shokocide - Tumblr blog

shokocide · 13 days ago

Text

HEART OF THE OCEAN - GOJO SATORU

summary. Gojo Satoru was never meant to survive your song. You were never meant to fall for a human. But the ocean has never followed the rules.

word count. 17.2k (nnyeah)

content. mdni fem!siren!reader, pirate!gojo, slowburn, mutual pining, forbidden love, reader lowkey has daddy issues, fluff, pet names, making out, really inaccurate transformations from siren to human, smut, fingering, p in v, feral gojo, slight dacryphilia, pearl necklaces, aftercare, ANGST, violence, gore and blood, major character death (not too graphic tho), reincarnation

author's note. idk y'all i just wanted to write some angst

The ship rocked gently beneath a sky smeared with pink clouds and salt-kissed breeze. The sails are full, the air warm, the crew loud as ever. Shoko tosses a flask to Geto across the deck, slouching against the railing with her usual lazy grin. Nanami mutters to himself over the ration count, already annoyed and it wasn’t even noon. Yuuji and Nobara are bickering again, locked in a heated knot-tying competition that neither of them are winning.

Gojo stood at the helm, one hand on the wheel, the other dragging along the edge of a map he’d practically memorized. His fingers paused over a spot he’d circled days ago, the charcoal mark smudged from how often he’d touched it.

"Been staring at that for hours, Satoru," Geto called out, an amused lilt in his voice. "You sure you’re not in love with that map?"

Gojo didn’t glance up. "If it leads to what I think it does, I just might propose."

"Treasure, treasure, treasure," Nobara groaned. She climbs up onto a barrel, arms crossed. "You know there’s more to life than gold, right?"

"I respectfully disagree," Nanami mumbles.

"I just hope we don’t run into any sirens," Yuuji says, tossing a pebble into the sea, watching it plop uselessly into the waves.

That earned a collective scoff.

"Oh, not this again," Nobara rolled her eyes.

"I’m serious!" Yuuji turned around, pointing his finger like he was telling a ghost story. "They sing to you and boom—you're overboard. You don’t even realize your legs stopped working ‘til you're halfway down."

"Those are just stories," Nobara snaps. "Tales to keep dumb kids from getting too close to the water."

"But what if they’re real?" Yuuji presses. "Like, really real. What if one of us hears singing and just jumps in without meaning to—"

"I vote Megumi," Nobara cut in, grinning.

Megumi didn’t even look up from the net he was mending. "You’d drown before I would."

Shoko snorted. "That tracks."

Their laughter rolled like thunder, loud and light. But Gojo’s gaze slid back to the horizon, narrowing just slightly. The water was still. Too still. Then, a ripple. Subtle, but there.

He blinked. A shimmer caught his eye—just beneath the sunlit surface. Iridescent. Brief. Gone.

His fingers flex around the wheel. There it was again. That strange pull. A drumbeat deep in his chest. Familiar and foreign, like a memory from a dream he couldn’t place.

He exhales. Must’ve been the fish.

"Alright," he says, snapping the map shut with one hand. "We drop anchor near that island before sundown. We’ll stay the night."

"Think the treasure’s buried there?" Geto asks, already reaching for the spyglass.

"No," Gojo replies, voice as easy as ever. "But I’ve got a good feeling."

He doesn’t say more. Doesn’t mention the ripple, or the flash of light beneath the water. Doesn’t mention the song he swore he hears every now and then, just barely, rising from the sea.

The ship had long since gone quiet. Lanterns dimmed, voices hushed, footsteps replaced with the rhythmic creak of wood and the hush of waves licking the hull. The moon hung low, fat and silver, scattering a path of light across the water.

Gojo lay stretched across a barrel of rope, arms folded behind his head, eyes half-lidded but nowhere near sleep. The wind was calm. Almost too calm. He should’ve been tired—hell, he was tired—but something kept tugging at him from inside his chest. That same pull again. A gnawing curiosity. A whisper. And then he heard it—voice. Not loud. Not calling. Just… singing.

Soft. Sweet. Smooth like honey and salt. The kind of sound that shouldn't exist out here. Not this far from civilization. Not on an unmarked island in the middle of nowhere.

He sat up slowly, blinking. The song wove through the air, light as seafoam, curling around him like mist. It didn’t sound human. It sounded too perfect for that. But it didn’t sound inhuman, either. It sounded like longing. What the hell?

He stood, quiet, careful not to wake the others. No one stirred—not even Geto, who usually slept with one eye open. Gojo climbed down the side of the ship, boots hitting sand with a soft thud. The island was still. The trees whispered, but there was no wind.

The voice carried again. Closer now. Just beyond the curve of the beach. He walked toward it, heart thumping hard. His mouth felt dry.

And then—he saw you.

You were seated on a wide rock near the shallows, bathed in moonlight. The surf curled gently around your feet. You glowed, in a way no human could—skin kissed with shimmer, hair catching the light like strands of pearl. And you were singing. Not to the sky, not to the sea. To him.

Gojo froze. You looked up, still singing. His throat went dry. He blinked once. Twice. No way.

He pinched his own arm, hard. Ow.

Still there. Still singing.

His heart was thundering now. Not in fear—he didn’t know what this was. Enchantment? A dream? A warning? He couldn’t tear his eyes away. He’d seen beauty. But this—this was something else. Something ethereal. Something that didn’t belong in a world full of men with swords and ships and thievery.

You smiled, just barely. And kept singing. To him.

You don’t stop singing. If anything, your voice softens, curling like silk around his ribs as he takes a slow step forward. Then another. The moonlight halos around you and the wet sheen of your skin shimmers. Your fingers trail along the stone you’re perched on, just barely touching the water, like you're inviting him in without a single word.

He’s never seen eyes like yours. Deep and endless, like the ocean. And they’re looking right at him. He swallows hard.

“...What are you?” he whispers. It’s not fear in his voice. It’s awe.

You tilt your head. Your song slows, just a little. A single note hangs in the air, trembling like a secret.

His boots crunch the sand as he nears the edge of the water, close enough to see the shimmer of your scales beneath the surface. He doesn’t stop walking. He should. But gods, he doesn’t want to.

You lift your hand then—slow, graceful, beckoning. He’s close enough now to see the curve of your mouth, the glint of something glowing faintly at your throat. An amulet. Round. Ancient. The glow pulsing softly like a heartbeat.

You hum one final note, low and intimate, and it lingers in the air like perfume. Your voice disappears into the sound of the sea.

Gojo takes another step, so close now the tide laps at his ankles. His mouth parts like he’s going to say something again, ask what this is, who you are, why it feels like the ocean is calling his name through your lips. But all that comes out is “You’re real.” And gods help him, he wants you to be.

The silence that follows is deafening. The sea seems to still around you. Even the breeze hesitates. He stands there, thigh-deep in the water now, eyes fixed on you like a man utterly enthralled. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. You watch him with a soft smile curling your lips—dangerously pretty, devastatingly calm.

Then, finally, you speak.

“Well,” you murmur, voice dipped in honey and seafoam. “Took you long enough.” It’s like breaking a spell—and casting another one right after.

His breath hitches. That teasing lilt in your voice? It sparks something wild in his chest. His fingers twitch at his sides.

“Was beginning to think you’d never come closer,” you purr, tilting your head, letting your hair fall over one shoulder. It bares your chest completely—not that you were hiding it.

Gojo’s breath catches. His hands—previously relaxed at his sides—suddenly twitch like he doesn’t know what to do with them. His gaze darts away, toward the horizon, the water, anywhere but you. And yet—he keeps sneaking glances. Quick. Desperate. Guilty.

You watch his throat work around a swallow. He shifts his weight. Drags a hand down his face. Tries very hard to look like he’s not flustered out of his goddamn mind.

He fails spectacularly.

You don’t move. You don’t need to. Just sit there, naked under the moonlight, letting him unravel quietly in front of you.

The silence stretches.

His mouth opens. Closes. For once, Gojo Satoru is speechless.

“You—” he tries.

You blink slowly. Innocently. “Me?” The word rolls off your tongue like silk.

He swallows hard. “You’re not afraid I’ll—”

“What?” You laugh, soft and rich. “Try to capture me? Drag me aboard your little ship and chain me like some prize?”

His eyes narrow, but there's a flicker of a grin tugging at his lips.

You lean forward, elbows resting on your tail, eyes gleaming. “Tell me, sailor,” you whisper. “What would you even do with a creature like me?”

He’s standing there like a man caught between heaven and hell. Every instinct in him is screaming this is a bad idea. But gods above, he wants to find out.

You watch him take another step. The water reaches his hips now, the fabric of his coat floating around him in soft ripples. He’s soaked, hair damp, moonlight catching on the white strands like frost. But he doesn’t seem to care. You don’t move. You don’t need to. He’s the one crossing the sea for you.

“Still think you’re dreaming?” you ask, voice low, velvet-smooth. You rest your chin in your hand, gaze locked to his. There's a dangerous sort of curiosity behind those sea-deep eyes—like you’re not just waiting for him, but testing him.

He lets out a breathless laugh, half-shaky. “Wouldn’t be the strangest dream I’ve had.”

Gojo’s throat bobs as he swallows. His hand lifts slowly, as if moving through water thick with molasses, hesitation and desire tangling in every breath he takes. You watch him with a smile, calm and inviting.

His fingers are just inches from your skin now. The curve of your jaw. The shimmer of your collarbone. One final confirmation that you’re real.

He pauses. “You won’t disappear, will you?” he whispers.

“I could,” you say. “But I won’t.”

He reaches. Slowly. And when the tips of his fingers brush your skin—just barely—you don’t flinch. You don’t pull away. You lean in. A little. Just enough. Enough to make him ache.

Suddenly it isn’t just his hand. It’s his whole body straining forward, the pull of something ancient and dangerous and inevitable. You smell like salt and stormwinds, something sacred and wild, and when your skin meets his, warm and cool at once—

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for centuries.

You smile. “Not a dream,” you murmur. “Sorry, sailor.”

You feel it. The shift in the air, the quiet tremor in the waves. Your amulet pulses once, faintly, like it senses what’s supposed to happen next. The ritual. The ending.

But you ignore it.

Because he’s still looking at you, cerulean eyes boring into yours like he’s never seen anything more divine.

For just a little longer, you want to be worshipped.

Your fingers move before you even think. Lightly, you drag one hand along his collar—soft, teasing, feather-light. His breath stutters. You smile, letting your nails trail just barely down the line of his chest. He leans in without realizing it, gaze half-lidded, pupils blown wide.

“What’s the matter, sailor?” you whisper, voice melting like warm tidewater. “You look like you’ve forgotten how to breathe.”

His hands twitch at his sides. “Kinda hard to remember… when you keep doing that.”

You laugh—quiet, delighted. He doesn’t even know what that is. The way your voice coils around his ribs, your touch singing along his skin. He doesn’t know that every second he stays in your presence, he’s sinking.

Not just into the sea. But into you.

Your palm finds the side of his neck, thumb brushing just under his jaw. His heart races. You can feel it. It makes something hungry stir in your chest—but beneath that hunger is something else. Something like want.

You lean in until your lips are just a breath from his ear. “It’s time, you know,” you murmur, voice so low it’s almost a song again. “I’m supposed to take you now.”

He doesn’t pull away. He shivers.

“…Take me where?”

You smile, lips ghosting over his jaw. “To the depths. The dark. Where all your kind eventually go when they trespass too far.”

Silence stretches, heavy, water-thick. He finally meets your gaze again. “Then why haven’t you?”

Your smile fades. Not completely—but the edges tremble. Just slightly.

You trace the line of his collarbone, softer now. “Because I don’t want to. Not yet.”

And it’s true. You should have dragged him under the moment he stepped into the tide. But you can’t bring yourself to. Not with him. Not when you still want to hear the way he laughs. Still want to feel the heat of his skin beneath your hands. Still want to be wanted.

So instead, you look at him like he’s something sacred. Like he’s the one you’d worship.

And softly, you say: “Stay with me a little longer, sailor. Just a little while.”

Because even if the sea eventually takes him, you want him to be yours first.

He doesn’t know who moves first—him or you. All he knows is that your face is suddenly closer. The moonlight curves along your cheekbone, your lashes, the tip of your nose. And then, your lips brush his. Featherlight. Barely there. But it undoes him.

He inhales sharply, like you’ve stolen something from his chest. Like a breath, or maybe a part of his soul. It wasn’t a real kiss—not really—but gods, it might as well have been. Because everything inside him lurches forward. He needs more. Needs to feel your warmth pressed to him, to find out what it’s like to drown in you.

But before he can pull you closer—before his hands can cup your face and drag you into the kind of kiss that ends men—you’re already gone.

A teasing smile dances on your lips as you drift back, slow and languid, water curling around your waist.

“Goodnight, sailor,” you murmur and then you dip beneath the waves.

The moonlight ripples where you vanish, and for a moment, he sees it—just the faintest shimmer of your tail, iridescent, unreal, slipping deeper and deeper into the dark.

He stays in the shallows, breath shallow, chest heaving. The sea laps at his thighs like it’s trying to tug him in after you. He doesn’t even realize his hand is still outstretched, reaching for something that’s already gone.

But now he’ll search every shore, scan every ripple, chase every whisper of song.

Just for a glimpse of you.

Just for another chance.

The waters are quiet.

You sit curled within the shell of your chamber, arms wrapped around your tail, staring out the arched opening where light from the surface used to filter in. Now there’s only dark. The soft glow of the seabed pulses around you—blue, green, violet. It reflects off the polished coral walls, dances across your skin like gentle ghosts. But you barely notice it.

Because all you can think about is him.

The sailor with sapphire eyes and a grin like sunlight. The one who didn’t flinch when you touched him. The one whose heart beat so loud, you could still hear it ringing in your ears even now.

“Stupid,” you mutter under your breath, sinking your chin to where your tail bends. “Stupid, stupid—”

“You’re not stupid,” comes a voice, soft and familiar.

You glance up to see your sister floating just outside the chamber, arms crossed, watching you with an arched brow.

You blink. “Were you listening?”

“I didn’t need to. Your amulet’s been glowing for the past half hour like you swallowed a lanternfish. What’s going on?”

You try to play it off. “Nothing. Just tired.”

She swims closer, unimpressed. “Liar. You only get like this when something really bad happens. Or really good.”

You sigh, letting yourself drift down a little, hair fanning around you like seaweed. “I… I met someone.”

That gets her attention.

“Oh?” Her tone sharpens, cautious. “Down by the shore?”

You nod. “He was on a ship. Docked just off the cove. I heard his voice before I saw him.”

“Did you sing?”

“Of course I did.”

“And?”

“I was supposed to take him under.”

She’s quiet for a moment. “But you didn’t.”

“No.”

A long pause. Then: “Why?”

You shake your head, frustrated. “I don’t know. I should’ve. It would’ve been easy. He was right there. I touched him. He was already falling.” Your voice trails off. The memory of his warmth haunts your fingertips. “But I didn’t want to. I just… wanted to keep him for a little longer. Just—just talk. Just see him.”

Your sister tilts her head. “You’re not supposed to see them. You’re supposed to lure them, enchant them, end them. That’s what we do.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you still thinking about him?”

You don’t answer. Because you don’t have one. All you know is that his laugh is stuck in your head. His breathless voice. The stunned way he looked at you when you kissed him—if you could even call it a kiss.

You press your hand to your chest, just above where your amulet hums. And softly, almost too quiet for even the sea to hear: “I don’t think I want to forget him.”

Your sister doesn’t speak for a long time. She just floats there, expression unreadable, eyes dark with something older than you can name. Then she drifts closer, gently reaches out to tuck a lock of hair behind your ear.

“We wouldn’t know this. We weren’t born yet,” she says softly, “but it wasn’t always like this. The reefs used to glow. The caverns used to sing with color. Our kind would dance with dolphins, weave pearls through our hair, and the waters would hum beneath us—alive.”

You look up at her, startled by the sadness in her voice.

“It was beautiful,” she says, almost to herself. “Before they came.”

You know who she means. The humans. Greedy fingers always reaching for more.

“They took everything. Our shells, our corals, our sacred stones. Even the bones of our dead. Called them artifacts. Called them treasure.” Her voice hardens. “They don’t see us. Only what we can give them. And they always want more.”

You want to argue, say he’s not like that, but the words tangle in your throat. She sees it. “You think he’s different.” A statement, not a question.

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “Maybe.”

“You hope he is.” She shakes her head. “But hope doesn’t stop a ship’s hull from crushing the sea floor. Doesn’t stop the spears. The nets. The hands that rip and take and never give back.” She floats away from you then, back toward the chamber’s edge.

“You don’t know what it means to lose your first home,” she says quietly. “To watch the sea dim, to see your mother weep because the place she was born in no longer sings. You don’t remember the day we buried our queen and humans tore open her grave two tides later.”

Your chest aches.

“They don’t love us. Not really. They love the idea of us. They love the lure. And they’ll take everything you are if you let them.” She turns back once, eyes sharp, but not unkind.

“So whatever you think you feel—kill it. Before it kills you first.” Then she’s gone.

And you’re left alone in the dim quiet of your chamber, the weight of her words settling like silt in your bones. But still, you think of him.

What if he is different?

The surface is calm tonight. Moonlight drapes across it like silk, soft and glowing.

You hover just beneath, eyes fixed on the ship above. On him.

He’s standing there again. Alone, hands on the railing, silver hair catching the wind like sea foam. He doesn’t know it—but he calls to you. Every night. Not with his voice, no. But with something else.

A longing. A question. A pull in your chest you hate and crave at once.

You shouldn’t have come back. You told yourself that night was a mistake. That you'd been foolish to linger. To touch him.

But here you are. Again.

The current shifts. You swim a little closer. Close enough to see the frustration in his face. The tension in his jaw. He’s been looking for you. You know it.

Your fingers curl at your sides.

One more song and he’ll follow. That’s how it works. You know the rules. Lure them. Seduce them. Pull them down. Return the treasures they stole with their lives.

But he didn’t take anything. He only looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. And damn it all if that isn’t the worst kind of theft.

You drift to the surface. Just your eyes above water now. Watching. Waiting.

He sighs, and his hand lifts—briefly—toward the sea. Like he knows. Like he feels you here.

He doesn’t call out. Not this time. He just walks to the same stretch of shore, boots sinking into the sand, cloak fluttering behind him. The moon is brighter tonight. Or maybe he just wants it to be.

He stares out at the water. “I know you’re there,” he says quietly.

Silence.

Then a ripple. A shimmer. And then you. Rising from the waves with water trailing down your arms like glass. Your hair clings to your skin, your eyes reflect the moonlight, and your expression? Playful. Curious. Maybe even… fond.

He steps forward. Doesn’t dare blink.

“Did you miss me, sailor?” you ask.

His lips twitch. “Starting to think I dreamt you up.”

You tilt your head. “Would that be so bad?”

He’s close now. Close enough to see the droplets on your lashes, the delicate gleam of scales at your shoulders, the curve of your smile. “I don’t dream like this,” he murmurs.

You glide a little closer, arms resting on the rock, the moonlight catching on your skin and droplets of water that haven’t quite dried. The sea rocks beneath you gently.

Gojo’s doing his best. Really.

But his eyes keep flicking downward and snapping back up—like he's fighting a war with his own damn brain. He clears his throat, face a little pink. Then pinker.

Then finally: “Uh… don’t mermaids usually wear… like… shells? On their, y’know. Their… uh.” He gestures vaguely in your direction, eyes avoiding your chest like it’s going to smite him.

You blink at him. Then smile. Not cruel. Not teasing. Just… amused. “Shells?”

He shrugs helplessly, ears going red now. “Yeah. You know. Like in the drawings? I thought it was a mermaid thing.”

You laugh—quiet and genuinely delighted. You’ve never seen a human blush like this. Pink all across his cheeks, nose, even the tips of his ears.

You tilt your head. “You think I’d strap bits of broken clam to my chest for modesty?”

He makes a sound that might be a choke or a laugh. You’re not sure.

You let your gaze drift up and down his face, watching how he refuses to meet your eyes for too long. It’s charming, really—how flustered he gets when you do absolutely nothing but exist.

“I never understood why humans found breasts so enticing,” you murmur, thoughtful now. “They’re just for feeding the younglings. We never bother covering them.”

Gojo covers his face with one hand.

You smile wider. “And yet you’re looking at me like I’ve committed a crime.”

“I’m not!” His voice jumps. “I’m not looking—I mean—I’m trying not to.”

You hum, resting your chin on your arms. “You’re adorable when you’re embarrassed.” You tilt your head at him, gaze soft, voice feather-light.

“If it’s troubling you so much,” you say, letting your fingers lazily swirl the water, “I suppose I can do something about it.” You smile, watching his composure slip through his fingers like sand.

“What would you prefer, sailor? Shells? Seaweed?” You lean forward just slightly. “Or should I just stay like this and let you keep pretending not to look?”

Gojo’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He’s blinking fast, flaming in the face now. “I—uh—whatever—” he swallows hard, waves a hand uselessly between you and the horizon. “Whatever you’re—uh—comfortable with.”

You laugh—a soft, melodic thing that makes his chest ache.

He looks like he wants the sea to swallow him whole. His ears have gone from pink to red, and he’s clearly regretting everything that brought him to this moment.

You hum, lounging back a little. “You really are sweet.”

He scrubs a hand through his hair, still pink to the tips of his ears, but now there’s a lopsided grin tugging at his mouth. He reaches out again. Slower this time. Testing the moment. His fingers brush your cheek. Trail down your neck. Neither of you move.

“You’re real.”

A ghost of a smile tugs at your lips. “You say that like you still don’t believe it.”

“Maybe I’m afraid if I do, you’ll vanish.”

You wade in closer, just enough that the sea brushes his boots, and he doesn’t move back. “You came back,” you murmur.

He shrugs one shoulder, eyes not leaving yours. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

You laugh softly. “A sailor with a soft heart. That’s new.”

“You’re the one who sang to me.”

“I sing to many.”

He narrows his eyes. “Did you kiss them too?”

That catches you off guard—but you recover quick, smile sharpening. “Would it matter if I did?”

He doesn’t answer right away. But there’s something darker flickering in his gaze now. Possessive. Curious. “…No,” he lies.

You swim forward, water lapping at your waist. “You don’t even know my name.”

“I don’t need it.”

“And what if I pull you under?” you ask, voice like silk and storm.

He smirks. “Then I’ll die with a smile.”

You blink. For a moment, you’re not sure if he’s joking. But he is. Mostly.

Still—his words land heavy. Make your throat tighten. “Humans don’t speak like that,” you say.

“I’m not most humans.”

Silence stretches again. His eyes roam over you. Not in lust—not yet—but in reverence. Like he’s trying to understand what you are. Why he isn’t scared. Why he feels like he’s been waiting for you.

You reach for him then—not to kiss. Just to touch. A gentle drag of your fingertips across his wrist. He doesn’t flinch. He leans in.

“Why are you here?” you ask, softly.

He looks at you like the answer should be obvious. “I think,” he says, “I was meant to find you.”

Your heart skips. The ocean pulls at your waist. It’s almost time. But you stay a little longer. “You should be careful, sailor,” you whisper. “Saying things like that. You’ll make me believe you.”

He watches you like he already does.

You don’t notice the ripple. Not the soft shift in the waves behind you, not the gleam of eyes just beneath the surface. You’re too caught up in him.

You tease him, you laugh. You reach out again, a touch light as foam across his skin. And this time, he leans into it.

You don’t pull him under. Not yet.

You want more of this. The way he speaks. The way he looks at you. The way he doesn’t flinch from you like the others do. You want to keep this, even if just a little longer.

But you’re not alone.

Far behind you, beneath a curtain of kelp and shadow, a shape floats. Still. Silent. Watching.

Your sister’s eyes glint through the dark, catching every flicker of movement between you and the sailor.

She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. She sees enough.

And when she finally sinks back into the depths, the water grows colder in her wake.

The moonlight hasn’t even faded from the surface when you slip back beneath the waves.

Your pulse is still racing. Your cheeks are still warm. His voice still rings in your ears—teasing, amused, wanting. And stars, if he had leaned in just a little more, you might’ve let him kiss you.

You should feel shame. But all you feel is light.

Until the sea goes cold.

There’s a shift in the current—sudden and sharp—and when you whirl around, she’s there. Floating in the dark like a phantom. Your sister.

Her expression is unreadable, lips pressed into a thin line, dark hair fanning out around her shoulders like a halo of judgment. “Sister,” she says, voice low and echoing. “Do you think we wouldn’t notice?”

You open your mouth—but nothing comes out.

She swims closer. “The sailor,” she hisses. “You’ve met him more than once now. I saw you. I saw everything.” Her words slice into you like a harpoon.

“I wasn’t going to—”

“You weren’t going to what?” she snaps. “Pull him under? Take what belongs to our people? Do your duty?”

You flinch. “He’s not like the others—”

Her laugh is sharp, bitter. “They never are. Until they are.” She grabs your wrist, not harshly—but firmly. “You’re forgetting why we sing. Why our mother gave us this gift. We are not meant to love them. We are meant to protect what’s left.”

You look away. But she’s not done.

“You think he’s blind? He knows what you are. Your tail, your voice, all of it.”

Your jaw tightens. “And yet he’s still here.”

She blinks. You keep going, voice sharp. “He’s not afraid. He doesn’t flinch. He treats me like I’m more than just a creature in the water. Can you say the same about anyone else?”

Her eyes flash. “That’s not the point—”

“No, you’re missing the point,” you snap. “I’m not dragging him under. I’m not stealing from him. I’m not using him. I’m just… being with him.” Your voice drops to a whisper. “And maybe I want to be more than what we’ve been taught to be. Maybe I want something for me.”

The silence that follows is heavy, the water still between you. But you don’t regret saying it. Not this time.

Your sister says nothing for a long moment. The anger in her eyes dims, simmering into something quieter, wearier.

Finally, she sighs. “You always were the stubborn one.”

You don’t speak. You’re still braced for more venom, more warnings. But instead, she moves closer, brushing her fingers against yours beneath the water. A small, wordless gesture of truce.

“I still don’t trust him,” she murmurs. “But I trust you. And if this is something real… I won’t stop you.”

Your chest tightens.

Then she adds, low and urgent, “But we can’t let Father know. You know what he’d do. To him, all humans are thieves.”

You nod, slowly. “I know.”

She meets your eyes, serious now. “Then be careful, sister. Whatever this is… keep it hidden. For both your sakes.”

And just like that, the warmth of her hand fades as she turns, slipping back into the dark sea, leaving you alone again—with your heart, your secret, and the ache of wanting something that feels more dangerous than ever.

The tide laps gently at the shore, but you hear none of it. All you hear is his breath.

He’s there again. Leaning against a crooked, barnacle-bitten post, sleeves rolled to his elbows, moonlight caught in the silver strands of his hair. He doesn’t speak when you emerge. He just watches, as if he’s afraid too much sound might send you fleeing back into the sea.

Your arms fold loosely across your chest, and you regard him with cool eyes. “You’re persistent.”

A smirk tugs at his lips. “Only when I think it’s worth it.”

That stupid charm at your chest pulses again. You hate it. Almost.

You rise from the water just a little, arms shifting subtly—and for the first time, he notices something different.

Draped lazily across your chest: a strand of seaweed, delicate and half-hearted, barely clinging to its job. Twined between it—two pearlescent shells, awkwardly fastened like a joke.

His gaze catches. Lingers. His brows lift in disbelief.

You blink at him, expression unreadable. Then slowly—so slowly—you smile. “Better?”

He lets out a disbelieving laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “You did not—”

“I thought it might make you more comfortable,” you say, perfectly composed. “Isn’t this how your kind prefers mermaids?”

“You’re mocking me.”

You tilt your head. “Am I?”

Silence stretches between you, filled only by the sound of waves kissing the sand. He doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t even step forward. But you can feel his eyes—soft and searching, like he’s trying to read the parts of you you’re too afraid to say aloud.

Your gaze flicks toward the water. “This is a bad idea.”

“I know.”

Your brows knit. “Then why are you here?”

He pauses, then slowly reaches into his coat. “To give you this.”

He steps forward—not too close—and opens his palm.

A pendant. Sea glass, pale and smoothed by time, looped into a simple twine necklace. It glows faintly blue beneath the moonlight.

“I don’t know if it’s good enough,” he says, voice low, “but I thought… maybe you’d like something that wasn’t stolen.”

Your heart jerks. You stare at it. Then at him. And for a moment, you can’t breathe.

This—this isn’t what humans do. They come to take. Always. Treasures, songs, magic, you. But this one came to give. Something small. Something quiet. But his.

You take it with trembling fingers, brushing his palm as you do. Your voice is soft. “Thank you.”

His smile is gentle. “Didn’t know if you’d show.”

“I shouldn’t have,” you murmur.

“But you did.”

You pull back before it aches more. Let the waves touch your skin again.

“Don’t follow me,” you say—not unkindly, a soft warning.

He nods. Doesn’t stop you. Just watches you go, watches the silver glint of the ocean close around you. Watches the glimmer of sea glass now hanging around your neck.

There’s a puddle of rum soaking into his map. Gojo doesn’t notice.

Not when he’s got his chin in his hand, elbow propped up on the wooden table, and a downright dreamy expression on his face. His eyes are unfocused. His mouth is curved in a faraway smile. And he hasn’t blinked in… a while.

“Okay, what is wrong with you?” Nobara’s voice cuts through the cabin like a blade.

He doesn’t react.

Yuji leans over the table and waves a hand in front of his captain’s face. “Hellooo? Earth to Gojo?”

Still nothing.

Shoko groans and sips lazily from her flask. “He’s doing that thing again.”

“What thing?” Megumi deadpans, though he already knows.

“That thing where he zones out and grins like he’s in love.” Nanami’s tone is dry as the open sea.

“Because he is,” Geto mutters, arms crossed.

That gets Gojo’s attention—he blinks rapidly and jerks upright like he’s been caught with a dagger behind his back. “What? No. I’m not—what do you mean in love? I’m not in love. You’re in love. Shut up.”

“You literally didn’t hear a single word of our battle plan,” Geto says.

“There was a plan?” Gojo blinks again. “Oh… crap.”

Nobara slaps the table. “See?! He’s bewitched.”

“Bewitched,” Shoko echoes with a snort. “You’ve been reading Yuji’s ghost stories again, haven’t you?”

Yuji raises his hands defensively. “They’re good stories!”

Gojo stands, brushing imaginary dust from his coat. “Listen, listen. I’m fine. Perfectly composed. Mentally sound. Fully focused.”

Megumi gives him a look. “You just tried to drink ink thinking it was rum.”

Gojo looks at the bottle of ink in his hand—the one he's brought dangerously close to his mouth. “Not my fault the bottle looks the same.”

“You’re seeing someone,” Nobara accuses.

Gojo doesn’t even deny it this time. He just hums under his breath, dreamy-eyed as he watches the waves lap against the hull.

Shoko raises an eyebrow. “And who exactly is this mystery woman?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t believe me even if I told you,” he says, ever the smug bastard, but there's a wistful edge in his voice. Like he’s holding on to something delicate.

Yuji leans in. “Is she pretty?”

“She’s… beyond.” Gojo exhales, like saying even that aloud is sacred. “She makes the sea itself look dull.”

“Ugh,” Nobara groans. “You are so whipped. You don’t even know her last name.”

“Or her name,” Megumi mutters.

Gojo only smiles. Because he doesn’t know. Not really. You never gave it. Never offered. Only left behind shimmer and salt and the echo of your laugh in the breeze.

The sea is quiet tonight. Not still, but calm—the kind of hush that makes it feel like the world’s listening in.

You float easily beside the ship, water lapping gently against the hull. The sea glass he gave you hangs around your neck, cool and smooth, right beneath your amulet and shifting with every little ripple. You still don’t understand why he gave it to you. Maybe he doesn’t either.

Gojo leans against the railing above, chin resting on his forearms. He’s not smiling, but he looks… content. Like just being here is enough for him.

"You never told me your name," he says.

His voice is quieter at night. Less show, more real. He’s asked before, but not like this. Not like it actually matters.

You trail your fingers along the wood of the hull.

"Names carry weight," you murmur. "Especially mine."

He hums, like he gets it. "Then I’ll carry it carefully."

It’s not a line. Just something simple and steady, like most things about him that surprise you.

You glance up at him. Moonlight catches in his white hair, makes him look more ghost than man. And still—he waits. Patient, like the sea.

You hesitate. You’ve kept it to yourself for so long it almost feels like giving it away would be losing something. But he gave first. Not a demand. Not a trick. A gift.

"Would you even use it?" you ask.

"Only when it matters," he says.

That earns the smallest flicker of a smile from you. Not that he sees it.

So you say it. Soft. Almost like you’re not sure you meant to. But he hears it.

He says it back—quiet, careful. Like he doesn’t want to chip it, like it’s something that can bruise if he’s not gentle.

He doesn’t look at you when he says it, but it sticks. Settles into the space between you like it belongs there.

"Can I come down?"

His voice drifts lazily over the railing, casual like he's asking to sit beside you—not throw himself into the ocean.

You glance up at him, raising a brow. "What, you planning to jump?"

There's a flicker in his eye. Something boyish and stupid and far too Satoru.

Something in your gut tightens. “Don’t.”

But his smile tips, sharp and boyish. “Too late.”

Before you can make sense of it—before you can even move—he cannonballs.

You barely have time to curse before instinct takes over. You dart backward, tail slicing through the water as you throw yourself out of the drop zone. The splash hits like a small explosion—loud and ridiculous and completely him. Salt sprays across your face, cool and stinging, and you blink rapidly, water rushing past your ears.

He breaks the surface a moment later, coughing, laughing, looking wildly pleased with himself.

"You're insane," you sputter, treading a safe distance away. "You almost landed on me."

He slicks his hair back with both hands, grin still wide. “I knew you’d move.”

“You hoped I’d move.”

“Same thing,” he says easily, floating on his back now, arms stretched wide like he belongs here. Like the ocean’s always been waiting for him.

You stare at him. You should be mad. You should be furious—he scared the breath out of you, risked everything on a whim, shattered the calm of the night like it meant nothing.

But all that comes out is a laugh.

A real one. Unfiltered. It bubbles up from your chest before you can stop it—light, surprised, almost giddy. You cover your mouth too late, shoulders shaking.

Gojo blinks. Then stares.

And slowly, that ridiculous grin fades—not fully, but enough for something softer to settle in its place. Something honest.

“That,” he says, voice quieter now, “is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.”

You don’t respond. You can’t.

Because he says it like he means it. Like your laugh just rewired something in him. Like that sound—the one you didn’t even mean to give—touched a part of him no one else ever has.

You duck under the surface for a moment, just long enough to cool the flush spreading across your skin. When you rise again, he’s still watching you. Not smug. Not proud.

Just there. Floating in your world. Not asking for anything. Not running.

“I thought humans were supposed to take,” you say quietly, your voice barely above the lapping waves. “Steal. Want. Use.”

His brows lift just slightly, water beading on his lashes. “Maybe I’m just bad at it.”

You shake your head. “No. You’re just… different.”

You don’t know why you say it. But it’s true. You’ve known it for a while now.

He’s not perfect. He’s a little reckless, probably too brave for his own good, but he gives. Things that matter. His attention. His time. The necklace still hanging at your throat. Your laugh.

He blinks salt from his eyes, and when he speaks, it’s soft. “So are you.”

You look at him for a long time, silence pulling between you like a tide.

You were supposed to drag him under. That was the plan. Lure, tempt, drown. Like you’ve done before. Like you were made to do.

But now… all you want is to float beside him, just like this. For a little longer. Maybe forever.

Gojo floats a little closer. He’s still grinning, but it’s softer now. Less playful, more… thoughtful. The kind of look he only gets when he forgets to be loud. When the walls slip and all that’s left is the man underneath—tired, curious, dangerous, and kind.

His voice breaks the hush, low and deliberate. “Can I ask you something?”

You nod.

“Why haven’t you pulled me under yet?”

The question sinks like stone.

You don’t answer at first. Not with words. Just look at him—really look—and see all the reasons you haven’t. The way he watches you like you’re not a threat but a wonder. The way he gives without expecting. The way his voice softens around your name like it’s something sacred.

“I was supposed to,” you admit. “The first time I saw you. You were an easy mark.”

He lets out a low breath, water curling around his fingers. “But?”

You shake your head. “You smiled at me. Like I was real. Like I wasn’t just something to catch.”

His eyes flicker. Something shifts behind them—something too big to name.

You don’t notice how close he’s gotten until your hands brush beneath the surface. Neither of you moves away.

You feel the pull of it now, subtle and steady. Not magic. Just you, drawn toward him like the tide.

“Are you gonna kiss me?” you ask, the words barely audible.

Gojo tilts his head. “I want to,” he says.

You blink. The breath in your lungs feels heavy, thick with the weight of everything this isn’t supposed to be. You shouldn’t let this happen. You shouldn’t. But you nod.

And then he waits.

He waits while the space between you shrinks, while the water ripples with tension. He waits with his gaze fixed on you, patient, like this is the first thing he’s ever wanted badly enough not to rush.

You lean in—barely. Enough to close half the distance.

He mirrors you.

It’s slow. So slow. One inch, then another. Close enough now that your noses almost brush. Close enough to feel his breath against your lips, warm despite the chill of the ocean.

Your eyes flick to his. There’s no trick there. No hunger. Just want.

And when you close the gap, it’s not a crash. It’s a pull.

The kiss is gentle, almost shy. Like you’re both afraid to break it. Like neither of you expected this to feel like something holy.

And then—something cracks.

Maybe it’s the way you tilt your head just slightly, or the way his fingers lift from the water and find your jaw like it’s instinct. But the moment shifts, deepens.

He kisses you again, firmer this time.

His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, thumb skimming along your skin, warm and reverent. Your body leans into his before you can think to stop it, the sea curling around you both like it’s trying to pull you closer.

He exhales against your mouth—half a sigh, half a groan—like he’s been holding this in for far too long.

And then he kisses you properly.

Deep. Slow. Like he’s learning you one breath at a time.

You feel his other hand slide along your side beneath the surface, barely touching, not pushing—just there, steady, grounding. Your fingers curl around his wrist. Not to stop him. Just to feel him there.

You move closer to him, body pressed flush against him. The heat comes quiet, curling up your spine, pooling low. Not wild, not frantic—just consuming.

He pulls back just slightly, just to breathe—but his forehead rests against yours, and his mouth still ghosts over yours like he’s not ready to let go.

Neither are you.

“Wow,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “That was…”

“I know,” you whisper.

His thumb traces your cheek again, slower now. You’re both breathing hard, but it’s not tension anymore—it’s something else. Something softer.

He laughs, just a puff of breath against your mouth.

And then he leans in again—not a kiss, not quite. Just his nose brushing yours. His forehead still pressed to yours. Like he can’t bear to be further away than this.

No more talking. Just warmth. His hands on you. Yours on him. Water cradling you both.

Like the sea finally made space for two.

The waters of your chamber are still. For once.

No humming currents. No idle song. Just the soft flicker of bioluminescent light playing across the curved walls of coral and stone. You hover near the ceiling, resting against a smooth shelf of shell, the sea-cushioned silence wrapping around you like a second skin.

The charm at your chest glows faintly. Steady. Unyielding.

It hasn't dimmed since your last meeting with him.

You close your fingers over it—try to will it still.

A shadow passes the outer threshold. Then a ripple, soft and polite, before a familiar voice filters in: “Forgive me, my lady. Your father has asked for you.”

You don’t move right away. Just tilt your head slightly, slow and deliberate.

“Did he say what for?”

The palace stirs as you pass through.

You swim down the coral corridor with practiced grace, head held high, ignoring the way the other courtiers glance your way—curious, cautious, always whispering behind their hands.

The throne room opens like a cavern—high and echoing, walls pulsing with soft light from the sponges embedded in the stone. The court has gathered, a loose semicircle of officials and guards trailing the edges of the chamber.

And there he sits. Your father. Tall and silver-scaled, eyes like polished obsidian. He watches as you approach.

You stop a few lengths from the throne, posture poised.

“You summoned me,” you say.

A pause. The room is quiet.

Then, his voice: “I did.”

He shifts on the throne, steepling his long fingers, scarred from past wars.

“There’s been talk,” he says slowly, “of a ship lingering far too close to our waters.”

Your chest tightens.

He meets your eyes.

“And I’ve heard whispers,” he continues, voice sharper now, “that its captain has not drowned.”

Your spine stays straight, but you feel the flicker of heat pulse at your chest. Not from fear. From that cursed charm. Still glowing. Still betraying you.

You school your features. “Plenty of ships pass through our waters. If they’ve not drowned, perhaps they’ve not been foolish.”

Your father’s gaze sharpens. “Or perhaps they’ve been warned.”

The air—no, the water—tightens. Just slightly.

You don’t flinch. “I wouldn’t waste my song on men who pose no threat.”

A silence blooms after that. Heavy. Testing.

Then he leans forward, voice dropping low. “There are rumors, child. A human—a pirate—who’s seen you more than once. Who still lives.”

You say nothing.

His eyes narrow. “If a human captain resists a siren’s call, it invites suspicion. If a siren chooses not to call—”

He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t need to.

“I have not failed my duty,” you say, calm, cool, perfectly composed.

“But you haven’t fulfilled it, either,” he counters. “Not yet.”

Your jaw tightens. A flicker of motion at your side—a ripple of your tail.

Your father leans back again, like he’s weighing something.

Then “You have until the next moonrise. Handle it.”

He doesn’t say what “it” means. He doesn’t have to.

He’s already there when you emerge.

He’s sprawled out on the sand like he’s got nowhere else to be—hands behind his head, boots kicked off, one knee bent lazily as he stares up at the sky. The sea breeze stirs his white hair, moonlight catching in the strands like glass.

When he hears the water shift, he turns his head and grins.

“Took you long enough,” he calls. “Was starting to think you’d moved on to prettier sailors.”

You roll your eyes, swimming closer. “You’d be the last to believe someone prettier than you exists.”

His grin widens. “True. But flattery from a sea goddess? I’ll take it.”

You laugh. Light. Smooth. Just like always.

You even smile up at him, that soft little tilt he’s grown too fond of. It feels easy—almost too easy—to slip back into it.

He starts walking. Slow, unhurried, straight into the sea.

The waves rush over his ankles, then knees, soaking his rolled-up trousers until the fabric clings to him. But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t hesitate.

“Most men run from the sea,” you murmur, brow lifting.

He grins. “Most men don’t get invited back.”

You let him come closer.

The water laps at his hips now, warm and slow between you. He stops just short of where you hover—still half-submerged, hair trailing like silk beneath the surface.

“So,” he says lightly, “do I pass the test?”

You hum. “That depends.”

“On?”

You tilt your head. “Whether you plan on drowning.”

He huffs a laugh, eyes flicking over your face, then down to your fingers curled lightly against the water’s surface. The charm at your chest pulses faintly, soft as a heartbeat.

“I think,” he says, voice gentler now, “if I were going to drown… I’d want it to be like this.”

And for a moment—just one—you forget what you are. What he is.

You forget the crown in your blood, your father’s cold warning, the weight of your song.

There’s only him. Standing in the sea like he belongs there. Looking at you like you do.

You don’t move.

Neither does he.

The water is still between you—warm and golden in the fading light. His eyes hold yours like they’re tethered, soft at the edges, full of something that makes your chest ache.

Then—

He flicks water at you.

You blink, stunned.

A single splash, right to your cheek.

Gojo grins. “You were looking too serious.”

You sputter, flicking water right back—quick and sharp, right between his eyes.

He laughs. Loud, real, head tipping back as droplets catch on his lashes. “Oh, is that how it is?”

You duck half-under the surface, sending a wave his way with a flick of your tail. He gasps, mock-betrayed, and retaliates with both hands—splashes big enough to soak your hair again. The charm at your chest pulses with warmth, steady now, matching the laughter bubbling out of you.

You’re not thinking of your father.

Not of the sea. Not even of what this could cost.

Just this—this moment.

Him. You. The light in his eyes. And the sound of your laughter rising above the waves.

The waves settle.

Laughter fades into the hush of the sea, and slowly, the two of you drift back toward the shore—water clinging to you like a second skin.

You lie on your back just where the sand meets the tide, the cool grains molding to your elbows. Gojo flops down beside you, chest rising and falling as he catches his breath, hair sticking out in damp tufts.

For a while, neither of you speak.

Just the sound of waves. Wind. The far-off cry of a gull.

Above, the sky stretches wide and black, scattered with stars.

And yet you can’t enjoy it. Not fully. Not with your heart tight in your chest.

He turns his head lazily toward you, voice soft. “You're quiet.”

You swallow. “I’m thinking.”

He hums, teasing lightly. “Should I be worried?”

But you don’t laugh. You don't even smile.

And that’s when he sits up a little, his brows drawing together as he watches you more closely.

“What’s wrong?”

You don’t want to ruin this moment. You really don’t. But the words come anyway, soft and shaking at the edges.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

The look on his face flickers—surprise first, then something more unreadable. “You’re serious.”

You nod slowly, arms curled around your tail. “You don’t understand what you’re stepping into. What I am. What this is.”

He doesn’t interrupt. Just listens, quiet and still.

You keep your eyes down, watching your fingers press into the wet sand.

“I was supposed to lure you in,” you admit, barely above a whisper. “Draw you under. That’s what we do.”

Your voice trembles, and for the first time in a long time, you feel something unfamiliar tighten in your chest.

“But then you gave me that necklace,” you continue. “And you didn’t take anything in return. You just… smiled at me like I was someone.”

A shaky breath escapes you.

“And now I don’t know how to stop this.”

Gojo’s face softens—but he doesn’t rush in. Doesn’t try to fix it. Just lets you speak.

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” you whisper, finally looking at him. “But I think—”

You stop. Bite your lip.

“I think I’m falling. For you,” you finish, so quietly you’re not sure he even hears it. “And I don’t know what that means for either of us.”

He doesn’t speak right away.

Just watches you.

Then, with that same gentle steadiness, he shifts closer, brushing the wet hair from your face with fingers that tremble just slightly.

“Let me stay. Just for now,” he says quietly. “Just… don’t push me away.”

You blink, breath catching. You hesitate.

And then, slowly, you lean into him. Just enough that your shoulder brushes his. Just enough that you feel his warmth.

The tide laps gently at your fins. Above, the stars keep watching.

And below them, you let yourself fall—just a little more.

You don’t realize how close he’s gotten until the distance between you feels like nothing. Just breath and warmth.

Your fingers twitch where they rest in the sand—close enough to his that the edges brush.

He doesn’t move. So you do.

Slowly, you turn your hand, the tips of your fingers grazing the back of his. And when he still doesn’t flinch, you let them slide higher, curling gently around his wrist.

You reach up with your other hand, brush his hair back from his face, and your fingers linger—just a moment longer than they should.

He exhales, slow. Careful. Like he's scared one wrong move will send you swimming off into the dark.

But you're not running. Not this time.

His hand lifts to your cheek—hesitating, then settling like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His thumb strokes the curve of your jaw, and you tilt into it, letting your eyes flutter shut.

Then his lips are on yours.

Not greedy. Not rushed. Just soft.

Like he wants to memorize the shape of you this way. The taste of salt on your lips. The quiet catch in your breath.

Your amulet pulses low and warm against your collarbone, steady as your heartbeat.

When the kiss deepens, it’s unspoken permission. His hand tangles in your hair, your fingers sliding up his chest, feeling the damp fabric clinging to skin.

It shouldn’t happen.

But it is.

And gods—neither of you wants it to stop.

The kiss deepens—soft to slow, slow to aching. Every brush of his mouth against yours says please don’t send me away yet.

Your fingers trace the line of his jaw, then slide down his throat, feeling the heat under his skin. He exhales shakily when your hand flattens against his chest, just over his racing heart.

His own hands hesitate at first, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to want this much. But when you don’t stop him—when you lean into his touch like it’s the only thing anchoring you—he gives in.

One hand cradles your face, the other drifts down, tracing the edge of your ribs where skin meets the soft iridescence of your scales.

He pulls back just enough to whisper against your lips.

"If I’m leaving, at least let me have this."

You open your eyes. He’s looking at you like he already knows how this ends—and wants this moment anyway.

Your charm pulses once—bright and warm between you.

You nod, barely.

And that’s all he needs.

His hands grow bolder. Slower. Reverent. Like he wants to map every inch of you to memory. His lips trail down your neck, lingering at the curve of your shoulder, your collarbone. Your fingers thread into his damp hair, tugging just slightly, urging him closer.

He groans low against your skin. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

You shake your head, breathless. “Don’t.”

The moonlight catches the water still clinging to your skin, to his. Everything feels soft. Dreamlike.

Your bodies press together—heat against heat, breath catching, mouths seeking. It’s not rushed. It’s intentional.

And when his hand grazes the edge of your hip—where scales shimmer under his palm—and you shift closer with a soft gasp, he kisses you like it’s the last time he’ll ever get to.

Because maybe it is.

Your back arches under him, breath trembling. His mouth finds the center of your throat and lingers there, reverent, like he can feel your pulse answering his own.

Then—

“Wait,” you whisper.

His head lifts instantly. He’s off of you in a heartbeat, but still so close, lips parted, breath warm against your cheek. Hands hovering, eyes searching yours.

He doesn’t ask why. He just waits. Because that’s the kind of man he is.

You sit up slowly, water slipping off your skin, your tail coiled beneath you. You reach out, cup his face gently in both palms and then cover his eyes with one.

He stiffens, just for a second. But he trusts you.

Your amulet glows.

It begins soft—just a pulse, like a heartbeat. Then brighter. Warmer. It blooms across your collarbone, pulsing with something deeper than magic.

When you remove your hand from his eyes, they open slowly, blinking against the moonlight, the shimmer still lingering in the air.

And what he sees leaves him speechless.

Your tail is gone. And in its place there’s a pair of legs.

Smooth and bare.

Skin kissed with salt and moonlight, knees curled delicately beneath you. You’re still you, but softer. Closer. Changed.

For him.

His mouth parts slightly. Not in lust. In awe.

“Gods,” he breathes.

You smile, just barely. “Better?”

He swallows hard. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to,” you say, quiet. “I want you.”

And that’s it. That’s all he can take.

He’s on you again—but slower now. Like he’s been handed something fragile. His hands slide up your thighs, careful, reverent, like he can’t believe you’re real. His mouth meets yours with heat, with hunger—but still gentle. Still asking.

And this time, when you press your chest to his and pull him in with both hands, there’s nothing between you.

Only skin. Only breath. Only wanting.

The glow at your throat flares again—hotter now. Brighter.

It pulses against your chest, steady at first. Then quicker.

Gojo pulls back just enough to look down at it, breathless, the tips of his fingers still ghosting along your skin. The glow matches the rhythm of your breathing—no, your arousal.

He laughs under his breath, something low and amazed, eyes wide as he watches the way your amulet throbs brighter each time his palm smooths over your skin. “It responds to touch,” he murmurs, like he’s just discovered treasure. “To you.”

His hand moves, slow and steady—gliding up from your waist, fingers splaying across your ribs until they rest just beneath your breasts. His touch lingers.

And then, with a careful brush of his fingers, he nudges the coverings away. You shiver—not from cold, but from how he looks at you.

He doesn’t rush. Just grazes his palm over one breast, watching the charm flare in response. His thumb circles over your nipple gently, and your breath catches. Your eyes flutter half-shut, hips shifting just slightly toward him.

“Fascinating,” he murmurs.

You almost want to laugh—except he’s looking at you like he’s in awe, like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and it makes your pulse skip.

His hand drifts down, fingers mapping the line of your hip. Over your thigh. Skin to skin, gliding slow.

And then lower.

He watches you the whole time—eyes dark, steady, waiting for the moment your body reacts. His hand dips between your thighs, and the charm flares, sharp and brilliant and hot.

You gasp—eyes fluttering closed, hips tipping into his hand.

“Gods,” he breathes. “That’s incredible.”

His fingers tease, slow and deliberate, and you feel your thoughts unravel with every stroke. Every touch echoes in your core—and in the gem at your chest, glowing like a heartbeat, wild and bright.

“Is this…” he leans closer, lips brushing your jaw, “...what you want?”

You can barely speak—but you nod, eyes glazed, back arching toward him.

His fingers slip lower, parting you with reverence and care.

And there—there it is.

That first brush over your clit, light and exploratory, has your hips jerking and your lips parting in a soft gasp. The charm at your collar flares like it’s tethered to the aching beat between your legs—responding with each subtle throb, each flutter of sensation.

“Shit,” he whispers, mesmerized.

He strokes again, more deliberately now—just the pads of two fingers sliding through your slick, testing how wet you already are. The gem flashes again, and your head falls back with a breathless whimper. Your thighs twitch beneath his touch, eyes hazy as he watches you squirm. Then—gently, carefully—he sinks a single finger inside.

The charm flares so bright it casts shadows along the shore.

You’re impossibly warm around him—soft, tight, slick with want—and when he curls his finger just right, your body clenches, a pulse deep inside that matches the flickering of the charm exactly.

His breath catches. “You feel—fuck—you feel perfect.”

He moves slowly, drawing that finger out, then easing a second in with practiced patience. The stretch makes you moan, your hand flying to his arm like you need something to hold onto. He leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“Breathe, angel. You’re doing so good.”

The glow brightens with every pump of his fingers, every soft squelch of wet heat. The deeper he strokes, the harder your body responds—hips rising into him, breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

And the amulet pulses in perfect rhythm with your cunt.

Throb. Glow. Throb. Glow. Throb.

“Can’t believe this thing’s showing me everything you’re feeling,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw, your cheek, the shell of your ear. “You like this? Like my fingers inside you?”

You nod frantically, unable to speak—your body already trembling, on the edge.

And he feels it.

The way your walls start to flutter, how the glow grows unstable—flickering wildly now, close to bursting.

“Let go for me,” he whispers, dragging his thumb up to circle your clit just once—soft and perfect.

And you do.

You fall apart with a cry, back arching, thighs shaking, body clenching around his fingers as the charm explodes in a radiant wave of golden light.

He watches it all—spellbound.

Then leans in to kiss you—slow and deep and full of heat that says we’re not done yet.

He watches your cunt flutter around nothing, charm still flickering weakly at your throat like it’s trying to recover from what just happened. You’re limp beneath him, chest rising and falling, skin shining with salt and moonlight.

“Didn’t know you could sound that sweet,” he breathes, dragging his fingers up your thigh, smearing your slick along your skin like he wants to mark you with it. “Might lose my mind if you do that again.”

You try to say something back—something sharp, something teasing—but all that comes out is a soft, shattered whimper.

He groans.

Low and ragged and wrecked.

His head drops for a second like he’s trying to collect himself—but you feel it. The tension in his body, the restraint snapping thin. He looks at you, eyes blown wide, lips parted.

And then—“Fuck this.”

He shifts back onto his knees, still between your thighs, eyes raking over your glowing body as he tugs at his soaked shirt. The fabric sticks to his skin, but he doesn’t care. Just wrestles it off and tosses it somewhere behind him, hair even messier now, chest rising fast.

You blink up at him—bare-chested now, sea-glossed skin kissed with salt and moonlight. He looks wild like this. Like he could devour you whole.

And still not have enough.

Then comes the belt—fingers fumbling, desperate. He mutters a curse, half-laughs through it, then undoes his pants, shoving them down with just as much frustration. You catch a glimpse of him, long and heavy and twitching with need.

He kicks the rest of it off and lowers himself over you again, your slick thighs pressing to his hips, the heat between you crackling.

And oh, the moan he lets out when your bare chest presses to his.

“That’s better,” he whispers, forehead against yours, hips rocking once more, cock sliding between your folds. “So much better.”

He looks down at the glow between your breasts, at the way your body responds to his bare skin like it’s craving it.

And he grins.

“Think your magic likes me.”

And then he’s back over you—fully bare, hot and heavy against your slick, glowing skin. “Gods,” he murmurs. “You’re unreal.”

You whine as he settles between your thighs, guiding himself to your entrance. His cock is thick, flushed, glistening with precum. The tip nudges at your folds—hot, insistent—and your breath catches in your throat.

“You can take it,” he murmurs, hand sliding up to cup your cheek. “Already so wet for me.”

He starts to push in. Slow. So slow you feel every inch. Every stretch. Your back arches and your mouth parts in a silent gasp. He groans low in his throat, dropping his head to your shoulder as he sinks deeper.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he hisses.

You’re trembling beneath him—clutching at his arms, moaning helplessly as he bottoms out.

And once he’s fully inside, he stills. Not out of mercy. But reverence.

“Look at you,” he whispers, pulling back just enough to see your face, the glow between your breasts starting to flare again. “All stretched out just for me.”

He rocks into you once. Slow. Deep.

You mewl, legs instinctively trying to wrap around his waist—and the glow pulses brighter.

“Gods—let me see how much you want it, sweetheart.”

He sets a rhythm that’s deep and steady, hips rolling into yours with that perfect pressure that has you melting under him. One hand tangled in your hair, the other on your thigh, pushing it open further so he can fuck you deeper.

And he talks the whole time.

So sweet. So filthy.

“Taking me so good. So perfect inside.” “You were made for this, weren’t you? For me.” “Look at you. So needy, so pretty.”

You’re babbling now—half his name, half nonsense, your hands scrabbling at his back like you need to anchor yourself.

He watches the way your lips part, the way your lashes flutter.

You feel the stretch as he pushes in again—inch by inch, deliberate—like he’s savoring the way you tremble beneath him.

“Shit—too much?” he asks, voice tight, lips brushing yours.

You shake your head, a breathy moan breaking free.

“N-no—don’t stop—fuck, ’Toru!”

He groans, pressing his forehead to yours. His hands grip your hips like he’s anchoring himself there, holding you still as he sinks into the feeling of being completely surrounded by you.

“Feels so fucking good,” he whispers. “You—you feel so good.”

He pulls back just enough to thrust in again—slow, smooth, deep—and your body arches.

The sound you make is soft, helpless.

He does it again. And again.

You’re gasping now, fingernails digging into his back, every roll of his hips sending sparks down your spine.

“Yeah? That what you needed?” he murmurs against your throat. “Want me to fuck you slow like this, baby? Let you feel every inch?”

Your only answer is a broken moan—and he grins.

His rhythm stays steady. Deep. Each thrust has your body trembling, your cunt clenching so tight around him that he shudders.

His groans grow louder. He doesn’t care if his crew wakes up from it. Can’t even think about it now, not with the way you clench around him like that.

“Gods, I’m not gonna last,” he admits, voice hoarse. “Not when you’re like this—tight little thing, crying under me—fuck—”

You try to speak, to beg for more, for faster, for anything, but your brain’s not working anymore. All you can do is cling to him, ride out the wave of pleasure crashing over and over—

And he feels it.

Feels the way you start to shake, the way your breath hitches.

He grabs your hand, laces your fingers with his, and presses your arm into the sand beside your head.

“Come for me,” he whispers, voice soft—almost reverent now. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

His thrusts grow more desperate—less patient, more need—until your body tightens beneath him with a stuttering gasp and you fall apart all over again.

Your orgasm hits hard. A cry breaks from your throat, your body arching as you clench around him—pulsing, shaking, stars exploding behind your eyes.

Gojo groans as you come—low and rough and helpless.

“Holy shit—fuck, that’s it, that’s my girl—”

He thrusts once, twice more before pulling out and shooting his load all over your stomach and chest with a broken sound, his fist tight around his cock, hips twitching.

And then silence. Heavy breathing.

His lips brush your temple.

“Still with me?” he asks, voice hoarse but soft.

You’re barely breathing.

Chest rising in little, uneven gasps, thighs trembling, your hand still tangled in his hair like you forgot how to let go.

Gojo doesn’t move at first.

He just stays there, nose brushing your cheek, lips parted against your skin. You can feel the beat of his heart where his chest rests over yours, still racing.

He presses a kiss to your jaw.

Then another, to the corner of your mouth. His hand slips down to soothe the shake in your thighs, thumb grazing your hip.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, voice thick. “You okay?”

You nod, blinking dazedly, lips barely able to form the words.

He huffs a soft laugh, curling beside you, arm hooked under your head to ease you into his chest. He’s warm. Still a little damp. Still naked. Still pressing soft kisses wherever he can reach.

You manage a breathless smile, curling closer. His hand trails down your spine, settling low on your back like he needs to keep touching you.

And for a while, that’s all it is.

Touch. Breath. Silence.

Then “I should get you cleaned up,” he murmurs. “You’ve got sand in places sand was never meant to be.”

You laugh—softly, tiredly—and he grins like he just won something.

He shifts, kneeling between your legs, coaxing you to sit up. His hands are gentle, wiping away the mess, brushing the hair from your face, fingers lingering everywhere like he can’t believe you’re real.

And when he wraps you in his discarded shirt, helps you back into the shallows to rinse off, he does it all like you’re something sacred.

Afterwards, he’s dressed again—barely dry, shirt wrinkled and hair a mess, but somehow still glowing in that effortless, infuriating way. He settles next to you, arms folded behind his head, eyes on the stars.

You lie beside him in silence, your body still humming from everything he gave you. Everything you let him give you.

Then he says it, so simply, like it costs him nothing at all: “Stay.”

You turn your head.

His eyes are closed, voice soft. “Just a little longer.”

You don’t answer. You just stay.

You stay as the moon climbs higher, casting silver light across his face. You stay until his breathing evens out, until his eyes can’t stay open any longer and until the smirk fades from his lips, replaced by something softer. Peaceful.

You reach out, brushing your fingers through his hair once—just once.

Then you rise, slow and silent, not daring to look back. The sand is cool beneath your feet as you cross to the water’s edge. Each step feels heavier than the last.

When your toes meet the sea, you pause. Your hand lifts to your chest.

The amulet pulses—soft and bright.

One more step.

The glow flares as your legs shift, flesh transforming back into scaled fin, your body easing into the current like it belongs there.

You look back only once.

He’s still there. Still asleep. Still smiling, just a little.

And then you sink beneath the surface—silent, alone, and glowing like you’re breaking apart from the inside out.

The ocean is quiet today.

Too quiet.

No schools of fish flitting past your chambers. No kelp swaying with the currents. Even the water feels heavier somehow, like the weight of what you did has sunk into the sea itself.

You don't sleep that night. Not really.

You drift. You float.

You try not to think about his hands, his mouth, the way your charm glowed for him like it had never glowed before.

But the sea doesn’t forget.

By morning, a summons arrives.

No explanation. Just a stiff nod from the attendant, eyes carefully averted, voice flat:

“Your father wants to see you.”

You already know what for.

Still, you school your face into something composed as you swim through the winding halls, past the guards who can barely meet your gaze. You feel the glimmer of your charm even now—dulled, but not dark. Not completely.

Your father is waiting.

Throned, still, massive. His presence fills the chamber before his voice ever does.

“You broke the law,” he says.

You lift your chin, but say nothing.

He rises—slowly, deliberately—and you feel the pressure of his disappointment before he’s even crossed the floor. “With him. A human. You let him touch you.” His eyes narrow, ancient and sharp. “You let him claim you.”

Your fingers twitch at your sides. Not in denial. Not even in shame. But in memory.

Because you remember the way Gojo held you like you were something to be worshipped, not stolen. Not claimed.

Still, you say nothing. And your silence seals it.

Your father exhales, slow. “Then you leave me no choice.”

His trident slams to the ocean floor with a crack that echoes through your bones.

“There is only one thing left to sever the bond you’ve created.”

Your breath stutters in your throat.

He looks down at you. “You will return to the surface. And you will bring me his heart.”

You don’t move. You don’t speak.

His words hang heavy in the water, thick as blood.

Your heart thunders, but your voice is barely a whisper. “…No.”

He narrows his eyes. “You would defy me?”

“I—please.” The word leaves you before you can stop it. Your hands rise, open in front of you. “You don’t understand. He’s not like the others. He didn’t take anything—he gave.”

“A trinket,” your father snaps. “A distraction.”

You shake your head. “It wasn’t just that.”

Silence follows. Deep. Crushing.

His eyes bore into you like the weight of the entire sea. But still, you try again.

“Let him go,” you whisper. “Please. If I made a mistake, punish me. But don’t—don’t hurt him.”

Your father stares for a long, still moment. And then, he speaks again. Quietly this time.

“If you cannot do it,” he says, “I have men who will.”

“No—” you surge forward, falling to your knees before him. “Please, Father. I’ll stay here. I won’t see him again. I’ll do whatever you ask, but don’t send anyone after him—don’t kill him.”

You’re shaking. You can feel it. The way your voice trembles. The way the charm around your neck flickers in protest.

But your father doesn’t soften.

He looks down at you—not as his daughter, but as something lesser. A traitor. A disappointment.

“You broke the laws that bind our kind. You let a human inside your mind, your body, your power.” He leans forward. “This is not about love. This is about balance. And you have tipped it.”

You go quiet.

Because you know then—he’s already made up his mind.

Gojo Satoru is as good as dead.

Unless you get to him first.

The moment you rise from the floor, ready to run—he moves faster.

A wave of pressure slams down around you. Not painful, but impossible to push through. You twist, try to swim forward, but it holds you in place like invisible chains.

“I know you, daughter,” he says, voice colder now, more ancient. “I know what you’d do.”

Your eyes widen.

“Don’t,” you breathe. “Please—”

“You would betray your kingdom for one man,” he says. “I won’t let you.”

You surge forward, desperate, heart thudding so loud you swear he can hear it through the water. But the force field remains. Sealed. Final. “Father.”

He turns his back to you. His guards step in. “Lock her in the coral chamber,” he commands.

“No!” Your scream is swallowed by the sea. “Please, don’t do this—he’ll think I left—he’ll think I meant to—”

But your father doesn’t look back. Not even once.

And as the guards grab your arms, drag you through the halls, you realize something far worse than being punished: Satoru will never see this coming.

The coral chamber is silent but for the soft hum of the magic holding it sealed. It’s not a prison in the traditional sense—but it might as well be. The walls pulse with a faint light, ancient enchantments woven into every inch of the reef.

And then a ripple. You spin, heart in your throat, and see her.

Your sister floats just outside the barrier, arms crossed, gaze sharp. “You look like you’re going to pass out,” she says coolly. “Did you think you could hide it forever?”

You exhale shakily. “He wasn’t supposed to find out.”

“I told you,” she snaps, gliding closer, her face stern. “You were reckless. You fell for a land-strider. You gave him your power. Do you have any idea what that means for us?”

“I didn’t give him anything!” you hiss. “It wasn’t like that.”

Her silence is pointed.

You run a hand through your hair, frustrated, angry, terrified all at once. “He wasn’t like the others. He didn’t want to take. He saw me.”

Her jaw tightens.

“And now he’s going to die for it,” you whisper, voice cracking. You reach the edge of the barrier, fingertips barely brushing the glowing wall. “Please. Please, I need to warn him.”

She doesn’t answer. You see it in her face—the doubt, the war she’s fighting behind her eyes. “Do you love him?” she asks finally.

You hesitate. “…Yes.”

Her features flicker, soften just a little. “You know what our father will do to me if I help you.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” you whisper. “But if you don’t, he’ll never even see it coming. He’ll think I abandoned him.”

Silence stretches long between you. Then she breathes out through her nose. “You always were the reckless one.”

And her hand reaches forward. The barrier parts, just a crack. “Go. Now.”

You grip her wrist before she can pull away completely. “I can’t leave,” you say, voice trembling. “He’ll know. He’ll tighten the wards. But please. Just find him. Tell him I didn’t abandon him. Tell him I tried.”

Your sister hesitates. “…I don’t even know what he looks like.”

You give her the faintest smile. “Tall. White hair. Blue eyes. Stupidly pretty. He waits near the tide line at night.”

Her lips twitch. “Sounds irritating.”

“He is,” you breathe out. “But I—he matters.”

Another pause. And then she nods. “I’ll find him.”

You watch her disappear into the deep. You’re left with nothing but the steady pulse of the chamber’s magic and the wild pounding of your heart.

The tide laps gently against the rocks. Gojo sits near the edge, legs drawn up, his arms resting over his knees. The stars scatter across the surface like they’re watching him wait.

He checks the horizon again. Still no sign of you.

It’s the third night in a row.

His easy smile is gone now, replaced with a quiet furrow between his brows. “Starting to think I scared you off,” he mutters, trying to sound light. It falls flat.

Then a shimmer breaks the water. He jerks upright, hopeful.

But it’s not you. A different figure rises—eyes too familiar, but colder. Cautious.

His confusion lasts only a second. “You’re not her.”

“No,” she says. “I’m her sister.” She studies him, as if weighing whether he’s worth the risk she just took. “She didn’t leave because she wanted to,” she says. “Our father found out. He locked her away before she could warn you.”

Gojo goes still. The next beat of his heart is loud enough to drown out the sea.

“She tried,” her sister adds, voice quiet. “She begged.”

For a moment, he doesn’t speak. Just stares out at the water, jaw tight, something in his chest twisting painfully. Then, slowly—he stands.

“…Where is she?” Gojo takes a step toward the tide. “I’m going after her.”

She blinks. “Are you serious?”

His jaw is set. “You just said she’s locked away. I’m not letting her sit there thinking I gave up on her.”

“Okay,” she huffs, flicking a bit of water off her wrist, “and how exactly do you plan to breathe underwater?”

He pauses.

“…Minor setback.”

“Minor—” She cuts herself off, dragging a hand down her face. “Gods, she really would fall for someone like you.”

He flashes a grin. “Thanks.”

“Not a compliment.”

But the smile fades quickly. “I mean it. I have to do something.”

She regards him for a moment. He’s serious. Really serious. No smug teasing, no flirtation—just that unshakable look in his eyes that tells her he’d throw himself into the ocean for you without hesitation.

“She wanted to warn you,” she says more softly now. “She tried. But our father… he knows. And if he catches you near our waters again—he won’t show mercy.”

Gojo’s mouth tightens. “I’m not afraid of him.”

“Then be afraid for her.”

That silences him.

Your sister crosses her arms, not cruel—just resigned. “The only way you keep her safe now is by staying away.”

“…So that’s it?” he asks hoarsely. “I just go? Pretend it never happened?”

“No,” she says, gentler now. “You remember it. Every moment of it. So does she.”

A long silence passes.

Then Gojo turns back to the shore. Shoulders stiff. Jaw clenched. He doesn’t look back when he walks away. But the ache he leaves in the sand stays long after the tide rolls in.

The ship creaks gently beneath their feet as the sails fill again with wind, the salt-stung breeze tugging at hair and loose shirts. They’ve set course for somewhere else. Anywhere else.

Gojo stands at the helm, one hand gripping the wood so tightly his knuckles pale. The horizon is just blue and endless, but he keeps staring, like he expects something to rise out of it. Like he’s hoping to catch one last glimpse of what he left behind.

Behind him, Shoko lights a cigarette and leans against the rail. “He’s been like that all morning.”

“More like all week,” Nanami mutters.

“Yuuji tried giving him an orange,” Nobara says, arms crossed. “Didn’t work.”

Megumi doesn’t say anything, but his eyes are fixed on Gojo’s back. He sees the way his captain keeps shifting like he’s restless. Like he’s waiting for the sea to give something back.

“Did something happen on shore?” Shoko asks finally.

Yuuji plops down on a crate nearby, chewing absently on a strip of dried mango. “Did mystery girl dump him or something?”

Gojo doesn’t flinch. But his grip tightens. Slightly. Sharply. The tension in his shoulders is sudden and obvious—and enough for Shoko to groan under her breath and flick Yuuji on the back of the head. “Yuuji.”

“Seriously?” Nobara scowls.

“...What?” Yuuji says, rubbing the spot. “I was joking!”

Megumi exhales slowly. “Read the room. Or boat.”

Gojo still hasn’t said anything.

Nobara steps up beside him, quieter now. “You don’t have to tell us what happened.”

Gojo’s voice finally breaks through, low and flat, “I left her behind.”

Silence spreads like fog.

“I didn’t want to,” he adds, almost like he’s trying to convince himself. “I had to.”

Shoko crosses her arms. “Is she in danger?”

He doesn’t answer at first. Then—barely audible—“I don't know.”

And that’s all he says. No one jokes after that. Not even Yuuji.

The silence in your chambers has been so loud lately, it’s almost a relief when the door bursts open. Your sister rushes in, breathless, hair wild from swimming too fast. “They’re moving.”

You blink, still half-curled on the smooth stone floor, tail tucked beneath you like you were trying to disappear into it.

Her voice is breathless. Urgent. “The guards—Father’s men—they’re already close. Too close.”

Your heart stutters. “No,” you whisper, sitting upright fast, tail shifting beneath you, trembling. “He—he promised me time.”

“He never meant it,” she says, voice thin and breaking. “He just wanted you calm. You know how he is.”

The charm at your neck pulses once—weak and frightened. “How close?” Your voice comes out barely audible.

She hesitates. That alone is answer enough. “Close enough that you might not make it in time,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

Your chest feels tight. Like the water around you is thickening, pressing in, suffocating. “I should’ve gone sooner,” you murmur, guilt blooming like ink in your gut. “I should’ve warned him.”

Your sister moves closer. “If you leave now—if you swim hard—maybe…”

You don’t respond. Because maybe isn’t good enough.

You move, slow at first, like your body is still catching up to what your mind already knows—then faster, faster, until you’re flying through the water, heart in your throat, pulse roaring in your ears.

Please, you think, over and over, please let me be wrong. Please let them be safe.

Because if you're not—if they aren’t—then it’s already too late.

The ocean is too quiet. Not calm—quiet.

The kind of stillness that makes even seasoned sailors look over their shoulders.

Gojo leans against the railing, forearms braced, eyes fixed on the horizon like he’s trying to find something he can’t name. His hair’s still damp from a morning swim he swore he wasn’t waiting around for. Salt clings to his skin. But his charm’s gone dim.

Behind him, the crew stirs with a strange energy.

Shoko’s brow is furrowed as she peers into the distance through a spyglass. “Feels wrong,” she mutters.

“Like storm weather?�� Yuuji asks, quieter now.

“No,” Nanami says, voice low and firm. “Worse.”

Gojo turns finally, eyes narrowed just slightly. “How long until we’re ready to move?”

“Half hour, if the wind holds,” Megumi replies.

Gojo doesn’t nod. Doesn’t speak. Just looks out again—toward nothing—and feels something tightening in his chest.

He doesn’t say it out loud, but they can all tell:

Something’s coming.

The first jolt doesn’t come from above—it comes from below. A violent lurch rocks the ship, enough to knock Megumi sideways and send a bucket skittering across the deck.

“What the hell—?!” Shoko grabs the railing.

“Something hit the hull,” Nanami barks, already moving.

But it’s not just one strike. The second comes harder. Something slams into the underside of the ship with a dull, sickening crack, the kind of force that splinters wood. The whole vessel groans in protest.

“Below deck! Check for breach!” Geto shouts.

Gojo doesn’t move. He knows what this is. Not a storm. Not sea creatures.

This—this is retribution.

Another strike. This time from the side—something sharp tearing into the boards just above the waterline. A wave sloshes over the deck.

“Someone’s attacking us,” Nobara shouts, already drawing her blade.

“No ships in sight,” Shoko says, snapping the spyglass shut. “No sails. Nothing.”

“Because it’s not human,” Gojo says softly.

Everyone goes quiet. The water stills again. Only for a breath.

Then—something breaches. A dark, jagged figure shoots up from the depths, slicing the surface like a living spear before diving back under. Sleek. Fast. Not quite human.

There’s a chorus of shouted commands, boots thundering across wood, hands grabbing ropes and weapons. But Gojo doesn’t shout. He steps to the edge, staring down into the deep.

You promised him time. And he knows now—you never had it.

The first crash nearly knocks the mast loose. It hits low—beneath the waterline. A sickening jolt, wood shattering like ribs, sends barrels tumbling and sailors cursing.

“What the fuck was that?!” Nobara yells, grabbing onto the railing.

“Something’s under us!” Megumi shouts, already disappearing below deck.

Another impact. This one’s higher—near the stern. It scrapes deep, long, like claws carving into the hull.

The crew scrambles, chaos erupting.

“Plug the breach!” Nanami orders, voice like iron even as water pours through the cracks. “We’re taking on fast—!”

Then silence. Not peace. Stillness. It only lasts a second.

And then something launches from the water. It isn’t human. Slippery, scaled, and lean. Gills flaring. Hands like knives. A sea-creature—no, a hunter—lands on the deck.

“Starboard!” Shoko shouts, throwing a harpoon from behind a barrel. It pierces straight through the creature’s side—sends it flailing back over the railing with a screech.

But more are coming. Dozens. Fingers claw the sides of the ship. Webbed hands. Serrated weapons. Shifting forms dart just under the surface, circling like sharks.

Geto kicks a supply crate toward Yuuji. “Arm everyone—now!”

Nobara’s sword is slick with blood already. “I’ll gut every last one of you scaled fuckers!”

Gojo’s still at the edge. Frozen. Not with fear—but with a gut-deep knowing.

This isn’t a random attack. This is a message. From the sea. From the ones who’ve taken you.

Another clawed hand slams onto the railing beside him. He reacts fast—kicks it off, blade out, breath heavy.

Behind him, Nanami grabs rope and starts tying barrels together. “If we have to abandon ship—”

“We’re not abandoning shit,” Gojo snaps, spinning around. “We hold until we can’t.”

But even as he says it—his eyes flick toward the horizon. Still no sign of you. No soft laugh. No glowing charm.

Just the black, roiling sea.

The ship groans—loud, guttural, like it’s begging to stay afloat. They’re everywhere now. Climbing over the sides, pouring up from the sea. Not all of them fully formed—some half-human, half-monstrous, with fins instead of feet, barbed tails slashing through the air. The deck is slick with seawater and blood, bodies scrambling between debris and weapons, screams barely heard over the crash of the waves.

“Get back!” Nobara snarls, kicking a writhing thing off the main mast ladder.

“Too many!” Geto yells. “We won’t hold this!”

“I told you something felt wrong last night!” Shoko ducks under a spear, slices its wielder’s throat clean with a broken bottle. “Where the hell is Gojo?!”

Then they see him. At the far end of the deck. Standing above the chaos, coat soaked and sticking to his skin, hair clinging to his forehead, hands trembling just enough to show he’s running on pure adrenaline. His blade’s buried in one of the creatures—but he doesn’t look back at it. He’s looking at them. “Get to the rafts!” he shouts. “Now!”

“No—” Yuuji tries to argue, but Gojo’s already throwing a crate across the deck, knocking one of the attackers away from a half-loosened life raft. “We’re not leaving you!”

“Just go!” he shouts again, this time louder—eyes hard, desperate. “I’ll keep them off you!”

One of the creatures lunges at him from behind. He ducks it. Spins. Stabs. Another comes from the side. He doesn’t flinch—slams his elbow into its gills, kicks it back into the sea.

And when Geto opens his mouth to argue again—he sees it.

Gojo’s not planning on coming with them. Not yet. This happened because of him. He’s not letting anything happen to his crew—his family.

He’s buying them time. A distraction.

“Move!” Nanami grabs Yuuji by the collar, dragging him toward the rope ladders. “He made his choice—don’t waste it!”

The crew rushes to untie the rafts, each member fending off attacks as they scramble toward escape. The ship lurches again—one final groan from the keel, deep and ugly.

And through it all, Gojo fights. Face bloodied, body bruised from the impact of too many claws and spears. But he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t look away. He stays. Waiting. Hoping.

Because maybe you’ll come. Maybe you know.

The water is far too calm.

Too still for what should’ve been here—shouts, battle cries, fire and fury. All that’s left is quiet. A quiet so deep it feels wrong, like the ocean itself is holding its breath.

You break the surface, expecting chaos. Expecting the fight. But there’s only ruin.

Pieces of the ship drift past you—shards of splintered wood, torn cloth fluttering uselessly. A piece of railing, a shattered crate. The scent of smoke still clings faintly in the air.

You swim further in. Your eyes are wide, darting. Searching. Where is he?

You don’t realize you're whispering his name until your voice cracks.

The deeper you go, the worse it gets. A mast, snapped clean in two. Ropes hanging uselessly. No figures. No sound. Just wreckage.

And blood—thin, diluted trails fading into the tide.

You pass the remains of a lifeboat. Empty.

Your stomach turns. Your hands tremble, barely keeping you above water now.

Your lips part, but no sound comes out. Just a hollow breath. The glow of your charm dims at your chest—flickering, like it, too, has begun to mourn. You turn slowly in the water.

And then you see it. A large, flat piece of the ship’s hull—still afloat, barely. And on it, unmoving, soaked through, arm dangling off the side—Gojo.

Your breath catches violently in your throat. You freeze. For a second, you don't move. Your body forgets how. Your mind goes blank. Then you’re flying through the water, limbs cutting through it as fast as you can move. You reach him and he’s still there. Still whole. Still—

“Satoru,” you whisper, pulling yourself up onto the debris, crawling to him on shaking arms. “Satoru—”

His skin is cold. Salt-stung. Pale.

You don’t know when you started shaking. Not from the cold, not from the sea.

From what rests in your arms.

You cradle him as best you can atop the broken hull, dragging his weight against you as your tail propels you toward shore. The waves are gentle now—cruelly so, as if mocking what the sea just took.

His head slumps against your shoulder. His skin is ice. No breath. No movement.

And still you keep going. You drag him onto the sand, gasping, coughing. The glow at your chest is frantic now—wild, erratic, pulsing like a heartbeat that doesn't belong to you anymore.

You drag him onto the sand, gasping, coughing. The glow at your chest is frantic now—wild, erratic, pulsing like a heartbeat that doesn't belong to you anymore.

You barely feel the shift until it’s already happening—muscle pulling, fins splitting apart, the weight of your tail giving way to something softer. The cool press of sand meets your knees. Your calves. Your feet. Legs.

Breath shudders out of you. You clutch at the charm, still burning warm against your palm, as if it’s trying to hold you together. But all you can see is him—still too still, too pale, the sea in his lungs and salt on his skin.

“Please,” you whisper, your voice hoarse, your hands pressed against his chest. “Please—” You don’t know who you’re begging. Him. The ocean. The gods. Anyone.

You press your forehead to his, still dripping, still trembling. Saltwater pools around his body. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t twitch. Doesn’t breathe.

He’s gone. You know it.

But you refuse.

“No,” you breathe, louder this time, almost choking on it. “No—I didn’t come this far for you to leave me. You can’t—,” your voice breaks. Your chest heaves.

You sit there for what feels like forever—holding him, cradling his lifeless face, brushing damp white strands from his eyes.

“You said you'd always find me,” you whisper. “Even if I was hiding beneath the sea.”

Silence answers.

And still you stay there, beside him, your charm glowing so desperately it hurts.

Until the sea turns quiet again. Until your tears dry with the wind. Until you're left with nothing but the weight of him—and the crushing ache of everything you didn’t get to say.

You’re not sure how long you’ve sat there.

Long enough for the stars to shift overhead. Long enough for the tide to creep higher around your legs. Long enough to feel the weight of him turning cold in your arms. And still, you can’t let go.

Your fingers slip to your charm. It’s still glowing faintly—soft white, barely flickering, as if mourning with you. You don’t know what you’re doing until it’s already in your palm, the knotted cord pooling there. Your voice is barely a whisper. “I’m sorry, I’m so—so sorry.”

He’s heavy in your arms. Too still. His lips are blue. His skin is cold. You don’t realize you’re crying again until your tears hit his cheek.

Then you slip it around his neck, letting the charm settle over his chest, right where his heart should be beating.

The glow flickers. Soft. Faint. Then—bright.

But it’s not white. It’s blue. The deep, clear cerulean of his eyes. The kind of blue that once made you hesitate mid-sentence. The kind that lit up when he laughed. The kind that stared at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

And then his body jerks. He spasms, and your hands fly to his shoulders just as he twists onto his side, choking, convulsing. He gasps—wet and raw. Saltwater floods from his mouth, spilling over his lips. He coughs hard, body wracked with it, and you hold him through every shudder. “Breathe,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “Please. Just breathe.”

Another violent cough. His fingers dig into the sand, weak and scrambling. His chest heaves. And finally—finally—he sucks in a breath. A real one. It’s ragged. Fragile. But it’s there.

His eyelids flutter open slowly. His gaze is unfocused at first—glassy, dazed. But then those eyes shift. Land on you. “…You,” he croaks, hoarse. Barely a whisper.

Your heart cracks open. You lean over him, one hand cradling his cheek, the other smoothing wet hair back from his face. “I thought I lost you,” you whisper.

He doesn’t speak. Just stares up at you like he doesn’t quite believe it either. Like he’s still half between this world and the next.

“I’m here,” you say, softly. “I’m right here.”

And finally, his eyes flutter closed again—not unconscious, just overwhelmed. He lets out a weak breath and presses his forehead against your palm. And you sit there, holding him, while the waves keep rising.

You feel warmth slowly return to him—the cold fading from his skin, replaced by the heat of life. Of him. He’s curled against you on the sand, breathing shallow but steady, as the ocean hums quietly at your back. Neither of you speak for a long while.

Then, his fingers twitch—reach for yours. And when you lace them together, he holds on like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this world. “…You saved me,” he says, voice rough.

You don’t look at him. “You shouldn’t have been there.”

“I couldn’t stay away.” Your throat tightens. He squeezes your hand, and when you finally meet his gaze, it steals the air right from your lungs. He’s looking at you like you’re a miracle. Like he’s afraid to blink and lose you again.

“I thought you were gone,” you whisper. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“Same,” he breathes, giving you a half smile—soft, tired. “But apparently I’m too pretty to die.”

You let out a shaky laugh. Then a tear slips down your cheek, and he catches it with his thumb. “No more running,” he says. “No more hiding.”

Your voice trembles. “They’ll come after you.”

“Then let them.” His tone is quiet but sure. “Let them come. I’m not leaving you.”

You barely have time to breathe before his hand is on your jaw, tilting your face toward his. He doesn’t kiss you gently. He crashes into you, his hand cupping your jaw, pulling you in as his lips claim yours with raw, aching need. There’s no hesitation, no fear. Just everything he’s wanted to say and never had the words for.

You melt into him, fingers knotting in the fabric of his shirt—still soaked, still clinging to him like your touch does now. The taste of salt lingers between your mouths, your breaths shared and stolen, again and again. He groans softly into your lips as you shift over him, your body fitting against his like you were always meant to. His hands—calloused and warm—trail down your back, over the ridges of your spine, holding you closer, closer.

When you pull back to breathe, you hover there, foreheads pressed together, your lips barely apart. “I missed you,” he whispers. “More than I can explain.”

Your eyes flutter shut. “I never stopped thinking of you.”

Another kiss. Slower this time. Full of promise and pain and everything you’ve both fought so hard to bury. His tongue slides against yours—gentle, then greedy. And you let him have you, let him take all of it.

Because he came back. Because you saved him.

Because against every odd and warning, he’s still yours.

And you’re not letting go.

author's note. after almost A MONTH we're back gang. the PAIN i went thru before posting this- FUCK TUMBLR'S BLOCK LIMIT i had to delete an entire scene (but dw the full version will be on my ao3 soon)

please do not steal, modify, or translate my work.

#icymi ♡

2K notes · View notes

shokocide · 13 days ago

Text

i love husband!satoru so much like yes i need to be married to that man

#starr talks #gojo satoru #jujutsu kaisen

24 notes · View notes

shokocide · 14 days ago

Text

They better make this a juju stroll

#if you...#...really tried #LMFAO #itadori yuuji #fushiguro megumi #kugisaki nobara #panda jjk #jujutsu kaisen

3K notes · View notes

shokocide · 15 days ago

Note

Bro I’m so jealous that your exams are finished :(( I finish on the 25th..

you can do it babe i believe in you!!

my results come out this weekend help

#GO KYLIE GO #ask #anon

0 notes

shokocide · 15 days ago

Note

Stumbled upon ur blog, just wanted you to know that ur top posts make a really cool gradient

BISEXUALITY

HAPPY PRIDE MONTH FRFR

that acc does look so pretty tho thank you for telling me 😌❤️

#oh this eats #ask

4 notes · View notes

shokocide · 16 days ago

Text

'heart of the ocean' is now on ao3!!

#it does include the deleted scene #it's not that important tho #even my nerdjo fic is longer on ao3 #anyways enjoy!! <33 #starr talks #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen

12 notes · View notes

shokocide · 16 days ago

Text

HEY, EMO BOY! - CHOSO KAMO

summary. Choso doesn’t do distractions. But then you walk into his show and ruin his focus with one look. And now, he’s handing you his guitar, his heart, maybe more. And baby, you haven’t even seen what those fingers can really do.

word count. 10.5k (i got a lil carried away)

content. mdni fem! reader, bassist! choso, mutual pining, heavy tension, choso is a tease (and so down bad), really lovey-dovey shi like bro's not even emo, pet names, smut, fingering, oral (fem rec.), p in v, mating press, praise, creampie, slight overstim, aftercare

author's note. saw this fanart and started ovulating on demand.

"Come on, it'll be fun," Shoko says, tugging on your sleeve with the persistence of a woman who knows you have no other plans. "You like music. You like hot guys. This is both."

You squint at her, unconvinced. "You said that last time and we ended up at some dude’s garage while he rapped about capitalism."

She grins. “And it was unforgettable.”

“You spilled beer on my shoes.”

“And I’ve had character development after that.”

You roll your eyes, but she already knows she's won. She’s practically vibrating with excitement as she drags you through the dimly lit alley that opens into an even dimmer basement venue—graffiti-tagged walls, sticker-covered speakers, the scent of cigarettes and something vaguely fruity in the air.

The lights are low, the crowd humming with quiet energy, and the stage is set but empty—just a drum kit, a couple mics, and a bass propped against its amp like it’s waiting for someone.

“You’re gonna love them,” Shoko whispers, already pulling out her phone to snap photos. “The music’s sick. And the bassist—”

You blink at her.

“The bassist,” she repeats, dramatically placing a hand over her heart. “Tall, broody, pretty eyes. Never says a damn word on stage but plays like he’s in pain.”

You scoff. “You’ve got issues.”

“Just wait,” she says. “You’re not ready.”

And you’re not.

Because when the band finally comes on stage and the lights cut through the haze, your eyes lock onto him—tall, dark, dressed in all black with his bass slung low, rings glinting on his fingers, and a half-lidded stare like he’s seeing ghosts.

And when he starts playing? Oh. Yeah. You’re done for.

The lights dim, bathing the room in moody blue and red hues. The crowd hushes—just for a moment—then the first chord explodes through the speakers. It’s loud, raw, electric, vibrating through the floor and straight up your spine.

You don’t flinch.

You should. The guy next to you does. Shoko’s already swaying to the beat like she’s been here a thousand times. But you? You’re frozen—entranced.

Not by the music. Not really.

By him.

The bassist, standing off to the left like he doesn’t crave the spotlight, like he’s content letting the others take the lead. But he’s the one you see. The one who owns the stage.

He’s tall and he’s wearing a loose black button-up, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the top few buttons left undone to tease just enough of his pale, sculpted chest. The stage lights catch on the gleam of sweat on his collarbones, highlighting every sharp angle and subtle flex of muscle as he moves with the rhythm. His fingers dance over the bass strings with practiced ease, and that’s when you notice it—apart from the black nail polish, each one is tattooed with a letter: C-H-O-S-O.

His long, dark hair is loose, falling in waves to the base of his neck, the ends brushing over his collar. The soft purple eyeshadow dusting his eyelids makes his deep-set eyes pop, casting shadows that only add to his sharp features. A bold tattoo cuts across the bridge of his nose, stark against his pale skin.

His brows are furrowed, mouth set in a hard, concentrated line, and his fingers—god, his fingers—they dance over the strings like he was born with a bass in his hands. There’s something hypnotic about the way he plays. Focused. Intense. Like the world doesn’t exist outside of this moment.

You don’t even realize you’re staring until Shoko elbows you lightly. “Told you,” she shouts in your ear, grinning like the smug little shit she is.

You nod, but your eyes don’t move. You can’t look away. It’s like you’ve been put under some kind of spell.

And then—then—mid-song, his head lifts just slightly. His gaze cuts through the haze and crowd and colored lights, and lands right on you. You swear it. A spark of something sharp and electric zips down your spine.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t nod. Just holds your gaze for a breath longer than necessary before he looks away, like he felt it too.

Like he knew.

Like the music wasn’t the only thing pulling strings tonight.

The band keeps playing, song after song bleeding into one another, but you barely register any of it.

Your eyes keep straying to him. Choso—at least, you think that’s his name, judging by the ink on his fingers. Fitting, really. It lingers in your head like a low bassline: heavy, addictive.

At one point, you swear he looks at you again.

Really looks.

And even if it’s just for a second, it feels like a live wire pressed to your skin.

You down the rest of your drink to keep yourself from combusting.

Shoko leans in and shouts something in your ear over the music—probably the band’s name or some fun fact about the drummer—but your eyes are locked on him. You nod absently, your smile weak, dazed, because how the hell are you supposed to listen to anyone else when he’s up there, commanding your every thought?

By the time the band wraps up their final song, you’re already craning your neck for a better look. You don't even realize you're moving toward the stage until Shoko’s hand snags your wrist.

"Where are you going?"

You blink, startled like you’ve been caught red-handed. "I—I don’t know."

But you do.

You’re hoping to get closer. Maybe he’ll notice you again.

Maybe he already has.

You find yourself outside the venue before you even realize what you’re doing—leaning against the brick wall, half hidden in the shadows, heart hammering like you’d just finished a set yourself. The crisp night air cools your skin, but it does nothing to quiet the heat bubbling beneath it.

You tell yourself you just needed some air.

That’s all.

Totally not waiting around like some groupie for a guy you don’t even know.

The door creaks open behind you, and a familiar pair of boots crunches against gravel. Shoko squints at you suspiciously.

“You good?” she asks, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with a quick flick. “You just disappeared.”

You shrug, too casual. “Yeah. Just needed a breather.”

She takes a drag, exhales slow. “Right. A breather. After not dancing and not drinking that much.”

You shoot her a side-eye. “Do you always interrogate people for wanting fresh air?”

“Only when they’ve been acting weird since the bassist took the stage.” She raises an eyebrow. “You’re not slick, y’know.”

You scoff, glancing away before she can catch the way your face warms. "I don't know what you’re talking about."

Shoko chuckles like she definitely knows what she’s talking about, but bless her, she doesn’t press it. Just smirks, gives your arm a little nudge. “He was hot, though.”

You give a noncommittal hum, eyes scanning every shadowed corner, every rusted doorway, hoping—just hoping—you might catch another glimpse of him. Choso. You’re almost certain that’s his name. It suits him. Dark. Sharp.

You won’t tell her, of course, but—yes.

Yes, this was fun.

Yes, she was absolutely right to drag you here.

Yes, the bassist was fine as hell and maybe, just maybe, you’ve developed the tiniest, stupidest little crush on a guy whose voice you haven’t even heard yet.

But god, you want to.

Even just once.

A glimpse. A moment. Anything.

And just when you think it’s time to give up, to stop being delusional and head home—

The door swings open again.

And this time, it’s him.

Panic.

Real, irrational, full-body panic.

Because there he is. Standing a few feet away. In the flesh. The bassist.

Loose black button-up clinging to his frame, sleeves still rolled up from the show, revealing forearms that shouldn’t be legal. The glint of his rings catching the light. A faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his collarbone—god, you can see it because the top few buttons are still undone, teasing just enough pale skin to keep you up at night.

And his eyes—

His eyes are rimmed with that soft, dusty lavender, and they’re looking straight at you.

You glance side to side like you might Houdini yourself out of this moment. Maybe if you ran fast enough, you could avoid embarrassing yourself beyond repair. Maybe if you—

Shoko bumps your shoulder, casual and smug. “Now’s your chance.”

“Chance for what?” you hiss, heart thudding in your ears. “To spontaneously combust? To make an idiot out of myself?”

But it’s too late.

Because before you can overthink your next twelve moves or plan a strategic escape—

He’s walking toward you.

Slow, calm, confident.

Like he knows what he’s doing to you.

Before you can say something completely unhinged, like “your bass playing did something weird to my hormones”, you feel Shoko shift beside you.

You whip your head toward her, silently begging for assistance, for backup, for escape. But she just smirks, looking between the two of you like she already knows exactly how this night’s gonna go.

“Well,” she says with a wink, already turning on her heel. ��I’ll leave you to it.”

Your eyes nearly bulge out of your skull. “Shoko. No. Shoko, wait—SHOKO.”

But she’s already walking away like she didn’t just abandon you to the mercy of the hottest man you’ve ever laid eyes on.

And now—

Now he’s standing right in front of you.

He smells like sweat and incense and something dark—something addictive.

“You waited,” he says, voice lower than expected, rich. His lips curl, just barely. “Were you hoping for an autograph… or something else?”

You blink.

He knows.

Your mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again.

An autograph? Something else? What the hell does something else even mean—wait, you know what it means, OH GOD—

“I—I wasn’t waiting— I mean, I was, but not like—like in a weird way or anything!” you blurt, the words tumbling out like a panicked avalanche. “Not that liking your music is weird. I mean, it was good! Really good. You were good. Not in that way, I mean—not that you wouldn’t be—oh my God—”

You slap a hand over your face.

Abort mission. Let the ground open up. End scene.

When you peek through your fingers, he’s just watching you, amused, head tilted slightly to the side.

Then—he chuckles. Actually chuckles.

It’s low and quiet and kind of devastating.

“I was right,” he murmurs, voice all honeyed steel. “Cute.”

You make a high-pitched noise that cannot be classified as human.

And Choso—Choso just leans in slightly, lowering his voice like he’s offering a secret.

“Relax. I don’t bite.” A beat. “Unless you want me to.”

You definitely stop breathing.

Your brain is just a dial-up tone as you stare at him, stunned into silence, because did he actually just say that? He did. He really did. And he’s still looking at you like he’s waiting for your answer.

But when you open your mouth, what comes out is: “I—uh—yeah. I mean no. I mean—I don’t know what I mean.”

He grins. Not a smirk. A real, soft little grin, like he likes the mess you’ve become.

“Wanna get some air?” he asks, jerking his chin toward the alleyway beside the venue, quieter now that the band’s done and the crowd’s thinned.

You nod way too fast.

So you end up outside, standing under the faded neon of the venue sign, arms crossed to hide how jittery you are. Choso leans against the wall beside you, lighting a cigarette. The glow flares against his sharp cheekbones, his lashes casting shadows on his skin.

“So,” he says, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “You liked the set?”

“Yeah,” you say, trying not to look at his hands. His tattooed fingers. “You were… really good.”

He hums, clearly amused. “Still not in that way?”

You bury your face in your hands again.

He laughs under his breath, then nudges your shoulder with his. “You got a name, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart.

Oh, how you were so very fucked.

You tell him your name. And when he repeats it softly, your knees almost give out.

Then he offers, “I’m Choso, by the way.”

Like it’s a gift.

And before the night ends, he asks if you’re coming to the next gig.

“Only if you’re playing,” you manage to say.

To which he replies, “I’ll be there if you are.”

shoko: hello?? where are you???

shoko: ANSWER ME

shoko: sigh

shoko: i didn’t want it to come to this but you leave me no choice

shoko: i’m checking your location.

shoko: GIRL WHAT ARE YOU STILL DOING THERE

shoko: 2 missed calls

shoko: you better give me answers the second you're online...or else.

you: dot dot dot

shoko: WHAT. HAPPENED.

you: emergency phone call

shoko: 🧍‍♀️

shoko: you’re a terrible liar

you: ok but like.

you: it wasn’t a lie. it was an emergency. a hot boy emergency

shoko: OH MY GOD.

shoko: OH MY GODDDDD.

you: he talked to me

you: HE TALKED TO ME SHOKO

shoko: AND???

you: and i said dumb shit

you: and he still talked to me

you: and i think i blacked out at one point??

you: but like. the good kind

shoko:YOU’RE TELLING ME MYSTERIOUS HOT BASSIST MAN TALKED TO YOU AND YOU LIVED???

you: barely

you: i think i ascended actually

shoko: you’re telling me you were about to dip and then HE approached YOU????

you: he remembered me from the front row 😭

you: called me cute 😭😭

you: asked for my name 😭😭😭

you: CALLED ME SWEETHEART 😭😭😭😭

shoko: …girl.

shoko: i don’t wanna be dramatic

shoko: but i might start planning your wedding

you: pls help i’m still outside the venue trying not to combust

you: he said he’d see me again if i came to the next gig

you: SHOKO WHAT IF I GO TO EVERY GIG UNTIL I DIE

shoko: yeah bestie we’re in our groupie era now

You show up a whole forty minutes before the doors even open—Shoko said she’d meet you later, but you’re already leaning against the building like a total loser. Or an over zealous fan. Same thing, really.

You're debating if you should take a walk to kill time when the door swings open, and out steps him. Black button-up, sleeves rolled up again, a few buttons undone, and that familiar purple eyeshadow hugging his tired eyes. His lip quirks up the second he sees you.

“Excited to see me?” he asks, cocking his head as he strolls over. His voice is low, teasing—but not unkind.

Your face goes up in flames. “What—n-no. I mean yes. I mean—Shoko said she’d meet me later and I didn’t wanna be late, obviously.”

He hums, clearly amused. “Mhm. Obnoxiously early, huh?”

“Fashionably early,” you grumble, and he laughs, like you’re the most entertaining thing he’s heard all day.

Then he nods his head toward the door. “C’mon. I’ll introduce you to the guys.”

You blink. Wait. Right now??

You glance down at your outfit—cute enough for the gig, maybe not cute enough to meet him again, let alone his entire band. But he’s already walking, and you’re a fool if you don’t follow.

The door creaks open, and you’re hit with the low hum of conversation, faint music playing from someone’s phone, and the scent of sweat and cologne. Your heart’s going a mile a minute.

“Yo,” Choso calls, and two heads turn.

The tall white-haired man draped across the couch offers a lazy grin. “Oh? Who’s this?”

Choso leans against the doorframe and jerks a thumb toward you. “She’s the one I was talking about.”

Your eyes widen. Talking about?? Since when???

“Ooooh,” the other guy drawls from where he’s fiddling with a drumstick, hair tied back and gaze sharp as ever. “So this is her.”

“Shut up,” Choso mutters, but there’s a hint of pink dusting his ears. He looks back at you, eyes soft. “That’s Satoru—he never shuts up. And that’s Suguru. Don’t let him fool you—he’s worse.”

“Lies and slander,” Satoru says with a wink.

You’re frozen. Do you wave? Speak? Die on the spot?

“Hi,” you say, awkwardly.

Suguru offers a small nod. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Finally???

Satoru leans forward with a devilish grin. “Choso wouldn’t shut up about you, y’know?”

Choso visibly tenses. “Go bother someone else.”

But it’s too late—you’re already flushed to your ears, and Satoru’s howling with laughter.

“You’re cute,” he tells you. “You can stick around.”

You glance at Choso, and he gives you the smallest smile. Like you belong here.

And for the first time—you think maybe you do.

He walks ahead a bit, glancing over his shoulder as he gestures toward the sound booth. “That’s Nao, our sound tech. She’s the only reason we don’t sound like trash onstage.”

Nao waves without looking up from her monitor, and you awkwardly lift a hand back. Choso chuckles under his breath.

He keeps going, showing you the light setup, where they stash backup guitars, even the vending machine he’s pretty sure is haunted. Every person you pass gives you that look—oh, so this is the girl.

Your fingers twist nervously around the strap of your bag. It’s not like they’re being unfriendly. If anything, everyone’s nice. Welcoming, even. But still—you can’t shake the nerves bubbling in your chest.

You feel his gaze before you hear his voice.

“Nervous?” he asks, quiet and low.

You blink up at him. He’s standing close now, one hand tucked into the pocket of his jacket, watching you like he’s not sure if he’s scaring you or if you’re just shy.

You swallow. “A little.”

His mouth twitches—almost a smile. “You don’t have to be. Everyone’s chill.”

You nod, but you know the tension is still written all over your face.

And then—he reaches out. Just a light touch to your wrist. “Hey. I asked you here ‘cause I wanted you to come. Not to freak you out.”

His voice is soft now, just for you.

You manage a sheepish smile. “Sorry. It’s just… new.”

He shrugs, lips curling slightly. “Yeah. But I’m not that scary, right?”

You meet his eyes, and the look he gives you—teasing but warm—makes your stomach flip.

“…Not yet,” you murmur.

And he laughs, head tilted back like you just said the funniest thing all night. “You’re cute.”

Great. Now you’re even more nervous.

He walks you over to the stage setup, lights dim and moody, the buzz of crew members in the background. The instruments are neatly arranged—drum kits, amps, tangled cords, and at the center, his guitar resting on its stand.

He picks it up effortlessly, letting the strap fall over his shoulder. His fingers settle over the strings, and he begins to strum, absentmindedly. It’s not even a real song, just soft notes—but it’s hypnotizing.

Especially the way his fingers move. Long, slender, practiced.

You're staring. Absolutely entranced.

“Wanna try playing?” he asks suddenly.

You snap out of it so fast it’s embarrassing. “H-huh?”

He chuckles, soft and low. “Bit distracted there, sweetheart. You okay?”

“I’m good. Mhm.” You nod a little too quickly, plastering on a tight smile as your face warms. You hope he doesn’t notice, but that knowing glint in his eyes tells you otherwise.

He steps toward you with the guitar, offering it out with a slight tilt of his head. “Here.”

Your hands hover uncertainly. “O-oh… I don’t know how to play.”

He just smiles. “It’s alright, I’ll help you.”

He walks behind you, close enough that you feel the warmth of him at your back. You swear your heart skips a beat when his arms slip around you, guiding yours. He’s gentle as he places your left hand along the neck of the guitar, adjusting your fingers over the frets, his hand covering yours.

“Just relax,” he murmurs, voice right by your ear.

Your breath hitches.

“Shit—sorry, too close?” he asks quickly, voice laced with concern.

“N-no! It’s fine! Totally fine.” You somehow manage to stand upright.

He smiles again, that soft kind of amused. “Alright, just press here... yeah, that’s it.” He places your fingers on the strings. “Now, strum with this hand—lightly. Let the strings breathe.”

You try, hesitantly dragging your fingers down the strings. A clumsy note sounds out.

Choso hums. “Not bad. Now, try a G chord—here, like this.” His fingers mold yours again, warm and careful.

You nod, barely able to think with him this close, and repeat the motion. It sounds... slightly better.

“See?” he says, praising you with a smile in his voice. “Fast learner.”

You glance up at him over your shoulder, heart fluttering. “Maybe I just have a good teacher.”

His lips quirk, and he looks at you like you’ve just made his night.

“Well,” he says, “I am good with my hands.”

Your brain short-circuits.

He grins when he hears that soft, breathy little sound escape your lips.

“O-oh,” you stammer, eyes wide as you blink up at him.

His smile deepens, all teasing and low charm. “Didn’t mean to make you nervous,” he says, though he definitely did.

You open your mouth to say something—anything—but your brain’s gone completely blank. The only thing in your head is him. His voice, his scent, the low buzz of his guitar still humming in your hands.

“I—uh, yeah. No. You’re doing great. I mean—I’m doing great. I mean—thank you.”

He laughs. Not mockingly—it's soft, sweet, like he finds you genuinely adorable.

“You’re cute when you get flustered,” he says, voice quiet.

You look down at the guitar in your hands, pretending very hard to be focused on the strings.

“Maybe we’ll get you to play a whole song next time.”

You blink. “Next time?”

He shrugs casually, stepping back just enough to make you miss his warmth. “If you’re coming to the next gig, I figured I’d see you again.”

And then, with the most casual confidence, he adds, “You wanna?”

You blink up at him, heart still pounding from the way he practically wrapped himself around you moments ago. But then—somehow—you find your footing, just enough to muster a sliver of confidence.

You clear your throat, giving him a lopsided little smile. “Let’s see how this one goes first.”

His brows shoot up, clearly amused. “Is that a challenge?”

You shrug, trying not to melt under his gaze. “Depends. You think you can handle it?”

Choso laughs—a low, warm sound that vibrates in your chest more than your ears. He leans in again, just a little, his face dangerously close to yours. “Sweetheart,” he says, voice like silk, “I know I can.”

The crowd is thicker than last time. Hazy neon lights wash the walls in streaks of violet and red, and the room thrums with anticipation. You can feel the energy buzzing through your fingertips, your legs bouncing where you sit off to the side of the stage.

Choso catches your eye just before stepping on. He’s dressed in that same loose black button-up—top few buttons undone, sleeves rolled to the elbows, tattoos stark against his pale skin. His eyes are lined in that soft purple hue again, hair falling wild to his neck, and yet he somehow looks composed. Grounded. Like he was born to be here.

He doesn’t say anything, just gives you a look—half smirk, half something softer—and it sends butterflies flurrying in your chest.

And then: the lights dim. The crowd erupts. The band takes the stage.

Suguru on drums, flashing a grin at the front row before twirling his sticks and slamming into the first beat like a force of nature. Satoru struts forward, mic in hand, already oozing charisma, and Choso—Choso slides into position with his bass like it’s a part of him. One hand gripping the neck, the other plucking strings with a lazy, practiced ease.

The sound hits you like a wave. Loud. Gritty. Addictive.

But even as the music drowns everything out, your eyes stay locked on him.

Choso doesn’t look at the crowd. Doesn’t need to. He’s in his own world—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, swaying with the rhythm like the bass is leading him. And yet, somehow, he still finds a way to glance at you.

Just for a second. A flicker of a smirk.

And that’s when you realize it.

He’s playing for them—but looking at you.

And that smolder in his gaze? That spark that coils low in your belly?

It’s all for you.

The crowd’s roars have faded, the lights are dimming, and you’re still standing there, heart racing. Choso’s walking off stage, sweat-slick and glowing, bass still strapped to his back, and the second his eyes find you he smiles. Soft. Lopsided. Like it’s just for you.

He weaves through the staff with ease, and before you can fully brace yourself, he’s in front of you, that same lazy smirk playing on his lips. “Didn’t think you’d actually stick around,” he teases, voice low, raspy from the set.

You roll your eyes, a little bashful. “Had to see if your fingers really lived up to the hype.”

His brows shoot up, surprised—and then he laughs. It’s deep and warm and it makes your stomach do flips. “Oh? And?”

You tilt your head, pretending to think. “I’m not sure yet. Might need a private performance to decide.”

And damn, now he’s the one blushing.

He blinks. Once. Twice. And then that lazy grin deepens into something more—something that makes your throat dry.

“A private performance, huh?” he echoes, slinging the bass off his shoulder, setting it down like he’s done this a thousand times before—cool, collected, practiced. “You planning to book me?”

You cross your arms, trying to look unbothered despite the heat crawling up your neck. “Maybe. Depends on your rates.”

He steps closer, just a little, enough to tilt his head down to look at you properly. His voice drops lower. “I charge in coffee. Late-night conversations. And the occasional secret.”

“Oh?” you arch a brow. “That’s expensive.”

He chuckles, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear. “You’re worth it.”

Pause.

Your heart skips. Literally skips.

And suddenly it’s too quiet. The post-show noise is just background hum now—muffled cheers, clinks of beer bottles, bandmates laughing somewhere behind you. But he’s looking at you like you’re the only person who matters in this moment. Like he wants to learn you.

So you try to deflect, half-teasing, “You say that to all the girls who hang around after shows?”

He hums, like he’s pretending to think. “No,” he says finally. “You’re the only one who stayed quiet the whole time. Just… watched.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Was it creepy?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. It was nice. Felt like you were listening to more than just the music.”

You weren’t. You were listening to him.

But you don’t say that. Instead, you glance away, pretending not to be swooning.

And then—

“Hey,” he says softly, nudging your chin with two fingers to bring your gaze back to his. “Wanna get outta here?”

Your breath hitches. “Huh?”

He smiles, easy and relaxed, eyes scanning your face like he’s memorizing it. “There’s this spot a few blocks from here—low lights, decent drinks, great fries. Thought maybe I could buy you one. A drink, not a fry,” he adds with a little chuckle.

Your heart is thudding so loudly you're sure he can hear it. “Are you… asking me out?”

He shrugs, casual but undeniably charming. “If I said yes, would you say no?”

You try to play it cool, crossing your arms even though your insides are a whole storm. “You planning to pull that whole mysterious musician act the whole time?”

He leans in just a bit, close enough for your noses to nearly brush. “Only if it gets me a second date.”

And just like that, you’re done for.

“...I guess I could go for a drink.”

His grin widens. “Good. I’ll grab my jacket.”

The bar he takes you to is tucked away on a quiet street, the kind of place you wouldn’t find unless someone told you about it. There’s warm yellow lighting, a soft hum of old-school music playing on the speakers, and barely anyone around. It’s intimate in a way that makes your skin feel warm before you’ve even taken a sip of your drink.

He lets you slide into the booth first, then settles in across from you. His hands rest on the table, rings catching the light, and you find your gaze drawn to them—again. Damn those fingers.

“I’m not used to people sticking around after shows,” he says, eyes not leaving yours.

“I’m not used to chasing after bassists,” you shoot back, lips twitching.

He smirks. “So I’m special, huh?”

You roll your eyes, but the smile you’re fighting wins. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

Your drinks come. He lets you steal a sip of his. You let him steal two of yours.

“What got you into music?” you ask after a while, resting your chin on your hand.

He leans back, gaze flickering up like he’s searching the ceiling for the answer. “My dad, actually. He taught me how to play. He was obsessed with rhythm—said it was the heart of everything.”

You nod slowly. “He still around?”

Choso shakes his head. “Nah. Been a while. But I think he’d get a kick out of seeing me like this.”

There’s a quiet between you, not awkward, just full. You sip your drink.

“What about you?” he asks. “What do you do when you’re not falling for mysterious musicians at dive bars?”

You raise a brow. “Who said I was falling?”

His lips curve. “Touché.”

You end up telling him more than you thought you would. About your work, your favorite food, even boring little details. But he listens like every word matters. Laughs when you least expect it. His foot nudges yours under the table halfway through the night, and it stays there.

Eventually, the lights get lower, and the bar empties out.

“Guess we closed the place down,” you say, glancing around.

Choso’s watching you with a soft look. “Wouldn’t mind doing it again.”

Your heart flutters. “Same place?”

He smiles, gaze never leaving yours. “Sure.”

The night doesn’t end there.

He insists on walking you home—no arguments, no jokes, just slips his hand into yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And you let him, fingers intertwining with his, warmth blooming in your chest. It’s a quiet walk, but not the awkward kind. It’s that gentle, late-night calm. Like the whole world slowed down just for the two of you.

And for once, he’s not the brooding bassist with sharp eyeliner and calloused fingers. He’s just Choso. A guy who likes the way your hand fits in his. A guy who lets out a soft chuckle when you shiver and instinctively step closer.

You reach your place too soon.

You stop at the doorstep, neither of you making a move. No one says anything. You should probably say something. Goodnight. Thanks. This was fun. But the words get caught somewhere in your throat.

He steps closer instead.

There’s a breath between you. Just one.

And then his lips are on yours—soft, almost hesitant, like he’s asking if this is okay. And you answer him by fisting the fabric of his shirt and pulling him in. His hand comes up to your cheek, holding you steady as he kisses you again. Still gentle. Still quiet. But it makes your head spin all the same.

When he finally pulls back, he stays close, forehead pressed lightly to yours.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

Your heart might’ve actually stopped.

You slam the door shut behind you, back pressed against it, heart pounding so hard you swear it echoes in your ribcage. You stare at your phone, wide-eyed, thumbs flying:

you: SHOKO

you: SHOKO I NEED YOU TO WAKE UP

you: THIS IS AN EMERGENCY

shoko: it’s literally 1am

shoko: you better be on fire

you: I KISSED HIM

shoko: what

shoko: WHO

shoko: WAIT

shoko: WAIT.

you: YES. HIM.

shoko: THE HOT GUITAR PLAYER???

you: CHOSO. YES. YES. YES

shoko: oh my god you’re so gone

you: HE WALKED ME HOME. HELD MY HAND. KISSED ME. I AM GONE GONE.

shoko: AAAAAAAAAAA

you: HE SAID ‘GOODNIGHT SWEETHEART’

shoko: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

you: I KNOW

You toss your phone onto the bed, face planting right after it, squealing into your pillow like a teenager all over again.

Because you kissed him. And he kissed you back. And you’re never sleeping tonight.

You’re lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. The room is quiet—too quiet. You’ve already scrolled through your entire feed twice, tried reading, even got up to make tea you didn’t drink.

Then your phone lights up.

Incoming call: Choso.

Your heart stutters.

You take a breath and answer. “…Hey.”

His voice is warm on the other end. “Hey. Did I wake you?”

You shake your head even though he can’t see. “No. Couldn’t sleep.”

“Same,” he says. “Kept thinking about you.”

Your breath catches. You pull the blanket tighter around yourself, like it might calm your racing heart.

There’s a small silence, but it’s not awkward. It’s soft. Comfortable. Like neither of you really wants to hang up.

He speaks again, voice a little lower. “You looked beautiful tonight.”

You try to play it off. “I put in effort. Didn’t want to show up looking like I did last time.”

“I liked that too,” he says. “But tonight you walked in and I forgot what the hell I was doing.”

You laugh, hiding your face in your pillow.

“I wish I could see you again right now,” he says.

“Me too.”

“Would it be too much if I said I kinda wanna fall asleep listening to you?”

Your stomach flips.

You whisper, “Then stay on the line.”

And you do—both of you quiet, just breathing, letting the silence say everything.

You're standing outside the bar, shifting on your feet, trying to act like you haven’t been checking your reflection in every window on the walk here.

This time, your outfit isn’t casual by accident. You planned it. Styled your hair just right. Even put on that gloss you save for special occasions.

You step inside and immediately spot him, leaning back against a booth like he owns the place, one arm slung lazily over the seat. His eyes lift—

—and damn.

They rake down your figure slowly, like he’s drinking you in. And when they return to your face, there’s the smallest upward curve to his lips.

“Someone dressed to impress,” he says, standing as you approach.

“Maybe,” you reply, coy. “You are the star of the show, after all.”

He laughs low in his throat, hand brushing the small of your back as he leans in close. “Nah,” he murmurs. “Tonight, it’s all about you.”

You sit together in the same booth. This time, there’s no ice to break. The tension simmers warm between you—his knee bumps yours under the table and doesn’t move away. His eyes flicker to your lips more than once.

“So,” you say, swirling your drink. “What happens after drinks, guitar boy?”

He smirks, elbow resting on the table as he leans closer. “Depends. You thinking of letting me kiss you again?”

You raise your brows. “You planning on asking?”

He tilts his head. “I could. But you didn’t seem to need much prompting last time.”

That earns him a playful nudge. And a flustered laugh.

He grins. "Take your time, sweetheart. I'm not going anywhere."

The jukebox crackles as the next track begins—slow, dreamy, sweet.

Like falling asleep in warm hands. Like the part in a romance film where everything softens.

Before you can even comment on the vibe shift, Choso is rising from the booth, hand extended toward you, palm up.

Your brows lift. “You serious?”

He just smiles. “C’mon. Dance with me.”

You hesitate—because, what? In a bar? With him?? But his fingers flex, waiting, and the way he’s looking at you makes it impossible to say no.

You slip your hand into his.

He pulls you gently to the dance floor. There’s no one else there—just you, him, and the slow rhythm bleeding from the speakers. His hands settle on your waist. Yours hover awkwardly before curling behind his neck.

You sway.

“I didn’t take you for a dancer,” you mumble, heart skipping when he twirls you suddenly.

He smirks. “I’m not.”

You laugh—loud and sweet and so damn happy. And when he catches you again, you don’t pull away. Instead, you melt into him, resting your head against his chest, feeling the soft thud of his heartbeat under the fabric of his shirt.

His hand traces slow circles on your back.

“This okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, nuzzling in closer. “Yeah… It’s perfect.”

He rests his chin lightly atop your head. And neither of you says another word.

Not when the song ends.

Not when the next one starts.

Because for that moment—it’s just the two of you, swaying under dim lights, held together by the sound of a love song.

You step outside into the night, your breath curling in pale puffs. The air is colder than before, wrapping around your bare arms like a whispered warning. You shiver.

Without a word, Choso shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders, tugging you into his side. His hand rests at your waist, warm and firm, grounding you.

For a while, you just stand there—side by side, quiet. The city buzzes in the distance, cars passing, streetlights humming.

You glance up at him, and he’s already looking at you. Hard.

Like he’s trying to memorize the slope of your jaw. The way the wind lifts your hair. The way your lips part just slightly when you breathe.

“What?” you ask, a soft laugh in your voice, raising an eyebrow.

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just wets his lips. His fingers flex against your hip.

“I just…” he starts, voice rough with restraint. “I really want to kiss you right now.”

You blink, heart thudding once. Twice.

The pause stretches.

“Yeah?” you murmur, leaning in a fraction. Teasing.

He nods once. Barely.

You smile—heart pounding in your throat. “So why don’t you?”

And that’s all it takes.

He cups your face with both hands, thumbs brushing the apples of your cheeks like you’re made of porcelain. And when his lips finally meet yours—it’s soft. Slow. Full of the tension he’s been carrying all night, unspooling between you in breathless silence.

His nose bumps yours. Your hands fist the front of his shirt again. Just like last time.

Only this time, you don’t stop at one kiss.

And when you finally pull away, he rests his forehead against yours, his voice low:

“You’re gonna ruin me, y’know that?”

You laugh, barely a whisper against his lips, breath mingling with his. “Then I guess I better make it worth your while.”

That gets a reaction.

His gaze darkens just slightly, lips twitching into the faintest smirk as his hands slide down from your cheeks, one settling at the nape of your neck while the other pulls you flush against him. “You trying to kill me, sweetheart?”

You don’t answer.

Because you’re already kissing him again.

This time it’s different.

Less hesitant.

More hungry.

Your fingers find his hair, tangling in the dark strands that fall just past his neck, tugging gently until he groans into your mouth. He kisses you deeper, like he’s starved, like he hasn’t been thinking about this since the first night he met you in the crowd, eyes wide and awe-struck.

His hand grips your waist, fingers digging in—not too hard, but enough to make your breath hitch.

You gasp, and he takes the opportunity to nip at your bottom lip, tongue flicking against it before pulling back just enough to breathe:

“You’re trouble.”

You blink up at him, dazed, lips kiss-swollen and heart racing. “You’re one to talk.”

And he laughs—low and breathy, pressing another quick kiss to your mouth like he can’t help himself.

“C’mon,” he murmurs. “Let me walk you home before I get any worse ideas.”

The walk back is quiet—but not the awkward kind. It’s heavy with something, charged with unspoken words and lingering touches. His fingers brush yours with every step, and each time it happens, your breath catches.

You swear he’s doing it on purpose.

But you don’t stop him.

The streetlights cast a soft glow on him, turning his features golden for a moment, then shadowed the next. He looks… different like this. Softer. Less like the untouchable bassist who had you practically drooling the first night, and more like someone you could fall for if you’re not careful.

You sneak a glance at him.

He’s already looking at you.

You look away fast, heart leaping, and he chuckles under his breath.

"Cold?" he asks, tugging you gently closer.

You nod, even though that’s not why you’re shaking.

His arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you into his side as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your head fits against him perfectly, and his hand rubs slow circles against your arm, warm and grounding.

“Still nervous?” he murmurs.

You laugh quietly. “Little bit.”

“Me too.”

You tilt your head to look at him, surprised. “Really?”

He nods. “You make me nervous.”

You’re about to say something—anything—but then you’ve reached your place.

And suddenly, you don’t want to go inside.

He stops in front of your door, letting you go with a reluctant sigh. His hand lingers on your arm for a second longer before falling away.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then he shoves his hands into his pockets and asks, “You gonna call me?”

You nod. “If you answer.”

He grins. “Always.”

You hesitate—just for a second—and then press a soft kiss to his cheek. It’s quick, but the way his breath hitches tells you it did the trick.

“Goodnight, Choso.”

And before he can pull you in again, before you can throw all common sense out the window and kiss him properly, you slip inside.

Heart pounding. Lips tingling.

You wake up with your heart still pounding.

And not because of a nightmare.

Nope. This was worse.

Because it was real.

You kissed Choso.

Again.

And not in a dreamlike, floaty, “this could be a maybe” kind of way. You kissed him after swaying in his arms like some romcom protagonist. You kissed him, and he kissed you back, and you felt your knees give just a little, and you definitely whimpered against his mouth like a fool.

You groan and roll onto your side, burying your face in your pillow.

You’re so doomed.

Your phone vibrates.

You blink and grab it, squinting at the screen.

choso: didn’t want to wake you but i just wanted to say

choso: thank you for last night

You freeze.

Sit up slowly.

Your heartbeat? Violent.

You tap out a reply, delete it, rewrite it, delete again. Finally, you just go with:

you: it was nothing :)

Immediately after sending it:

you: i’m being weird aren’t i ignore me please

And then:

you: but also don’t ignore me because i liked it and i like you and i’m going to stop talking now before i make it worse

Your phone is dangerously quiet for thirty seconds.

Then it buzzes again.

choso: you’re not being weird.

choso: you’re being adorable

choso: i like you too

choso: also… can i see you again tonight?

You shriek into your pillow.

And then type:

you: you better

You weren’t expecting it when he texted you earlier that day.

come to the studio. i want you to hear something.

Now here you are, walking through a narrow hallway that smells like cigarettes and worn leather, Choso’s voice telling the receptionist to let you in. He meets you at the door, hoodie on, hair loosely tied back, a pair of headphones slung around his neck.

“Hey,” he murmurs, eyes raking over you with a small smile tugging at his lips.

You smile back, brushing past him as he closes the door behind you. The studio is dimly lit, a warm orange hue cast by the LED strips lining the edges of the ceiling. There’s a worn-out couch in the corner, an empty coffee cup on the desk, and wires everywhere.

He leads you to a chair beside him. “Wrote something last night. Thought you might want to hear it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Inspired by anything?”

He doesn’t say anything. Just gives you a look.

He clicks a few keys on his laptop, and music starts playing—slow, rich bass, soft drums, a melody that feels like it’s watching you breathe. Then lyrics—his voice, lower and raspier than usual.

And the words? They burn.

It’s about being unable to get someone off your mind. About how they haunt your quiet moments. About wanting something that feels dangerous and delicate at the same time.

When it ends, there’s a beat of silence.

“…You wrote that?” you ask.

Choso nods, slow. “All of it.”

“It’s…” Your voice catches. “It’s beautiful.”

He leans back, watching you carefully. “It’s about you. In case that wasn’t obvious.”

The room feels smaller. Hotter. You swallow.

You murmur, “I didn’t know I had that kind of effect on you.”

“You don’t,” he says, stepping closer. “You have more.”

He’s standing between your knees now. One hand on the armrest beside you. The other gently tilts your chin up.

“Can I kiss you again?”

You nod before your brain even catches up.

And then he does—slower this time. Like he’s savoring it. His lips slot against yours and the world blurs. His hand slips to your waist, drawing you closer, and you wrap your arms around his neck without thinking.

The music plays on in the background. But neither of you hears it.

His lips are warm against yours, stealing every thought from your head. One kiss turns into two, then three—deeper, slower, more intense. His hands settle on your waist, firm, grounding. You melt into him without thinking.

But then—between kisses, you manage a breathless whisper, lips brushing his as you speak.

“Choso, not here—there’s people around.”

His eyes open slowly, pupils blown wide. He glances around, then back at you, and that look in his eyes? It's trouble.

Without saying a word, he grabs your hand. “Come on.”

You barely catch your breath before he’s pulling you along, weaving past people, straight toward the exit. His grip doesn’t loosen, even when he’s fumbling for his keys. He unlocks his car in a rush and opens the passenger door for you before sliding into the driver’s seat himself.

The whole ride is charged—silent, save for the hum of the engine and the occasional stolen glance. He taps the steering wheel with his fingers, the ones that had just been ghosting over your skin minutes ago.

When he pulls into the parking lot of his building, he doesn’t waste time. Hands still locked with yours, he leads you upstairs, heart pounding just as fast as yours.

The second the door shuts behind you, he turns around—and everything finally snaps.

Choso doesn’t pounce. He doesn’t rush.

He leans against the door, just watching you. Taking you in like it’s the first time. His eyes roam your face, your lips—your heaving chest. There’s a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he’s trying not to smile.

“You sure?” he asks, voice low, husky.

You nod, breathless. “Yeah.”

That’s all it takes.

He pushes off the door slowly, strides over like a man with nowhere else to be. His hands find your waist, gentle at first, then firm. His head dips down, lips ghosting over your jaw, your cheek, your mouth—but he doesn’t kiss you yet.

“You look so pretty tonight,” he murmurs, voice thick with restraint.

His nose grazes your neck, and you shudder. Every place his breath touches feels like it’s burning.

“You always look pretty,” he adds, kissing just below your ear now. “But tonight?”

He sucks in a breath through his teeth, lips brushing lower.

“You’re killing me.”

Your hands find the hem of his hoodie, fingers twitching as you lift it up slowly—exposing the pale skin of his stomach inch by inch. He lets you, arms raised, letting the fabric slide off and onto the floor. The tattoos swirl over his chest, catching the soft glow of the apartment lights, and your fingers can’t help but trace them.

“Still nervous?” he asks, voice rougher now.

You shake your head. “No. Just… can’t believe this is real.”

Choso tilts your chin up, makes you look at him. His gaze is so intense it steals the breath from your lungs.

“It is,” he says. “And we’ve got all night.”

He kisses you again, this time softer, slower. No rush. Just lips moving against yours with quiet reverence, like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth.

His hands stay on your waist, warm and steady, but you feel the way his thumbs are drawing lazy circles on your skin—like he’s trying to ground himself. Like he’s savoring the moment as much as you are.

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. He hums into the kiss, one hand sliding up your back, fingers curling into your hair.

The path to the bedroom is a blur.

You’re not sure how you get there—if he carries you, or if you walk, tangled up in each other, lips never parting for more than a breath.

The room is dim, lit only by the city lights bleeding through the blinds. It paints both of you in silver and shadow. Choso backs you toward the bed, and when your knees hit the edge, he pauses. Looks down at you like you’re something sacred.

You swallow, heart thundering. “Are you gonna keep staring or—”

“Shh.” He dips his head, kisses your neck, just under your jaw. “Let me take my time with you.”

You shiver. God, his voice—low, velvet, dangerous.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this.”

He pushes you onto the bed and you bounce slightly on it. He’s crawling up your body, hands trailing along your sides, slipping beneath your shirt—fingertips so gentle it sends goosebumps across your skin. You raise your arms, let him take it off. He discards it carefully, almost reverently, and then he’s touching you again.

It’s not frantic. It’s worship.

The way he kisses down your chest, murmuring things you can’t even process. The way he handles you like he’s scared you’ll break. His mouth is everywhere—leaving warmth and wetness and little marks that’ll be there tomorrow. Proof that this happened. That he happened.

When his hands slip lower, and he finally asks, “Can I?”—you nod, breathless, and he grins, slow and sinful.

“Good,” he whispers. “Because I’m not stopping tonight.”

His touch starts soft. Teasing.

His fingers graze along your thigh, slipping under your skirt. Just the pad of one finger tracing your inner thigh, slow and unhurried, like he has all the time in the world to unravel you. He watches your reactions closely—every breath, every twitch, every clench of your thighs like it’s his favorite show.

“Already shaking,” he murmurs with a smirk, fingers drifting up higher, stopping just at the edge of your underwear. “And I’ve barely touched you.”

When he finally slips his hand beneath the fabric of your panties, his fingers are warm, his touch confident. He finds you wet—soaked—and he groans low in his throat.

“Fuck... all this for me?”

His middle finger drags through your folds, slow and deliberate, gathering everything, spreading it around before circling your clit—just barely touching it. It’s maddening.

“You’re already this worked up,” he breathes, leaning in to kiss your jaw. “What happens when I really start?”

He’s rushing to take your underwear off, almost ripping them in the process. Then—finally—he eases a finger inside.

It’s slow at first. Just one finger, shallow thrusts, curling up and stroking that spot inside you until your hips start chasing him, greedy for more. He watches your face the whole time, eats up every whimper.

“Choso… more,” you whisper, barely able to speak.

His eyes flick up, dark and hungry. “Yeah?” he murmurs. “You can take another?”

You nod, breathless.

He slides a second finger in—thicker, deeper. His palm presses against your clit as his fingers work inside you, curling just right, just enough pressure to make your back arch. His other hand grabs your thigh, keeps you open and steady as he builds a rhythm.

It’s obscene—the wet, messy sounds of his fingers fucking into you—but it only makes him grin.

“You hear that, sweetheart?” he says lowly.

You’re gasping now, clutching the sheets, legs shaking. He really is good with his hands.

“C’mon,” he whispers against your neck, tongue darting out to taste you. “Let go for me.”

And with one more curl, one more stroke—you do.

You come around his fingers, back arching, a moan ripped from your chest as he keeps moving through it, working you until you’re twitching, thighs trembling against him.

When he finally pulls his fingers out, he brings them to his lips.

“Tastes even better than I imagined,” he says, voice low and ruined.

He doesn’t give you a second to catch your breath.

The second those words leave his mouth, his gaze drops—hungry, wicked—and before you can ask what he’s doing, he’s already moving.

He’s moving down your body, settling between your legs, hands parting your thighs, spreading you wide open for him. You barely manage a gasp before his mouth is on you.

And fuck.

He licks a slow stripe from your entrance to your clit—moaning against you like he’s tasting something divine. His tongue is hot, wet, firm—flicking against your clit before flattening and dragging against it again. He’s not shy. He devours.

You twitch under him, gasping, and his grip on your thighs tightens.

“Stay still for me,” he murmurs against you, breath fanning over your soaked heat. “Let me eat, baby.”

And oh, does he eat.

He buries his face between your legs like he’s starved—lips and tongue and heat and mess, sucking your clit into his mouth, groaning when your fingers grab his hair and pull. His nose nudges your clit, the piercings in his ears cold against your thigh.

His hands slide under your ass, lifting your hips just right so he can get even deeper. His tongue fucks into you, messy and wet, before he pulls back to mouth at your clit again.

You’re a wreck—panting, eyes rolling back, legs trembling on either side of his head. He loves it. You can tell by the way he hums into you, nose buried in your folds, like every whimper out of you is a personal victory.

Your thighs start to close around his head—he lets them. Arms locking around your legs, holding you there like he wants to be suffocated. And with one more flick of his tongue—one more swirl, one more perfect pressure—

You cry out, hips jerking, thighs clenching, and he doesn’t stop. He works you through it, licking, kissing, groaning against your cunt like he’s drunk off you.

When your body finally slumps back against the mattress, dazed and spent, he pulls back just enough to look up at you.

His mouth glistens. His eyes are wrecked.

And he licks his lips.

“Sweetest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Choso’s mouth is still hot against yours, the kiss messy and hungry, his tongue sliding over yours like he can’t get enough of the taste of you.

He unbuckles his belt, pushing his pants down along with his boxers, his girthy length slapping against his abdomen. Your mouth parts in a soft gasp at the sight of it. But you don't have time to marvel at it. His hands are already on your thighs, pushing them up—higher, higher—until you're folded in half in a mean mating press.

“Gonna keep you like this,” he murmurs, voice rough, chest heaving. “Wanna see your face while I fuck you.”

Your breath catches.

His hands hook behind your knees, holding them open as he shifts forward. The position has you completely laid out for him, helpless beneath the weight of his body. You feel his cock, thick and hard, dragging over your slick entrance—and then he pushes in, slow and deep.

You whimper—a sound torn from your throat, soft and wrecked, your back arching as he presses deeper.

Choso groans, low and guttural, head falling forward to rest against yours. His breath fans hot across your cheek, and you swear you can feel the tremble in his arms as he holds himself still—just for a second.

“F-fuck…” he breathes, voice rough with restraint. “You’re so fucking tight like this…”

His hips roll forward again, slower this time, the movement deliberate—like he wants you to feel every inch. “Feels like you’re made for me,” he murmurs, his voice barely more than a rasp.

Your fingers scramble across the expanse of his back, nails dragging, searching for something to ground you. His shoulders, his arms, anything—because the way he’s filling you, stretching you, it’s too much and not enough at the same time.

Then he starts to move. Deep. Steady. And the new angle is devastating.

He hits every spot just right, his cock dragging along your walls, slow and purposeful, grinding into the deepest parts of you with every thrust. Your legs tremble in his hold, pinned back and open for him, the pressure building with each stroke. Your jaw falls open, a moan slipping free—high-pitched and desperate.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

But it’s not pain. No—never that.

It’s overwhelming. It’s perfect. It’s him.

“You’re taking it so well,” he grits out, eyes burning into yours as his pace deepens. “Fuck—just like that, baby. Taking all of me.”

You blink up at him, dazed, lips parted as your moans spill freely. He leans down—closer, closer—until your thighs are nearly flush to your chest and his weight settles on top of you, heavy and grounding.

And he fucks you.

Not rough, but intentional—each stroke slow and deep, hips rolling so he never leaves you empty. He watches your face, watches every twitch of your brows, every flutter of your lashes. Like he’s trying to memorize it. All of it.

Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling when his thrusts grind just right. His name escapes you in a whimper—over and over, his name like a mantra.

“Choso—” you gasp. “Oh my God—Choso, I-I…”

“I know,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “I know, baby. I’ve got you.”

You’re soaked—messy, slick dripping down your thighs, pooling where your bodies meet. The wet slap of skin on skin is loud in the room, underscored by the soft creak of the mattress and your broken cries.

He shifts, angling just so, and you shatter.

Your body seizes, nails digging into his back as your orgasm rips through you, sudden and all-consuming. A sob leaves your throat, your back arching as your walls flutter and clamp down around him.

With a low groan, he shifts—gently, carefully—his hands sliding beneath your thighs to lower them. You gasp softly when he wraps your legs around his waist, keeping you close, keeping you full, as his hips press flush to yours.

He groans—a raw, broken sound—his hips stuttering. “Shit—fuck, I’m close—where do you want it, sweetheart?”

You barely think. You just nod, desperate. “Inside—please—inside.”

That’s all he needs.

He presses in deep, body trembling, a shudder running through him as he spills into you, cock twitching with every pulse of his release. You feel the heat of it—so much, thick and warm as it fills you up. And still, he doesn’t stop.

He keeps moving—soft, shallow thrusts that drag it out, that make your body twitch and whimper, overstimulated and glowing.

His name slips from your lips again, quieter this time, your fingers trailing down his back, soothing over sweat-slick skin.

And then—finally—he stills.

Buried to the hilt. Breathing hard. Forehead pressed to your shoulder, lips ghosting over your collarbone.

“I’ve got you,” he says again, voice low and reverent.

His hands settle on your waist, thumbs stroking your skin like he’s grounding himself.

"Don’t want to let go just yet," he murmurs, voice rough with emotion and aftermath. He leans down, kissing your shoulder, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “Feels too good like this.”

You hum, dazed and pliant, arms winding around his neck as your forehead rests against his. His weight, his warmth—it’s comforting. Heavy in the best way.

Every small shift makes you gasp—too sensitive, too raw—but you don’t ask him to move.

You don’t want him to either.

And neither does he.

So he stays there—buried deep, your legs locked around his waist, your bodies tangled as if they were always meant to be like this.

After, when the haze finally starts to fade, Choso is the first to move—but only just.

He brushes your hair from your face with slow fingers, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “You okay?” he murmurs, voice low and full of concern. Gentle. So gentle. “Was that… too much?”

You shake your head, barely able to speak as you whisper, “No. It was perfect.”

He exhales, and the breath sounds like relief. Like he needed to hear that.

Without a word, he slips out of bed, grabbing a warm cloth and returning to you. He moves with such care—his hands slow, wiping between your thighs with reverence, like you’re something precious. You flinch a little at the sensitivity, and he mumbles a soft “Sorry” as he presses a kiss to your knee, his gaze flickering up to check on you again.

Once you’re clean, he tosses the cloth aside and crawls back under the covers. You instinctively curl into him, and he opens his arms wide, pulling you in, tucking your head beneath his chin.

His fingers trace slow, lazy circles along your spine. Your legs are tangled with his, your body warm and sore and safe. He smells like sweat and sex and his cologne, and you want to fall asleep in this exact moment, forever.

“You’re amazing,” he murmurs against your hair.

You blink up at him. “That’s my line.”

He smiles, barely-there but so real. “Guess we’ll take turns.”

You laugh—quiet, muffled against his chest—and he hums along with it, fingers still moving along your back.

A silence settles between you, but it isn’t awkward. It’s peaceful. The kind that only comes after letting someone see you bare in every way.

He breaks it eventually, voice thick with sleep. “You staying over?”

“Mhm.”

“You sure?”

You nod, eyes fluttering closed. “Wouldn’t wanna be anywhere else.”

And neither would he.

So he kisses the top of your head one more time, murmurs something soft and unintelligible against your skin, and lets himself fall asleep with you in his arms.

Exactly where you both want to be.

author's note. this is just pure choso brainrot because i could not get that fanart out of my head so ofc i had to write something about it. (choso girlies, i'm borrowing your man for a while, thank you)

please do not steal, modify or translate my work.

#icymi ♡

8K notes · View notes

shokocide · 16 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 Gojo Satoru... 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.

#icymi ♡

8K notes · View notes

shokocide · 16 days ago

Text

it may take me a month to put out a chapter but at least im not using ai to write it.

IT MAY TAKE ME A MONTH TO PUT OUT A CHAPTER BUT AT LEAST IM NOT USING AI TO WRITE IT

43K notes · View notes

shokocide · 17 days ago