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riveredmoon · 2 hours ago

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night fever ˙⋆✮

Nothing is more magical than a Saturday night — especially in New York City.

pairing: satoru gojo x fem!reader

synopsis: one saturday night soaked in desire and disco, two dancers meet — one magnetic, one mesmerizing, both lost. on this fateful night, they find a rhythm in each other they’ve been searching for all along.

warnings/content: non curse au, fluff, love at first sight (kinda?), reader is so sassy (i love her), i also gave the reader some physical traits, cursing, drinking, club scene, smut: public sex, oral (fem!receiving), piv, unprotected, doggy, not finished.

word count: 6.3k

note: this was so fun to make! i hope you enjoy it :) *all pictures found on pinterest!*

listen

New York, New York

A summer’s night in 1978

Satoru Gojo — the self declared King of the Dance Floor — has a feeling that tonight is going to be much more than disco music and dirty dancing.

His white, frosty hair is in perfect place. His blue eyes covered with the sleek black sunglasses that fall perfectly down the bridge of his nose; he is aware just how much the women love this. The gold chain his friends all chipped in to give him after he swore (once again, self declared) he won the title of King of the Dance Floor, clings to his chest from the sweat gathered there. The humidity thick with anticipation, something almost magnetic.

The horns of the yellow taxis yelp in his ear as he struts across the cross walk. The concrete vibrating from the trains underground — the tremor feeling like the bass that flows through him when he enters the club.

The night time air is swarming with bodies and mumbled conversations about wrecked work weeks and who knows who is going to be dancing tonight. He weaves and ebbs his way through the crowd of people. Shoulder bumps and scowls towards his get up go unnoticed. Not when the neon lights are glowing for him, and him alone.

Nothing is more magical than a Saturday night — especially in New York City.

Satoru’s limbs are practically acting on their accord, leading him down the packed sidewalk to the one place where he and everyone else could be free.

Home.

No thoughts, no judgment, no one asking who he is and who he wants to be — and even if that question did somehow come into conversation over a booming Donna Summer’s song, “a dancer” would suffice.

On Saturdays at Studio VI, Satoru and every other seasoned Saturday dancer is allowed to feel. Using the dance floor as a therapist, a mouth to talk from, a friend at times. He has and will always have the space here to close his eyes and look for himself in the groove of bodies and funk music. No claim to a throne that he does not want (and truthfully doesn’t want him either). No need to be anything more than Satoru Gojo.

Dancing gives him this high — one he has been searching for in everything else. Sunday through Friday, his brain racks up ideas and his cerulean eyes search for a meaning, for a want that drives him forth. One that rivals the feelings of a Saturday creeping up on his week. All he wants is to grasp onto this high, letting it flow into everything he does, into everything he is.

He is sometimes so jealous of Saturdays, of funk, of Studio VI, of other people who get to see him dance, even sometimes of his own feet — because they have no restraints. All of those things can be what they are, no questions asked. They watch Satoru with pity in their eyes as he walks home with his sweat slicked on his hairline, the high feeling sweeping into the sticky air. His head down, his resolve gone again — the clock waiting to strike 12:00am next Saturday, just for him.

So lost in his thoughts, lost in the magnetic pull that ties him to the bright lights and the secrecy of Studio VI — he doesn’t realize he is standing in front of it.

Then the pink haired bodyguard that Satoru has grown to love and associate with the feeling he gets when he steps foot into the club — swings the door open for him. Granting him access to a burst of music, heat, and cigarette smoke. It wraps him up and squeezes like it knows his name, like it knows him personally.

He sometimes thinks that it does.

He steps forward, a slight push from the tempo spilling out of the door. His sunglasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as a waft of a humid summer breeze ruffles his perfectly styled hair. It also brings along a scent so sweet, he feels like he could die from a sugar rush. Right at the doors of heaven. No better way to go, he thinks to himself.

The velvet ropes locking in the other Saturday dancers waiting to step into their place of reprieve catches his attention. That feeling of something magical, something more than dancing grows stronger. The smell of sweetness practically dancing around… her.

A shimmer of red, a bare back of smooth, glowy golden skin. It almost looks like she sat in the sun today just to accompany the red dress with a summer tan.

Jet black hair, feathered at the bottom sways against her back. Everything about her flickering in neon, the club’s awning of lights acting as her own personal spotlight.

Everything moves in slow motion — the way she shifts on to her left foot. The way her hips sway, even as she stands still — not dancing, just existing in a rhythm he would kill to hear. A tempo he wishes he could be the producer of, so that he can boastfully tell people he created something for… her.

His mouth parts just slightly, as if her name is on the tip of his tongue wanting to be spoken into the summer’s night. His foot stuck in its first step into the club — essentially stepping on air.

Then someone calls his name, and the bouncer waves him forward. New York City roars behind him, and he just realized everything was quiet when his eyes trailed along her spine.

He’s pulled in, just when she starts to turn. Her side profile teases him as he pushes forward into dancing bodies and into the feeling that everything is going to change.

Once inside, the lights swallow him whole. But something about those velvet ropes, bare golden back, and the stillness that came with it stays stuck in his chest. Like he’s heard the start of a song, but missed the hook.

“It’s me, yo’ boy DJ Who Dat in The Back ,” Ino yells over the lyrics of Bad Girls. You stifle a laugh, knowing where he’s going with his weekly joke. “Ladies, ask me about my stage name and I’d show you how I came up with it. But, after my gig. I’m here to make y’all dance!”

The bass thumps against your heels as the record for Ring My Bell starts to play. The tempo is steady in the soles of your feet, rising slowly through your ribs as if it’s a string pulling you upright.

Your movements are slow, on purpose. Letting the music move you, the dance floor welcomes you to a secret that only you can hear.

Kento’s hands are light on your waist, respectful. Solid. Missing out on the secret that you and the dance floor are sharing — the rhythm flowing through him differently than how it’s flowing through you. But, he trusts you how you trust the music to guide you. He has never been here to take, just witness. Bringing you back to reality after Saturday night cascades away from you.

But tonight, you felt that reality will forever be altered. You felt it on the train ride here, the stares of non dancers drilling into your bare back and reminding you that this is who you are. A dancer that sometimes clashes the reality of everyday life with the neon lights and tempo beats in the dream land of Saturday night clubs.

But with the rickety air conditioner on the train, the summer breeze that smelled of garbage left out on the side of the street and the gas exhaust from taxis, the velvet rope rubbing against your thigh — the air was different. There was a shift that electrified but also kind of scared you.

The red dress you specifically sought after for tonight, clings to your hips effortlessly as you roll and sway. Sweat glides down the curve of your spine, but you don’t swipe it away. You don’t even feel it. You let it glisten.

“Ken,” you say over the music. Your best friend’s hazel eyes meet yours, a quirk in his eyebrows. “Is someone staring at me?”

“People are always staring at you,” he replies, missing a step and nearly stomping on your toe. You ignore how he is right, wanting to tell him this stare was different. It’s been following you since you were waiting in line. You almost want to tell him you welcome it, you want more of it.

There’s a weight pressing in between your shoulder blades. It’s hot, and hungry — it makes your skin prickle from the contact.

Someone isn’t only staring at you but they’re tracking. Watching every movement you make before you even think to act on it.

That feeling of magic, of a new reality feels heavy in your chest. You do the only thing you know to do — you keep dancing. Knowing that the watcher knew you’d do that.

You try to ignore the heavy gaze to focus on your feet moving. Focusing on the way your hips feel lighter whenever it follows the rhythm of a song. The stress from everything leaking out onto the dance floor.

That pull is wrapping itself around your ankles. Kento’s hand slipping from your waist, giving you the freedom to let go.

And you do.

You turn in a half circle, hips still moving, your head tilted back just enough that the room blurs. Streaks of neon light bleeding like watercolors, the disco ball spinning stars across the room.

The perfect picture.

Kento leans in to ask you something, his words floating past you. Because there it is again — the intent stare, the awareness, the goosebumps climbing up your spine.

The look is cumbrous, focused. Too sure of itself to be casual.

With half lidded eyes, and sweat dripping from your hairline — you don’t have to know what it means. Your gaze lands — past the crowd of couples rubbing against each other, through the smoke, the watercolors and heat —

Blue.

Behind black sunglasses. Frosty hair framing his face. Leaning against the wall like he owns it. Like he knows the secrets of the wall and every object in here, maybe even yours. Like he’s been watching you since the beginning of time.

And grinning.

Satoru’s friends try to grab his attention — Suguru pulling his arm and yelling something over the DJ's new song choice. Haibara pushes a red drink in his hands, he only slid attention to that because it matches the color of the lipstick on your lips.

His eyes have not left your fleeting back, carefully tracking every movement you have made since leaving the dance floor. A continuous loop of you dancing and catching his gaze — your eyes blown out as you watched him grin at you, your lips agape as if you too knew his name and wanted to have it spill out — plays on one side of his brain while the other plays what’s happening in front of him.

You’re seated at the bar, your back slicked with sweat as one of your golden legs fold over the other. He feels like an intruder just watching you, but he can’t help it. He doesn’t want to stop. He knows he wouldn’t be able to.

He knows better than to chase someone.

He’s never had to.

But, with your presence pulling at places he didn’t know could be pulled at unless it involved dancing, he knew he couldn’t let you strut away.

You looked at him as if you felt the feeling too and honestly that warmed him to the core. He is happy he isn’t a lone stranger to the idea of the disco changing his life between the sweat glands of dancing bodies and the watered down vodka his friends drink.

Without so much as a plan, nervousness (a foreign emotion) stacking on his shoulder, and the feeling of maybe forgetting his name IF you ask for it — he pushes the drink back into Haibara’s hands. And he starts walking, or more like following the invisible string that connects his feet to the bottom of your heels. Like a headphone jack to a speaker playing a song only you two know.

You don’t turn your head to greet him when he reaches the bar. You already know he is there.

“I think you need a new partner,” he says, leaning one elbow on the counter. That fruity smell from outside flows into his airstream and he almost thinks he’s walking by those fruit stands on the corners.

Your response is slow, and he finds himself fidgeting on the spot. But all the confidence that you had on the dance floor oozes out and tickles his ear. His chest lurches and he almost slaps himself at the absurdity of this.

“Do I?” Your hands grip a sweating glass of the same color drink that was placed in his hand. He always jumps at the coincidence — this must mean something. Your lips, his drink, your drink.

“Your friend,” Satoru pauses on the world friend to watch how you react to the word. Your lips meet the rim of your glass, showing no change in your expression. “He dances like a log, so yeah you do.”

You shrug. “Didn’t know logs danced. I’d keep that in mind when I look for another partner.” Your tongue laps over your bottom lip and Satoru finds himself leaning in closer. “No log dancers, got it.”

Satoru thinks this is easy, he has you right in the palm of his hand. “You don’t have to look too far,” he hums, and he watches how you roll your shoulders out. The red dress clings to your body perfectly. “I’m here,” he points to himself, despite you still not looking at him. “You’re my dream girl, I’ll be your dream partner.”

Finally, you meet his eyes. Your head swivels to where he is standing and Satoru has to grip the edge of the bar. Your glare is intense, but known. As if he has been on the receiving end of it everyday of his life before this. He hopes he is after tonight.

The awareness about tonight is gnawing on his spine. He feels himself stand up straighter, as if that would grant him all the change he so desperately wants if it has anything to do with you.

“Well, Blue,” you almost purr, and he can’t help but watch how your lips form every world. “Can I call you that?” You bat your eyelashes in faux innocence and he goes to nod his head — because truthfully he’d let you call him anything if it means your eyes were on him.

“If you’re looking for a dream girl … close your eyes and go to sleep and have a fucking nightmare.”

You send him an amused smile and he can’t help but let the chuckle bubbling in his throat squeak out.

Your eyes bore into his and Satoru all of sudden becomes a master of stillness. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t blink, afraid that any sudden movement would shift your attention elsewhere.

“I’m here to dance. Not be anything for anybody.”

You glance away, back at the bar. The scratch of a record indicates the DJ is setting up a new song and Satoru knows this might be the only chance he gets, so he jumps.

“So put your money where your mouth is and dance,” he pauses to place his hand in front of you. Your eyes drop to look at it with a confidence that tells him you might not place your hand in his. “With me.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Dancing with the King of the Dance Floor,” he sends a gleaming smile your way, his glasses slipping just a bit. “I’d say that’s pretty neat.”

You start to smile and Satoru is sure he’s never seen anything so beautiful. A soft exhale slips from your red lips, your lipstick smudged from the sips of your drink you took. It makes you look even prettier.

“I made you smile,” he points at you. You send him a sideways glance. “Next base is dancing,” he shrugs.

You turn to face him, your legs knocking into his and his skin prickles at the contact. “I’m laughing at you.”

“Wow, what a feat.” His hand reaches for his chest, his heart actually beating harder than it ever had before. He secretly prays that he is playing it cool. “What is funny?”

“The color of your eyes match your shirt,” you point at his shirt, your finger mere inches away from his bare chest.

“Aw,” his hand on the bar reaches up to touch the ends of your raven hair. You move away when you notice. “So you were looking into my eyes. We’re practically married now.”

You scoff adding an eye roll. However, Satoru doesn’t miss the sly smile on your lips. Like you both are in on a joke that no one else could hear. He finds himself grinning down at you.

Then, your hand finds his and you step down for the bar stool. And everything starts to morph into one — the warmth of the club rivaling the warmth of your hand in his. Your fruity smell dancing along with the multiple fruity drinks that are being passed along the bar to other patrons. Everything that goes against you pales in comparison.

“You’re following me, Blue.”

The music starts up and at this Satoru feels like he’s watching himself from the disco ball above. He watches the way you walk into the crowd, his hand in yours as everyone makes room for you to pass. As if the dance floor only called for you and everyone got the memo.

You don’t look back, you know and feel him following. Even if your hand wasn’t pulling him along — he knows as well as everyone in this club, that he would’ve been nipping at your heels anyways.

And that’s when he knows — he’s hooked. Maybe he would chase you. Wherever you bring him.

“Don’t fall in love, Blue.” You call from over your shoulder. Your fingers are dancing with his as you lead him to your home. This act being the highest form of intimacy in this world of yours. “It’s just a dance.”

The music drops — sticky, heavy bassline crawls over your skin like the summer heat. Your fingers tighten around his, indents of each other gathering around your hands at how tightly you two are holding on. As you step into the full pulse of the crowd, you let go. You don’t look back, you don’t have too.

You feel his presence just as you still felt his hand in yours.

You sway your hips, confident and smooth — the rhythm of the song already memorized before it even started. Like your body had the blueprint for this. Bodies press around you, arms flinging along the beat penetrating the air. The heat rises like steam from a crowded sidewalk, but you can’t register it. Not with those blue eyes boring into your back like a handprint left behind.

Your turn towards him, slowly and sultry — but making sure to keep a sliver of distance between your bodies. A challenge. An invitation to a changed reality.

“My dream partner wouldn’t be so far away,” you add a pout to your lips. You relish in how his eyes stray from your swaying hips, to your lidded eyes. Like he’s collecting every piece of information you’re offering him, just for himself.

He takes it.

Two steps, that’s all it takes and he is in front of you. Smiling down at you like you’re the answer to all those hard hitting questions that attack him at three in the morning. He smiles and watches you, like he knew you’d make space for him.

His hand hovers over your hip, respectful, but you could feel the ache for him to touch you. You feel the way he is holding back. And that makes you smile back up at him.

You tilt your head. “I don’t bite, Blue.” You bat your lashes at him, watching his adams apple bob from the swallow he lets down. “Unless you beg.”

His grin widens and suddenly his hands are at your waist. The nerves and restraint you felt from him is slowly slipping away — you hope it doesn’t follow you into next Saturday.

He pulls you into him — heat to heat, chest to chest — your bodies instantly catching onto the same rhythm. It’s almost as if you’ve been dancing for years. Your body knows his and he knows yours.

The crowd disappears — just watercolor lights and blue prancing through your eyelids. You question yourself, how is it possible to feel free, even more so than you do dancing, in the arms of a stranger?

Everything in the club spins slowly, like together you two are the center of gravity and everyone at Studio VI came to orbit around you.

You trace your fingers down his arm, light as silk, until you reach his hand. It’s oddly cold now, not matching the heat emitting from his chest against yours. You guide his hand lower, where the small of your back burns, where your dress clings like a second skin. And when you roll your hips against his, just right, you feel it — that little stutter in his breath. The way his fingers curl, gripping harder — holding on to you as if he’ll lose you if he lets go.

Your eyes bore into his. His smile is gone, yours too.

It’s something hungrier nipping in between you. And you’re sure that you’d both welcome it with open hands. It’s Saturday night, after all.

You loop your arms around his neck — bodies staying pressed together, moving in sync to a beat that you’re sure lives within your bones. Every sway is deliberate, every roll of your hips matched with tension from his grip on your hips.

You two move like two magnets snapping together.

You feel him holding back, like he thinks the club might collapse if he touches you the way you both want.

It excites you.

It confuses you.

You want more.

You step closer, your arms slightly pushing his head closer to you. Your lips brush against the tip of his ear. His cologne swallows you.

“You told me you were the King of the Dance Floor.”

He exhales through his nose, the rush of air tickling your shoulder blade. And in a tone that sounds like he’ll surrender any minute he says, “I am.”

“Prove it.”

The beat slows. People brush past you. Your bodies stay linked.

His hand drags along your spine, slow and firm, until his hand reaches your hip where he grips — hard enough to leave a bruise. You grind into him, shamelessly, harder. And for the first time since he followed you onto this dance floor, he lets go — no sassy quip, no boyish grin. Just his hips bucking into yours.

You gasp. Barely. Just enough to have him catch it.

His blue eyes darken as you continue to stare up at him through your lashes.

He leans forward, his lips grazing your jaw. Not kissing, but close enough that you believe he’s trying to memorize the scent of you or the taste of your skin brushing his lips.

“What are you doing to me?” He murmurs against your skin, his voice all husky and you smile because you know you’ve caused it. The smell of his cologne lets you know that he’s still your Blue. “If you keep looking at me like this, I might have to take you someplace more private.”

You hum, eyes fluttering close for a second. Your gut is dipping at the shift of the air and the heat crawling between your pressed bodies.

When you open your eyes, you don’t recognize yourself in the mirror of his gaze.

You step up on your tippy toes, your nose brushing his as you feel him exhale. “I dare you.” You whisper with your lips pressed to his.

He does not really remember how you both made it back here. All he could remember is the way your hips rolled against him, as if you knew what you were doing to him — like you knew just a couple movements from you would make him lose all control. His usual charm is not loaded onto his personality tonight, and there is a club of eyes that saw him embarrass himself by grinding shamelessly against you.

But that feeling that has followed him all day today, making its way into his bloodstream and psyche feels so alive in this room that all he has to do is reach his hand out and he is sure he can hold it. He can shove it into his pocket and have it help him guide the rest of his life — and he hopes you’d be joining along.

He’s never felt like this. Not until… you.

You’re pressed against a dark, velvet wall, lips swollen and breath uneven. All Satoru can do is stare at you. His eyes are tracking every single movement you grace the room with.

“Don’t need to hide behind these,” you whisper, your fingers curling around the edges of his glasses. You pull them off slowly, like you’re undressing him — giving him the chance to stop you if it’s all too much. But, Satoru wants to show you everything. He wants to dig into his chest and possibly give you his heart in the process. He’ll stick with the glasses for now.

His lashes flutter when you finally remove the glasses, letting them slip from your fingers and hitting the floor with a small thud. The air feels different now that you’re looking at him fully. At the real him. Nothing blocking his eyes from staring straight into his. Satoru shudders at this. “I felt your stare on me all night. No need to hide anymore.”

He doesn’t really have anything to say, he doesn’t know what to say. His mouth is dry, his is dick hard. He can’t concentrate on anything but your smudged lipstick and just how short you are to him.

He towers a good foot over you, and somehow he feels small under your stare. The way you tilt your head to the side as if you’re the one looking down at him.

“You’re short?” He mumbles, his voice rough.

You blink, right at him. “Short?” He hears the snicker that wants to slip past your lips.

“Yeah, short.”

You pause, well everything pauses for Satoru as a smile starts to grow on your lips. A dangerous, devilish kind of smile — and you say, “I’m the perfect height go do this.”

Your palm press right over the bulge in his pants, and his knees almost buckle.

“Get down,” you whisper, and he doesn’t even think to disobey.

He sinks to his knees, like he is praying to an altar made just for you. His hands skimming down your body and stilling at your hips.

He looks up at you, his voice getting stuck in his throat as you stare down at him. Your cheeks flushed, pupils blown out, bottom lip tucked in between your teeth.

You hook a leg over his shoulder, dress hitched higher than before, and Satoru gets a full view of the damp spot between your folds. His hands press into the back of your thighs, spreading you open like a prayer, like he wants to crawl inside this moment and never leave. Stay right here with the bass banging in his chest and your eyes locked on his.

He places a chaste kiss on your inner thigh, your skin soft and supple. The scent of your arousal follows, as he guides more kisses until his nose is basically brushing against your covered pussy.

“Like being taller, huh?” He mumbles, breathless almost. His hands are gripping the back of your thighs so hard, he wonders if you’d leave here with mementos of him littered around your body.

“I like having you look up at me,” you hum, amused. You buck your hips forward, his nose brushing against your clit.

“Hmm,” he pushes the fabric of your panties aside, and he is thankful for the position of being on his knees — he wants to thank whatever higher power would listen to him.

He drags his tongue, slow, almost possessively between your folds. The first full lick of you — hot and slick and already aching — makes Satoru groan like he’s the one being touched.

You taste better than anything he’s ever known.

You lean your head back and moan, and Satoru takes it as an endorsement — his tongue flattening, dragging up and down, then flicking exactly where you need him. Your moans ring in his ears and right here, he establishes that this is favorite song. One he’d listen to for the rest of his life if given the chance.

One of his slender hands spreads over your stomach, anchoring you to the wall as he buries his face deeper between your thighs like he’s famished.

He licks your clit gently, nibbling at it softly. His eyes stay glued on you, watching how your legs tighten, how your hips twitch against him. One of your heels digs into his back and he smiles against you. He sucks you clit into his mouth lazily, then a little harder once he notices your head hitting the wall again.

Your hips tremble around him. Your moans hitting a higher pitch, Satoru groans. He stands in one quick motion, your legs wobbling from being held up by him.

Your head falls forward onto his shoulder, your chest heaving. One of your hands reaches up to grip the ends of his hair at the nape of his neck, he shudders at the feeling.

“When you first introduced yourself,” you pant, your lips brushing his ear. “You should’ve said you were really good with your mouth.” He groans, his hands palming at your hips.

He doesn’t give you a second to breathe before he presses his mouth to yours — messy and heated, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. You moan into the kiss, and he swears his dick got harder than it already was.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” he pulls your hips back, turning you to face the wall.

“I’ve been waiting, King of the Dance Floor,” you tease. Your hands clawing into the velvet walls, your back lightly arching, reaching for his touch. He unbuckles his pants like a man possessed.

He slides in with a hiss — you’re so wet it’s obscene — and his hands fist in the fabric of your dress as he fucks into you hard. The red looks deeper as it flushes against the paleness of his palm.

The beat of the music outside matches the frantic pace of his thrusts. His balls are slapping against your clit, his hips snapping into yours like how they did on the dance floor.

You’re gasping. Moaning. Arching into him like you own this moment, like he’s yours to ruin. As if you haven’t ruined him before this.

One of his hands reaches for your neck, his hand wrapping around your throat. He sighs as he feels you swallow a moan down.

“I hope no one is using this room to fuck,” someone yells from directly outside the door. Hand jiggling the locked door handle, his heart dropping with every twist of the knob.

Satoru stills inside of you, his forehead resting on your quivering shoulder, hand stilled around your throat. His cock twitches as your gummy walls tighten around him. He wants to groan at the sensation, but quiets at the thought of getting caught.

There’s a knock at the door, heavy and a little disarming. You clench tight and involuntarily around him. His breath shudders, his eyes roll back.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” he grits, the hand around your neck adding some pressure.

You smile at him from over your shoulder, “Get us caught and you’ll never fuck me again.”

“So there’ll be a next time?” He murmurs, placing a soft kiss on your shoulder.

“I don’t really want someone seeing your bare ass, Blue,” you laugh. Your hair brushing his face as you try to shift.

“It’s a nice ass,” he tries to laugh this off. His voice comes off almost like a growl.

“I’d kick it if people see us like this,” you huff, you move your hips but all you do is burrow him deeper into your slick. Both of you letting out quiet groans.

With a hand on your hip to still you from pushing him any further, he stares at the side of your face. The jiggles on the doorknob become more frantic, but right he could care less. “What if I’m into that?”

“Blue, get out of me.”

The city is still awake, still loud, still buzzing. It’s still yours and his as you walk side by side. The moon dimmed itself to let the sun take over in a few hours. Stars not visible in the night sky, but neon lights and flashing billboards guiding you home.

“Who are you?” You ask, breaking the silent blanket that wrapped around you both.

Blue has a pizza slice in his hand, some tomato sauce at the corner of his lips and you want to tell him, so that he doesn’t gawk at his reflection about it. But, it’s boyish and it’s him, and you personally think he looks cute so unguarded.

The glasses now atop his head, his shirt pulled out of his pants from earlier — you know you look just as unguarded. You’re happy that you’re doing it together.

“Satoru Gojo,” he answers, his voice low and hesitant. You wonder if he didn’t want you to know his name.

“No,” you shake your head, your hair feeling frizzy from the humidity as it rubs against your shoulders. “Who are you?”

He stops, pizza still in his hand. You stop too, grabbing his hand to bring the pizza closer to your own lips, taking a bite. “I don’t know,” you hear the nervousness in his voice, as if he’s being interviewed. You watch as he scratches the back of his neck, his eyes darting from your lips to the sidewalk straight ahead.

You give him time to find his words. You want to hear him. You want him to know he could be heard by you.

“On Saturdays, I’m a dancer.”

“Well, Satoru Gojo,” his eyebrows hitch up at the sound of his full name slipping from your lips, like it belongs there. It does after tonight, you just won’t tell him that … not yet.

“You could be a dancer everyday. Whenever you hear music, just dance.”

“It’s not what is wanted for me,” he shrugs. You notice the crease in between his eyebrows as he thinks hard, and you hate that you know the feeling.

Sunday through Friday you hide, molding yourself to the status quo. On Saturdays you could squeeze into a red dress you spent your entire check on and just dance. Just feel. Just be yours.

“Who gives a fuck,” you shrug and he lets out a croaked chuckle. His eyes running back to watch you, almost like he’s studying you.

“I want it for you, Blue,” you almost don’t recognize how soft your voice sounds. It feels weird, but it feels like it belongs here. Like it belongs to be heard by him. “Do it for me, for you, and for all the Saturdays that are going to be spent in the grave after we’re gone.”

You send him a smile, turning to start to walk again. You hear his feet scurrying behind to catch up and you both walk in a comfortable silence. The hums of cars stopped at red lights, the train still chugging down below, and your heart leaping whenever his arm brushes against yours. It warms you in a way you can’t really explain.

Like you’re sitting in the middle of your bed with your Grandma’s quilt wrapped around you so lovingly, you’d stay there for the rest of your life if you could.

“You’re not so nightmarish, huh?” He hums, his voice filled with nostalgia as if you guys haven’t met tonight.

“Don’t push it, Gojo,” you bump your hip into his. He barely moves, just a smile gracing his plump lips.

“It’s Blue to you,” he bumps back into you, his hand grasping your wrist as you falter just a little. “Want to dance next Saturday?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“There are so many other days of the week,” you smile at him, his hand still on your wrist. His thumb rubs small circles near your pulse point. “We’re splitting here,” you stand at the corner, the walk lights blinking quietly.

“Can I walk you home?” He nods, removing his hand from your wrist. The pizza is gone, both of his hands stuffing into the front of his bell bottom pants.

“Nope,” you laugh, and you watch as his whole face lights up at the sound. His gaze soft, his foot nudging your heeled one.

“No?”

“Nothing personal. It’s just that you’re not supposed to ask, you just do it.” You shrug, turning completely around and starting to walk across the crosswalk.

“Next time then?” He calls out, and you hear his grin, and smell his cologne. You feel his stare as if it’s still his hands on the small of your back, on your thighs, around your throat.

You laugh, already missing his boyish grin. And you know that here, tonight, is what your body has been planning for.

That air of new possibilities. The new reality linked with blue eyes and a self imposed title of King of the Dance Floor. Boyish grins, neon lights, the humid early morning air that’s going to cling to your dress even after you slip out of it.

Two people following a rhythm that could only be heard, understood, and loved by them. The sounds growing with you both since birth — this hot summer Saturday is when it finally decided to tie you together.

And, you couldn’t wait to hear it again.

“Bye, Blue.”

#srb <3 #okay maybe writing for gojo is fun 🫣#jujutsu kaisen #gojo x reader

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