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gojosperms · 3 days ago

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like he got a collar on, imma always know where my dog at!

ᯓᡣ𐭩 pairing — oyabun!gojo x secretary!reader

summary — your husband, the terrifying oyabun of the gojo-gumi, is as loyal as dog— and as bad as a pent-up border collie that’s been left home alone for too long and turned to destruction as a means of getting attention. after purchasing satoru a collar (that he’s always eager to wear), you put him on a brief sex ban to weed out any and all of his bad behavior. after all, only good puppies deserve treats— right?

word count — 21k (woops)

ᯓᡣ𐭩 content & warnings — mdni 18+, mlw, fem!reader, normal modern au, yakuza au, humor, smut, fluff, pet names (baby, sweets, sugar, princess, pretty, wifey, hubby), gojo and reader are married, whipped gojo, like absolute wife guy gojo, gojo is actually insane, mentions of murder and violence, submissive top gojo, sub!gojo, implied subspace, dom!reader, femdom, domestic & non-sexual domination, mommy kink, pet play / puppy play, dry humping, the tiniest sliver of foot action but not much cos I’m #not about that life, overstimulation, handjobs

author’s note — had to satiate the demon in me by writing this cos collaring gojo is my weakness 🙇🏽‍♀️ don’t let the summary and tags fool you this is somehow very fluffy and funny for the most part LMAO… until it gets freakay 🙂‍↕️ this is not necessary to read, but if you want a little more background on this au, you can find info here. enjoy 🫶🏽

writing © getouyuri. fanart © artofzolaida. dividers © sister-lucifer.

It starts as a drunken dig.

“You need to be tossed into a cage and locked up like a dog, Satoru.”

You can hear the way Suguru chokes around the tapioca that barrels down his throat. The oyabun of the Sutoraifu-gumi hacks his lungs up into a tissue that was discarded alongside their takeout, eyes watering, while Shoko looks torn between laughing at him and rubbing her temples over the depravity that just came out of her girlfriend’s mouth.

The stripper in question blinks, slow and innocent-like, like a cat that’s wondering why the mouse trapped beneath its paws stopped squirming and putting up a fight. On the other side of her, Suguru’s spouse groans at the direction that this conversation is sure to head in.

Stretching his long legs out on the massive couch with the carefree air of a man who owns the world, Satoru casts his attacker a sardonic smile. “A cage couldn’t contain all this man,” he crows, patting his chest as if he’s hot shit.

“Ew,” Shoko mutters.

Her girlfriend wrinkles her nose, equally as unimpressed. “Better yet, you should be collared. Maybe that’d get you to knock it off and shut you up, Fido.”

“Why on earth are we having this conversation?” Suguru gets out now that he’s not actively dying.

Everyone ignores him.

"If my wife wanted to do that, then sure. Cuffs, a goddamn straightjacket, a collar— I’d wear it all loud and proud for her.” Satoru glances up at you and wiggles his eyebrows. You pinch his cheek, a silent ‘hush,’ but you don’t contribute anything to the rapidly devolving conversation.

The three stooges (Satoru, Suguru, and Shoko) that have been friends since they were wearing light-up Sketchers and trading gachapon toys get together whenever Suguru travels to Tokyo for his monthly arms deals with Satoru, their respective partners typically included, for a weekend of tomfoolery. One time you nearly got arrested. Another time, the group got beyond faded and engaged in a lethal game of dare or dare (no truths were involved). It ended up with Shoko’s girlfriend taking up Satoru on his dare to get her nipples pierced and Satoru in the hospital after you tried to ride Suguru’s spouse’s motorcycle and ran over his foot.

More often than not, Shoko gets sloshed, the biker at Suguru’s side joining in and then calling their sister, Yuki, to drunkenly blubber that they miss her, and them all piling into the Gojo estate for a movie marathon. From there, it’s inevitable that someone gets tried at the stake.

Apparently, Satoru is today’s target— purely because he’s lying on his stomach and so shamelessly nestling his head into the divot of your thighs, pressing his lips there as if considering dragging them higher, arms wound around your middle and hands occasionally groping at your ass in front of all your mutual friends like the dog that he is. He has no qualms with feeling you up despite the eyes on you, getting a kick out of stepping over the line of propriety and showing that you're his and he’s yours all in the same breath.

That, and he just likes smothering you. Even though it’s a little embarrassing, he’s too cute to tell off and send to the pound like Shoko’s girlfriend thinks he (rightfully) deserves.

Long after everyone rags on Satoru— “what the hell, I don’t bark, Suguru. Baby, defend me!” He whined at some point, equal parts petulant and confident that you’d back him up, to which you muttered, “must’ve been the wind,” and turned the TV volume up, making him thrash— you and Satoru retire to your master bedroom. Shoko and her girl flounced off to the nearest guest room to ‘sleep’ (make out), while Suguru let his partner drag him out of the Gojo estate for a few more hours of fun with a cunning grin.

Satoru’s in the bathroom, so you’re indulging in a quiet moment and wiping your makeup off at the vanity, half of your attention on your face and the other half on the tab pulled up on your iPad.

You can hear the jaunty pad of your husband’s socked feet against the carpet right behind you as he saunters over. Before you can slap your hand over your tablet and throw it aside so hard in a fit of panic that it cracks, he’s nosily peeking over your shoulder and reaching out to tap at the screen so that it doesn’t darken. “Oh? What’s this?” Satoru murmurs in your ear, making you shiver despite yourself.

You hope a plane hits the Gojo estate and takes you out for good.

A wide selection of collars and leashes greets both of your gazes. There’s different style of leashes— chained, slip leads that require no collars, bungee-corded leashes— and even collars, ranging from classic leather collars to strict posture collars with other bondage elements attached to them (Satoru stares at the one with nipple clamps for far too long). There’s even an option for customizable tags to slide onto the o-rings of the collars. The whole nine yards.

Any and all thoughts of his fly out of the window.

You clear your throat, not so calmly plucking up your iPad and pressing it to your chest. “I’m just looking at these. For science,” you say, like a liar, with a killer poker face keeping your dignity intact.

Satoru doesn’t miss the filled in bookmark on the corner of the page.

“Okay,” he drops it way too easily. Suspiciously so. He points out a diamond-studded leather collar that you definitely weren’t eyeing the most before he swooped in. “That one is pretty. Objectively so.”

“Agreed.”

You’re beyond embarrassed, a shameful heat pooling in your face and leaving you lightheaded. The air is so thick with tension that you begin wondering if there’s a gas leak that’s about to make you start asphyxiating until Satoru abruptly hefts you up and away from the vanity to toss you over his shoulder, making you yelp.

“Let’s fuck.”

“Aht aht, try again.”

“Can we pleaaaase fuck?” He simpers, smacking your ass and earning him a pounded fist against his back.

“Yeah, sure.”

Thank god you didn’t question why he was already harder than a rock when he lowered you to your comfy shared bed, crawling over you to kiss you silly and lazily grind down against you. His cock started filling out in his pants the second he thought of wearing one of those collars, letting you parade him around and show off your pretty puppy before dragging him forward to demand that he buries his face between your thighs.

Neither of you stop to properly talk about The Incident (read: your moment of weakness), but you both sure as hell bring up the subject of collars like your lives depend on it.

When Satoru’s pacing his office at the Gojo-gumi headquarters while you lean against the door, listening to him rave on and on about packing a bunch big enough to put Ryomen, his rival, in the dirt: “Stop barking.” “Collar me and I will.”

Other times, he’s bounding off to chase his newest fixation— like his favorite bakery releasing a new line of pumpkin kikufuku to hail in the start of autumn: “don’t go too far or I’ll have to leash you!” “Ooh, promise?”

It’s safer this way— juggling the idea of it disguised as a joke, pushing and poking at each other with little quips to read the other’s reaction, making sure that there’s no disgust there. No aversion to the topic that shall not be named.

Admittedly, maybe you should’ve had a sit-down with Satoru to negotiate the realms of collars and kinks instead of muttering ‘fuck it,’ impulsively purchasing a collar, and having it delivered to the Gojo-gumi headquarters so that Satoru won’t see it at home and tear into the package before you can get to it, because what’s yours is his and vice versa. You and Satoru aren’t exactly new to freaky shit, having dabbled one too many times in shibari, sex toys like vibrators and strap-ons, food play, spanking, the list goes on. You’re always down to try new things with him.

But collars? For some reason, you can’t bring yourself to bite the bullet and flat-out admit to wanting to see him wear one. It’s too embarrassing. Too real. So you stuff the brand spanking new collar, leash, and its matching baggie into your purse, press it tight to your abdomen the entire ride home after work while Satoru chatters at your side, and try to sneak it beneath your bed.

Too bad that Satoru catches you.

“Not that I’m complaining, because really, I’m enjoying the view,” he muses behind you, and you’re instantly freezing up, shoulders hiked up to your ears, “but why are you on the floor with your ass in the air?”

“I dropped one of my rings,” you say, popping right back up and brushing your dress down with rigid hands. You step in front of the bag pushed halfway under the bed and glance at him. He’s lingering in the doorway, suit jacket slung over one shoulder and his eyebrows slanted upwards in question. Satoru blinks his big blue eyes at you. “I got it, though.”

“That doesn’t really look like a ring, though,” he points out, exaggeratedly leaning to the side to flicker his gaze down to your spoils. “Is that an early birthday present or something? That’s a shitty hiding place. No offense.”

“No, it’s—“ you grumble out a frustrated noise and ruffle your hand through your hair, pursing your lips and weighing the pros and cons of… well, everything. “Can we sit down and talk?”

If he’s thrown off by the serious tone you suddenly take, he doesn’t show it. “Sure thing, sugar.”

Satoru fully slinks into the room as you quickly bend down to snatch the bag back up and perch yourself on the edge of the bed. Before you can even ask, he’s kneeling at your feet, cushioning his chin in the divot between your thighs and soothingly rubbing your calves.

He's close enough that he could push himself further up on his knees and easily feel the warmth of your breath on his skin, your mouth against his, and it takes every ounce of his self-control not to close the distance.

Instead, he waits, head pillowed on your lap and his heart pounding in his chest as he stares deep into your brilliant eyes, searching for any sign of what you’re thinking, then at the little gift bag perched further up your lap, pressed lightly to your stomach. He knows you well enough to know that you’ve got something up your sleeve, some clever scheme plan that you’re just dying to put into action despite your apparent apprehension.

Satoru’s always been a sucker for your brand of trouble, and he has a feeling that this time is going to be no less exciting.

"Well?" he prompts, rhythmically tapping the sides of your calves. "Stop staring at me— I know I’m gorgeous, really— and just get to your point.”

“You and your bigass head,” you mutter, but you don’t deny his claim.

Looking for all the world like you’re about to set off a bomb and then dart off, you finally address the elephant in the room. You hold open the bag in his direction. “Just grab it.”

Satoru obliges. He reaches his hand in and startles when his fingers brush against something leathery. He pulls it out and inhales sharply.

It’s a beautiful black collar with six genuine diamonds the color of his eyes that wink in the light when Satoru turns it over in his hands. The diamonds are small enough that it isn’t overly gaudy and flashy, but it’s still more intricate than most run-of-the-mill collars. A similarly blue, frilly bow sits at what he assumes is the front of the collar and there’s a small ring that dangles just underneath it, a matching black leash already clipped to it.

The exact one that he pointed out on the website that you were browsing. He never in a million years thought you would actually go ahead and buy it.

Satoru rubs his thumb along the outside of the collar before tugging at it gently, testing the stretch, then changes his grip so he can feel the inside. It’s soft and almost velvety, clearly tailored to avoid chafing— it’s almost an exact replica of the material of the sheets on yours and his bed, which he’s very particular about.

His mouth and throat suddenly run dry, his body an hourglass full of sand that’s just been tilted. Swallowing does nothing to remedy it.

He feels— he doesn’t know what he feels. He doesn’t think there’s even a word for this.

Satoru thinks he senses a hint of nervousness in the sideways glance you direct at the wall, a far cry from your usual assured intensity. You crumple the bag up and set it to the side and your hands tightly curl in your lap when you finally look at him again. “What do you think?”

By the look in your eyes, you have something to say. Maybe you’re about to take it back, laugh it off and say, ‘late April fools prank, ignore me,’ but he jumps to speak before you can. “You know I’m far from opposed.”

And truly, he isn’t. Collars are something you had discussed before, but with how it kept getting brought up time and time again with nothing to actually come of it, he had considered the idea scrapped. That hadn’t stopped Satoru from thinking about it, though.

There was a certain appeal in his wife’s hands around his throat, a gentle one-hand hold when he’s being a nuisance to tug him down to your level before you kiss away his quips or fix his hair, a bruising two-handed one when you’re bodily pinning him down and riding him, but a collar…

“What do you think?” Satoru asks, eyeing you carefully and trying to gauge what you’re feeling.

“I think it’s lovely,” you offer, finally unclenching your fingers and reaching down to stroke over the shell of his ear. Those same ticklish fingers slide down and skim the side of his neck as if mapping out the placement of the collar. You’re smiling a little. “It’d be even lovelier around your neck, should you want it there.”

It’s the push he needs. Satoru rolls it over in his hands again, tests its weight one more time. He exhales the deep breath he took. “Okay, then what are you waiting for, slowpoke? Are you gonna put it on me or not?”

You huff out a laugh and roll your eyes but you gently pull the collar from him. Satoru stretches his neck out, total trust and anticipation making his mind slow to a crawl. His pulse settles comfortably beneath the skin of his jaw.

He stays perfectly still as you fit its front against his neck, centering the bow at his throat. You tug the collar and leash over his shoulders before pulling the collar snug around his nape, where his hair curls damply from the sweat budding on his skin.

The metal buckle clicks closed and something molten instantly loosens at the base of Satoru’s skull, dripping down his spine and pooling warm and intense into his hips. With your hands still on his neck, smoothing down the collar, fussily slipping beneath it and testing its tightness, he expects to get overwhelmed under all the stimulation as he adjusts to the foreign feeling of the thin lining of leather gently digging into his throat while the velvet cradles his trachea, but your warmth helps him relax impossibly further.

Satoru doesn’t realize his head is drooping until you cup his face and guide him upwards, thumbs smoothing crescents into the silk of his cheeks. It’s enough to slowly pull him back to earth, leaving its foggy skies behind.

You look oddly charmed, with your eyes syrupy-sweet and crinkling around the edges. “You alright there?”

“Duh.” Satoru is surprised when his voice comes out a broken rasp and he swallows. He can’t even blame it on the restriction of the collar, considering it’s far from tight around his neck. It’s better than he expected. The weight of it is solid and comforting, a weighted blanket, a physical reminder that he’s, in plain words, safe; at ease at your mercy.

(Yours, his traitorous mind whispers. Yours.)

You brighten. “Good. How does it feel?”

“It’s comfy,” Satoru says slowly, the words sleep-soft as if he’s stirring from a dream. He reaches up and rubs over the studded rhinestones. Nothing else comes out of his mouth.

“I’m glad,” you murmur, sounding pleasantly relieved. You push at the back of his neck, finally helping his head continue its orbit to your knees, which he rubs his cheek against like a needy puppy.

There’s a moment where there’s nothing but the sound of them breathing as one. Eyes burn into his neck, into the collar. Slender fingers scratch at his scalp. Cool velvet slides against his throat when he swallows again. Satoru soaks it all in and categorizes each feeling to somewhat ground himself. A pleasant warmth threatens to pull him into the cloudy recesses of his mind again but he doesn’t allow the mental strings that tether him to the ground to snap.

He feels calm and centered, grounded in a way that he rarely is. It's a strange sensation, but not an unwelcome one. It reminds him of all the times he’s surrendered all control to you.

He can’t let himself idle for too long, though. Desire claws tally marks into Satoru’s rib cage, fiercely scrabbling at the inner layers of his being, trying to escape while he sits prone. He fidgets, drags his cheek against your knee one more time, and blinks up at you with a flutter of his dove-feather lashes. You stare back, admiring the collar hugging his neck.

“I think I could get used to wearing this all the time, sugar. Might have to start a trend in the office,” Satoru chuckles.

“It’s new,” you contribute absentmindedly, oddly spacey.

"Though I'm not sure the others would appreciate seeing their boss prancing around like a puppy on a leash. Might give them the right idea about what goes on behind closed doors,” he continues. A hum is the only acknowledgement he gets from you.

“Fuck,” you whisper abruptly, rubbing your mouth. “This was such a bad idea.”

“What? Why?” He asks, startled.

“I’m so fucking horny.”

“Oh. Ohhh,” Satoru switches tracks so fast that it gives both of you whiplash, the confused lilt of his voice dipping into a rumbly purr. He teeters forward, hands creeping up to curl around your calves. He licks his lips and you intently track the movement with dilated pupils. “Mommy’s got a pretty puppy, doesn’t she?”

For the first time in the years that he’s known you, you go stock still as if you don’t know what to do with yourself.

Interesting.

Keeping a hold on your calves, he gives a deliberate lick to your inner thigh, inching dangerously close to the hem of your skirt and the fine line of the finish line, where the referee blows his whistle and waves his flag. The muscle beneath your skin flinches and he hides a private grin. Poking at the bear a bit just to get a reaction out of you is dangerous, because touching you without express permission is a good way to get his fingers slapped or his cock ignored.

But he can't help himself. He's more than willing to toe the edge of your patience if it means getting even a fraction of your attention, good or bad.

Saliva curls thick and wet on his tongue, his entire being salivating with need as he noses his way further up your thigh. His gums itch, his teeth ache. He wants to bite into the ripe fruit of you, knowing well that you’ll bite back harder.

Then you steel yourself, pressing your palm against his forehead to halt him before he can go any further. “Without a doubt.” The clench of your jaw seals his imminent demise. Your next words crush him. “But I don’t like greedy puppies that think they’re entitled to whatever they want. This isn’t an all you can eat buffet.”

No. No, no, no, no. He was so close.

"Well, I don't like wives that tease," Satoru retorts, his voice low and rough with barely contained desire. Despite his words, there's no real complaint in his tone. If anything, the husky rasp only serves to underscore his arousal.

“This isn’t teasing. This is for your own good,” you say with a graveness that’s almost laughable in this situation. Keyword: almost, because he knows that if he laughed, you’d actually get annoyed. Your lips are pursed into something dangerous as you stare down at him and the collar wrapped snugly around his neck, a tangible symbol of his submission.

“If it was for my own good, you’d let me hit so that I don’t wither away and die. Or let me eat your pussy until you’re creaming on my tongue. I’d take whatever you’d give me.”

“Am I hearing that you’d be alright with receiving nothing?”

“No, that just means you need to get your ears checked,” Satoru grumbles.

“Satoru.” Your eyes cut into him in warning, voice just as sharp.

Satoru’s blue eyes round out in mock innocence, his glossy bottom lip jutting out in an exaggerated pout. A theatrical sigh escapes him, sensing the oncoming scolding (which he probably won’t take seriously, considering he’s slowly getting hard at the thought of you chastising him. Honestly, he doesn’t even understand how the fuck this situation spiraled so fast or why you’re acting like this) as he rocks back on his heels. "Aww c'mon, I was just joking around,” Satoru wheedles, taking on a bratty tone and batting his long white eyelashes.

You ignore him and he blows out a breath, making his bangs flutter. "Lemme eat you out, make you feel better,” Satoru proposes, squishing his mouth into your skin and peeking up at you.

“Why?”

“… so that you can forgive me and stop looking at me like I’m roadkill?” He’s all too proud when he speaks, clearly thinking he’s onto something. His sassy ‘duh’ goes unspoken but heard.

He looks beyond affronted when you openly snort in his face. “Your idea of making it up to me benefits both of us, not just me. That’s a reward for you— and the only way disobedient dogs learn is with punishment. Incentive in order to stop horsing around.”

Satoru’s mouth nearly drops open. ‘Big guns, big guns,’ he thinks frantically, reaching for your hands and pressing placating little kisses to your knuckles in worship.

"I'm sorry, angel. I didn't mean any disrespect. I just wanna make you feel good. Can you blame me? Look, I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Bribery won’t work on me,” you grouse.

“Bribery works on everyone, actually,” Satoru sasses back. The audacity… “A little cash here, a few flowery promises there… I could make the world spin in the opposite direction in exchange for nothing if I played my cards right.”

“You’re missing the point. More like purposely avoiding it, actually. Behave. Or I’ll make you.”

“Get on with it then.”

Those are fighting words if you’ve ever heard them.

Wrong answer, forehead.

You unclip the leash and place it on the bed, standing and forcing him to rear back a fraction so that your knee doesn’t sock his nose. The illusion of free rein lies in the lack of a lead dragging him along behind you, but curiously, he doesn’t take it. Satoru cranes his neck to watch you walk to the doorway of their room.

“No sex until I say so,” you instruct, slowly stringing out your words like putty to get it through his head.

He feels like a dog that got smacked with a newspaper for pissing on the couch.

“Holy fuck. This was such a bad idea,” he repeats your words from earlier, equally as horrified.

You tut at him, unimpressed, and turn to glance at him over your shoulder. “Yes or no?”

Satoru looks at you stupidly. His eyes are gently fogged over, his lips all wet and cherry red from biting them. “What?”

“Can you be a good boy and wait for my recall? Or do we need to settle this in another way?” Your voice is sweet and stickier than honey, yet loaded with a sharp undertone that makes it clear you’re not to be trifled with.

He huffs under his breath. His plans of getting his dick milked switch tracks so fast that it should give him whiplash, because now? You’re the ringmaster of this circus, and he’s the unlucky sucker that got picked from the crowd and fell into your game of cock and ball torture.

“Whatever my wife wants, my wife gets.”

Things are normal despite the abstinence that sits like an elephant in the room.

Since you don’t like relying on a personal chef, you whip up storms in the kitchen and lightly whack at his wrist with a wooden spoon when he tries to sneak a bite of whatever treat you've made.

You’ve been cooking more than usual ever since you bought him that collar. You can say it’s because the work makes you feel accomplished all you want as you chop away at vegetables with that concentrated furrow of your brows that he rubs away with his thumb, but you both know it’s because you enjoy the sense of control it gives you.

It’s not that you want to own him so completely that he becomes a mindless husk of a man with no will of his own. You have no desire to take away Satoru’s autonomy, no matter how much you enjoy molding him into pliancy as if his blood and bones are clay. You respect him and admire his strong resilience that he’s shown time and time again too much to break him down entirely. And he knows that you know that he would do anything for you, anything at all.

He's used to your dominance, craves it even, but there's something different about it when it’s this domestic. Softer. Warmer. It makes his stomach clench with a burning, heavy affection. He likes it when his brain goes all quiet and you smile at him as you take away all the choices he has in certain matters so that, blissfully, he doesn't have to think.

So Satoru lets you cook for him. He’s a good customer that always clears his plate with gusto, asks for seconds, sometimes, which you dish out for him with an all too-pleased smile, finding comfort in being the one to feed him balanced meals.

It’s made all the more better when he secures his collar around his neck. You tease him when he enters the kitchen with it on, saying good puppies eat on the floor instead of at the table, and you yelp out a laugh when he gets on the tile and shoves his face in your clothed pussy while you’re standing at the stove. Satoru’ll kneel again for shits and giggles when you set the table with dishes filled to the brim and silverware, rubbing his face against your knee, facetiously pleading with you to feed him until you shut him up with a forkful because you can’t help but indulge this freak and his whims.

You still watch shitty reality shows together, Satoru’s head on your lap or boobs the entire time, and cuss out the people projected onto their massive mounted flatscreen. He jokes and you hit him back with a quip equally as witty that has him falling out. You brush your teeth side by side and wash your faces together before catching a ride to the Gojo-gumi headquarters.

The collar makes appearances for those occasions from time to time— sometimes for bits that are all theatrical play to coax giggles out of you, sometimes because it’s comforting for him. Simple as that. It’s made all the more better when you lavish him with extra attention for it as if he’s your beloved pet.

But whenever you bend that ass over to root through your shared drawers to find your favorite clothes for date nights or suck takoyaki that he buys for you off of the stick (he sooo wishes that that was his dick), Satoru is forcibly reminded that he cannot, in fact, crawl to you on all fours and act like your puppy that’s desperate for attention (and pussy).

You truly don’t mean to make him wait long, but putting the pedal to the metal when messing with him draws out the week that much slower. You’re testing the boundaries of the submission that comes with his collar and this ban with a curious intent, gauging how quickly his timer ticks down for you at your leisure even though you’re burning for him as blisteringly as he does you.

The wick of your candle is licking hotly at the wax beneath you, melting you down until you’re weak in the knees for his clever mouth and his cock that fills you so nicely— a glass that’s no longer half empty, but topped to the rim.

Unsurprisingly, he breaks before you do. And on day four of the ban, no less.

You’re both winding down after a long day of business with a side of pleasure. Gambling is highly illegal in Japan, but absolutely no one is gonna contact the authorities and go, “hey, just wanted to let you know that that blue-eyed freak of an oyabun— yeah, the Gojo-gumi one— has been playing back room poker with a handful of politicians for years. Oh, how do I know about all of that? I just heard about it from a friend.”

That’d warrant a death sentence from him.

The politicians gather in one of the side rooms at the Gojo-gumi’s headquarters in Tokyo every few months for the thrill of skirting the edge of illegality over high-quality drinks and to play into his whims— they know that it's in their best interests to keep the backbone of the Gojo-gumi happy. To let Satoru push for bills and policies that benefit him, his men, and the city that he calls home, further shielding his large criminal enterprise from the government.

He enjoys the power play of it all, holding all the cards in the palm of his hand (literally and figuratively) and observing how they scurry about like animals in a maze, desperate to please him. One wrong move, and woops, all that financial incentive he offered them is somehow gone, talks of drugs (that his men planted) in their possession falling into the hands of the media, they oh so suddenly fall into debt and ruin, and Choso is knocking at their doors like the grim reaper to collect the Gojo-gumi’s dues.

Though his nose wrinkles every single time as if he's caught a whiff of something foul— and it’s not the smoke from the pipes the guys puff that makes him want to gag, but the interminable boredom of being surrounded by political dogs— he always quells his frustrations by letting his attention stray to you if you happen to attend alongside him.

This time around, you were perched on his lap like the paragon of victory the entire evening, temptation itself in a satin dress with a tasteful slit up the side that a few men dared to take a peek at before flinching beneath Satoru’s nasty glare. There’s a certain level of amusement he gets out of showing off his wife to jealous onlookers that tend to marvel at the powerful couple, but his threshold for it in all actuality is very, very low. Hence why he kept his left hand either flat on your navel to keep your back pressed to his chest or skimming at the ends of your hair, twirling strands into lazy coils, and his chin on your shoulder the entire time.

To the room, you always look like a disinterested observer, smiling when need be at frankly awful jokes and staring boredly at the velvet-topped table. But, cloaked by the pleasing ‘fhhwip’ of cards being dealt, chips clattering as they’re gathered up, and the hum of conversation laced with alcohol are your words that you feed into Satoru’s ear.

You keenly observe each and every hand dealt from your lofty throne, playing the game as a false bystander. You suss out each guilty or too-eager bodily cue with a sharpness that could cut through bedrock, aiding Satoru like Nike did Zeus. It’s scary how efficient you are as a team.

"Lucky for me, I've got a beautiful lucky charm with me tonight," Satoru claimed every time he swept up his winnings (much to the dismay of the groaning politicians), mouthing ‘love you’ or ‘my sexy cunning wifey’ whenever you’d glance at him over your shoulder with a smirk, his cerulean eyes swimming with open adoration beneath his polished veneer of arrogant self-importance.

You’re still in your dress when Satoru steps out of the en-suite bathroom back at the Gojo estate. Your back is to him as you sprawl out on your side, the faint glow of a screen spilling over your body. He sidles up to his side of the bed.

With the dramatism of a tragic hero from a beloved shoujo manga, or maybe a child who was just told he can't have candy before dinner (which is fitting considering his maturity level seems to plummet in the face of sexual frustration), Satoru flops back onto the bed behind you and makes you bounce atop the mattress. The only thing missing is the melodramatic rain lashing at his form and soaking him down to the bone, making his clothes cling wetly to every ridge of his lean muscle, drawing attention to his big… heart.

“Read to me,” he requests with an abrupt softness, his usual vibrancy hushed in the wake of your peacefulness that he doesn’t want to disturb too much. “Please.”

“It’s all boring stuff that you probably don’t wanna hear,” you admit in an attempt to spare him from the horrors of work.

Shaking his head, he burrows his face into its favorite home, your nape, and cuddles up to your back. Satoru boxes you into him with an arm slung over your waist, a puzzle falling into place, and keeps you close.

“Don’t care,” he replies, voice muffled. “I just wanna hear your voice.”

On any other day, you’d attribute this request of his to unrelenting boredom. There’s times where your husband buzzes around with a manic energy that you swear makes his white hair crackle and stand on end if touched by static, unable to mentally settle enough to let his guard drop. Watching movies, going on spontaneous outings, or, more recently, busting out the collar are all tried and true methods that work wonders.

In the here and now, though, there’s no boredom that needs to be filled with a quota. Satoru just wants to hear your voice even though he could read it faster than you speak aloud.

You oblige. You end up reaching behind you to scratch at his nape, the hairs there short and satisfyingly fuzzy from being recently shorn, while you relay the words on your phone screen to him.

Satoru’s lulled into silence for a while. The only signs that he’s awake and listening are his steady breaths against your skin and his fingers that draw swirling patterns against your stomach, his inviting hums whenever you pause for a beat too long. He doesn’t know how long you both lie there as you read, but what he does know is that he never wants to leave this bubble.

Your voice makes Satoru feel… small, in a way. Safe, carefully filed away in a place under lock and key where no one wants to hurt him.

It also makes him stupidly horny.

From where he’s pressed up behind you, Satoru’s hips start to slowly press into your backside with an interest a little too intense to be innocent. You can feel the swell of his third fucking leg that’s begging to make an appearance. It’s impossible to ignore.

Clearly, someone thinks that he’s slick, conveniently ‘forgetting’ about your ‘no sex’ rule in hopes that you already have. As if not bringing it up means that the ban might as well have never been spoken in the first place.

Totally sound logic.

“Can I help you?” You ask, still half-focused on your phone.

“Uh huh,” he hums in a rasp that makes the hair on your arms stand up straight. Satoru’s half-hard cock twitches as he insistently rubs it right up between your asscheeks through the curtain of your dress. His tongue wetly drags over the skin right behind your ear before he pinches your earlobe between his teeth. All of his formerly quiet innocence is flying out of the window.

Your core clenches with the urge to rub back against him until you’re both panting and then bounce on his cock, coaxing delicious whines and moans out of him. You just barely resist. “No, Satoru.”

Your voice has the same effect as a cattle prod, zapping him right in the brain and short-circuiting all delusions of sweet talking his way into your panties, rolling you onto your stomach, and mounting you in prone bone. His grabby hands twitch, plotting, before you cuff him with the pointed look you toss him over your shoulder. “No,” you repeat.

Satoru feebly whines when you squirm out of his grip (only because he lets you— you stand no chance against his strength) to sit up and swing your legs over the edge of the bed. He scrambles to follow your retreating form. “Baby, wait, I’m sorry! I didn’t me—“

He nearly knocks you both over when you abruptly stop in front of him. “Unzip my dress.”

His panic is overridden by spine-tingling desire. Holy shit. He’s free of the ban… isn’t he? This isn’t a delusion. It can’t be.

“Hell yes,” Satoru breathes, turning chipper once more. He mentally rubs his hands together and licks his lips as he grasps your zipper after you brush your hair out of the way, tugging it down to the small of your back and watching either side of your dress unfurl. You slide the straps of it off your shoulders and he groans when it slips like silk down your curves and to the floor, leaving you in a cute bra and panty set that he bought you ages ago.

Not even being a saint in his past life could cancel out the awful misdeeds he’s committed in this one, but he must’ve done at least one good thing right if he’s regained the privilege of being able to stare at his wife’s backside.

You step out of it and continue on your path with him not even a foot behind you, breathing down your neck like a great big husky. “God, I missed showering with you. Missed your sexy body,” he breathes, fumbling to take his shirt off as he goes because he’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

He’s gotten it over his head and tossed it aside by the time you get to their en-suite bathroom and turn to look at him downright lecherously while smoothing your hand up the doorframe, stripping him down further with just your searing stare. The mental picture he takes of you could be the cover of a magazine— one that he’d print only for himself. “C’mere, puppy,” you coo.

He mentally white-knuckles the base of his cock to avoid blowing his load in his pants at that.

Satoru’s dick is twitching with the barrage of mental images flooding his head. Soapy suds race down your gorgeous glistening body as Satoru plows into you from the back, water and slick splashing between where you’re joined, both of you vulnerable and oh so comfortable with each other.

Your left hand is clinging to his forearm that arcs above you, his own hand plastered against the slippery tile for further leverage, while your right hand yanks at his leash to force him deeper, weepy blush-pink cockhead kissing your cervix with each bruising slap of his pelvis against your ass. A little silly of you to bring his collar along under the spray when the water is perfectly capable of ruining the leather and velvet of it beyond repair, but eh, whatever. This is all in his head anyways.

Since both of your hands are occupied, you have nothing to brace yourself with other than your front. You’re curved in the most insane arch, the side of your face pressed to the tile along with your tits, nipples probably hard and aching against the cool surface. Sacrificing a fraction of your dignity for control. Although… you look very cute with your cheek smushed like that.

He knows he's at your mercy. Knows that with just a word or a tug on his leash, you could have him scrambling to fulfill your every whim. And god, does he want to do just that— to pour all his overwhelming focus into worshipping his wife until you’re trembling, smiling, and boneless with pleasure.

You’re both moaning like crazy and the noises echo off of the soaked tile like gunshots. Satoru buries himself into your warmth over and over again, deliriously watching the slide of his drenched cock each time he drags his hips back, only to punch them forward again. “Fuck, baby, just like that,” you encourage, trying to catch your breath between thrusts. “What a good b—“

The bathroom door slams in his face and the mirage fades.

Satoru nearly howls as if you shut it on his foot and sliced it clean off. “Don’t lock me out!” He whines, obnoxiously jiggling the doorknob and frowning when he finds that you locked it. He feels like a kid who’s been told they’re going to Disneyland after begging for a year straight, only to bounce out of the car once it pulls to a stop and realize that they’re at the dentist instead.

He huffs and puffs as he knocks a few times in hopes you’ll have mercy on him, totally considering breaking it down or picking the lock so that he can throw himself between your thighs and fuck you sloppy on his tongue.

The pipes chug in the walls when you turn the shower on, the spray hitting the tiles audible through the door.

“Do you mind? I’m busy,” you call to him. Oh god, you’re probably naked by now, curves bare between those four walls that close you off from him. Satoru’s quivering in place. He thinks his dick might just fall off from the stress.

“Yes, actually, I do,” he complains, brows furrowed. “Showers are our thing. Let me in.”

You’re quiet as if considering it. The sound of the water changes as it meets your body, sluicing over you in rivulets and painting you in a clear sheen that he’d kill to see. He’s never been so jealous. Sleighted. Betrayed. How dare the droplets touch you but he can’t get in the shower and do the same, scrubbing you squeaky clean and maybe dipping a finger into your cunt if he’s lucky.

“Hmm… no,” you finally say.

“No?” Satoru parrots, scandalized and clutching his mental pearls.

“Don’t act like that. You know exactly why I’m not letting you in. What makes you think you deserve to be in here?”

You’ve got no compassion. You’re killing him in an orderly fashion, laurel wreath on your head and bare skin painting you as something godly, all cool indifference and amusement. A beautiful girl with a criminal smile that should be put in a file for the FBI, because this? This is inhumane. You’re surely violating multiple humanitarian laws.

“You’re sick. Vile,” he says instead of properly replying to your question, a gut reaction. “You need to be locked up in a maximum security prison where you can’t cause any harm to beautiful, astoundingly gifted men like me,” Satoru accuses through the door without any real anger.

Then, because he’s terrified of actually inviting his wife’s wrath and landing himself on your bad side, he leaps to correct himself. “Not that I’d ever want that for you! You’ve never done any wrong in my eyes and never will. You’re perfect, princess. You deserve to relax in a jacuzzi or on a warm beach in a bikini and be fed off of a charcuterie board.”

“I know that’s right,” comes your muffled voice, sounding all too satisfied.

Grinding his teeth together, he lightly thunks his forehead against the door before leaving it to rest there. His fingers curl into halfhearted, pathetic fists at his sides.

The desire to touch you outside of kisses, cuddles, and hugs festers by the day like a sore wound. Even though Satoru is content with whatever he gets from you, he’ll always want you. Always. How could he not after years upon years of being married to you? His heart is so full of you and the desire to connect with you in a more intimate manner that it’s set to burst at any moment.

The longer he goes without feeling you against him and studying your body as if you’re a special edition book that’s been signed by the author, the more it kills him. It splinters him, ruins him from the inside out. Like a dead animal’s digestive enzymes breaking down their internal cavity and spoiling the tissue. Self-digestion.

Is he being dramatic? Maybe. Maybe not. He just wants you so bad.

“Go put your collar on, okay?” You suddenly speak up again, voice echoing. “I’ll give you what you need eventually. You just need to be patient and wait. Only good boys get treats, remember?”

He knows you mean business and the last thing he wants is to prolong this agonizing drought. Swallowing his pleas, he nods even though you can’t see him. There’s a lesson to be learnt here, he’s slowly realizing— a hard one.

“Fine,” he mumbles.

Satoru reluctantly pushes away from the door, forcing out one more great big sigh to try and make you feel guilty (it doesn’t work) before padding over to the bedside drawer on his side of the bed. He fishes out the collar and loops it around his neck. It takes him a second of blindly searching to click the buckle into place and the tension leaves his body as if that’s all he needs in order to relax.

Dropping his full weight on the bed, he splays out across the center of it on his stomach and bunches up a pillow beneath his head, slinging his arms around it and holding it in place. He sinks into the mattress and waits.

He only realizes that the shower’s been turned off after god knows how long and that his eyes closed at some point when something feathers across his cheek. He peels his glazed blue eyes open and finds you sitting on the edge of the bed, bundled up in a robe with your hair damp around your shoulders, looking infinitely relaxed and loose.

That expression is what he fights to keep on your face every damn day of his life. Satoru didn’t have a protective bone in his body that wasn’t selfishly for himself until you, and now, all he wants to do is tuck you behind his ribs, right next to his heart, and safeguard you there forever. Keep you safe, happy, and satisfied, wanting for nothing.

Your knuckle rubs back and forth over his cheek and he leans into your touch, coaxing you to flip your hand over and cup his face, thumb petting at him.

“You look cozy,” you whisper, fond.

Your voice makes a soft, blissful smile tug at his lips. Satoru’s aimlessly floating in that liminal space between reality and fantasy, his mind fogged over with a mix of anticipation, trust, and a bone-deep sense of comfort that seems to blend together into one fluffy cloud.

As the pride of the Gojo clan, yakuza royalty in the flesh, he alone sits at the top, splayed out on the throne that the heavens carved out for him at birth. Untouchable, unreachable in a world where strength is everything and vulnerability is a death sentence. Yet here you are, worming your way into his crevices and domesticating the wolf. Dulling his fangs and softening him into something more puppy-like.

There’s a sense of freedom in letting go and being vulnerable with you. Always has been.

Satoru blinks slowly up at you, unable to conjure up his buried thoughts. You smile a little before standing, making him tense up— he doesn’t want you to leave. “I’ve got you, just stay there. I’ll be right back,” you gently shush him, consoling him with one more stroke of your finger over his cheek before you quickly depart, coming back just as fast with a familiar glass bottle in hand and a fresh towel tucked beneath your arm.

“Can you rub this into my scalp for me, baby?” You ask, tilting your head at Satoru and crawling onto the bed.

“Yeah.” He finds it in himself to gradually pull himself up into a sitting position and folds his legs beneath himself. You reach out, fixing up the bow attached to his collar, and duck your finger beneath the hem of it to double-check that it’s not too tight around his throat. It’s instinct.

Humming softly under your breath, you unfold one flap of the towel and spread it across his lap, resting your head there. You look up at him and he brushes some of your hair off of your forehead and out of the way, his touch lingering there. You’re an animated painting, all lazily winding curves and warm skin against the cool comforter beneath you.

He unscrews the top of the bottle of hair serum once you hand it to him. Slowly, he tips it and allows a small amount of oil to dribble into the bowl of his palm— a rich, darkly colored serum that smells faintly of coconuts and warm spices.

He starts by working his fingers through your roots, massaging the oil into your scalp with a careful thoroughness that speaks volumes of how often he’s done this, then he makes his way down to the ends of your hair to evenly spread it all out. You let out a faint sigh of contentment and your eyes flutter shut, melting into putty beneath his ministrations.

Once-violent hands that have snapped necks and used serrated blades to cut off the thumbs of his underlings for disobeying him with no sympathy work over you with a tenderness that belies the brutality that lies beneath the fate lines of his palms.

He keeps going until he’s sure that each strand is spun with the serum. Satoru’s always eager to show you just how much he loves and cherishes you. And right now, that means making sure he does exactly as you ask, redirecting all that eager-to-please sexual energy that buzzes at his nerves into pleasing you another way, no matter how small or mundane the task may seem. Properly executing this feels impossibly good for him.

Satoru leans down and presses a soft kiss to your forehead, breathing in the scent of the serum intermingling with your shampoo and body wash, then presses your lips together in an upside-down kiss. His nose gently bumps against your chin. You hook your finger into the o-ring of his collar to keep him steady against you.

For once, the weight of his responsibilities aren’t on his shoulders. Nor is there his usual quip at his lips or a playful tease that’ll break up the peace. It’s just you, him and this tiny slot of time.

You both pull back at the same time, your sweetened breaths puffing across his lips. His thumbs draw soothing circles into your temples to watch you further dissolve into his lap and he grins to himself, happy that he's able to bring you some measure of peace, before resuming the steady glide of his fingers through your hair.

“I thought you were done?” You murmur, almost a yawn.

“I am,” he admits, “but I wanna do this for you. You look so relaxed… I want you to always stay this way.”

The collar is comfortably weighty around his throat the entire time that he plays with your hair until you doze off— a physical manifestation of the trust and safety he feels in your presence.

"A week?" Satoru repeats a few days later, voice tight.

He hates the idea of being away from you for that long. You’re rarely apart for more than a night or two when something comes up, and whenever you have to venture outside of Tokyo or Kyoto without him for too long, he gets antsy with worry and a selfish need to keep you cooped up in his arms forever.

But he also knows that you hate the idea of leaving your old man alone when he isn’t doing too well and is actively asking for your presence in your childhood home. Just for a little while.

Satoru remembers all too well the state your father was in at the behest of Satoru’s own father— a mountain of debt that shackled your dad to the Gojo-gumi and threatened to crush the man before you stepped in to help, sacrificing your own ambitions and desires to free your family from the trappings of the yakuza.

It was the catalyst that brought you back into his life as a more permanent fixture, a blessing disguised as a burden. It was also a testament to your incredible character that he was witness to back when you were both in high school, long before Satoru’s old man passed and he was forced to step into the role of oyabun as the heir apparent.

"I suppose I can survive a week without my better half," Satoru finally sighs, drooping with sorrow as he walks by your side through the parking garage across the street from the Gojo-gumi headquarters. "Family comes first. Go spend some time with him while I hold down the fort. I know you’ve been missing your dad, anyways.”

Then, softer, “I just... I'm going to miss you like crazy, you know? A whole week without my beautiful wife by my side? I might just die.” He knows he's being a bit needy, but he can't help it. You bring out a softer side of him that he never shows to anyone else.

You stop next to the car, Satoru clicking the unlock button on the fob, before you finally pull your attention away from your phone. There’s a devotion there that’s packed tight with regret. “I wish I could get someone to drive him here so that he could stay with us, but this city is just… it’s not good for him.”

You suck in a breath. “Maybe I should stay and send one of my cousins to—“

“Gojo,” it slips forth, stirred to perfection with careful heaps of cinnamon and sugar and butter, a skinny spoon tapped against the rim of the bowl upon finishing it to make sure all the excess sweetness drips forth and rejoins the rest. His name, your name, engraved on the twin bands gleaming beneath the fluorescent lights of the parking garage. They clink together like toasted glasses when he interlaces your fingers, kisses them all.

You stare at him, all gentle-eyed and pretty as you lean against his sports car and look up at him. Hopelessly besotted by the sound of your surname.

He pauses, swallowing hard. When Satoru speaks again, his voice is low and rough with emotion. "Gojo. Just... be careful out there, okay? I’ll send you off with some of my men, but keep your eyes open since you’ll be close to Ryomen’s hunting grounds. Stick with your dad. And if anyone, and I mean anyone, tries anything funny or looks at you strangely for even a millisecond, you call me. No one else.”

Long after he drives you to their favorite restaurant then back home, he waits until you go to the bathroom to scroll through his contacts. It’s ingrained in him to be overprotective of you. The thought of anything bad happening to you... he doesn’t even want to entertain the thought. Everything would crumble beneath the furious weight of his wrath.

He wouldn’t even burn the world, too weak to even lift his hands because he’s at his weakest when you’re not with him. His caving in chest would suck up the entire planet into his black hole heart, trying futilely to use the big patchy continents on its surface to blot out the agony. Ice cold in its intensity.

His wakagashira, Nanami, and wakagashira-hosa, Choso, have enough going on right now. Yaga, shateigashira of the Gojo-gumi, is too out of the way to get involved in this (and would probably hang up on Satoru if he even tried asking him to tag along with you). Grumbling a little, Satoru caves and calls one of his trusted kyodai. Ino picks up on the second ring with a cheery, “hey, boss!”

“Hey, Ino. Got a job for you,” Satoru says, rubbing his thumb over the back of his phone. “I need you and some of the boys to accompany my wife to her old man’s place. Don't let her out of your sight whenever they decide to go out, but keep your distance and give her space or she’ll bite your head off. Make sure that they’re both safe at all times. Understand?"

His kyodai turns serious at the dangerous ridge of his tone. “Crystal clear, sir.”

“Good. Don’t fuck this up or I’ll string you upside down by all ten of your toes and cut your dick off so that I can send it off to the Bratva. And I’ll let Nanami watch me hack away at your dick with a machete. Do you want that?” He poses this scenario a little too cheerfully.

Ino’s choked breath makes the phone line crackle. “No, no I don’t. I won’t let you down.”

Satoru is a clingy mess for the rest of the night, nibbling at your earlobe, snuffling at your neck and arms and chest like a wet-nosed puppy, refusing to let you budge even an inch away from him in search of air. It’s hard to tell where your body ends and his begins with how tightly you’re wrapped up in him.

He’s just as bad when you pack come morning. Hair mussed from fitful sleep and his sleepy voice cracking with each whine he lets loose, he tails you around with an expression bordering on offense. ‘How dare you try to hurry this up by asking for my help. Are you really so eager to leave me?’ is what his eyes convey the second you ask a sulky Satoru to help you fold your clothes.

His melodramatic wail when you take your toothbrush out of your joint holder while gathering your toiletries, separating yours from his, should make you laugh but it only makes you ache to throw everything down and jump into his arms like a fool to a siren. A very beautiful blue-eyed siren with a boyish grin that's charmed you since day one and elegantly sculpted fingers, his infectious laugh, that addictive warmth that makes it hard to not give into him…

Don’t fall for it, you tell yourself.

"Don't think for a second that I won't be counting down the days until you're back in my arms. Because I will," Satoru pouts at the front door. A sleek black car rumbles at the foot of the steps leading down to the driveway, Ino’s mop of brown hair, slightly covered by his ski-mask that’s been pulled up to his forehead beanie-style, visible through the rolled down window.

He watches the kyodai leap out and trot up the steps to grab your luggage and carry it down before turning to you. There’s no smirk on his face, only a displeased purse of his lips that begs for your attention. You can practically picture the droop of fluffy ears atop his white hair.

So cute. You could eat him right up.

“I know,” you reply, slinging your arms around his neck and nuzzling your noses together. Your hands clasp at his nape and he can feel the chilly line of your wedding band against his skin.

Satoru melts into your embrace and drapes over you like a great big dog. When you wiggle a little, he holds on tighter, practically squeezing you to death. “I’ll text and call you every day. Keep your phone on you at all times just in case something happens. If you don’t answer me after five rings, I’ll throw up,” he continues as if you haven’t heard this spiel a hundred times already.

“Mhm,” you agree with a wheeze from the lack of proper airflow. You duck your head and smush your face between his pecs. You could happily die right here. He has no business having pecs plumper and rounder than a woman’s rack.

He releases you and all your bones pop back into place. His blue eyes are shimmery and sad as they peer into your very soul. “I love you,” you tell him softly.

“What was that?” Satoru cups one ear.

“I love you to the moon and back,” you oblige with a fond roll of your eyes as you stretch upwards.

“And I love you more than infinity times infinity,” he finishes, bending down to meet you halfway for a kiss.

(After kissing and hugging on the doorstep for much too long, you gaze out of the window of the car as Ino cruises through traffic. Thank god for this impromptu trip. You think you would’ve folded and let him hit after another hour of just… him being him.)

Satoru keeps busy with the Gojo-gumi while you’re away, but instead of his workload stifling the achey clench of his heart, it only forces him to confront how awful all of it feels without you. He’s gotten so used to seeing you not just at home, but at headquarters where you both work, too, that his brain bluescreens every time he passes your empty desk and doesn’t see you squinting at your laptop or ruffling Yuuji’s hair after helping the teenager out with something.

Each and every meeting and errand he has to run to ensure that the Gojo-gumi continues merrily rolling around in their gains feels unnatural without your hand in his. It swallows him down dry and spits him right back out. This is his personal hell.

Whenever he gets the chance to talk to you for even a second, he barrels over his responsibilities to do so. You called him during a meeting once and he walked out early with hearts in his eyes and his phone longingly cradled to his ear. Satoru sends you selfies of him holding up mochi with a dimpled smile that’s much too adorable to be found on a man of his reputation’s face, long texted paragraphs about his days, whatever comes to mind. Nonsense.

You charge things to his card instead of your own that connects you to your shared bank account and he giggles to himself. You want him so bad. Even better, you sometimes send solo selfies back in return or ones with your dad roped into them, and he saves them all to his photo album titled ‘wifey 🩵.’

But none of your calls or texts match up to the bliss of having you here with him in person.

Satoru wakes up every morning, the luxurious sheets, pillows, and blankets that he spent more than a couple of bands on doing nothing to chase away the lonely chill in his bones created by your absence. The length of the bed feels too vast for even his long arms and even longer legs. You’re not there to squirm away and laugh as he blows raspberries into your neck to wake you up before hoisting you up from bed, wrapping you up in a robe, and carrying you off to the kitchen so that you can have breakfast together. Nor are you there at night for him to cuddle up with.

During the day, he’s the suave yet feared, ruthless oyabun that all of Japan knows by name. He offers hand and coin to all the businesses that rely on him, only to snatch it back when their dues aren’t paid, leaving him no choice but to forcefully take a cut of their profit ‘for their own protection.’ The thousands upon thousands of his underlings that cower before him, equal parts reverence and fear, are his to keep in line. To provide for.

It’s a cutthroat and downright draining job that calls for no sympathy. No sweet kisses. No soft, encouraging words and a hand to grip tight when the blood he’s spilled clouds his vision.

It’s not even the sex he misses when you’re gone. It’s not about that. You mesh with him in a way that has him cursing his teenage self for not getting to know you better in high school and having to wait all those years after graduation for you to sweep into his office like a harbinger of justice.

Call it corny, but he’s convinced that you’re soulmates. There’s nobody else out there for him— nobody else that he wants, because you’re it for him. You’ve given him much more love, happiness, and freedom than anyone else in his life has.

And that’s exactly why he respects why you won’t let him make you feel good, won’t touch him in return. There’s a reason for everything, even if he’s too prideful to admit out loud that this is due to his own shortcomings.

Satoru toys with the collar around his neck and stares up at the ceiling from your shared bed, where he’s tucked in all on his lonesome. He knows that he’s a handful of a pet. Bad puppies like him, they don’t respect other dogs’ spaces. Satoru goes sniffing where he shouldn’t after bounding off without your permission, making Ryomen growl and snap at his heels for his audacity and chase him from his territory.

Sometimes, he does shit that he knows will piss other people off or worry you, the one person who matters the most. That he knows he’ll regret later. But at the moment, it always feels too good not to do it. Like he can’t help himself— too stubborn and always looking for the next excitement, the next thrill.

(But he’ll always be that overbearingly affectionate puppy that’s so big and excited that he knocks you over in his haste to get to you, smothering you in kisses and dirty paw prints. Satoru has a problem with resource guarding, snarling at others that get too close to you even if there’s no threat in sight— he’s just protective, that’s all. It’s all out of love.)

And worse, bad puppies like him don't always respect their owners' boundaries and rules either. He can be greedy; always trying to sneak extra treats off the table when your back is turned. He goes pawing at you even when you’ve told him no, because sometimes he doesn’t take your discipline in the form of rejections seriously, not understanding the gravity of your words until you’ve scolded him, making him droop all sadly.

You’re always gonna find your push and pull with him fun, but sometimes, you just want him to submit without a playful fight. That’s what you’ve wanted the entire time.

He can do that for you.

Satoru gets a call on day thirteen of the ban.

“You okay?” He asks the second he answers.

There’s the slight bustle of chatter on the other line. He pictures you somewhere nice, your dad sitting across from you and you gazing out of the window with a cup of liquid warmth cradled between your palms. Bathed in sunlight and looking oh so serene. Satoru keeps his phone pressed tightly against his ear, afraid that if he lets go, you'll disappear.

“I’m fine. Just calling to check on you. Are you okay?” You flip the question back on him. Your concern never fails to make his heart flutter— as if he’d ever let anyone else come close to beating him, not when he has you to always crawl back to.

After pausing to overanalyze your voice and the background noise just in case you’re trying to hide a smidgen of pain or something, he relaxes. Putting his phone on speaker and setting it on the counter, he grabs his loofah from the shower, wets it under a stream of hot water from the sink, and pumps a spurt of soap onto it. Satoru sets to work on scrubbing the blood out from beneath his nails, bubbles frothing forth in a pinkish white and spilling over his split knuckles.

“You don’t even need to ask, baby. I’m invincible, remember?”

You’re quiet for a beat too long, clearly waiting for something that he doesn’t give. Satoru can feel the look of mild exasperation you’re giving him from miles and miles away. “Right. Is that why I heard you picked on a certain wakagashira?”

Jesus. People tattle on him to you more than Shoko and his other informants spill the beans to Satoru on what the other syndicates are up to.

“What, Suguru’s wakagashira? I’d never hurt a hair on Miguel’s bald, shiny head,” he drawls with a smirk. “Who fed you that bull and why’d you believe it?”

“You’re so annoying,” you laugh. Score. He’s mentally twirling his short white hair between his fingers and kicking his feet at the sound. Chancing a glance into the mirror, he finds himself beaming brighter than the sun. “Nanami told me that my big strong man and Uraume got into it.”

“Ohhhh… is that what Ryomen’s wakagashira’s name is?” Satoru plays dumb.

Your snort makes the line crackle. A dish clinks. “Satoru.”

“Okay, okay, maybe I did,” he relents with a melodrama only seen in really shitty Hallmark movies. Twisting the faucet off after rinsing the loofah free of blood, he deposits it back in the shower then hurries back to his phone to stare almost longingly at your name on the screen. “Let’s talk about that later, though. Compliment me some more instead— call me your big strong man again,” he dreamily sighs, rocking back and forth on his heels.

“My big strong man, my big strong man, my big strong man,” you repeat.

“Did you really have to say it three times? You might summon something into the bathroom,” Satoru clicks his tongue with a searching look around the room.

“I hope whatever it is gives you a noogie,” you deadpan, and this time, he’s the one that laughs. “I have to go in a second, but I just wanted to let you know that I’ll be coming back tomorrow. I’ll meet you at home, give you a nice reward for how patient you’ve been these last two weeks. How’s that?”

The excitement that rushes through him makes his stomach drop as if he’s being tossed around on a rollercoaster. It’s nearly enough to wash away the loneliness that’s dogged his every step while you’ve been away. “Good,” he breathes. “Sounds good. Really good. What’re you thinking exactly?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” you croon, teasing. “So, aside from the Uraume incident, tell me about your day.”

“It’s been straight ass. The Gojo clan elders are on one, Kento’s been exceptionally boring, and my wife isn’t here to kiss my booboos better. God, and later I have to go downtown and squeeze a late payment out of one of the ryoteis I own…”

The rest of the conversation, your shared goodbye’s and love you’s included, go by in a blur. By the time you’ve hung up, his blood pressure is through the roof. There’s no mistaking that you’ll be on him in more ways than one tomorrow. The anticipation weighs heavily on him and refuses to let up, making his cock twitch.

“Get a grip,” he coaches himself, dabbing his hands dry to avoid scraping at his hurt knuckles. “All she did was talk to you and tell you that she’s coming home. It was just her voice. Don’t get turned on.”

Straightening up, Satoru looks himself over in the mirror. His white hair is lazily tousled— the look of someone who just crawled out of bed looking infuriatingly good, his blue eyes like twin stars beneath the fluorescent lights. He winks and cheeses at his reflection, perfect white teeth on display.

But the second his smile slowly fades, you sneak your way back into his head. He can practically envision you standing behind him and peeking around his body to look at the two of you, fingers dragging fire down to his waistband, your voice dipping into that register that drives him batshit insane as you whisper exactly what you’re gonna do to him and chuckling when he groans, pained.

There’s no stopping Satoru as he instinctively palms at his budding erection through his slacks, having to brace himself against the bathroom counter with one hand at the shock of how electric even the barest of friction feels. Through the mirror, he watches himself slowly flush in real time, blooming color spreading over his high cheekbones and arcing across the bridge of his nose before crawling down his neck, brushing him pink. His perfectly glossy lips part around a strangled noise.

You’re not even here and yet you’re making him crazy.

Everything in him wants to dig a pair of your panties out of the laundry, bury his face in it, and fist his cock until he’s spilling all over himself.

More than anything, though, Satoru wants to be a good boy for you, to make you happy. His own hand is nothing compared to the warmth of yours on his body— he wants you to physically unravel him and hear your voice in his ear, soft and commanding, telling him what to do whether that’s how to please you or just relax as you take care of him.

Doing this on his own isn’t the same. You’ve broken him.

Or maybe he’s just very, very well-trained.

Satoru groans, gives his weeping cock one last squeeze, and drops his hand. His chest strains against his shirt with each desperate breath he takes. In the mirror, his cerulean irises gaze back at him, the frustrated hue to them slowly being overshadowed by determination.

He’ll wait for your recall.

On the day of your return, he smells you his first step into the door of the Gojo estate.

You use this specific perfume whenever you’re traveling— jet, ferry, car, it doesn’t matter as long as an engine is purring— and nowhere else. You leave all your ‘goods’ behind in the bathroom and atop the vanity, relying on your dingy little plastic bottle of liquid warmth and sin that you spritz on your skin. Satoru knows that scent better than he knows Newton’s laws.

And he was really fucking good at physics back when he was in school.

It’s a shame that you beat him here, he thinks as he floors it down the long hallway. He could’ve greeted you at the door with the full princess package, helping you out of your coat, taking your purse off of your hands, getting down on his femur to work your high heels off and then carrying you to your room where he can massage any soreness out of your feet.

But alas. He makes a mental note to move quicker next time— not that he’s letting you leave him for an entire week again for another few months.

Upon reaching the bedroom, he throws open the door with gusto. "Oh princesssss, your hubby is home—!”

—And he’s greeted by an empty room.

“Lame,” he sullenly mutters to himself, all that vibrant energy escaping him in one big whoosh. He blows a raspberry to himself and strides inside, stopping by the elegant chaise lounge tucked against the wall. Undoing the knot of his tie, Satoru quickly pulls it off, then tugs his suit jacket down his shoulders and drapes both atop the seat to be dealt with later.

He takes a longer look at your shared master bedroom— the bed is made, the room is clean, and the en-suite bathroom door is ajar but the lights are off. He’s about to turn on his heel and blaze through the estate to find you and smother you to death when he hears shuffling in the walk-in closet. Instantly, he perks up.

“Is that my wife I hear?” Satoru calls, and you respond, a faint ‘mhm’ that makes excited chills bubble up to the top layer of his skin, forming goosebumps.

And then you step out of the closet.

He expected a long black coat with a fur-lined collar, maybe a sharp turtleneck or a blouse. Something travel-friendly and effortlessly classy that you wore on the drive home.

This, though? This is so much better. You’re a mouth-watering treat that he wants to sink his teeth into, chew at, tear into with slow rips until his taste buds are graced with the buttery, gooey sweetness that ripens the core of you and seeps over his tongue like melted caramel.

“Hey there, sugar," he croons, flashing you that same charming lopsided grin that cracked your heart open and feasted on it all those years ago. Satoru takes his designer sunglasses off and folds them with a neat click. Tucks them into the breast pocket of his baby blue waistcoat that clings to him as if to tell you, ‘let me get a good, long look at you. Give me a twirl.’

The thing about Gojo Satoru is that he is the city that he rules. He embodies Tokyo, all blinding neon lights and flashy billboards, his very eyes the morning skyline that pops out at everyone and calls them to action, to put on their shoes and hustle out of the door.

His light blue eyes now, though, are just full of love and a crushing longing vaster than the sea, waves crashing and twining together, hiding its boons deep beneath the tumultuous surface. It makes your steps stutter. But you right yourself like always, stalwart in your efforts to take all his affection that bears down on you and hold yourself up.

You’ve already dressed down to curl up in bed for the rest of the evening, wearing a skimpy leopard-print nightgown that slices half-diamond slits up the sides of both of your thighs. The short hem glances off of your thighs like curtains swaying in the breeze when you shift your weight and the iPad clutched to your chest does your tits wonders, making them squish against the screen. The nightgown is so skin tight that you may as well be naked, clinging so sinfully to you and emphasizing every curve and dip of your body. It leaves very little to the imagination. Shit, he wants to dive into the ocean of your hips and drown in them.

But it's the warm look in your eyes behind those reading glasses that really gets to him. You rarely wear them in the first place, so seeing them perched delicately on the bridge of your nose… he’s never felt weaker.

Your whole ensemble is slutty. The pinch of adorably sweet domesticity that makes him wanna bite your cheeks and the refined deadliness of an office siren (which you very much are) wraps it all up nicely. Soft yet sexy. The look he loves the best on you. You absolutely did this on purpose.

The rush of affection that pummels at his chest makes him a little sick.

He doesn’t miss the way your mouth twitches in a futile attempt to beat back a smile. “Stop staring,” you warn.

Mmmm. That voice of yours could’ve single-handedly halted the Trojan War.

“I can’t help it,” Satoru sighs, dismissively waving your comment away and sauntering over to you. “You’ve got that new mom glow.”

“Excuse me?”

He nods at the iPad you’re still clutching. “You’ve been extra radiant ever since I bought you that thing,” he jests.

“You are so fucking…” you rub your forehead. You exhale a laugh. “God help me. Just come here and welcome me home properly.”

“Already on it, boss,” he purrs with a cheeky grin right as he sidles up to you. His hands sneak into the slits of your nightgown to grab at your hips, fingers sinking into the soft, pliant give of them. They prickle with the urge to slide around, dip beneath the hem, and cop a feel of what you’ve got stacked behind you. “Holy shit, I’m the luckiest man alive. Do you have any idea how sexy you look right now, titties sitting pretty in this nightgown and everything?” Satoru dreamily sighs as he drinks you in.

“Mm, tell me about it,” you murmur, a twinkle lighting your eyes. Your free hand smooths up from his navel to his chest, where his heart pounds entire sonnets in your name.

“Well, you look phenomenal. So fucking phenomenal. I’d fight 3 mountain lions in a McDonalds handicap bathroom stall with my hands tied behind my back, my only weapon a shake weight glued to my forehead, just to get a chance to stare at you for the rest of my life.”

You laugh immediately, that look in your eyes deepening. You look so light with amusement and fondness that it seems to rejuvenate you, making you glow like you’re lounging in the gentlest, warmest of sunbeams with the grace of a feline.

Satoru smiles dopily, his cheeks hurting from the force of his grin. “I missed you, wifey. This place isn't the same without my pretty girl in it." He leans down to kiss your forehead and breathes you in. “Did you miss me just as much, or did you enjoy your time without me buzzing in your ear like a gnat?” He jokes, hating how a hint of pleading slips through.

“Oh, spare me. You were up my ass over the phone,” you tease before turning sincere. A cocktail of emotion spills over your features, relaxing your browbone and softening you around the edges. “But yeah, of course I did, baby. I missed you so, so much.”

It’s silent for only a mere second, a silence that sits heavy and oppressive like the stillness before lightning crashes through the heavens, and suddenly your torsos are colliding as you rush to touch each other.

He seals your mouths together with a needy groan, his grip finally slipping around to your backside to squeeze at your ass and keep you flush against him, and you press one hand to his waist to hold steady as you crane up towards him like a flower unfurling and stretching for the nurturing comfort of the sun. Despite you both walking the line of desperation, the press of your lips is rife with affection. Devotion. An ‘I’m home,’ and a ‘welcome back.’ It feels like eons have passed rather than a week since the last time he’s been able to indulge in you.

Distance may make the heart grow fonder, but it also makes the soul weaker.

“There’s nothing normal about how much I’ve been thinking about you,” he manages between kisses, voice cracking a fraction. The wet glide of your tongue sends a little shockwave through his system and he breaks before you, letting you slip in where he’s most tender and lick your way over his teeth. “I’m so obsessed with you. I’m stupid for you. Being without you is unbearable.”

The way you sigh into him at that, the soft hitch in your breath as if you can finally relax in his hold, only kindles the flame he holds for you. His hold tightens reflexively, fingers curling into the fabric of your nightgown. Trying to make sure you’re real and not a figment of his cruel imagination.

When they finally part, Satoru’s baby blues flutter open to meet your gaze. He’s sure there’s a vulnerability to his ocean-dark eyes and expression that he only allows you to see, to coax out of him. You blink up at him almost hazily, those pretty lips of yours glistening with saliva.

“Promise?” You seek out.

If he’s needy for you, then you’re just as bad. Hide it behind that coolness as much as you want, but it doesn’t change a damn thing.

You’re the one that approached him to almost dejectedly ask why he stopped sending flowers to your desk every day before you even started dating because he assumed you were rejecting his advances (turns out, you hadn’t been throwing away his bouquets but taking them to your former apartment to cover your countertop in them, pressing the prettiest ones to preserve them forever).

You're the one that seeks him out in the dark of night when you’re startled into the realm of the living, grumbling and whining in a manner that you’d never show in the light of day when he’s too far away and only settling when you’re wrapped up snug in his arms, your head on his chest and ear over his heart.

You’re the one that said ‘I do’ at the altar and teared up at the same exact second that he did, and when you fell into his kiss, you gripped his arms with an amorous ferocity that said ‘I’m never letting go of you. I can’t.’

You want him more than you want most things.

“‘Course. I’ll throw all of that into our vow renewals,” he declares.

“God, I love you,” you say. Satoru echoes you with a just as reverent ‘love you’ and murmurs your name, low and rough with emotion, and you press a chaster kiss to his mouth this time. A peck. “I have such a perfect husband. Have you been good? Everything that I’ve read in reports is correct?” You ask much too slowly, relearning how to function now that you’re not entirely intertwined with your other half.

Satoru can see the finish line. Finally. He inhales sharply, releases it, trembling with anticipation. He can’t resist drawing you in one more time, breathing into you, tongue dragging over the crevices of your mouth before sucking on your tongue with so much sensuality that you shiver before drawing back a hairsbreadth, teeth scraping over his bottom lip.

He can’t get enough of you. But he tries to anyways.

He bobs his head in a nod. “Yup. Good as can be, sugar. Everything’s gone smoothly, no hiccups at all. I handled all that’s necessary and now... now I'm all yours.”

You assess him over the rim of your reading glasses. While you do, he rubs his thumbs into the dips of your back before gliding them over every inch of you available to him as if refamiliarizing himself with you. He knows it’s an unnecessary effort, because really, he could never forget even an inch of your beloved body, but it helps him feel more connected to you.

You seem satisfied with whatever you find. “Perfect. I’m impressed.”

Satoru nearly passes out with how quickly his ego inflates.

Walking backwards, you guide him to hasten forward, stopping only when the backs of your knees hit the edge of your king-sized bed. You pull away from him and plop down heavily on the cushy mattress with a sigh, making Satoru immediately miss the feel of your soft body pressed against him.

You toss your iPad further up the bed. Then you’re smiling, smirking, drawing your leopard-print nightgown up, up, up and parting your legs to give him the most delicious view of the print of your perfectly plump pussy against your flimsy panties. Watching you prop yourself up on your elbows on the silk duvet, back arched slightly and tits pushed up and out, the fabric of your nightgown thin enough that he swears he can see your nipples through it, does him further in.

Fuck.

You’re trying to kill him, aren’t you? This is domestic warfare at its most lethal, more thrillingly terrifying than any shootout he’s been in the center of. A trial of Nike that he absolutely cannot fail. Satoru swallows thickly, tongue feeling too big for his mouth as he stares at his wife with a hungry, almost feral expression.

He takes a step closer, then another, lifting his leg to sink his knee into the mattress between your legs and forcing you to bow yours further apart. Satoru leans down and crawls forward, bracing his hands on the bed on either side of your head, his white hair falling messily over his forehead.

"You're a cruel, cruel woman, you know that?” Satoru whispers, sounding helpless and small even as he looms over you. Pouting down at you, he huffs out a little noise of frustration. “Teasing me like this... I've been thinking about this sexy body of yours for ages, and now you're just... showing it off?"

Tilting your head, you poke your lips out in a teasing mimicry of him. “All I’m doing is lying down, babe.”

But what he hears with his incredibly selective hearing is “all I’m doing is some obedience training. Light work!”

‘Sicko’ Satoru mouths at you and your laugh that follows is borderline evil. The sound turns fond, somehow, sweeter than any treat.

A nail presses into the divot of his chin. Satoru blinks as you drag your pointer down to his throat, running up and over the natural curve of his Adam’s apple. His pale neck is bare and open for you. The slight prick of your nail undoes him the same way the spindle undid Aurora, drawing him into a deep hypnosis-induced trance. His plea for more rumbles low in his throat, the noise vibrating against you.

“Okay, okay, I know. I’ve got you. Scoot back, then I want you to do something for me,” you smoothly coo.

He’s nodding almost solemnly before you even finish speaking. “Anything,” Satoru swears. No clarifications needed. No hesitation. Just pure, blind obedience that’s like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders, leaving him feeling higher than a kite.

You and Satoru learned about mantis shrimp on an aquarium date that you went on a while back (he rented out the entire building for a day so that only your laughter would ring through the halls that were empty aside from security guards, the people feeding the marine life, and janitors. Perks of being oyabun). According to the placard with information sitting in front of the tank, mantis shrimp move so quickly that the water around them briefly skyrockets in temperature until it reaches that of the sun’s.

He swears on everything that the air turns scalding with how swiftly he sidles backwards until he’s sliding off the bed, sinking to his knees between your calves. The action is so natural, so instinctive from doing this so many times that it's almost as if his body moves on its own accord, eager to make his wife happy.

Satoru doesn’t touch you once he gets comfortable on the carpet. Doesn’t slide in some sly comment to try and get his way that much faster.

He just waits.

Since Satoru’s always on a hair-trigger around you and could get hard if you snapped your fingers at him and demanded that he get his dick up so that they can hump, warmth is already starting to pump into his cock, making him fill out impressively fast. He itches to relieve the building ache, but still, he keeps his hands on his thighs and doesn’t try a thing in order to prove to you that he’s good. He’ll actually fucking die if he squanders this chance you’re giving him.

You look him up and down, pleasantly surprised. The silence is slaughtering him.

Then you have mercy on him and break it. “Good boy, baby. Go get your collar. The leash, too.”

Satoru instantly gets up and crosses the bedroom to obey you, because this is what he was put on this earth to do— follow you like Eurydice did Orpheus to the edge of the underworld and beyond, listening to your every word without question. There’s nowhere in the world that Satoru would rather be than at your side. At your beck and call.

He’s quick to return with both objects in hand and kneels before you again. You take the leash from him, clip it onto the collar, and wind it around his neck to buckle it into place. Just like always, he goes all gooey the second it’s on. Head empty, heart full.

He blinks when warmth lands where his knees touch. Satoru, still ramrod-still, looks down at your socked foot sitting innocently on the divot between his knees. How you landed there with such precision without sparing his bottom half a glance, he’ll never know.

You nudge his knees apart even as Satoru pushes back against you a little, squeezing his thighs together just to see what you’ll do for the hell of it, but his playful resistance proves fruitless when the softness of the carpet and your sudden angelic giggle at his behavior work together against him to make him relax and open up. You push aside muscle and bone like he’s made of the lightest of silks, all while watching him from beneath your lashes with the most regal of bearings.

“There’s no need to hide,” You admonish, amused. Your heel digs into the inside of his thigh and Satoru has to resist snapping his hips forward so that you can put your foot where he’s burning the most for you. “I wanna see you as I give you a reward for all your hard work. Indulge me.”

Satoru tips his head back enough to keep his eyes locked on yours, the diamonds on his collar catching the lights high above and sending tiny flickering rays arching across your throat. He pushes his knees out further, spreading his legs without any pretense of modesty, until his ass is practically bowing into the carpet. Why be shy when he has a gorgeous wife who likes checking him out?

“Satisfied?” He asks breathlessly.

“Yup, that’s perfect.” You have to huff out a breath to disguise the laugh that you can’t help. You sound awfully endeared. “You’re such a well behaved puppy, aren’t you, baby?” You jangle his leash in emphasis, reminding him that he looks like— that he is— a mere pet at your feet.

The pull jerks him back and forth. Satoru openly moans at the rough treatment and the petname and the noise levels out into a disjointed hum when you let it go slack again with a coo. “You look so pretty chained to my hand.”

It's hard not to preen under your approval, especially when you use that particular tone. Your praise is a drug stronger than heroin and he's a junkie who's been craving a fix for far too long. “Yeah, well, I'm the best at everything I do. Looking good included," he boasts, smug and sure despite the slight tremble of his words.

“You are, aren’t you?” You muse conversationally. “Mommy’s pretty puppy. Handsome and all mine.”

You love Satoru for all that he is. You love his selflessness that he disguises as selfishness. You love Satoru’s wit that matches yours stride for stride, all your stupid inside jokes that your exclusive club of two have created.

You love his unwavering loyalty, the heart-rending puzzle of a man behind the title of oyabun, how quick he is to protect you, his family, with blue eyes full of cold fury as he repeatedly slams someone’s head with a car door until the car alarm goes off from the sheer force he exhibits, then later beam at you with a little dollop of cream from the latest treat he’s eaten by the corner of his mouth all in the same day.

And you certainly love Satoru like this, all his jagged edges sanded down by your equally weathered touch.

There’s something more than appealing in having the oyabun at his knees, the cutesy blue bow of the collar stark against the column of his throat, smiling like he can’t help it when he’s in your presence. He was meant to be on a runway with those brilliant eyes that his white lashes hang low over and soft, fluffy angel hair.

Finally dropping your gaze, you ogle the obscene bulge tenting the expensive fabric of his slacks. Your foot pushes forward towards his inner thigh and his stomach clenches.

“There were so many things I could’ve done while I was on my trip,” you start, eyes gleaming behind your glasses, and just that has Satoru’s heart leaping up his throat to hang onto your every word. “I thought about calling you in the middle of the day with my fingers already buried in me. Make you listen to me moan and touch myself while you could do nothing.”

“Don’t talk like that,” he groans, not a warning nor a plea.

“Like what?”

He opens his mouth and out comes a strangled whimper rather than anything of substance when you abruptly push your socked toes down over his hardening, sensitive tip, just because you can. His hands fly up to grip the edge of the bed on either side of your legs, knuckles turning white with the force of his hold. His hips give a quick twitch that he can’t contain. The pressure is just enough to make Satoru throw his head back, his cock twitching beneath the layers of fabric separating you.

This isn’t the kind of touch he wants, but it’ll do. He’ll scrape up whatever he can get from you.

“Like that, saying all that in that tone,” he chokes out.

“Why can’t I?”

“You’re asking too many questions,” Satoru complains breathlessly, trembling with how hard he’s holding himself back from moving another inch. “They’re all ones that you know the answers to, anyways.”

“Is that right?” You laugh, reveling in the frustrated jut of his bottom lip at yet another question. You roll the ball of your foot over his crotch, teasing, ensnaring him further. “All you have to do is answer ‘why’,” you coax, deceptively light, “or I’ll stop.”

The bold curving lines and spots of your leopard-print nightgown blur slightly as his vision swims with want. Satoru seems to visibly fight himself for a moment before a shameless grin unfurls on his face, appearing more composed than he actually feels. “You’re gonna make me cum if you say stuff like that.”

You lean forward. You calmly unbutton the first button of his shirt and his smile dies faster than it sparked in favor of dropping open in a loose ‘o’ of anticipation. You get the next two open and your hand eases into the cleft of his partially-undone shirt, drifting over one of his nipples. His flush stretches down to his chest.

“Right… so I guess I shouldn’t say that I thought about buying a Bluetooth-controlled plug and having it delivered to the estate.” You emphasize your words with a light pinch, tweaking the bud pinned between your fingers.

Satoru visibly shivers, more so due to your words than your touch, and his eyes grow glassier. You release his nipple and he arches towards you a fraction, borderline mewling when the action pushes him against your foot more firmly.

“I wonder how fast you’d crumble,” you muse. You watch him. Waiting for something. “I would’ve had you wear it all day, throughout your meetings and checking up on your businesses and your deals and all. Our little secret that I could control with a click of a button, forcing you to think of nothing but me as it buzzes away.”

Satoru whines. He’s literally salivating at the thought, drool collecting in his mouth that he forces himself to swallow.

God, you’re one freaky ass woman. You’re a match made in hell.

“Aww, that eager for it? Cute. I can feel you getting harder the more I talk about it,” you coo adoringly. “We’ll save that for a rainy day.”

“Are you trying to kill me?” He croaks.

“No. I’m just trying to get you off,” you murmur. You fully extend your leg, planting your foot into the carpet and shoving your leg right up against his cock.

You then grasp the leash attached to his collar, giving it the gentlest and most tender of tugs to avoid hurting Satoru, aiding him in sitting up straighter. The sensation of the collar lightly squeezing at his throat before the leather relaxes once more sends sparks flying up his spine to burst behind his eyes. “Since you’re so desperate, go ahead and hump my leg like the dog that you are.”

He doesn’t hesitate now that you’ve tossed him a bone.

With a low groan that comes out almost feral, Satoru starts to move. His hips shift forward in desperate little thrusts, rutting his clothed erection against your leg. Soft grunts escape him, lost in the simple pleasure of the friction.

Your legs twitch in an aborted move to squeeze them together, blocked only by Satoru’s body. You groan, heady and low and approving as you watch him, and Satoru can’t get his hands on you fast enough.

His fingers dig into the give of your hips, the warmth of you seeping through your thin nightgown. He holds onto you tightly because you’re the only thing keeping him upright.

"Fuck, sugar..." Satoru moans, eyes rolling back and pristine white lashes fluttering, changing the angle of his thrusts to grind the thick bulge of his cock along the line of your shinbone. He’s throbbing with a second heartbeat, so wound up that his stomach twists and turns with it.

“Look at you, so quick to obey me. That’s a good puppy,” you coo, his actions earning himself a borderline condescending yet much-needed pat on the head that he nudges into, beatific. “Does it feel good?”

“Y-yeah. Like heaven. Been needing this so bad,” he slurs.

When he starts to slide his hands down to your thighs, you tut at him and he freezes. “No moving your hands.” Your voice is saccharine sweet, forbidden fruit dangling from the branches of a tree. “Just keep them there and take what you need. You’re doing so well.”

He could so easily steamroll over your order, flip you over without breaking a sweat and pry your panties off so that he could find his release in the sweetest, most heaven-sent way possible. But he doesn’t. All that power and dominance that comes with being a rich yakuza boss is gone, wisping up and away to the ceiling.

His throat bobs as his hands rejoin your hips. Satoru's head tips forward, his forehead coming to rest against your stomach for further support as he rocks to and fro. He’s panting now, his breath coming out in sharp gusts that rattle through his seizing chest. He can feel the damp patch on the front of his pants growing, the fabric of his boxers clinging sticky to his hardness as it leaks and leaks, pumping out precum with each eager twitch.

“You don’t really need my leg, though,” you then reflect with an air of sureness. “All I’d have to do is talk in this sweet tone you love so much, wouldn’t I? And you’d cum on the spot just from that, completely untouched… I know you could. Happily— maybe with some tears, too. But I won’t do that today. You’ve been too good for me to be mean. Haven’t you?”

Satoru’s so focused on humping your leg and listening to your gentle stream of filth and praise that he doesn't even realize he's whimpering, needy chorused sounds that catch in the back of his throat. Each rhythmic pull at the leash makes him buck forward that much harder in a display of deference for your lead, desperation mounting into an uncontrollable wildfire that ravages his mind as he seeks the sweet spot of your shinbone over and over again.

“Haven’t you?” You repeat.

It takes way too long for his fucked-out mind to catch on. It feels like it’s fizzling around the edges. “I’ve been good,” he keens, peeking up at you.

You smile. “That wasn’t so hard, now was it?”

Mean, mean woman.

Your eyes barely part from the soft shine of Satoru’s darkened slacks as they grow wetter and wetter with each jerky rut, further adding to the equally slick sheen swathed on your leg from how much precum is pooling out of his neglected cock.

The friction is delicious, the pressure and the slight drag of the fabric against his sensitive flesh making his eyes flutter shut in pure bliss. He's already so close to the edge, the psychological ass edging from the past two weeks ensuring his body is wound tighter than a bowstring, ready to snap at the slightest provocation. He stutters out a silent moan. “Not— not gonna last long. M’close, sososo close,” he whimpers.

“That’s okay. Be good for me and cum. You’ve earned it, puppy.”

You lick your fingers before lowering them to twist at Satoru’s nipple again, and the cool wetness of your saliva coating your pads that squeeze at such a sensitive spot, paired with your order and praise, is enough to do him in.

His bitten lips part around a choked groan while he spills into his boxers like clockwork, making the fabric uncomfortably sticky with cum, and the spurts just keep coming like it’ll never end with how backed up he is. Satoru’s cumming in his pants like a teenager and he isn’t even remotely embarrassed. The haze making his ears ring and his brain fizzle out doesn’t allow him to do anything but feel instead of think.

Two weeks of no relief makes his release all the more sweeter. He barely knows what he’s saying between helpless whines of your name and thanks, every word coming out fragmented and feverish.

He jerks up against you with zero finesse, dragging out the earth-shattering ecstasy as much as he can. His flush further overtakes his features and bleeds wantonly across his skin, painting him as something ethereal. More god than man, with its selfishness and its cold metal weapons.

The entire time, your cunt throbs mercilessly in your panties, desperate for the full brunt of his cock inside of you so deep that he strikes your cervix in one shot, because gravity is a law of attraction that draws you both together and you’re so besotted with this man that it should be illegal.

When he raises his head again to look at you, those angel eyes of his are wet and wide with supplication. Milky skin reddened. He looks like a man possessed, desperate for more but unable to find the means to grab it. He doesn’t remember his name, what day it is and what he even did today, but you’re a beacon of clarity that he latches onto.

Satoru makes a noise that sounds like a distinct mix of a groan and a whine, helplessly frustrated.

“Oh, poor baby,” you soothe, drawing circles into his ruddy cheeks with the pads of your thumbs. “It’s okay. Are you overwhelmed?”

He shakes his head so fast that his pupils shake in his irises like 8-balls. “I just— want you to touch me more,” Satoru desperately heaves as he gathers himself. Desire heavily coats his tongue, and it drips out when he opens his mouth and speaks. “Please, mommy?”

He is not a man that begs for anything— except for you. Satoru’d plead himself hoarse if it would make you happy.

To anyone that doesn’t know you well enough, he’s sure that you would seem as unruffled as ever. But Satoru knows exactly where to look. The muscle in your jaw jumps the tiniest bit, your gaze sharpens, and, more noticeably, you shift your weight atop the bed as arousal courses through you at the form of address.

“Say that again.” Your voice is hoarse but sharp. It’s not a question. You command his obedience in the same way a brilliant lightning bolt cracks like a whip against the ground, demanding the surface’s attention. The hand holding the leash suddenly twists and pulls until he’s leaning forward, his breath fanning across the front of your dress where it folds and creases at your crotch. Tendrils of saliva drip, drip, drip from his mouth, drooling all over the fabric like a puppy that can’t control itself.

The air surrounding you is suddenly so thick that he could choke on it. Satoru feels like he’s shaking apart at the seams as he sucks in a gasp.

“God,” Satoru manages. His pounding heart echoes in his ears. “Please touch me, mommy. Please, please, pleaseeee.”

On any other day, he knows that you’d make him work a little harder for it, make him beg and beg until he’s hot with humiliation and wrecked between the knees, any and all lingering defiance fading into worked-over, stupidly pliant putty.

What Satoru also knows is this; you know exactly what he needs, just as well as he does— to be a mindless, pretty pet for a few hours after being denied for so long. He needs to be coddled. It’s why you drop a hand into his hair, scratching at his scalp for a moment, placating, before softly ordering him, “Up. Take your clothes off, nice and slow. I wanna see every inch of my handsome husband.”

He likes it when you boss him around, when you make your needs known so that he can scramble at the opportunity to please you in whatever way you want. It’s obvious in the earnesty plastered on his face.

“Coochie?” He asks a little too excitedly after you release his leash to give him wiggle room, bouncing up with a fresh gust of wind under his sails. His knees threaten to buckle beneath him, his body refusing to let him forget how wrecked he is after his orgasm. He has to blink away the spots lingering around the edges of his vision.

“Later, dork,” you laugh, making his pulse quicken.

Fine. That’s fine with him.

Eager to get this show on the road but wanting to give you a little performance, Satoru takes his time unbuttoning his shirt the rest of the way, revealing inch after inch of his pale, toned torso and the hollow valley of his v-lines that disappear into his pants, followed by the silvery stretch of fine hairs that make up his happy trail.

The muscle beneath his scarred skin ripples like the glistening sea off of the coast as he peels the fabric down his arms and tosses the shirt aside. Your gaze sears into him, branding.

“You like what you see, wifey?" Satoru asks teasingly as he undoes his belt and drops that too with a metallic clink, the sound loud in the charged silence of the room, then hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his slacks and boxers.

“I more than like it, hubby. Now lemme see my cock,” you purr back, crooking a finger at him to continue.

Obedient as ever, Satoru starts to inch his trousers and boxers down, slowly, torturously slow. The two waistbands slide over the prominent tent in his pants, chafing, the cum drenching his boxers making the glide uncomfortably sticky. His cock finally comes free when he tugs them down enough, flaccid and hanging heavy between his thighs. There’s a slight curve to him that you could write sonnets about.

He’s flushed a deep, angry reddish purple and soaked in a mix of his release and pre-cum, the cocktail of sticky fluids wetting his white pubes and making the coarse hair curl. The scent of his seed and sweat thickly permeates the air as he fully steps out of his soiled pants and boxers.

Standing still now that he’s fully bared before you, he watches your eyes roam over his body with obvious hunger, taking in every inch of exposed skin, his collar and dangling leash offering him no modesty.

“God, you’re a stunner. So gorgeous,” you compliment, making his worn-out cock give a feeble twitch like it’s trying to come back to life. “Oh? You like that?”

You stare like you want to devour him whole, eyefucking his dick the most in particular.

“Um, hello?” He circles his face with a finger. “Flirt with me instead of my cock. I know it’s big, I know, but I’m feeling a little neglected.”

You laugh, the sound sweet and genuine and so you. Even that turns him on. “But baaaby—“ he shivers. He’s dying. “You react so cutely to me. It makes me wanna eat you up.”

Satoru quirks his brows. “Then eat the rich, pretty. I know you won’t gag. You never do. My throat goat,” he says cheerily.

“Shush.”

So he does.

He looks back at you with what must be the same expression of lust and affection, because even looking like you’ve just rolled out of bed in your alluring night attire (or, well, about to roll into it), you’re still the most gorgeous woman he's ever seen. Body crazy, curvy, wavy.

When he peeks down at your nightgown that’s still hitched up to your hips, he catches sight of the wet patch blooming at the gusset of your panties and groans low in his throat. You’re just as turned on as he is. Seeing you lounging about like this is a visual that’ll have him stroking himself off in the near future.

“Fuck,” he mutters shakily. His lips purse into a cute pout, wanting. “Are you sure you don’t wanna fuck just yet? Because I have six different positions in mind and I wanna be inside you so bad. Or better yet, strip and lemme just look at you? It’s not fair that I’m standing here naked and afraid and you’re fully clothed.”

It’s rhetorical, pointedly not pushy. He’s no fool— he knows who makes the decisions around here.

You lick your lips and pat the bed next to you. “I’m sure. Again, later, okay? Just get over here.”

Practically vibrating with anticipation, Satoru crawls onto the bed next to you, your warmth searing from this close. He’s pliant, letting you push him to spread out on his side, his leash merrily jingling as he moves. You match his pose, tits nearly spilling out of its flimsy barrier as you roll over.

“Hi,” he whispers as if they’re two kids at a sleepover.

“Hey,” you say, lips quirking up.

He can’t resist nipping at the tip of your nose, just because he can and now that you’re in reach he doesn’t know what to do with himself, making you frown and bat at his squishy chest. “Okay, teeth to yourself or I’ll choke you with your collar, nuisance.”

Satoru moans, so dramatic and loud and lewd that you shake with laughter. “Talk dirty to me some more.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

“Oh, happily.”

His chest rises and falls rapidly with each shallow, excited breath he takes when you grasp his leash again and you draw him into a kiss, your mouth pillow-soft against his own. You angle him so that your noses don’t squish together. He pours all of his love and need into the press of his lips against yours, lazily licking into the honeyed cove of your mouth.

Mid swapping spit, you drag a singular finger up his softened shaft with no warning and he gasps into you. It feels like you’re pressing a lit sparkler against his cock with how sensitive it feels from his previous release.

“Too much, mommy. F-fuck,” he whimpers with a quiver of his bottom lip, which you sink your teeth into almost greedily before releasing it with a wet, dragging suck.

Your eyes are dark behind your fogged-up reading glasses. “You’re the one who asked for this. You wanted me to touch you, right? Or do you want me to stop?”

His words launch out of him. “No! Nonono, want your pretty hands on me, don’t stop. You’re so good to me. Don’t stop, mommy, please. Wanna let you use me, touch me 'til you're satisfied because my cock is yours. Wanna be your good boy.”

“You’re always my good boy.” Your warm, soft hand fully wraps around his cum-soaked cock, your fingers barely able to close around its thick girth. Satoru's head lolls and drops down against the mattress when you give his cock a lazy pull.

The muscles in his thighs flinch as if he’s torn between escaping the excruciatingly delicious pain and pleasure coursing through him and falling into it. Every fucking nerve ending screams with sensation.

Your teasing touches, thumb rubbing into his weepy slit, fingers tracing each prominent vein, is almost too much to bear, but he forces himself to endure it, clenching his jaw and gripping tight at his unraveling sanity. He’s too weak to jerk away anyways— and you’d probably haul him back with your grip on his leash regardless.

He’s a toy for you to play with and tease and use for your pleasure. A good puppy that sits still and heeds your every word.

It’s funny, really, getting such unconditional obedience from an oyabun of his caliber and reputation. Larger than life and domineering— that’s how he needs to be at all times to survive in the cutthroat underbelly of the world. You’d think he’d be the same as he is on the streets as he is in the sheets. But he’s not.

Satoru’s docile and malleable for you. He’s this vulnerable, chest cavity peeled open and the muscle of his aching heart that you hold bleeding between the gaps of your fingers, just for you. Always for you.

In the scant space between you, he gazes at you with dreamy, lust-drunk eyes, his plump lips parted in a constant stream of breathy moans and hiccups. The little sobs that crest in his throat whack you with the force of a sledgehammer.

You’re biting your own lips to keep ahold of the self-restraint you’ve been showing in the face of his wantonness. Your sweet husband curled up at your side, lashes damp with tears and skin a pretty pink, is a siren-song that you’re barely resisting. You’re shaking with how much you want to pin him down into your king-sized bed and drop down on his cock or drag him over to the nearest window to let him fuck you hard and fast against it as you control the pace with his leash. But you’re stronger than your own desire.

“There you go,” you coach. Satoru can feel every soft ridge and valley of your hand as you drag it up and down the length of him. “Breathe with me, baby. Feel all that warmth spreading through your body? Let it flow down to your core and breathe it in, then out. Relax into it.”

He shivers at the sound of your molten voice, a full-bodied thing. Giggling a little, you ease him impossibly closer with a leg that you hook over his hip and another pull of his leash, mouthing at his neck just above the slab of his collar. His skin is flushed and slick with sweat, pulse beating heavy just beneath his jaw. You press forward, both of you keening when his cockhead bumps against your swollen clit through your sopping panties.

Satoru’s head is blissfully empty. It’s just you, you, you. The world around them is rendered null and unimportant, the fog from the recesses of his mind seeming to seep out from his ears and cloak you and him in its nothingness. The collar looped around his neck only adds to the drugging feeling, pulling him deeper into the warm, staticky fuzz of submission.

Coaxed forward by all your overwhelming touches, his cock slowly fills out again the longer you play with him. “See? Feels good, doesn’t it, puppy?” You croon, finally starting to truly jerk him off, squeezing tight on each upstroke and forcing him to feel the cold weight of your wedding band against his sensitive skin.

Your smile is as sweet as it is devilish, promising your victory. It makes your nose scrunch up. You’re taking your time with him, content to let him feel every ounce of pleasure.

In seconds, he’s hard, dripping, excited, all for you, so much so that it’s killing him. Satoru's hips slam forward involuntarily, seeking more delicious friction. He's leaking like a faucet, pre-cum drooling out of his cockhead to coat your fingers and make the glide even smoother. The obscene sound of slick skin being stroked fills the room, accompanied by Satoru's ragged panting and mewls. Beneath him, his propped up elbow quivers with the effort of holding himself up.

"Shit... yeah, feels so fucking good. Spoiling me so good. Your hand is so soft. You have no— hah, no idea how much I've missed your touch. I've been so desperate for you, mommy. I’m all yours," Satoru babbles mindlessly, eyes knocking back in his skull.

He ruts his cock in and out of the sleeve of your grip and you let him, reveling in how his plush cockhead rubs right up against your clothed cunt. He’s undulating to each tug of leather, letting you manhandle him as you wish, because at the end of the day he’s just a puppet wrapped tight around your finger like a red string of fate. "I swear, if you stop now, I'll... I'll die and haunt you forever.”

“Shh, I’m not gonna stop. I said I’d reward my puppy, yeah? You don’t need to worry about a thing. I’m all yours right now,” you murmur silkily. “Touch me and I’ll think about letting you fuck me after this.”

Satoru’s hands are on you instantly, big hands dragging over your chest and grabbing handfuls of your boobs, greedily squeezing and kneading them like a loaf of bread. Or a stress ball. You’re his emotional support, after all. A hiss streams out from between his teeth when you twist your wrist, milking more pearlescent streams from his cock and making him urgently thrust forward into your grip.

He looks utterly debauched, snowy white hair disheveled and sticking to his sweat-slicked forehead, drool marching down from his parted lips and dampening the comforter beneath his head. A painting in motion, marble skin and sky-blue eyes.

He’s so strung up that he’s already being pushed towards the edge, balls drawing up tight and eager to spill another release. You could probably let go of him to spit on his cock, breathe on it, and he’d nut from that alone. “Hnnngh... I'm gonna... mmm, I'm gonna cum soon," he warns breathlessly, needily pulsing and twitching in your gentle hand like he needs you to keep rubbing his dick more than he needs to breathe. His pace is fast and sloppy. “Can I?”

You hum your assent, pleased by his manners. “Good boy. One more time, just for me. Cum for mommy, show me how much of a mess you are for me.”

“Fuck, fuck, thank you, I love you more than anything,” he yaps, squeezing more enthusiastically at your tits.

You draw the leash over his shoulder so that the ring it’s clipped onto is at his nape instead of the front of his throat, the blue bow tickling the bottom of his undercut. From there, you tug, one long constricting second that clutches at his windpipe. Satoru’s throat bobs automatically and the action is cuffed halfway, the leather bending and noosing tightly around his neck.

The added restriction is enough to do him in. His vision wipes clean, dizzying black waves crashing forth as he shudders in the most delighted way possible. He cums so hard that he swears it fries him stupid. He spills wetly over your fist and up his chest in white streaks, choking out what almost sounds like a wail, the sound simultaneously dry and wet.

He convulses next to you, legs jerking against the sheets, toes curling and head swaying back and forth as noises flow from him like water. His cock pulses through the aftershocks, balls aching with how much cum is pumping out of him.

Trembles travel through wrecked his body and the muscles in his navel quiver like a second heartbeat. Crying out, tears and drool slipping down his face, he still keeps weakly pumping in and out of your slippery fist. Ecstasy keeps humming low in his bones even when he finally shudders to a stop after a few erratic twitches, leaving him spent and boneless.

When he dizzily blinks, more tears escaping his lash line, recentering himself, and everything slowly comes creeping back into the limelight, he catches the swipe of your fingers dragging up his wet abdomen and leaving his overstimulated cock behind. You gather up his cum, lewdly sucking it up with siren eyes and a pink mouth. You even wipe some off of his collar since he sprayed his release all the way up to his chin. More pools on the sliver of comforter between your bodies, staining the expensive fabric.

You jolt a little when Satoru, eyes fogged over and brain no longer on this plane, tugs your nightgown enough to drag your breasts out. Eyes fluttering shut, his lips latch onto your pebbling nipple and he just sucks, going even more boneless as if that’s all he needs to relax.

He’s like a puppy that’s been weaned from its mother too early. Too cute.

You stroke over his damp hair for who knows how long, letting him suckle and play with your other tit to his heart’s content as he comes down. But you eventually get antsy, throbbing for him, so you spin his collar back around to its rightful position, blue bow curling prettily at his Adam’s apple and diamonds winking at you. You grip at his leash where it clips to his collar and you jostle him a little.

Satoru pops back up like a meerkat, peering at you. His lips and chin are wet with tears that tracked all the way down his face and saliva. A pretty ruined angel.

“Feeling okay?” You check on him. He nods a little dumbly, dopey smile lighting up his face. He looks higher than a kite. “Use your words.”

“M’fine,” he mumbles, glueing closer to you and hissing when his spent dick brushes your silky smooth nightgown. He smooches your sternum, then your throat, chin, and lips. “More than fine. Feels good. I needed this. Thank you, princess.”

Your heart goes all soft and gooey. “You don’t have to thank me, baby. You did so good, listened to me super well. I appreciate it.”

Something about that makes a sliver of clarity return to him. Satoru paws at his eyes almost sleepily before squinting at you through half-closed eyes. It makes him look like a golden retriever.

“I feel like my dick got beat up,” he says, making you sigh amusedly because his word choice never fails to tickle you, “but I could get it back up. Or I could just put my mouth on you. Wanna make you feel good, too.”

Admittedly, you’re burning with the urge to be fucked into oblivion in every surface and position possible, him at your beck and call and pulled taut by his leash, nonexistent tail wagging behind him as he pleasures you. But you also want to stay up late into the night until even the nightlife quiets down to make room for the two of you, just listening to him and scratching at his scalp the way that he likes, trading words full of affection and baring your hearts to each other all over again.

You’d do anything as long as it’s with him. You’d chase him to the ends of the earth if you could. Not that he’d let you— Satoru’d spin on his heels to let you catch you up, sweep you off your feet bridal style so that your legs don’t get sore, and run with you in his arms as you laugh into his neck.

“Well, let’s see… does my puppy know how to roll over?” You ask, tapping your chin.

Corded arms fling themselves around you, and in a second flat, his world flips around him with you at its center, always the eye of the storm, and he smoothly drags his hands down your chest the second he’s flat on his back with you atop him. Satoru gazes up at you, grinning a little cheekily, a little drunkenly. His head is tilted back proudly to show off the glittering collar around his neck.

You shift a little to straddle him properly, thighs cupping his hips as you sit strong astride him, then you’re dragging your soaked panties against his spent cock, making you both hiss.

“I sure can, sugar. Woof.”

author’s note: CRAZY? I WAS CRAZY ONCE

this literally was meant to be like a 3k-5k drabble idk how I got here 😭😭 couldn’t shut my ass up while writing

this pic is oyabun gojo core

perma tags: @libr4sonsa @spirit-kat @kaitospo @m1nrrva @enchantinghonymoon @exc3llentshot @dairyfaerie @pvmpkingod @skz8stay @floriophrastus @originalsaucy @loyalguma @wormplant @amane1271 @oporotheca @teachmehowtodokiaye

#fic recs #satoru gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #gojo x reader #gojo smut #satoru gojo smut #gojo fluff #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x y/n

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gojosperms · 4 days ago

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so we have ex-husband nanami... WHAT ABOUT EX HUSBAND GOJO? 😋

you and gojo, split amicably... or, so he thought.

on the other hand, you were a mess. drinking every night, calling out of work, constant migraines, hangovers, and fatigue. it was as if this divorce was eating you alive. worst part is, gojo was doing great.

it was one of those nights again -- head hanging between your shoulders as the ground spins with drunkenness. you were too depressed to go to a bar, so you picked up quick, shitty mixed drinks from the convenience store and swallowed them whole. now, your phone was staring at you with a vengeance, begging for attention.

your lock screen is a picture of you two in kyoto when things were still good. it was taken by a friendly stranger. your arms are slung over his neck, and you smile in his face. he smiled back. you miss him so much.

blame it on your lockscreen, or blame it on the alcohol, but you reach for gojo's contact unashamed. you'd beat yourself up about it tomorrow, but if you didn't tell him exactly what you were feeling, that might kill you right now.

oo, you call him, but he doesn't answer, not even mentioning that it's well past 3 a.m., but that doesn't really matter. gojo rarely sleeps; you know he's awake.

but you're still met with his empty voicemail box, swallowing when you realize you must speak to make yourself known. After all, it's been long enough—gojo could've deleted your number by now.

"uhm... hi." you slur, leaning forward into an empty palm. "gojo, it's me. i was just wondering how you were. it's all been a lot lately. but, um, call me back, okay? I lo—" you catch yourself. Force of habit. "bye."

then you spend the rest of your night lying numb on your loveseat, arms wrapped around your lonely heart. minutes could've passed -- maybe it's an hour. all you know is the only thing that pulled you from your thoughts was the ding of a new message.

blearily, you reach for your phone.

from: gojo satoru you sound pretty bad. come over?

you should've known. you're gullible enough to take a taxi over here in the middle of the night hungry for reconciliation. instead, it leads to gojo pulling you into his home, glossy lips sucking yours into his mouth.

it's a kiss you haven't experienced in months -- needy, heady, loveless. his hands are all over you, the room is dark, his eyes are so bright. he doesn't even say a word.

but he leads you to his bedroom like he never left. it's what he knows you need -- to loose your mind with one orgasm after the next. he knows how to pull it out of you like a science now, and knows you loved being manhandled.

and it makes it easier to toss you into his unmade bed now that you aren't his doting wife. you're just a drunk hookup, panty-less and opening your legs long before he tells you to.

you feel like a whore, gojo doesn't talk, hardly looking at you when he stuffs his long cock into you. squelching against the rivers you exert for him, he doesn't even say your name, he just grips you harder.

and you fall into old ways, rutting like jackrabbits, bed screeching along the floor. pinning you to the mattress, arms raised high above your head, gojo drills you down in missionary, watching the way you're trembling and refusing to open your eyes and look.

you know gojo's vision is like x-rays, he'll read the shame in your gaze if you let him. it takes every ounce of self-control not to give in.

grunting into your ear like he's running a painful marathon, gojo pulls that first orgasm out of you in shivering cries and pleas of his name. he's fucking you so good, kissing your cervix raw with every thrust.

then, he's cumming in quick thrusts, grunts speeding up before evening out. it's all he's saying, tiny whispers of 'fuckin-' and 'yeah?' slipping from his lips if you're lucky.

and, it's so odd. when you were his, he used to purr your name, calling you every type of beautiful and magical in his presence. he used to take his time working you over, fingers light in fear of hurting you.

now, he's bruising you to the bone, fucking you like it was a sport and not even offering you his sensuality. your gojo is an entirely different person.

now, you're ashamed. it hurts to finally admit, but he didn't feel like your husband anymore.

#fic recs #gojo x reader #jjk x reader #jjk fanfic #jjk smut #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo smut #jjk gojo smut

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gojosperms · 4 days ago

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indie's must reads

my personal favorites fics of mine

only ones who know starring villain!Gojo + hero!Geto

no. one party anthem starring childhood fwb!Sukuna + rockstar!Geto

cyberbully!Sukuna

chronically online loser!Gojo

slim pickins starring toxic!Satosugu + rebound!Sukuna

lovefool starring king!Sukuna + jester!Gojo

snowed in starring yeti!Gojo

sweet tooth starring vampire!Gojo

paranoid android! starring robot!Reader

how to babytrap marry your best friend starring baby daddy!Geto

simply ear-resistable! starring bunny!Geto

(don't) kiss me starring fwb!Geto

my favorite fics from other blogs

what you know starring Sukuna by @starmapz

well, are you mine? starring Sukuna by @madamechrissy

the drowning starring Geto by @peppertoastuniverse

beat your heart to death starring Gojo + Geto by @specialgradefckr

the parasite starring Sukuna by @yenayaps

aita for stealing my hookup's cat? starring Geto by @toadtoru -> now @ken-toad

roll for initiative starring Gojo + Geto by @snail-day

nice to meow-t you starring Geto by @baepsays

bound to be starring Sukuna by @baepsays

not just anybody starring Sukuna by @yenayaps

isekai'd as game protag starring Gojo by @sixeyesonathiel

dilf!Kento starring Nanami by @webism

billion dollar man starring Sukuna by @emphism

untitled drabble starring Sukuna by @deathofacupid

a cat-astophric curse starring Nanami (acct deactivated)

convergence theory starring Geto + Gojo by @deathofacupid

untitled drabble starring Gojo by @gojosoups

scorched earth starring Gojo by @nanamiskentos

armageddon starring jjk!men by @nanamiskentos

the fool's guide to romance starring Geto by @cuntyji

wherever you go, that's where I'll follow starring Gojo by @milawritess

spoiled starring nanami + toji by @edenarchives

currit in sanguine nostra starring Sukuna by @ccazimi

alien!Choso by @gossamyrrh

untitled drabble starring Gojo by @cuntphoric

infect me with your love starring Gojo by @fushitoru

my favorite smaus

short n sweet starring jjk!men by @tsukuhoe

nine lives starring Sukuna by @cherryblossom-heart

who is she? starring jjk!men by @cherryblossom-heart

hospital room starring jjk!men by @digitalro

aphrodisiac starring jjk!men by @naammiii

my main masterlist is here

there were so many others I wanted to include but I tried to keep this from getting too long >.< other recs can be found on my blog using #indiesrecs *reminder to PLEASE read rules and content warnings posted for each fic* also highly recommend checking out all of these blogs since they have so many more pieces than I can list here <3

#fic recs #jjk #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo x reader #geto x reader #sukuna x reader #nanami x reader #toji x reader #choso x reader #indiewritesxoxo <3

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gojosperms · 5 days ago

Text

LAW OF ATTRACTION - GOJO SATORU

summary. Newton said the smaller the distance, the stronger the pull. Gojo Satoru thinks that explains the way he feels when you’re close.

word count. 18.2k (i need help)

content. mdni, fem!reader, college au, nerd! gojo, simp gojo supremacy, fluff, banter, tensionnnn, pet names, he's so down bad it's actually pathetic, teasing, smut, male mast., oral (male + fem rec), cum eating, face sitting, p in v, mating press, slight hair pulling, praise, swearing, light dumbification (just a lil), tit play, overstim, creampie, aftercare, pillow talk

author's note. fashionably late (?) to the trend BUT HERE WE ARE

Gojo Satoru is already arguing with the professor.

The classroom smells like coffee and too-new textbooks, the kind of sterile atmosphere that clings to the first week of university. Half the students aren’t even paying attention yet, still easing into the rhythm of things. But not him.

Gojo stands tall near the front, hands in the pockets of his pressed slacks, sweater vest and button-up perfectly in place, thick-rimmed glasses pushed up the bridge of his nose. His snowy hair is perfectly messy, his posture relaxed—almost bored.

“I’m just saying,” he drawls, voice smooth and annoyingly self-assured, “you can’t talk about general relativity without at least addressing gravitational time dilation. Not if you want to keep your credibility.”

There’s a beat of silence. Someone in the back stifles a laugh.

The professor straightens her notes. “We’ll get there, Gojo.”

“Sure,” he says, unbothered, but there’s a glint in his cerulean eyes. “But isn’t it a little irresponsible to feed undergrads simplified versions of reality? We’re not children.”

“You’re barely adults,” the professor mutters under her breath.

And just when it seems like he’s winding up for another volley—another casually devastating critique that’ll make the professor’s eye twitch—the door opens with a quiet creak.

“Sorry I’m late.”

The room stills.

You step inside, backpack slung over one shoulder, sunlight catching in your hair like some perfectly staged movie scene. You aren’t frazzled or apologetic—just calm, composed, like this is your class and everyone else is simply borrowing space in it.

Gojo turns. And forgets how to speak.

He doesn’t recognize you even though he’s memorized everyone’s faces during the orientation. But yours is unfamiliar. Distractingly so. And in that moment, standing half-turned at the front of the classroom, he is completely, totally, undeniably wrecked. His mouth parts slightly. No sound comes out.

The professor clears her throat. “Try to be on time next class.”

You nod easily. “Of course. Won’t happen again.”

Gojo’s eyes follow you as you make your way to an empty seat—his row. The one he claimed early on for optimal note-taking and strategic interruption placement. And of course, because the universe clearly enjoys watching him suffer, you pick the seat right beside his.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t sit. Just watches as you settle in beside him and flip open your notebook like nothing’s happened. Like you didn’t just reset the laws of gravity around his universe.

“Gojo?” the professor prompts from the front.

He startles. “Huh? Oh—yeah. I mean, yes. Sorry.”

Silence stretches as the lecture resumes. Gojo Satoru’s foot bounces beneath the desk. His fingers twitch like they want to scribble something but forgot how pens work.

He chances a glance at you from the corner of his eye. You’re taking notes, completely unfazed. Like you haven’t just walked into his orbit and thrown everything off-axis.

It’s quiet in the library. The kind of quiet that almost feels sacred, broken only by the occasional rustle of paper or the soft click of a keyboard. You’re tucked away at a corner table, head down, headphones in, completely immersed in your reading.

Gojo spots you the moment he steps in. He hadn’t meant to come here—physics homework was the last thing on his mind today—but the second he saw you seated, that changed. Suddenly, he’s very interested in gravitational lensing and quantum field theories.

He chooses the table diagonally across from yours. Not directly opposite—that would be too obvious. But just close enough that he can sneak glances without it being weird. Probably.

He flips open a textbook. Doesn’t read a single word. Just peeks at you over the top of the page like a little nerdy menace in disguise. Every time you adjust your hair or furrow your brows or smile faintly at something you read, it’s like he’s been hit in the chest. Repeatedly.

Then you look up.

He freezes. Straightens up. Pretends to be deeply fascinated by a diagram of a particle collider. You blink. Tilt your head a little. Then—you pull your headphones out. “Gojo Satoru, right?”

He almost drops his pen. “Uh—yeah. That’s me.”

“You’ve been staring at page fifteen for like… twenty minutes.”

He blinks. Looks down at his book. Flips it to page thirty-seven. “Right. Yeah. That’s, uh—intentional.”

You smile. “Sure it is.”

He wants to melt into the carpet.

You go back to your notes, sliding your headphones on again like it’s nothing. But that smile doesn’t leave your face. And Gojo’s certain he’ll be thinking about it for the rest of the week.

You're sitting under the tree near the physics building, nose buried in your laptop, headphones on, pretending you don’t feel someone staring at you. You do. Of course you do.

You glance up. He’s there.

Gojo, the cocky know-it-all from class. Still in that damned sweater vest, hair all floofy like he just rolled out of a nap and somehow made it fashion. He’s holding a coffee cup with one hand and awkwardly adjusting his glasses with the other, pretending like he just happened to pass by. He absolutely did not.

You blink. He panics.

“Oh. Uh—hey,” he says, and it comes out a little too loud, a little too fast, like his vocal cords staged a mutiny the second your eyes met.

You slide your headphones down. “Hi.”

There’s a long pause. He fidgets with the sleeve of his shirt, eyes flicking everywhere but your face now. “You, uh… You always sit here?”

You raise an eyebrow. “During this exact 30-minute window between classes? Yeah. Kinda my thing.”

“Oh,” he says, and laughs—nervously. “Coolcoolcool. I just—uh. I just thought you looked like someone who enjoys differential equations under tree shade.”

You squint. “You’re making fun of me.”

“What? No! I—I do that too. All the time. Big tree guy. Huge… leaf enjoyer.”

There’s a beat of silence. You bite back a laugh. “You good?”

“I was,” he mumbles, almost to himself, then louder: “Yeah! I’m totally—so good. Amazing, even.”

You give him a look. He clears his throat and tries again. “Listen, I didn’t get your name earlier, and that’s kind of a crime in several countries, probably. So…”

You pause, then finally tell him.

He repeats it under his breath like a prayer. “Pretty.”

You tilt your head at him, teasing. “So… was there a reason you were looking at me in class? Or is staring at people just part of your regular schedule?”

He flinches. Like, visibly. Adjusts his glasses again even though they’re already perfectly in place. “Staring is a strong word.”

“You choked on air.”

He groans, half-laughing, half-dying inside. “Okay—yeah, that… may have happened. But in my defense, I didn’t know I was capable of being that flustered until you walked in.”

Your eyebrows lift. “You were flustered?”

“Fatally,” he replies without missing a beat. “It was the most embarrassing moment of my entire academic career. And I once accidentally called a professor ‘dad’ in front of the entire cohort, so.”

You snort. “No you didn’t.”

“Unfortunately, I did. That man never looked at me the same again.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. There’s something kind of charming about the contrast—how sharp and smug he is in the lecture hall, then how weirdly dorky he gets the second he talks to you.

Gojo notices the smile. He lights up. “That’s a win, right?” he grins. “That counts as a win?”

You roll your eyes. “Barely.”

“Still counts,” he sings, rocking back on his heels. “You like coffee?”

You blink. “That’s random.”

“I just thought—maybe next time I bring one, I could bring you one too. You know. If we’re both going to be professionally loitering under this tree during our thirty-minute window.”

You pretend to think about it. “What kind?”

“Whatever kind makes you smile again.”

You pause. Okay. That was smooth.

You look away, just for a second, to hide the grin threatening to take over your whole face.

“You’re annoying,” you mutter.

He beams. “You’re not the first to say that.”

You part ways not long after, the building just a few steps ahead, and Gojo’s still standing where you left him—hands in his pockets, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, hair gleaming like spun silver in the sunlight.

You steal one last glance as you walk away, and—yep. He’s still watching you.

Still smiling like he knows something you don’t.

And just when you think you’ve escaped unscathed, you hear his voice call after you: “By the way, if you keep looking at me like that, I will ask for your number next time!”

You don’t turn around. You can’t. Your cheeks are already on fire.

But he laughs, bright and victorious, and you know he saw the way you tripped on the curb a second later. Cocky bastard.

And yet… you’re smiling the whole walk to class.

You’re seated a few rows back this time. Thought it might help with the whole not staring directly at Gojo Satoru like he invented astrophysics problem.

It doesn’t.

Not when he’s in his usual seat up front, one leg crossed over the other, sleeves pushed to his elbows like he’s here to work. Glasses low on his nose. A pen between his fingers that he keeps spinning—casually, like it’s no big deal he’s also kind of stupidly good at everything.

The professor drones on at the front of the room, explaining quantum field theory, but you’re only half-listening.

Because Gojo raises his hand. Again.

“Actually, that’s not entirely accurate,” he says, voice way too smooth for a know-it-all. “If you factor in the renormalization group flow, the outcome shifts entirely. I can show you if you want.”

She blinks. “I… well. That’s a fair point, Gojo.”

He grins, leans back like he didn’t just out-nerd a tenured physicist, and then—then—he looks at you. Like he knows you’re watching.

And you are. You so are.

Gojo tilts his head slightly, mouth curling into that infuriating little smirk as he mouths: Impressed yet?

You look away instantly.

You are. You’re very impressed. Unfortunately. But you’re not gonna let him know that. Not yet.

So instead, you raise your hand. And when the professor calls on you, you challenge his answer.

Gojo looks like you just proposed.

Class ends and students start filing out, a low murmur of backpacks zipping and chairs scraping filling the air. You’re casually packing up your things, pretending not to notice the way someone is lingering by the door.

He should’ve left already. But no—he’s leaning against the wall like it’s a conscious choice, not that he’s waiting for you or anything. Totally not that.

You sling your bag over your shoulder and head out. You don’t even get five steps into the hallway before you hear—

“So…”

You turn.

Gojo’s standing there, hands in his pockets, lips parted like he’s still catching his breath. His glasses are a little crooked. Probably because he’s been running that hand through his hair again. He straightens up when you face him.

“That was… impressive,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Like, really impressive.”

You smile. “Thanks. You were good too, by the way.”

He blinks. “Good? I—good? That’s it?”

“Yup.” You start walking. “Try harder next time.”

There’s a pause. And then he jogs up beside you, looking equal parts offended and delighted. “Oh, okay. So that’s how it is?” he teases, grinning. “You’re one of those girls.”

“What girls?”

“The ones who enjoy crushing the academic dreams of sweet, helpless nerds like me.”

You give him a look. “Helpless?”

“Devastatingly,” he says, deadpan.

You snort. “You literally made a PhD cry last week.”

“She recovered.”

“You sent her a fruit basket.”

“See? I care.”

You try to hold back your laughter but fail miserably, and he lights up like you just handed him the Nobel Prize.

You turn the corner toward the next building, Satoru trailing beside you like a very tall, mildly wounded puppy.

He’s oddly quiet—hands still shoved in his pockets, eyes flicking your way every few seconds like he’s waiting for a verdict. It's kind of adorable.

You stop walking. “Come on,” you say, already veering toward the campus café. “I’ll buy you a coffee.”

Satoru blinks. Twice. “L-like… like a date?”

You snort, rolling your eyes. “Woah there. Hold your horses, bud. I’m doing it so maybe you’ll stop moping around.”

He gasps—actually gasps—hands flying to his chest in mock offense. “I am not moping!”

“You literally sighed ten times during that walk.”

“I was brooding. It’s different.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You pouted when I said you were just ‘good’ in class.”

“I’m a sensitive soul!”

“You’re insufferable.”

“But charming,” he says quickly, catching up to walk beside you again, shoulder bumping yours. “Undeniably charming.”

You hum, lips twitching. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

He grins, all pearly teeth and pretty-boy smugness, practically floating now. And just as you're about to step into the café, you hear him mutter something behind you, half to himself—

“I’m so gonna make you fall in love with me.”

You turn slightly. “What was that?”

“Nothing!” he chirps, already holding the door open for you like a gentleman. “Ladies first!”

He watches you from the tiny round table by the window, chin propped in his hand, glasses slipping a little down the bridge of his nose. You’re standing at the counter, reading over the menu with a furrow between your brows like you’re solving quantum equations instead of choosing between oat milk or soy.

He could watch you forever. Not in a creepy way—okay, maybe a little creepy—but in that dumb, enamored kind of way where even the way you tap your fingers against the counter makes his heart do this weird flip.

You step up, voice soft but certain when you order. Vanilla latte, extra shot, light foam.

He files it away instantly. Vanilla. Extra shot. Light foam. He’s going to remember that forever. He could write a thesis on it.

Your name is called, and he watches the way your eyes crinkle a little when you thank the barista. When you turn around, drinks in hand, and start walking back toward him, he panics—because suddenly he’s hyper-aware of how dumb he must look just staring.

He quickly looks down at his phone screen, pretending to scroll through something important. It’s literally just his calculator app open from earlier. Nothing’s calculated.

You slide his drink toward him when you sit. He doesn’t even care what it is. You could’ve handed him gasoline and he would’ve sipped it happily.

“Thanks,” he says casually—way too casually for someone whose brain short-circuited the moment you looked at him.

And then you take a sip of yours, and he blurts it out without thinking:

“You’re sweet.”

You blink. “Huh?”

He clears his throat. “The drink, I mean. It’s sweet.”

Smooth. So smooth.

You squint at him suspiciously. He hides behind his cup and takes a sip.

You're mid-sip of your latte when he says it—completely out of nowhere, eyes locked on you like he's trying to memorize your entire existence.

"You're kinda pretty when you’re annoyed, y’know?"

You almost choke. "What?"

He leans forward, resting his chin in his palm, grinning like he just cracked the code to the universe. “Just an observation. Purely academic.”

"You’re impossible," you mutter, eyes darting away—and he sees it, the blush creeping up your neck.

And that’s it. That’s his victory.

He leans back in his chair, smug as hell. “You're blushing.”

"I'm not."

“Oh no, don’t worry. I think it’s cute,” he says, like it’s a fact in a textbook.

You throw a sugar packet at him. He dodges with a laugh.

"You trying to kill me? And here I thought this was a date."

You give him a look. “It’s not a date.”

He shrugs, grabbing your drink and stealing a sip like it is. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You snatch your cup back, but it’s too late—he’s already smacked his lips like a wine critic.

“Are you always this annoying?” you ask, sipping your drink now.

He shrugs. “Only when I like someone.”

You freeze for half a second. And he sees that too.

Your voice is careful, teasing but cautious. “So you like me now?”

He hums, looking away dramatically, as if he’s pondering some great cosmic truth. “I don’t know… Maybe. You’re cute when you’re flustered. And when you’re mean to me. And when you roll your eyes. And—”

“Okay, stop.”

“Nope. You gave me coffee. I’m powered up now. Can’t shut me up.”

You groan, slumping in your seat with the most dramatic expression you can manage.

He grins wide, and that smug sparkle in his eyes softens, just a bit. “But seriously,” he says, voice quieter now, “I like talking to you.”

And that shuts you up for a beat.

You meet his eyes again, and this time, there’s no teasing, no cocky grin—just sincerity, wrapped in dorky charm. “…I like talking to you too,” you admit, soft.

And just like that, he lights up all over again.

You both exit the café, coffees in hand, the air warmer than before but still crisp. The sun’s out, and so is Gojo’s smile—until you stop at the sidewalk and glance down at your phone.

“Shit,” you mutter. “I’ve got class right now.”

His face drops instantly. “Wait—already? But I haven’t even finished annoying you yet.”

You laugh, nudging his arm with your elbow. “You’ve done plenty in the last thirty minutes, trust me.”

He exhales dramatically, shoulders sagging as he pouts. “This is tragic. A real loss for humanity.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

“But I miss you already,” he says. “Who’s gonna listen to my unfiltered genius now?”

You raise a brow, backing away slowly. “I’m sure you’ll find a new victim. See you, Gojo.”

“Wait—wait, when do I see you again?” he calls after you, half-joking, half-not.

You shoot him a smile over your shoulder. “You’ll live.”

And as you disappear into the crowd, he just stands there for a moment, lips pressed together, watching you go.

“…No I won’t.”

You don’t think much of it when Gojo catches up to you outside the lecture hall again. He’s chatty as usual, teasing you about your keychain, dramatically proclaiming how he almost tripped over a squirrel on the way here, all while walking a half-step closer than necessary. Same old Gojo stuff.

You head toward your usual seat, a few rows back from the front—just enough distance to not get called on every two minutes. You’re used to watching him breeze right past, to the very first row, like he’s the poster boy for "overachiever of the year."

So when you slide into your seat and Gojo casually takes the one right next to you, backpack dropping with a thud at his feet, you do a double take.

“What are you doing?” you whisper.

He only shrugs, flashing that annoyingly pretty smile. “Just felt like switching it up today.”

You’re not the only one caught off guard. A few students glance over and someone even nudges their friend like this is newsworthy.

Because Gojo Satoru doesn’t switch it up. He’s the guy who color codes his notes and brings a backup calculator. But now he’s here, sitting so close that his knee bumps yours beneath the table and stays there.

You try to focus when class begins—but it's hard when he's right there beside you, radiating warmth. Every now and then, his fingers graze your thigh beneath the desk—casual, like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything.

You don’t look at him. But you know he’s grinning. And just when you're starting to think this can’t get more distracting—

“Before we end today,” the professor says, “I’m assigning a group project. Pairs, selected at random.”

Your stomach sinks. You glance at Gojo, who’s already turned toward the front again, fingers drumming lightly on the desk. Like he knows.

You hear names being rattled off. A list of partnerships. Then—

“And lastly, Gojo Satoru and…” A pause. “You.”

Silence. You blink. Gojo leans back with a loud, satisfied sigh and stretches his arms behind his head.

“Oh no,” you mutter, already dreading what’s coming.

“Oh yes,” he says, grinning so wide it should be illegal.

You step out of the lecture hall with Gojo hot on your heels, practically bouncing with excitement. He’s still beaming about the professor’s decision like he just won the lottery.

“This is fate,” he says, catching up to walk beside you. “We’re gonna be the best pair in that class. I mean, you’ve got the brains and the beauty, and I’ve got the everything else.”

You snort. “You’re not serious.”

“Oh, I’m dead serious.” He adjusts the strap of his backpack with dramatic flair. “This is the beginning of a legendary academic alliance.”

You roll your eyes, trying to suppress the smile tugging at your lips. “So, when do we start this legendary alliance of yours?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Thought you’d never ask. I was thinking… we could cash in that coffee date you promised me. Use the time to plan out our project. Very responsible. Very scholarly.”

You shoot him a look. “It’s not a date.”

“Sure,” he says easily, eyes twinkling. “A purely educational rendezvous at a cozy café where we might happen to sit close enough to accidentally brush knees again.”

You groan. “Fine. But we’re actually working on the project this time.”

“No promises,” he grins.

And you hate how you laugh at that.

You’re tucked into the booth of a café, a half-empty cup of coffee sitting forgotten as you scribble into your notebook. Across from you, Gojo’s talking a mile a minute—bouncing between theories, concepts, and potential outlines for your project with the kind of ease that only someone dangerously smart could pull off.

And the worst part? Every word out of his mouth actually makes sense.

You glance up at him, brows lifting slightly. “Okay, that last one? That’s actually… really solid.”

He beams. “Right? I knew you’d see the brilliance.”

You shake your head with a small laugh. “I hate to say it, but I’m impressed.”

Gojo leans forward, resting his chin on his hand with a smug grin. “Careful now. Compliments like that might go to my head.”

You ignore him, scribbling something down beside his last idea. The two of you work like that for a while—you writing, him throwing ideas around and occasionally sipping from his drink. And before you know it, you’ve got the skeleton of a full project mapped out.

He stretches his arms above his head, shirt riding up just enough to be distracting. “Whew. Honestly? I didn’t expect to get this much done.”

You close your notebook, tapping your pen against the table. “We could start putting together the first draft later this week.”

Gojo nods. “Yeah, sure. We could work at my place or someth—”

You cut him off, tone light. “You could come to mine.”

He freezes. Blinks. “Y-your place?”

You smile sweetly. “Mhm.”

He stares at you, cheeks tinged pink behind his glasses. “I—yeah. Yeah, totally. Your place. Great idea. Love that. Very efficient. Extremely platonic and professional.”

You laugh. “You’re cute when you malfunction.”

“I don’t malfunction,” he mumbles.

You don’t believe that for a second.

He’s trying so hard to play it cool, but his brain short-circuited the moment you suggested your place. His legs bounce under the table, fingers fidgeting with the sleeve of his shirt like it’ll ground him somehow.

You lean back in your seat, arms crossed as you observe him with a smug little smile. “You alright there, genius?”

Satoru clears his throat, adjusting his glasses even though they’re not crooked. “Me? Totally fine. Just recalibrating. You know, like… spatially. Mentally.”

You blink at him. “Uh-huh.”

He runs a hand through his snowy hair, the tips poking out in every direction like even they are flustered. “I just wasn’t expecting that, is all.”

“You weren’t expecting me to suggest we work on the project?”

“No—I mean, yes—but at your place?” He lifts his hands, palms up like he’s holding the concept of your apartment in the air. “Do you even realize what that implies?”

You tilt your head. “That I trust you to not snoop through my things?”

He looks offended. “I would never snoop. I am a gentleman.”

“Okay, gentleman,” you say, standing and grabbing your bag. “Then bring snacks when you come over.”

That shuts him up real quick. He stares up at you, blinking as you sling your bag over your shoulder and give him one last little smirk. “Oh,” you add casually, “and maybe wear those glasses again.”

His jaw drops.

You don’t wait to see his reaction. You just turn and walk off with the smuggest little sway to your step, leaving Gojo sitting there—completely malfunctioning, heart doing gymnastics in his chest.

He presses a hand over it, eyes wide. “Oh god.”

[gojo]: hey. hey hey hey

[gojo]: when u said ur place… u meant like. like ur apartment right

[gojo]: like ur home. with walls. and couches. and stuff

[you]: i am aware of what my apartment contains, yes.

[gojo]: just checking 😇

[gojo]: do i need to bring a textbook? or will u be tutoring me using sheer intimidation alone

[you]: i thought i was the one taking notes last time?

[gojo]: yeah but you intimidated me into being smart. that’s powerful

[gojo]: anyway what’s ur address 👀

[you]: [sends location]

[you]: and bring snacks like i said. i’m not letting you in if you show up empty handed

[gojo]: what kind of snacks

[you]: surprise me

[gojo]: …

[gojo]: you have NO idea what you’ve just done

[you]: satoru it’s literally just snacks

[gojo]: and now i’m overthinking EVERYTHING. chips? chocolate? do i bring a charcuterie board???

[gojo]: i need you to know i’m taking this Very Seriously.

[you]: i’m sure you are.

[gojo]: 😤 just u wait. i’ll be the best study buddy you’ve ever had.

[you]: is this your way of flirting or are you always like this

[gojo]: …yes

You open the door and there he is—standing on your doorstep. His arms are full: a tote bag slung over his shoulder, a drink carrier in one hand, and a plastic bag filled with snacks in the other.

“You said surprise you,” he announces, stepping in. “So I brought everything. Chips. Cookies. Gummy worms. Protein bars, because balance. And boba. I panicked.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You brought a buffet.”

“I wanted to impress you,” he says, dead serious, slipping his shoes off at the door.

You stifle a laugh and step aside. “Come on in.”

Your place is cozy, warm lighting humming softly. Gojo’s eyes flit around like he’s taking mental notes of every detail—your throw pillows, your bookshelf, the faint scent of your perfume lingering in the air. You pretend not to notice how he seems ten times quieter than usual.

“Sit,” you say, motioning to the couch.

He plops down next to you, thigh brushing yours, and pulls out his notes. “So. I was thinking we model the phase shift in the magnetic field using—wait—wait, are you actually listening or just staring at my mouth?”

You blink at him. “I was listening. You just talk a lot.”

He leans in, smirking. “But you were also staring.”

You swat his arm. “Focus.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbles, hiding a very pleased grin.

As you two dive into the project, it’s surprisingly productive. He’s brilliant—he rattles off concepts with such ease that you’re genuinely impressed. You ask questions. He answers. You scribble notes while he paces your living room barefoot, gesturing wildly as he explains advanced equations like they’re children’s bedtime stories. He’s in his element. And kind of hot, too, in a completely nerdy, passionate way.

“You’re really smart,” you say eventually, mid-note-taking.

He freezes. Turns to you slowly. “Say that again.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I said you’re smart—”

“No no,” he says, dropping onto the couch beside you again. “Say it slower. Maybe into my ear this time.”

You laugh, shoving him gently. “God, you’re impossible.”

“And yet you invited me over.” His voice drops just slightly, eyes glittering behind those thick-rimmed glasses. “Kinda makes me think you like having me around.”

Your heart skips. “Maybe I do.”

He stares for a moment—really stares—and then gives you the softest smile. “Then I guess I’m not leaving until we finish the whole project. Top marks, remember?”

“Top marks,” you echo.

When your hands brush reaching for the same pen, you both freeze.

You recover first, pulling your hand back slightly. “You can have it,” you say, trying to keep your voice casual.

Gojo, stubborn as ever, immediately shakes his head. “No, it’s alright. You can have it.”

“No, seriously, take it.”

“I insist.”

“You’re being annoying.”

“You like when I’m annoying,” he says with a cheeky grin.

You roll your eyes and shove the pen towards him. “Just take it before I stab you with it.”

There's a beat of silence where you both just stare at each other—awkward, heated, too aware of how close you’re sitting. You can feel the air shift between you, something lingering and soft.

Gojo clears his throat loudly, leaning back against the couch with exaggerated nonchalance. “Uh—snack break?” he says, voice a little too high-pitched to be smooth.

You bite back a smile, grateful for the out. “Yeah. Snack break.”

He springs up like he’s been given a second life, muttering something under his breath about chips and cookies while you try very hard not to laugh.

Gojo rummages through your cabinets like he lives there, narrating dramatically under his breath. "Let's see... we have some chips, half a granola bar... oh-ho, instant ramen! A true feast fit for a queen."

You lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching him with an amused smile. "You're so dramatic."

He whirls around, holding the ramen packet in one hand like it’s a sacred artifact. "Dramatic? No, no, this is culinary excellence, sweetheart."

You snort, covering your laugh with the back of your hand. "You're about to microwave that."

"Precisely." He winks at you. "Modern problems require modern solutions."

You roll your eyes but grab a cup, filling it with water and handing it to him. Your fingers brush when he takes it, and maybe you’re imagining it, but he seems to pause for half a second longer than necessary, fingers brushing yours again on purpose.

"I'll make you the best cup ramen of your life," he declares proudly, tossing it into the microwave and punching in the time.

"Bold of you to assume I have low standards," you tease.

He leans an elbow on the counter, cocking his head at you with a lazy, smug grin. "Again. You invited me over. I'd say your standards are excellent."

Your cheeks flame immediately. "Shut up."

He just laughs, tossing his messy hair out of his eyes, looking at you like you’re the only thing that matters in the room.

The microwave dings and Gojo gasps. "It's time."

He pulls the ramen out like it’s a precious treasure, dramatically blowing on it before holding it out to you.

"Milady," he says in a terrible fake accent, "your meal."

You’re laughing too hard to even be annoyed. You take the cup from him, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

You both make your way to the couch after the world's most gourmet snack break (according to Gojo), slumping down with your legs tucked under you while he scrolls endlessly through your streaming options.

"Pick something," you say, poking his thigh with your toe.

"But it's so hard," he whines dramatically. "What if I pick something that doesn't match our vibe?" He flashes you a sly, boyish smile, the kind that makes your heart lurch even when you don't want it to.

You roll your eyes, tossing a throw pillow at him. "Just pick something, drama queen."

He catches the pillow effortlessly, still grinning, and finally settles on some random romcom—probably because he thinks it'll impress you with how emotionally available he is. Not even five minutes in, he does the whole exaggerated stretch and casual arm drop behind you. Textbook.

You give him a look. "Subtle."

He just beams, smug and utterly unbothered. "Thanks. Been practicing."

You shake your head, laughing under your breath, but you don't move away. Instead, you let the warmth of his arm hovering behind you linger there, like a secret.

You both slowly ease into a lazy sort of comfort, shoulders brushing every so often, knees bumping when one of you shifts. He’s fidgety, though—tapping his fingers against the cushion, sneaking glances at you when he thinks you won't notice.

You notice. You just pretend not to.

Time blurs, the movie forgotten as conversation picks up again. Dumb stuff. Stories about professors, weird classmates, Gojo ranting about a physics experiment gone wrong because "the equipment was stupid, not me," and you laughing so hard your stomach hurts. At some point you realize how late it’s gotten.

You glance at your phone. "Shit, it’s almost midnight."

Gojo pouts dramatically. "Nooo, don’t kick me out."

"You have class at eight tomorrow," you remind him, stretching your arms above your head. "Don’t you dare blame me when you fall asleep in class."

He sighs, long and exaggerated, standing up anyway. "Fine. But just so you know, leaving is painful for me. Agony, even."

You snort, pushing yourself off the couch. "You'll live, Satoru."

He lingers by the door, bouncing on his heels like he wants to say something. And then he blurts, all in one breath: "Do you wanna go on a date with me?"

You blink, caught off guard. "A coffee date?"

"No, no!" He waves his hands frantically. "Like—a real date. A good one. A fancy one. With food and everything!"

His voice goes a little desperate toward the end, as if you're seconds from rejecting him.

You cross your arms, fighting back a laugh. "Are you begging, Gojo?"

"Yes," he says instantly, with zero shame.

You tap your chin, pretending to think it over just to mess with him. He looks genuinely tortured, hands clutched in front of him like he's praying.

Finally, you shrug. "Alright. You can take me out."

The way his whole face lights up could rival the sun. "YES—YES, OH MY GOD—okay, okay, I won’t screw this up, swear on my honor—"

You laugh, pushing him lightly toward the door. "Text me the details, Romeo."

He’s still beaming when he stumbles out, waving giddily.

You shake your head, grinning to yourself as you shut the door behind him.

You stand in front of the mirror, arms crossed, glaring at the mountain of clothes on your bed.

It’s ridiculous. It's Gojo Satoru, for god’s sake—the same man who wears sweater vests unironically—so why are you panicking about what to wear?

You pick up a red dress, stare at it, and toss it aside. Too much.

A simple blouse and jeans? Too casual.

You want to look good. Scratch that—you want to make his brain short-circuit when he sees you.

Finally, after what feels like hours of spiraling, you settle on a black off-shoulder dress that hugs your figure flatteringly. It’s something that feels like you—simple but pretty, enough to make your heart skip when you catch your reflection.

Right as you’re fixing the final touches, your phone buzzes.

[gojo 💙]: here <3

[gojo 💙]: try not to fall in love with me too fast ok

You snort under your breath. Too late, you think, heart thudding faster than you’d ever admit.

You grab your bag and head outside, spotting him.

You almost don't recognize him at first.

Gone are the thick-rimmed glasses and the nerdy sweater vest he usually sports in class. Tonight, Gojo Satoru is dressed in a simple white button-up—sleeves rolled up to his forearms—and black dress pants that cling just right to his lean frame. His snowy hair is still messy, like he ran his hands through it a million times, but somehow, it works. He looks effortlessly good. Stupidly good.

And when he spots you, he nearly trips over his own feet.

"Hey," you greet, a little breathless from how unfairly good he looks.

"Hey," he says back, voice cracking halfway through. He coughs, fumbling to form literal words, cheeks flushed. "You, uh—you look—wow."

You laugh softly as he practically skips toward you, offering you his arm with an exaggerated flourish. "Shall we, m'lady?"

You roll your eyes but take his arm anyway, feeling the warmth of him through the fabric of his shirt.

He leans down to whisper in your ear, cocky and sweet all at once: "Just so you know, I'm totally gonna brag about this to my future grandkids."

You elbow him lightly in the side, and he laughs, the happiest sound you've heard all day.

You laugh softly, letting go of him to get into the car, and he stands there for a second like he’s been shot.

When he finally gets himself together and slides into the driver’s seat, he sneaks a look at you. "You’re—" he starts, then cuts himself off, shaking his head like he can’t believe his own luck. "Perfect," he finishes under his breath.

You pretend not to hear it, hiding your smile as he pulls out onto the road—one hand casually on the wheel, the other fiddling nervously with his collar.

Neither of you says much at first. The radio hums softly between you.

But every few seconds, you catch him sneaking glances your way, grinning like this is already the best date ever.

You recognize the place immediately.

It’s a beautiful rooftop restaurant—one you’d mentioned wanting to try in passing, months ago, when a friend posted about it on social media. You hadn’t even realized he was listening.

The fact that he remembered makes your heart swell.

Satoru pulls into the valet line, hands slightly fidgety on the steering wheel. He throws a quick, nervous glance at you, like he’s scared you won’t like it.

"You, uh, mentioned it once," he says, almost shyly. "Thought it'd be better than, y'know... coffee again."

Your chest tightens in the softest, sweetest way. You open your mouth, ready to tease him, but the look on his face—the earnest hope in his eyes—makes you stop. You just smile instead.

"It’s perfect," you say quietly.

And the way he beams after that? God, you almost have to look away. Too much.

He practically leaps out of the car the second it's parked, sprinting around to your side to open the door for you. Except—he miscalculates the timing and almost slams it into his own shin.

"Ow—shit—" he mutters under his breath, recovering quickly and yanking it open like nothing happened. He straightens up, all suave-like, grinning down at you.

"Milady," he says dramatically, offering you his hand.

You roll your eyes but take it anyway, letting him help you out of the car. His hand is warm—so much bigger than yours—and he doesn’t let go right away. In fact, he keeps holding it as you walk toward the entrance, fingers intertwined like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And you don’t pull away. If anything, you squeeze a little tighter.

Inside, the restaurant is even more beautiful than you imagined—glittering fairy lights, soft music, a gentle breeze whispering across the rooftop.

Gojo glances down at you, smiling like you personally hung the stars. "Ready for the best date of your life?" he teases, but there’s a nervous edge to it—like your opinion actually, genuinely matters to him.

You bite your lip to hold back a grin.

"Lead the way, Romeo."

And he does. Hand in hand, heart thundering, wearing the dopiest smile imaginable.

Dinner with Gojo is…effortless.

For once, he isn’t tripping over his words or cracking half a dozen stupid jokes just to fill the silence. He’s confident—naturally confident—in a way that makes your heart stutter. It’s like all the nervous energy he usually carries around you has melted away tonight, leaving behind nothing but the real Satoru.

He leans back in his chair, the sleeves of his white button-up rolled up to his elbows, flashing the veins in his forearms as he lifts his wine glass to his lips.

There’s a lazy smirk playing on his mouth as he listens to you talk, bright blue eyes never straying from your face.

"You’re staring," you tease after a moment, pretending to inspect the menu like you’re not burning under his gaze.

"Yeah," he says simply, not even bothering to deny it. "You’re beautiful. I’m allowed to stare."

You nearly choke on your water.

Recovering quickly, you raise a brow. "Smooth," you deadpan, setting your glass down.

He chuckles lowly, the sound curling around your spine like smoke. "Only because it’s true," he says, and the sheer casualty of it has your cheeks heating up.

And the worst part? You can’t even pretend you’re unaffected—because he sees it. The way your lips twitch, the way your eyes flicker away for just a second.

"So," you say quickly, trying to regain control of the conversation, "when you’re not busy terrorizing professors and making girls swoon, what do you do for fun, Gojo?"

He hums, pretending to think about it, tapping his fork against his lip.

"Hmm...think about you mostly," he says airily.

You whip your napkin at him across the table, and he lets out a bark of laughter, catching it midair like a reflex.

The two of you fall into easy conversation after that—bantering, laughing, throwing subtle (and not-so-subtle) jabs at each other. It feels so natural that you almost forget this is your first real date.

There’s a moment—between courses, when you’re both picking at the remains of dessert—that you catch him just looking at you again. No teasing. No smirk. Just watching. Soft, and a little awed.

You shift slightly, suddenly aware of the intimacy stretching between you. "What?" you murmur.

He blinks, as if waking up. Shakes his head, smiling faintly.

"Nothing," he says, voice a little rough. "You’re just—really fucking gorgeous."

It’s so sincere that you don’t even know what to say back. You just look at him, feeling your chest tighten in that dangerous, dangerous way again.

The drive back is quiet—not uncomfortable. Just…full.

Full of things unsaid, full of that warmth that’s been simmering between you both all night.

Gojo parks in front of your place, turning off the engine, but neither of you make a move to get out right away. You just sit there, the hum of the night wrapping around you, the silence speaking louder than words ever could.

He turns in his seat slightly, arm draped over the steering wheel, looking at you with that soft, lopsided smile he reserves only for you now.

"I had a really good time," he says quietly, like it’s a secret meant only for you.

You smile back, feeling something sweet and dangerous unfurl in your chest. "Me too," you murmur, fingers twisting slightly in your lap.

The moment stretches—comfortable, a little electric—and you know you should say goodnight. You should.

So you finally reach for the door handle, pulling it open—And then, without thinking, you turn back.

Leaning in quick, before you can psych yourself out, you press a soft kiss to his cheek.

It’s light, barely a brush, but Gojo freezes like you’ve just electrocuted him.

You don’t wait for his reaction. Your face burning, you practically stumble out of the car, slamming the door shut behind you with a muttered, "Goodnight!"

Through the window, you catch a glimpse of him: Wide-eyed, stunned, a hand lifted dazedly to his cheek like he can't believe what just happened.

And then he laughs—a breathless, giddy sound that you swear you can hear even as you rush up the steps to your door, heart hammering like crazy.

Inside the car, Satoru slumps back against the seat, grinning so hard his cheeks hurt. "God," he mutters to himself, still touching the spot where you kissed him, "I’m so fucked."

You’re lying in bed when your phone buzzes in your hand. Heart still racing from that impulsive kiss you planted on his cheek, you scramble to pick it up, thumbs fumbling.

[gojo 💙]: next time, you’re not getting away with just a kiss on the cheek.

You nearly drop your phone.

Oh. Oh.

Your stomach flips. Your face burns. And even though you want to play it cool, you can’t fight the smile tugging at your lips. You bite your lip, thumbs hovering over the keyboard before finally typing back:

[you]: is that a threat, satoru?

The reply comes almost instantly, like he was waiting for you:

[gojo 💙]: no baby, that’s a promise.

You stare at the screen, heart hammering against your ribs.

Baby. God, you’re so done for.

And like he hasn’t already made you melt enough tonight, he sends another message:

[gojo 💙]: get some sleep, pretty

You bury your face into your pillow with a squeal, kicking your feet into the mattress. You type back quickly before you lose your nerve:

[you]: goodnight, satoru. try not to miss me too much.

And a few seconds later:

[gojo 💙]: too late.

[you]: careful, satoru. you're sounding real desperate rn.

You barely have time to smirk before he hits you with:

[gojo 💙]: desperate?

[gojo 💙]: for you? always.

And like he knows you’re losing it, he sends one more:

[gojo 💙]: sleep tight, gorgeous.

[gojo 💙]: dream of me.

[gojo 💙]: i'll definitely be dreaming of you. (and if i wake up hard, it's your fault btw)

You scream into your pillow.

Your hands tremble as you type your final text:

[you]: sweet dreams, toru <3

[you]: maybe next time you won’t have to just dream ;)

And the moment you send it, you shut your phone off and toss it across the bed because there’s absolutely no way you’re surviving if he replies. (He does. Five seconds later.)

[gojo 💙]: fucking hell.

Satoru’s still staring at your last text. Eyes wide. Mouth parted.

maybe next time you won’t have to just dream

He drops his phone onto the bed with a dull thud, dragging both hands down his face.

"Goddammit," he breathes, tipping his head back against the headboard.

You’re gonna kill him. You’re actually gonna kill him.

He sits there for a good minute, struggling to breathe normally, heart hammering against his ribs, cock already half-hard just from that one text. (Just from a text. He's so far gone it's not even funny.)

"Pull it together, Gojo," he mutters, raking a hand through his messy hair.

But the moment he squeezes his eyes shut, it’s you he sees—smiling up at him all coy, leaning in close, whispering things in that pretty voice you have, like you knew exactly what kind of mess you were leaving him in.

You did. You knew exactly what you were doing.

He groans, thunking his head back harder against the headboard, biting down a low, frustrated sound as your words loop endlessly in his brain.

You’re driving him insane.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he shoves his sleep shorts down just enough and wraps a hand around his cock, cursing under his breath when he realizes how hard he already is.

It’s wrong. He knows it’s wrong—you haven’t even properly kissed yet. But god, you're just so, so perfect. So effortlessly beautiful.

He squeezes his eyes shut tighter, his hand moving slowly, pretending it’s you instead—your hand wrapped around him, your body pressed close, your breath ghosting over his ear as you whisper all the filthy things he can barely even let himself imagine.

"Fuck," he hisses through his teeth, hips bucking up into his fist, desperate for more.

He can’t help it.

You’re in his head. You’re under his skin. And he’s not even sure he wants to be saved.

His thighs tense, muscles flexing as he fists himself harder, chasing that high like a man starved. The sound of his breath—harsh and broken—fills the room. Your name nearly falls from his lips like a prayer.

And when he finally comes, it’s with a soft, bitten-off moan, warmth spilling over his knuckles.

His mind blanks for a long, dizzy second—nothing but the feeling of you filling every corner of him.

He collapses back against the pillows, breathless. Staring at the ceiling like he’s just been fucking wrecked. Sweaty. Panting. His hand sticky and his soul halfway out of his body.

He drags a hand down his face again, groaning. "...I'm so fucking screwed," Satoru mutters to himself, glaring uselessly at the ceiling like it’s personally responsible for his downfall.

The sunlight’s barely filtering through his blinds when Satoru stirs awake, messy hair flattened against his forehead, phone slipping from his chest with a quiet thunk onto the mattress.

Groaning, he blindly pats around for it, eyes still crusted shut from sleep.

When he finally blinks them open, he sees the last thing he remembers: your text. The text that ruined his entire night.

He slaps a hand over his face and drags it down slowly, mumbling, “I’m going to hell.”

But because he’s an idiot—an idiot in love—he still unlocks his phone, thumbs hovering nervously over the screen.

He needs to text you. Needs to act normal. Needs to pretend he didn’t almost cry last night over how fucking good it felt imagining you touching him.

He taps out a message, agonizing over every word:

[you]: good morning :) hope you slept well!

He stares at it for a second longer, wondering if he sounds too eager, then panics and deletes the smiley. Then retypes it. Then deletes it again.

Then sends it without the emoji because God forbid he looks like he’s about to propose or something.

He tosses his phone down and flops back against his pillows, staring up at the ceiling like it holds the answers to his sins.

Not even ten seconds pass before his phone buzzes. Heart slamming against his ribs, he fumbles to read it:

[sweetheart 💖]: you too, toru. sweet dreams? ;)

He physically chokes. Coughs. Slaps his own chest like he’s trying to restart his heart.

“Sweet dreams—?” he sputters aloud, horrified, voice cracking. “SWEET—?”

The images from last night flash vividly in his mind: your lips, your breathy giggles, your hands sneaking lower—

He shoves his face into a pillow and screams.

When he finally peeks out, shame swirling in his gut, he types back with trembling hands:

[you]: sweetest dreams ever. totally normal. nothing weird about them at all.

And then he turns his phone face-down. Because he cannot. He cannot see what you’re going to reply.

He’s so down bad it's physically painful.

You stare at your phone, biting your lip to hold back a grin.

Totally normal. Nothing weird about them at all.

Sure, Satoru. Sure.

You kick your feet a little under your blanket, giddy, heart thumping like crazy. You know exactly what you’re doing. You know exactly what you’re doing to him.

And you’re not done yet. You let him stew in his own panic for a few minutes—just to watch him suffer—before tapping out a reply:

[you]: sounds like someone’s overcompensating… ;)

You hit send and immediately burst into laughter, flopping back into your pillows. You can practically imagine him screaming into his hands right now, scrambling to figure out what to say without incriminating himself even more.

And because you’re a menace, you follow it up:

[you]: it’s okay, toru. you can dream about me whenever you want <3

There. You’ve officially ruined his whole morning.

You toss your phone aside and stretch, feeling like you just hit a home run. But then your phone buzzes again—multiple times—and you grab it, giggling.

First, from Satoru:

[toru 💙]: you’re evil. pure evil. i’m never sleeping again.

And then another, right after:

[toru 💙]: coffee today? my treat. i need to see your evil little face or i’m going to combust.

You roll over onto your stomach, kicking your legs up behind you, cheeks aching from smiling so hard.

Maybe you are evil. But god, it’s so fun when he’s this easy to tease.

You tap out your reply, heart light:

[you]: only if you promise not to die before you get here.

It doesn’t even take ten minutes before there’s a knock at your door. You blink in surprise—you hadn’t even changed yet.

Another knock, this time a little quicker, a little eager.

You pad over and crack the door open—and there he is.

Satoru, all messy hair, rumpled shirt, soft smile. Holding two coffees in his hands.

And looking at you like you hung the moon.

"Hi," he says, almost shyly. "Brought you a coffee."

You blink at him.

He fidgets, rocking on his heels. "I, uh... thought maybe we could, y'know, hang out a little. If you’re not busy."

Your heart melts a little at how hopeful he sounds.

"You’re impossible," you tease, swinging the door wider.

"And you're stuck with me," he chirps, stepping inside like he belongs there.

You take one of the coffees from him, fingers brushing, and he beams like you’ve just given him the greatest honor.

"Thanks," you say, smiling into your cup. "Even though you didn’t have to."

"I wanted to," he says simply, plopping onto your couch with zero hesitation. (And he leaves way too little space for you, thigh already brushing yours.)

You sit down beside him, your shoulders bumping. He hums under his breath, swinging his legs a little like a kid who’s gotten his favorite candy.

For a minute, it’s just the two of you, sipping coffee, the silence warm and comfortable.

And then, out of nowhere, he leans his head dramatically onto your shoulder.

You freeze for a second, heart skipping.

He sighs—loudly—against you. "You’re not gonna kick me out, right?"

You laugh, nudging him with your elbow. "Not if you behave."

"That’s asking for a lot," he grins, tilting his head up to look at you. His smile’s a little mischievous, a little boyish.

You roll your eyes, trying to hide your blush behind your coffee cup.

And because he’s shameless—and he knows he’s winning—he adds, voice low and teasing: "Maybe if you give me another goodbye kiss?"

You almost spill your coffee.

He sees it—the way your fingers fumble, the way your face flushes—and smirks.

"C'mon," he teases, nudging your knee with his. "Wasn't that bad of an idea, was it?"

You narrow your eyes at him, trying—failing—to fight your smile. "You," you say, poking his chest, "are way too full of yourself."

"And yet..." Satoru leans in, slow, eyes locked on yours. His voice drops to a whisper. "...you're not moving away."

Your breath catches. Because he's right—you’re not. If anything, you're leaning in too.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The room feels too quiet, too charged. You can hear his breathing, slow and steady, can feel the heat radiating off of him.

Satoru’s gaze drops to your mouth—and lingers there. "Can I?" he murmurs, so soft you almost don’t catch it.

Your heart thuds loud in your chest. You nod.

That’s all he needs.

Slowly, achingly slowly, he closes the gap, giving you every chance to pull away—but you don’t. You tilt your chin up, meeting him halfway.

When his lips finally brush yours, it’s gentle—barely a kiss, more like a breath, a promise.

You sigh against him, and that tiny sound seems to undo him. He tilts his head, deepening the kiss just slightly, just enough to taste you. His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin so tenderly it makes your chest ache.

You kiss him back, slow and sweet, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt.

It drags out—neither of you in any rush, savoring every second.

He kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he stops. And you kiss him like you’ve been waiting forever for this moment.

When you finally, reluctantly, pull apart, you're both breathless. He presses his forehead against yours, grinning like an idiot. "So..." he whispers, voice a little hoarse. "Can I stay a little longer?"

You pretend to think about it, biting your lip to hide your smile. "Maybe," you tease. "If you behave."

He groans, flopping dramatically onto your couch again, tugging you down with him so you land half-on top of him, laughing.

"Not a chance," he says happily.

You're warm against him, tucked into his side, your head resting on his shoulder like you belonged there. And for a moment, Satoru feels like the luckiest man alive.

Until his brain—traitorous, evil, rotten—reminds him.

Reminds him of how he spent last night fucking his fist like a deranged lunatic, thinking about you. Reminds him that you have no idea just how far gone he already is.

A quiet, horrified voice in his head: I'm a monster.

His throat goes dry.His hands twitch awkwardly where they rest on your waist, unsure if he should even be touching you like this—until you shift, just slightly, peeking up at him with this sleepy little smile.

And just like that, every coherent thought leaves him. All that's left is you.

"You're comfy," you mumble against him, snuggling closer.

Satoru lets out a weak, broken little laugh, hiding his burning face against your hair.

If you only knew. If you only knew what you did to him.

He doesn't know how long he sits there with you tucked into him, drinking in your warmth. He could stay like this forever, he thinks. Hell, he wants to.

But then his phone buzzes.

He barely registers it, ignoring it at first. Until it buzzes again. And again.

He groans, reluctant, fishing it out of his pocket while you shift sleepily against him. The screen flashes: a reminder for his evening tutoring session he totally, utterly forgot about. He slumps.

"Something wrong?" you ask, voice soft, blinking up at him.

"I gotta go," he mutters like he's being forced into exile.

You bite back a smile, stretching lazily. "Duty calls?"

"Yeah." He pouts, actually pouts. "Stupid duty."

You laugh under your breath, and it's so unfair how easily you knock the air out of his lungs without even trying.

He stands reluctantly, dragging his feet like a kid leaving recess early.

"Hey," you call out. "Aren’t you forgetting something?"

He turns around and blinks at you, confusion flickering across his face—but then you smile. Soft. Warm. Something just for him.

You step close, tiptoe a little to reach him. And Satoru swears, swears, his heart stumbles in his chest when you press a gentle kiss to his lips.

It's feather-light. Barely there. Sweet enough to make his knees almost buckle.

And when you pull back, a cheeky glint in your eye, he's just standing there. Frozen. Speechless. The stupidest grin pulling at his mouth.

"See you later, ’Toru," you say lightly, nudging him toward the door.

And all he can manage—voice cracking slightly, heart hammering out of his chest—is a dazed "Y-Yeah. Later."

You shut the door behind him with a little wave, and he stands there for a good ten seconds before he finally remembers how to move.

Class feels different today.

You’re hyper-aware of everything.

The way Satoru brushes his knee against yours under the table, all casual-like. The way his pinky keeps nudging yours on the desk until finally, finally, you relent and let your fingers curl around his. The way he keeps sneaking glances at you out of the corner of his eye—and every time you catch him, he just smiles, like he’s getting away with something.

It’s infuriating. It’s adorable. It’s Satoru.

You pretend to focus on the lecture. Really, you do. But it’s hard when you can feel the warmth of his hand ghosting over your thigh under the table, a barely-there touch that sends your heart skittering against your ribs.

By the time the professor starts wrapping up class, you’re halfway to combusting.

"Don’t forget," she says, tapping the whiteboard, "project updates are due next week."

You scribble the deadline in your notes, but Satoru’s already turning toward you, practically bouncing in his seat.

"Hey," he says, voice pitched low enough that only you can hear. "How about we work on it at my place today?"

You blink, startled. "Your place?"

He grins, bright and boyish. "Yeah! First time for everything, right?"

The way he says it—light, teasing, almost a little shy—makes something flutter wildly in your chest.

"It’ll be chill," he continues. "We can grab some snacks, order takeout, maybe actually get stuff done this time—"

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious. "Are you actually suggesting a productive study session or trying to lure me into a trap?"

He gasps, hand clutching dramatically at his chest. "Me? Lure you? I’m offended." Then he drops the act, leaning in close, that mischievous spark lighting up his eyes. "But if you happen to end up in my lap or something, y’know... destiny."

You shove him lightly, cheeks warming. "God, you’re insufferable."

"Face it—you love this," he says, nudging your shoulder with his.

You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out of your head. Still...you find yourself smiling.

"Fine," you say, packing up your stuff. "But we’re actually working this time."

He pumps a fist in victory. "Yes! Bring that sexy brain of yours, princess. We’re gonna kill this project."

You throw a crumpled sticky note at him. He catches it midair, flashing a grin that practically glows.

You’re home, lounging on your bed, phone in hand.

The texting starts innocent enough.

[you]: what should I bring?

[toru 💙]: just that pretty little self of yours

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile.

[you]: be serious

[toru 💙]: i am. i’m dead serious. maybe a notebook too though lol

You roll your eyes, thumbs hovering over your screen. Before you can type anything else, another message pops up:

[toru 💙]: also… try not to look too pretty

[toru 💙]: kinda hard to focus when you’re around

You blink at the screen, heart skipping a beat. The sudden boldness makes you squirm a little under your covers.

Before you can even react, a third text follows:

[toru 💙]: here’s my address

A pinned location pops up. Followed by—

[toru 💙]: hurry over please

You stare at the messages, warmth blooming in your chest (and spreading lower, if you were honest).

You should probably be nervous. You should definitely be more cautious.

But all you do is grin, toss your phone onto the bed, and start getting ready.

You barely knock once before the door swings open.

And there he is.

Black tank top clinging to his chest, basketball shorts slung so low it should be illegal. Lean muscles on full display. Sleep-mussed white hair falling over his forehead.

You actually forget how to breathe. Your brain just... shuts down.

Satoru’s mouth twitches into a knowing smirk. He leans lazily against the doorframe, crossing his arms — muscles flexing, because of course they do — and tips his head at you.

“Well, well," he drawls, amusement dripping from every word. "Didn’t think you’d be that easy to stun."

You blink — once, twice — scrambling to find your voice. "I’m not stunned," you blurt out, way too fast to be convincing.

"Mhm," he hums, that smug little grin widening. "Sure. You just like standing on people's porches looking like you forgot your own name?"

You shove past him with a flustered scoff, cheeks burning. But you can feel his eyes trailing after you, slow and satisfied, as he shuts the door behind you.

"You didn’t tell me the dress code was..." you flounder, gesturing vaguely at his entire existence, "thirst trap casual."

"Aw, you think I’m a thirst trap?" he coos, stepping dangerously close — close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him properly.

"I think you’re an asshole," you snap — except your voice comes out all breathy, completely ruining the effect.

Satoru chuckles — a low, rich sound that vibrates all the way through you. "You can be honest, y'know. It's just us here." He leans down, dropping his voice into a whisper, "You like what you see."

You make a strangled noise in your throat and whirl around, pretending to inspect the living room like it's the most fascinating thing you’ve ever seen. "Where’s your project stuff?" you demand, heart thundering against your ribs.

"Wow," he says behind you, tone all fake-hurt. "Use me for my brain and ditch me for my abs. Brutal."

"You have a brain?" you retort, finally finding a shred of composure.

He laughs again — easy, bright — and brushes past you, the barest graze of his arm against yours sending your nerves into a frenzy.

"Come on, nerd," he calls over his shoulder, tossing a wink at you that almost knocks you off your feet. "Project’s not gonna finish itself."

You huff, yanking your notebook out of your bag to try and hide the stupid, giddy smile pulling at your lips.

You’re just barely settled on the couch, notebook balanced on your lap, when Satoru stretches — arms over his head, tank top riding up dangerously — and says, “Actually... we’ll have more space in my room."

You blink at him, heart skipping a beat. "Your room?" you repeat, raising an eyebrow.

He flashes a wide, shit-eating grin. "Yeah. Bigger desk. Better lighting."

You narrow your eyes, pretending to be skeptical. "Oh? Already trying to get me in bed?"

Satoru stops dead in his tracks — but only for half a second. Then he tosses a look over his shoulder, cocky and wicked. "Don’t give me ideas," he says, voice low and playful.

Your cheeks burn so hot you’re surprised you don’t spontaneously combust. But you’re stubborn — so you just huff and follow him anyway, ignoring the smug little chuckle he lets out as he leads you down the hall. And then you step into his room — and freeze.

Because it’s... it’s not what you expect. Sure, it’s a little messy — loose clothes on a chair, half-done laundry — but what really grabs your attention is the shelf. More specifically: the shelf packed with colorful little figures. Posters. Framed prints. All of it instantly recognizable.

"...Is that—" you start, pointing.

"Digimon," Satoru says immediately, like he's bracing himself for judgment.

You stare. You blink. And then — you laugh. Loud, bright, uncontrollable.

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. "I knew it. I knew you were gonna make fun of me."

You grin at him, unrepentant. "You? Cool, confident, six-foot-whatever Satoru Gojo... secret Digimon stan? Oh, this is gold."

"It’s not secret," he grumbles, crossing his arms like a petulant kid. "Digimon’s fucking awesome. Better than Pokémon. Better story arcs, deeper characters—"

"You sound so defensive," you giggle, stepping closer to inspect a particularly adorable stuffed Agumon perched on his bed.

He steps up beside you, bumping your shoulder lightly with his and picks up the plushie to toss it somewhere else. "You're lucky you're cute," he mutters, mock-threatening, "or I’d kick you out right now."

You bite back a smile, feeling that fluttery, giddy warmth bloom in your chest again. Because for all his teasing, all his cocky bravado — there’s something painfully endearing about how unapologetically himself he is. No hiding. No shame. Just... Satoru.

"You’re such a nerd," you say fondly.

Satoru smirks, eyes glinting mischievously. "Yeah? Still think I’m a thirst trap though?"

You sputter, flustered all over again — and he cackles, so pleased with himself it’s criminal.

God. You are so screwed.

You perch awkwardly on the edge of his bed, notebook in your lap again, pretending you’re not hyper-aware of how huge his bed is, how close he is, how the mattress dips slightly under his weight when he flops down next to you.

"Alright," he says, stretching lazily, flashing a sliver of toned stomach again. "Serious time. Project planning. Let's go."

You nod, throat a little dry. "Serious," you echo, flipping open the notebook. "No distractions."

"None whatsoever," he agrees solemnly.

You start brainstorming, scribbling notes in the margins, muttering ideas under your breath. For a few minutes, everything’s fine. Normal. Until you feel it — the slight brush of his knee against yours. At first, you think it’s an accident. You shift slightly to the side.

But then it happens again. And again.

And then — Satoru leans closer, peering over your shoulder, his breath warm against your cheek. His hand rests casually on the bed behind you, fingers curling ever so slightly around the edge of your shirt.

You pretend to ignore it. Pretend so hard it almost works.

But then he hums low in his throat — a thoughtful, lazy little sound — and lets his hand slide up, fingers brushing lightly against your lower back, and your entire body tenses.

"'Toru..." you murmur, trying for stern, but it comes out way too breathy. You don’t even look at him — you can’t — because you already know what you’ll find: those blue eyes, lazy and half-lidded, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Focus," you manage, tapping the notebook for emphasis.

He leans in, so close his nose almost brushes your temple, and murmurs in a voice so low it makes your stomach flip:

"You make it hard to."

His hand is bold now — fingers tracing slow, idle patterns over the dip of your waist, so gentle it leaves a trail of fire in its wake. Your breath stutters in your throat. You feel your heart hammer against your ribs.

You finally — finally — dare a glance at him.

And he’s looking at you like he’s starving.

For you.

The tension is a physical thing now, heavy and thick in the air between you. You swear you can hear the blood rushing in your ears.

"...You're unbelievable," you whisper, the notebook slipping from your fingers.

His smirk deepens, shameless. "You like it."

God help you — you do.

You scramble, trying desperately to recover your sanity, to remember why you’re even here in the first place. The project. The project, dammit.

You slap your palm over the notebook, pushing it toward him. "W-We should really— really focus," you stammer, voice wobbling embarrassingly.

He just grins, slow and easy, that grin that makes you forget your own name.

"I am focused," he says, voice dropping into that low, teasing rasp. "Focused on you."

And before you can react, he shifts — the bed dipping under his weight as he gently crowds into your space.

Your breath catches.

He cages you in with a hand planted firm beside your hip, his other hand curling loosely around your wrist like he’s giving you the option to pull away — like he’s daring you to.

You don’t. You can’t.

You’re frozen, wide-eyed, heart thudding like crazy.

His forehead presses lightly to yours, and you feel the whisper of his breath against your lips.

"You drive me crazy, y'know that?" he murmurs, voice impossibly soft. Every word vibrates through you.

You open your mouth — to say what, you’re not sure — but no sound comes out. You’re too busy trying not to melt.

And then he moves. Sudden but gentle, he presses you down against the mattress, his body hovering above yours, careful not to crush you.

Your hands instinctively fly up to his chest — oh, God his chest — and you feel the steady pound of his heartbeat under your palms.

He’s close now, so close you can see every detail of his face — the slight pink flush on his cheeks, the playful crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the way his pupils are blown wide with something between affection and hunger.

"You’re so cute when you're flustered," he teases, and you want to hate him for it, you really do.

But you don’t. You can't.

Instead, you fist your hands in the soft fabric of his shirt and squeeze your eyes shut, trying to will your racing pulse back to normal.

He chuckles, low and smug. Then — so lightly you almost think you imagined it — he brushes his nose along the side of your jaw, breathing you in.

"You’re killing me," he whispers.

You whimper — actual, real, humiliating whimper — and he grins.

But he doesn’t kiss you. Not yet.

He just stays there, letting the tension thicken, letting you squirm, savoring it.

It’s agony. It’s perfect.

You feel it — the exact moment his lips almost touch yours.

It’s a whisper of a moment, barely-there, the ghost of contact that makes your whole body tense up in anticipation.

He’s so close. So close you can taste the heat radiating off him, the sweet, addictive scent of his cologne, the lazy tilt of his grin as he leans in—

And that’s when you snap out of it.

At the very last second, you slip a hand between your bodies, planting your palm firmly against his chest to stop him.

His eyes fly open, confused, slightly wild.

You smile — sweet, smug — up at him.

"Uh-uh," you say, your voice still a little breathless but steady enough to make him narrow his eyes suspiciously. "Project first."

The sheer betrayal on his face.

"You've gotta be kidding me," he groans, dropping his forehead dramatically onto your shoulder like you just mortally wounded him. "I was so close, baby, c'mon—"

You cackle. Gojo finds it beautiful.

He lifts his head, leveling you with the most pathetic pout you’ve ever seen. "You're evil," he accuses.

You just wiggle your eyebrows at him, smirking. "Should've thought about that before trying to seduce me in broad daylight, Gojo."

He collapses beside you with a dramatic huff, flopping back against the bed like his soul has been snatched from his body.

"It’s almost 7. Unbelievable," he mutters. "This is harassment. I should sue."

You reach over, patting his chest twice, condescending and sweet. "There, there."

He turns his head, glaring at you — but the slight twitch of his lips gives him away.

"You owe me later," he says, pointing a finger at you like a solemn oath.

You hum, pretending to think it over, before shooting him a wicked little grin. "We'll see if you're good."

His groan is loud enough to rattle the bed.

You're absolutely thriving.

You’re trying so hard to focus. You really are. Project notes scattered across the bed, laptop open, a half-written paragraph blinking at you like it's taunting your lack of progress.

And then—

"Break time!" Satoru declares, already tugging you off the bed by your wrist before you can even protest.

You stumble after him, laughing breathlessly. "Satoru, we barely got anything done!"

"Exactly why we need a break," he grins, dragging you toward the kitchen like a man on a mission. "You’ll thank me later."

You roll your eyes but let him haul you along, too curious (and maybe a little too charmed) to resist.

He lets go of your hand once you reach the kitchen and dramatically cracks his knuckles, looking far too proud of himself.

"Watch and learn, sweetheart," he says, shooting you a wink. "You're in the presence of greatness."

You snort, crossing your arms and leaning against the counter. "Oh yeah? You gonna burn the house down, master chef?"

He gasps — actually gasps — clutching his chest like you mortally wounded him. "You wound me."

You just laugh, watching as he rummages through the fridge with entirely too much flair, pulling out random ingredients and setting them on the counter.

"You're literally just making instant ramen," you point out dryly, but there's a smile tugging at your lips.

"Gourmet instant ramen," he corrects, wagging a finger at you. "With egg. And scallions. And a lil’ bit of love."

He tosses you another wink and you lose it, doubling over in silent laughter.

You lean back against the counter, arms folded, trying — and failing — to look unimpressed as he hums to himself, clattering pots around. He’s in a black tank top and low-hanging shorts, muscles flexing casually with every movement, hair messy from dragging his hands through it.

And it’s... distracting. Way too distracting.

Especially when he starts cracking an egg one-handed like a cocky asshole.

"Show-off," you mutter under your breath.

"Don’t act like you’re not impressed," he sing-songs, peeking at you from under snowy lashes, smug as hell.

You flip him off lazily. He just grins wider.

The kitchen fills with the scent of broth and spices, steam curling in the air. He moves with this effortless, chaotic sort of confidence — a little reckless, a little messy — but somehow everything comes together perfectly.

When he turns to you again, ramen bowl in hand, he looks so goddamn pleased with himself you want to laugh.

"See?" he says, stepping closer. "I'm basically husband material."

You tilt your head, raising a brow. "You make instant noodles and think you deserve a ring?"

"Handmade. Special edition. Enhanced with love." He winks, holding up the bowl like an offering. "You should be honored."

And even though you roll your eyes, you can't help the smile tugging at your lips — can't help the way your stomach flips stupidly as he steps even closer, towering over you with that lazy, confident grin.

You set the now-empty bowl down on the counter, nudging him with your elbow. "Since you whipped up such a gourmet meal, I guess the least I can do is the dishes."

Satoru leans back against the counter, grinning so wide it's almost embarrassing. "You spoil me."

You roll your eyes but start gathering up the dishes anyway, rinsing them under the tap. The warm water and simple task are oddly comforting, your movements easy, natural.

And from behind you, you can feel it — his gaze, warm and heavy, drinking you in like he's memorizing this moment.

Before you can even finish rinsing the second bowl, you feel him — long arms sliding around your waist, pulling you back into him, chest pressed against your back.

You huff a soft laugh, not bothering to fight it. "Needy much?"

He just hums, nose nudging into the crook of your neck, his hair tickling your skin. "You smell good," he mumbles, voice low and content.

"Why, thank you," you say, but it’s half a smile.

"I could get used to this," he murmurs, squeezing you a little tighter.

You finish up the dishes like that — his arms around you, his weight solid and comforting at your back, his soft little praises murmured into your ear in between.

"You're pretty," he says at one point, completely unprompted. "So pretty I don't know how I'm supposed to concentrate when you're around."

You duck your head, smiling to yourself, feeling your cheeks burn.

When you finally dry your hands and turn around to face him, he's already looking down at you with stars in his eyes, a little breathless like he can't believe you're real.

You loop your arms around his neck without thinking, tugging him a little closer, and he leans into it easily, lazily, like he's been waiting for this exact moment. "Can I kiss you yet?" he asks, grinning like an idiot, voice all hopeful and teasing.

You laugh, soft and fond, brushing your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. "Sure, loverboy."

And he doesn't waste a second — swooping down to finally, finally claim your lips in a kiss that's sweet and warm and a little clumsy with excitement, like he just can’t hold it in anymore.

The moment your lips meet, it’s like something clicks into place.

At first, it’s a gentle brush of mouths, shy and smiling. He kisses you once, then twice, like he can’t get enough, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. But then you tilt your head just a little, arms tightening around his neck, and he groans — a low, helpless sound that rumbles against your chest.

And just like that, the kiss deepens.

His hands, which had been resting innocently at your waist, slide down — gripping your hips with a little more urgency, pulling you flush against him. You gasp softly into his mouth, and he takes full advantage, slotting his mouth over yours in a way that leaves your knees just barely holding you up. You feel it when his fingers flex, pressing you closer, when his body shudders lightly against yours.

God, he’s starving for you. You can feel it in the way he kisses — slow but hungry, like he’s been waiting for this, aching for it.

When he pulls back for just a breath, his forehead presses to yours, and his voice is ragged, wrecked. "You’re gonna kill me," he whispers, before diving back in, more desperate this time.

You whimper into his mouth without meaning to, clutching at the front of his shirt, feeling the heat of him seeping into your palms.

Satoru groans again, hands sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing just under the hem of your shirt, skin to skin.

It’s not rushed. It’s not frantic. It’s slow — simmering — like he’s savoring every second, like he wants this moment to stretch on forever.

And it’s only when his teeth gently tug at your bottom lip — when your breathing turns shallow and desperate against each other — that you finally, finally break away.

Both of you stand there for a second, breathing hard, faces flushed.

You feel dizzy. He looks completely wrecked.

You’re both breathless when you pull apart, foreheads resting together, lips tingling.

Satoru’s hands are still on your waist, holding you close like he’s not ready to let go. You can feel the way his chest rises and falls against yours — shallow, like he’s trying to calm himself down.

He gives a short, breathy laugh. “Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You smile, dazed. “Pretty sure that’s mutual.”

There’s a beat of silence — heavy with everything unsaid — before he leans in again.

Hungrier. Rougher. Like he’s been holding back all night and can’t anymore. His mouth moves over yours with unfiltered need, hands pulling you closer like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

You make a soft noise into his mouth, and it only spurs him on. The way he kisses you — it’s not perfect. It’s messy and fast and desperate, teeth catching on your lower lip, hands gripping tight like he’s scared you’ll slip away.

Your fingers wind into the fabric of his tank top, pulling him even closer until you’re practically wrapped around him.

He breaks the kiss just barely, lips brushing yours as he breathes out, “Tell me if it’s too much.”

You shake your head. “It’s not. I—” You swallow. “I want this. You.”

His expression softens for a split second before that heat comes rushing back. His mouth is back on yours, slower this time but no less intense — like he’s trying to memorize how you taste.

When his hand slips under your shirt and settles on the small of your back, warm and firm, you shiver.

He kisses you like he means it. Like he feels it.

And when you finally pull back again, breathless and flushed, he just smiles — eyes glassy, voice low.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s kissing you again.

No warning, no hesitation — just the searing press of his mouth against yours like he’s starving for it. Like he needs more. And you give in without thinking, letting him pull you closer until there’s not a sliver of space left between your bodies.

His hands are on your waist, fingers tightening like he’s trying to anchor himself. And when your hands slide up his chest, over those broad shoulders, he groans into your mouth — low and wrecked.

It’s dizzying, the way he kisses you. Every time you think he’ll stop, he comes back for more — messier, deeper, rougher. Your fingers tangle in his hair as his lips trail down to your jaw, then your neck, slow and hot and reverent.

And then suddenly, he pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes.

His voice is breathless, raw. “Hold on.”

Before you can ask what he means, he lifts you — effortlessly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You let out a startled gasp, arms wrapping around his neck as he carries you through the apartment. Your heart’s hammering so hard you’re sure he can feel it.

He’s grinning now, cocky and breathless all at once. “I warned you I’m husband material.”

“Shut up,” you mutter against his neck, flustered beyond reason.

But there’s no hiding the way your legs tighten around his waist.

He nudges his bedroom door open with his foot, stepping inside, and the second you’re both in, he sets you down gently. And just like that, he’s on you again — kissing you like he’s waited his whole life for this.

His mouth is still on yours when he shifts forward, slowly pressing you back until your knees hit the edge of the bed. You stumble slightly, gripping his arms for balance—and the second your weight tips back, he goes with you.

The two of you collapse onto the mattress in a tangled mess of limbs and breathless laughter, but he’s quick to recover. Quick to pin you there beneath him, hands braced on either side of your head, his hips snug between your thighs.

He looks down at you like he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

And then that glint returns—dangerous and wicked and so unlike the stammering nerd you met on day one.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he breathes, voice low and rough in your ear.

You shiver.

His lips find the side of your neck again, and this time they don’t linger—they devour. Hot, open-mouthed kisses that make your back arch, that pull quiet, helpless sounds from your throat. His hands wander too, slow at first, fingertips tracing the curve of your waist, your hips, every line and dip he can find.

You reach for him, needing more—but he grabs your wrists, pins them gently above your head with one hand.

“Nuh-uh,” he smirks. “I’m in charge now.”

You’re just about to sass him when he dips down again, this time trailing kisses down your collarbone. Then lower. He peppers slow, aching kisses across your chest, teasing the hem of your top with his free hand.

And then he sits up, straddling your hips, eyes practically burning.

“Can I tell you a secret?” he asks, and it’s a loaded question.

You nod.

He leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I jacked off to the thought of you the other night.”

Your breath catches—your whole body burns.

“After that text you sent,” he goes on, voice like velvet laced with sin. “You have no idea what you did to me. I read it once and couldn’t stop imagining it. You—whispering in my ear like that, all sweet and smug and filthy.”

He moves again, kisses dragging hot and slow down the slope of your neck, and then your chest, until he’s tugging your shirt up and over your head.

“I was in bed,” he murmurs. “One hand on my phone. The other…” He lets the implication hang, but his hand slips down your thigh, then up again, teasing, until your breath comes in sharp gasps.

“I was thinking about you,” he says. “About your voice. About what you’d look like straddling me, telling me what you wanted while I fucked up into you so slow.”

Your hips buck at that—and god, the smirk that pulls at his lips should be illegal.

He starts undressing you slowly, worshipping, like every piece he reveals is a treasure. “I need you,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. His voice is hoarse, eyes searching yours like he needs you to understand.

The kiss that follows is devastating—open-mouthed and hungry, a collision of breath and teeth and need. You’re clawing at his clothes like they personally offended you, yanking at the hem of his shirt with fumbling fingers and a frustrated groan.

“Off,” you hiss against his lips.

He laughs, breathless, tugging it over his head and tossing it aside, revealing smooth skin and defined muscle, the dip of his waist disappearing into those loose shorts you suddenly despise.

You push at them with impatient hands, and he grins—cocky, flushed, wrecked and loving every second of it. “Desperate, huh?” he teases, voice still husky from the kiss.

“You’re one to talk,” you shoot back, dragging your nails down his sides. “You’re not exactly subtle, loverboy.”

He’s all hands again then—roaming your body, trailing heat in their wake as he presses you down into the bed, lips never far from your skin. Every motion is frantic and reverent all at once, like he’s starving but determined to savor every inch of you.

You push at his chest gently, and he lets you, eyebrows raised in surprise as his back hits the mattress.

“Oh?” he breathes, propping himself up on his elbows. “Taking control now?”

“Didn’t you say I killed you the other night?” you murmur, crawling between his legs with a sly smile. “Figured I should finish the job.”

His eyes darken immediately—heat blooming in them so fast it’s dizzying. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

You do—because the second your hands slide up his thighs, he’s already sucking in a breath, already biting back a groan. His abs tense under your touch, his head tipping back as he watches you through lidded eyes, gaze glazed over with anticipation.

“You been thinking about this, ’Toru?” you ask softly, dragging your nails lightly along the waistband of his shorts.

He swallows thickly. “Every night.”

And when you finally tug his waistband down, your breath catches.

He's thick, long and heavy, flushed a pretty pink at the tip, and already straining toward you like he’s been waiting for this moment forever. Your mouth parts without thinking. You don’t even realize you’re staring until he lets out a shaky, nervous laugh. Your hands wrap around him and his hips instinctively buck upwards.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck,” he mutters, voice gravelly.

He’s already gone—chest rising and falling in short, sharp breaths. His hands clutch the sheets when you lean in, letting your tongue flick across the swollen head, tasting him.

“Oh fuck—”

You take your time. You don’t give him all of it, not yet. You swirl your tongue around the tip, teasing the slit until he hisses between clenched teeth. He jolts when you lick a slow stripe along the underside, right at the base where it’s most sensitive, your fingers cradling him, gentle and thorough.

He groans—loud and raw—and you feel his hands fist the sheets tighter.

“You’re killing me,” he pants, head tipping back, voice nearly wrecked.

And still, you don’t rush. You bob your head slowly, steadily, sinking down deeper with each pass until his abs tighten and he moans—loud, desperate. You feel him twitch on your tongue, hear the soft, breathy curse that falls from his lips as you wrap your hand around him and roll your wrist just right. You squeeze his balls and he nearly sobs.

You glance up through your lashes, and the sight of him—head tossed back, jaw clenched, face flushed, his entire body shaking with restraint—is seared into your memory.

You don’t take your eyes off him, not even as you hollow your cheeks and take him deeper. He’s so close—you can feel it in the way his thighs tense, the way his breath stutters, the broken sound he makes when you moan around him.

“Fuck—baby, I’m gonna—”

You don’t stop. You want it. Want to see him fall apart. And he does, with a choked groan that rips out of his chest as he spills into your mouth, hot and thick. His hand flies to your hair, not to pull you away—but to keep you there, his hips giving the slightest jerk as he rides it out. You swallow it all only pulling off when he starts to twitch. And when you finally draw back, lips slick and chin damp, he looks completely undone.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, dazed.

You just smile sweetly and wipe the corner of your mouth with your thumb.

He’s still catching his breath when you go to pull back fully, smug and satisfied. “Mm-hm,” he hums, voice rough and curling with mischief. His hand catches your wrist, firm but gentle. “My turn, sweetheart.”

You blink. “Oh?”

Before you can tease him back, he moves—effortlessly. One arm wraps around your waist, the other plants on the bed, and in a single fluid motion he’s pulling you up, flipping you like you weigh nothing and settling you inches away from his face. You squeak—actually squeak—as your knees plant on either side of his head.

“Satoru—”

“Shh.” He grins, that ridiculous confident smirk plastered across his flushed face. “Sit, baby. Be good for me.”

He gives your ass a squeeze, encouraging, eyes gleaming up at you. You hesitate for half a second and he adds, voice dipped low and sinfully sweet,

“You got to have your fun.”

Then he pulls you down.

His mouth is on you immediately—hot and unrelenting. Tongue flicking, lips sealing around your clit as he groans like you taste better than anything he’s ever had. His hands grip your thighs, fingers digging into soft flesh, holding you there like he’s starving and you’re the feast. And when your hips twitch, instinctively trying to lift off—he drags you right back down.

“Oh no, sweetheart,” he murmurs against you, voice muffled and vibrating through your core, “I said sit.”

You’re braced against the headboard now, knees shaking, thighs clenched tight around his head as you grind down—slow at first, then faster, chasing that high with ragged breath and trembling limbs.

He’s not just letting you. He’s encouraging it.

Big hands grope your ass, fingers digging in, guiding you against his mouth like he wants you to lose it. His tongue moves with practiced precision, sucking and flicking, drawing soft whimpers and broken gasps from your lips as your body arches.

You glance down again and the sight nearly finishes you—his eyes half-lidded and dazed, cheeks flushed, hair a total mess from how many times you’ve tugged on it.

He looks wrecked. But he’s moaning like he’s in heaven. Like this is exactly where he wants to be.

And then he says it—muffled, half-choked, voice thick with lust and absolutely feral. “So fucking sweet.”

You grind harder, hips rolling, and he groans into you.

He doesn’t care if he can’t breathe. Doesn’t care if he’s dizzy. Doesn’t care if you’re seconds from suffocating him. He’s already decided this is how he wants to go out.

Buried between your thighs, mouth full of you, hands holding you down like you’re sacred.

And when you finally break—back arching, eyes fluttering shut, thighs clamping around his head as your orgasm crashes through you—he doesn’t stop. Not for a second.

He rides it out with you, tongue still moving, swallowing every sound you make.

When he finally lets go you collapse beside him, completely spent, your body still trembling in the aftermath. Your cheek presses into the pillow, breath catching in your throat as you try to come back to yourself. Satoru shifts next to you, propping himself up on one elbow. He brushes your hair back gently, eyes soft, and asks quietly,

“You okay?”

You nod, still catching your breath. “Yeah. Just—holy shit.”

He huffs a small laugh and leans down to kiss your shoulder, warm and unhurried. “Good.”

You feel him watching you for a second longer, like he’s making sure you’re really alright. You stretch out, boneless and warm, assuming this is the part where you both wind down.

But then his hand slides down your back.

You feel him shift behind you, and when you glance over your shoulder, his expression’s changed. Still gentle—but focused. Hungrier.

“You done?” he asks softly, voice right at your ear now.

You blink. “I… thought we were.”

He smiles, and it’s a little crooked, a little smug—but not cocky. Just him.

“Not even close.”

Before you can respond, his hands are on your hips, guiding you forward. You let him, moving onto your knees again, bracing your hands against the headboard as the mattress shifts beneath you. He settles behind you slowly, fingers trailing up your sides. The air changes—more intimate now, more intense.

“You okay like this?” he murmurs.

You nod.

“Good.” He kisses the back of your neck. “Hold on to something.”

He settles behind you again, one hand steady on your hip, the other guiding himself down. You feel the slow drag of him through your folds—warm, thick, and deliberate. You suck in a breath, hips twitching slightly. But he doesn’t press in. Just rocks forward enough to slide himself through you again. And again.

Your fingers curl tighter around the headboard. “…Satoru,” you breathe.

“Mhm?” His voice is low, calm. Way too calm for what he’s doing.

You try to push back into him, but he keeps you where he wants you—just a firm, gentle grip at your hip keeping you still.

He’s quiet for a moment. You glance over your shoulder and catch the look on his face: focused, a little tense, clearly feeling it—but taking his time anyway.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” you mutter.

A breath of a laugh leaves him. “Yeah. Kind of.”

Your forehead drops forward. “’Toru…”

He groans softly—just a little, like he’s trying not to—but doesn’t stop. Just drags himself over you again, slower now. “God, you feel good,” he mutters. “I just… give me a second.”

You shift again, needy and frustrated, and he finally stills behind you, tip resting right where you want him. You both freeze.

“…You okay?” he asks quietly.

You nod, exhaling hard. “Please.”

There’s a beat. And then he leans forward, lips brushing your shoulder, voice quiet and serious against your skin. “Yeah. I got you. Just spread ‘em a bit for me… yeah, that’s it.”

He eases in with that first, deep stroke—slow enough to feel every inch of him push through your walls. The stretch burns just a little, but the heat in your core blooms even hotter. He’s thick, heavy, and you feel every vein drag along your inner walls, textured and pulsing, making your whole body clench around him without thinking.

Behind you, Satoru groans—low and raw, like it’s dragging out of his chest. “God… you feel unreal,” he mutters, breath shaky.

He holds still once he’s fully inside, his hips pressed against the swell of your ass, his hand flexing on your waist like he’s trying not to move too fast. His cock twitches inside you and you gasp at how full you feel—your body stretched and throbbing around him, nerves lighting up from the inside out.

“Okay?” he murmurs, lips brushing the back of your shoulder.

You nod, voice barely there. “Yeah. Just—fuck, Satoru.”

He pulls out slow, almost all the way, and you feel every ridge of him drag against your soaked walls. Then he sinks back in with a soft grunt, and you swear you feel him throb again—your body squeezing around him on instinct.

The pace he sets is slow but deep, grinding into you just right, the friction steady and maddening. Your thighs are trembling already, your hands gripping the headboard like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

Every time he pushes in, his cock presses against that spongy spot deep inside you, and every time he pulls out, it’s this slow, deliberate scrape that leaves you gasping. There’s no space left between you—just wet heat and tension, pressure building with every stroke.

And then—his hand moves. Slides down from your waist, slipping between your legs, fingers finding your clit with no hesitation. The first pass is light, almost teasing.

You jolt. “Satoru—!”

“I got you,” he says quietly, like a promise. His thumb circles you, slow and tight, while his other hand braces your hip steady against him. And all the while, he keeps fucking into you—deeper now, rhythm starting to slip, strokes a little rougher, his breath coming harder against your skin.

“You feel so good around me,” he murmurs, thumb pressing down just a little harder. “So warm. So tight. You keep squeezing me like that, baby—fuck.”

Your whole body is shaking now, moaning helplessly as his fingers keep working your clit, dragging you closer and closer to the edge. Every stroke is slick, deep, devastating. You can hear the wet sounds of him sliding in and out of you, the soft slap of skin, his strained breathing—your own whimpers growing louder with every thrust.

The pressure builds sharp and fast, your body locking up as your orgasm crashes toward you—

And Satoru’s still going. Still thumbing your clit, still grinding his cock into you like he can’t get enough.

Your body tightens around him without warning, breath catching as the pleasure crests—sharp, blinding, unstoppable. You cry out, head dropping as your orgasm rips through you, muscles clenching so hard around his cock that it knocks the air out of both of you.

“Oh my—fuck, that’s it—” Satoru groans, stuttering inside you as your walls flutter and squeeze around him.

You’re still shaking, coming down from the high, when he slows—lets you ride it out, then carefully pulls out, the sudden emptiness making you gasp. You barely have time to blink before he’s flipping you onto your back like you weigh nothing.

He spreads your thighs open, throws your legs over his shoulders, and lines himself up again with a low, strained breath. His eyes meet yours—still soft, but blown wide, jaw tight with restraint. There’s nothing teasing left in him now.

He doesn’t ask this time. Doesn’t wait. He thrusts back in hard—deep—and keeps going.

No more slow buildup. No more holding back. Just relentless, steady drive—his hips snapping into yours over and over, the wet sound of skin meeting skin filling the room.

You gasp, fingers flying to his forearms as he leans over you, caging you in. His pace is brutal now, almost punishing, but it never stops feeling good—the angle perfect, the pressure hitting deep with every stroke.

“Satoru—” you sob, voice cracking.

He groans through gritted teeth, muscles tense, hips moving like he’s possessed. “You’re so—fucking—tight.”

You can barely think. Your legs tremble over his shoulders, body arching with every thrust, your orgasm still making aftershocks ripple through you.

He reaches down between you again, hand slipping to your clit like it’s second nature—his thumb moving in tight, fast circles that make your back arch off the bed. “You gonna give me another one?” he pants, voice rough and shaking. “Come on, sweetheart—I know you can.”

You don’t even answer. You can’t. The pressure’s already building again—too fast, too much, your body barely holding on as he keeps fucking into you like he’s been waiting for this all night.

You feel him twitch inside you, hear his breathing hitch—but he still doesn’t come. He’s chasing you again, driving into you like your pleasure is the only thing that matters.

You don’t know how he keeps going like this. His pace is ruthless, hips pistoning into you like he’s been starving for it—but it’s the focus that kills you. He’s watching every twitch in your body, every gasp, every time your walls flutter around him like he’s memorizing it.

Then he shifts—leans in until your knees are almost pinned to your chest, folding you in half under him. The new angle makes you cry out, his cock hitting impossibly deep, your body arching beneath the weight of him. “You feel that?” he breathes, voice rough and close to a growl now. “So deep inside you, baby. Just like this.”

And then—his mouth is on your chest. You gasp when he takes your nipple between his lips, tongue circling, sucking slow and steady while his hips never stop. The hot pull of his mouth makes your toes curl, especially when his free hand moves to palm your other breast—thumb brushing over the sensitive peak, fingers squeezing just enough to make you whimper.

It’s too much. You’re overstimulated—his cock still driving into you, thumb still tight and unrelenting on your clit, his mouth sucking, teasing, biting gently down before soothing with his tongue.

Pleasure spikes sharp and fast, and it’s not building—it’s crashing. Your entire body locks up as the heat inside you explodes again, white-hot and shattering, a sob wrenching out of your throat. “Fuck—Satoru—!” Your cunt clenches tight around him, waves of pleasure ripping through you, and he feels it. You feel him falter, his rhythm breaking as he groans like you’ve just knocked the wind out of him.

“Shit—fuck—fuck, I’m—,” he doesn’t even finish the sentence before he’s coming too, hips jerking as he spills inside you with a choked moan. You can feel him pulsing deep inside, every twitch of his cock matching the aftershocks still tearing through you.

He holds you tight through it, arms wrapped around your back, forehead pressed to your shoulder as you both shake through the comedown—nothing but breathless curses filling the room.

You don’t even realize your eyes have fluttered shut until you feel him shift, just a gentle repositioning of his weight as he carefully pulls out—slow, like he doesn’t want to hurt you. You wince, breath catching at the sting, and immediately his voice is there, low and warm in your ear. “Hey, you with me?”

You nod faintly, your body boneless, brain melted, heart still pounding. He kisses your shoulder—once, twice—and gently lowers your legs from where they’re still draped over him, massaging your thighs like he knows they’re trembling.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “I’ll be right back, yeah? Don’t move.”

You can’t even laugh at that. He gets up anyway, grabbing the closest towel and heading to the bathroom, still totally naked, completely unbothered. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror across the room—hair a mess, chest flushed, thighs shaking—and you groan, flopping back against the sheets.

By the time he returns, you’re still half out of it, and he just smiles, fond and lazy as he nudges your legs apart again. “Easy,” he whispers, wiping you down gently, taking his time like you’re made of glass now. “You did so good for me, baby. So fucking good.”

You sigh as he finishes, and the second he’s done, he tosses the towel and climbs back into bed with you—pulling you against his chest, arms wrapped tight around your waist like he’s anchoring himself. You melt into him, cheek pressed against his collarbone and he grabs your hand, intertwining your fingers, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

A pause. Then—“You’re unreal, you know that?” he murmurs. “I mean, I already knew, but—Jesus.”

You roll your eyes, lips twitching. “You’re just saying that ‘cause I made you come so hard you forgot your own name.”

“Sweetheart,” he says solemnly, “Don’t be mean.”

You laugh—tired, soft—and he smiles at the sound.

Then quieter: “You’re incredible.” He leans in, presses a kiss to your forehead.

You bury your face in his chest, heart warm and too full. “Stop being sweet,” you mumble.

“Never.” He grins.

You don’t say anything for a while. Just breathe—slow and steady—as his hand runs gently along your back, grounding you. The room’s quiet now, save for the soft hum of the city outside the window, and the faint rustle of sheets as you both settle into the aftermath. He shifts just enough to pull the blanket higher over the two of you, tucking you in without saying a word.

Your eyes are heavy, but you blink them open to look at him. He’s already watching you—messy hair, flushed cheeks, the ghost of a smile on his lips like he can’t quite believe you’re real.

“What?” you murmur, voice rough with sleep.

He shrugs a little, eyes soft. “Nothing. Just… you’re kinda perfect, y’know?”

You snort under your breath, too tired to fight it. “Don’t start.”

He chuckles, nose brushing your hair as he tucks you in closer. “I won’t. Promise.”

There’s a pause, just the two of you breathing in sync, his thumb stroking slow circles into your hip. “Stay here tonight,” he whispers.

“But ’Toru… we have class tomorrow.”

He groans dramatically into your skin. “Let’s bunk.”

You snort. “You say that every time.”

“Because it’s the right answer every time.” He lifts his head enough to look at you, hair sticking up in every direction, eyes still heavy-lidded but shamelessly clingy. “C’mon. It’s late. Just stay.”

You hesitate, even though you’re already leaning toward yes. He catches that and nudges his knee between yours, coaxing you closer.

“I’ll set an alarm,” he adds. “You can wear one of my shirts. I’ll even make you coffee in the morning.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Are you trying to bribe me?”

He shrugs. “Didn’t think I had to.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re already settling in again, your cheek resting over his heartbeat. “Fine,” you murmur. “But if we oversleep, I’m blaming you.”

He hums, content. “That’s fair.”

So you stay like that—comfortable and a little too in love to care about anything. And with Satoru’s arms around you—his breath steady against your skin, his presence anchoring you—you drift off. No words needed. Just safe. Just held.

Perfect.

author's note. whoever started the nerdjo agenda, i owe you my firstborn child

please do not steal, modify, or translate my work.

#fic recs #gojo satoru #satoru gojo #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jujutsu kaisen smut #nerdjo #nerdjo smut #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you

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gojosperms · 6 days ago

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it takes you a handful of minutes before you notice satoru's head resting against your thigh. he's staring off into space. there's a barely noticeable pout on his lips that replaces his trademark grin, and he looks... dejected.

albeit a little clumsily, you slip out of your seat as quietly as you can and lower yourself onto the ground beside him. satoru perks up once he sees you next to him, and everyone else around you two converses noisily, oblivious to you two crouched under the table like little kids.

you give your boyfriend a curious tilt of your head, and he smiles sadly.

"hi there, pretty."

"hi. who are we hiding from?"

there's a flush to your cheeks that is entirely from the drinks you've had tonight. your eyes are a misty haze — and in your intoxicated state, you fail to notice satoru's thumb brush over the small, velvet box in his hand as he tucks it back into his pocket.

tonight had been the night satoru wanted to propose to you. he'd give himself at least a dozen pep talks between waking up and picking you up for your umpteenth date — then, he'd taken you to your favorite restaurant, a modest little place tucked into the outer edges of the city.

he thought it was perfect. despite all the extravagant things that came along with dating the satoru gojo, he wanted your proposal to be personal and special. just the two of you.

what he didn't expect was to run into all of your sorcerer friends and co-workers.

satoru supposes it is kind of his fault for not telling anyone about his plans to propose to you tonight. of course, he planned to tell everyone after you two were formally engaged, but he never considered the possibility that you two could run into others.

before he knew it, tables were being pushed together and chairs were being dragged around to make room for everyone else to join. shoko, suguru, and a few other of your co-workers had all finished up a late night mission and headed to the nearest restaurant — which inconveniently happened to be the one you and satoru were dining at.

"no one in particular," satoru finally says, trying his best to mask his disappointment with a dorky grin as he pokes your cheek.

you catch his hand, eyes squinting as you look closer at him.

"you look sad. is it because i ate your spinach dip?"

your boyfriend gasps, loudly and deeply offended by the accusation as you break out into a silly giggle, telling him to shush before everyone eating notices you two under the table.

"is food the only supposed source of my emotions?" satoru laughs, and you shrug with a slanted grin

"if the shoe fits."

"oh, you are asking for it little miss—"

his hands find your sides, and you quickly cover your mouth to stifle your laughter as you squirm against him. eventually, shoko's head dips under the table, and her loud burst of laughter manages to distract satoru enough to allow you to pry yourself out of his grip.

"come on, satoru! you didn't even try the chocolate fudge cake yet. nanami accidentally ordered three, let's try and snag one to take home." you suggest with a grin, rising on wobbly legs from under the table and wiggling back into your seat as satoru follows

"ooo — quick! before utahime eats it all!"

his first attempt at proposing was a total fail. but, honestly, satoru can't even be mad. you had a great time tonight with him and all of your friends, so what's there to be disappointed about?

his next try will be better, he's sure of it. and maybeee somewhere on a remote island where the chances of running into anyone else was in the negatives.

in a few years, satoru's hopeful he'll be able to look back at this moment and laugh about it with you. so, he'll forget about the ring in his pocket for now and focus on the present — which was competing in the 'who can eat the most cake without barfing' competition against you.

spoiler alert: he ends up winning :P.... fatass <3

#fic recs #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk headcanons #jjk gojo #jjk x reader #satoru gojo #gojo x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo satoru x reader

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gojosperms · 7 days ago

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gojosperms · 18 days ago

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— until the quiet finds you;

༉‧₊˚. synopsis: you’re 24, a single mom just trying to survive off of temporary jobs—until a chance elevator ride with gojo satoru, the too-charming ceo of gojo industries, shifts everything. what starts as coffee and kindness slowly turns into something real. but when you’ve spent the last 2 years in survival mode, learning to trust might be the hardest thing of all.

contents: ceo!gojo x single mom!reader, slow burn-ish, slice of life maybe? fluff, some angst, trust issues ig, very exhausted reader, eventual smut, office setting, i will add warnings as the story goes on! current word count: 4,4k. header art: @_3aem on X.

miyan’s notes: hopefully i don’t abandon this lmao. enjoy!

chapter 1 -> chapter 2

you’re running late.

you’re always running late now.

your sneakers slap against the glossy marble of the building’s lobby as you rush across it, breath already hitching in your chest. tomo is tucked tight against you in his wrap, warm and wiggling, his little fists occasionally jabbing you like tiny, accusing reminders of how little sleep either of you got last night. your diaper bag swings wildly from your shoulder, half-unzipped and threatening to spill its chaotic contents—an ominous mix of crushed formula packets, mismatched socks, and a pacifier you’re pretty sure tomo has already rejected three times today.

your purse is dangling off the other arm. your keys are stabbing into your hip. your cardigan—thrown on to appear “presentable” for the office—is wrinkled and milk-stained and clinging to your back with sweat from the subway. and somewhere, probably at the bottom of the bag or on the floor of your apartment, you’re convinced you left your last shred of dignity.

but you made it.

you slow to a stop in front of the elevator, panting slightly, hand slapping the up button with more force than necessary. tomo lets out a soft grumble and rubs his face against your chest, mouth wobbling, clearly on the verge of his next baby meltdown. his face is flushed and tired, the soft tips of his ears warm against your collarbone.

you start bouncing him gently, whispering soft hushes against the top of his fuzzy little head.

“i know, baby. we’re almost there. just hang on for mama, yeah?”

the elevator dings.

you lurch forward—too fast—and nearly trip over your own shoelaces. with a sharp inhale, you catch yourself, shifting your balance quickly to keep tomo snug against your chest. the doors slide open—

and someone’s already inside.

a man.

he’s tall, annoyingly so. and striking in that way that makes you feel like you’ve just walked into the pages of a fashion magazine by accident. he’s leaning casually against the mirrored wall of the elevator, hands in his pockets, ankles crossed, like it’s a photoshoot and not, you know, a monday.

he wears a tailored navy suit that fits him too perfectly to be anything but custom-made. snowy white hair tousled like he just rolled out of bed but still somehow looks intentional. and sunglasses—sleek, black, and very much unnecessary indoors.

you freeze.

so does he.

he tilts his head just slightly in your direction. his gaze—hidden behind those stupidly dramatic sunglasses—somehow lands on you anyway. heavy. curious.

“you getting in?” he asks, voice low, amused, just a little drawling. “or just enjoying the view?”

your face burns instantly.

you tighten your hold on tomo, huff a breath through your nose, and step in quickly, brushing past him. your shoulder grazes his arm, the fabric of his suit smooth and crisp.

“sorry,” you mutter, trying not to wince at your own awkwardness. “wasn’t expecting… anyone.”

“same,” he says easily, like this is just any other conversation, like you’re not currently vibrating with embarrassment and sweat. his eyes flick down toward the bundle at your chest. “he yours?”

you nod once, instinctively bracing yourself. you’ve heard that tone before. the subtle, patronizing pity. the judgment hidden in polite smiles. young mom, flustered, clearly overwhelmed—how irresponsible, how sad, how predictable.

but instead, he just grins.

“cute kid.”

you blink.

“…thanks.”

the elevator hums upward, the air thick with that slightly awkward silence that feels too loud in a small space. tomo shifts again, starting to squirm in his wrap, and you feel it before it happens—the growing tension in his little body, the hiccuping inhale, the inevitable explosion.

he wails.

a loud, guttural cry that echoes like a siren off the metal walls. god, this is embarrassing. not even ten minutes into this fancy building and you’re already the disheveled stereotype.

you freeze for a moment, mortified. your hands fly to the wrap, bouncing him in frantic, practiced motions, patting his back and whispering frantically.

“i’m so sorry,” you blurt, heat rushing to your face. “he’s usually—well, no, he’s always like this, but i swear i’m trying.” you don’t even know why that comes out of your mouth.

you expect the man to recoil. to sigh. to edge away like most people do when a baby starts crying in an enclosed space. but he doesn’t.

“bad day?” the man asks. he doesn’t look annoyed. in fact, he looks… interested. amused. his sunglasses have slipped down his nose a bit, revealing startlingly bright blue eyes that seem to flicker with something soft when they glance at your baby.

“bad month,” you answer, too tired to lie. “sorry about the noise.”

“what’s his name?” he asks, gesturing lightly toward the red-faced bundle in your arms.

“tomo,” you say, eyes narrowing slightly. “why?”

“just wondering,” he shrugs. “he’s got a good set of lungs. he’ll go far.”

your lips twitch, despite everything. he crouches smoothly, leaning in a little without getting too close. his voice drops to something quieter, gentler—almost conspiratorial.

“hey there, little guy,” he says. “you mad about mondays too?”

tomo pauses.

just for a beat.

then blinks at the stranger, confused but curious, his tiny brow furrowed.

the crying falters. the elevator hums upward, floor after floor, and tomo starts to settle again, comforted by the motion or maybe by the stranger’s low, calm voice.

your mouth falls open. “how did you do that?”

the man straightens with a smug smile, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeve. “babies love me.”

you squint at him. “that’s deeply unfair.”

he laughs. the sound is warm. unpretentious. and somehow, it actually makes your chest ache a little.

“maybe,” he says. “or maybe i’m just naturally charming.”

you try to glare, but it falters halfway through. “and you are…?”

“gojo,” he says. “satoru. top floor.”

your stomach dips slightly.

gojo satoru.

as in gojo industries.

as in the man whose name is literally printed in gold on the glass doors you just kicked open with your foot five minutes ago while juggling your screaming baby.

and here you are—sweaty, milk-stained, five minutes late—making a mess in his elevator.

“oh,” you say faintly, cheeks heating. “i didn’t realize.”

“you’re not supposed to,” he says with a shrug. “half the time i sneak down here to avoid meetings. easier when no one recognizes you.”

you glance at him, incredulous, but the words come out easier than you expect. “you’re wearing sunglasses inside.”

“exactly,” he grins. “a perfect disguise.”

you snort despite yourself. it slips out, ungraceful and exhausted, but real. tomo is calm now—suspiciously so—gurgling like nothing ever happened.

gojo glances at him, then back at you.

“you new here?” he asks, and there’s something in his tone that doesn’t feel like small talk.

“just temping,” you say after a moment. “reception on floor fifteen. friend called in a favor so i could pick up a couple shifts.”

“hm. what’s your name?” you tell him, abruptly cut off by the tiny boy in your arms.

tomo fusses again—an impatient little whimper pressed against your collarbone. you don’t even have to think about it; your body moves before your brain does, bouncing him gently, one hand rubbing slow circles across his back. it’s second nature now, stitched into your muscles, something you do without looking, without pausing, like breathing.

you glance at the floor display.

still six floors to go.

“he’s not usually this cranky,” you murmur, voice low, mostly to yourself. “it’s just been a long week… or something like that.”

your laugh is dry, tired. too tired to mask the exhaustion that seeps through your whole body.

gojo shifts slightly beside you. not away, but closer—like he’s listening.

“you don’t have to apologize,” he says after a beat. his tone is different now—less teasing, more grounded. “i’ve sat through board meetings louder than that. at least he doesn’t have a pie chart about quarterly losses.”

you snort again, surprised by the joke. “tempting. if he could weaponize his scream during financial reviews, i might actually get a promotion.”

he huffs a laugh, and for a second, the elevator feels a little less like a steel trap and more like something gentler. the kind of quiet you don’t have to fill with apologies.

you glance sideways at him. his jaw is sharp and clean, framed by that ridiculous white hair that somehow works for him. but it’s not the sharpness that holds your attention—it’s the way his expression softens when he looks at tomo. like he’s not just tolerating the noise or waiting out the ride. he’s here, present, calm.

you look down at your son, still fussing quietly, rubbing his little fists against his eyes like the world’s too much. you get it. you really do.

“still,” you say softly, your voice catching a bit. “i know people don’t really want to deal with this. with me.”

gojo turns toward you slightly. “what do you mean?”

you gesture vaguely, a quick sweep of your hand that could mean anything—your baby, your messy hair, your oversized bag, your creased clothes and tired eyes. “this,” you say. “all of it. the crying, the—the walking chaos. i get looks, you know? like i don’t belong here or… anywhere.”

he watches you for a long moment. not pitying or patronizing. just… watching. like he’s taking you in for real. his gaze is uncomfortably perceptive and you have to brace yourself to not shift away from the discomfort you feel.

“i believe it,” he says, watching tomo, who yawns dramatically. “you’re doing good, though.”

you blink at him.

“what?”

“you heard me,” he says, not even missing a beat. “juggling work and a baby? showing up even when it’s clear you’ve barely slept? that’s impressive.”

your throat tightens. you weren’t expecting that. people don’t usually say those words to you. they offer advice, concern, sometimes even backhanded praise—but never that. there’s weight of honesty behind his words. your fingers twitch where they rest on tomo’s back.

you open your mouth, but nothing comes out at first. just the sharp burn of unshed tears pressing behind your eyes, the tired part of you that so badly wants to believe him.

the elevator dings. your floor.

you straighten up instinctively, readjusting tomo in his wrap and trying not to look like your heart just tripped over itself. you tighten the strap of the diaper bag on your shoulder, all too aware of how frayed it looks next to the man in the suit beside you.

“thanks,” you say, clearing your throat.

gojo shrugs a little, watching you with something unreadable in his expression.

“you ever get a break,” he says, just as the doors start to slide open, “come by the top floor. coffee’s decent. and i’ve got a stash of sugar cookies i may or may not be hiding from my assistant.”

you pause, half-in, half-out of the elevator. “you’re bribing me with snacks?”

“depends,” he says with a grin. “is it working?”

your eyebrow lifts, skeptical but amused. “do temps even have access to the executive floor?”

he flashes a lopsided smile, too charming for his own good. “technically? no. but if anyone asks, tell them it’s an emergency strategy meeting. highly confidential.”

“with tomo?”

“of course. who else?” he leans against the back wall again, relaxed as ever. “kid’s clearly got vision.”

“he can’t even hold his head up half the time.”

“neither can half my execs,” he says without missing a beat.

you laugh—genuinely, this time. it slips out before you can stop it. quiet, surprised. the kind of sound you didn’t realize you hadn’t made in days.

you glance down at your baby—who is now drooling contentedly, totally unbothered—and then back at gojo, whose smile hasn’t faded.

“i’ll keep the cookies warm,” he calls.

“…i’ll think about it.”

the doors begin to close. he lifts two fingers in a lazy farewell.

“i’ll be waiting.”

you shake your head, stepping out into the hall, heart still doing something ridiculous in your chest.

──────────────────────

by the time noon rolls around, you’re just about ready to cry.

the phones at reception haven’t stopped ringing. every call blurs into the next: wrong numbers, impatient clients, one woman who spent seven full minutes telling you about her boss’s astrological incompatibility with her cat. your friend’s login doesn’t work, and IT is ignoring your tickets, so the front desk system keeps locking you out every ten minutes. each time, you have to retype your credentials while tomo lets out a bloodcurdling shriek because you dared to stop rocking him.

an intern—not older than nineteen, probably still thinking this job is going to lead to something important—asked you to order “gluten-free air-fried kelp chips” for a VIP client meeting. you don’t even know what that means. you don’t care. you said yes anyway.

tomo—bless his tiny, growing teeth—is going through a phase that involves shrieking every time he’s not being held. no bouncer. no stroller. not even the wrap works unless you’re moving. constant movement. always.

you’ve been rocking him in the wrap while pretending to sound professional, typing with one hand, shushing with the other. your body aches, your back is sore, and you’re down to the last functional nerve in your entire soul. you’ve barely touched your coffee—it’s cold now, bitter. acidic. just like your mood.

you glance at the clock. 12:07.

you’re not sure if the ticking in your head is from sleep deprivation or your own heartbeat echoing gojo’s ridiculous parting words from this morning:

i’ll be waiting.

you scoff under your breath, rubbing your temples. he was probably just being nice. people like him are always just being nice. they toss charm around like it’s nothing because it doesn’t cost them anything. billionaires don’t actually invite single moms to drink coffee on the top floor of their buildings. they especially don’t follow through.

but then—

ding.

you glance up from your monitor, startled, as the elevator doors slide open with a polished whisper of motion.

and out walks gojo satoru.

again.

same tailored suit. same disarmingly white hair. same sunglasses. except now he’s carrying two takeout cups of coffee in one hand and a paper bag in the other. the scent of warm pastry hits your nose instantly—buttery, flaky, real. not vending machine lies.

he looks like he does own the world. or maybe just the building. (which he does). his presence is loud, even though he’s not saying anything yet. and he walks like nothing in this world could possibly surprise or rattle him.

your breath hitches. tomo coos softly in his wrap, sleepy and content for once. traitor.

“you again,” you say, blinking at him.

“me again,” he replies, grinning like he planned this moment in a mirror. “was in the neighborhood.”

“this is your building.”

“and yet,” he says smoothly, “i still had to walk all the way from my office to this desk. grueling journey. i deserve a medal.”

you snort, half-exhausted, half-amused—but before you can protest and remind him of the elevator he walked out of, he sets the coffee down gently on the reception desk, followed by the paper bag. you glance at the label on the cup—your name written in messy handwriting with a little smiley face underneath. it’s hot. still steaming. the kind of cup you used to treat yourself to back when you had the luxury of treating yourself.

“thought you might be hungry,” he says, casually. “figured cold vending machine crackers weren’t gonna cut it.”

your stomach growls audibly. you want to disappear. you shoot a look at him like it’s his fault for having working ears.

“you didn’t have to—”

“i know,” he cuts in, removing his sunglasses with one hand and slipping them into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. his eyes are absurdly blue. open. curious. warm in a way that feels dangerous. “but i wanted to.”

you hesitate.

no one just wants to. not for you. not unless there’s something else beneath it—some favor, some guilt, some expectation. you’ve learned that the hard way.

“is this… charity?” you ask, a little sharper than you mean to.

gojo doesn’t flinch. doesn’t shift. just tilts his head slightly, as if he’s considering you from a new angle. the distrust in your tone might have been even more palpable than back in the morning.

“nah. if this were charity, i’d bring a camera crew and write it off as a tax deduction.” he smiles, tilting his head. “this is coffee. for a tired mom. who’s doing her best. and still looks like she could kick someone’s ass if she needed to.”

your lips twitch. damn it.

“that’s a weird compliment.” no, it’s one of the nicest things someone ever said to you. and the bastard didn’t even make it sound obnoxious.

“it’s an honest one.”

tomo stirs again, making a soft gurgling sound—somewhere between a sigh and a protest—and gojo leans in. not obnoxiously, not like a man trying to impress you. he just leans forward a little to peek over the edge of the desk, like he’s talking to a tiny prince instead of a drooling infant.

“still the cutest ceo in the building,” he murmurs to your son. “don’t tell my board.”

tomo kicks slightly and—god help you—smiles. a real one. soft, gummy, sunbeam-bright. you quickly memorize it and try not to think of the reason behind it.

you exhale a laugh before you can stop yourself. it bubbles out, tired but real, pulling your shoulders down from your ears for the first time in hours. it’s been a long time since someone made you laugh in a way that didn’t feel forced.

gojo straightens, leaning on the desk with a grin. he’s watching you now—not just looking, but seeing. like he’s memorizing the way your expression changes when you let your guard down. it should be unnerving. instead, it’s… grounding.

“so. what’s the deal? you always this hard to impress?”

you raise a brow.

“you always show up unannounced like a caffeine-bearing fairy godmother?”

“only when the receptionist is this pretty.”

you roll your eyes.

“that’s a terrible line.”

“and yet it got a smile.” he looks far too pleased with himself.

you sip the coffee slowly, grateful for the heat, the caffeine, and the brief illusion that you’re not hanging on by a thread. it’s good. rich. something with hazelnut notes. he remembered your name. got you a nice cup of coffee and pastries softer than anything you’ve tasted in a while.

for a few quiet seconds, it’s just the two of you, the soft hum of the lobby, the gentle breath of your baby against your chest—and no chaos. no judgment. no expectations.

and then, because you need to say it, because you have to:

“i’m not looking for anything, you know,” you say, cautiously, mid-sip and contemplating whether you should have said it before drinking the coffee. “in case that’s what this is.”

there’s a beat. he doesn’t look surprised. doesn’t lean away, either.

“good,” he says, voice softer now. “because i’m not offering anything. not really.”

you blink at him.

what does that mean?

“i just… wanted to see you again,” he adds. “maybe get to know the person who made me smile before noon for the first time in weeks.”

you don’t say anything at first.

but you don’t tell him to leave, either.

──────────────────────

by the time your shift ends, you’re running on fumes.

your back is killing you. tomo is finally asleep, tucked tight against your chest, his tiny hand curled in the fabric of your cardigan. you smell like formula and dry-cleaned carpet. your brain feels like scrambled eggs. and yet—despite all that—there’s still a little something warm sitting in your chest.

gojo didn’t stay long after dropping off the coffee and pastries, but he lingered just long enough to make you laugh again. enough to watch tomo like he wasn’t just humoring you. enough to make the day feel slightly less like drowning. like maybe you were treading water, not sinking.

you turn off the desk monitor, lock the cabinet, and double-check the lobby is cleared out. it’s that quiet part of early evening where the lights buzz a little too loud and everything feels still, like the city is catching its breath.

your legs ache. your bag is too heavy. your stomach is a cavern of missed meals and vending machine regrets. you just want to get home, collapse into bed, and pray tomo gives you three uninterrupted hours of sleep.

you don’t expect anyone to be waiting for you.

but there he is.

leaning against the marble wall by the elevators like he has all the time in the world. sleeves rolled up to his forearms, tie loosened, suit jacket folded neatly over his arm. no sunglasses this time. no jokes. just that unreadable expression—somewhere between calm and something else. something softer.

he straightens when he sees you.

“figured you’d clock out right on the dot,” he says, voice easy. “very punctual. i respect that.”

you blink, momentarily thrown. “i’ve got a baby who turns into a siren after six. punctuality is survival.”

he chuckles, stepping toward the elevator and pressing the button. “fair enough.”

the doors slide open with a soft ding. you hesitate. something is coming.

he gestures inside, face neutral. “come up with me for a sec?”

you tilt your head. “you always invite exhausted single moms up to your office at the end of the day?”

“only the cool ones,” he says casually, already stepping in, as if he knows you’ll follow.

you pause for a heartbeat longer, glance down at tomo—still asleep, curled tight in the wrap like he’s dreaming something peaceful—and then step in after him.

what could it hurt?

the ride up is smooth. quiet. the kind of quiet that feels intentional, not awkward. the kind of elevator that doesn’t creak or hum, just glides upward like a thought. you rock on your heels out of habit, one hand resting over tomo’s back. gojo doesn’t speak. doesn’t push. he just watches the numbers tick upward.

his office is… not what you expected.

open and clean, minimalist without being cold. warm-toned wood floors. a low leather couch. wide, tall windows that stretch from wall to wall, casting golden light across the space like something out of a movie. the skyline glows outside, bathed in the soft orange of a spring sunset.

you blink, overwhelmed for a second by how surreal it all feels.

gojo sets his jacket down on the back of a chair and gestures for you to sit on the couch. he moves like this is normal. like this isn’t strange. like inviting the front desk temp into his office after hours is just another tuesday.

“i wanted to ask you something,” he says, walking to a sleek side cabinet. he pulls out two cold bottles of water, offers you one with a nudge of his chin.

you take it, relishing in the coolness of the bottle. “if it’s about gluten-free kelp chips, i swear to god…”

he grins, settling into the armchair across from you. “no kelp. promise.”

you sit on the edge of the couch, adjusting tomo carefully. he stirs for a moment but stays asleep, face tucked to your chest, one chubby cheek pressed against your skin.

gojo leans forward, elbows on his knees, bottle turning slowly in his hands.

“i looked you up,” he says.

your spine stiffens. “…you what?”

“i googled you,” he says, with a one-shouldered shrug. “nothing weird. just… curious.”

you look around again, cautious in case you missed something, every muscle going tense. “you said you weren’t offering anything.”

“i wasn’t. then. but i couldn’t stop thinking about you after that elevator ride. and after today, i… just wanted to know more. you said you weren’t looking for anything, but i was. and i wanted to know who we had answering phones at reception.”

you wait. brace yourself. for the pity. for the soft, disappointed eyes and the “you’re doing your best” speech.

but that’s not what comes.

“you’re extremely overqualified for temp work,” he says instead, voice calm. thoughtful. “your resume’s stacked. your GPA’s ridiculous. you’ve got a double major. experience managing multi-departmental projects. fluent in two languages. there’s a whole chapter on nonprofit grant-writing that made me feel like i was reading an academic journal.”

you blink. hard. you haven’t even updated that stuff.

“how did you even find that stuff?”

“i own the company,” he says with a shrug. “i asked the right people. and i read the cover letter you submitted two years ago. it was… impressive, to say the least.”

you stare at him. the thudding in your chest isn’t panic. not really. but it is something close to fear. because you’ve heard nice things before. you’ve been told you were capable. once. before life happened. before the plan changed.

“i’m offering you a full-time position,” he says, watching you carefully for the changes in your expressions and body language. “not reception. operations. it’s a junior role, but it’s salaried. benefits. flexible hours.”

you open your mouth, but he holds up a hand.

“you don’t have to say yes. but i’m asking. officially.”

you shake your head. “you don’t have to do that. you don’t have to feel bad for me.”

“this isn’t pity,” he says firmly, eyes locked on yours. “this is simple recruitment. you’re smart. you’re capable. you’ve been underestimated and underpaid, and i’m not going to pretend i’m doing you a favor. you’d be doing us one. we need people like you.”

you swallow hard. your throat feels tight. everything feels unreal, but reality’s weight hardens on your shoulders once again as you take a shaky breath.

“i can’t,” you say. quietly. “i can’t afford a sitter. i can’t leave tomo alone. daycare costs more than i make in a week, and even if i could, i don’t trust anyone to—”

“then don’t.”

you blink. “what?”

“bring him,” gojo says, simply. “we have the space. i’ll make it part of your contract. we’ll cover on-site childcare. or remote work. whatever you need. you shouldn’t have to choose between your kid and your career.”

you’re stunned silent. this morning you were juggling phone calls and teething screams, dreaming of vending machine crackers. now he’s handing you… what? a door? a way out?

you hesitate, the weight of everything—the fear, the exhaustion, the aching hope—tight in your chest.

“i don’t know,” you admit. “it’s a lot.”

because that’s the thing no one says. that’s the thing they don’t mean even when they do say it.

the sincerity of his words make you want to accept immediately because you can see it in his face, the way he tries not to push you into choosing something even though it is better. this isn’t about guilt. it’s not about charity. it’s just… belief.

you look down at tomo—soft, warm, safe against your chest. his tiny fingers still curled in the knit of your sweater.

“why?” you whisper. “why are you doing this?”

he leans back slightly, eyes steady.

“because i can,” he says. “and because someone should.”

your eyes sting before you can stop them. you blink quickly, focus on a spot on the wall. you won’t cry. not here. not in front of him.

he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small business card. he scribbles something on the back before holding it out.

“you don’t have to decide now,” he says. “but if you think about it—and you want to say yes—text me.”

you flip the card over. his name is printed in silver foil on one side. on the other, in bold, messy handwriting: his personal number, and the words “only if you say yes.”

you nod once, unable to speak.

he doesn’t push. just stands, smooth and quiet, walking you back to the elevator like nothing about this moment is extraordinary. says “see you, tomo” and winks at you right before the doors close with an uncertain hiss.

but when you step outside, into the soft, dusky air, you know better.

you know something shifted.

and as you press the card into your coat pocket and start the long walk to the bus stop, tomo still dozing gently on your chest—

you feel something strange.

not safety. not yet.

but something like the possibility of it.

#fic recs #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jjk fluff #jjk gojo x reader #gojo x reader #jjk gojo

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gojosperms · 20 days ago

Text

SUGURU'S MEMORIES — PART ONE

featuring — professor geto and professor gojo

summary — long before they became the world's best neurosurgeons, before medical journals and rivalries, before everything became so complicated—it was just two boys meeting at a hidden spot. a meticulous bug collector who felt invisible to everyone else and a white-haired genius who couldn't make friends who felt invisible to everyone else. a glimpse into the childhood that shaped two future neurosurgical legends, and the moment that both bound them together and tore them apart.

word count — 11.2 k

note — this memory flashback is for my ongoing medical AU series. if you've been following "remedies & reasons" and "symptoms & causes," this is a glimpse into the childhood of our beloved characters from suguru's pov. while it can be read as a standalone, it's best enjoyed as a reader of the main storylines.

warnings — angst, mentions of controlling parents, childhood trauma, implied child neglect, brief mention of injuries

author's note — hi dears ! hope you're all doing well <3 i've written some short stories and introspections of suguru's memories of his childhood, which will be split into three parts starting with the first one today (this takes place after chapter 5 of r&r and chapter 16 of s&c). a message i got recently inspired me to write more about suguru and satoru's friendship and i hope you enjoy these sidestories as much as i had fun writing them. happy reading ! <3

masterlist + playlist + ao3 + support my writing

next part ->

I never hated many things in my life.

Hate is such a strong emotion, one I've always tried to keep at a distance, to analyze rather than feel. My mother taught me early that strong emotions cloud judgment, impair reasoning—a lesson I took to heart. People sometimes called me cold, detached even, because of it. Satoru was the only one who truly understood that my restraint wasn't absence of feeling, but discipline over it.

When others ranted about strict professors or impossible exams, I turned that frustration into additional hours of study. When relationships ended, I dissected what went wrong with clinical precision instead of drowning in heartbreak. And when experiments failed, I meticulously documented errors and adjusted methods instead of succumbing to disappointment. This approach served me well in neurosurgery, where a single moment of emotional clouding could mean death for a patient.

But it wasn't always like this for me. I used to be more open, more curious. But I think I learned to be this way when you're so close to someone like Satoru. Perhaps I subconsciously balanced us out, becoming the steady hand when his would always tremble.

So no, I never hated many things in life.

But lately, I've begun to hate certain things. Medicine, I guess, is one of them. Ironic, I know, for someone who has devoted his whole life to it. Medicine has failed me repeatedly without explanation, without giving me any chance to interfere. And what's the point of all those years of training, all those sleepless nights, all those sacrifices, if in the end, I cannot save the one person who matters most?

All that knowledge, all those treatments and protocols. In the end, they're only words on paper, meaningless abstractions that crumble when confronted with the reality of a failing body. I've started to wonder if medicine is merely an elaborate game we play to convince ourselves we possess some measure of control over the inevitable. We memorize pathways, perfect techniques, master terminology, and for what? To occasionally win against death while knowing we'll ultimately lose?

Satoru's latest test results lie spread across my desk, each page more damning than the last. Liver enzymes elevated to critical levels. Kidney function at less than thirty percent of normal. Cardiac markers indicating significant damage. The clinical language that once provided comfort in its objectivity now reads like a death sentence written in numbers and abbreviations.

Impersonal—in a way, but I wasn't sure how they should look like otherwise. How does one personalize the systematic shutdown of your best friend's body? How can clinical data possibly reflect twenty-five years of friendship?

The figures blur before my eyes after hours of analysis. Failed. Every single test result—failed. Just like my approach to the neural interface. Just like so many other things.

There was a pattern I couldn't ignore anymore. A string of failures that seemed to be defining my career lately. The neural interface surgery stands as my most public failure—a patient lost under my hands while a gallery of observers watched in horrified silence. But there were others before that. The gene therapy protocol that showed such promise in the lab but caused severe immune reactions in animal trials. The paper on cerebellar stimulation techniques rejected by three journals for "methodological inconsistencies". The grant proposal for pioneering work in neuroregenerative medicine passed over in favor of Satoru's more innovative approach.

Each failure meticulously documented in my private records. Each one analyzed, dissected, learned from—yet somehow, I keep finding new ways to fall short. I've always prided myself on being thorough, careful, methodical. But what good is meticulous planning if the results kept ending in failure?

I lean back in my chair, watching cigarette smoke curl toward the ceiling of my office. It's well past midnight, but I can't bring myself to return to an empty apartment where these thoughts would only follow me anyway. At least here in the hospital, the failure feels professional rather than personal.

I glanced at the framed certificates on my wall—awards, recognitions from years when success seemed to come more easily. When my cautious approach was praised rather than seen as limiting. When Satoru and I complemented each other instead of competing. They mocked me now, reminders of potential unfulfilled, of a trajectory that once pointed ever upward but now seemed to be spiraling down.

The red pen in my hand has left marks on my fingertips, like blood. Appropriate, given how this project of saving my best friend is bleeding out right in front of me.

I should call Satoru. He might notice patterns in the data that I'm missing. We used to do that for each other, before everything became so complicated. Before she came between us—though that's not entirely fair. She didn't come between us. We put her there, both of us, with our inability to maintain professional boundaries around our hearts.

Satoru and I. The inseparable duo. The prodigy and the perfectionist. How many years has it been now? Twenty-two? Almost twenty-five since that day at the pond, when everything started.

Funny how life circles back on itself. Here I am again, obsessing over minute details others would overlook, sinking into the complexities of problems most wouldn't comprehend. Just like that little boy at the pond, meticulously cataloging insects while other children played baseball or video games.

****

I always was a weird kid, I guess. The other children in our town played soccer at the park or rode bikes around the shopping district, but I liked being alone, looking for bugs and plants where the houses ended and the trees began. I couldn't explain why I loved being outside so much back then. Perhaps it was an early stirring of scientific curiosity, or maybe it was just my way of escaping my parents' constant arguments that filled our house.

Our small town in Kyoto prefecture wasn't exactly rural, but it wasn't urban either. We had convenience stores and a train station, but also wooded hills that rose behind our residential district, and beyond them, rice paddies stretching eastward where some families still farmed and small streams crisscrossed the landscape. I spent my afternoons exploring these places, collecting specimens and observing behaviors. Even at eight, I was methodical—filling notebook after notebook with carefully labeled drawings and observations.

It was during one of these expeditions that I made my greatest discovery. I was following an interesting beetle with iridescent wing covers when I pushed through a thick stand of bamboo and found myself in a clearing I'd never seen before. There, nestled in a forgotten hollow where the forest grew dense, was a pond.

The water was clear enough to see the bottom in the shallows, rippling gently as dragonflies skimmed its surface. I liked it there immediately. It was quiet and peaceful, and no one was around to tell me to clean up my bug collection or stop bringing "disgusting creatures" into the house. That's what my sister Hanami always said when I tried to show her the things I'd found. She's two years younger than me but thinks she knows everything.

So from that day on, it became my sanctuary, my own secret place. You had to know the narrow dirt path that wound through the underbrush to find it, which meant almost nobody else ever came there.

One Tuesday after school, I raced home to drop off my backpack and grab my gear to catch frogs. Mom was in the kitchen rolling out dough for gyoza.

"Suguru! Are you hungry? I have some snacks ready," she called out as I burst through the door.

"No time, Mom! I'm going to the pond!" I shouted back, already halfway up the stairs.

"Be back before dark! And don't ruin another pair of pants!"

I grabbed my collection jar, notebook, and the new magnifying glass Dad had sent me from his latest business trip to Osaka. He travels a lot for work, sometimes gone for weeks. He always brings back presents, like he's trying to make up for not being around. I think that's why Mom and Dad fight so much. The magnifying glass was pretty cool though—it had a real glass lens, not plastic like my old one, and a cool wooden handle.

As I stuffed everything into my backpack, Hanami appeared in my doorway, still in her elementary school uniform but with colorful clips in her hair that she wasn't allowed to wear at school. "Can I come with you this time? Pleeeease?" she asked, following me into my room. "I'm bored and I want to see the frogs too!"

"No! It's boys only," I said, trying to close my door, but she stuck her foot in the way.

"That's not fair! You never let me come! I can help catch frogs too," she whined, grabbing onto my sleeve.

I pried her fingers off. "You said frogs were gross last time. And you screamed and scared everything away."

"I won't scream this time, I promise!"

"Nope. Boys only secret place."

"Ugh! You're so mean!"

That's how it always was with Hanami. She'd beg to come with me, and the few times I'd given in, she'd get bored after ten minutes. "It's hot," she'd whine. "There's bugs everywhere!" "How much longer?" "This is boring!" But the very next day, she'd forget all that and beg to come along again. It was like she had the memory of a goldfish.

I raced back downstairs, grabbing the rice balls Mom had left out for me despite saying I wasn't hungry. She knows me too well.

"Thanks, Mom! See you later!" I called, already halfway out the door.

"Remember, before dark!" she shouted back.

The pond wasn't actually that far from our house—just down the hill, past old man Ishikawa's vegetable garden, and through a small patch of woods. But it felt like a different world. The trees grew thicker there, and it was always a few degrees cooler and smelled of wet earth and algae.

Nobody else from school ever came here—they were all too busy with video games or bullying others or whatever normal kids did. But I wasn't really a normal kid, at least that's what my Dad always said. "Suguru has a scientific mind," he would tell visitors proudly, like it explained why I was always covered in dirt and had no friends.

When I reached the pond, I immediately dropped to my knees at the edge, setting my backpack beside me. The water was clear today, and I could see tiny minnows darting through the submerged plants. But I was after bigger things.

It didn't take long to spot one, a green frog with really cool patterns on its back. I'd been keeping track of the different species in my notebook, trying to identify them all. This one looked like it might be a Japanese tree frog, which was weird because they usually prefer to be up in, well, trees.

I pulled out my jar and slowly, carefully approached. You had to be quiet with frogs because they could sense the tiniest vibration. I'd gotten pretty good at catching them, though. It was all about patience, which Mom says I only have when it comes to my "critters."

With a quick lunge, I scooped the frog into my jar, capping it with the special lid I'd made that had air holes poked in it. The frog jumped around a bit before settling down.

"Gotcha!"

I pulled out my notebook and started writing down observations. I'd seen this kind before, but this one had different spots. I tried to sketch it, but the drawing looked more like a lumpy potato with legs than a frog.

"Why do you always catch them?"

Suddenly a voice came from behind me, making me jump so hard I almost knocked over my jar. I whipped around to see a girl standing there, holding a sketchbook of her own. It was that quiet girl from class—Eri Tachibana. She always sat in the back corner and never really talked to anyone. I'd sometimes catch her drawing during lunch instead of eating.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, annoyed. "And I catch them to study them. I let them go after."

She tilted her head. "You could study them without catching them."

"No, I can't. I need to see them up close." I turned back to my frog, hoping she'd take the hint and leave.

Instead, she walked over and knelt down beside me, peering into the jar. "He looks scared."

"She," I corrected. "It's a female. See the size? Males are smaller."

Eri didn't respond to that. Instead, she looked at my notebook. "You're drawing it all wrong."

"What?" I bristled, immediately defensive. "I'm not trying to make it pretty or whatever. This is scientific."

"Science can be pretty," she said. "And your drawing doesn't look like the frog. How is that scientific?"

I didn't have a good answer for that.

"You're trying to draw the whole frog at once," she continued, not waiting for me to respond. "That's why it looks like a blob with legs."

Drawing wasn't really my thing. I liked stuff that had right answers, like science and math. Art was just... weird. I wasn't very interested in it, But still got defensive. Mom says I always get grumpy when someone points out something I'm not good at, even if I don't care about it. Dad just laughs and says it's because I'm "competitive about smart things." Looking back now, I think I just didn't know how to act around other kids my age.

"Why do you always draw anyway?" I asked, trying to make her stop looking at my little frog drawing. "Isn't it kinda lame? Don't you have anything better to do?"

As soon as I said it, I felt really bad. That's what the mean boys in our class always said to me about my bug collection. "Who cares about stupid bugs, weirdo?" It hurt a lot when they said it, and I could tell from Eri's face it hurt her too. But instead of getting mad, she just scrunched up her nose and looked at me like I was being a total dummy.

"Is catching frogs lame?" she asked. "Is anything that makes you happy lame?"

I didn't know what to say to that either.

She sat down fully now, crossing her legs and opening her sketchbook.

"I like drawing 'cause I get to really look at stuff," she said, getting quieter like she was telling me a secret. "Like, not just see it, but really see it, y'know?" She flipped through pages full of birds and trees and even some bugs that were way cooler than my dumb drawings.

"Lemme show you." She grabbed my notebook before I could protest. She scribbled super fast with her pencil. "It's easy if you do it like this. First you make a circle, then another circle, then you connect them. See? Frog!"

I watched her make a frog appear like magic. It wasn't fancy or anything, but it actually looked like a real frog instead of the weird blob monster I'd drawn.

"Whoa," I said before I could stop my mouth.

She grinned and pushed my notebook back at me. "Your turn!"

"I can't do that..."

"Yeah you can! Just make a big oval. That's the body. Super easy!"

I felt stupid, but I really wanted to try. I made some wobbly circles and tried to stick them together. It still looked pretty bad, but you could kinda tell it was supposed to be a frog, at least.

"Way better!" she said. "Keep practicing."

"Whatever." I grabbed my notebook back. "I don't need to draw good. I just need to write down what bugs do and stuff."

"But don't you wanna remember what they looked like? Like, when you're super old, like twenty or something?"

"Maybe," I mumbled.

I'd never really thought about that before. All I cared about was catching the coolest bugs and watching what they did when nobody was bothering them. The idea of looking back at my notes when I was a grown-up seemed silly—being an adult was like a million years away.

When you're a kid, time is weird. Summers feel like they last forever, especially those long afternoons when the cicadas are so loud you can barely think. A week waiting for your birthday feels like years, but somehow the time between finding a really cool beetle and coming back the next day to see if there are more just disappears in a blink. I wasn't thinking about growing up or becoming a doctor or any of that stuff at that time. Tomorrow and the next day were all that mattered. Twenty years might as well have been a million—impossible to even imagine. I just wanted to catch that frog I saw yesterday or find out what was under that big rock by the stream.

Maybe that's what made being a kid so great. Every discovery felt like the most important thing in the whole world. Every day was its own adventure. I wasn't worrying about what these bug collections would mean in the future or if I was wasting my time. I wasn't thinking about college applications or career paths. Just me, my notebooks, and all those amazing little creatures that nobody else seemed to care about.

Eri stood up and wiped her dirty hands on her shorts. "I come here to draw all the time," she said. "Nobody bugs me here, and the sun makes everything pretty."

"I was here first," I said right away. "I come here to catch frogs and look at pond bugs and stuff."

"We could share, you know. I won't scare your frogs if you don't mess up my drawings."

I didn't know what to say. This pond was my special place where nobody bothered me. But Eri wasn't like the other kids. She didn't call me "bug boy" or say my frogs were gross.

"Fine," I said. "But I get this rock." I pointed to my special sitting rock that was perfect for bug watching.

She smiled. "Okay. I like sitting under the tree better anyway."

We both got quiet. I didn't know what to say next. I wasn't used to talking to other kids for this long without them getting bored or making fun of me.

"Wanna see my bug collection?" I blurted out, surprising myself. I never showed my specimens to anyone except Mom (who pretended to be interested) and Dad (when he was actually home).

"For real? Yeah!"

I opened my backpack and pulled out my special bug box that Dad got me from his work trip. Inside were all my best bugs stuck to the cork with pins, all neat and organized by type.

"This one's a rhinoceros beetle I caught last summer," I said, pointing to the biggest one. "And this one's a giant water bug. It can bite you super hard! I had to wear my mom's gardening gloves to catch it."

"They're so cool!"

"Really?" I asked, surprised.

She nodded eagerly. "Yeah! Look at those cool patterns and shapes! I could draw them like superhero bugs with capes and masks and stuff!"

"Well," I said, closing the box and putting it carefully back in my bag, "if you want to, you could come back tomorrow. I'm going to be looking for water striders. They can walk on water because of surface tension. It's super cool."

"I could bring my crayons tomorrow! I got a super big pack with like fifty colors for my birthday. Wanna see?"

"Maybe," I said, trying to sound like I didn't care even though I was already wondering how she made her drawings look so real. "If I'm not too busy doing important research and stuff."

She grinned at me like she knew I was faking. "Okay, science boy. See you tomorrow!"

As she walked away, I looked at my frog in the jar. "Did you hear that?" I whispered to it. "I think I just made a friend. A weird one, but still."

The frog just blinked at me, probably wishing I would hurry up and release it back into the pond. Which I did, after trying to draw it one more time using Eri's circle trick. It still looked kinda funny, but now you could tell it was a frog and not some alien blob monster from outer space.

I packed up all my stuff and started walking home, already thinking about how I was gonna catch water bugs tomorrow. For the first time ever, I was actually excited about sharing my special place with somebody else.

When I got home, my little sister Hanami was sitting on the floor coloring and making up songs like she always does. She saw me and yelled, "Mom! Suguru's got mud all over his shoes again!"

I stuck my tongue out at her but kicked off my shoes anyway. The whole house smelled super good—Mom was making curry, the spicy kind I love that makes your nose run.

"I'm home!" I yelled, running to the kitchen.

"Perfect timing," Mom said, stirring a big pot. "Go wash those dirty hands and help set the table."

"I found three different kind of frogs today," I told her while I scrubbed mud off my hands. "And this girl from my class named Eri was there drawing stuff, and she showed me how to make science drawings that don't look completely stupid."

Mom raised her eyebrows, a smile playing on her lips. "A girl, hmm?"

"Not like that," I said quickly, feeling my face get hot. "She's just... she doesn't think my frogs are gross or boring."

"Well, that's nice," Mom said, ruffling my hair as I passed her to grab plates from the cabinet. "It's good to find people who appreciate the things you love."

I thought about that while I put forks on the table. Maybe that's why I liked my pond so much—it never told me to be quieter or stop asking so many questions or quit being weird. And maybe Eri was kinda like the pond.

"Oh! And guess what?" Mom said. "Your dad called. He's coming home this weekend."

"Really?" I almost dropped all the cups. Dad had been gone for almost three weeks this time.

"Yes, and he said he has a surprise for you. Something about a special microscope he found?"

I grinned so hard my face hurt. Dad always knew exactly what I wanted, even when he was super far away. "Awesome! I can show him my new specimens!"

"Just don't put them on the table when we're eating," Hanami said, sneaking into the kitchen and stealing a carrot. "Last time Dad was home we had to eat dinner around your dead bug collection."

"They're specimens, not just dead bugs," I said. "And they were already dead when I found them!"

"Still gross," she said, but she wasn't really mad. She was just as excited about Dad coming home as me—she just pretended not to be. She always acted like Dad being gone didn't bother her, but sometimes at night I'd hear her crying in her room. I'd sneak in with my flashlight and show her pictures in her favorite book until she fell asleep. I never told Mom or Dad about it.

That was our secret.

****

It was late July, and the pond was extra awesome that day. The water was super clear, and I could see all kinds of tiny creatures swimming around underneath. I'd been coming here almost every day since school let out for summer break.

I'm ten now. Not a little kid anymore. At least that's what I thought at the time, but things were different for me now. Ever since Eri had shown me how to draw better, I'd started bringing my colored pencils along with my specimen jars. She came to the pond sometimes, but not every day. Her family had taken her to Tokyo for two weeks to visit her aunt, which meant I had my special place all to myself again.

But that was okay. I wasn't as shy as I used to be. Last semester, I'd joined the science club at school, and even made a few friends who didn't think my bug collection was gross. Hiroshi even asked me to help him start a small collection of his own. And Kenji would actually listen when I talked about the new frogs I found.

My mom said I was "coming out of my shell," whatever that meant. All I knew was that I didn't eat lunch alone anymore, and sometimes kids actually asked me to explain stuff during science class and play basketball with them.

That day, I'd caught a really cool salamander with bright orange spots. I was sitting on my favorite rock, carefully drawing it in my notebook, when I heard someone crashing through the bushes behind me. I quickly put the lid back on my jar and looked up, expecting to see maybe Eri back from her trip early, or one of the high school kids who sometimes came to the pond to skip class.

But it wasn't any of them. It was that weird kid from the fancy house by the lake. Satoru Gojo.

Everyone knew who Satoru was, even though he went to the expensive private school instead of our regular one. His family was super rich and important. My mom always pointed out their big house whenever we drove past it, like it was some kind of attraction.

I'd never actually talked to him before, but I'd heard plenty of stories. The adults were always saying things like, "That Gojo boy is a real genius" or "Did you hear he got the highest score in the prefecture on the national exam?" My math teacher once told my mom that if I worked harder, I could be like "that brilliant Gojo boy" someday, when I got a B on a test.

I hated him already and we'd never even met.

He stood at the edge of the clearing, looking surprised to see me. He had really white hair that stuck up all over the place and bright blue eyes that looked like they could see right through you. He was carrying a huge backpack that looked way too heavy for a kid our age.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, feeling weirdly territorial.

His surprised look quickly changed to something more annoyed. "What am I doing here? This is my secret spot!"

"No, it's not," I argued back. "I've been coming here for months."

"Well, I've been coming here for years," he countered, dropping his heavy backpack on the ground with a thud that made the salamander in my jar jump. "But whatever. Just don't bother me."

Before I could say anything else, he plopped down on a fallen log across from me, pulled out the biggest book I'd ever seen a kid reading, and completely ignored me. Like I wasn't even there.

I thought about leaving. I really did. This was turning into the worst day ever. First this rich jerk invades my special place, then he acts like I'm the one who doesn't belong here? But then I remembered what my Dad always says: "Never let anyone chase you away from something that matters to you."

Which was weird, considering he was never even home.

Nevertheless, I stayed put and went back to drawing my salamander. I tried to pretend Satoru wasn't there, but I couldn't help stealing glances at him every few minutes.

He was totally focused on his book, not fidgeting or looking around like most kids do. His eyes moved super fast across the pages, and sometimes he'd mutter something to himself or nod like he was having a conversation with the book. Every now and then, he'd pull out a notebook and write something down in handwriting so messy I could barely make out the words.

After what felt like forever (but was probably only ten minutes), my curiosity got the better of me.

"What are you reading?" I asked.

He looked up, blinking like he'd forgotten I was there. Then he held up the book so I could see the cover. It said "Gray's Anatomy" in fancy gold letters.

"It's a medical textbook," he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world for a sixth grader to be reading.

"Like... human anatomy? Why?" I asked, genuinely confused. That book looked harder than the ones my teachers used.

"Because it's interesting." He shrugged. "I'm going to be the greatest doctor ever, even better than my father."

"Your dad's a doctor?"

Something changed in his face then. It was subtle, but I noticed because I'm good at observing things (all those hours watching bugs, I guess). His eyes got a little harder, and his mouth tightened just a bit at the corners.

"Yeah. He's chief of surgery at Kyoto University Hospital."

"That's cool," I said, actually impressed. No wonder Satoru was so smart.

"He's not around much," Satoru continued, his voice a little quieter. "And when he is, he's super strict. But he's an amazing doctor. Everyone says so."

The way he said it was weird. Like he was proud but also something else I couldn't quite figure out. I kind of understood though. My dad was often away too, always on business trips. Sometimes I wouldn't see him for weeks, but when he did come home, he was a good dad, I guess. Present, attentive, making time for me. But I wasn't sure if those moments were enough and I wondered if Satoru felt the same way I did when I heard other kids talk about playing catch with their dads or going fishing on weekends.

"My dad travels a lot for work too," I said quietly. "It kinda sucks sometimes."

Satoru looked at me for a second, like he was surprised I understood. "What's that?" he asked, pointing to my jar.

"A salamander. Japanese fire-bellied newt."

"Can I see it?"

I hesitated. Most kids just wanted to poke at my specimens or make fun of my "weird hobby." But Satoru seemed genuinely curious.

"Sure," I said, passing him the jar. "Just be careful. They're sensitive to temperature changes."

Satoru took the jar carefully, turning it slowly to look at the salamander from different angles. He didn't tap the glass or shake it like other kids would.

"So cool," he murmured. "The orange spots are a warning to predators, right? Aposematic coloration?"

I stared at him, shocked. "Yeah, exactly! They produce tetrodotoxin—that's the same poison that's in pufferfish. It makes them taste bad and can paralyze whatever tries to eat them."

"The patterns are pretty cool," he said, still examining the salamander. Then his eyes fell on my open notebook. "Did you draw this?"

I felt my face get hot. My drawing wasn't bad—Eri had taught me a lot—but it still wasn't great.

"Um, yeah," I mumbled. "I like to keep records of what I find."

"It's really good," Satoru said, sounding genuinely impressed. "Like, really good. You got all the details right. The spots are in the exact same pattern as the real thing."

"Thanks," I said, surprised by the compliment. "I'm still learning."

"You should show your work to my art teacher," he said. "She's always looking for students who can draw nature accurately. Says most kids just make things up instead of observing properly."

"I'm not that good," I protested. "Besides, I don't go to your school."

"Oh, right," he said, like he'd forgotten that not everyone went to his fancy private academy. "Well, whatever. It's still good."

He handed the jar back to me, then picked up his book again. But instead of ignoring me like before, he kept talking. "What else have you found here? Any rare species?"

And just like that, we started talking. I told him about the different frogs and insects I'd cataloged, and he asked surprisingly smart questions. He knew all these scientific names and concepts that most kids our age wouldn't understand. But he never made me feel stupid when I didn't know something. After a while, I got brave enough to ask about his book.

"So why do you want to be a doctor?" I asked.

Satoru closed his book, using his finger to mark his place. "Because it's the most challenging thing I can think of," he said. "The human body is like this amazing machine with millions of parts all working together. When something goes wrong, figuring out how to fix it is like the a really hard puzzle."

The way his eyes lit up when he talked about medicine reminded me of how I felt about my bugs and frogs. It was nice to meet someone else who got that excited about learning stuff.

"Do the other kids at your school like the same things you do?"

Satoru snorted. "No way. They're all boring. All they care about is video games and sports and who has the coolest clothes." He rolled his eyes. "I tried explaining how blood circulation works to this kid in my class, and he said it was 'gross' and 'who cares?'"

I laughed. "Yeah, I get that a lot too. My sister runs away screaming whenever I try to show her a new bug."

"Exactly!" Satoru said, slamming his book shut. "That's why I come here. No one bothers me or tells me I'm weird for reading medical books."

"That's why I come here too," I admitted. "Well, that and all the cool specimens."

We looked at each other, and for a second, I felt like maybe we understood each other.

"At least you have friends at school, right?" Satoru asked. "I've seen you with those boys from the science club around town."

I was surprised he knew that. "Yeah, I guess. We eat lunch together and stuff," I said, not sure if I'd call the boys from science club actual friends. Real friends were people you told secrets to, who'd notice if you didn't show up one day. I wasn't convinced they'd even realize I was gone. "What about you?"

Satoru shrugged, looking away. "Not really. The kids at my school are all about who has the most expensive stuff or whose parents are more important. It's stupid."

"But you're so smart," I said. "I hear teachers talking about you all the time."

"Yeah, that doesn't exactly make you popular," he said with a small pout. "Being the teacher's pet just makes everyone jealous. And the teachers only like me because I make them look good. 'Oh, look at Satoru's test scores! What a great teacher I must be!'" He mimicked an adult voice, making me laugh.

"My teachers are always saying I need to be more like you," I told him. "My math teacher kind of idolizes you, and she's never even met you."

Satoru groaned. "That's the worst! Being held up as an example. Like we're not even real people, just scores on a paper."

It was weird. Here was this kid who seemed to have everything—brains, money, a famous doctor dad—and he was just as lonely as I had been. Maybe even more so.

"Well," I said after a moment, "I won't tell anyone I saw you here if you don't tell anyone you saw me."

"Deal," Satoru said with a grin. Then he did something unexpected—he scooted over on his log and patted the spot next to him. "Want to see something cool?"

I moved over to sit beside him, and he opened his book to a page with detailed drawings of the human brain. They were way more complicated than anything I could draw, with all these colorful sections, squiggly lines, and tiny labels pointing to different parts.

"See this?" he said, pointing to a wrinkly part at the back of the brain. "This is the cerebellum. It controls all your coordination and balance. And this part up front is the frontal lobe—that's where all your decision-making happens."

I leaned in, genuinely interested. "So different parts control different things?"

"Yeah," Satoru said, his face lighting up. "The brain is like the control center. Everything you do, everything you feel, everything you are—it all comes from this three-pound blob of tissue." He tapped the page excitedly. "And neurosurgeons get to work on it. They're like, the astronauts of doctors. Only the best get to do it."

"So you want to be a neurosurgeon?"

"Yep!" he said proudly. "My dad says it's the hardest specialty, but I don't care. I'm going to be the best neurosurgeon ever."

For the next hour, Satoru showed me different parts of his book, explaining things in a way that actually made sense. And I showed him my specimen collection, telling him about the habits of different insects and amphibians.

It was strange. At school, I was finally forming connections and joining clubs, while Satoru—the genius everyone admired—was all alone with his advanced books and big words. I'd always thought the smart kids had it easy, but maybe being too smart could be just as isolating as being the weird bug kid.

As the sun started to set, casting long shadows across the pond, I realized I needed to head home before my mom started worrying.

"I should probably go," I said, packing up my stuff.

Satoru nodded, sliding his massive book back into his backpack. "Yeah, me too. The housekeeper gets upset if I'm late for dinner."

"Housekeeper?" My parents were not poor but not as rich to afford a housekeeper.

"Yeah, my parents are both really busy with work."

"So... will you be here tomorrow?" I asked, trying to sound like I didn't care too much about the answer.

Satoru shrugged. "Probably. I come here most days during summer break. My tutor doesn't come on Tuesdays and Thursdays."

"You have a tutor? During summer break?" That sounded like the worst thing ever.

"Yeah, my father says I need to stay focused. It's so boring though. The tutor can't even keep up with me half the time."

As we walked to the path that led out of the woods, I had a weird thought. Maybe Satoru Gojo wasn't the perfect genius everyone made him out to be. Maybe he was just a kid like me, trying to figure stuff out and find a place where he fit in.

"See you tomorrow, then," I said as we reached the point where our paths home split.

"Yeah, see you," Satoru said. Then he added, "Bring that salamander again if you still have it. I want to look at its spots more carefully."

"Sure," I agreed.

As I walked home, I thought about how strange life was sometimes. I'd gone to the pond expecting to be alone, and instead, I'd met the kid I was supposed to be jealous of. And it turned out, in some ways, I might actually have it better than him.

I had my parents who supported my interests, even if they sometimes got grossed out by my specimens. I had Eri who taught me to draw, and my the boys from science club. I had teachers who might not think I was a genius, but who still helped me learn at my own pace.

Satoru had his big house at the lake and his brain full of medical facts, but he ate dinner with the housekeeper instead of his family, and he had no friends to share his excitement about the things he loved.

For the first time ever, I didn't feel jealous when I thought about "that brilliant Gojo boy." Instead, I kind of felt sorry for him. But I was also looking forward to seeing him at the pond tomorrow.

Maybe we could both be a little less alone.

****

Satoru and I had been hanging out at the pond almost every day for like two weeks. I'd never had a friend quite like him before. He was super annoying sometimes with his "I know everything" thing, but he was also really interesting to talk to. He never got bored when I went on and on about different frog species or insect larvae, which was pretty cool.

Eri joined us sometimes too. At first, Satoru was weird about it. Kept asking why a girl needed to be there. But after Eri showed him her drawings of the pond animals, even he had to admit she was pretty talented.

The three of us had a good system going: I'd catch the specimens, Satoru would identify their scientific features with his big brain, and Eri would draw them. We were like our own little science team.

But then Eri's dad got a new job in Tokyo. The day before she left, we all met at the pond to say goodbye. She gave me a sketchbook full of drawings of all the creatures we'd found together. She gave Satoru a drawing of the human brain she'd copied from his medical book. He actually looked sad when she handed it to him, which was the first time I'd seen him drop his act.

"Don't forget to practice," she told me, pointing at the sketchbook. "You're getting really good."

"I will," I promised, but I already knew I probably wouldn't. Drawing was Eri's thing that she'd shared with me. Without her around, it wouldn't be the same.

After Eri left, it was just Satoru and me again.

It felt quieter without her there. I kinda missed how she'd ask questions about every bug we found, even the gross ones.

For three whole days after Eri left, Satoru didn't show up at the pond. That was weird since we'd been meeting there every single day. I was starting to think maybe he was bored of me now that Eri was gone. It made my stomach feel all knotty to think about.

Before I met Satoru and Eri, I didn't really have friends. Sure the boys at the science club were nice to me. But the other kids at school thought I was weird with my bug collection and science notebooks. They'd invite each other to birthday parties and play soccer at recess, but I was always just watching from the side or looking for beetles in the grass. I got used to being alone, I guess.

But having friends at the pond changed everything. For once, I wasn't the weirdo bug kid. I was just Suguru, the one who knew all about pond animals. And now Eri was gone, and Satoru wasn't showing up anymore either.

Each day I went to the pond by myself, I kept thinking maybe this was it. Maybe Satoru realized he was too smart to hang out with me. Maybe without Eri around to keep things fun, he figured out I was actually boring. Or maybe his parents found out he was hanging out with a normal kid instead of studying or whatever rich genius kids are supposed to do.

By the third day, I was trying to tell myself it didn't matter. I was fine being alone before, I could be fine again. But the pond didn't feel like my special place anymore. It felt lonely.

I was sitting on my special rock, poking at some pond scum with a stick when I finally heard someone crashing through the bushes. Only Satoru made that much noise—for a super smart kid, he was really bad at walking quietly.

"Where have you been?" I asked, trying not to sound like I'd been waiting for him or anything.

Satoru came into the clearing with his backpack hugged against his chest instead of slung over his shoulder like normal. His hair was messier than usual, and he had this weird look on his face—like he was trying not to smile but couldn't help it.

"Had to wait till my dad went away," he said, putting his backpack down super careful on the ground. "He's at some boring doctor thing in Osaka till tomorrow night."

"So? Why couldn't you come to the pond?" I asked, watching him unzip his backpack really slowly.

"Because of this, dummy." Satoru pulled out something wrapped in this fancy blue paper. He was being so careful with it, like it might break if he breathed on it too hard. "I got you something. Close your eyes and hold out your hands."

"Why?"

"Just do it!"

I rolled my eyes but did what he said. Something heavy landed in my hands. It felt like a book, but way heavier than my school books.

"Okay, you can look now."

When I opened my eyes, I was holding the coolest book I'd ever seen in my whole life. It had this dark green leather cover with gold writing that said "Illustrated Encyclopedia of Japanese Entomology." There was a golden beetle on the front that looked so real I almost thought it would crawl off the book.

"Whoa," was all I could say.

"It's the best bug book ever made," Satoru said. "They only made 500 of them, like, a million years ago. It has everything about every bug in Japan. All the pictures were painted by this guy Tanaka who spent his whole life studying bugs."

My hands were shaking a little as I opened it. Inside were the most amazing bug drawings I'd ever seen—way better than anything in my science books at school, even better than Eri's drawings (though I'd never tell her that). The colors were so bright, and you could see every tiny detail on the insects' bodies.

"Satoru, this looks super expensive."

"It is," he said with a shrug, but he wouldn't look me in the eye. "My dad keeps it in his study with all his other fancy books that he never reads. He just has them to look smart when important people come over."

Then it hit me. "Wait... you stole this from your dad?"

"Borrowed," Satoru said super quick. "He won't even notice it's gone. He has like a billion books, and this one was all dusty behind some boring medical stuff. He probably doesn't even remember he has it."

"But if he finds out—"

"He won't. Anyway, what's the point of a cool bug book sitting on a shelf where nobody looks at it? You'll actually use it for your science stuff."

The way he said it made me feel weird and happy at the same time. Nobody had ever thought my bug collecting was important enough for something this special.

"Look at this page," Satoru said, flipping through the book to page 94. "It's your favorite."

And there it was—the Japanese fire-bellied newt, the same salamander I'd shown him when we first met. The picture was amazing. It showed the salamander and all the plants it liked to hide in, plus little diagrams of its insides and stuff.

"This book has information nobody else knows," Satoru whispered like he was telling me a super big secret. "Tanaka spent like 40 years finding all these bugs. Some of them are so rare nobody's seen them since he drew them."

I ran my finger over the salamander picture, being super careful not to smudge it. This was better than any birthday present I'd ever gotten.

"Can I really have it? Like, take it home with me?" I asked, hardly believing Satoru would trust me with something so valuable.

"Of course, dummy. That's why I brought it."

"I'll protect it with my life," I promised with a bright smile and hugged the book against my chest. I already knew exactly where I'd hide it from my little sister who couldn't keep her nose out of my stuff for even one day.

We spent the whole afternoon looking through the encyclopedia, finding all the bugs we recognized and making a list of ones we wanted to catch. Satoru asked me tons of questions, and for once, I was the one who knew more than him, which felt pretty cool.

When the sun started to go down, I carefully wrapped the book back in the fancy paper Satoru had brought it in. I held it close the whole walk home. I couldn't stop thinking about all the cool bugs inside it and all the things I was going to learn. As we reached the fork in the path where we needed to go different ways, Satoru paused.

"My dad would kill me if he knew I took this," he said quietly, looking at the book in my arms.

"Then why'd you do it?"

He kicked at the dirt with his shoe and didn't say anything for a minute. "Because..." he finally said, "because you're the only person I know who would actually care about what's in it. And because your face when you saw that salamander page was totally worth getting in trouble for."

I didn't know what to say. Nobody had ever risked getting in big trouble just to make me happy before.

"Thanks," I mumbled, feeling my face get hot.

"Whatever," Satoru said, but he was smiling. "Just don't tell anyone, okay?"

"I promise," I said, and I meant it more than any promise I'd ever made. "This is our secret."

That night, after Mom checked on me and turned out the lights, I waited like ten whole minutes to make sure she wasn't coming back. Then I pulled out my flashlight from under my pillow, grabbed the book from its hiding spot under my bed, and slipped under my blanket.

For hours, I just looked at page after page of the most amazing bugs I'd ever seen. Some of them I recognized from around our town, but others looked like they came from alien planets with their weird shapes and crazy colors. I kept finding new favorites, whispering "whoa" to myself over and over again.

I don't know what time I finally fell asleep, but I woke up with the book open on my chest and drool on my pillow. I quickly hid it back under my bed before anyone could see it.

At breakfast, Mom kept asking why I looked so tired, but I just said I was thinking about science stuff. I couldn't stop smiling though, thinking about how I had the coolest secret ever hidden in my room—and the coolest friend ever who gave it to me.

Every night, I'd study different pages with my flashlight, and the next day I'd go to the pond to find the insects it showed. Satoru would come too, and I'd teach him what I'd learned. Sometimes he'd read the scientific names out loud in this fancy professor voice that made me laugh so hard I'd almost fall off my rock.

It was cool having a friend. Someone who risked getting in huge trouble just because he knew it would make me happy. And he never acted like my interests were stupid or boring, even though he was supposed to be this genius who only cared about medical stuff.

For the first time ever, I didn't feel like the weird bug kid with no friends. I had Satoru, and even though he was annoying sometimes, he got me in a way nobody else did.

Perhaps that's why it hurt so much later when he didn't want to be my friend anymore.

****

One day it was super hot, even for August. The air felt like a wet blanket, and sweat was dripping down my back even though I was sitting in the shade. I was trying to sketch a water strider I'd caught, but the bugs kept sticking to my arm, and my pencil kept slipping in my sweaty fingers.

"I'm sooooo bored," Satoru groaned, slamming his giant brain book shut. He'd been extra fidgety all afternoon. "Let's do something fun."

I looked up from my drawing, kind of annoyed. "I am doing something fun."

"No, something real fun." He jumped up from his log. "Something exciting!"

"Like what?" I asked, not moving. It was way too hot to get excited about anything.

Satoru scanned the clearing, his eyes landing on the big meadow at the edge of the pond. It was the tallest tree around, its branches stretching out wide over the water.

"Let's climb that!" Satoru said, pointing at it with a huge grin on his face.

I frowned. "Why would we want to do that?"

"Because it's there!" he said, like that was the most obvious reason in the world. "Come on, don't be such a baby."

"I'm not a baby." I felt my cheeks get hot. "I just don't see why we should climb a tree when it's a million degrees out."

"It'll be cooler up high," Satoru argued. "And we'll be able to see everything. Maybe even your house!"

I doubted that, but Satoru already had that look in his eyes that I was slowly starting to recognize—the one that meant he wasn't going to let something go.

"Unless you're scared?" he added with a smirk.

That did it.

"I'm not scared," I said, putting my notebook down. "I climb trees all the time to catch beetles." That was kind of a lie. I'd climbed a few small trees, but nothing like the massive meadow. But no way was I going to admit that to Satoru.

"Great!" He clapped his hands together. "Race you to the top!"

Before I could say a word, he was off, sprinting toward the tree with his arms pumping. I sighed and followed him, wondering why I was friends with such a crazy person. By the time I reached the trunk, Satoru was already scrambling up the lower branches, his skinny arms pulling him up with surprising strength.

"Come on, slowpoke!" he called down. "Last one to the top is a rotten egg!"

I grabbed the lowest branch and started climbing, trying to be careful about where I put my feet. My mom would kill me if I ripped another pair of pants. Satoru, on the other hand, was climbing like a monkey on a sugar rush, grabbing branches without even testing them first. He was already halfway up the tree, his white hair flashing between the leaves.

"Careful," I called up. "Some of those branches might not hold you!"

"What?" he shouted back, his voice faint from how high he'd climbed. "I can't hear you over the sound of me winning!"

I rolled my eyes but kept climbing steadily. The bark was rough under my hands, and little bits kept getting stuck under my fingernails. But I had to admit, it was kind of fun. The higher I went, the cooler the breeze felt, and I could see more and more of the pond below.

I was about ten feet up when I heard a sharp crack from above.

My heart jumped into my throat as I looked up just in time to see Satoru reaching for a branch that was way too small for him. It bent under his weight, and then—

Snap!

The branch broke clean off, and Satoru's boyish smile turned into a look of total surprise. For a second, he seemed to hang in the air, his arms windmilling wildly.

Then he fell.

It happened so fast. One second he was there, the next he was crashing through branches on his way down, leaves and twigs flying everywhere. I heard him yell, then a series of thuds, and finally a sickening thump as he hit the ground.

"Satoru!" I scrambled down as fast as I could. Nearly fell myself in my hurry, scraping my hands and knees on the rough bark. But I didn't care. All I could think was that Satoru was hurt—or worse.

When I finally jumped the last few feet to the ground, my heart was pounding so hard I thought it might burst. Satoru was lying on his back, not moving, his eyes closed. For one horrible moment, I thought he was dead. Then he groaned and blinked his eyes open.

"Ow," he said weakly.

Relief washed over me like a wave. "Don't move!" I kneeled beside him. "You fell really far. You might have broken something!"

Satoru tried to sit up, wincing in pain. "I'm okay," he said, but his face was super pale, and he was holding his arm weird. "Just give me a second."

"We need to get help. I'll go get your mom—"

"No!" Satoru's eyes suddenly went wide. He grabbed my arm with his good hand, squeezing so tight it hurt. "Don't call my parents. Please."

"But you're hurt," I said, confused by how freaked out he looked. "You need a doctor."

"I'm fine," he insisted, even though he was definitely not fine. "My wrist hurts a little, but nothing's broken. I know what broken bones feel like." The way he said it was strange, like he had way too much experience with that.

"At least let me get your mom to come pick you up."

"My mother's not home," he said quickly. "She's... she's at a conference. I'll just call our housekeeper."

I watched as Satoru fumbled in his pocket with his good hand, pulling out a sleek cell phone that looked super expensive. None of the kids in my school had phones like that.

He dialed a number and put on this weird fake cheerful voice when someone answered. "Hi, Mei! Could you come pick me up at the pond? ... No, everything's fine, I just... yeah, I think I sprained my wrist. ... No, don't worry, I'm with a friend. ... Okay, see you soon."

When he hung up, he looked at me with serious eyes. "Listen, when she gets here, we're gonna say I fell off my bike, okay? You too, if anyone asks."

"Why would we lie about it?" I was completely confused. "It was just an accident."

"Because my parents will freak out if they know I was climbing trees. If my dad finds out I risked damaging my hands—He will... he will be really mad."

The way he said "really mad" made my stomach feel weird. I didn't understand why his parents would be so upset about a normal kid thing like climbing a tree, but the look on Satoru's face made me not want to argue.

"Okay," I agreed. "We fell off our bikes on the gravel path."

While we waited for his housekeeper, I helped Satoru over to a fallen log where he could sit more comfortably. I got him some water from my water bottle and even offered him the granola bar my mom had packed for me, but he said he wasn't hungry.

"Does it hurt a lot?" I asked, looking at his wrist, which was starting to swell.

"Nah," he said, but I could tell he was lying. "I've had worse."

I didn't know what to say to that, so I just sat with him, occasionally swatting away mosquitoes that were trying to bite us. After about ten minutes, we heard a car pulling up on the path that led to the pond. Satoru stood up, wincing a little but trying to look normal.

"Remember, bike accident," he whispered to me.

A woman in a neat uniform hurried down the path toward us. She had a kind face but looked super worried when she saw Satoru's arm.

"Young master!" she exclaimed. "What happened?"

"Bike accident," Satoru said smoothly. "We hit a bad patch of gravel. This is my friend Suguru. He was helping me out."

I felt something weird in my chest when he said "my friend." It was the first time Satoru had actually called me that out loud. We'd been hanging out for weeks, but he always just called me by my name. Hearing him say "friend" made me feel both happy and extra guilty about lying to his housekeeper.

The housekeeper—Mei, I guess—looked me over quickly, her eyes darting around the clearing. I could tell she was looking for our bikes, which of course weren't there. Her eyebrows pulled together in a way that showed she didn't quite believe our story, but she didn't say anything about it. Instead, she turned her attention back to Satoru.

"Let me see your arm." Mei gently took his wrist. Satoru tried not to flinch, but I saw the pain flash across his face. "We should get this looked at. It might need an X-ray."

"It's fine," Satoru said. "Just a sprain. Let's not bother my father at work for something so small."

Mei looked doubtful but didn't argue. "Let's at least get you home and put some ice on it. Thank you for staying with him," she added to me.

"No problem," I said, feeling weird about the whole situation. "Feel better, Satoru."

"See you tomorrow?" Satoru asked as Mei led him away.

"Yeah, sure," I said, waving. "Same time."

But Satoru didn't come to the pond the next day. Or the day after that. When school started again the following week, I saw him around town a few times, but he always seemed to be in a hurry, barely waving before scurrying off.

One day, I spotted him at the convenience store with his arm in a real cast. So it had been broken after all. I tried to catch up to him to sign it, but he ducked into a fancy car before I could reach him. I noticed other things too. A dark bruise on his cheek that couldn't have come from the fall or how he always wore long sleeves, even on hot days.

I tried to talk to him about it once, cornering him outside the public library. "Are you okay?" I asked. "I haven't seen you at the pond in ages."

"I'm fine." He did not meet my eyes. "Just busy with school stuff. My father has me on this advanced study program now."

"What about your arm? The fall broke it, didn't it?"

"Yeah, but it's healing. No big deal. Look, I gotta go. My driver's waiting."

And just like that, he was gone again.

It wasn't until years later, that I found out the truth. I ran into Mei, Satoru's housekeeper, at the market. She recognized me and we talked for a bit. That's when she told me what really happened after the tree accident. Satoru's father had been furious. He'd forbidden Satoru from seeing me ever again, calling me a bad influence. Apparently, surgeons' hands were sacred or something, and Satoru was destined to be a surgeon whether he wanted to or not.

It was weird to finally understand after all those years. Part of me felt better knowing Satoru hadn't just gotten bored of me, but another part felt even worse. If his dad could make him drop his only friend just like that, what kind of control did he have over the rest of Satoru's life? I thought about reaching out after learning the truth, but by then we were such different people, living in completely different worlds. Some bridges, once broken, are too hard to rebuild, I guess.

By the time we started seventh grade, we hardly spoke anymore. Satoru had changed. I'd heard rumors about him at his school. Apparently, he'd gotten louder, more disruptive—always showing off and making trouble. The teachers still loved him because he got perfect scores on everything, but word was that the other kids thought he was kind of a jerk. Our paths just didn't cross much anymore, but his reputation seemed to follow him everywhere.

I changed too. Seventh grade was way harder than sixth. I had to study all the time just to keep my grades up, and I joined the basketball team because Dad said it would look good on high school applications. Between homework, basketball practice, and cram school, I hardly had time for bug collecting anymore.

My specimen boxes gathered dust under my bed. My colored pencils dried out from not being used. The last time Eri visited our town to see her grandmother, she asked me to come draw at the pond like we used to. I made up an excuse about studying for a math exam instead. She left for Tokyo the next day.

I felt bad about it sometimes. Guilty, even. But it wasn't the same anymore. That childish wonder and excitement had faded, replaced by something more complicated. I told myself I'd outgrown those things, that I had more important things to focus on now.

Sometimes, I'd see Satoru around town, surrounded by a group of loud boys from his private school, the white hair unmistakable among them. He always acted like he didn't see me, and after a while, I stopped trying to catch his eye.

By high school, the pond felt like a distant memory. I was focused on exams and college applications. I'd given up bugs for biology class, where we dissected frogs instead of watching them jump. My old notebooks full of amateur drawings were packed away in a box in the attic, I guess. I don’t know really.

But I kept that book hidden under my bed for years, even after we grew apart. I couldn't bring myself to get rid of the one proof I had that Satoru Gojo had once been my friend.

One day during my first year of high school, I was walking home from cram school when a sudden rainstorm hit. I ducked under the awning of a coffee shop to stay dry. When the rain stopped, I walked home and found myself thinking about that sixth grade summer. The salamanders and frogs. Eri teaching me to draw. Satoru showing me diagrams of the brain. But the memories were so strangely blurry now. Like our whole summer of catching bugs and laughing together never happened.

Sometimes I wondered what had happened to that kid who spent hours meticulously documenting different species of water insects. Who felt a thrill when capturing the perfect detail in a drawing. It was like looking back at a different person—someone younger, more curious, less concerned with test scores and college applications.

I wondered what Eri was up to now in Tokyo. We don't really keep in touch anymore—just the occasional birthday message or holiday greeting. Our conversations became shorter and less frequent until they eventually stopped altogether. It was another casualty of growing up, I suppose, of changing priorities and diverging paths.

And I wondered about Satoru too. What had happened in that big house by the lake? Why had a simple fall from a tree caused such fear in his eyes? Maybe if things had been different, if we hadn't drifted apart after the accident, I might have found out.

But instead, we became strangers. He turned into the arrogant genius everyone either admired or hated, and I became just another stressed student trying to secure my future.

The pond was probably still there, hidden behind those bamboo trees at the edge of the town. But I couldn't remember the last time I'd visited it. Couldn't recall when exactly I'd stopped caring about the creatures that lived there, or when my notebooks had shifted from containing drawings of frogs to containing nothing but school notes.

Growing up was weird like that. Things that seemed so important suddenly didn't matter anymore. People who were once your friends became strangers. And before you knew it, you could hardly recognize yourself.

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next part ->

author's note — welcome back !! i hope you enjoyed this little glimpse into suguru's memories of growing up. the next part will be about high school and university and how suguru and satoru became close again and inseperable. and don't worry, i've already written the next part and just need a few edits, so the wait won't be long :))

and as for the main stories, i am really working on them from time to time, but i need to be in the right headspace to write them because i don't want to do them dirty and with my graduation coming up, i'm a bit over my head at the moment. so i hope these little side stories from their past will make up for the long wait for the main stories.

& huge thanks to everyone for reading and supporting ! your comments and messages seriously brighten my day. so excited to see what you think of the next part of suguru's memories, they get a little sad and might break your heart i'm sorry :'))

anywayy, always love hearing your thoughts on the story. wishing you all an amazing weekend ! & happy easter if you celebrate <3

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gojosperms · 23 days ago

Text

then and now — gojo satoru

synopsis. only satoru gojo would be jealous of himself.

contents. fluff, lovesick!gojo, mentions of pregnancy, time travel inaccuracies probably, not proofread :x

you’re not quite sure how you ended up here.

one minute, you were curled up in bed, fighting a wave of nausea courtesy of the growing child of the strongest inside of you. the next, you were wandering toward the kitchen, wondering what was taking your husband so long to bring you the damn breakfast he promised — only to find him standing rigid in front of the stove, staring down…

himself.

you blink.

twice.

“satoru, what’s taking so long—”

your voice dies in your throat the second your eyes land on him. no — not him, but a younger, wide-eyed, hopelessly awe-struck version of him. standing in your kitchen, mouth parted, face pale, and gaze locked entirely on you.

you freeze.

he stares.

you stare back.

and then—oh no—he starts to smile. bright. dopey. disbelieving. there might actually be drool.

the younger gojo looks at you like you’re made of stars and everything he’s ever wanted in life, and you’re only in your husband’s oversized tee shirt.

he looks like he’s about to fall in love with you on the spot.

then comes your gojo.

he appears behind you like summoned by jealousy itself, pressing flush against your back, arms encircling you. his chin hooks over your shoulder as he narrows his eyes at his teenage self with all the warning.

“oi,” your husband growls low, “eyes off my wife, you brat.”

the trance breaks instantly.

“what the hell—she’s my wife too!” younger gojo snaps, voice cracking in disbelief.

“like hell she is,” your husband shoots back, his hand sliding possessively down to cradle the swell of your belly. “i put a baby in her.”

you choke on air.

teen gojo’s eyes drop down—

—and bug out.the younger gojo is practically gaping, his eyes wide in disbelief, as he stares between you and your husband. "y-you let this man impregnate you?!" he blurts out, the crudeness making you flush with heat.

you feel the immediate rush of embarrassment. “i—how— satoru, explain.”

both of them whip their heads around at the mention of his name, as if they were no more than dogs waiting for a command.

your husband rubs your back, “i guess my younger self must have managed to travel to the future.”

you’re gaping at the two men.

the younger version of him is practically wagging his tail, a wide grin tugging at his lips like he’s just won first place in something that actually mattered. he looks completely lost in his own world to understand his future self’s subtle jab, and you could swear you hear him whispering under his breath, breathless and giddy—“i did it, i did it, i did it.”

“ah,” you slowly try to rationalize. “satoru, i know this might seem strange, but—”

“no, no,” your husband cuts you off with a tight squeeze around your waist, leaning slightly into you. “i’m satoru. he’s just gojo.” his tone makes it clear who he thinks should have the honor of the name, but his attention never leaves his younger self, and the muscles in his jaw are flexing.

the younger gojo squints, confused, then his face contorts with a mix of irritation and amusement. “since when did i become so uptight?”

your husband snorts. "yeah, well, you have a lot of growing up to do."

the younger gojo mutters, crossing his arms and leaning back, his posture almost defensive. "i get it. you put on the blindfold and suddenly you're mr. 'i've got it all figured out.'"

the tension in the room thickens, palpable between the two men.

"yeah," the older gojo retorts, voice steady but tinged with a bit of pride. "and i also got the girl of my dreams."

the younger gojo’s eyes narrow, his voice rising, "she’s my dream girl too!"

the older gojo shifts, locking his gaze on his younger self. his expression hardens, becoming a little sharper. "she’s my wife. not yours."

you sigh, exasperated, stepping between them. “oh, for heaven’s sake. you’re both the same person. you’re arguing with yourself.”

younger gojo leans forward slightly, eyes fixed on you. “i could love you just as much as he does, you know.”

your husband scoffs, clearly unimpressed. “please. you don’t even know what to do with her yet.”

“try me.”

“enough!” you snap, your glare cutting through the air like a blade. there’s no mistaking the warning in your eyes, a silent promise that things are about to escalate if they don’t stop.

both satorus fall silent in an instant as they both straighten at your words.

“me and the baby are starving,” you declare, your tone laced with a hint of challenge. “and if neither of you plans on helping, i guess i’ll have to do it myself.”

the younger satoru’s eyes flicker to your growing belly, then back to you.

in an instant, they’re both at your side, moving in synchrony like two halves of a whole, each hand hovering near you, as if they could protect you from something, but you know the truth. it’s not about protection. it’s about proximity—about the excuse to touch you.

“you know,” the younger satoru murmurs, a playful glint in his eyes, “you’re even more beautiful now. who would've thought you could get hotter?”

your breath catches at the unexpected compliment, and before you can stop it, your cheeks flush, a warmth spreading through you that has nothing to do with the heat of the room. “t-thank you,” you mutter, not quite looking at him, trying to hide the effect his words have on you.

your husband, who’s been standing just behind you, makes no attempt to hide his irritation. his gaze sharpens, but his voice remains smooth, controlled—too controlled. “it’s no surprise, of course,” he says, his hand sliding around your waist in a possessive gesture, pulling you a little closer, a subtle but undeniable claim. “you’ve always been breathtaking. she’s glowing, don’t you think?”

you feel his lips brush against your temple as he says it, and though his words are directed at the younger satoru, they’re meant for you—just the two of you, wrapped in this small, intimate moment. his grip tightens ever so slightly, a silent declaration of ownership that you can feel in your bones.

“thank you, dear,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, but there’s a flicker in your chest that betrays you—something more than just appreciation for the compliment.

as you open the fridge, you don’t notice the younger gojo’s subtle frown at the pet name, nor the way your husband’s chest puffs just a little, satisfaction practically radiating off him. but you do feel it. the electricity. the unspoken challenge. and you can’t help but wonder which of them will break first.

the clink of chopsticks and the sound of your satisfied hums fill the room as the three of you eat breakfast, the tension at the table simmering beneath the surface. the younger gojo eyes the older version of himself from across the table, suspicion flickering behind his sharp gaze.

he sets his bowl down slowly.

“so tell me,” he says finally, chopsticks tapping against ceramic. “how’d you do it?”

the older gojo raises a brow. “do what?”

younger gojo tilts his head pointedly in your direction. “get her. my [name] doesn’t want to do anything with me.”

your husband doesn’t miss a beat. he smirks, annoyingly smug, and drapes his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side like a trophy. “i charmed the living daylights out of her. obviously.”

you give him a flat look.

your husband ignores you. “she thought i was endearing.”

“i thought you were desperate,” you add with a sly smile.

he turns toward you, hand over his heart like he’s been shot. “desperation? is that what we’re calling devotion now?”

“you were on both knees when you proposed,” you point out, smug.

“i really wanted you to say yes,” he mutters, now clearly sulking. he stabs at his food like it personally offended him.

across the table, the younger gojo leans in, chin propped in one hand as he watches the two of you. there's something soft in his eyes now, envy tempered with awe.

“don’t listen to him,” you say with a playful smile, your gaze softening as you turn to your husband. “i only gave you a chance when i realized how big your heart is. how much you really care. your dedication to reshaping jujutsu society—that’s what made me see you weren’t just a nuisance.”

both gojo's eyes widen in shock, clearly not expecting that.

your husband, though, pouts, his usual smugness replaced with playful mock hurt.

“aww~” he whines, a teasing lilt to his voice. “i think you’ve got a little crush on me!”

you narrow your eyes, a warning simmering beneath your words. “satoru, i’m about to bite your head off.”

he grins, leaning in with that signature mischief. “don’t threaten me with a good time.”

the younger gojo’s eyes dart between the two of you. perhaps his future wasn’t too bad.

#fic recs #gojo x reader #gojo fluff #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojou satoru x reader #gojou x reader #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jjk fluff #jjk x reader

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gojosperms · 24 days ago

Text

CHAPTER 19: FLOWERS OF BLOOD

ੈ✩ gojo satoru x reader

You hum as you close your eyes, feeling the warmth in your veins. His proximity makes your skin feel electric along with whatever curse is inside of you. It gives you a heady feeling. You’re often needy with him, but this feels like a new beast.

ੈ✩ chapter cw/tags: angst, fingering, vaginal sex

ੈ✩ wc: 9k

ੈ✩ a/n: why is this so long u may ask. i don't fucking know

playlist ✸ read on ao3 ✸ series masterlist

May, 2005

Satoru is fifteen the first time he figures out how to warp. The second time he does it is to get inside your room while the two of you are fighting.

His mother offers to take you in for the weekend when yours has to go out of town to visit your grandmother. You think it’s excessive considering you’re certainly old enough to stay home by yourself, but Mrs. Gojo enjoys your company as if you were her own daughter. That, and she thinks that you’d be a good influence on Satoru, who, at the time, was on his second week of being grounded.

You have your own room in the house. It’s mostly sparse save for a few polaroids and drawings from your younger years. It’s odd to be inside it, on the twin-sized bed that you and Satoru used to make blanket forts in. Back when all you had was each other.

You mostly keep to yourself. You don’t exactly know what to do with him besides sharing the couch with him quietly while he plays on his Gamecube. You read your book because you don’t know what to say to him, either. You hadn’t been friends in over a year.

As the afternoon wears on, the silence between you grows heavier, more oppressive. You glance up from your book, catching Satoru's eye for a brief moment before he quickly looks away, his fingers fumbling on the controller. The air feels oddly thick.

"Do you have to mash the buttons so loudly?" you snap, the words tumbling out before you can stop them.

Satoru pauses the game, turning to face you with a raised eyebrow.

"Does it bother you?" he asks, his tone deceptively light.

“It’s distracting.”

His blue eyes narrow. “It’s not that loud. Maybe if you weren't so uptight, you wouldn't even notice it."

The barb stings, reminding you of why you drifted apart. "I'm not uptight," you retort. "I just don't waste all my time on video games like you do."

"Oh, right," Satoru scoffs, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Because keeping your nose is so much more productive."

You feel your face flush with anger. "It is! At least I'm learning something! What are you learning from that game? How to jump on mushrooms?"

“You used to love jumping on mushrooms when we were kids, if I recall. Sorry that you forgot how to have fun, Twigs.”

His words hit a nerve, and you lash out. "Maybe I'd have more fun if my best friend hadn't abandoned me for his stupid jujutsu training!"

The room goes eerily quiet. Satoru's face, usually so animated, becomes a mask of cold indifference.

"Is that what you think happened? That I abandoned you?"

"Didn't you?” you accuse. “We’ve barely spoken in the past two years! Ever since you started getting stronger, you've been different. Distant. Like you're too good for normal people now."

"You have no idea what it's like," he hisses. “You know how much pressure is on me all the time. Not like you’d understand, anyway. You’re just a fucking window.”

“Excuse me?”

“What?” he scoffs. “Just stating a fact.”

“Oh, Satoru, don’t worry. I’m completely aware of how much better you think you are—”

“Oh, give me a fucking break—”

“I just thought you weren’t into that bullshit. But I suppose everything looks better when you’re at the top of the food chain, doesn’t it?”

“Jesus, Twigs. Sorry that I made some friends who can actually keep up with me.”

The words hang in the air, prickling the back of your head like a death blow. You rub your temple, feeling a headache coming on as tears threaten to spill over. You refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing you cry.

“Keep up with you?” you spit back, your voice trembling. "Is that what this is about? You need other people to stroke your ego now?"

Satoru's eyes flash dangerously, a flicker of something inhuman passing across his face.

"You have no idea what I need," he says, his voice low and cold. "You can't even begin to comprehend the world I live in now."

“Go ahead and explain it. Or have you outgrown me so completely that it’s not worth it?”

Satoru runs a hand through his white hair, a gesture you've seen a thousand times before. But now it feels like watching a stranger.

"That's not what I meant," he says, but his tone lacks conviction.

“Then what did you mean? If you even thought of me as a friend still, which you don’t, you’d at least try instead of pretending you’re some kind of god.”

He looks back at you, and for a moment, you see a flicker of the boy you used to know. But then his walls come back up, and he's once again the untouchable Satoru Gojo. He narrows his eyes.

“A god? How flattering,” he bites, laughing bitterly. Satoru’s face feels too warm with irritation. Out of all the things he’d heard, that had to be the most ridiculous. All his life, he’s heard it. He’d never expected it to come from you, who had only known him when he was human. A defenseless child.

“You’re not invincible,” you whisper.

“Well, maybe I am,” he shrugs coolly. “Ever considered that?”

You scoff in disgust. “You’re not. You’re just an asshole.”

"You don't understand," he mutters, almost to himself. "You can't understand."

There’s a pang in your heart you wish you could ignore. The reality of your love for him comes crashing down, even when you’ve been distant from each other for so long. The habit of thinking about him as a security blanket comes back. You hate it.

Your fingers twitch as you stare at him before quickly averting your gaze. You want to show him how much power you really have. You’ve thought about it plenty of times before — suddenly unveiling your technique to see how he would react to your fingertips decaying something living.

You aren’t prepared for the anger that would probably be unleashed on you. The look of betrayal he’d have.

So, instead, you turn away and bolt for the stairs right as Satoru opens his mouth to say something else. As you hole yourself up in your room, alone in the growing darkness, you can't help but wonder if this is the price of loving someone touched by destiny. You're not sure if you're strong enough to pay it.

Dinner that night is tense. You can tell that Satoru’s mother gets the hint, given how often she flickers her stare between you and Satoru.

The head of the household has left for a work meeting, which leaves the three of you. If you were younger, Satoru would’ve had something snarky to say about his father, whether it was just to you or at the dinner table, where he would be scolded. But right now, he sits next to you and doesn’t say a word.

The silence is deafening, broken only by the soft clink of chopsticks against porcelain. You keep your eyes fixed on your plate, pushing the food around more than eating it. The weight of Mrs. Gojo's concerned gaze feels heavy on your shoulders.

"So," Mrs. Gojo says, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife, "how was your afternoon? Did you two have fun catching up?"

“Mhm,” you hum with an air of insistence. Your tone is higher than usual.

“Yeah,” Satoru offers. “Caught up and played video games. And stuff.”

You nod in agreement, avoiding eye contact with anyone that wasn’t your bowl of rice under you. You feel the slight graze of Satoru’s foot against yours. You glance at him briefly to see a small smile on his face, and it surprises you so much that you have to look away immediately.

The rest of the meal passes in silence. As soon as it's polite to do so, you excuse yourself and retreat back to your room. You curl up on the bed and hug your knees to your chest, willing yourself to think of anything other than him.

You’re about to get yourself a cup of tea when you hear footsteps in the hallway, pausing outside your room. For a heart-stopping moment, you think it’s Satoru about to knock. But then the footsteps continue, fading as he walks away.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Part of you wishes he had knocked, that he’d barged in like he always did and maybe apologized. You aren’t sure what his habits are anymore. They certainly had nothing to do with you.

Hours later, it’s impossible for Satoru to sleep. His mind is stuck on you, wondering if you’re still a heavy sleeper. Wondering what things would be like if he didn’t push you away.

Since you’ve been in his home, it’s been hard to look at you.

He warps to your room. It’s the second time in his life that he’s used the technique, and he nearly stumbles onto the bed. He holds his breath with wide eyes as you stir.

Your body is curled into itself, chin tucked underneath your fist. He always thought you looked like a bunny rabbit when you were a child, your nose twitching whenever he’d tease you. You look serene when you’re asleep. Pretty in the moonlight.

He isn’t exactly sure why he’s here, or why he warped at all, considering you probably didn’t lock the door. He had only thought about needing to see you like an itch he needed to scratch. He hadn’t even thought you’d be asleep.

Truthfully, he imagined that he’d startle you, then you’d yell at him, then he’d make up some half-assed apology and try to humor you. Invade your space. Probably get you to lay with him so he could —

No, he thinks to himself. Out of the question.

But he does feel the need to crawl into your bed. You have a habit of curling towards the sides instead of staying in the middle, as if expecting someone to join you.

He hovers you and taps your forehead lightly. You don’t move. He taps your bottom lip and gets fascinated by the softness. Grazes your nose and gasps slightly when you twitch. You adjust your position, still sleep-ridden, still dead to the world. The comforter falls away to reveal your chest underneath the flimsy material of your cotton tank top.

He forces himself to look away, grunting when he feels his stomach tighten with vague want. It was stupid, being a high school boy. He’d lost his virginity only a few weeks ago and your face had popped into his head without warning. Hormones, he’d told himself. Hormones and familiarity —

He freezes when you let out a whimper. God, he can’t be here. Not with you making sounds like that.

Your breathing picks up. There’s a furrow in your brow that wasn’t there before as you fidget in your sleep. Your body twitches erratically, your knuckles tightening around the sheets. All the sounds you’re making are signs of distress.

“Twigs,” Satoru whispers, caressing your arm lightly. You whimper again, still asleep until he shakes you. With a gasp, you jolt awake.

“Satoru?” you blink at him, frowning. Sweat collects in your brow. “What are you doing here?”

Satoru widens his eyes, scrambling for an excuse.

“I— I couldn’t sleep and I heard you were having a nightmare. I just came to check on you.” A half-truth.

You exhale, closing your eyes before opening them to look at his electric blue ones.

“You okay?” he mumbles.

“Yeah. Just.. anxious.”

He doesn’t know why, but he sits down at the edge of your bed with you. The hairs on his neck prick up from the proximity of your warmth.

“Satoru.”

“Mm?” He pretends to look out the window.

“Will you stay with me tonight? Like you used to when I had nightmares?” you whisper.

He looks at you, eyes softening. He hesitates, his heart beating fast. He knows it’s not a good idea, but something in your voice breaks through his defenses.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice low. “Yeah, I’ll stay.”

He settles onto the bed beside you, careful to maintain a sliver of space between your bodies. The mattress dips under his weight, and you can feel the heat radiating from him. It's comforting and unsettling all at once.

For a while, you both lie there in silence, staring up at the ceiling. The moonlight casts strange shadows across the room, and you're attuned to every breath, every slight movement.

As your eyes droop towards slumber, you feel his body adjust. There’s a tentative touch to your hip, then an arm slung around your waist. The vague sound of his heart beating lulls you to sleep.

June, 2012

There seemed to be a permanent dread in Satoru’s heart when it came to letting you out of his sight. Exacerbated greatly when you’d gone to study in Kyoto, he feels it again when he overhears Shoko and Yaga discussing a mission together.

“Yeah, no, I think I should be retired from missions altogether. I’m trying to be a doctor, here, sensei,” Shoko scoffs. Mumbling, like something was in her mouth. A cigarette, Satoru would bet.

Ironic, he thinks. Smoking away your life while trying to become a doctor.

It’s a mission in Kyoto, something too minor for a Special Grade like him. He’s about to walk past the room until he hears your name.

“You know, she’s better suited for combat even though she technically heals.”

“I suppose she hasn’t been on a solo mission yet,” Yaga nods. “And still a Grade 2.”

“Yeah. She’s getting better every day.”

And you are. It makes Satoru feel guilty that he hasn’t considered your strength, hasn’t seen it for himself in perhaps years between you being gone and you confining yourself to the greenhouse. He’s always on solo missions, used to being trigger-happy on Grade 1 curses and exorcising Special Grades like the final bosses in his video games.

You are not his damsel but he feels the need to lock you up sometimes. It’s an ephemeral feeling now, but it lingers nonetheless. Part of it must be security, he’s sure – the need to be your safe space when knowing you are his.

It had been simpler years before, when he had you to himself (and Suguru, too). Now, you have grown older, always as lovely as you’ve been, but with a reformed shell that has stuck to you since your school days.

He couldn’t believe you had let him kiss you all those years ago. He knew that he’d fucked up something good, was afraid of your friendship as a teenager because of how deeply entwined the two of you used to be. Convinced he would taint something as good as you.

Satoru couldn’t help but indulge in the things he wanted. He’s convinced he’s ruined you somehow anyway. Consumed with you, the architect of his lust.

He wonders what would happen if he let you use your technique on him. Born with the Six Eyes and prodigious, he had his maximum potential. If he let himself get cut, would your hands heal him faster than his own? If you touched him with the intent to hurt, would he rot from the outside in?

You’re so secretive about your studies. Part of it must be ritualistic – you’re extremely particular about your practice. Satoru often jokes that you would make a great monk.

You’d been warming up to him lately. He knows not to beg.

Satoru leans against the wall outside Yaga's office, mind racing. You, on a solo mission? The thought makes his stomach tighten uncomfortably. He knows he shouldn't interfere—you'd resent him for it—but the idea of you facing danger alone makes his blood run cold.

He pushes himself off the wall and heads toward the greenhouse. That's where you'd be at this hour, tending to your medicinal plants with that quiet concentration he's always found mesmerizing. The way your fingers move among the leaves, gentle yet purposeful—it does something to him he can't quite explain.

The greenhouse door is ajar when he arrives, sunlight filtering through the glass panels and casting dappled patterns across your form. You're hunched over a workbench, grinding something in a mortar, your back to him. The air is thick with herbal scents—earthy, sweet, and something sharper that makes his nose tingle.

"Knock knock," he says, not wanting to startle you.

You don't turn around. "I know it's you, Satoru. Your cursed energy announces you like a foghorn."

He grins despite himself. "Is that a compliment?"

"It's an observation." You continue grinding, chuckling. “What do you want?”

Satoru saunters in, running his finger along a leaf of a plant he doesn't recognize. It curls away from his touch. "Can't I just visit my favorite botanist?"

Now you do turn, fixing him with that level stare that always makes him feel transparent. "You never 'just visit.' What is it?"

He looks around, examining the foliage. His eyes settle on a row of strange flowers — black petals with luminescent blue veins that pulse like heartbeats.

"Those are new," he comments, making you jump.

You turn, wiping soil from your hands onto your apron. "They're corpse lilies. They only grow when fertilized with cursed energy from the recently deceased."

"Morbid," he says with a grin, approaching to examine them closer. "I like it."

“What’s up, Satoru?” Your voice is casual but wary. He can hear it.

He watches as you carefully extract a petal from one of the flowers, placing it in a glass vial. Your movements are precise, methodical—so different from the impulsive girl who used to chase him through summer fields.

He hesitates, then decides on directness. "I heard you're taking a solo mission in Kyoto."

Your hand stills for a moment before continuing its work. "Eavesdropping again?"

"Information gathering," he corrects, leaning against your workbench. "It's what I do."

You cap the vial and set it in a wooden rack alongside others. "It's just a Grade 2 curse in Kyoto. Nothing special."

"I could come with you."

Now you look at him directly, eyebrows raised. "The great Satoru Gojo, offering to accompany me on a Grade 2 mission? What would the higher-ups think?"

"I don't give a shit what they think," he says. He means it.

"I don't need a babysitter, Satoru."

"I know that." He steps closer, invading your space in that way he knows annoys and thrills you in equal measure. "Maybe I just want to see what you can do now. It's been a while since we've worked together."

You study his face. He maintains his carefree expression, but your eyes have always seen through him better than most.

"You're worried about me," you state, not a question but a fact. Your fingers trace the edge of the workbench, leaving faint imprints in the layer of soil scattered there.

Satoru shrugs, his casual posture betrayed by the intensity in his blue eyes. "Is that a crime?"

"No, but it's unnecessary." You turn back to your plants, carefully adjusting the position of a potted seedling. "I've been handling myself for years now. While you've been off being the strongest sorcerer in the world, I've been growing too."

He watches your hands work, thinking about those same fingers intertwined with his. His hand twitches.

"I know you have," he says, softer now. "That's why I want to see it."

The greenhouse falls silent except for the soft patter of water droplets falling from the misting system. The air between you feels charged, like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks.

You return to your plants, fingers dancing over the leaves of something that looks like mint but smells like copper. "I'm sure you've heard all about my skills from Shoko."

"Shoko only tells me you're improving. She doesn't give details." He leans closer, watching your profile. "I want to see for myself what you can do now."

Your hands still. "Why? So you can tell me how I could do it better? Or so you can swoop in and save me if things go wrong?"‘

The accusation stings more than he expects. "That's not fair, Twigs."

"Isn't it?" You turn to face him fully now, arms crossed. "Every time I've tried to stand on my own, you've been there, hovering. Even when we weren't speaking, I'd feel your cursed energy following me."

Satoru doesn't deny it. Can't deny it. "I was protecting you."

"I never asked for that."

"You didn't have to."

The silence between you thrums. Your eyes drift to the window, where the afternoon sun casts long shadows across the greenhouse floor.

"This mission is important to me," you finally say, voice softer now. "I need to do it alone."

Satoru studies you—the determined set of your jaw, the quiet strength in your posture that wasn't there when you were younger. Something inside him aches with a mixture of pride and loss.

"Fine," he concedes, surprising himself. "But I want details when you get back. And if anything—anything—feels wrong, you call me."

You look up at him, a small smile playing at the corners of your mouth. "I'll consider it."

He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. You don't pull away, and he counts that as progress.

"What are these really for?" he asks, nodding toward the corpse lilies.

You hesitate, a private smile flitting across your face. "They're for a new technique I've been developing. The nectar can temporarily reverse decay."

"Reverse decay?" Satoru asks, genuine curiosity replacing his protective instinct. "That's the opposite of your usual method."

"Balance," you say simply, running a finger along one of the pulsing blue veins of the flower. "I've been studying both sides of the equation. Death and regeneration. Destruction and creation."

Satoru watches your movements, fascinated by the confidence in your hands. This is new—this certainty in your abilities that wasn't there before.

"They're also, um, for a new healing technique I'm developing. The corpse lilies absorb cursed energy from the dead, but I've been experimenting with using that energy for regeneration."

Satoru's eyes widen slightly. "Turning death into life. That's ambitious."

"It's theoretical," you admit. "But the preliminary tests are promising. If I can perfect it, we might be able to heal injuries that would normally be fatal to sorcerers."

He moves closer, examining the pulsing flowers with newfound interest. "And the mission in Kyoto? Is it connected to this research?"

You nod, feeling a small thrill at sharing your work with him. "There's a specific type of cursed spirit there that feeds on decay. I need to collect samples of its energy to complete my formula."

Satoru's expression shifts subtly, the playfulness giving way to something more serious. "That's not just a Grade 2 mission, Twigs. Those spirits are rare and dangerous."

"Which is why Yaga assigned it to me," you counter. "My technique is uniquely suited to handling them."

"Show me something else," he says suddenly.

You look up, eyebrow raised. "What?"

"Show me something you've learned. A technique. Anything." His eyes are bright with interest now, not just concern.

You consider him for a moment, then reach for a small potted plant on a nearby shelf. It's withered, brown, clearly dead. Placing it between you on the workbench, you hover your hands above it.

"I haven’t been able to regenerate living things since I was a kid. That cat I had – it took a lot out of me, you know? And it was only the one time," you explain, your voice taking on the measured cadence you use when discussing your work. "But now..."

Your fingers begin to glow with a soft green light, different from the angry red of your decay technique. The air around the plant seems to shimmer, time itself bending around your hands. Slowly, impossibly, the brittle brown stem begins to straighten. Color seeps back into the leaves, spreading from the center outward like watercolor on wet paper.

Satoru watches, transfixed, as the plant resurrects under your touch. Within minutes, it stands vibrant and alive, leaves reaching toward the light.

"That's..." he begins, then stops, genuinely at a loss for words.

"Not as flashy as your Infinity," you say with a small smirk, "but it has its uses."

He reaches out, touching one of the revived leaves gently. "This is incredible. When did you figure this out?"

"Last year. It takes a lot more cursed energy than decay," you admit. "And I can only use it on recently deceased organisms. The longer something's been dead, the harder it is to bring back."

Satoru studies you with new eyes. You've always been powerful, but this—this is evolution. "Does Yaga know?"

You shake your head. "Not the full extent. I've been perfecting it before showing anyone."

"Anyone except me," he points out, unable to keep the satisfaction from his voice.

You roll your eyes, but there's fondness there. "Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late." He grins, leaning back against the workbench. "So this mission in Kyoto—"

"Is still mine alone," you finish firmly. "But if you're good, maybe I'll tell you all about it afterward."

"If I'm good?" Satoru repeats, his voice dipping into a lower register. "That's quite the condition, Twigs."

You turn away to hide your smile, busying yourself with rearranging vials. "I know your track record with behaving."

He moves closer. "I can be very good when properly motivated."

Your hands are still on the glass containers. The greenhouse feels smaller suddenly, the air thicker with more than just the humidity needed for your plants. You can feel him behind you, not touching but close enough that his warmth radiates against your back.

You step back, needing the space to think clearly. "I leave on Monday. Early."

Satoru drops his hand, accepting the boundary. "Will you at least let me walk you to the station?"

The request is so unexpectedly modest that you almost laugh. "The great Gojo Satoru, reduced to asking for a walk to the train?"

His smile is self-deprecating. "I'm trying this new thing called 'respecting boundaries.' How am I doing?"

"Terribly," you say with a laugh. "But yes, you can walk me to the station."

"Good." He brightens, turning to examine one of your experimental plants. "So, hypothetically, if someone were to get, say, a limb severed by a curse—"

"I could potentially reattach it," you finish. "If I get there quickly enough. The corpse lily extract extends the window of viability."

"And what about internal damage? Organs?"

You nod. "Those are actually easier in some ways. The body naturally wants to heal. I just accelerate and guide the process."

Satoru's eyes gleam with genuine interest. "The applications for jujutsu sorcerers are enormous. Have you considered teaching this?"

"Eventually," you admit. "But I want to perfect it first. There are... side effects I'm still working out."

"Side effects?" Satoru's voice sharpens with concern. "What kind of side effects?"

You hesitate, debating how much to reveal. His intensity has always made you want to both confide in him and shield yourself from him.

"Nothing dangerous," you assure him, turning back to your workbench. "Just... the balance is delicate. When I reverse decay too quickly, it sometimes creates an energy deficit that has to be filled."

"Filled from where?" he presses, moving closer.

You sigh, knowing he won't let this go. "From me, usually. I feel drained afterward. Sometimes dizzy, sometimes worse. But I'm learning to modulate it better."

Satoru's expression darkens. "And you're going after a decay-feeding spirit alone? With this technique that drains you?"

"I don't plan to use the reversal technique on the mission unless absolutely necessary," you say firmly. "My regular decay acceleration works fine for combat. Better, actually."

“You’re not telling me everything about these side effects.”

With a sigh, you roll up your sleeve, revealing a network of faint dark veins running from your wrist to your elbow. They pulse slightly, like the blue veins in the corpse lilies.

"The decay has to go somewhere," you explain quietly. "When I reverse it, I have to channel it through my own body first. I'm working on a technique to disperse it more effectively, but for now..." You shrug, pulling your sleeve back down.

Satoru's expression darkens. He reaches for your arm, but you step back.

"It's not as bad as it looks," you insist. "And it fades after a few days."

"You're absorbing death into yourself," he says flatly, eyes narrowed. "And you didn't think to mention this?"

"I'm handling it," you reply, matching his tone. "This is exactly why I didn't tell you. I knew you'd overreact."

"Overreact?" Satoru's voice remains controlled, but the temperature in the greenhouse seems to drop several degrees. "You're poisoning yourself with cursed energy, and I'm overreacting?"

"It's my technique, Satoru. My body. My choice."

He runs a hand through his white hair, frustration evident in every line of his body. "And what happens when you absorb too much? When the decay doesn't fade?"

You turn away, focusing on your plants. "That won't happen."

"You don't know that."

"Actually, I do." You face him again, chin raised defiantly. "I've been studying this for years while you've been off playing the untouchable god. I understand the risks better than anyone."

The accusation hits its mark. Satoru's expression flickers with something that might be hurt before smoothing into careful neutrality.

"Is that what you think I've been doing? Playing god?"

You sigh, suddenly tired. "No. That's not fair. I know what you do is important."

"So is this," he gestures to your arm. "So are you."

He studies you with those piercing blue eyes that always make you feel transparent. "Promise me something."

"What?"

"If you get in over your head—"

"I won't."

"If you do," he continues, "call me. I can be in Kyoto in seconds."

The concern in his voice makes something in your chest ache. You want to bristle at his protectiveness, but there's something different about it now—less controlling, more partnership.

"Fine," you concede. "But only as an absolute last resort."

Satoru relaxes visibly. "That's all I ask."

You turn back to your plants, aware of him watching you work. His presence used to make you nervous, but now there's a comfortable familiarity to it, despite everything that's happened between you.

"You know," he says after a while, his voice thoughtful, "your technique has evolved in ways mine can't."

You look up, surprised by the admission. "What do you mean?"

"Infinity is... static," he explains, gesturing vaguely. "Powerful, but unchanging in its fundamental nature. Your ability to both accelerate decay and now reverse it—that's growth. Evolution."

The compliment warms you more than you'd like to admit. "It's not a competition, Satoru."

"Everything's a competition," he says with a grin, but then his expression softens. "But seriously, I'm impressed. You've come a long way from that shy kid who was afraid to touch anything because it might rot."

Memories flood back—your tears when you accidentally killed your first houseplant, Satoru holding your hands and telling you it wasn't your fault. How far you've both come since then.

"We both have," you say quietly.

The afternoon sun slants lower through the greenhouse windows, casting long shadows across the floor. Time seems suspended in this quiet space, filled with the scent of earth and growing things.

Satoru watches your hands move among the plants with practiced precision, a strange ache building in his chest. "Do you remember," he asks suddenly, "that weekend at my parents' lake house? When we were what, nineteen?"

You don't look up, but your hands pause briefly. "When you convinced me to try using my decay on the algae in the lake?"

"And it worked," he says, smiling at the memory. "You cleared that whole cove in minutes."

"And then panicked because I killed all the fish too," you remind him, but there's a hint of amusement in your voice.

"But then you cried for hours," Satoru continues, moving closer. "Until Suguru showed us the fish had just moved to the deeper water."

You shake your head, finally meeting his gaze. "I was so scared of my own power back then."

"And now look at you," he says softly. "Creating life instead of just taking it away."

The greenhouse falls silent except for the gentle hiss of the misting system.

"I keep preparing for the mission," you say, breaking the moment.

Satoru nods, stepping back. "Monday. I'll come by at six. For our very platonic walk to the station."

"Five-thirty," you correct him. "The train leaves at six-fifteen."

You try to ignore your blush. Platonic. All of your time alone together in his apartment has been anything but.

He grins. "Five-thirty it is."

As he turns to leave, you call after him: "Satoru?"

He pauses at the door, looking back.

"Thank you. For not insisting on coming with me."

His smile turns softer, more genuine than his usual cocky grin. "You're welcome, Twigs."

After he's gone, you press a hand to your chest, feeling your heartbeat beneath your palm. The corpse lilies pulse in rhythm with it, their blue veins glowing slightly brighter in the dimming light.

You look down at your arm, pulling back the sleeve to examine the dark veins spreading beneath your skin. They've grown since this morning—a fact you carefully concealed from Satoru. The reversal technique is taking more from you each time, but the potential benefits are too great to stop now.

"Just a little longer," you whisper to yourself, touching one of the corpse lilies gently. "Just until I perfect it."

Outside the greenhouse, Satoru leans against the wall, his confident posture gone. He stares at his hand, remembering the darkness he glimpsed spreading under your skin. He's seen cursed techniques consume their users before—seen talented sorcerers destroyed by their own power.

He won't let that happen to you. Not even if it means letting you go to Kyoto alone.

Not even if it means watching from a distance, ready to step in only if absolutely necessary.

Not even if it kills him to wait.

Satoru surprises you the night before you leave by showing up to your apartment. He doesn’t often leave the kids alone, but neither Tsumiki nor Megumi are particularly rebels. He’d left them in their shared room, a Ghibli movie playing on the TV while they drifted off to sleep.

“You could still use the door,” you scoff when you sense his presence. He laughs and puts a hand on your shoulder, his other one running through your hair in a way that makes your body heat up.

“But I don’t have to. Surprise.”

You snort. “What do you want? I’m trying to pack here.”

He pulls you closer, his arms around your waist. “Just wanted to see you again.”

“Well, my night time routine is pretty boring.”

“Nothing about you is boring, baby. I could watch you brush your teeth for hours.”

“Now that’s a lie.”

"Is it?" Satoru's voice drops lower, his breath warm against your ear. He spins you around to face him, those blue eyes searching yours with an intensity that makes your heart skip. "What if I told you I've memorized every little thing you do? The way you always start with the left side of your mouth when you brush. How you fold your clothes in perfect thirds before putting them in your suitcase."

You try to look away, but his fingers catch your chin. "Stop it," you mutter, uncomfortable with his scrutiny. The dark veins in your arm throb painfully.

"Let me see," he says suddenly, reaching for your sleeve.

You jerk back. "It's nothing."

"Don't lie to me, Twigs. Not about this." His playfulness has vanished, replaced by something harder, more desperate. "I saw it earlier."

"It's under control."

"Is it? Because it looks like it's spreading." His fingers hover over your arm, not quite touching.

The blackened veins have spread further, now reaching your elbow in intricate, web-like patterns. His expression doesn't change, but the temperature in the room drops several degrees.

"It's taking too much from you."

You pull away completely, turning back to your half-packed suitcase. "I don't need your concern, Satoru. I need your respect. This is my choice."

The silence stretches between you, heavy with unspoken fears. When he speaks again, his voice is uncharacteristically quiet.

"What happens when there's nothing left to take?"

The question hangs in the air. You've asked yourself the same thing during sleepless nights, watching the darkness crawl beneath your skin. But admitting that fear would mean admitting failure, and you can't—won't—do that.

"I'll find a balance," you say finally. "The corpse lilies are helping me understand the decay cycle. If I can master the reversal at the cellular level—"

"Theory won't matter if you're dead," he cuts in, an edge to his voice.

You slam the suitcase shut. "I'm not having this conversation again."

"Fine." He runs a hand through his white hair, frustration evident in every line of his body. "But… are you sure you don’t want me to come–"

"We've been over this. I need to do this alone."

Satoru watches you for a long moment, his usually playful demeanor completely gone. "Kyoto has strong curse concentrations right now. You'll be vulnerable if—"

"I'm stronger than I was before," you cut him off. "I'm not that helpless girl anymore."

His expression softens slightly. "I never thought you were helpless. But even the strongest sorcerers need backup sometimes."

You zip your suitcase closed with finality. "Then I'll call if I need you."

"You won't call." It's not an accusation but a simple statement of fact. He knows you too well.

You avoid his gaze, focusing instead on checking your supplies. The small vials of preservation fluid catch the light, their contents shifting with an unnatural shimmer. Each one represents hours of work, experiments conducted in the darkness when pain keeps you from sleep.

"Maybe I won't need to," you reply, arranging the vials methodically in your case. Each one glows with a faint, sickly luminescence—evidence of your progress, despite what Satoru believes.

He moves closer, and you feel the familiar pull of his presence. It's always been this way—like gravity shifting when he enters a room. You steel yourself against it.

"Those veins have spread," he observes, his fingers hovering above your forearm without touching. The dark lines have indeed crept higher, branching like river deltas toward your heart. "Shoko mentioned you've been skipping check-ins."

You snap the case closed. "Shoko talks too much."

"She's worried. We both are."

"I don't need your worry," you say, but the words lack conviction. The truth is more complicated—his concern both irritates and comforts you in ways you're not ready to examine.

Outside, thunder rumbles. The storm that's been threatening all day is finally breaking. It matches your mood perfectly.

"The Kyoto branch isn't expecting you," Satoru says, changing tactics. "I checked."

You stiffen. "You're monitoring my communications now?"

"When you're being reckless? Yes." He doesn't apologize, doesn't even look remotely guilty. "The corpse lily experiments are banned for a reason. If the higher-ups find out—"

"They won't," you interrupt, turning to face him fully. "Unless someone tells them."

The accusation hangs between you. For a moment, hurt flashes across his face before his expression hardens.

"You think I'd betray you like that?"

"I think you'd do whatever you believe is necessary to protect me," you say quietly. "Even from myself."

Rain begins to lash against the windows, casting wavering shadows across the room. In the half-light, the veins on your arm seem to pulse with each thunderclap.

Satoru moves to the window, his silhouette stark against the storm-dark sky. "You remember what happened to Amanai," he says finally. "How it felt to watch someone fade away and be powerless to stop it."

The mention of Riko Amanai sends a cold spike through your chest. Of course you remember. How could you forget the blood, the screams, the way her technique had consumed her from within before the end?

"This isn't the same," you whisper, but uncertainty creeps in. The comparison is too close for comfort.

"Isn't it?" He turns back to you, blue eyes intense. "Your technique feeds on you. Every time you use it, you give away a piece of yourself."

You look down at your arm, at the network of dark veins that map your sacrifice. Each one a testament to power gained through something surrendered.

"That's the price," you say, flexing your fingers and watching the dark lines shift beneath your skin. "Every technique has one. Even yours."

Satoru's jaw tightens. You've struck a nerve.

"Mine doesn't threaten to hollow me out from the inside," he says, voice low. "Yours is different. It's... hungry."

You've felt it too—the slow, creeping emptiness that follows each use of your technique, as if something essential is being siphoned away. But you've also felt the power, the rush of connection to something vast and ancient that makes the sacrifice seem worth it.

"I'm close to understanding the reversal," you tell him, softer now. "If I can master it, I can heal what's taken. Balance the equation."

Lightning flashes, illuminating Satoru's face. For a brief moment, his carefully constructed mask slips, and you glimpse the raw fear beneath.

"And if you can't?" he asks.

“Then, I’ll deal with the consequences.”

Satoru sighs. There’s no point in arguing with you further. He moves closer to you, running his fingers through your hair affectionately. You hate how much it makes your core throb with heat. You almost preen to this touch.

"You can't deal with consequences if you're gone," he murmurs, his fingers lingering against your scalp. Despite yourself, you lean into his touch, craving the warmth that bleeds from his fingertips.

The dark veins on your arm pulse in response, as if jealous of this connection. A sharp sting radiates up to your shoulder, and you pull away with a wince.

Satoru notices immediately. "It's getting worse."

"It fluctuates," you say dismissively, though you both know it's a lie. The veins have spread past your elbow now, creeping toward your heart with each passing week.

Rain lashes against the windows of your apartment, the rhythm matching the throbbing in your arm. Outside, Tokyo glitters beneath storm clouds, oblivious to the battle waging within your flesh.

"Let me see it," Satoru says, his voice leaving no room for argument.

You hesitate, then slowly roll up your sleeve. The veins have darkened since he last saw them, now a deep violet-black that seems to absorb light. They pulse with a rhythm that doesn't match your heartbeat.

Satoru kneels before you, taking your arm in his hands. His touch is clinical now, professional, though his eyes betray his concern. "The pattern's changed," he observes. "It's forming a circuit."

You've noticed it too—the way the veins are no longer spreading randomly but creating deliberate pathways across your skin. "It's adapting," you say. "Learning."

"Learning what, exactly?" Satoru's eyes meet yours, searching.

The question hangs between you, unanswered. The truth is, you don't know. You only understand that each time you use your technique, the veins respond, as if they're recording information, storing it within your flesh.

His expression is crumbled, his bottom heavy with a pout he tries to contain. He looks away, then rubs his thumb over your wrist. He leans down and kisses a vein.

"Don't," you whisper, but make no move to pull away.

His lips are cool against your fevered skin, and something inside you stirs—not just desire, but the thing that lives in your veins now. It writhes beneath his touch, curious and hungry. You feel it reaching toward him, and panic floods your system.

“What’s this?”

"It's... reactive to you."

A flash of lightning illuminates his face, revealing a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Of course it is. Everything about you has always reacted to me."

"That's not what I mean," you say, finally pulling your arm away. The moment his lips leave your skin, the veins seem to calm, settling into their unsettling rhythm once more. "It's different. Like it recognizes you."

Satoru's eyes narrow, that brilliant blue catching the storm light. "Interesting. What else does it recognize?"

You stand and move to the window, pressing your forehead against the cool glass. The rain forms rivulets that mirror the patterns on your arm. "Everything. Nothing. I don't know, Satoru. Sometimes it feels like it's... cataloging. Cursed energy, emotions, intent."

Behind you, he's silent for so long you think he might have left. Then his reflection appears beside yours in the window, his height dwarfing you. “I’ll give it something important, then.”

“Sato—”

You’re interrupted by him, the softness of his mouth melting into the seam of yours.

The kiss is gentle at first, almost hesitant—so unlike him that it startles you more than any forceful gesture could. Then his hands find your waist, and the gentleness gives way to something more familiar, more desperate. Your veins pulse in time with your racing heart, dark tendrils crawling up your neck in response.

The kiss is like electricity, a current that runs from his lips straight to the veins in your arm. They pulse violently, glowing with a faint blue luminescence that matches his eyes. You gasp against his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, one hand cupping your face while the other finds your wrist again, his thumb pressing against your pulse point.

You wrench away, panting. The blue glow beneath your skin intensifies, spreading up your shoulder and flaring across your collarbone like a spiderweb of light.

"Satoru, stop." Your voice trembles. "Something's happening."

His eyes are transfixed on the pattern that now crawls across your chest, his expression a strange mixture of fascination and concern. "It's beautiful," he whispers, reaching out.

You back away. "It hurts."

That snaps him to attention. The playfulness vanishes from his face, replaced by something harder, more focused. "Tell me exactly what you feel."

"Like it's... recording you. Saving you." You clutch your arm to your chest, the veins pulsing in time with your heartbeat. "It's never done this before."

Thunder crashes outside, and the lights flicker. In that momentary darkness, your veins cast eerie shadows across the walls.

"Your technique is evolving," he says, voice low and serious in a way that makes your stomach clench. "It's not just reversing anymore, is it? It's... adapting."

Lightning flashes again, casting harsh shadows acrossl face. In that instant, he looks almost frightened—an expression so foreign on him that you reach out instinctively.

"I don't know what's happening to me," you admit. "Sometimes I feel like I'm losing myself to it."

Satoru's grip on your wrist tightens, his thumb pressing into your pulse point. "You're not losing yourself. You're becoming something else. Something more."

Your eyes flutter as you surrender to his touch. You’ve gotten better at saying no. With Satoru, it’s the first word that’s come to your head when you see him in person. It’s not fair, maybe, with how much he adores you. How good he’s been.

“You’re so good,” he drawls. “Always something otherworldly, baby.”

You let yourself let go, just this once. His mouth is on your neck and you can’t really think of anything else.

His lips move against your skin, and for a moment, the pain recedes. It's always been like this with him—the world narrows to just the two of you, everything else fading to background noise. But the relief is fleeting. The veins pulse again, more insistent this time, and you gasp.

"Satoru, wait—"

He pulls back immediately, blue eyes searching yours. The darkness of the room only makes them more striking, like ice catching moonlight. "What is it?"

"I don't think we should be doing this right now." Your voice is barely above a whisper. The veins are spreading faster now, creeping up your neck. Each new inch feels like ice water in your veins. "It's... reacting to you. To us."

A storm rages outside, but the one brewing inside you feels more dangerous. Satoru's expression shifts, that rare vulnerability replaced by calculation. He's analyzing you, the way he does with powerful curses or complex techniques.

“Is it making you feel good?” he whispers.

“Yes,” you whisper.

"Then don't fight it," he murmurs, his fingers tracing the dark veins with reverence. "Let it come."

The sensation is overwhelming—his touch against your cursed skin sending electric currents through your body. Your technique responds, the blue glow intensifying as if recognizing him, wanting him. The veins pulse in rhythm with your heartbeat, each throb a mixture of pleasure and pain so intense you can barely distinguish between them.

Satoru's fingers trace the dark patterns on your skin, following them up your arm to your collarbone. The veins pulse beneath his touch, as if responding to him directly. You shiver, feeling the strange energy inside you surge toward his fingertips like iron to a magnet.

The veins spread further, creeping across your collarbone, threading beneath the thin fabric of your shirt. You feel yourself changing, cellular memories rearranging, your cursed energy intertwining with something ancient and hungry.

Your back arches involuntarily as a surge of power courses through you. The room darkens, shadows stretching unnaturally across the walls. Outside, the storm intensifies, lightning illuminating the room in staccato flashes that reveal Satoru's face—fascinated, possessive, and something else. Something you've rarely seen there.

He kisses you and every tendril in your body electrifies. You kiss him back with more fervor than you anticipate and he moans.

You’re the one who initiates, surprisingly. You have your hands all over him, grazing the hardness tightening in his lap. He moans when you touch him. You keep touching him, knowing what makes him tick while he uselessly attempts to nip at your neck.

Your movements feel like autopilot. All automatic motions towards the next path of evolution.

Nonetheless, Satoru moans under your touch. Revels in the way your mouth feels against his skin.

Your fingertips trace the contours of his chest, leaving faint blue luminescent trails in their wake. The veins have spread further now, wrapping around your shoulders like dark vines, pulsing with each accelerated heartbeat. You should be terrified—this transformation is unprecedented, dangerous—but with Satoru here, his presence anchoring you, the fear dissolves into exhilaration.

"It's like it knows you," you breathe, watching how the cursed energy responds to him, reaching out when he's near, retreating when he pulls away. "Like it's always known you."

Thunder crashes outside, and the lights flicker, plunging the room momentarily into darkness before returning. In that split second, you see something else in the shadows—shapes moving, watching, drawn to the power emanating from your body.

"Maybe because you’ve always known me,” he mumbles.

He slowly removes your sleep shirt from you, eyes widening when he sees your skin. He’s always adored your body – every freckle, every stretch mark. With his Six Eyes, he sees you more vividly than anyone else can. When he undresses you to complete bareness, it’s like you’re glowing.

“Satoru,” you gasp.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Touch me.”

He does. He should be more concerned, he knows this, but he feels spellbound. Your body is glowing and it’s beckoning him like a ship to a lighthouse. His hands are all over you – caressing soft skin and electric veins. He can feel your pulse thumping in tandem with his, his cock warm and throbbing at the same time.

His fingers dive into your heat. You’re already wet.

He groans at the sensation, pressing his face into your throat as he revels in the hummed vibrations of your moans. The more he touches you, the hotter you feel. His fingers disappearing into your cunt, melting him. Such a ripe girl – as soft as you were when he’d first fucked you.

You come without warning, thighs shivering. It’s so fast that it takes Satoru a second to recognize it. He has to wipe the drool from his mouth as he watches.

He’s frantic when he takes you. It’s easy. His cock nudges into your cunt – when had you undressed him? Suddenly, he’s bare all over, skin to skin with you. He’s drunk on lust, sharing your delirium. He slams his cock into you quick but deep. Widens his eyes at the way you look like you were born from the moon.

It feels way too fucking good. You always feel too good, he realizes, but this is something entirely different. Something out of his fantasies and wet dreams. You don’t even feel real to him right now.

He can’t stop. All the sounds you make encourage him. He nearly forgets himself when he’s inside you. Magical girl. When he’s with you like this, he is no longer the strongest. Just a weak man in love.

Sometimes it makes him feel rotten. The feeling in his stomach is hot and syrupy, too sticky to get rid of. He groans as he fucks you, kissing the corner of your mouth and licking the side of your jaw. Too sweet, all of you.

Every plunge into your pussy makes you jump – he can feel it in your pulse. His eyelids dip as he pulls back to look at your face. Mouth parted, cherubic. Sweat clings to you like a second skin and Satoru has the urge to clean you with his tongue.

“F-Fuck,” he gasps, “How do you feel so fucking good?”

You attempt to reply but it comes out in nonsensical babbles. You’re too distracted from being loosened by him, your insides fluxing. Tightening on reflex and making him groan like an animal.

“Like that,” you whisper, eyes rolling back, “Keep going like that–”

Satoru swears he sees your pulse in motion right beneath your skin. Glowing like lightning against an inky sky. It can’t be real. Feels too psychedelic. When you clench around him, his eyes are all over you, watching you cum as your eyes roll back into your head.

His stomach twists into something akin to pleasure and longing.

He applies pressure to your clit with his fingers and sees it again – your whole heart jumping with arousal.

Your hips cant up to meet his thrusts, getting him so deep that he whimpers.

“Gonna cum, baby –”

Every slam of his hips brings you towards the edge. You squeeze him until it’s all over, until he’s flooding you with warmth. There’s white hair in your mouth from him burying his nose into your neck. Breathing in your skin.

You gasp in pleasure, the feeling of him too heady. The way Satoru hums into your collarbone makes your cunt throb again.

You blink your eyes open and there’s rouge all over his cheeks. He looks at you like he’s falling in love for the first time.

“Dunno if I’ll be able to let you go tomorrow morning,” Satoru sighs, pulling out gently and grunting.

“You have to,” you hum. “You’ve done it before.”

Satoru says nothing in response, only nods. He has nothing to argue about, but feelings of anxiety still pool in the place right below his lungs. Instinct is what keeps you so close to him. Without it, he only feels lost.

“Yeah,” he breathes, nodding slightly. His past boyish self wants to argue. “I have.”

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

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