is a girl.

“She’s not native to the OBX. This is someone’s pet that was dumped here.”

“Oh,” you pout, looking around the edge of the beach and picking up a shell to check if it’s occupied. Satisfied that it isn’t, you set it in Satoru’s palms with the crab. “Well, one problem at a time, right?”

He blinks at you, a gleam in his eye that you don’t recognize. “Right,” he quietly agrees, a small smile spreading across his lips.

“What kind of crab is it?” You ask as you push to your feet and begin doing loops of the surrounding beach in search of more shells.

Satoru’s eyes swim with elation at the question. “It’s a Caribbean Hermit Crab.”

“Far from home!” You comment as you pick up a small dark brown shell.

“A bit,” he agrees. “They also get called Purple Pinchers because they turn a bit purple as they get older, especially on their claws.”

With three shells now in your hands, you step back towards Satoru and the crab, leaning down until you can get a better look at the little creature peering up at you. Sure enough, she has just a hint of purple on her bigger claw. “She’s cute!” You comment as you set the three additional shells around her.

He nods as you jog back to the edge of the shore in search of more unoccupied shells. “She’s probably still a baby. Younger than ten.”

“Ten? How old do they live?”

He shrugs. “Twenty to thirty years with proper care.”

“What? Really?”

He smiles at your gaping reaction. “They’re hearty little crabs.”

“Oh my god, I had no idea,” you gasp as you head back to drop another shell into Satoru’s palms.

He chuckles, flashing you a toothy grin before setting the crab and all of the shells down a short distance from the both of you, allowing her the space to be comfortable while she tries out her new home options.

You take a seat beside Satoru under the shade of an overhead palm, wrapping your arms around your knees as you both watch the little crab come out of her hiding spot. The surfer leans back on his palms, adjusting so that his arm is just a bit behind you, allowing his side to brush yours. The movement doesn’t go unnoticed as you shoot him a smile.

“You’re really passionate about this, huh?”

There’s a quiet contemplation to Satoru’s words as he replies, like a sort of resignation that it’ll only ever be a passion, not a pursuit. “Yeah, I am.” Vulnerability weaves its way between the three words as though it’s a plague to him, something he’ll need to shed.

“Listen, I know we just met and I don’t know you that well, but I think you should go for it.”

“For… marine biology?”

“Yeah, I mean look at you!” You point out, waving a hand between both him and the little crab who’s wiggling into her second shell option. “The world would be missing out.”

He chuckles, somewhat wryly. “I dunno.”

“What do you have to lose, Satoru?”

He tilts his head to look at you. Really look at you. The blue oceans of his irises swim with wonder, questions, intrigue, and uncertainty. Doubts glide like sharks preying on his own passion through his mind. While he fights some sort of mental battle, you don’t back down, staring back at him with a determined intensity, one that threatens to melt under the intensity of his handsome gaze.

You can’t be sure if he finds what he’s looking for, but he sighs and throws his head back, staring up at the palm overhead. His hair falls back over his toned shoulders, blowing aside in the light breeze of the incoming evening. “I guess I could think about it,” he finally agrees. “But I’d definitely lose my job.”

“Is that because your dad owns the shop?”

“Yup,” he nods, popping the ‘P’.

“You really think he’d make them fire you?”

He taps his fingers along the sand in thought. “I wanna say no, but since I’m their only child and he wants this whole thing to be a family business, kinda, yeah.” He stares back out at the ocean, briefly checking on the crab. “I definitely can’t tell him until I’m done college,” he chuckles wryly again. “But… yeah. Maybe,” he shrugs with a lighter expression, as though it’s something he hasn’t even considered until this moment.

“I think it’s worth at least thinking about,” you offer, pointing a finger towards the little crab beginning to scuttle away in her new shell.

Satoru hums in acknowledgement, both to the crab on the run and your statement as he pushes to his feet. He pockets the plastic thimble to recycle later and scoops the crab back up.

“What’s your plan for her?”

“Dunno. Guess I could keep her,” he shrugs, unsure of what to do with her now that he has her delicately within his palms.

“That would be so cute,” you coo with a sweet little pout.

As though your pout is the icing on top that breaks his resolve, he smiles. “Yeah, I’ll keep her.” He scratches at the back of his head as he tries to figure out what to do with the hermit crab so that he can make sure it doesn’t die out here, while simultaneously not stressing it out in his hands. “Uh, do you remember if your paddleboard had one of those bag attachments on it?”

“It did!”

“Great, let’s head back to those, then.”

Luckily, the island isn’t too big and you’d only made it about halfway up the island when you found the little crab, so you're pretty close to where you started anyway. As the paddleboards come into sight, you cautiously drag yours further ashore and grab the bag attachment, pulling it off the board and sliding a small cooler from it.

“That's perfect,” Satoru hums, scooping some damp sand into the bottom of the cooler with a piece of driftwood before setting the crab inside. No longer being handled, she peers back up at the both of you from within the gorgeous pale beige shell she chose.

“How long can we leave her in there?”

“Probably not too long,” Satoru hums as he sets the cooler down under some shade. “I don't want her to overheat, and who knows how long it’s been since she last ate.”

“Maybe we should just head back, we probably won’t find anything out here anyway,” you shrug, throwing a hand through the air in an effort to make your point, when something catches your eye. You carefully rub at your eyes, ensuring you don't smudge your makeup while simultaneously making sure you aren't just seeing things in the heat. “What's that?”

The surfer follows your gaze as you squint at the trees. Hidden within the trees a short distance from where you're standing, something is catching on the low rays of the evening sun as it sets, casting a gleam of brilliant green in your direction each time it tilts just right.

Satoru leans on the shovel at his hip. “Let’s go take a look,” he urges with a sort of simpering smile that makes you cock your head just the slightest bit.

He isn't far behind as you slip into the cover of the trees, the sounds of bugs and birds shuffling in the brush serving as the only soundtrack to your adventure as the waves and wind are dulled by the cover. As you near the gleaming object, you can't help but laugh.

“Oh my god, we found it!” You grin as you turn back towards Satoru, whose eyes are alight with anticipation.

He jogs up beside you with a grin to match yours, his arm wrapping around your shoulders and squeezing. “No fuckin’ way,” he laughs in a giddy tone.

Before you, unceremoniously nailed to the bark on a palm tree, is a holographic green Yu-Gi-Oh card. Well, most of it, anyway. It’s been taped in an effort to laminate it, but even then the harsh weather has gotten the best of it, and something seems to have nibbled the corners, sending water damage straight up the center of the art.

“Green Gadget…” you read the card out, laughing to yourself as you recall seeing a stack of the very same cards on Satoru’s desk. “Do you know much about Yu-Gi-Oh? Was this some kid’s prized possession?”

Satoru shrugs. “I had cards-”

“Have cards,” you cut in, correcting him.

He playfully clicks his tongue. “Yeah, yeah, I have cards, but I dunno much about them anymore. I’m a Digimon guy.”

You nod, staring down at the base of the tree. “Try digging here!” You exclaim excitedly.

The shovel is in the sand before you can finish your sentence, hitting something almost immediately.

“No way this is all still here,” you shake your head in disbelief as Satoru digs around a small music box, just as you had predicted. Pulling the key from the pocket of Satoru’s shorts you’re still wearing, you kneel down to the spot where he sets the box, which you can only imagine was once a beautiful oak, now worn and weathered over the years of being buried beneath the surface of the island. Setting the shovel aside, Satoru takes a seat beside you, watching with a giddy grin that's far too excited for something so silly.

As the key clicks within the box, you take a second to smile at your treasure hunting companion. He shares the moment too, his breath warm on your face as he sits comfortably at your side. His grin widens as his eyes flicker to your lips for a moment.

“Go for it,” he urges in a low tone. You chew your lower lip softly before flipping the lid open.

Hidden within are a number of cheap plastic toys. Some old fake gold pirate coins, some of those Mardi Gras style bead necklaces that used to be everywhere, a water-logged paper crown that practically dissolves in your hand, and…

Your eyes widen as the final item in the box comes into sight. “You’re kidding,” you gasp, your mouth agape in an ‘O’ as you shoot Satoru a disbelieving stare.

A Digimon DVD.

He bursts into genuine, unadulterated laughter, falling back onto the sand as he covers his face while he laughs.

“You made this map?” you gasp as giggles bubble in the back of your throat, his laughter completely contagious.

“Yeah, when I was like ten,” he manages between fits of laughter.

Laughing along with him warms your heart as you throw your head back in disbelief, laughing over the treasure hunt that you’ve been following while unknowingly being nudged along by the very creator himself.

As Satoru finally catches his breath and finds the space to talk, he rubs his face as though the smile physically hurts. “I thought that map was looong lost,” he explains, shaking his head. “Or that someone had thrown it out or something,” he shrugs, unable to stop beaming at you. “So imagine my shock when the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen comes into the shop with my stupid map,” he explains, waving a hand towards the Digimon DVD.

“I can’t believe this was yours,” you breathe as heat rises from the base of your neck up to your cheeks.

“I can’t believe it’s seeing the light of day and not because of me-” he pauses, “- well, mostly not.” Shrugging, he continues. “I was already planning on seeing if I could get your number, but a whole day chasing my own treasure map?” He shakes his head. “I mean, what more could a guy ask for?”

He shakes his head again, choosing to leave out the fact that he damn-near thought you had to be his soulmate and that this was a sign from some higher authority when you actually flirted back.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe you knew where it was the whole time!” You laugh, shoving his chest as your heart stutters over his increasingly sweet and heartwarming words. He chuckles, dramatically falling back against the sand as though your playful shove did damage.

“Where’s the mystery in telling you?” he shrugs, sitting back up and reaching into the box within your palms to pull the Digimon DVD out. The art is completely faded from the water seeping into the box over the years, but when he opens the case, the DVD itself seems alright. He grins to himself, turning towards you. “Your treasure, my dear.” He presents the DVD while putting on his best goofy voice.

You can’t help your grin, turning your head to try to hide it from him. Satoru pulls his lower lip between his teeth, his eyes softening as he sits just a short distance from you. One hand still holds the DVD out to you, while his other hand hovers near you.

Slowly, his hand raises to your chin, his fingers gliding along the line of your jaw, tilting your head back towards him. Your eyes are gleaming with elation as they flicker between his own bright blue irises, down to his lips. His smile twitches upwards just slightly before he closes the distance, sending your heart soaring.

His lips are softer than you expected, unmoving at first as though testing the waters. He pulls back just slightly, blinking to look at you. Somewhat dazed, you smile against his lips as they brush yours again. You don’t have time to think before he’s kissing you more intently. His hand slides up to cup your cheek as he tilts your head up to kiss you more passionately.

When he pulls back, you both have kiss-swollen lips, parted as you reach out to grab his shirt. “Shit…” he chuckles, averting his gaze for a moment as though all that flirty confidence has converted to nerves. “I’ve been wanting to do that all day.”

“I’m glad you did,” you admit, sliding your hand down his toned chest.

He leans back just enough to give you both space to breathe from the tension that’s sparked between you. “How long did you say you’re here for? The summer?”

“Yeah, about two months.”

“I can work with that,” he hums to himself, leaning in to place a chaste kiss on your lips. “You busy tonight?”

“You tell me,” you hum slyly. A lopsided and incredibly charming smile befalls Satoru as he hops to his feet, offering his hand to help you up. Tossing the DVD inside the box and shutting it, you take his hand and fall into step beside him as he intertwines your fingers.

“I know a great little diner,” he beams, “you’ll love it. But uh, first-” he chuckles, “- quick pitstop at the pet store?”

You gasp. “Oh right! What are you gonna name her?”

“Dunno. Gadget maybe?”

“After the Yu-Gi-Oh card?” You giggle.

“Seems fitting,” he shrugs one shoulder, giving your hand a playful shake. “You have no idea how excited ten-year-old me would be to know that the dumb map I put together got me a pet and a girl.”

You can’t help but laugh at that remark. As silly as it is, as silly as he is, he’s right, and Gadget is a pretty cute name for the little crab. You scoop her up into your arms in the cooler bag as Satoru prepares the paddleboards, readying a spot for you and his Hermit Crab on the front of his board while he tucks the old music box of treasure into the paddleboard bag and secures it.

“Hey, before we leave-” Satoru leans down before pushing off, pressing his lips to yours again. You can feel the curve of his smile moments before he pulls away. When you look up at him with a mirror of his grin, he just shrugs. “Needed my fix.”

You shake your head with a sweet giggle as he pushes the board off from the sand. You keep Gadget close to your chest, carefully watching over her as you traverse the small expanse of water between the ‘Boot Island’ and the Outer Banks. Someday, several years into the future after Satoru’s first official day as a marine biologist, that very same little Hermit Crab will watch over you as Satoru gets down on one knee under gorgeous pink and orange sunset rays and asks you to be his treasure.

main masterlist || bisque's summer bash masterlist

𓇼 a/n ; i had so much fun with this sweet little oneshot, thank you bisque for the collab <33 i hope you all enjoyed reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it!

the next chapter of my series wyk is my next priority now that i'm starting to recover from sickness, but i'll still need a bit, so bear with me :) thank you for all the love and well wishes, though, i appreciate it so much <33

writing, dividers & format © starmapz. art © 3-aem. do not repost, translate, or copy.

[artbligh]

Fuck your nerd bf!

Pairings- Nerd! Satoru Gojo x Reader

Summary- Your bf isn’t paying any attention to you :c

Warnings- blowjob, riding, prone boning, no protection, breeding

Word count- 2.5k!

Proof read- Kind of...

A/n- Heh..Here it is guys… Nerdjo…save me…Nerdjo… I totally don’t love Fortnite guys wdym ! Thank you all so much for your support!! 400 followers!! AAHHAHH!!!!Anyway I hope you guys enjoy this as much as I did writing it, have a lovely day lovelies <3

“Get down he’s got a sniper! You idiot! No we aren’t pushing yet! There’s a whole team!” Your boyfriend yells in the mic to one of his friends. You were bored, he was playing Fortnite and not paying attention to you at all. Again.

You sigh annoyed looking across at him on the bed, your back perched up against the headboard while he sits diagonal to you on his pc set up.

You were bored out of your mind.

Sure. You don’t mind playing with him but you prefer it with just him and his friends wanted him to hop on- how could he refuse. Now you’re bored scrolling on your phone waiting for him to say “I’m hopping off” or “I gotta go”.

It’s been an hour now.

Or two.

You’ve honestly lost count.

You ponder thinking what could get his attention on you and not his damn pc.

You try to wrack through your brain for any possible ideas. Sitting on his lap? No he’d probably get mad at that. Make him food? No he’d probably eat it while playing. Sit next to him..? No..he’d keep his attention there.

Suddenly an idea pops in your head making a smirk tug at your lips.

This idea had to work there’s no other way it won’t. If it doesn’t then you can definitely expand on it. There’s no flaws to this idea- okay maybe a few but it depends on him.

You silently shift the covers off of you and slide off the bed, walking up behind your boyfriend and pecking a kiss to the top of his head. God he was so cute. You see him smile and he says a quiet, “Hi, baby.”

He’s still talking to his friends after that. Okay sure it’s good to let him hang out with his friends and you totally don’t spend time with him everyday but…it’s so boring you wanted his attention. You craved it.

You drop to your knees beside him as his attention focuses on his screen, you crawl under the desk and settle between his legs.

You see his eyes flicker to you for a moment before he tells his friends he’s going to push an enemy player. Hm. You weren’t satisfied with just that.

With a smirk tugging at your lips you pull his sweats down, over his hips, with his boxes along with it. He shoots you a look that says what are you doing?

You blink at him innocently and lean forward, pressing a chaste kiss to his already half hard cock. He lets out a quiet gasp and clears his throat- going back to talking to his friends on his mic. His cheeks bloom with a pretty red hue and you note how he tries to act like you’re not affecting him. At all.

Hm.

Without much warning you take the tip of his length in your mouth, your tongue swirling around the tip and sucking gently earning the grip on his mouse to tighten.

You wanted more of a reaction.

Your tongue flickers down to the underside of his tip, that little crevice that had him choke out a moan but he played it off as “It was such a good shot I had to”.

He laughs nervously in the mic and his brows draw to a furrow, trying his best to stay quiet as possible. You mouth widens as you sink deeper on his length, your tongue massaging the bulging vein that’s throbbing like a second heartbeat.

You hollow your cheeks out when you’re a bit over half on his thick cock, observing the way his body jolts.

That wasn’t enough for you, you needed more of a reaction.

“N-north east. Squad.” He tries to act nonchalant but you can see his chest rising and falling like he’s running a marathon. His glasses slightly fogged up and his hands moving on the keyboard more than necessary.

You keep sinking this time till the tip of his cock bulges in your throat, your lips flush against his pelvis. Smelling his musky scent and his pubes prickling against you had your cunt throbbing more than it should have.

Your free hand tentatively snakes down to cup and massage his balls as you start bobbing your head up and down; a wave of satisfaction filling you when both of his legs jolt next to you. Perfect.

You keep it up and observe how he’s probably fumbling his game right now and he’s fighting for his life to stay quiet, and when you tighten your mouth? He flicks his mic up to mute it and lets out the most sluttiest moan “Baby-! Angh-! S-stop- stop it- why now! F-fuuucyhgkk!!” His eyes roll to the back of his head as he forgets he’s mid game.

That’s just what you wanted. “Gojo! What are you doing? This isn’t the time to go afk!” A shout echoes through and you bat your eyelashes at him as your pace quickens making him let out something between a choke and a whimper.

“Yo-you’re gonna- ah! Kill meeee!- please-!” He looks like he’s on the verge of crying but he shakily unmutes his mic and tries to focus on his game.

“S-sorry I’m selling.” He croaks out, he was playing like he’d forgotten how to. Each bob of your mouth on his flushed member had him weaker with each passing second and it had his body shaking, quivering even.

He pushes his glasses up and runs his hands down his face, muttering out a “Ggs.” When his team dies; quickly muting his mic with a hand flying down to shove your head deeper on his cock as he readies up for the next match.

“Fucking hell you’re going to kill me.” He mutters out and you let out a muffled choked whimper as your eyes tear up and you gag around him, his big hand shoving you down on him with a faster, sloppier pace- like you were nothing but a pocket mouth. Just his to use and fuck.

You pinch his balls and his hips jolt against your mouth, arching closer to you as he lets out a breathy moan; his muscles tensing up. “F-fhuck baby-! I-I’m gonna-!” His head falls back as he pants and lets out moans you’d see on the dark side of twitter.

You feel his balls tense up and his toes curl deliciously as he cries out strings of your name; his cock twitching and pulsating. “G-gonna-! Hah-!” That was the only warning he verbally gave you before his thick cum shoots ropes down your throat- not a few but he came a lot. You slowly pull of his cock and swallow as much as you can, licking the excess off your lips.

He was still hard. You can definitely fix that.

“Baby…made me cum so h-hard..” he softly grunts out, “Satoru you’re in a match.” “Huh?! Shit-! Right.” He swallows harshly and starts moving his character and getting loot. He slips his glasses wonkily on his face and you can tell he’s trying his best to not look down at you every two seconds. You wonder if he wants to bend you over his set up.

Now you have a slight problem; your cunt is dripping down your thighs and you have a few options.

You ponder….you could ride him on his chair while he plays? Use your vibrator or dildo on the bed and tease him or finger yourself right here.

Decisions decisions..

Your answers obvious to yourself when you slide your undergarments off, strings of slick connecting itself to your panties. Another pair ruined.

You tap his thigh giving him a warning you’re climbing up on him, giving his cock a few pumps as it twitches in your hand.

He shoots you a look and you crawl on his lap, your hot cunt above his hard dick. You wrap your arms around his neck and roll your hips against his, he leans his head on your shoulder and tries his best to focus on his match- occasionally talking coordinates and if there’s squads or snipers nearby to his friends.

How hard is it going to be to get him to hop off and pay his full attention to you?

He’s such a nerd he has the latest sweat combos. As much as you hate to admit it’s half cringy it makes your walls flutter around nothing.

Your honeyed slick dampens him, his tip dragging against your walls; combining his pre and your arousal together. Without warning you slowly sink to onto him, his cheeks heating up and his abs tensing under you.

More. You needed more.

Oh.

And when his mushroomed head kisses your cervix? It had your toes clenching and your hips reeling for more. You don’t mute his headset for him. Not yet.

You slowly drag your hips up till the tip of his cock was almost slipping out then slamming down till his balls kissed your ass causing a loud gasp to leave the both of you.

His keyboard keys keep clicking like it’s his life line, and it makes you bounce faster and harder on him; using him like he was your dildo.

You bite your lip to silence your moans as skin slapping against each other fills the area around you, you were half thankful his headphones have background noise cancelling.

Your hips roll and slam against his desperately- you don’t even have a pace you just ride him sloppily. You look at your boyfriend and notice his headphones muted and he’s panting into your shoulder; attempting to fight someone but getting away because he couldn’t focus.

Not with your gooey walls wrapped around him anyway.

Your veins feel like they’re on fire as you grind your hips against his and bounce on it like a fucking animal.

Each dull thud of his fat tip nudging your womb had electric shocks blooming throughout your body making your toes curl and back arch towards him.

Satorus glasses are all fogged up and his brows are furrowed as he whimpers and cries into your neck. “Baby-! A-angh-! Slow-down-! Hah-!”, “Y-you’re so big ‘Toru…” you whine, feeling so full of him.

Your thighs are burning; begging for you to stop but you can’t. Not when your high’s creeping up your limbs, your tummy tightening deliciously.

His hands fly off his keyboard and grip the globes of your ass, kneeding your cheeks apart, a gush of cold air hitting your hole. “S-shoo closeeee-! M-more-!” His headset falls off and hits the floor with a thud! As his hips will up and buck against yours desperately.

“B-baby-! O-oh-!” That was the last thing that spilled from his lips before heavy breaths and pants filled the room, his warm release filling you oh so full. Your hot walls convulse and spasm around him and cover his cock white. Your eyes rolling back and your muscles clenching, you swear you see pure bliss. Strings of your shared cum and slick pool around his pelvis and drip down his balls which are twitching wildly.

“F-fuuuck..” he groans out- his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows harshly, you take the opportunity to leave a few soft bites and kisses on his neck as he comes down from his high.

“You okay, baby?” You hum against him, “Y-yeah. That was fucking amazing.” He lets out a light laugh. “Mm what about your game?” And he gasps at that clearly forgetting all about it.

“You were muted…right..?” “…I think so..” he shifts forward and sees his team and character dead with a ‘placed 2nd’ on the screen with his friends already readied up waiting for him. “..Shit..”

Wordlessly he shuts his game and closes his pc down, picking you up with your legs wrapped around his waist. “Round 3?” He smirks, sliding his glasses off and tossing them somewhere.

He throws you down on his digimon futon and hovers above you, “Cmon, don’t be shy now.” He whispers in your ear, still throbbing inside of your gushy cunt.

“You’re such a fucking nerd, ‘Toru. If you wanna act cocky go ahead an- o-oh-!” He cuts you off with a sharp thrust; “Shut up.”

In a swift motion he flips you over on your stomach and drags you to the end of the bed so your feet were dangling off and your cunt was on the edge. He stands behind you and delivers a harsh smack! To your ass making a gasp escape your dewy lips.

“You asked for it.” He grumbles before sliding his cock into you and caging you from behind, pressing his chest flush against your back as he sloppily slams into you like he was going to die if he didn’t knock the air out of your lungs.

Cocky bastard.

But oh it felt so good. Too good.

He snakes his arms under you, crossing them as they put pressure on your stomach so you can feel him slide his cock allllll the way out just to slam it with a plap! Allll the way till his bulging tip bumped your cervix. Again.

Your walls struggled to take his size, even after months of having sex with him but it just felt way too good to stop. To go a slower pace.

It was so hard because the feral look in his eyes made your thighs clench and almost cum on the spot. It’s a shame you can’t see them anymore when your heads pushed against the mattress with his chin resting on top of your head, pecking a few kisses on the back of your hair. “Yeaahhh that’s it…” he groans against you.

His eyes clench shut and his face is buries in between your shoulder and neck as he pounds into you with a fast and hard pace; merciless. Like his dicks on a mission- the mission being to breed you.

“H-hannghhh-! B-baby… s-shit.. you’re squeezing the life out of me… gonna milk me..” he cries out and if anything you squeeze harder making something between a moan and a scream tumble out of his lips.

Each stroke of his hips against yours had your head fluttering and your body zapping. The air around you both hot, humming like a warm blanket as he slapped his hips like it was the only thing he knew how to do.

Your body was tingling all over, muscles tensing and retracting; signalling at any moment you were going to explode allllll over him.

Not that he’d ever complain.

“S-sweetheart… ‘m g’nna..o-oh!” With that his crystal blue orbs roll to the back of his head as he spills his seed deep inside of you. His cum was dripping out of you around his cock- which was still stuffed full inside of you. There was too much and you just shivered and shaked when your own orgasm hit; your hips pushing and bucking back against his as your walls strangled him.

Softly he pulls out of you and presses kisses all over your body as you come back to earth, any exposed skin wasn’t safe from his soft lips. “You’re so pretty…so good f’me….” He coos as he softly pulls out and hugs you to his chest while you try to come back to earth.

Maybe it was mean of you to interrupt his time with his friends..

But you honestly would do it all over again.

Masterlist<3

Au Masterlist<3

Taglist!!

@besidesjustmyamour

@fictionaldreamerauthor

[artbligh]

𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader

summary: six years ago, when they placed that sorting hat on your head, nobody expected for it to assign the muggleborn to the slytherin house, but it did. six years later, you find yourself as alone as the day you walked through those doors. little did you expect the prince of slytherin, the pureblood maniac himself, gojo satoru, to be the one to coincidentally fill your empty hours.

warnings: gojo is a pureblooded slytherin, slight angst, slight messy makeout

word count: 12.6k

note: part two is out now! comments and reblogs are always appreciated! thank you to @jadeisthirsting for beta reading as always!

part two

slytherin!gojo masterlist + jjk masterlist

When you were little, all the strange and peculiar things that happened to you, such as Ms. Bromsely, the awful maths teacher's desk going up in flames, or Patricia Gallaghers rings disintegrating after she teased your dress, were chalked up to chance or just something else.

Your mother was too busy covering extra shifts down at the pub to worry about it, so she rarely made an occurrence to the meetings your headmaster had scheduled, resulting in very awkward meetings with just you as you were explained how peculiar it was that you always seemed to be in the middle of all these weird occurrences.

So when that brown spotted owl almost crashed into your bedroom window at the ripe age of eleven, explaining that you were chosen to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, you suspected that one of your classmates was playing a cruel joke on you, but alas, it turned out to be very real. 

You were whisked away soon enough, stumbling your way in some sort of haze through Diagon Alley, and then in a blink of your eyes, you found yourself waving goodbye to your mother from that red train, on your way to a life you may have only imagined when you were younger, dreaming of a place far away from where you were.

And you loved it.

The feasts, the history-soken steps that you walked on every day to get to class, the little town that was within walking distance that you could go to every weekend. 

While most of the students here had been introduced to this early on in their lives, you hadn’t. Your mother was just as shocked and as bewildered as you were all those years ago, and given your special circumstances, sometimes you wondered if you were yet to see the thick of it, wondering if some things were hidden from you given your upbringing, given your blood.

But you blinked out of your stupor, being brought down from your daydream to the sound of quills scratching, the smell of faint smoke burning in the background, and the quiet sounds of different animals in their cages. All of these tall-tell signs of the transfiguration classroom. 

After years of spending time in this classroom, it slowly became one that you’d look forward to, and despite most Slytherins having an aptitude for potions or defense against the dark arts, transfiguration was where you shined the best.

The light that carded through the high arching windows illuminated the desks, and you were glad seeing how the back of the classrooms was usually the most poorly lit place. Unfortunately, they’re the only places you found yourself sitting throughout the years, which is just another reason why this specific classroom in itself brought you a slight sense of comfort. 

“...cross-species and inter-species transfiguration is one of the most difficult, if not the most difficult, sort of transfiguration to achieve. Even the most accomplished witches and wizards find themselves struggling with it,” you watched as Professor McGonagall walked around the front of the classroom, her graying hair pulled into a tight bun behind her head, her emerald robes swaying behind her like green waves, “The only way we were able to replicate this form of magic is through ancient runes.” 

Her eyes raked over all the students of the class, to make sure that everybody was understanding the weight of her words. As seventh years it was expected that you all would be ready to face the challenges of such a high-level class. But especially with Professor McGonagall, seeing just how difficult her classes usually were. 

“Of course, this was all covered during your fourth years, so I hope that some of you,” she gave a knowing look over her glasses, “Remember your lessons.” 

You momentarily caught her eyes.

You squirmed in your seat, knowing that her displeased look was directed to the Gryffindor’s sitting next to you. The boy to your left had his mouth open in a large yawn, promptly shutting it when McGonagall looked at him, and the girl to your right was busily finicking with a piece of parchment, trying to figure out how to enchant it so that it could turn into a swan to send to her boyfriend who was sitting across the class. 

You loved Hogwarts. Most of the time. 

The reason why you usually found yourself at the back of class, sitting with people you barely knew, and the reason why you were yet to experience most of the core memories other witches and wizards your age experienced was because you weren’t welcomed the way other would be by their assorted houses. 

Nearly six years ago, when Professor McGonagall placed that sorting hat on your head, you didn’t know what to expect. 

You had heard from some of the people that you sat near on the train that Gryffindor was best. Of course, the boy who said it came from a family of Gryffindors, but his friends seemed to agree with him. Ravenclaw was only for the smart people, which you hoped you might be sorted into and Huffelpuffs were known for their loyalty, which, judging by your mother's statement about how you dared to leave home, you didn’t have much of. 

But the Slytherin house seemed…forbidden. 

At least for you, anyways. 

“And what about that girl we saw?” One of the boys pointed outside the carriage window into the little hall outside, pointing to a much older girl wearing green robes, walking with some other friends who wore adorning colors, “What house is she in?” 

The other boy, who seemed to have the most knowledge out of anyone, scoffed, shaking his head. 

“Not for you, sorry,” he leaned in closer as if he were telling a secret. You tried to listen in, not making it obvious seeing how you weren’t any of their friends and how this was the only cart available with space, “That’s the Slytherin house.” 

“Why’s it not for me?” The other boy argued, his face pulled into a scowl.

“Well, Slytherins are many things. Ambitious, cunning,” the other boy said but shook his head disapprovingly, “But above all else, they’re all purebloods. Some are half-bloods, but even that’s rare. You’re coming from a muggle family. My father works at the ministry, and he says that some of the people in his department who were Slytherin still despise muggle-borns and muggles even long after they’ve left.”

So you had a basic understanding of what to expect. Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, or Gryffindor.

But when the hat cried out “Slytherin!” you almost jumped in your seat, looking behind you at the professor, your face of hesitancy surely mirroring hers. 

And you soon found out that the boy on the train (who was sorted into Gryffindor, big shock), was right. Word spread quickly that a muggle-born was sorted into Slytherin, the first in centuries, and that it surely must’ve been a mistake. 

But the sorting hat doesn’t go back on its word, and what was said was done. So six and a bit years later you found yourself as the pariah of your own house and were forced to fade into the background to avoid any further trouble. 

“...and this is the one project in which I’m having you work with partners, picked by me, of course. The research that is needed to go into this is too much to be done alone.” Professor McGonagall continued, and you perked up in your seat a little bit, your brows furrowing at her words. 

You felt a part of your heart race at the thought. Normally when professors assigned partners, it either left you with a fellow Slyhterin who hated your existence and forced you to do the project on your own, or somebody from another house who didn’t know you and forced you to do the project on your own. 

Your tongue felt heavy as she began reading off the paired names on her list, your hands becoming clammy. 

“Miss Finnegan and Mister Belton. Miss O’Shea and Miss Adan,” The girl next to you, who you quickly pieced together was Leila O’Shea groaned, her face depleted as she realized she wasn’t going to be paired with her boyfriend, and you watched as she sulkily went to the other girl's desk. 

You listened in anticipation as she went down the list, your heart beating loudly and comically in your chest the closer it seemed that she was getting to the end. 

“Mister Reeve and Mister Thompson,” she paused momentarily as she watched the two boys clap each other on the back, her lips threatening to quirk up into a smile, just waiting to read what foolishness they were going to write, “Miss Ward and Mister Green,” you felt like you might be getting off the hook, that maybe she took pity on you but it all came crashing down when she looked at you, a knowing look in her eyes far worse than pity as she read your name along with perhaps the singular person you would’ve paid all your money to not be paired with, 

“…will be with Mister Gojo,” you heard some of your housemates laugh out loud, some of them pushing at the boy and ruffling his hair as if he were the one that was going to face the brute of everything. He sat near the front, and you could see a flash of his white hair as he begrudgingly began to pack his things up, having no choice but to sit next to you seeing how the seats next to him were filled up. 

You watched as she rolled the piece of parchment back up as if she hadn’t just sentenced your public execution, and she raised a singular thin brow at the faces that were looking back at her, “Well? Get a move on. This essay is due in a month.”

You tried to take in a deep breath, your eyes trained on the blank piece of parchment in front of you as if you couldn’t hear his footsteps getting closer and closer to you, as if you didn’t just feel his robes brush up against your legs as he sunk into his seat.

This can’t possibly be happening.

Anybody would’ve been better than him. Even Marley Petterson and her constant poking and teasing about how your clothes were held together by scraps, and how you must’ve lived with mud people before you came to Hogwarts would’ve been better than him. Being forced to be a partner with the Prince of Slytherin was torture, and you wonder if after all these years Professor McGonagall was just now starting to show her distaste towards you. 

That day on the train was the first time you heard his name. 

“You see that boy? The one with the white hair?” The boy discreetly pointed out the window to one of the kids standing outside your cart. All the other boys hurriedly nodded, each craning their necks to get a better look at him, “He’s a Gojo. He comes from a line of Slytherins, each one worse than the one before. They’re purebloods, obviously. You wouldn’t find a speck of anything else in them. They’re rich too, filthy rich. They could buy this school if they wanted to.” All the other boys guffawed, but he seemed serious as if this stranger's family was nothing to be taken lightly. 

“When it comes to Slytherins, there are four families to be wary of. There’s the Gaunts and the Malfoys. There’s the noble house of Black, but lastly…them. House Gojo is one that every other wizarding family steers away from.”

After the day you were sorted you also quickly realized why most wizarding families stayed away from them. His word seemed to be law, and all the other Slytherins, especially those in his inner circle, held him to it. 

You peeked from the corner of your eye, watching as he unpacked all his supplies, his face contorted in obvious anger and disgust, and you thickly swallowed. You had done a good job in staying away from him these past couple of months, fortunate enough to only be called a mudblood and an offense to their ancient house a couple of times by him and his posse. 

His left-hand ring finger almost caught your eye in the sun, the gold ring with his house emblem shining brightly, a clear reminder of your difference with him, and you tried to hide your old school bag, riddled with holes and stains, something you just couldn’t replace. 

When he was done unpacked, he sat there for a couple of seconds, the silence between the two of you thick and heavy. You felt like you could choke on it, your fingers twitching to do something, to leave.

“...this is insulating…” he was talking to himself, shaking his head in disbelief as you sat awkwardly, not knowing what to do.

Gojo Satoru wasn’t one for many words. You had observed him from afar, long enough to see that aside from the occasional words he’d exchange with his closest friends or the few times he’d mutter traitor under his breath when the two of you locked eyes, he was a more brooding type of person. 

When he was angry, he hid it well. His cheeks might’ve flushed a bit, his nose flaring, but he never made an outburst. Which is why, at this moment, you could tell that he wasn’t in a particularly elated mood. 

“I…” you started, your mouth going dry at the way his eyes snapped to you, cold and cruel, “I can do the essay. I’ll get it done in time…if you want.” 

Most times your partners would just tell you to do the work, expecting (and knowing), you’d just say yes and go along with your day. But here, you couldn’t afford to let your guard down, rather having your pride be bitten at rather than your overall self. 

You heard him snort, his nose wrinkling in disgust as he rolled his eyes. 

“What? And have you do everything wrong?” His voice was hushed and clipped as if talking to you a second longer than needed would ruin him and everything he and his family stand for. 

He unrolled his piece of parchment, opening up his book as he kept his head down. 

“Well, I’m fairly decent with transfiguration,” you spoke up, trying for a smile that quickly fell when you felt his eyes burn into yours. For most of your time at Hogwarts, the only times you’ve ever really spoken to Gojo was when he was hurling insults at you, his words spurred on by his group of friends behind him. 

Gojo Satoru knew his worth. He knew that his family name would last through centuries and that the gold his family owned could buy out the entire ministry if they wanted to. Those around him treated him as such; as if his word was law. It also didn’t help that he was incredibly charming, growing into his looks over the years. 

You watched as he grew taller, his lanky figure now filled out with muscles that you could sometimes see through the baggy uniform. His eyes were always a topic of conversation, the infamous Gojo blue. His arctic white hair grew a little longer, sometimes falling in his face when he wasn’t aware. He was gorgeous, and you couldn’t even lie to yourself that he wasn’t.

Aside from his looks, he was also freakishly smart. If he hadn’t been sorted into Slytherin you were sure that Ravenclaw would’ve been fitting for him as well. He was always top of the class with O’s on every exam. 

Above all else, he knew his difference from everybody else. Even his closest (pureblooded) friends weren't even near his level. Even before he could walk, he’s been told of this. Not only that but he’s been told of the vileness of muggleborns. How their nature threatens the very fabric of wizarding society, and how muggles who have somehow been blessed with magical abilities are below humans, that they don’t deserve the rights every other witch and wizard has. 

Which means that you, the sole muggle-born in Slytherin, stood against everything Gojo Satoru believed. You were an abnormality, inhuman, somebody that he should resent for even existing.

“Well, we could always divide the work…?” You offered, your feet anxiously bouncing on the ground as you waited for his response. One of the blessings of sitting so far away from everyone else is that sure, they looked over to see how this was going, but at least they couldn’t listen in as you embarrassed yourself even further. 

His eyes darted over to your paper, blinking once, deep in thought. 

He sighed deeply through his nose, swallowing thickly as he gave you a singular, curt nod. 

“Hm,” he hummed, not even sparing you a glance as he began going to work, his pen scratching against the paper as his eyes began reading over the page, “But I’ll read what you write,” he said quickly, “I refuse to have my rank tank just because you mudbloods can’t do your work properly.” 

Mudblood  

After six years of it, you know you should’ve gotten used to it, but the stinging in your chest would argue otherwise. 

Your shoulders sank, eyes falling to the ground as your fingers fidgeted. You murmured something inaudible as you opened your book to the page McGonagall instructed you to. 

—

The days moved on and everything continued as it always did. 

The essay you had to write with Gojo was a slight hindrance in your usual schedule, but the two of you worked in silence in class and never interacted outside of it. Sometimes when his elbow would accidentally bump into yours as the two of you were busy writing he’d make a sort of noise in the back of his throat, his hand snatching back quickly as if you had somehow burnt him, but that was the most of your interactions. 

Sometimes when you were in the common rooms, late at night, you could hear him talking with his friends, talking about how heinous and ridiculous it was that McGonagall paired the two of you together, but you tried to ignore it.

That following week you found yourself back in the transfiguration classroom, working away quietly as you tried to understand the scriptures on the pages you had to read. You found yourself lucky that this subject was the one you might have some sort of talent in, seeing that this sort of ancient magic was just as difficult as McGonagall made it out to be. 

You heard some mumbling next to you, your eyes discreetly looking over at your partner, only to find his head in his hands as his brows furrowed in both annoyance and confusion. 

“...what does this…?” You heard him say to himself, watching as he flipped the page back and forth as if he was missing something. 

You looked back at your work, the talking around the room drowning out whatever it was that Gojo was saying to himself. 

Or at least you tried to drown out the noise, if not for the fact that your partner made some sort of sudden movement that managed to knock his ink bottle down, spilling ink all over the table. You moved your work to the side, watching as some of the ink soaked into your robes.

“Fuck,” he snapped, moving suddenly from his chair so that the ink would drip onto his clothes, “damn it,” he looked around almost helplessly, his hands clenching in anger after seeing all his hard work soaked up in black. 

“Wait,” you suddenly say, your arm outstretching over his body, watching as his head snaps over to you, “Stop moving for a second.”

He didn’t have much time to bite back at how dare you order him around because you had already begun to pull out your wand, flicking it on a quick movement as you murmured “tergeo,” watching as the ink slowly yet surely began clumping up in the middle of the table, going back with snake-like movements into its bottle. 

There was a beat of silence. 

Gojo sat still in his seat, his lips pursing as he finally let out a deep breath. He pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing at his eyes. 

“Thanks,” he said, but it seemed like he had to bite the word out, choking on it as if thanking you was taking too much of his mental willpower to do. 

You nodded briefly, still watching him as he settled back into his seat. 

“Uh,” you scratched at the back of your neck, knowing that you’d probably regret asking this in a matter of seconds, but somehow not able to stop yourself as you continue talking, “I don’t mean to be rude, or intrude, but is everything alright?”

You hold your breath as you watch Gojo sigh, his eyes shutting briefly. You braced yourself to be snapped at, to be victim to yet another reminder of how much you’ve tarnished the Slytherin name, but he just shakes his head. 

“No,” he seethes, but when he peeks over at you he licks his lips, gnawing on the inside of his cheek as he grabs his papers, moving it over to the middle of you two as he motions to it, “Everything is not alright. Something’s wrong with the book…and I have no idea what. I’ve read this page at least twenty times and it makes no bloody sense to me,” 

You try to hide your surprise. 

That’s probably the most he’s ever spoken to you without any mention of your muggle heritage. 

You move in a little closer to look at what he’s pointing to. You try not to heat up under his stare, squinting your eyes as you try to make sense of what it was he was writing, trying to hide your reactions when you realize that he was doing most of it wrong. 

The point of this essay was to learn about the origins of cross-species transfiguration, and eventually an animagus transformation and how it even came to be. 

You had to reference at least five other books and scrolls to piece together the correct herbs and spells needed to even begin the process. McGonagall honestly probably told everybody to reference the textbook because there was nothing in it. This essay was a testament to how many people went out of their way to learn about the true nature of transfiguration. 

What Gojo had written was something you were sure almost everybody else was writing as well, a mistake you almost made. His research was simple and black and white, and he was getting everything wrong because he was missing at least ten different very important points. 

“So,” you swallowed nervously, chewing on your already chapped lips, “You have the main ideas down,” which was a lie, “But there are just some things-” Before you could even finish your sentence the bell tower chimed once, twice, and then a final time, telling everybody that their class was over. 

All around you people began hurriedly packing up, surely excited for lunch, the chatter of conversations growing in volume, and you didn’t have to look at Professor McGonagall to know that she was irked by her student's sudden enthusiasm to leave. 

Gojo sat motionless, still looking over at you, waiting impatiently for you to finish. 

“I…” you scratched at your hands, “I can’t go over everything right now, but tomorrow I’ll bring in the other-” He raised his hand, packing up his bag as he cut you off. 

“No, not tomorrow, I’m already behind,” you watched as he shoved his papers into his leather bag, “Just explain it now.” 

You wanted to laugh, not knowing how long it might take to explain your twisted thinking process to him and you doubted he wanted to stay in this classroom with you for a minute longer. 

“Well, there’s quite a bit of things,” you searched for the right word, “Missing. I have to study for the potions exam right now, but I’m going to be in the library tonight anyway. I could show you then…?” 

You stood at your chair, your eyes looking up into his, wavering. 

What did you just do? Surely he’d laugh now in your face, roll his eyes at how absurd it was that you could even suggest such a thing, just as he usually does.

Instead, he looks at you, then at his paper, and then at yours, which is at least three pages long at this point. He’d never admit it out loud, but you were understanding this assignment better than him and nobody in his group seemed to understand it as well as you were. 

“Fine,” he runs a hand through his hair, the white sticking out between his fingers like snow perched on grass.

Your brows furrow, your lips pursing together in sudden confusion. 

“What, okay,” you fiddle with your fingers, tugging on them in that anxious way you always do, watching him tighten the straps on his bag, “But wait, what time…” You try to call out but he has already left, his robes swaying behind him as you stand alone at your seat.

You slowly begin to pack up, your thoughts running at what you have just done.

—

The potions exam went well enough, but you couldn’t stress out about it too much right now. 

After dinner (which you ate earlier than most, too anxious to be late), you made your way to the library, found a table near the back, somewhere that didn’t get a lot of foot traffic, and set up your workstation for the time being. 

Amongst many of the amenities Hogwarts had, the library was one of them you loved dearly. 

It wasn’t usually too busy, but it filled up quickly the night before some exams. But you didn’t mind it, you liked being surrounded by people. In the Slytherin common rooms, you usually had to wait until everybody had filtered out or had gone to bed before you could make your way down, not wanting to face their icy looks or the way they’d talk behind their hands when you were near, so you opted to be in the library above anything else. 

The muted sounds of pages turning, of people talking in hushed whispers, and the books that would sometimes rearrange themselves were calming. You liked the candles that were lit carefully around the large room, illuminating it deep into the night. 

You made sure that the work you had already written was set out, your quill resting straightly adjacent to it, your ink pot above it. Your pile of books sat neatly to the left. You wanted to seem as organized and as composed as you could, this might be your one chance to show the prince of Slytherin that you weren’t the slob he must imagine you as. 

The clock on the wall ticks, and you note that it’s nearly ten minutes till five. You chew on your lips, cracking your fingers as you keep your eyes trained on the door, waiting for the familiar mop of white hair to appear. 

After the first ten minutes, you begin fidgeting again, moving your papers centimeters above where they were as if they could appear any straighter. You weren’t wearing the usual house robes, and you hoped that your decision didn’t cause him to walk in, scan the area, and leave because he didn’t see what he expected to see. 

But you pushed those worries aside, just doing your best to watch the people who filed in and out of the large double doors. 

After the clock struck six, you began to stop looking at the doors, instead choosing to just get some work done while you were here, and opened up one of the books. Of course, he probably just lied just because he wanted to. There might be some of his friends standing outside, snickering as they watched you wait stupidly. 

You felt your cheeks heat up in embarrassment, feeling like an idiot.

For the next half hour, you busied yourself with reading about the start of the animagus process, about the mandrake leaf, and the strenuous process of keeping it on your tongue for an entire month. 

Around you, you could hear the scrapping of chairs on the floor, and how most of the people were beginning to leave seeing that it was getting pretty late. The library closes promptly at eight, and although it was an hour till that happened, most people left till then. 

Your eyes flitted to the door, not seeing anybody, and deflated. 

Stupid, you repeated in your head. 

So you began shutting the books strewn out in front of you, packing them all up in your bag as you rubbed at your tired eyes. Madam Pince also made a deal if you left any ink splotches on the table, so you cast a quick tergeo charm to clean up any spots you might’ve missed. 

“You’re leaving?” 

You looked up from the table, eyes squinting to see his tall figure standing in front of you, his face flushed red, sweat dotting on his brow bone as a bit of his hair stuck to his face. Gojo was panting, his chest heaving up and down as if he had just run across the entire castle, and his brows were creasing in the middle, looking down at you as you seized your packing. 

You note his green quidditch robes and muddy boots. 

“I, um,” you looked at the nearly empty table in front of you, and you shook your head, giving him a small smile, “No, no, I just got here.” 

He looked at your bag, as if not believing you, but not caring too much as he hummed in the back of throat, rounding the table, and plopped himself down in the seat in front of you. 

Wordlessly, Gojo began taking out his supplies, and you figured you might as well, setting everything back up to where you initially had it.  You watched as he slyly looked around the two of you, his shoulder becoming less tense when he realized it truly was just the two of you left in the library. 

“Practice took up too much time,” he mindlessly explains, a clear explanation for why he looked so different from the put-together self he usually is. He pushed some of his hair out of his face, his breathing still a little erratic. 

You nod, swallowing thickly as you pretend to understand the ins and outs of quidditch. 

You were aware that amongst one of the many things Gojo could do, on his long lists of talents (which if there was a list would consist of his ability to speak five languages or his incredible ability to calm any creature down), was that he was an amazing seeker. 

While you weren’t very familiar with how quidditch worked, despite trying to best to follow along with others' conversations as you listened in, you could understand that his forte on a broomstick wasn’t talked about just because he was Gojo Satoru. 

He was fast on his broomstick, and thought it could be chalked up to the fact that every year he came to practice with the newest model, he could whize past anybody. He was nimble as well. With how large his hands were, larger than the other house seekers, he was able to secure a win for almost every single match ever since he got recruited. Last year he was named captain of the Slytherin quidditch team, so you were able to piece together that he got held up with the recent tryouts.

“That’s um,” you scratch at your arm awkwardly, “That’s alright…okay so I’ll try to be as quick as I can, but there’s a lot that McGonagall wants us to do,” you start slowly, letting his get situated as you push forward the first book that helped you out, “Oh, that textbook doesn’t help…right now,” you quickly said as you saw him pull out the assigned reading, saw how he looked at you for a second, his face scrunching up in an unreadable emotion. 

“This one is good, though,” you motion to the one in front of you. 

Gojo’s movements are slow as he takes it, eyes scanning over the title until he looks back at you. 

He doesn’t do much talking, you decide. 

“This book covers cross-species transfiguration, but it briefly mentions inter-species transfiguration. But the author referenced this one,” you pull out the other hefty textbook, sliding it over to him, “And this covers all things related to inter-species transfiguration and then goes into animagus transfigurations.” 

You pause, biting your cheek to stop you from rambling on. Transfiguration was something that you could talk about forever and ever, and you’d never really talked about out loud to anybody else up until now. 

“McGonagall said that the essay was on inter-species, she never mentioned animagus transfiguration,” Gojo said suddenly, pushing the two textbooks back, letting out a heavy sigh as if this was all a waste of his time.

You nod slowly, picking at some of the skin around your nails.

“R-right, and you’re right,” you quickly sputter, nodding, “But because cross-species and inter-species transfiguration are so close together, I doubt that this was what she wanted our month-long essay to be about. Which is why,” you pull out some old essays you had done earlier in the year, “I referenced back to these animagus essay’s we had done. I mean, she wouldn’t introduce us to the topic and then drop it for no particular reason, right? I suspect she wanted us to piece the two and two together.”

Gojo gently took the papers from your outstretched hand, his eyes raking over your words, and then back to the textbooks. He seemed to read it intently as if things were slowly starting to click for him. 

“Which is why the textbook she gave us isn’t really helpful, because it resembles more of an herbology textbook rather than transfiguration. So I think that this textbook, if anything, should be referenced at the end of the essay, seeing how it mentions the mandrake leaf and the properties of the chrysalis of a Death’s-head Hawk Moth. It’s all instructions on how to become an animagus without saying it.”

His eyes, a different shade of blue in the candlelight, watched your every moment. He listened carefully as you eventually did end up rambling, watching the way your face, on its own accord, twisted into a proud smile at your clever handiwork. 

You abruptly stop to catch a breath and glance up at him apologetically. 

“I’m sorry, I went too fast,” you shake your head, rubbing your temple in your hands, tired from staring at textbooks for as long as you’ve had. 

“No…it made sense,” Gojo murmurs suddenly, his lips pulled into a thin line as he quickly looks away from you, back down to his work which was now surely long after your in-depth analysis, twisting and turning that gold ring on his finger, the one he always wore, the symbol of his family crest as he looked through the books you had offered him. 

You stay silent, not knowing what to do, resting back in your seat, picking your nails. 

“Well, that’s all of it,” you rub your hands against your pants, your dry eyes blinking a couple of times, yearning for sleep.

“You could’ve said this during class,” he said, still reading, his attention preoccupied, as if this was a hindrance to him. 

You wet your lips, trying not to clench your hand in anger, frustration, and years of pent-up emotions, as you slowly nod, pulling the leather strap of your bag over your shoulders as you begin to stand up. 

“Right, sorry,” you apologize quietly, taken aback when he suddenly looks up at you, as if startled but you didn’t feel like spending any more in the presence of someone who despised you anyways, “goodnight,” you bid farewell, not noticing how he had opened his mouth to say something, scurrying out of the library as you make your way back to the common rooms before he could.

—

The next day at transfigurations, the two of you didn’t speak to one another at the beginning of class, like normal. 

You took out your books like normal, as did he, and began writing silently, like normal. Everything was going normally until he suddenly paused, his hand wavering above his essay as he set his quill down, turning his head over to you.

“Can I see what you’ve written?” 

You stop writing, eyes darting to the side as if you had misheard him.

Gojo points to the papers you’ve been working on as if you didn’t understand his first command. 

Wordlessly, you pass it over to him. 

He reads it over a couple of times, flipping through your endless pages, muttering some words to himself now and then. You would wager that compared to other people you had made far more progress in terms of how much you’d compiled, so you weren’t necessarily worried about the time restraint on this essay. 

You couldn’t say the same for him, however. 

You’ve never seen him look so intense, his brows furrowed and his lips pursed in clear concentration. He almost seemed frustrated, and it was a strange thing to see from somebody so usually put together. 

“Our work together is too divided, it looks like we haven’t been working with each other,” Gojo says as if that wasn’t purely what was the issue. 

You didn’t say anything, wanting to see what idea he’d propose.

“I need to finish the rest of these texts,” he jutted his chin to the textbooks you had given him last night, “We can work on the essay after classes are over, in the common room.” 

A part of you wanted to laugh at him as if he had just joked. 

But Gojo Satoru was not a joking sort of person. You rarely saw him smiling, even when with his friends, and it was even rarer for him to say something of any comedic value. Which could only mean that he was being serious and that he truly was proposing to work in the common rooms with…you.

A little snort escapes your lips, looking at him as if he were crazy. He looked at you as if you were the crazy one.

“I don’t go to the common rooms after class, it’s too busy,” you explained slowly to him, wondering if he was daft and even after all this time didn’t take the time to understand your situation. 

He blinked, eyes narrowing. 

“...and?” 

Your head tilted to the side, confused. 

“Well…there’s people there,” you explain even further. 

He scoffs, rolling his eyes as if you were stupid. 

“Ironically, that is the point of a common room.” Gojo looks back to his essay, picking up his quill as if he were done with this conversation, but you pushed.

“Right,” you say more curtly, nose flaring, “For you, it might be. But people don’t want me there.” You say, a truth that you had to stomach, something that you grew used to after too many unsavory encounters with other Slytherins when you tried to come down to the common rooms during social hours. 

“So during the hours of two to eight, you don’t go to the common room?” He didn’t even look up, his voice sarcastic, not believing such an insane thing.

“No.” You reply as if it was obvious as if he should at least know that this is why you rarely ever make an occurrence unless it’s early in the morning or late at night. 

That finally gets him to stop and look at you, confusion woven into his expression. 

“What?” He set his pen down again, and you noted that his eyes seemed a different shade of blue when he was confused, a little bit lighter than usual, he seemed like he was the only one not in on some sort of joke, “So from two to eight you just stay in your room?” 

You shake your head, playing with your fingers. 

“I’m not always in my room,” ignominy clear in your tone, “Most days I either go outside and do my homework or go to the library.” 

You hate the attention this brings to you from him. You’ve never had such a long conversation with somebody in your own house, let alone Gojo. You hated the way he looked at you as if you were either lying your arse off or even worse…pity?

But you almost shook your head at that thought. The great Gojo Satoru pitying you? 

“What if it’s raining?” He asked, pushing you to see if you were telling him the truth. 

“Then I go to the library,” you said as if it was obvious, mainly because to you it was. This was the usual schedule that you’ve become used to over the years, something you’ve just forced yourself to become used to despite wanting everything in your soul to go to the common rooms like everybody else, to laugh at their stories, to talk about your lives, like you were supposed to. 

“What if the libraries closed?” 

You squirm under his heavy gaze, wondering how the topic of transfiguration got turned around to him interrogating you. 

“Um, well, right now, because of the weather, I’d probably just go up to the astronomy tower if the library was closed. They don’t have lessons during the day. Or I’d probably just find a broom closet and do my work in there.” 

His head tilts just a bit, his lips quirking up into a disbelieving smile as if he just caught you in your lie. 

“In the dark?” Gojo presses, and you can hear the people around you already beginning to pack up their supplies, the class nearing its end. Had you spent this much time talking that you wasted nearly half an hour?

“I’d cast a lumos spell,” you argue, packing up your things as you break eye contact with him. You take your paper back, making sure the ink has dried before putting it in your bag. 

“I’ll be in the library,” you say finally, making sure that was the end of it, “See you there.”

—

In some strange way, meeting up with Gojo in the library became part of your routine. 

Every night at seven, after his quidditch practice would end, he’d run all across the entirety of campus to work on your transfigurations essay together. 

The two of you still didn’t talk much, but it was different nonetheless. 

“I’m tired,” Gojo suddenly announced, the candlelight flickering on and off from his face. 

You could visibly see the dark circles that were under his eyes, how he slouched (which was uncommon for him, seeing how he usually sat as straight as a ruler wherever he was), and how he couldn’t go four minutes without letting out an exhausted sigh. 

“You should take a break,” you muttered, not paying attention, head still stuck in your book as you continued to read the rest of the paragraph you were reading. 

Gojo snorted, rolling his eyes at the prospect. 

“I can’t take a break,” he dragged his hands across his face, “I need to finish this essay, the quidditch games in two days, and Snapes up my arse about that potion exam.” 

Your eyes flickered up to his, startled at how much he had spoken, but then tried to mask your surprise by looking back down to your book.

“Potions wasn’t too bad,” you offer, “And I can finish the last bits you have,” you look back up, putting your hand out, a silent ask for him to give you whatever it was that he had written so far. 

He clicked his tongue against his teeth, silently passing over his stack of parchment, and you scanned through it quietly, shrugging as you nodded once more. 

To be honest, the two of you were far ahead of the other students in your class. He had eventually concluded on his own that you’d be wasting more time not working together, so you guessed that he just had to suck up a bit and bite back on his pride and work with a muggle-born.

His rush to finish the essay was spurred on by the plethora of other things he needed to do, a drawback of being the prime and perfect Slytherin prince everybody made him out to be. 

“You don’t have much left,” you deduce, “I can just write about the Scalivier trials,” the trial in which a man refused to register with the ministry that he was an animagus, “I’ll have it done by Saturday, I’m nearly done with my bit.”

You slide his essay back to him, but stop when you see the perplexed look on his face. 

“Saturday’s the quidditch game?”. 

Your eyes dart to the side, squinting a bit as you try for a laugh. 

“…and?” 

He scratches at his temple, tilting his head to the side. After these past couple of days working with you, he’d be wrong to say that he became more and more increasingly perplexed with you. Six years he spent watching from afar, muttering words to his friends about the absurdity of your existence, but now that he was able to see you from up close, a part of him has to agree that you’re an enigma he’s never been able to crack. 

You don’t say much during class, you don’t talk to many people, and if he was being honest, in that sense, you mirrored him. You were reserved, but the times he picked and prodded at you, you seemed to open up. You don’t have any friends from what he could tell, often eating at the end of the table during the meals. He watched sometimes to see you during the common rooms during the times in which you said you never came, a part of him thinking he’d be able to catch you. 

Gojo Satoru would never admit it, but in a way, he had become interested in you.

“Well,” Gojo didn’t like to be the one confused, hating being perceived as if he didn’t know everything, which is something he prided himself on most of the time, “After the game, there’s the usual…party,” he bit out, hating the word, because it was so unruly from the usual balls and galas he was forced attend, too many people sweaty and jumping, “In the common room.” 

You blink owlishly at him, fidgeting with your quill, twisting and turning it around in your hand. 

“Right…so I’ll be here.” 

Now it was his turn to blink slowly. 

Was this really that hard to understand?

“Coming to the library after a quidditch game seems a bit anticlimactic, don’t you think?” He leaned back in his chair, playing with the green and silver tie around his neck. You wondered how he could bear to wear it even after classes were over, that even his most posh friend ditched their formal wear the moment they got back to their dormitories. 

“Thankfully I don’t go to quidditch games, so for me, it’s just climatic,” you said, smiling at your little joke, covering your mouth as you yawned, tired and longing for your bed. 

He sat up in his chair suddenly, looking even more shocked than before. This was the most emotion you’ve ever seen him emmett before and you didn’t know what to do with it. 

“What? Why not?” He seemed so startled that you almost wanted to laugh. It was strange seeing somebody you had regarded as stoic look like he did now. 

You shrug, rubbing your fingers across your eyes as you let out another yawn, resting your chin on your palm. 

“I went once, during my first year, but everybody seemed rather annoyed that I was there, and they crowded in front of me so I couldn’t see anything,” you recall back on the memory, one that you could remember vividly, “and I don’t know,” you’re suddenly very thirsty, your cheeks heating up the more he stared at you, laughing uncomfortably, “I don’t really understand…quidditch, so it works out in the end. And I also get to have some time to myself in the common room to do my homework, you know, unlike usual.” 

Gojo didn’t say anything for a couple of seconds, and you tried to pretend that you had read something interesting to not embarrass yourself any further with your mindless babbling. Sure, he might be willing to work with you now, but that didn’t mean that Gojo Satoru was up for a friendly conversation with you.

You looked at him briefly, feeling your stomach churn a bit to see that he hadn’t stopped looking at you.

“Everything alright?” You asked. 

He nodded, biting on the inside of his cheek as he picked up his quill, a wordless agreement that the conversation was over.

—

Transfiguration the next day went by oddly silent. 

Gojo didn’t talk to himself now and then, he didn’t sigh his exasperated sigh, and he didn’t peek up every once in a while to check how much you’d written since the last time he had looked over. 

You didn’t pay it much attention, keeping your head down, your eyes to yourself. Silence was better than being reminded of your muggle heritage, which even then, Gojo had yet to remind you these past weeks.

Briefly, you looked up from what you were doing to see if Professor McGonagall was walking around or sitting at her desk, but in doing so you felt Gojo shuffle a little in his seat as if he had felt your sudden movement. 

“Tonight…” he started and you quickly nodded, waving off any of his worries. Of course, you chided yourself, he’s anxious about the quidditch match, nothing else.

“Yes, yes, I know, you have quidditch tomorrow. I’ll finish up what I have left and then start reading about the Scalivier trials tonight,” you finished for him, tracing some of the wood grains of the table with your finger. 

He shakes his head. 

“Not that - and I’ll finish up the trials by Sunday,” he’s avoiding eye contact, and if you didn’t know any better it seemed like he was trying to find his words, as if they had slipped from his tongue and were dangling in the air for him to grab, “Tonight…tonight, don’t go to the library.” 

You purse your lips, trying to smile to see if that was his goal, maybe he was trying to be funny.

“Would you like to meet in one of the broom closets then?”

You felt even more lost after it seemed like he was debating taking up your offer, but his eyes shone a bright shade of aquamarine, and his cheeks twinged a slight shade of pink. 

Strange. 

“No,” he chewed on his lip, as if he were anxious, a preposterous thing to even think, “No, come down to the common rooms around eight.” 

The cursed clock tower chimed, three loud rings, and it cut the two of you off once again. 

“Look, I told you-” you go to say but he cuts you off.

“I know, just come down.” He was being so cryptic, and he looked so on edge that it was starting to freak you out. He was already beginning to pack up, his eyes snapping to his group of friends that were nearing the two of you, and he quickly looked back down at you, his head dipping down urgently. 

“Eight. Be there.” 

—-

You couldn’t say you weren’t at least a little apprehensive. 

You were so nervous that you just stayed up in your room, not even coming downstairs for dinner as you waited for the clock on the wall to read eight. 

Why were you so nervous? You first asked yourself, but then asked the more logical question, what did Gojo want with you?

The minutes on the clock seemed to take hours to pass, and the hours seemed to take days. It was such a slow process, and you knew it would be going faster if you were doing something more productive with your time until it was necessary, but you couldn’t. 

The other girls in your dorms could come in and out, sometimes exchanging glances with their friends when they saw that you hadn’t moved from your spot, but they didn’t ask any questions, opting to just leave you be. 

You were picked at your fingers, cracking your knuckles, and finally, finally, the small hand pointed to the eight on that ancient clock. 

Funnily enough, even though you had been mentally waiting for this to happen, you waited for a couple of seconds, trying to calm yourself down, nodding to yourself that this wasn’t anything big and that you were just overreacting. 

Slowly, you rose from your spot on your bed, a little dent in the mattress from just how long you’d been sitting there. You turn the handle of the door, taking in yet another deep as you take a tentative step outside the safe sanctity of your room. 

The common rooms are usually more busy on Friday nights, and that might’ve been a blessing in disguise as you’re able to slip past most people, keeping your eyes peeled for a flash of white hair. 

You scan the couch area, the sitting area, and the large window that looks into the black lake, but you don’t see him. It’s only until you look near the entrance to the common room, the large oak double doors, do you see him. 

It seems like he’s scanning the area as well, blue eyes looking everywhere until they fall onto yours, and you’re able to sneak past some people watching as he cocks his head in the motion of the doors, and before you could do anything else, he leaves, and you take it as your sig to follow him.

You’re glad that nobody’s looking your way as you push the two doors open, looking to your right to see him waiting for you. 

You go to open your mouth to speak but he beats you to it. 

“Follow me, and be quick,” he’s already walking and you have to nearly jog to get to him, walking at a much faster pace seeing how his legs were abnormally long, “Put these on over your clothes.” 

Gojo throws you a pile of ratty-looking uniforms, but the more you open up the folded mess you come to realize that they’re old quidditch uniforms. In fact, when you’re finally able to get a good look at him you realize he’s wearing adoring green robes. 

You don’t say anything, multitasking as you walk and shrug over the (huge, it was practically dragging on the floor) robes, buttoning them up as quickly as you could without tripping over your feet, the quidditch uniform, or over the stones. 

He looks at you briefly, and he’s glad that you’re too busy trying to figure out how the robes are supposed to fit over you to notice the way his lips quirked up slightly at the look of you at the moment. 

“Put this on too,” he says once you're finally done, handing you another huge helmet, and you take it silently, pulling it over your head. 

The helmet is way too big for you, as it nearly hangs over your eyes, and you can barely see anything with it on, and you pause, a smile making its way onto your face as you push it up only for it to fall again.

You stop walking for a second, and when Gojo looks back he sees the helmet masking most of your face up until your nose, the only thing he can see is your large grin, the sleeves of the uniform enveloping your hands, reaching to your knees, and for the first time, he hears the softest sound, 

You’re giggling as you try to figure out how to tighten the straps on the helmet, not able to see where Gojo is because you have your head tilted down, struggling with the buckle until his boots come into your field of vision. 

All of a sudden you feel a hand tip your helmet upwards, and your smile falters when you now see his face, the way his eyes are swirling with different hues of blues, something you notice that happened when he was battling multiple emotions at once. You can tell that there’s a small, barely noticeable smile on his face, surely from how insane you look right now. 

You’ve never seen him look so at ease. His shoulders seem more relaxed, his jaw not clenched. It helped that he looked like he was smiling for once. 

But there’s no time to think as you feel the brush of him on your skin, his slender and swift fingers working fast and expertly at tightening the strap under your chin. He looks focused, his white brows scrunched up the way he always does when he’s trying to figure out a transfiguration rune. You feel your breath lodge in your throat. When he’s satisfied with how it was resting on your face his hands drop to his side, and his eyes slightly widen, as if he just realized what he had just done. 

He cleared his throat, looking around the hall to make sure that nobody was around, and he turned his back as he began his brisk pace out to wherever it was that he was taking you.

You walked, corrected, ran with him for a little more until he brought you to one of the openings of the castle, the one that led directly to the quidditch fields. 

“Where,” you were a little out of breath, noticing how the sun was nearly about to set, and also knowing that you sure as hell didn’t have a pass to be out this late, “Where’re we going?” 

“To the field,” he said, which was the answer you were most dreading. 

“Right, I can see that,” you feel hot under all these layers, despite the fact that it was late October and the weather was biting at best, “Why are we going out to the fields.” The breeze that was hitting your cheeks was stinging, so you were at least glad in that aspect that the quidditch robe offered you some sort of warmth. 

“Ravenclaws practicing right now,” Gojo said, turning around to look at you for a fleeting second, “I need to see what Nanami’s strategy is, and you need to learn quidditch.” 

You almost trip. 

And you need to learn quidditch.

His words were ringing in your head, possibly even louder than the blood rushing to your ears. He had to be lying, or have some sort of cruel prank planned out. He must be waiting for his friends to run out from behind one of the stands so that they could tie you to a tree. Not that he’s ever done that, but also not the first time it’d be happening at the hands of other Slytherins. 

Because sure, while you might’ve offended him in saying you didn’t understand how quidditch worked, that wouldn’t mean that he, Gojo Satoru, the Prince of Slytherin, hater of all muggle-borns alike, would be taking time out of his life to fix this wrong.

You should’ve just run the other way, ditched the scratchy uniform somewhere, and ran back to your dormitory, somewhere where you’d at least be safe from experiencing any sort of humiliation. 

But the closer that the two of you neared the stands, the more you felt confused. Because nowhere could you see any other Slytherins, and he was right, the Ravenclaw team was practicing right now, if the flashes of blue and white from above you meant anything. 

Which could only mean that…? 

Gojo finally stops at the stairs that lead you up the stands, his hand on the wooden railing. 

“We’re going…up?” 

He snorts, nodding as he ushers you to move. 

“Obviously,” his voice now seems more amplified with his small and cramped winding staircase, “I’m not going to be observing them from the ground.” 

You’re the one that’s ahead, so you try to go even faster so that he won’t be held up behind you, but everything is moving too fast. Did he give you these robes so that you’d seem like another player? So that you wouldn’t be marked up if you were seen out of your dormitory so late at night?

When you finally got to the opening, you were able to hear the yells that the Ravenclaw players were enhancing with one another. You hold the tarp that acted as the door above your head, heading over to one of the seats in the far back, feeling Gojo right on your tail. 

It had been years since you were here since you looked out into the fields. The stands were high, and the winds were stronger up here. Gojo sat where you were, to your right, and you waited silently to see what he was going to do. 

Nanami was the Ravenclaw seeker as well as the captain. You could see the flash of blonde hair as he flew by, the other team members either watching him or practicing with their respective posts. 

Gojo rested his elbow on his thighs, leaning in as he observed intently. 

Eventually, after a minute or two, he sat back up, leaning in closer to you. You could feel his hair ticking your temple, his nose inches away from your cheek as he began to talk. 

“In quidditch, you have seven players on each side. One seeker, one keeper, three chasers, and two beaters.” 

You nod, following along. 

“You see number seven?” He points to the guy flying around near the three tall hoops, and you nod again, “He’s a keeper. He makes sure that the other team doesn’t get any balls into the hoops.” Gojo is leaning even closer to you now, and you can feel half of his body pressing up against yours. You feel like you're heating up, and not because of the excessive quidditch uniform you’re wearing. 

“The beaters, number four and two,” he then points to the boy and the girl flying around, holding wooden bats, “try to protect their team from the bludgers; which is this black ball that sort of follows around team members, trying to knock them off their brooms. Those bats ward off the bludgers.” 

You make a mental note of everything he’s saying, trying not to be distracted by the fact that you’re being given a quidditch lesson from Gojo Satoru. 

“The chasers, which are the rest of them, aside from Nanami, throw around the quaffle to each other. Every time they get it through the other team's hoop, they score ten points…do you follow?” Gojo pauses, looking at you and you push your helmet up so that you can see him, giving him a confident nod. 

“All that’s left is the seeker-” 

“Which is you, right?” You cut him off, rubbing at your nose which was now freezing at this point. 

Gojo pauses, eyes flickering to you as he raises a brow. 

“I may not know quidditch but I’m not daft,” you tell him.

For a second there, you swear you could see the start of a smile play on his lips.

“Yeah,” he says, almost softly, “I’m the seeker.” You’re too busy looking ahead to notice that he’s busy looking at you, so you continue to talk. 

“...plus, Kento was telling me about it a while ago. He said you were really good.”

This time, his brow raised even further. 

“You know him?” 

You shrug, your eyes following the quick and hurried movements of all the players, too focused on their practice to notice the change in Gojo’s voice, or overall, the change in his entire demeanor. You must’ve missed how he slightly tensed up, or the way his eyes narrowed. 

“We had potions with Ravenclaw last year, remember?” You turn slightly to look over at Gojo before you go back to watching, “He helped me with some of my brews, but we talked about other stuff!” You had to raise your voice, the wind was getting stronger, “And Quidditch came up!”

Gojo’s nose flared momentarily before he swallowed thickly, his jaw ticking as he tried to focus back on the practice as well. 

“A-anyways,” he cleared his throat, not remembering that last time he choked on his words, “The seeker catches the snitch. I can’t see where it is now, but once the snitch is caught, the game is over.” He tried to push some of the hair out of his face, getting annoyed at how it kept getting stuck in his eyes. 

“I need to get something, I’ll be back,” Gojo murmured in your ear, pushing himself off of the seat as he walked in front of you disappearing down the stairs within seconds. 

You glanced at where he left but found yourself looking back to the players, your face breaking into another excited smile when you began to piece together what Gojo had just told you, finally able to understand quidditch after all these years.

The sun had set and the stars were peeking out through the sky, and you watched the players as they furiously rode around, each one tense and stressed for the match that would be happening tomorrow. 

You tried to hide yourself in the background as much as you could, now feeling a little more out in the open with Gojo gone.

The minutes ticked by and yet Gojo didn’t come back. Now and then you found yourself looking at the stairs, eyes darting back and forth from those on their broomsticks to where you had first entered from. 

Slowly yet surely, you found yourself in that position the first night you saw him at that library. 

When the Ravenclaw players slowly began dissenting from the air, running off the fields as they went in from shelter from the old, you felt a part of your stomach twist. 

This was all part of his plan, you concluded, shivering to yourself as you tried not to feel let down, or even worse, like an idiot for thinking anything had changed, that you had maybe actually begun to have a friend after seven years.

You feel your eyes water, either from the wind or from everything, and you make your way for the stairs, your lips trembling as you suddenly start to feel claustrophobic under all the clothes you're wearing, your fingers slipping and sliding as you try to take that wretched helmet off of your head.

You feel like if you go any faster you’re going to trip and tumble down the stairs, and it doesn't help that you’re already too distracted with trying to take the helmet off. You sniffle, your eyes blurry as you feel your heart beat rapidly in your chest. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

You couldn’t even tell if you were thinking that in your head or saying it out loud as you neared the end of the never-ending stairs, unbuttoning the buttons of the scratchy uniform as you bundled everything up in your hands, wiping at your wet cheeks with your palm.

Amongst all the things people have done to you over the years, this wasn’t the worst. You’ve had your room ransacked, your trunk thrown into the river, your shoes stolen on multiple occasions. You’ve been called a mudblood more times than you’ve been called your own name, and none of these things were actually done by Gojo. 

Perhaps you thought that deep down, maybe he could change. That maybe after all that time spent in the library, talking to you, controlling some of his laughs at your awful jokes, he saw that maybe muggle-borns weren’t as bad as he thought they were. 

And yet tonight you suffered your first prank, if that’s what this could even be called, at his hands. It didn’t hurt because of its nature, but because a naive part of you actually thought that he could’ve been your friend. 

But none of that mattered now, not that you-

“Where are you going?” 

You stop in your tracks, your head whipping around to the voice. 

It was now fully dark outside, the moon and the spare candles that were lit around the castle and the stands were the only sources of light. You could see his figure standing a couple feet away from you, his white hair like a beacon in the night. 

He takes a couple tentative steps closer to you, close enough so that you can see the furrow of his brows and the small pout on his lips. Damn it, you wanted to curse, you could hate him more if he didn’t look so pretty. 

“Back to the castle,” you snap, wiping at the corners of your eyes, throwing down the old uniform and the oversized helmet on the ground near his feet. You sniffle, looking to the side so that you won’t have to see his face.

“What?” He steps closer to you and you take a step back, your head still turned, eyes trained on the dewy grass, “Why?” You try not to think too much about the two sets of brooms in his hands, or how for some strange reason, he actually sounded dejected that you were leaving.

Letting out a shaky breath you laugh curtly, crossing your arms over your chest as you look up to the sky, counting the stars, wondering if that could calm you down. 

You hear the grass crunch under his feet, the warmth of his body as he comes in close to you. 

Why does he care? 

“I brought you a broom,” he holds it to you so you can see the outline of it, “Here,” he bends down to pick up the helmet you had thrown to the ground, “At least put this on,” he’s already securing it on your head, not noticing the way your lips were trembling, his fingers brushing up against your chin once again but you don’t him faster it, smacking his hand to the side as you rip the helmet off your head, throwing it with more force on the ground. 

“S-stop,” you murmur harshly, wiping at your cheeks, “Stop, stop whatever it is you’re doing-” 

“I’m not doing anything,” he snarls, his eyes a dark shade of navy blue, “So stop crying, I don’t know what it is you think I did.”

He’s angry now, good, it’ll be easier to yell at him if he’s just as amped up as you are. 

But when you finally look at him and get to see his face, it’s not the kind of anger you’re feeling. His eyes are narrowed, his eyebrows pulling together down the middle the way they do when he’s confused, the way you often see him looking like when he’s frustrated at your cursed transfigurations essay. He’s not angry at you because of you, he’s angry because he doesn't understand where your frustrations are coming from. 

He’s at least a head taller than you, looking down as his chest heaves slightly, waiting for you to say something, anything, so that he could explain himself for whatever it is he’s done wrong. His cheeks are a little pink, either from the cold or…something else, and his hair is messy, no longer kept the way it usually is. 

Gojo looks different.

And you don’t know who it was that moved in closer, whose rational mind slowly turned irrational as you two took another step towards the middle, but all you do know is that the two of you didn’t care as you roughly grabbed him by his robes, tugging him in as you slammed your lips to his. 

It happened in an instant, your lips moving against his soft one, your hands gripping onto that fabric for dear life. And for a second, you begin to pull away, your eyes opening in shock, but there’s no use, because Gojo slams his lips down onto yours as he pulls you into his chest. 

It’s rushed and messy, your teeth clash against one another, your hands going up from his chest as they intertwine around his neck, your fingers tugging on his long white strands and you hear him groan into your mouth. 

He moves fast, biting at your lips, one hand sprawled on the expanse of your back, the other one behind your neck, almost cradling the back of your head, tilting your head upwards to meet him. His tongue prods at your lips, and somehow, mindlessly, you part them a little more, moaning quietly at the way his tongue explores your mouth. 

Gojo leads you a little back, so that you’re up against one of the wooden pillars of the quidditch stands, offering you more stability, a good thing, seeing how you feel like you're becoming lightheaded, soon about to faint. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, heavy on your lips as he dips down again to kiss down your chin tilting your head up to expose the column of your neck, “Fuck,” he says once more, diving down as he sucks and bites at your skin, his movements growing faster and more erratic once he hears the soft and sweet mewls that escape your swollen lips. 

“G-gojo,” you whine, feeling hot as his hands travel across your chest, cupping your tits through your thin sweater as he continues to kiss down your neck, tugging some of the material down so that he could leave even more marks across your collarbone, “G-god, oh my god,” 

His pants tighten at your voice, his pupils dilate at the way you're pawing at him, pulling at him, needing him. 

“Satoru,” he says against your skin, “Not Gojo. Not you.” 

He’s delirious, he kisses you like you’re the air he’s been missing his entire life, and holds you to him as if you’re the only furnace in a land barren with snow. He needs you. 

Your fingers are lost in his hair, pulling and tugging, hearing the way his breathing stutters when you do so. 

One of your hands drops down to his chest, feeling at the skin that’s exposed from where his uniform was pulling up, and when your cold fingers make contact with the skin resting taunt on his stomach you swear you could hear him almost whine, his head momentarily dropping into the crook of your neck as he urges you to continue, holding your wrist tightly, pushing it up further. 

Your eyes find his, your breathing coming out in short spurts, and he seems so far gone, so transfixed with how you look under him, that the two of you fail to hear the footsteps that come near where the two of you were.

“Who’s there?” 

A voice calls out, and you see somebody behind him standing with a lantern. 

You push Gojo off of you, but he stays put, looking over his shoulder, shielding your body with his. 

“Oh, fuck off Taylor,” Gojo calls out, anger and irritation laced into his voice.

The boy's eyes widen when he realizes how it is, the blue and white Ravenclaw robes dashing away into the distance, the lantern long gone in a matter of seconds, but it’s no use. 

When Gojo looks down at you, you’ve been given too much time to come back to your senses. 

You push him away from you, and this time he moves.

You take a deep breath, not looking at him as you wipe at your spit-soaked lips, blinking rapidly as you try to make sense of what happened. 

He didn't say anything, but you could hear the quiet pants that escaped his lips, trying to catch some air. 

You open your mouth to say something but close it promptly, shaking your head in disbelief. 

You don’t think twice as you make your way back to the castle.

---

(part two)

taglist (CLOSED): @satorusemepls, @mokonasenpaiposts, @kao-ri, @rinxgojo, @notsochillnerd, @astral-hydromancy, @holylonelyponyeatingmacaron, @tedbunny333, @13-09-01, @mynameislove1, @hyunsuks-beanie

[artbligh]

grumpiest gojo in tokyo

a cursed gojo satoru comes home irritable and picks a fight over dinner, only to realize too late the weight of your effort and care. what follows is a night on the couch, a morning of regret, and a heartfelt attempt to make things right—with curry, apologies, and the quiet kind of love that stays.

wc — 6k ✦ tags domestic fluff, hurt/comfort, angst with happy ending, established relationship, cooking together, miscommunication, curse effects, domestic arguments, making up, satoru being an idiot, emotional vulnerability, slice of life, tender moments, attempt at humor, crack treated seriously, dramatic gojo satoru

if someone had told satoru that he’d spend his tuesday evening glaring at his own reflection like it had personally insulted his ancestry, he would have laughed until his lungs gave out.  

but here he was, six-foot-three of pure irritation wrapped in a designer suit that suddenly felt too tight, too scratchy, too everything. the curse had been pathetic—some low-grade spirit that barely registered on his radar before he obliterated it with a flick of his wrist. what he hadn’t expected was the parting gift: a nasty little enchantment that flipped his emotional switches like a toddler with a light panel.  

now every small inconvenience felt like a personal affront. the elevator music? annoying. his reflection? punchable. the way his key scraped against the lock? absolutely infuriating. even the hallway carpet seemed to be judging him, its expensive fibers somehow too soft, too plush, too deliberately welcoming.  

the elevator had been its own special hell. fourteen floors of smooth jazz that made his teeth itch, pressed between a woman who smelled like she’d bathed in vanilla extract and an old man who kept clearing his throat every thirty seconds like he was trying to communicate in morse code. satoru had spent the entire ride contemplating whether teleportation counted as assault if he used it to escape small talk.  

“lovely weather we’re having,” the woman had chirped, and satoru had to physically restrain himself from responding with a detailed analysis of how the barometric pressure was clearly off and the humidity was making his hair stick to his forehead in a way that defied both gravity and styling products.  

the penthouse door swung open with more force than necessary, and satoru stepped into what should have been his sanctuary. the familiar scent of home—vanilla candles, your perfume, the faint trace of coffee from this morning—hit him like a wall, and for one blessed moment, he felt the curse’s grip loosen. then he saw you standing in the kitchen, arms crossed, wearing that particular expression that usually made him want to kiss you senseless, and the irritation came roaring back.  

today, it made him want to argue about everything from the weather to the existential meaning of kitchen tiles.  

“you’re late,” you said, not looking up from whatever you were aggressively chopping on the cutting board. the knife moved with practiced precision, each cut deliberate and sharp. your hair was pulled back in that messy way that meant you’d been cooking for a while, little wisps escaping to frame your face. you wore his old dress shirt over your clothes, sleeves rolled up to your elbows, and normally the sight would have him crossing the room to wrap his arms around your waist from behind.  

today, even that looked wrong somehow. the shirt was wrinkled in a way that suggested you’d been moving around the kitchen for hours, and there was a small stain on the sleeve that looked suspiciously like turmeric. why couldn’t you just be more careful?  

“traffic,” he bit out, the word sharp enough to cut glass. his fingers worked at his tie with jerky, aggressive movements, the silk suddenly feeling like a noose around his throat. “apparently half of tokyo decided to drive like they learned from a cereal box.”  

you paused mid-chop, the knife hovering over what looked like carrots. expensive carrots, the kind that cost more than most people’s lunch, cut into perfect uniform pieces because you knew he had opinions about vegetable consistency. finally glancing up, your eyes—warm brown that reminded him of coffee with too much sugar, the kind of sweet that made his teeth ache in the best way—narrowed as you took in his rigid posture.  

“what crawled up your ass and died?” you asked, setting the knife down with a soft clink that somehow sounded accusatory. “and don’t say traffic. you teleport half the time anyway.”  

“maybe i wanted to drive today,” satoru snapped, his voice rougher than usual. he yanked the tie free and tossed it aside, watching it land on the marble counter with unnecessary focus. the silk crumpled against the expensive stone, and he felt irrationally annoyed that it didn’t land properly. “maybe i wanted to experience the joy of sitting in gridlock with a bunch of people who think turn signals are optional.”  

“oh, so you chose to be miserable,” you said, turning back to your chopping with deliberate calm. “how very mature of you.”  

“i’m not miserable,” he said, which was a lie of such epic proportions that even he didn’t believe it. “i’m fine. perfectly fine. can’t a man come home without getting interrogated by the food network?”  

your hands stilled on the knife handle. in the three years you’d been married, satoru had never once referred to your cooking as anything other than perfect, divine, or life-changing. he’d never mocked your careful preparations or compared you to cooking shows. he’d certainly never used that particular tone of voice when talking about something you’d spent hours working on.  

“excuse me?” your voice dropped to that dangerously quiet tone that usually made him backtrack and grovel. the same tone you’d used when you’d caught him eating the last of your ice cream at two in the morning, or when he’d accidentally shrunk your favorite sweater in the wash because he’d been too confident about his laundry skills.  

today, it just made him more irritated. even your anger seemed performative, like you were trying to make him feel guilty for having a bad day.  

“you heard me,” he said, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it over the back of the couch with unnecessary force. the expensive fabric wrinkled on impact, and he felt a petty satisfaction at the sight. “i’m tired, i want to eat, and i don’t want to play twenty questions about my day. is that too much to ask?”  

you set the knife down with deliberate precision, the kind of movement that screamed ‘controlled fury.’ your knuckles had gone white where you gripped the edge of the counter, and satoru found himself fixating on the way your chest rose and fell with carefully measured breaths.  

“oh, you want to eat? how convenient.” each word was articulated with the kind of precision that meant you were fighting to keep your voice level. “i’ve been cooking for the past hour because my darling husband texted that he wanted my famous curry tonight. silly me, thinking i was being thoughtful.”  

“i didn’t ask you to spend an hour on it,” satoru said, the words coming out harsher than he intended. the curse was making everything sound like an attack, including your genuine care for him. “i just said i was craving curry. that doesn’t mean you had to go full iron chef about it.”  

your face went through several expressions in rapid succession—confusion, hurt, then something that looked dangerously close to rage. “full iron chef?” you repeated, your voice rising slightly. “i’m sorry, are you complaining about the effort i put into making you dinner?”  

“i’m saying maybe you don’t need to make it such a production,” satoru said, immediately regretting it as your expression shifted to something that could freeze hell over. “it’s just food.”  

the silence that followed was deafening. you stared at him like he’d grown a second head, and satoru felt a small part of his rational mind screaming that he was being an ass, that you were trying to do something nice for him, that he should shut up and apologize right now.  

instead, he doubled down.  

“what?” he said, spreading his hands in a gesture of false innocence. “i’m just saying, it doesn’t have to be a whole event every time. sometimes simple is fine.”  

“simple,” you repeated, and there was something in your voice that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. “you want simple.”  

“i want to eat dinner without feeling like i owe you a standing ovation,” satoru said, the curse twisting his words into something cruel and ungrateful. “is that really so unreasonable?”  

you stared at him for a long moment, and he could see the exact moment you decided you were done with his attitude. your shoulders squared, your chin lifted, and that dangerous calm settled over your features like armor.  

“you know what?” you said, your voice reaching that pitch that made neighborhood dogs howl. “you’re absolutely right. simple is better.”  

you grabbed the cutting board and dumped the half-chopped vegetables directly into the trash, pot and all. satoru watched, horrified, as you tossed the expensive ingredients he’d specifically requested—the organic carrots you’d driven to three different stores to find, the specialty spices you’d ordered online, the grass-fed beef that cost more than most people’s grocery budgets—into the garbage with the efficiency of a woman who’d reached her limit.  

“what are you doing?” he asked, the curse making even his genuine confusion sound accusatory. his eyes—usually the color of summer sky, bright and endless—had gone stormy, like the ocean before a hurricane.  

“keeping it simple,” you said sweetly, the kind of sweet that preceded natural disasters. you pulled off his dress shirt and tossed it at his chest, leaving you in just your tank top and jeans. “since apparently i’m just making everything too complicated.”  

“that’s not—” satoru started, catching the shirt reflexively. it still smelled like you, like vanilla and that perfume he’d bought you for your birthday, and for a moment the curse’s grip loosened enough for him to realize what he was doing.  

“no, no, you’re right,” you continued, moving around the kitchen with purposeful destruction. “why should i waste time making special trips to find your favorite vegetables? why should i follow that complicated recipe you love? why should i light candles and put on music and wear your shirts because i know it makes you happy?”  

with each rhetorical question, you disposed of another carefully prepared element of dinner. the candles got blown out. the music got turned off. the recipe, bookmarked and stained from multiple attempts to perfect it, got shoved back onto the shelf.  

“stop,” satoru said, but his voice came out wrong, still sharp and irritated instead of apologetic. “you don’t have to—”  

“oh, but i do,” you said, spinning around to face him with your hands on your hips. “because apparently i’ve been making things too complicated for you. apparently, my husband thinks putting effort into making him happy is some kind of burden.”  

“that’s not what i said,” satoru protested, but even he could hear how weak it sounded. the curse was making it impossible to find the right words, turning every attempt at explanation into another attack.  

“isn’t it?” you asked, and your voice cracked slightly on the words. “because it sure sounded like you were complaining about me caring too much about you.”  

“i wasn’t—” satoru started, then stopped. because he had been, hadn’t he? he’d taken all your thoughtfulness and thrown it back in your face like it was an inconvenience instead of a gift.  

“you know what the really stupid part is?” you said, and now you were crying, tears streaming down your face while you tried to maintain that fierce expression. “i was actually excited about tonight. i thought, ‘oh, satoru’s having a rough day, let me make him something special.’ i thought it would be nice to spoil you a little.”  

each word hit him like a physical blow, and satoru felt the curse’s influence waver as genuine regret started to seep through. you were crying because of him, because he’d taken your love and twisted it into something ugly.  

“baby—” he started, stepping toward you, but you held up a hand.  

“no,” you said firmly, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. “you don’t get to ‘baby’ me right now. you wanted simple? congratulations. you can order takeout like a simple, uncomplicated person who doesn’t have to worry about anyone making too much effort for them.”  

you stomped past him toward the bedroom, and satoru felt the inexplicable urge to follow you just to continue the argument. the curse was making everything feel like a personal attack, including the way you were clearly giving him the silent treatment.  

“where are you going?” he called after you, his voice echoing in the sudden emptiness of the kitchen.  

“to bed,” you shouted back, not even turning around. “alone. since you’re clearly too mature and sophisticated to appreciate having someone who gives a damn about you.”  

“that’s not—” satoru started, but you were already disappearing into the bedroom.  

“and don’t you dare follow me,” you added, your voice muffled by distance and tears. “i’m too complicated for you right now. wouldn’t want to burden you with my excessive caring.”  

the bedroom door slammed hard enough to rattle the expensive artwork on the walls—pieces you’d chosen together during lazy saturday afternoons, arguing playfully about colors and compositions. the sound reverberated through the penthouse like a gunshot, and satoru was left standing in the kitchen, surrounded by the evidence of your thoughtfulness.  

the fancy ingredients you’d specially ordered, now sitting in the trash like expensive garbage. the cookbook bookmarked to his favorite recipe, pages already stained from previous attempts to perfect it. the apron you’d been wearing that said ‘kiss the cook’ that he’d bought you as a joke but secretly loved seeing you in. the way you’d lit his favorite candles, the ones that smelled like clean laundry and summer rain, now sitting cold and forgotten.  

he should apologize. he should explain about the curse. he should bang down the bedroom door and grovel until you forgave him. instead, what he actually did was stand there feeling sorry for himself and getting progressively more irritated that you were making him feel guilty for having a bad day.  

the curse twisted his regret into resentment, his love into annoyance. by the time he ordered takeout, he’d convinced himself that you were being just as unreasonable as he was, that maybe you were both just having a bad day and tomorrow everything would be fine.  

the thai food tasted like cardboard. the silence felt oppressive. and every time he heard you moving around in the bedroom—the soft sounds of you getting ready for bed, the way you pointedly didn’t come out to say goodnight—he felt a strange combination of longing and irritation that made his chest tight.  

he slept on the couch, if you could call it sleeping. mostly he lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the city below and wondering why everything felt so wrong. his neck cramped from the awkward angle, and his feet hung off the end of the couch, but the discomfort felt deserved somehow.  

at some point in the night, he heard you get up to get water. heard you pause in the hallway, probably looking at him sprawled across the couch in his wrinkled work clothes. for a moment, he thought you might come over, might cover him with a blanket or wake him up to come to bed properly.  

instead, you went back to the bedroom and closed the door softly behind you. the sound was somehow worse than if you’d slammed it. 

satoru woke up feeling like he’d been hit by a truck driven by his own stupidity.  

the couch had left him with a crick in his neck that felt like divine punishment, and his designer suit—still wrinkled from yesterday’s disaster—clung to him like a polyester hair shirt. he blinked at the ceiling, reality crashing down on him with the subtlety of a meteor. his hair, normally defying gravity in perfect tufts of winter moonlight, now lay flat against his skull in greasy defeat.  

”she hates me,” he whispered to the empty living room, his voice hoarse from a night of tossing and turning on furniture that cost more than most people’s cars but apparently wasn’t designed for sleeping. his fingers clutched the throw blanket you’d probably covered him with at some point during the night—because even when you wanted to strangle him, you couldn’t let him freeze to death. the realization made his chest cave in on itself like a poorly constructed soufflé.  

he fumbled for his phone with the desperation of a man checking his life support systems. the screen blazed to life, and there it was: absolutely nothing. no texts. no passive-aggressive memes about husbands who didn’t appreciate home cooking. no angry face emojis that somehow conveyed more disappointment than actual words ever could.  

this was worse than fighting. this was the kind of silence that preceded relationship extinction events.  

satoru’s brain started spiraling in that particular way that made him question every life choice he’d ever made, starting with the decision to get out of bed yesterday morning. maybe if he’d just called in sick, claimed food poisoning, faked his own death—anything would have been better than whatever possessed him to insult your cooking like some kind of emotionally constipated neanderthal.  

he dragged himself off the couch, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated. his reflection in the hallway mirror showed a man who looked like he’d been put through a blender set to ’existential crisis’—hair sticking up at angles that defied several laws of physics, eyes the color of winter storms instead of their usual clear-sky brightness, stubble making him look less ’mysterious and attractive’ and more ’recently escaped from somewhere with poor hygiene standards.’  

the bedroom door loomed ahead like the gates of judgment day.  

he knocked with the tentative approach of someone defusing a bomb. ”baby?” his voice came out smaller than intended, almost childlike in its uncertainty. the silence that followed felt heavy enough to crush him. ”sweetheart? love of my life? reason for my continued existence on this mortal plane?”  

nothing. not even the courtesy of telling him to go away.  

his ear pressed against the door revealed the soft sounds of you moving around—the whisper of fabric, the barely audible pad of bare feet against hardwood. you were awake. you were choosing to ignore him. somehow, this felt worse than active hatred.  

satoru started pacing the hallway like a caged animal, his hands working through his hair until it achieved new levels of chaos. the motion was automatic, nervous, the same way he’d fidget during particularly boring clan meetings when he wanted to teleport straight through the floor. except now he was fidgeting because his wife—his brilliant, sharp-tongued, perpetually grumpy wife who somehow loved him despite overwhelming evidence that she shouldn’t—was giving him the silent treatment, and he deserved every second of it.  

he caught a whiff of your perfume clinging to the throw pillow he’d been clutching, that familiar vanilla-and-something-else scent that made him want to bury his face in your neck and never come up for air. the smell wrapped around him like a accusation.  

”she really hates me,” he whispered to his reflection, which stared back with the hollow-eyed desperation of a man who’d royally screwed up the best thing in his life.  

that’s when his brain, in its infinite wisdom, decided that teleportation was the answer.  

the bedroom materialized around him in a shimmer of cursed energy, and there you were—a fortress of blankets with only the top of your head visible, dark hair spilling across the pillow like spilled ink. you were curled away from where he’d appeared, and satoru’s heart did something complicated and painful when he realized you’d probably sensed his incoming presence and rejected it preemptively.  

you didn’t flinch. didn’t speak. didn’t even acknowledge that your husband had just violated several laws of physics to grovel in your general vicinity. the indifference was worse than anger. anger he could work with. anger meant you still cared enough to feel something about his existence.  

”hi,” satoru said weakly, his voice cracking like he was thirteen again and asking someone to the school dance. his hands hung useless at his sides, fingers twitching with the urge to reach for you even though he’d probably get his hand bitten off. ”please don’t kill me.”  

the blanket mountain remained unmoved, a monument to his spectacular failure as a husband.  

he sank to the floor beside the bed like a deflated balloon, crossing his legs in the world’s most expensive timeout corner. the hardwood was cold against his tailbone, but discomfort felt appropriate. deserved, even. his brain was doing that thing where it replayed every terrible moment from yesterday on an endless loop, each replay making him cringe harder.  

the way he’d snapped at you for caring. the way he’d dismissed hours of effort like it was nothing. the way your face had crumpled before you’d gotten angry, that split second of pure hurt that he’d caused with his stupid, cursed mouth.  

”okay,” he began, staring at the curve of blankets that contained his entire world. his voice came out rougher than he’d intended, scraped raw by a night of self-loathing and couch-sleeping. ”i was cursed. cursed! and not even in a cool, tragic, romantic way where you have to kiss me to break it or i turn into a beast with fabulous hair. just cursed to be the absolute worst possible version of myself at the worst possible moment.”  

still nothing. the silence stretched between them like a chasm, and satoru felt himself falling into it.  

”i hated everything yesterday,” he continued, his fingers picking at a loose thread on his shirt cuff. ”the elevator music made my teeth itch. my reflection looked like it owed me money. the hallway carpet seemed personally offended by my existence. and your carrots—” his voice broke slightly, remembering the precise way you’d cut them, each piece exactly the same size because you knew he noticed things like that ”—your perfect, beautiful carrots that you cut with surgical precision because somehow, inexplicably, you know that i have opinions about vegetable consistency.”  

he crawled closer to the bed, his knees protesting against the hardwood. the movement felt pathetic, but he was beyond caring about dignity. his hands gripped the edge of the comforter like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.  

”the curse made everything feel wrong,” he said, his forehead pressed against the mattress. the fabric smelled like you, like home, like everything he’d almost lost because he couldn’t keep his stupid mouth shut. ”it took all your thoughtfulness and twisted it in my head until it looked like judgment instead of love. but that’s not an excuse. there’s no excuse for what i said to you.”  

a small shift in the blankets. barely perceptible, but satoru had made a career out of reading the subtlest changes in cursed energy. he knew the difference between sleeping movements and listening movements, and this was definitely listening.  

his heart did something acrobatic and desperate in his chest.  

”i would eat every single curry you ever make,” he continued, emboldened by that tiny sign of life from the blanket fortress. his voice picked up speed, desperation making the words tumble over each other. ”i would drink turmeric straight from the jar and ask for seconds. i would kiss the cutting board you used if it meant i get to hold you again. i would let you practice knife skills on my credit cards. i would learn to appreciate smooth jazz if it meant never seeing that look on your face again.”  

”you said it was just food,” came a muffled voice from somewhere in the depths of egyptian cotton and righteous indignation, and satoru’s entire nervous system short-circuited.  

your voice was rough with sleep and tears and the particular brand of hurt that came from having someone you love dismiss something you’d put your heart into. the sound of it made something crack open in his chest, spilling guilt and regret and desperate, pathetic love all over his ribcage.  

”no,” he said, scrambling to his knees like he was physically trying to climb out of the hole he’d dug. his hands moved frantically, gesturing at nothing, his hair catching the morning light streaming through the windows and turning it into something that looked less like moonlight and more like the aftermath of an explosion. ”no no no. i was lying. that wasn’t me talking, that was the curse and my own stupidity having a baby and raising it wrong.”  

you turned over slowly, like a glacier deciding to shift, and one eye appeared over the edge of the blanket. it was puffy from crying and narrow with suspicion, but it was the most beautiful thing satoru had seen since his own name on a wedding certificate.  

his eyes, normally the kind of blue that made people think of summer skies and endless possibilities, had gone gray around the edges with exhaustion and self-recrimination. they were wide and desperate, pupils dilated like he was in actual physical pain.  

”that curry was art,” he said, his voice cracking with sincerity. ”that curry was love in edible form. that curry was better than—” he paused, his brain catching up with his mouth ”—okay, not better than sex, obviously, because sex with you is like winning the lottery while riding a unicorn through a field of diamonds. but like, tied for second place. with puppies. and that thing you do with your tongue when—”  

”satoru,” you warned, but there was something different in your voice. less ’i want to murder you’ and more ’you’re an idiot but you’re my idiot.’  

he immediately flopped face-first onto the bed beside you, his long limbs arranging themselves in what could generously be called a full-body apology. his voice came out muffled by the duvet, but no less dramatic for it.  

”i don’t deserve you,” he said, and meant it. ”i don’t deserve the way you remember that i like my coffee with exactly two sugars, or the way you buy the expensive vanilla extract because you know i can taste the difference, or the way you cut carrots into perfect little pieces because somewhere in your beautiful, patient brain, you’ve catalogued the fact that i’m a perfectionist about the stupidest things.”  

you shifted again, and he felt the mattress dip as you turned to face him properly. when he lifted his head, you were studying him with that particular expression that meant you were trying to stay mad but finding it increasingly difficult.  

”you smell like takeout and self-pity,” you said, and your voice was still rough around the edges, but there was something softer underneath it. not forgiveness, exactly, but maybe the possibility of eventual forgiveness.  

”do i smell like redemption?” he asked hopefully, lifting himself up on his elbows. his hair was doing that thing where it defied gravity in seventeen different directions, and there was a crease on his cheek from the pillowcase, and somehow he still managed to look unfairly attractive in that rumpled, pathetic way that made you want to either kiss him or throw something at him.  

you studied him for a long moment, taking in the ridiculous hair, the wrinkled shirt, the way he was literally prostrating himself on egyptian cotton like he was worshipping at the altar of your forgiveness. his eyes were doing that thing where they went soft and pleading, like a very tall, very expensive puppy who’d chewed up your favorite shoes but was really, really sorry about it.  

”maybe,” you said finally, your tone carefully neutral. ”if you do the dishes. and the laundry. and never, ever call my cooking ’just food’ again. and if you stop looking at me like that.”  

”like what?” satoru asked, even though he knew exactly what you meant. he was looking at you like you hung the moon and personally arranged all the stars, like you were the answer to every prayer he’d never been brave enough to say out loud.  

”like i’m made of something precious that you’re afraid you’ll break,” you said, and there was a slight flush creeping up your neck that you tried to hide by pulling the blanket higher.  

”but you are,” satoru said simply, and the honesty in his voice made your chest tight. ”you’re the most precious thing in my entire existence, and i almost broke you yesterday, and i’m terrified i’ll do it again because apparently i’m capable of being that stupid.”  

you were quiet for a moment, processing this admission. when you spoke again, your voice was carefully controlled, but he caught the slight waver underneath. ”you’re an idiot.”  

”your idiot,” he corrected, scooting closer until he could rest his head on your pillow. the movement brought him close enough that you could see the dark circles under his eyes, the way his skin was paler than usual, the slight tremor in his hands that suggested he’d been running on anxiety and caffeine. ”forever and always, your idiot.”  

the curry took four hours.  

not because it was supposed to take four hours, but because satoru kept getting distracted by the way you moved around the kitchen, the efficient grace with which you handled knives and spices and the complicated choreography of cooking something properly. he’d stop mid-chop to watch you toast cumin seeds, fascinated by the way you knew exactly when they were done just by the smell.  

”you’re burning the onions,” you said without looking up from the spice grinder, and satoru startled back to attention.  

”i’m not burning them, i’m caramelizing them,” he protested, quickly stirring the pan.  

”those are two different things, and what you’re doing is the first one.”  

”how can you tell without even looking?”  

”because i have functioning senses and twenty years of cooking experience,” you said, but there was fondness in your voice that took the sting out of the words.  

satoru abandoned the onions to wrap his arms around you from behind, his chin resting on top of your head. ”teach me,” he said.  

”teach you what?”  

”everything. how to tell when onions are done. how you know exactly how much salt to add without measuring. how you make everything taste like home.”  

you went still in his arms, something soft and surprised flickering across your face. ”satoru...”  

”i’m serious,” he said, his voice quiet against your hair. ”i want to learn. i want to know how to make the things you love. i want to be able to take care of you the way you take care of me.”  

you turned in his arms, studying his face for any sign that he was just saying what he thought you wanted to hear. but his eyes were clear and earnest, that particular shade of blue that reminded you of deep water, and you could see he meant it.  

”okay,” you said simply.  

”okay?”  

”okay, i’ll teach you. but you have to promise not to get frustrated when you mess up, because you will mess up. repeatedly.”  

”i promise,” satoru said solemnly. ”i will be the most patient student in the history of cooking education.”  

you raised an eyebrow. ”you once threw a tantrum because i asked you to fold fitted sheets.”  

”that was different. fitted sheets are clearly designed by sadists who hate happiness and functional linen closets.”  

”everything is going to be fitted sheets to you when you’re learning to cook properly,” you warned.  

”then i’ll suffer through it,” satoru said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. ”for you, i’ll suffer through a thousand fitted sheets.”  

the curry was, objectively, the best thing either of you had ever tasted.  

maybe it was because you’d made it together, satoru’s hands covering yours as you showed him how to bloom spices, his careful attention as you explained the difference between adding salt at the beginning versus the end. maybe it was because he’d actually listened, asked questions, tasted and adjusted and learned in a way that made your chest warm with something that felt dangerously close to pride.  

or maybe it was just because food always tasted better when it came with a side of forgiveness.  

you sat on the kitchen counter afterward, legs tangled together, sharing bites from the same bowl because satoru claimed it tasted better when you fed it to him. he’d managed to get turmeric stains on his shirt and somehow in his hair, and you had curry under your fingernails and a constellation of spice stains across your apron.  

”this is better than sex,” satoru said solemnly, accepting another spoonful.  

”no, it’s not,” you said, rolling your eyes.  

”okay, you’re right,” he said, grinning. ”but it’s at least in the top five.”  

”what’s the other four?”  

”sex with you, obviously. that thing you do with your tongue. watching you sleep when you don’t know i’m looking. and the face you made when i proposed, like you couldn’t believe i was serious but you were happy about it anyway.”  

your cheeks went pink, and you hid your face against his shoulder. ”you’re ridiculous.”  

”ridiculously in love with you,” he corrected, his arms tightening around you. ”ridiculously, pathetically, embarrassingly in love with you. the kind of love that makes people write terrible poetry and do stupid things like teleport into bedrooms to grovel.”  

”your groveling needs work,” you said, but your voice was muffled against his neck, and he could feel you smiling.  

”i’ll practice,” satoru promised. ”i’ll become the most accomplished groveler in the history of marriage. i’ll grovel so well that people will write legends about it.”  

”just don’t give me a reason to make you grovel again,” you said, pulling back to look at him seriously.  

”never again,” satoru said, and he meant it. ”from now on, i’m going to worship every curry you make like it’s a religious experience. i’m going to appreciate every chopped vegetable like it’s a work of art. i’m going to be so grateful for your existence that it makes people uncomfortable to be around us.”  

”people are already uncomfortable being around us,” you pointed out.  

”then i’ll make it worse,” satoru said cheerfully. ”i’ll be so obviously, disgustingly in love with my wife that small children will ask their parents uncomfortable questions about why that tall man is looking at that woman like she invented happiness.”  

you laughed despite yourself, the sound bright and surprised, and satoru felt something settle in his chest that had been twisted up since yesterday. this was his favorite sound in the world, your laugh when he caught you off guard, when you forgot to be grumpy and let him see the soft parts of you that you usually kept hidden.  

”you’re so stupid,” you said, but you were smiling now, really smiling, and your fingers were playing with the hair at the nape of his neck in that absent way that meant you were happy.  

”stupidly in love with you,” he corrected for the third time, because apparently it bore repeating.  

you kissed him then, soft and sweet and tasting like curry and forgiveness, and satoru thought that maybe being cursed had been worth it if it led to this moment, sitting in his kitchen with turmeric stains and tired eyes and the woman he loved more than breathing choosing to forgive him for being temporarily terrible.  

the afternoon sun slanted through the windows, turning the kitchen golden and warm, and somewhere between the curry and the kissing and the quiet contentment of being understood, satoru realized that this was what happiness looked like. not the big, dramatic moments that people wrote songs about, but the small ones: the way you fit perfectly in the circle of his arms, the way you’d teach him to cook with patience he didn’t deserve, the way you’d choose him again and again even when he gave you every reason not to. it was ordinary and extraordinary all at once, and he was pathetically grateful for every second of it.

[artbligh]

strawberry cream

synopsis: your remote internship at gojo enterprises is going rather well, or you think so, anyway. you sort of relish in how incapable your wildly successful boss is with technology, and at every turn you’re there, prompt and available on slack: his sweet IT intern who pushes her hours to help.

it's all very professional…right?

pairing: ceo!satoru gojo x intern fem!reader

tags: modern au, keeping secrets, SMUT!!, thigh riding, unprotected piv, oral (m!receiving), face fucking (who said that?), sorta rough sex but not really, dirty talk, an overall foulmouthed satoru gojo, creampie, semi-public sex, inappropriate workplace conduct...and one extra tag that i won't say cause it'll ruin the surprise ;)

wc: 11k

a/n: um...so actually what happened was...um...uhhhh

masterlist

18+! mdni <3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Satoru Gojo 5:27pm Still not working.

the message blinks at you from your computer screen. 

you really do enjoy your job. you like both of them, actually.

your internship with gojo enterprises came up sort of serendipitously, happening upon a listing for a paid remote IT intern right as you found a truly beautiful apartment on the outskirts of shibuya. you needed more income to cover the rent, and it wasn’t like your other workplace required that you use your degree.

and you’ve found there is something delightful about putting your college years into practice, particularly because it seemed for so long like you never would. rummaging through the backend of one of the most affluent corporations in the country thrills you a little bit, as silly at it sounds. curled up in your duvet and splayed about in silk pajamas, you pry open the metaphorical breakers of an economic giant and fiddle with the wires.

you suppose, as different as this line of work is from your other job on the face of things, it appeals to the same sort of animal in your belly that drew you to nightlife. you like feeling in control, enjoy the subversion of being so pretty and young and self assured.

you are delighted, too, by how often satoru gojo needs your help.

he has lost his email password at least three times in the last two months, accidentally deleted his own profile from the internal website, and filed his income tax forms in the shared google drive. 

each time you have been there, fingers flying over your keyboard in your slack dms as you sort through his technological missteps. it’s only made more entertaining by how intelligent he clearly is—you are under no illusion—it seems simply his single blind spot rests securely over your area of expertise.

he is…not what you expected. he seems to respect you far more than you had anticipated a CEO to respect his remote intern. he knows that, as it relates to IT, you know better. there is no denial of his mistakes, no shame, only a brief request sent your way with a hint of playful self-deprecation. you like him. 

this most recent problem has spanned almost all afternoon. he’s been locked out of his internal account, it seems. you bite back a smile as you respond to him.

You 5:27pm Hmm. I’ve scanned backend three times now, and everything seems to be working. What’s the error message exactly?

Satoru Gojo 5:28pm Says I don’t have permissions.

now you really are smiling, responding immediately.

You 5:28pm Oh, well I can fix that here, but that’s something another admin could have done, too. Probably not a system error. It says here the other admin is Suguru Geto. Would he have changed permissions for some reason?

he drafts a few responses to that before going silent. suguru geto has never needed your help and is thus wholly enigmatic to you, though you know he is satoru’s CFO; you also know—certainly not because you poked around in their personal slack messages—that they are close childhood friends. it wouldn’t be the first time one had attempted a practical joke on the other, the workplace often caught in the middle, though you commend geto for his foresight to humiliate gojo in the only way gojo couldn’t fix himself.

after a few minutes you see him typing again.

Satoru Gojo 5:34pm Yeah ok it was him. He just did it to mess with me. I’m sorry to have bothered you! :/

your laugh rings through your apartment.

You 5:34pm No worries!

and this should be the end of it, really. but the part of you that you reckon satoru gojo shares—a joy in flagrant pettiness—compels you to keep your computer open. your digital landscape is quiet for a few moments, your dms empty. you stretch your arms over your head and yawn.

ping!

Satoru Gojo 5:37pm On second thought, can I get your help with one more thing?

You 5:37pm Of course

Satoru Gojo 5:37pm You’re too sweet for your own good. Your shift ended 7 minutes ago.

you enjoy this, too. rare moments when his personality bares itself in the way he writes to you: the sort of harmless flirtation that you doubt he even notices as he types it.

you’ve known enough womanizers to know he’s harmless. still, you bask in fleeting moments of his digital attention.

You 5:38pm What can I help you with?

Satoru Gojo 5:39pm Can you make his launch button this link?

Satoru Gojo 5:39pm DON’T OPEN IT

you open it immediately.

oh.

oh.

your bottom lip gets caught under your teeth. of course you knew vaguely what gojo looks like, you had sufficiently googled the company when you first came upon the job listing.

and there are pictures of him everywhere, pretty face splashed under headlines like BILLIONAIRE CEO TURNED PLAYBOY?—that article made you laugh, some ten thousand words about a blurry photo taken outside a nightclub, a white head of hair in motion walking out—but still, in all of them he is pressed perfectly into well-tailored suits, hair brushed through and facial expressed tempered, even trained. he looks so professional, so proper, so terribly handsome, but not quite your type. or, really, a stage before your interest.

you like when men like that are disheveled, hair mussed and skin tacky with sweat.

though this photo he’s attached isn’t all that far off.

something stirs, shakes awake between your legs looking at it. you grin with something devious and awful before responding.

You 5:40pm I have to open it if you want me to use it.

Satoru Gojo 5:41pm Is that true?

no.

You 5:42pm Yes?

Satoru Gojo 5:43pm Did you already look?

You 5:43pm Yes

Satoru Gojo 5:44pm You’re fired

You 5:45pm No I’m not.

Satoru Gojo 5:45pm No, you’re not.

with a giddy little grin you do as he asks. it is entirely unprofessional, you know, but you are surely exempt from blame when doing the bidding of the CEO, right?

you link suguru’s login button to the photo, laughing to yourself lightly.

You 5:50pm I did it. 

You 5:51pm I have to admit I’m sort of surprised you’d ask me to do something so childish on your behalf.

Satoru Gojo 5:51pm He started it

You 5:52pm Aren’t you a CEO?

Satoru Gojo 5:52pm Aren’t you my intern?

You 5:53pm My shift ended 23 minutes ago.

Satoru Gojo 5:54pm So then you’ve committed this “childish act” for me out of the kindness of your heart?

You 5:55pm No, actually. I get paid double for overtime.

Satoru Gojo logged off 5:55pm

your heartbeat rings lightly in your ears, you feel like you might have rattled him a little and that delights you to no end.

you wonder what he imagines you look like. surely he could have searched your name, though any photos of your face wouldn’t be attached there. 

there are, of course, ample photos of your face across the internet, most of them behind a paywall, though some of the tamer ones are available for free. but all of them are under a different name.

you had chosen tsukiko, meaning moon child, as your stage name initially as something of a joke. she isn’t an alter ego so much as an exaggerated caricaturization of your femininity, one who feeds on starlight and slinks about in the dark. you delegate the hungrier parts of yourself, the parts that ache and need for things, to her.

your manager at club cabal had spotted you first at a stoplight waiting to cross the street, pin striped pencil skirt down to your knees and shiny black pumps in each hand. you had been looking for months for a full time job, but the market was so saturated by then with IT workers that there seemed to be no space for you. you remember leaning your forehead against the cool metal of the stoplight pole, surely infected with some fifty diseases but you weren’t in a place to mind, when an enormous and glamorously dressed woman approached you. 

you remember so clearly what she said to you, the words cutting through your delirium and sinking sense of defeat: you look absolutely riveting in business clothes.

you barely had the wherewithal to lift your head but nonetheless you had, assessing all six feet of her, draped in fine furs and silk gloves. the whole getup would have looked like a costume on anyone else but she wore it all with such purpose that it looked like the most natural outfit in the world. 

you still cringe thinking about the tactless way you’d simply replied: “huh?”

she had laughed at you, but there was no humiliation in it, she almost seemed endeared to you, amused and halfway pleased by the bleary look on your face. she had handed you an ivory business card, embossed and shiny with her name and her place of work.

長澤長子 (nagasawa hisako)

CLUB CABAL MANAGER

“come to see me if you’d like to make some real money,” she offered, not waiting for your reply before strutting back down the block, coat fluttering in the evening wind like a cloak.

when your savings dipped into the single digits a week later you paid her a visit.

working at the most exclusive hostess bar in tokyo fits you stunningly well. your clients are disallowed from propositioning you, serving you alcohol, offering you drugs, and, most importantly, touching you. you spend your weekday evenings in clothes that could pass as business formal if they were longer—tiny miniskirts and button-ups that urged the plush of your tits to spill out—and entertain the most wealthy business people of the tokyo metropolitan area.

all of them just want someone to talk to, you have come to learn. it helps, naturally, that you arrive to them dripping in sex appeal, but most of your returning clients seem to remember first and foremost the way you speak to them. 

after two years collecting a rather well-to-do roster of exclusive clientele, hisako began operating you out of a private room. 

and there are real, tangible things you have learned from catering to top performers in all fields. you might have majored in math and CS but you know now, too, about the global economy, about agriculture, about the intricacies of factory-owning. 

and you flare bright, a star in spinning orbit, in that subtle performance under the moody lighting of the club. every hand gesture, every curl of your lips, it all means something, and the fine precision has come to excite you. you are untouchable there, a coveted thing, paid to see.

speaking of which, you think, it’s about time to get ready.

you have very few reservations tonight, though you don’t mind much now that you have your own space. you extend your legs across the couch, stilettos hanging off each foot as you tap them to the humming bass of the music. your room sits right off the main hallway, just big enough for a plush, navy couch and a coffee table, wiped shiny between clients. lanterns hang golden and coy at each corner, illuminating your face just enough to provoke your visitors to lean in closer.

you can hear the distinct click of hisako’s heels as they approach your door, and you turn your head on the armrest with a smile to greet her.

“hi baby,” she coos. you sit up and cross one leg over the other, lest she have a client in tow.

“good evening,” you reply with a smile. she leans on the threshold with a conspiratorial grin.

“i have a new client for you. a real big hitter. can you handle him?”

you tilt your head. “are you really asking me that?”

she laughs, full-bodied. “i guess not,” she muses, turning back to send him in. you pull a chilled bottle of sake from a small fridge at one end of the couch and place a glass next to it on the coffee table.

there are about 30 seconds as a client approaches your door when you learn some of the most vital things about them. the weight of their shoes, the sound their clothes make as they walk, whether they make conversation with the other hostesses passing by, all of it is catalogued as you listen. 

the so-called big hitter makes his way towards your door with purpose, though he is in no rush. his footsteps fall deliberately, a hair’s breadth away from heavy but not quite, just fast enough to sound intentional, just slow enough to keep from missing your door. 

the face they make when they enter matters, too. how they assess you, where they look, you cater your posture to their tastes. an interested man is an honest man, you have found, and you learn the most when they want you. 

the door swings open.

fuck.

fuck.

he is so tall he takes up almost the entire doorway, weight leaned on one hip like he’s waiting to be invited in, though surely confident enough to know you will. his suit is bespoke, you can tell from the way it sits just so on his shoulders, and he’s loosened his tie a centimeter or two. he’s one of the most attractive young men you’ve ever seen in your life, which would typically excite you. you love beautiful clients. 

but blinking at you from a few feet away is satoru gojo.

your boss.

satoru gojo.

is at your door.

for one of the first times in your entire career, you have no idea the sort of look pulled across your face. what the fuck are you supposed to do?

you know you have at most one more second before the silence shifts from anticipatory into awkward, and you consume it in full to think. okay. gojo has no clue what you look like, of this much you are almost certain. further, the name on your door is not one he would recognize. by all accounts the person who sits before him has absolutely no relation to his remote IT intern, despite the fact that you’re in fact the same woman. you take stock of his face; if you have any sense left, you think he shows no sign of recognition on your face.

okay. you swallow. refusing him would be a first for you, and by hisako’s description he’s an important client to please. you almost laugh at yourself for that thought; of course he’s an important client to please, he’s something like the wealthiest man in the country. 

what is there to do other than act as though he’s any other customer?

you smile, small and wry, and gesture him inside. gojo nods his head in hello, closing the door behind him and settling gracefully on the other end of the couch. his legs are long and spread so far his knee almost touches yours, almost, and he reclines back into the upholstery like he owns the room. you suppose he could, if he had any interest. he holds a broad hand out to you, smiling sharp and wolfish. he likes you.

“it’s nice to meet you. you can call me satoru.”

if you can push beyond the strangeness of meeting your boss like this, you acknowledge the unique position you have been unceremoniously pushed into. namely, that unlike any other first-time client, you know a great deal about him.

you smile warmly but don’t move your hand to shake his. “it’s my pleasure.”

he wiggles his fingers slightly. “you don’t shake hands?”

“you know the rules, satoru,” you admonish lightly.

he chuckles and lowers his hand. “i guess i was hoping otherwise.”

you move to pour him a glass of sake and feel his eyes trace you as you bend. his irises flit over the swell of your breasts, the arch of your back, though he stays reposed back into the cushions, watching you like a predator. you coach a smile that doesn’t reveal what is becoming clearer to you with each moment: it’s almost fun to have this secret. 

or it would be, if your internship wasn’t on the line.

it may still be, actually.

you cross your other leg over, let the tip of your stiletto hang close to his shin. the muscle of his thigh twitches but he remains still.

“so what brings you here tonight?”

gojo keeps his eyes on you over his glass as he takes a slow pull. he smacks his lips lightly, shrugging. “i wanted company.”

“do you struggle to find good company?” you tease.

he tilts his head back and forth, thinking, before admitting, “yeah, i guess i do.”

“i find that sort of hard to believe.”

the corner of gojo’s mouth tilts up. “and why’s that?”

you roll your eyes lightly. “you’ll have to work a little harder if you want me to stroke your ego that overtly.”

“i’ll work as hard as it takes,” he fires back, only half joking.

your laugh is breathy and real. he communicates himself rather well over slack, you think. all the cheekiness, all the bite, you have felt moments of it in your communications online. though seeing it all from his mouth is a different beast you are, if you can admit it, becoming increasingly elated to face. how fucking hot he looks while talking is not something easily captured online.

“so what do you do for work, satoru?”

you hope that question is convincing. he didn’t tell you his last name on purpose, you think. 

“i run a business.” his eyes are narrowed almost imperceptibly, and it unnerves you, so you bend at the waist again to refill the sip he took from his glass. the tension in his face goes limp watching the curve of your ass.

“what sort of business?”

“oh, it’s all so boring,” he dismisses, sounding almost disappointed that you’d ask.

you scoff and chuckle all at once. “most of my clients come to talk about their work.”

he extends an arm across the back of the couch, fingers a few inches from your neck but still not touching. you let him.

“i think that’d be a waste.”

“why’s that?”

“i could pay a lot less money for someone who doesn’t look like you to listen to stories about my work.”

you breathe in sharply. he’s fun. “you could pay a lot less money for someone you could touch, too,” you add.

his eyes flit a moment to his hand, so close to your skin, surely sensing the warmth of you, but still making no move to actually feel. it seems almost like he gets off on the not-touching, like that inch of space between you thrills him. he flexes all five fingers.

“i find that pretty boring, too,” he murmurs.

“you don’t like fucking pretty girls?” 

your sudden crassness makes him shift, crossing one leg over the other. he liked that. 

“i suppose i’m just tired of it now.”

your grin grows. “oh, i see, so you’ve fucked too many pretty girls.”

he shrugs with that predatory smile, running his free hand through his hair to muss it slightly. “the waiting’s the best part anyway.”

“so what do you find not boring?” you ask.

he looks at the ceiling in a show of consideration that makes you laugh. his gaze snaps back to you at the sound, immediately preening with it. “you’re doing a pretty good job so far.”

your scoff only sets him alight further, scooting just barely closer to you, angling his legs so they still don’t touch yours. but you’re tucked further into his side now, noses closer, and it makes something animal inside you flex and bite. your thighs squeeze quickly but you track his eyes as they catch the movement.

“see that, right there,” his hair flops to one side, loose now from its gel in all his fussing, “you’re scoffing at me. do you know how rare that is?”

he seems genuinely delighted, whole-heartedly excited by your diminutive little noise.

“oh i see,” you start, “you like being degraded?”

he scrunches his nose and it’s sort of boyish. “no, honestly, not really. i just have so few people in my life that treat me like a real person.”

you chew on this slowly. “so you…” a coy smile breaks through, “you came to a hostess bar for the humanity?” but you can hardly finish your sentence without laughing again, light and amused but real, and he chuckles at himself, too.

“yeah, i guess so.”

you feel his pointer finger brush the skin at the back of your neck and you shudder, narrowing your eyes at him again. he corrects himself immediately, pulling away, and breathing out, “sorry. i forgot.”

you can see on his face that he means it.

“tell me about your life, little moon,” he says, voice low and quieter as it fans over your face. when did you get so close together? both of your bodies contort beyond reasonable expectation to fit so closely without touching.

you have never felt quite so charmed by a client before. whether it’s because you already feel so familiar with him outside of this room or the appeal of harboring this secret you cannot decipher, but nonetheless you are doing things you would normally never allow yourself. you have never leaned so close before, have flirted so overtly with the breaking of a rule you have historically enjoyed.

you want him to touch you. for so many reasons that is a terrible, life-alteringly horrific idea.

you try to speak with him instead.

“little moon?” you ask.

he points to your door. “tsukiko. moon-child,” he clarifies, but something thinly veiled and knowing tugs at his lips.

you hum. 

“but i guess that isn’t your real name, is it?”

something about the low rumble of his voice tickles at your spine, makes you want to arch into his touch. you’re trying so hard to remember yourself, to remember who he is.

“i don’t think it’s wise for me to answer that question.”

he doesn’t miss a beat. “then answer my other one. tell me about your life.” you hesitate and he grins. “or scoff at me again.”

you smile and push an amused breath through your nose. this is a somewhat perilous trap of a question but you don’t show it on your face.

“wouldn’t that ruin the illusion? peeking behind the curtain and all?”

“what illusion do you think i’m under?”

you appraise his face slowly. you suppose you don’t have an answer to that, so you relent to his other question, at last.

“i’m fairly boring outside of this job, actually.”

“i don’t believe that.”

“i spend all my time here and at home.”

“oh, little moon, such a shame. pretty young thing all alone all the time?”

the teasing lilt of his voice, sweeping in that low whisper of a register, makes your thighs clench again. he doesn’t even look this time, only grins a little bigger to show you he knows.

“i’m around people all the time, people are my job,” you argue.

“that’s not the sort of alone i’m talking about.”

you cannot help but want to play this game with him, you lob the ball back, though your voice comes out a fraction more breathless than usual. “what sort of alone are you talking about then, satoru?”

“well i can’t touch you,” you can feel his pointer finger hover over your shoulder again, intentional this time, running a knuckle so close you can sense it without looking, but still not touching. “but is anyone?”

you’re taking in a stuttering breath in an attempt to respond but he continues, lips closer to the shell of your ear.

“surely someone gets to feel this tight pussy, huh?”

you huff out all your air, fuck you’re so wet and he’s looking at you like you can smell it. what the fuck is happening? you have never, ever reacted to a client this way. and better yet, this is your boss.

but rationality slips from your ears and down your neck, you think, because you only shake your head.

pity drips from his voice like honey, every ounce of power you implicitly relinquish to him a thing he takes on with what appears to be great pleasure.

“surely you must have needs.”

“i can take care of myself, but i appreciate your concern.” your double entendre doesn’t dawn upon you until you’ve already said it and he’s laughing with a lewd sort of tenderness. your face burns and you make use of your remaining faculty, looking away from him knowing he cannot tilt your chin back himself.

“uh huh. and how often are you…taking care of yourself?”

“i don’t have to answer that.” that’s a weak retort and you both know it.

“no, you don’t.”

you try to deflect. “i thought fucking pretty girls bored you.”

“i’m not fucking you, am i? unless you’ve had a change of heart about the touching rule.”

“no,” you reply, as firmly as you can manage, though something below your navel is bellowing for him.

“i figured not,” he admits, leaning just slightly further into you, whispering low and hot into your ear, “it’s enough just knowing how fucking wet you are in that little skirt just from the sound of my voice.”

your mouth drops open in disbelief, head snapping towards his, so close your noses almost bump. “i’m not,” you protest, voice clipped. fucking liar. 

“no?”

“no.”

“why don’t you prove it for me?” he taunts softly.

you squeeze your thighs harder, desperate for any sort of friction, anything, but your restraint is waning with him whispering so sinfully in your ear.

“you’re not allowed to touch me,” you remind him again.

“but you can touch me, can’t you?”

this is a suggestion you’ve heard from a few patrons before but it’s a first to feel so tempted to take one up on it. you search his face for anything to tether to, looking for a reason to refuse, but god he’s so pretty and you want him. he has almost as keen an eye as you do, you think, because he sees the moment your trepidation lowers.

“why don’t you get on my thigh and let me feel?”

his legs uncross and he splays them out, a saddle for you. your eyes drop there, and then to the tent in his slacks as they pull tight across his hips, to his face—wild and manic—and then back again. shit. 

you brace one hand on his shoulder, just to see what he’ll do. he tenses with the contact but doesn’t move, doesn’t make to grab at you. you look at each other a moment longer, both of you waiting for something terrible or wonderful or both, and then you’re swinging one bare leg over his, settling slowly on his pant leg, skirt fanned just to the middle of your thigh.

the pressure of his muscle under your swollen clit makes you whimper as soon as you sit down and a breath punches from his lungs but still he does as you have asked, still he doesn’t touch you. he tilts his head to the side, mouth parted. 

“come on, little moon,” he encourages lowly. “use me.” he punctuates it with a little bounce of his leg and you’re gone.

you start slow, dragging your clit on the warmth of his slacks, surely leaving something shiny and humiliating behind but you can’t find it in you to care. you brace your other hand on his other shoulder for balance, rolling your hips faster now, mewling quietly as he watches with rapt attention.

“you’re fucking soaked, aren’t you? that all for me?”

you nod wordlessly but he bounces his leg again. you only barely stop yourself from screaming. “answer me.”

“f-fuck, yes, satoru, f-for you,” you exhale, words stuttering and stumbled as your stomach tenses with your movement. the pleasure whips through your body, coils around your diaphragm and around your hole. you flutter and pulse and surely he feels it, how badly you want to be filled. his fists clench at his sides watching it, cock aching and huge from the looks of it, jumping in time with your little grinds along the fabric.

with each roll you thrust harder, whimpering as the feeling bubbles and smokes inside of you. “fuck,” you whisper, to yourself or to him you do not know.

“fuck you look so fucking—oh that’s it—perfect humping me like a slut,” he groans.

you throw your head back, rolling your hips harder, faster, you need to cum and it’s so close you can taste it, can feel it between your fingers. he takes the opportunity to lean closer to your neck, exhaling slowly on the beating of your jugular.

“i’m so cl-close,” you whine.

he bares his teeth against your skin. “oh baby you really did need it, huh? cumming so fast.”

you nod, all pretenses and attempts at self-possession abandoned. the maw of your heat unhinges its jaw as ecstasy washes over you, hips gone frantic and lost of all rhythm, riding your high as you gush over the fabric of his pants. he moans with you watching it happen, feeling the wet heat spread across his thigh.

with one final sigh you slow to a stop, panting lightly. when you raise your head to meet his eyes again you feel something like sheepishness coiling feverish in your chest but his expression is so open in its wanting that the humiliation doesn’t last.

“fuck,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. 

with the remaining shreds of your crazed desire you are put upon to slide two fingers past the hem of your panties, collecting your slick where it pools. you raise them in front of his face, shiny and tacky.

“open,” you order softly.

he obeys immediately, gratefully. you press your fingers lightly on his tongue and his eyes almost roll back, half-lidded as he licks your fingers clean, his groaning around them reverberating down your hand. you pull away with a faint pop.

“you are fantastic,” he breathes, as dazed as you are.

you smile something small and honest, slowly disentangling yourself from him to right yourself on the couch again. 

“thank you,” you say, for the compliment and…for everything else, you suppose.

he almost seems nervous now that he’s seen you cum. his cock is still obscenely swollen in his pants, still jumps every time you look at it, but it feels like he’s swallowed his swagger along with your cum. he reaches for his sake cup and takes it all in one swig before standing.

“i’ll…see you again, i’m sure,” he says as he makes for the door. you sort of want to giggle at the absurdity of it all, at this situation you find yourself in. but then he turns back, as if remembering something, and digs through his pocket.

he pulls out a wallet, leather and embossed with the kanji of his name, a tidbit you know but cannot divulge. yes, the fact is slapping you across the face again: this is your boss. 

he throws something to the tune of 150 thousand yen on the table, for the first time looking less than certain about what to do. you think for a moment that he seems like he’s just remembered, there at the threshold and one foot out the door, that this has been first and foremost a transactional encounter. 

when the sound of his expensive shoes walking down the hallway fades into silence—or as close to silence as the club is capable—you hang your head in your hands. what the fuck did you just do?

the next week passes like torture. for the first time in your life you dread going to work, dread seeing him again; even worse you spend equal time hoping he’ll turn up at your private room. satoru gojo plagues you, plagues tsukiko, infiltrates somewhere deeper beyond the character.

to add insult to injury, you are subject to continued messages from him under your real name, a new character borne of necessity under the pretense that you didn’t fuck his thigh last thursday. though you suppose the only benefit to keeping such close contact with him is that you do not have to wonder when he doesn’t turn up for a week after his first appearance; you know he is busy, know he’s working past sunset, and you have the slack receipts to prove it.

he is as hopeless with his computer as he has always been—you suppose a clandestine encounter with a hostess wouldn’t have changed that—and every time he turns to you, endlessly grateful and funny and reverent, somehow, of the ways in which you help him.

like now.

Satoru Gojo 6:06pm Sweet intern

normally you would have logged off by now, but you have the night off from the club, and what better way to spend your evening than with a glass of wine and engaged in a treacherous IT session with your boss and best single-visit client?

you nibble on your lip as you respond.

You 6:06pm Good evening

Satoru Gojo 6:07pm My evening has been terrible.

You 6:07pm More computer troubles?

Satoru Gojo 6:08pm You must think I’m an idiot.

You 6:09pm Definitely not.

Satoru Gojo 6:09pm Helpless?

You 6:10pm Something like that.

oh god. did you just send that? you need to log off. take a week of PTO. do anything other than continue responding while a little tipsy and still fucking horny for him. to his credit, he takes that comment in stride.

Satoru Gojo 6:11pm I appreciate your honesty.

Satoru Gojo 6:11pm And yes, more computer troubles.

You 6:12pm Do tell.

Satoru Gojo 6:13pm Suguru retaliated

You 6:14pm From your retaliation? It’s becoming a vicious cycle.

Satoru Gojo 6:14pm He logged me out of my Partiful account

you almost spit up wine laughing at him.

You 6:15pm Why is your Partiful account attached to your business email?

Satoru Gojo 6:15pm It’s a business party!

You 6:16pm Go ahead and request the Forgot Password email. It should send to the domain admin (me) and I’ll fix it for you. It’ll be a temp password and then you can reset when you log in again.

it’s an easy fix; so many of his requests are. he is never any less grateful.

Satoru Gojo 6:18pm Thank you thank you!

case in point.

you begin to rise from your bed to refill your glass when another ping! lights up your screen. 

Satoru Gojo 6:20pm Do you live in Tokyo?

you pause. is this…still business related?

You 6:21pm Yes

Satoru Gojo 6:21pm You should come by then.

something skittish pokes from behind your ribs. 

You 6:22pm Come to what?

Satoru Gojo 6:23pm This business party. It’s the company’s 100th anniversary. You can come by the office, meet your poor disciples in person

despite everything that still makes you smile. 

of course, you cannot under any circumstances attend. the moment he sees you in person he’ll know, likely firing you in the middle of the party. and he’ll know, too, that the night you met in person, you knew who he was even though he took great care to equivocate. was that a betrayal on your part? should you have suggested he leave that night when he walked in?

it’s all so hazy now, glossed over with your lust and his, the heat a contagion you haven’t quite baptised yourself of.

his message blinks before you still.

You 6:25pm I’m busy that night, unfortunately

Satoru Gojo 6:25pm I haven’t told you what night it is yet

are you the stupidest young woman on the planet? it is so unfamiliar to feel so out of control, your grip slack where it normally tightens, white-knuckled.

you aren’t entirely ready to concede.

You 6:26pm I just don’t do well with people.

lie.

Satoru Gojo 6:26pm I really would like it if you dropped by. You don’t have to stay for long.

you groan aloud.

Satoru Gojo 6:27pm You’ve helped me so much the last few months

Satoru Gojo 6:28pm It’s next Friday at 7pm. Most people will be there straight from work so business formal is fine. I hope you’ll come

the truth—it descends upon you like wrath, venomous and toothy—is that you have no options. you cannot deny the CEO at the company for which you intern three times. you also surely cannot attend, cannot let him see your face. but the former is a more pressing problem, you suppose. maybe it’s the wine, but you feel your resolve bruising into submission.

maybe this is for the best; you’ve saved enough now that you can stay in this apartment long enough to find another job. and was it really sustainable to continue to work alongside gojo after what happened at the club?

the terrible part of you—you’ll never forgive her—wants to think you would sustain this as long as it was viable. but the rest of you acknowledges that the lifespan has arrived at its bloody, inelegant end.

You 6:30pm Okay

there is something deeply ironic about zipping up a pencil skirt of appropriate length in preparation to go see satoru gojo again. your stockings are sheer and black, catching the light where your foot curves into the lowest heels you managed to find in your closet. no matter how you arrange your gray sweater over your torso you feel sort of crude-looking. you have come to associate this style of clothing so closely with the club that you cannot process your silhouette in the mirror as anything other than whorish.

with a manic sort of giggle you think, oh well. you’re getting fired anyway!

you’ve considered, over the last week, feigning sickness or some personal tragedy, all manner of terrible scenarios which would keep you from the party. but in the first place you suspect, after your couplet of dreadful attempts at rejecting the invitation, that he would know outright you were simply trying to weasel your way out of the obligation. 

and secondly, some naive part of you does want to go. the other coworkers you’ve helped online seemed so excited when they found out you had committed to come: yuuji itadori, a new hire who seems entirely incapable of recalling his passwords, kento nanami, a clearly whip-smart high-level employee who harbors a secret fear of pressing buttons he doesn’t understand, ieri shoko, an altogether efficient young woman who simply cannot remember to clock in and out.

you have put in tangible time of your life to help these people, and in turn have forged something like friendships with them. what you had said to gojo that night is true; other than the club, you don’t encounter people much. there is something embarrassingly exciting to you about solidifying, even if only for ten minutes, these little bonds you find you care a lot about.

the gojo enterprises building is enormous and beautifully designed, you notice, as you walk towards the revolving entrance doors. the scaffolding gleams in sleek gray steel, large windows across swaths of floors cleaned to a pristine shine. the lobby is still full of people, even at this hour, shuffling about in all directions along the marble flooring.

nobody seems to pay you any attention, which soothes your nerves slightly. at least only you and him will know you’re a slut. 

you approach a pretty young woman at the front desk, hair cut recently in an auburn bob that suits her face.

“um…hi,” you begin, resting one hand on the counter. “i’m here for the office party?”

she smiles at you easily, like you aren’t about to be fired and potentially publicly humiliated. “wonderful! it’s on the penultimate floor, so just click the second button from the top.”

you nod and thank her, heartbeat increasingly demanding in the cavity of your ribs. a part of you remembers the way gojo acted that night, how pliable and kind he remained even as he paid you and stumbled out. you’d like to think the man you know—both versions—would spare you the degradation of announcing your misdeeds in front of everyone. it’s not like he isn’t lewdly implicated in such an announcement, either.

but you can’t help the slight tremble in your hands as you press on the button and it chimes, thrusting you upwards.

the last thing you consider before the doors open is that he simply won’t mind, that you’ll laugh about it together. it’s a little startling how much you find you’re hoping that he isn’t upset with you. 

and then the doors slide open.

you are reminded, as you wade through the gaggle of people chatting over champagne, that the only person here who knows what you look like is gojo, and even he might not realize at the outset that you are you. you have no way of recognizing your familiar coworkers, and thus no reasonable way to begin conversation with anyone. you make a beeline for the bar.

you assess the room around you from the far end, nursing your champagne with as much poise as you can manage. this floor has only a few, large desks in an open bullpen, surrounded by even larger board rooms flush with long, dark tables and leather seats. at the far left corner you see two single-person offices with plaques by the doors, surely gojo and geto’s offices, you think.

you cannot see gojo anywhere, though you’re unable to decide whether that’s a relief or a disappointment. you scrutinize the crowd so hard you hardly sense the figure approaching at your side until they’re already there. a deep voice clears its throat.

the man you find when you turn is rather beautiful. hair long and dark around his shoulders, face sharp and fox-like, eyes the sort of keen that might frighten someone who didn’t enjoy observant people so much. you give him a polite smile.

“you’re new,” he says simply.

you shake your head. “only partly.” you hold your hand out to shake and tell him your name. “i’m actually your remote IT intern,” you explain.

the man smiles wider, almost secretive, and assesses you quickly. his eyes rake down your form, across your face, but it isn’t hungry so much as it feels vigilant, void of the voyeuristic heat you’re used to. 

he introduces himself: “suguru geto.”

you grin at him, laughing a little. “it’s great to meet you. i’ve been wondering what you’re like.”

he raises one eyebrow. “that so?”

you realize only now that it’s more difficult than you anticipated to speak with attractive men in a different way than how you talk at the club.

“i just mean that you’ve never needed my help. i only know the technologically-challenged of you.”

he chuckles. “you must know satoru well.”

actually, you go back on your previous thought; you are positively indebted to your time at the club. all your practiced grace and easy charm prevents you from choking on your champagne. just barely. 

“yeah, in fact, i do.”

“are you the one who helps him get back at me?”

“guilty as charged.”

he clicks his tongue in his mouth. “i knew he couldn’t have been doing it on his own.”

you take another sip of your drink. “i really am sorry for my participation,” you assure him, “but when the CEO demands you attach a lewd photo to your launch button i don’t have much of a choice.”

geto’s lips tug up at one corner. “so you saw that photo then?”

heat licks over your nose and you hope the fluorescents cover it. “unfortunately, yes.”

“he’ll be so hurt you said that.”

your eyes widen only slightly, but you know he catches it. you try to imbue your voice with the casual leisure you hope to convey. “don’t tell him.”

he clinks his glass against yours with a small, knowing smile. “you have my word.” and then, over his shoulder as he begins to walk back into the heart of the party, he adds: “it was nice to meet you.”

you wave him off politely, leaning again against the bar.

your attention is pulled quickly towards a broad, blonde man as he approaches the bar, another, much younger man seemingly attached to his hip. 

“no, itadori, you can’t handle your alcohol,” the older man admonishes.

“please? it’s the company party, nanamin,” he pouts.

you smile to yourself. two of your frequent flyers.

“look, you’re an adult,” kento sounds wholly unconvinced of this, even as he says it, “but if you’re asking my permission for some godforsaken reason, then i’ll tell you–”

“wait a second,” yuuji stops. it takes you a second to realize he’s looking at you. “aren’t you our IT intern?”

you sputter in surprise. “i–um…yes?”

yuuji beams. “i knew it! it’s nice to meet you in person.” his handshake is so firm and eager it jostles you a little bit. something lost in his online translation is how frenetic of a thing he is, bouncing about in a constant state of buzzing that endears you to him.

“how did you know it was me?”

“he has a weird sense for those things,” nanami interjects, taking your hand next.

“it’s really nice to meet you both,” you smile.

“thank you so much for all your help. i was just mentioning to gojo how i wouldn’t ever get any work done without you.”

“you said that to gojo?” nanami asks disapprovingly, though yuuji doesn’t even seem to register it.

“i know he wanted to meet you, too. i’ll go get him!” he chirps, bounding off between people beyond your reach, not hearing—or choosing to ignore—your feeble oh no you don’t have to!

you turn back to nanami to find an almost pitying look on his face. you scrunch your nose. “is he that bad in person?”

“he’s…a lot,” he qualifies.

you lean an elbow on the counter of the bar, watch your champagne swirl about in the flute. “it’s sort of strange meeting all of you in person,” you admit.

nanami scans the throng briefly again, quickly muttering into his own drink: “into the eye of the hurricane.”

you have only a moment too little to discern what he means.

“—and he keeps taking my champagne away,” itadori grumbles.

lord help you you recognize gojo’s footsteps as they approach, still as certain as you remember them, and the discs of your spine align in a taut stack, but you do not turn to him.

his laugh is easy, unaware, the low scratch of it only a few feet away now, but you learned that night that he watches when he speaks. he doesn’t see you yet, surely still turned and attentive towards yuuji. “probably because you threw up in his office trash can at the last christmas party.”

“i told you, that wasn’t me.”

“who else could it have possibly—oh.” the footsteps stop, and you feel his eyes fall on you.

when you turn your head, a number of things become obvious at once.

he is as handsome as you remember him. melted a little around the edges, tie loose, suit jacket gone and button-up bunched at the elbows to expose his forearms. his scent makes your thighs clench a little, less perceptible under your reasonable skirt, his hair disrupted by the long day and possibly a glass of champagne. the terror of your present circumstances, and the punch of guilt, too, come fettered to how badly you want him. 

the other revelation—or, you suppose it’s more like a reminder—is that gojo is a great deal like you. you can almost see the way he’s counting the moments in his head, taking stock of the time he can allot himself to think, to decide, knowing that this gnawing silence will at some point grow too monstrous too ignore.

in that time the shock meets his eyes first. they widen and then pinch, flitting across your face and down your body, and you do your best not to preen in the attention. and then his lips part a little, any further salutations stone dead in the back of his mouth, swallowed down. he breathes out once, twice, heavy things you think he wanted to attach to words but couldn’t quite manage to animate.

and you want to say something, want to apologize; you almost want to encourage him to fire you now so you can avoid the anticipation and get home before your feet hurt. 

but then something devious pokes out from behind his teeth, something vital and alive, something like a smirk. his head cocks just so, bearing his large hand out.

“it’s so nice to finally meet you in person,” he says, voice so even you could strike him. 

and this is the final cognizance, thrust towards you between his lithe fingers; he plans to enjoy this. beginning, it seems with a cheeky homage to that night, the shaking of hands you refused him once but cannot deny him now. 

you shake his hand firmly, smiling something only he would identify as divergent from polite. he grazes the inside of your wrist with his pointer finger before your arms drop, posture twitching with the feeling of you despite the mundanity.

you nod your head in acknowledgment. “good to see you, sir.”

his tongue pokes briefly on the inside of his cheek. “i trust nanamin has introduced you around.”

“don’t call me that.” nanami sounds exhausted with him already, weighed down further by what you fear is a flicker of recognition. whatever dynamic flare is crackling between you and gojo, nanami’s eyes narrow, just a moment, like he sees it.

“you let me call you that,” yuuji adds unhelpfully.

and even though you’ve come upon this game in the wake of a monumentally terrible decision—or maybe because of that, you’re unsure one way or the other—you let the other proverbial pleaser drop.

“would you introduce me?” you ask gojo.

both his eyebrows jump, something silent exchanged, but he takes little time to seize the opportunity. he rounds beside you to lay a hand on the small of your back, all but delighted to guide you away, pressing only minutely harder than what would be appropriate. enough to remind you that he can touch you now.

“it was nice to meet you both again,” you offer to nanami and yuuji as satoru shepherds you off, but as soon as the pair looks away gojo is leaning down to your level slightly.

you beat him to the punch. “is this really wise?”

low enough that it’s only for the both of you: “definitely not.” he squeezes your side again quickly. “but i think i’d like to show you off to all your lovely coworkers before i fuck you in my office.”

you suck on the back of your teeth and try your best to glare up at him, but it’s hard when your panties stick so tacky to your mound. he bumps into you on purpose, giving you one, ephemeral moment to feel how hard he is in those expensive slacks. 

“can you even wait that long?”

he drops his hand from your back just to graze the swell of your ass, swipe there once with his thumb. “i already told you, little moon…the waiting is my favorite part.”

with what is clearly no small amount of reserved prudence, gojo stays true to his word. he deposits you about the party, peering at you heavy-lidded as you greet the people you’ve thus far only known over email. every time you steal a glance at him he’s already staring, the weight of his gaze so heavy your knees nearly buckle. you feel more supine than you ever have in your life, soft and watched and wanted.

but surely he must know you’re observant enough to notice he is winding you, slowly, to his office. with each new introduction you are a few feet closer to his door; it’s just shy of torture waiting this way. how long has it been since you’ve been fucked? you choose not to answer that question for yourself, though with each step you feel the gluey swipe of your slick between your legs and you cannot deny that you’re greedy to be filled.

still, you do your best to appear something like normal when you walk through the threshold of his office door, when you hear the metal snick of the lock behind you. 

the panel of glass looking out into the bullpen is so frosted you can hardly see through it, a modern design choice that suits the building, and the rest of the room follows suit; a glass coffee table stacked neatly with books, an enormous desk flush with papers and folders and an intercom system, windows that span the outer wall to boast half of tokyo.

gojo stays a moment by the closed door but gives you no direction, so you simply stand in the middle of the room, hands clasped behind your back and waiting for further instruction. you suppose he likes the look of it, because he makes no move to gesture you anywhere, smoothing a hand over his jaw as he watches you.

“get down on your knees for me, baby,” he says simply.

the air punches from your lungs and you bite down on the inside of your cheek but you find your legs curling under themselves anyway. you can’t look way from his face, that crazed manner of watching you a scorching cloak you don’t want to shed. 

only once you’re on your knees does he approach you, reaching a hand to your face to cup your jaw. with a little tug of your jaw your nose is brushing against the bulge in his pants and you exhale over it. he sighs up at the ceiling as you bring one hand up to cup his twitching cock—god it’s so big.

“you’re not mad at me?” you murmur.

he laughs once, sharp and humorless. “oh i’m fucking furious—ah” he’s cut off by your palm applying more pressure, rubbing him in earnest, and his hips buck into your fingers. his right hand weaves into your hair and grips it like a handle, humming at the way you whine.

“so i have rules of my own now,” he finishes. you still and blink back up at his face. “no touching.” you lower both hands and fasten them behind your back again. 

gojo pulls his belt loose and tugs the zipper of his pants down, aching cock jumping up and out. he’s so red it looks like it hurts, curved up a little and as massive as you thought he was, and with one hand he wraps his long fingers around the base, tugging up once, twice. your lips part as precum pearls at the tip and he grips the back of your head, bumping his slit against your lips to gloss them. when you don’t take more than you’re given he groans low, “good girl.”

and then in one, mean thrust, he’s fucking the entire girth of him into your mouth. he’s so big he bumps halfway down your throat, you gasp and sputter around him, spit pooling already and eyes watering but you’re nothing if not determined, swallowing hard around his tip.

“fuck i knew you’d take it,” he growls.

you try to nod but his length pins your head in place, not to mention each of his hands taking a tight grip on each side of your face to start thrusting into your mouth.

he’s loud, so loud that you have moments of clarity when you worry the party will hear, but he’s so fucking long that mostly you dedicate all your attention to taking him without gagging. with each thrust your nose brushes the neatly trimmed hair at his base and you lave your tongue along the underside of his shaft, feeling a vein there that pulses every time you moan around him.

“that’s it, that’s it,” he lets one hand travel down to your throat and wrap there, not pressing so much as feeling himself as he fucks in and out, “swallow—fuck me—swallow around me again, baby.”

you do and he moans wild and honest, almost surprised at how good it feels, and you’re so desperate for anything that your hips start to rock over your own heels. feeling the wet trail you leave on your shoes is vaguely humiliating but the pressure behind your pulsing clit is almost unbearable and you’re afraid he’ll pull out if you use your fingers, still clung together behind you. gojo looks like a deity with his head tipped forward watching you, brows pinched together and mouth agape, droopy eyes sharpening when he sees the little ruts of your hips.

“you fucking like this don’t you?”

you hum out a pathetic mmhmm around his skin and his eyes almost roll back. forgetting yourself you bring both hands up to claw at the vee of his hips but he catches them immediately, thrusting once with a particular malevolence to tell you to behave.

his thrusts are gaining urgency, losing their rhythm, you know he’s close and you can’t tell if you want him to finish or would prefer it be inside of you. most of all, though, you find you want to please him, so you whine one more time around his cock to hear him mewl something broken and desperate. he does.

“fuckfuckfuck i’m g’na cum, i–”

he can’t even finish his own sentence, hips stuttering and growl caught in the back of his throat as he finishes heavy on your tongue. you swallow it all down like a blessing and the bob of your throat makes him pulse a little more, whispering mainly to himself a breathy: jesus. when you pull your lips away slowly a few webs of spit snap down your chin but you let them glisten there.

gojo can hardly allow you enough time to get to your feet, wrapping his arms under yours to haul you up and over his desk. your hands press over files and polished wood and he bends you into a deep arch with one hand. with no less urgency than before his first orgasm gojo rips your skirt and stockings down to your ankles, groaning low at the damp spot in your panties, on display with your legs spread and hips flared out to him.

he uses one finger to pull your thong to the side and you can feel the filthy slide of your slick as it slips around your folds, down your thighs. you can hear the squelching of his hand on his cock again, jerking himself over the remnants of your spit and his own cum, and you tense your legs waiting for him to breach your tight hole.

he chuckles when he sees the cords of your muscles move.

“oh baby,” he coos, “are you waiting to get fucked?”

your fingers pull in and leave crescent marks on your palms. “please,” you whimper, wiggling your hips, “please fuck me.”

“i dunno,” the fwap of his hand is speeding up seeing you present yourself further for him. “i think seeing you like this is enough to—fuckfuck—make me cum again.”

you drop your forehead to the wood to ground yourself but still your words come out like a sob: “i need you satoru please, please.”

“fuck!” again his hand gets quicker, “beg me again baby. beg me better than that.”

“please satoru i need your cock so bad, i need you to fuck me, i–”

in all honesty you don’t know whether it was you begging that did it or the dissolution of his own resolve, but without warning gojo fits his angry tip at your hole and pushes, hips slapping against your ass as he sheaths himself fully in one go.

you both groan in unison, relief and nirvana and the aching heat with her claws in both of you, and satoru holds your head to his desk as he starts to move.

his thrusts now are not exactly like the way he fucked your mouth; he isn’t testing your limits, isn’t using every ounce of his remaining strength, each grind is calculated, slower than before. it almost feels like he’s pausing after each rut to hear the sound you make and learn. that consideration alone is enough to make you clamp down around him, and a moan claps like thunder from his mouth.

“god it’s like fucking a virgin you’re so fucking tight,” he hisses. 

recovering from the burn of the initial stretch you start to incline your hips back into each thrust, the punches of his tip around your walls even harder as you arch to meet him. your arms reach back to feel for him but he only seizes the opportunity to wind them in one hand and hold them to the curve of your spine. 

“was it worth it fucking embarassing me?” he pants out, beginning to bend at the waist to fuck up into harder, words nearly spat onto the wing of your shoulder. “i’ve spent all—fuck—week thinking about it.”

you mewl and hum into the wood of the desk.

“made me feel like a fucking teenager at the club,” he thrusts harder, the sound of his skin on yours louder in your ears, “made me feel like a fucking creep at my job.”

you…what?

somewhere between your insistent moaning you ask him “what—ah! oh f-fuuck satoru—what do you mean a creep?”

he bands one arm around your torso and shifts upright, holding you to his chest as his hips continue to buck wildly, more erratic, more in it. his lips just barely graze the shell of your ear.

“all this time i’ve wanted to fuck my sweet intern,” your mouth drops open in surprise and pleasure and something else, the mounting feeling of ecstasy scintillating through your body, “thinking you were some fucking hermit,” he spits. your ass is surely red from the snapping of his toned hips but you’re so close and the hot tickle of his breath on your face just might be enough to get you there.

he almost seems to hear what you’re thinking, though, because then his free hand is jumping to your swollen clit, rubbing messy circles over and under the hood. “went to the club hoping to—oh yeah baby, squeeze me like that—get her off my mind just for you to fuck me over again,” he spits, but it isn’t angry, not really, he’s just desperately and pathetically close.

your body catches and locks, toes curling into your heels as you start to come undone, the dull pleasure coming first and then that cutting slice of your high. you shudder and pulse and milk him as it washes over you, about to pull him over the cliffside with you.

“i’m g’na fuck my cum deep in this cunt and you’re gonna have to fucking walk out of here with it dripping out of you.”

and then he’s gone too, rutting quick and thoughtless and then exploding inside of you, groaning deep in your ear and arm tight across your chest. he thrusts lazily through it, plugging you with the ropes of his seed, trying to feel the slosh of it in your channel.

the disentanglement of his body from yours is almost silent save for your shared quiet groaning at the overstimulation, an almost self-conscious kiss pressed to your temple as you redress, and the murmuring buzz of the corporate party still going outside. 

fuck. the party.

satoru takes great care righting your clothing, brushing fingers through your hair. he doesn’t say anything—he doesn’t have to—only smiling sort of boyishly as you do the same for him. you try to replicate the easy and rushed tug on his tie from before, the right pleating of his sleeves halfway up his arms. 

really it’s no use. you look like you’ve been railed, you can feel it, and the scent of sex sticks to gojo, supplanting even his cologne. you shrug at him and he laughs softly, muttering a small c’mon as he ushers you back out.

to your surprise and great delight, the party outside seems…normal. people hardly turn when you exit, engaged in their own conversations, a considerable group of them watching yuuji—absolutely plastered now—trying to get nanami to dance. satoru places his hand again on your back one last time and presses there, but it isn’t hungry now. he means it to be comforting, you think, and it is.

or it would’ve been, if your eyes didn’t immediately land on geto, leaned against the wall and watching you both with that serpentine glare. you nudge gojo with your elbow to get his attention.

when they make eye contact suguru only smirks wider. you turn slow and dangerous to satoru, who stands upright like a statue.

“satoru,” you begin, a calm that should frighten him if he’s smart, “what does he know?”

he shakes his head quickly, lips turned down in a dismissal. “nothing.” 

satoru gojo is frustratingly excellent at a great number of things. lying isn’t one of them.

when you return to your apartment that night, legs sore and aching and happy, you flop immediately onto your bed and pry open your computer, single-minded. it only takes a few moments of navigation through the admin channels to find it, a conversation from two weeks after you first started.

Satoru Gojo 3:11pm Hello

Suguru Geto 3:13pm Oh I’m sorry I don’t have any change

Satoru Gojo 3:14pm I need your help

Suguru Geto 3:15pm I’m not a philanthropist

Satoru Gojo 3:15pm I’ll give you 3 extra days of PTO

Suguru Geto 3:15pm What is it

Satoru Gojo 3:15pm You’re not gonna like it

Suguru Geto 3:16pm When do I ever

Satoru Gojo 3:16pm I need to fuck the IT intern

Suguru Geto logged off 3:16pm

~~~~~~~~~~~

to anyone who read to the end dm me you're entitled to a big messy kiss!!

comments and reblogs always appreciated <3 :3

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— Act like you love me , Celebrity!au

Summary. After a messy tabloid scandal damages his public image, Gojo Satoru — a globally famous actor and model known for his flirtatious persona and chaotic interviews — is forced by his management team to enter a fake relationship to rehab his image.

You, a normal set assistant with no social media presence, are chosen as the “mystery partner” because you saved him from a falling light rig during a photoshoot and went viral for it. You want nothing to do with him, but the payout for faking this relationship for six months could change you and your family's life.

— pairing. celebrity Gojo Satoru x f!reader

— content/tags. fake dating trope , eventual smut , eventual angst , celebrity au

— info. to join the taglist for the upcoming chapters comment under this post. art by @/_3aem on twt

— ACT I: Lights, Camera, Fake it.

— ACT II: [soon..]

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gojo satoru x reader. fwb!au. angst to comfort/fluff

kind of a sequel to this

You’ve been ghosted.

To be fair, you had kind of expected this. Key work: kind of. You try to not let your heart constrict itself into an organ of loathe, depression and hatred for the past 3 weeks.

Unfortunately, the agony still sits on your granite kitchen counter three weeks later. It’s in the box of his stuff he had the nerve to leave behind, along with all the thread-like semblance of hope you had for your future together. (How foolish of you, really.)

The kitchen itself, however, is empty. The living room you’re standing in — also empty. Your family and friends who came to help you move your stuff to your new apartment left a few minutes ago. They’re on their way there first to pick up some food before all of you move more heavy boxes into the place. And you’re grateful.

Grateful that you have people in your life that don’t ghost you, even if you can count them on a hand. People that care. That are consistent in your life. That aren’t curse-bound.

God, you hated him for the first week. Hated how even though you tried to make his habitual appearances not a part of your routine, you find yourself missing the white hair that tickles your neck when you search for a fresh set of pajamas, the clingy hands that harbor not-so-innocent touches as you put on skin care, and even sometimes, in the morning when you didn’t have the heart to kick him out the last night, the most amateur brewing of coffee you’ve ever had because who needs coffee when you have Gojo Satoru to keep you energized.

You shake your head to rid your thoughts. You take a deep breath in, ready to say goodbye to the place, goodbye to the memories, ready to let the box be discarded away just like he has done to you.

And just as you almost let go, you feel it.

You feel him. You don’t turn. You can’t. Because it cannot be real. You know what’s real and it’s not tender kisses and hands intertwined, it’s a job in a new city, in a new position. Life is not Gojo Satoru, it’s a new apartment.

Yet, there in your old apartment, you come to life upon hearing his voice.

“I see you’ve changed the place.”

His joke comes soft and light, as if to not scare you. Because he has to know that you are livid. He keeps his distance. Though, everything in Satoru is compelled to hold you. He thinks your name must be carved into his bones, with the way it urges his joints to reach for you, always always drawn to you.

You still haven’t turned. Still in shock, because this has to be a hallucination. Some sick joke from the universe, maybe. He calls your name, but before he can close his mouth, you turn around and ask harshly, “What are you doing here?”

Tears are already brimming at your eyes. You find yourself looking at him for the first time in a long time and it makes your heart ache. You could hear him out, but there is something in you that doesn’t want to. You had been raised with impatient needs, always in a rush to satisfy the ones who claimed to love you. Love is patient, love is kind, and you want it so bad to not be love.

A moment of silence passes by as Gojo bores into you, until his heart caves and takes a big step toward you, tests the water by taking your hand in his.

And you cry, weakly shrugging away, before he’s pulling you into the warmest embrace of your life.

“I’m sorry.” He catches sight of the box on the counter and can only guess what it could be. He’s been so selfish with his love for you, that he had forgotten about the treachery that so greatly tries to seep through his infinity. Gojo hadn’t accounted for it, didn’t ever in his life think he could feel afford to be humbled. But, as he stands there with you falling apart in his arms, he feels intimidated. “I’m so sorry.”

“I hate you.” Are you okay? How have you been? Where did you go? He hums softly, still caging you with his arms. You dare to ask, because to love is to be vulnerable, “Where were you?”

He holds you tighter, his eyes threatening to drop some tears of their own. He laughs and you can hear how watery it is when he tells you, “A box.”

You pull away, brows furrowed as you look up at him. He wipes away a falling tear on your cheek before pulling you into him again, desperate for you to not see him cry.

“I’ll explain later… Just let me hold you right now.”

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i miss tee :(

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f!reader, fluff, pregnancy mention, first year satoru who lacks fundamental knowledge on sex ed (he thinks babies come from holding hands), he is a pure liddol bean > <, reader is sick and satoru thinks you’re pregnant. | tysm to @specialgradefckr for letting me expand on this ask they sent in | dividers made by me | wc: 0.6k+

you clutch your head just once, a wave of nausea hitting you. the moment you groan and rest your elbows against the desk, rubbing your temple — satoru’s already at your side like it’s a medical emergency.

“hey…” he says quietly, guilty almost, squatting by your desk (you hadn’t noticed he stayed behind), a hand stabilizing him when he grips the edge of the wood. he’s got a seriously worried look on his face.

you grumble, not even looking at him, “i’m fine.”

but satoru swallows thickly, he himself clearly not fine — like he’s holding in a big secret. his hands are shaky and he shimmy’s in closer.

“if… if you are — y’know… with child,” he whispers the last part, voice weirdly gentle as his eyes dart around the empty classroom before returning back to you. your head shoots up immediately, eyes snapping open at his words. “i just want you to know that i’ll take responsibility. i think… i think i’m ready to be a father — a good one. i-if it’s with you.”

you blink after a moment. “what?”

“i mean — i love you,” he says all in a rush, like that clears up anything, cheeks burning red. “so if you are pregnant, it’s okay. i’ll stay. we’ll figure it out together.”

you stare at him, utterly lost. but satoru — he looks so sincere… as well as a little pale and sweaty. like he’s been worrying about it for a while and it’s all coming out right now.

“satoru,” you question carefully, brows furrowed in confusion, your headache the last thing on your mind now. “what are you talking about?”

he clears his throat, looking around once more, fidgeting nervously with his white shirt collar. “we… we held hands, didn’t we?”

“yeah… we’ve only held hands.”

he stiffens at your detached tone, dead serious. “exactly.”

you blink, straightening up in your seat. “hold on — you think holding hands can get someone pregnant?”

“...not always,” he says defensively, his voice still low like he genuinely believes it. “but the gojo elders were very clear about the dangers of physical contact.”

“and i mean,” satoru continues, eyes softening, “we did hold hands for a long time. i knew the risks, but…” he trails off, licking his lips, cheeks turning pink again as he imagines a future with you — and all because you held his hand during a movie last week.

your mouth goes agape. “wait. so you thought i could get pregnant from holding hands... and you still held my hand?!”

satoru’s lips part, staring at you like a deer in headlights — like he wasn’t expecting you to call him out like that. his ears go red.

you bite your lip so hard to stifle your laughter. “satoru… that’s not how it works.” you explain, trying to hide your amusement as to not embarrass him. he is too cute for words.

but his eyes widen, cheeks aflame. you’ve honestly never seen him so flustered. “i–i know that! i was just… joking!” he lies to save face.

your lips purse and you squint at him.

satoru looks everywhere and anywhere but at you under your scrutiny. “was just being funny. y’know… haha...” but he doesn’t sound so sure of himself.

you’re full on grinning now and you poke his chest. “you’re an idiot — an adorable one.”

he flushes deeper. “your adorable idiot,” he mumbles under his breath.” but you don’t hear him — too busy giggling at his innocence. and satoru’s eyes soften. he had managed to make you laugh with his stupidity — that was a win.

and though satoru’s face is still a beautiful flush of red, somewhere in the middle of it all he quietly tangles his fingers with yours again, like he knows nothing will happen now — but he’s still willing to risk it.

p.s. — satoru is now lost and asks you how babies are actually made. you tell him to look online. a few hours later, he returns to you slightly traumatized and a little curious. this event may have started a chain reaction that made him the weird and insatiable man he is today.

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Burning Rubber

Burning rubber on the track was easy—burning out his ego in a one-stoplight town? Not so much.

Pairings: Racer!Gojo x Mechanic's Daughter!Reader Content warnings + tags: 18+ MDNI, modern au, light enemies to lovers, found family, car racing, eventual smut, mentions of car accidents/wrecks, minor injury mentions, swearing/strong language, mentions of alcohol, naoya being an absolute ass per usual

Synopsis: Satoru Gojo is the racing world’s newest golden boy—fast, cocky, and determined to leave everyone else in the dust. But when a reckless accident leaves him stranded in a dingy small town just days before the biggest race of his career, he’s forced to rely on a stubborn mechanic’s daughter who isn’t impressed by his fame or his ego. In a place where speed means nothing, Satoru needs to learn what really drives him—and who he’s willing to chase when the finish line fades.

The White Flash... | Stuck in the Dust... | The Dirt Track...

Full Throttle... | The Big Race...

Taglist is open!

Divider: @hyuneskkami + Art by: @aransmind

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Nerd satoru playing video games like Fortnite with his friends and you’re bored and suck him off under his setup and he struggles to play and stay quiet….yeah…