twstedfreak

[twstedfreak]

When The Moon Remembers | jinu kpdh part 1

A princess cursed to forget. A warrior doomed to remember.

Synopsis: A princess dreams of a man she’s never met—until he walks into court as a mysterious envoy. Haunted by echoes of a forgotten past, she’s drawn to him by a pull she can’t name.

Content: ANGST, early joseon dynasty themes, grief, past life death, reincarnation trauma, NOT BETA-READ BY OTHERS!! (only me), implied violence, psychological distress, dissociation, loneliness, isolation, forbidden romance, memory loss, unreliable narration, power imbalance, mild body horror, identity crisis, OPEN ENDING(?)

wc: 16.8k

A/N: ok so hi this is my tribute to jinu, thank you for reading my work,, i've been making this for 3 days straight... my back fcking hurts mannnn... just like how it hurt when jinu...... but yeah (spoiler alert: i'm not that good with endings i'm sorry...) this will only be a 2 chapter or 3?? fic idk,, it depends... it's supposed to be just a standalone fic but.... "dang only 1000 blocks allowed per post tumblr!" says tumblr LMAO so yeah,, thanks to my friends who supported me in making this,, they contributed to my dellusions LMAO<3 I love you jinu,, imma mke a smut fic soon so bye y'all,, pls patiently wait for the part 2 i'm working on it ToT (as well as the other fics,, I had in stored collecting dust LMAO) BYEEEEE HOES LOVE YLLL

The palace was silent in the hour between night and dawn. Not the stillness of sleep, but a breath held—as though the very walls were listening. Even the cicadas had gone quiet, their nightly song swallowed by something ancient in the air. Outside, the moon hung low and red, veiled by mist, casting long, skeletal shadows across the garden. Jade tiles shimmered with dew. The lattice doors of the women’s quarters remained shut, their painted blossoms fading in the dark. Lanterns had long burned out, their wax cold. Even the wind dared not stir the plum blossoms resting like offerings on the stone paths.

You moved barefoot through the garden, your silk hem damp and trailing behind you, whispering secrets to the stones. Your hair, unbound for the first time in days, hung loose down your back, its weight unfamiliar. The court would call it reckless. The guards, irresponsible. The court ladies would hide their gasps behind sleeves, calling it shameful. But in this hidden hour, with no one to witness, you were not the princess. Not the daughter of kings. Not the nation’s quiet pillar of grace and restraint. Not the bride-in-waiting, raised to be a symbol carved from jade and silence.

You were simply a girl. A girl aching for breath that wasn’t perfumed with politics. A girl who longed to feel the cold of stone beneath her feet, the damp of the world on her skin, to exist—if only for a moment—untouched by titles.

The Queen Mother’s Garden was your sanctuary, though no one called it that but you. To the rest of the palace, it was sacred ground—an ancestral space preserved for ritual offerings and seasonal rites. But to you, it was a secret world carved out of duty. A place where the weight of names dissolved into shadows and wind. The stone paths curled between groves of plum and bamboo, the air sweetened by moonflowers. A stream murmured softly through the heart of the garden, its koi sleeping beneath lily pads that shivered when touched by starlight. Small bridges arched across the water, unused at this hour—silent guardians of your solitude.

This was where you could breathe. Where the silence did not judge. Where the stars did not care for your lineage.

They called you wise, and said it like it was your greatest virtue. They spoke of your grace, your stillness, your beauty. A granddaughter of emperors, trained since birth to smile without speaking too quickly. You were praised for never stumbling, for weeping only behind screens, for knowing which words to say and which to swallow.

But no one ever asked what it was like to be watched always. No one asked how it felt to walk hallways lined with bowed heads, to sit beneath silk banners stitched with your future as though it were already sealed. No one asked if the wisdom they admired had cost you your voice.

Sometimes you dreamed of the world beyond the palace walls. Not in vivid details—but in feelings. Wind in your face. The roar of a river. Laughter not muffled by propriety. The kind of laughter that burst from the chest, unshaped by etiquette. You dreamed of color and noise, of dirt on your hands and no one scolding you for it but dreams were not for princesses. They were indulgences. Dangerous. Unbecoming. And so, you carried your yearning like you carried your name—quietly, with perfect posture. Yet tonight, something felt different. The silence wasn’t quite empty. The shadows seemed to bend differently. As though something—or someone—was watching.

Not a servant. Not a guard.

Perhaps, in that strange, fragile moment between night and dawn, when even the sky hesitated, you allowed yourself to believe—just for a breath—that this garden wasn’t empty.

That perhaps, you weren’t alone.

You drifted across the flagstones, the hem of your white under-robe soaked through with dew. Your slippers had been left behind, somewhere near the veranda, forgotten in your haste. A thin breeze tugged at your sleeves and cooled the warmth of your skin. You should have felt peace in this place. You had, on other nights. But tonight… Something was different.

The stillness felt too deliberate. Too heavy. As if something waited.

Your steps slowed as you passed beneath the archway leading toward the lotus pond. The usual murmur of night creatures… The frogs, the crickets, even the rustling birds—had gone silent. In their absence came a soft, rhythmic sound. Not natural.

Metal.

It was the distinct sound of a blade being drawn across its sheath, a slow, deliberate hiss.

Then came the growl.

Low and deep, like it rose from the belly of the earth. It did not sound like any beast you knew. Not a tiger. Not a wolf. It was… wrong. It stirred a primal part of you, an old fear buried in the marrow of your bones.

You stopped.

The wind held its breath.

From the corner of your eye, movement—something slipping between two stone lanterns, too tall and too bent to be human.

And then you saw it.

A creature—if such a word could apply—emerged from the shadows. Its form was skeletal, but bloated in places, like something had worn the skin of a man and never quite learned how to fit inside it. Its fingers were claws, each joint stretched and cracking. Its mouth was a jagged split, yawning impossibly wide, as though it had no end. The entire thing shimmered, black smoke rising off it in threads that pulsed and curled like burning incense.

Its eyes locked onto you—no irises, only molten red, like embers burning in a kiln.

You could not move. Your body refused to obey you. It was as if the very air around you had thickened, turned to tar. Your breath caught in your throat, chest rising in small, shallow gasps. You tried to scream. Nothing came.

The creature took a step forward, its limbs dragging behind like shattered branches.

And then—

Wind.

But not natural wind.

Something tore past you, so fast it sucked the air from your lungs—a streak of motion cutting through the garden, silent but precise. You turned, stumbling back, just in time to see him.

A man. Not a palace guard. Not a courtier.

He moved with such deliberate grace it made the world feel slow. His robes were dark, almost black, but close-fitting, like armor made of cloth. His hair was tied back tightly, and in his hand gleaming, curved, and lit by moonlight—was a blade.

Not like the ones you had seen in royal ceremonies. This one was old. Hand-forged. Marked. He did not hesitate. The creature lunged and he was there.

His sword moved like a whisper. A gleam. A blur. Then another. A step forward. A twist. A low grunt as the demon shrieked, staggering back, black smoke erupting from its chest as the blade found its mark again. He was not merely fighting it. He was like dancing with it, leading it in some ritual.

You tilted your head with disbelief and watched, heart pounding, unable to speak, unable to move. The final blow was almost silent. His blade sliced through the creature’s neck in a clean arc.

The demon froze, mouth open in a silent scream, then cracked, splintered, and dissolved into ash. The smoke curled, shimmered, and faded.

Silence returned.

The man did not look at it. He turned, instead, to you.

Even in the dark, you could see the sharp cut of his jaw, the sweat beading along his temple, the slow rise and fall of his chest. But it was his eyes that stopped you: dark, steady, and strange.

He said nothing at first. Neither did you.

He took one step forward. “You weren’t supposed to see that.” His voice was low. Even. Like someone used to hiding what they felt.

You found your own voice, thin but clear. “You’re no palace guard.”

“No,” he replied. The word was quiet, yet final. A single syllable that seemed to carry the weight of lifetimes, slicing through the silence like a blade through silk.

You stared at him. In the pale light, his face was partly shadowed, but you could still make out the sharp angles of his jaw, the tension around his mouth, the way his eyes—dark and deep as midnight ink—refused to leave yours. He looked at you not like a stranger caught in wrongdoing, but like someone searching for something he'd almost forgotten. Something fragile. Familiar.

“Then what are you?” you asked, your voice steadier than you felt. It wasn’t a demand. It was a whisper edged with wonder and fear. Not just about the monster he had slain, but about him—this man who had appeared from nothing, fought like a ghost, and stood now as if caught between worlds.

He didn’t answer right away.

A wind stirred, brushing through the garden with soft fingers. Your hair lifted around your shoulders. His robes fluttered at the edges, but he remained still, as if time held its breath just for him. His eyes narrowed slightly. Not in suspicion—no. In something gentler. 

Recognition, maybe. Grief. 

He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again.

Seconds passed.

He looked away, just briefly, as though the truth were too dangerous to speak aloud. And when he looked back, his expression had changed. Composure returned. Whatever vulnerability had surfaced was gone, locked behind a wall built by years of silence.

His voice was quiet when it came.

“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing you should remember.”

You blinked.

He stepped back, already beginning to turn, and something in you surged forward—an instinct, a knowing, a longing that made no sense.

“Wait—”

But the word barely left your lips before he was gone.

Not running. Not leaping.

Gone.

Like a breath exhaled into cold air.

As if the garden itself had imagined him.

All that remained was the whisper of the wind, and the faint scent of burned ash where the demon had vanished.

He returned three days later, not as a shadow that night, but as an honored guest stepping through the palace gates in broad daylight.

You heard his name before you saw him.

Whispers moved like ripples through the outer court that morning. Word spread fast in a place like this, where secrets were traded like silk and silence was only ever temporary. A foreign envoy had arrived from one of the southern border provinces—one long isolated by both mountains and tradition. His house had been loyal for generations, said the ministers. His presence was no more than political courtesy, said the scholars.

But your breath stopped the moment the court herald spoke his name.

Jinu…

Just that. No clan. No house lineage offered. No title beyond “messenger in service of the southern warlord.” It was a name spoken without weight, but it fell upon your ears like a stone into still water.

You stood beside your father’s throne, head bowed, hands folded neatly in front of your layered sleeves. A ceremonial fan hung at your wrist, a delicate thing of white silk and gold-leaf paint. You clutched it harder than necessary.

Then the doors opened.

He entered as the rest did. Through the tall central gates reserved for honored guests of the royal court. The midday sun poured in behind him, framing his silhouette in white light. For one impossible moment, it was like the dream had followed you into waking. Like the air changed shape to accommodate his presence.

He walked slowly, with the quiet grace of someone used to scrutiny.

And yet, he did not bow his head in reverence the way others did. He bowed only once, fluidly, with the precision of a man trained in old customs but untouched by vanity. The hem of his robes brushed the red silk mat before the dais. His eyes stayed low.

“Your Majesty,” he said, voice steady. “I come on behalf of the southern province of Naeul. My master offers peace, and his gratitude for your enduring protection.”

You barely heard the formalities. You were too busy watching the way his shoulders were tense but fluid, like a swordsman out of place among politicians.

He did not look at you.

Not once.

But you felt him.

His presence was like a string pulled taut across the space between you. Not visible, not tangible but unmistakable. It resonated through your ribs, your spine, the backs of your teeth. Like a bell you could not hear, but whose vibration you felt in your marrow.

You nearly stepped forward.

You nearly forgot the protocol drilled into you since childhood.

But instead, you inhaled slowly, carefully—and tilted your chin just slightly toward your father, as if your only concern was the formal script of receiving guests. The court watched your every movement, but no one noticed the way your fingers trembled against the fan.

Not even when you turned your eyes away from him too quickly.

The next morning, a hush fell over the inner court as the Council of State assembled.

Dawn’s light filtered through the tall latticework windows, casting the hall in a softened gold. Pale beams stretched across the lacquered floors, pooling at the feet of court ministers as they filed into place, their robes whispering like the hush of wind through reeds. Beyond the carved columns, incense smoke curled in slow, deliberate spirals, heavy with the scent of pine and frankincense. The day had not yet begun for the outside world, but inside the hall, the kingdom was already breathing its politics.

You stood behind the painted screen in the upper gallery—a place where royal daughters could listen, though never speak. Women were not meant to linger in council, not openly, and certainly not attentively. But you had always lingered, silently absorbing every syllable spoken in these chambers.

Today, you waited not for decisions, but for a name.

Jinu…

He arrived with no fanfare.

There was no trumpet to herald his steps, no servant trailing his robes. And yet, the moment he entered, the temperature in the room shifted. You felt it first in your chest—a slight tightness, like breath caught before the descent of a storm.

He wore dark robes again. Simple but striking. The kind of simplicity that was chosen, not forced. The fabric undyed silk or finely brushed hemp hung cleanly from his shoulders, cinched high at the waist in the southern fashion. A silver clasp gleamed at his throat, unadorned save for a faint engraving worn smooth by time. It caught the light briefly, like a memory flickering into view.

His hair was neatly bound not in the looped knots of noble sons, nor the rigid topknot of military men. It hung low, gathered in a black ribbon, a few strands escaping to graze his cheekbones. No sign of vanity, no jewelry, no house sigil.

He might have seemed unremarkable to the others.

But to you, he moved like someone misplaced by time.

His steps were neither rushed nor cautious. Each was exact. Balanced. There was no hesitation as he took his seat two rows back from your father far enough to remain silent, but close enough to command attention when needed. He did not scan the room. He did not shift in discomfort. He simply sat, spine straight, hands resting lightly on his knees, the picture of restraint.

When the council began, the room filled quickly with debate, First the harvest, then the tension with the eastern tribes, then the matter of fortifying the southern ridges before winter. Ministers argued with polished voices, their sleeves trailing as they gestured, voices weaving praise and strategy with veiled self-interest.

Jinu said nothing.

Not at first.

Then the Minister of the Interior, an older man with silvered brows and a mouth like a drawn string, turned to him.

“You, envoy. From Naeul. What does your lord say of the border? Are your watchtowers still standing, or have the mountain spirits finally swallowed them whole?”

A few chuckled.

You leaned forward slightly, waiting.

Jinu didn’t bristle. He didn’t flinch. He simply inclined his head—precisely once—and answered.

“The towers still stand, Minister. The rivers flooded early this year, so supplies were delayed, but the passes remain clear. The tribal scouts were seen five nights ago. They haven’t crossed the ridge, only watched.”

His tone was quiet, but not timid. Calm. Even.

He neither flattered nor flinched.

When asked about reinforcements, he answered plainly: “The southern lords have begun stockpiling grain and salt. They await your command.”

When prompted to speculate on whether the tribes would move before the snows came, he responded, “Perhaps. But fear clouds good planning. Naeul will prepare either way.”

You saw it—how the words landed.

No excess. No embellishment. Just the truth, tempered like steel.

Where another man might have taken the chance to curry favor—to lavish praise on the king, to humble himself before the ministers—Jinu did not.

He did not speak to be remembered.

He spoke because it was necessary.

And yet he was remembered all the same.

A few of the older ministers glanced at each other. One frowned, tapping the end of his ink brush against the wooden ledger with more force than necessary. Your father did not react, but you saw the way his fingers paused against the sleeve of his robe, just briefly, as though absorbing something new.

Jinu sat unshaken.

His hands rested calmly in his lap, long fingers lightly curled, the sleeves of his robe slightly parted to reveal his forearms. It was there that your gaze lingered—upon the scar.

A thin mark—faded, but deliberate—ran along the edge of his right arm, too clean to be an accident. Not self-inflicted, not ceremonial. A blade’s kiss. A wound from a different time.

And still he remained composed, every inch of him a study in stillness.

You couldn’t help but wonder how long he had practiced that kind of control.

You, hidden behind the filigree screen, felt exposed in contrast. Your fan had long since drooped in your hand, forgotten. Your pulse thrummed against your throat, beating in time with something you couldn’t name.

And then it happened.

A moment.

Small.

The room shifted—attention turned to another minister, a scroll unrolled, a disagreement erupting over a tax law that had little to do with demons or blood or truth.

And his eyes moved.

Not to your father. Not to the throne. Not to the scrolls or the gold or the empty flattery pouring from tired mouths.

But to the left. To the gallery. To you.

Only for a second.

Not long enough to be called a glance. But not short enough to dismiss.

There was no expression in it. No challenge. No softness. Just... awareness. A weight.

He knew you were watching.

And not once—through the long hours of that council, through every question and answer and silence—did he seek you again.

But he didn’t need to.

The silence between you had already spoken.

The hall had quieted.

Voices that once rose in elegant argument had settled into muttered agreement, the tension having drained with the afternoon light. Dust motes hung in the air like ash. Another hour and the servants would arrive to draw the screens, to offer tea and fruit to drowsy ministers nodding off between scrolls and silence.

But before the assembly could be dismissed, your father, seated tall in his crimson robes, shifted his weight—and the room returned to stillness.

“Send word to the western garrisons,” the king said, his voice low but firm. “Begin preparations to fortify the southern ridges before the first frost. I want updates from Naeul before the week ends.”

He turned slightly then—just enough to make it clear who was being addressed.

All eyes followed.

Jinu met the king’s gaze without pause. He bowed his head slightly, but did not lower his eyes.

“The southern ridges are already being watched,” he said. “But your Majesty’s concern is not misplaced.”

The Minister of War gave a soft scoff. “They are only mountain passers. Starved tribes and outcasts. They bark, but rarely bite.”

Jinu did not flinch. “Not all who pass through the mountains are tribesmen.”

That silenced the room.

Your father tilted his head. “Speak plainly.”

Jinu hesitated.

Only for a moment. But you saw it—like something inside him weighed whether truth belonged in this room.

“They are not all men,” he said, finally. “Some of what moves in the passes does not carry names. Or needs.”

A low murmur stirred through the court like wind across tall grass. The scribes looked up from their inkstones. One of the younger nobles narrowed his eyes, voice touched with disbelief.

“What do you mean?”

Jinu remained still. Measured.

“The locals call them mountain spirits,” he said. “Whispers. Shadows. They speak of things that do not leave tracks. Things that drain the heat from a man’s bones long before snow falls. Things that do not bleed when cut.”

The War Minister frowned, voice taut with scorn. “Tales meant to frighten children.”

Jinu’s voice remained even. “Then you haven’t sent enough men.”

Silence.

A single breeze stirred one of the high windows. The incense, long since burned down to glowing embers, released its final breath.

Then your father spoke again—soft, but cold.

“And you’ve seen these… things?”

Jinu looked up then, truly looked. His expression did not shift. But something in his voice did.

“I have fought them.”

A pause.

“And they are growing bolder.”

He did not elaborate. He did not need to.

There were no more scoffs. No more questions. Only a silence so complete it felt alive. Some in the chamber looked away. Others frowned—not in disbelief, but in discomfort. In knowing. These were not the words one said aloud in a hall like this.

But they lingered all the same.

And for the first time that morning, no one answered him.

That night, sleep did not come easily.

You lay awake long after the palace had gone still, your mind haunted by the memory of what you had witnessed in the garden. No amount of ritual tea or deep-breathing chants could dull the image—the blackened creature, hissing and clawed, melting into smoke under the sweep of a stranger’s blade. Nor could you stop thinking of the man himself: the calm of him, the silence, the unnerving steadiness of his gaze as he told you to forget. There had been something in the way he looked at you—something familiar and foreign all at once, like a name on the tip of the tongue. And yet, you knew, with a certainty that defied reason, that it was not the first time you had met him.

Eventually, exhaustion overtook your thoughts, dragging you beneath the silk sheets and soft shadows into sleep. But it was not the kind of slumber that brings peace or numbness. It was deep and weightless, as if your soul had slipped into a world not quite your own.

You dreamed of a lake.

It stretched endlessly in every direction, a vast surface of frozen black glass that mirrored the star-choked sky above. Snow fell gently, in slow spirals, but the air did not feel cold. It was still, not lifeless, but suspended—like the entire world was holding its breath. You stood at the lake’s edge barefoot, wearing robes you had never seen before, layered and crimson, too ancient to belong to the present. And across the expanse of ice, barely visible through the pale haze, was a figure.

A man.

He stood facing you from the opposite shore, distant but clear in your mind. His outline was softened by the mist that hovered above the lake, his cloak stirring slightly in a wind you couldn’t feel. He made no move to approach, but you could feel his presence as keenly as your own breath. Something about him filled the air—an ache, a weight, the gravity of an old bond stretched across the void of time.

You couldn’t make out his features. His face was cloaked in shadow, but you could sense the sharp lines of it, the solemn set of his shoulders. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. But you knew him.

Not from life. From something deeper.

Recognition flared in your chest, sudden and inexplicable. It was like stepping into the ruins of a house you didn’t remember building and finding your name carved into the doorframe. The pain that bloomed in your heart wasn’t fear—it was longing. The kind that only comes when you find something you’ve been searching for without knowing it.

You took a tentative step toward him, and the snow ceased to fall. The world seemed to narrow to the space between you, impossibly wide and unbearably close. His hand rose slowly—palm outward, not to beckon but to offer. There was no desperation in the gesture, only patience. As if he had waited for this moment longer than any mortal should.

Your hand twitched at your side, but you did not move.

Your voice caught in your throat. You wanted to ask who he was, why this dream felt real, why you felt as though your heart would break if you looked away—but the words would not come. And somewhere in that deep, quiet place inside you, the answer pulsed like a heartbeat.

You’ve been here before.

The silence around you shifted. You could almost hear him speak, his voice brushing the edge of your thoughts. He said your name—not the one used in court, not the title passed down by blood and duty, but something older, softer, secret. A name buried beneath the layers of lifetimes. A name only he would know.

You felt your breath catch again. And then, as you finally moved to step forward, to speak, to reach for his hand—

—you woke.

The sound of your own breath filled the room as you sat upright, heartbeat thundering in your ears. The embroidered blanket tangled around your legs. The silk cushions were damp beneath your palms. Outside, the horizon was beginning to pale with the earliest breath of dawn, and your chamber was steeped in the cold hush of pre-morning stillness.

You stared at your hands, trembling slightly.

Your chest still ached, like you’d been holding something too heavy, too sacred to carry. You didn’t speak for a long time. Only when the silence in the room became too much did you whisper aloud, voice barely more than a breath.

“What was that…”

It was a dream, you told yourself. Nothing more.

But your soul knew better.

This was not the first time you had stood at the edge of that lake. Not the first time you had seen him. The image, the pain, the weight of it—it was too real, too familiar. You had dreamed of him before. Many times. Maybe even countless times.

The only difference was: this time, you remembered.

And that terrified you more than forgetting ever had.

The royal court gathered under the morning light, as it did every week, with the same rhythm, the same rigid protocol—sun streaming through the high lattice windows, incense curling from brass bowls set along the stone floor, ministers bowing as they approached the platform where the king and his court sat. A harmony of tradition. Ceremony choreographed like a dance.

You had performed this role so many times you no longer needed to think about it. Your posture was flawless, hands resting gently atop one another in your lap, face carefully composed into the serenity expected of a royal daughter. The stiffness of your ceremonial robe—layered silk in golds and crimsons—did not discomfort you anymore. The weight of your jewelry, the tight coil of your hairpins, the unyielding etiquette: these were your armor.

And yet… something in the air felt different today.

You noticed it before your mind could name it. A quiet shift. A stillness in the air just before the wind stirs. Not danger, exactly. But awareness. A subtle pull at the edge of your senses.

Then, the foreign envoy was announced.

You heard the name—Jinu—spoken in the subdued tone reserved for minor visitors. He was introduced without flourish. No grand lineage, no royal crest, no temple blessing. He came, the official said, on behalf of a border province plagued by strange disturbances, seeking spiritual consultation. The court barely paid attention. Their eyes glazed with disinterest. One more traveler with one more meaningless story.

But not yours.

Your gaze, unbidden, found him as he entered.

And for a moment—only a breath—you forgot how to breathe.

He stood near the side of the chamber, away from the dais, his robes plain but immaculately kept. There was nothing in his posture that demanded attention. He bowed modestly. His hands remained folded behind his back. But something about him stilled the space around him—as though the world became quieter where he stood.

He did not look at you. Not immediately. But even without meeting your eyes, you felt his presence as surely as you felt the weight of your crown.

Your fingers tightened slightly in your sleeve.

You didn’t know this man.

You were sure of that.

And yet the sight of him sent a ripple through your chest—quiet, invisible, but deep. Your breath hitched, and your gaze faltered. You turned away, forcing yourself to focus on the scroll being read before the king. You had duties. Responsibilities. You were a daughter of royal blood, seated before the highest council of the land.

And still...

You looked again.

He hadn’t moved.

He stood quietly in the filtered sunlight, half his face in shadow beneath the high ceiling. And then, just as your gaze lingered too long, his eyes lifted.

He met your gaze.

Not with arrogance. Not with curiosity. Simply—certainty.

Your heart stuttered.

There was no gesture. No expression. He looked at you, and the world seemed to tilt slightly, as if something within it had suddenly clicked into place. Not shock. Not confusion. Just that strange, quiet pull.

Like a forgotten promise finding its voice again.

You looked away, quickly, hoping no one noticed. You felt your heartbeat in your throat. You pressed your palms together in your lap to hide the faint tremble in your fingers.

You didn’t know him. And yet… it felt like you did.

You told yourself it was imagination. Court fantasy. A passing fascination with a stranger who, by sheer chance, possessed a face that stirred something unnamed in you. But you knew better. The feeling was too sharp, too immediate.

Like waking from a dream you didn’t know you’d had.

You dared another glance.

He was still watching you—but not in a way that felt improper. He wasn’t studying you, wasn’t trying to read you. He looked at you the way one looks at something long lost and finally found. Quiet awe. Sorrow. Reverence.

And something else.

That same aching familiarity that burned in your chest burned in his eyes, too.

You looked away again—this time not from fear of being caught, but from the ache. From the sudden heat behind your eyes. From the undeniable truth that something inside you had moved, shifted, cracked open in his presence.

And yet you didn’t remember him.

Not truly. There were no images. No stories. No names to cling to.

But the feeling was there. Restless. Longing. As though your soul had recognized something your mind could not.

You stayed quiet for the remainder of the court session. You listened to the debates about border tensions and sacred omens and temple resources. You answered when addressed. You nodded at the proper moments. But your body moved like it belonged to someone else. Your thoughts drifted—again and again—to him.

Jinu.

You turned his name over in your mind like a prayer. Or a question.

By the time the meeting ended, and the ministers began to file out with the rustle of silk and murmurs of satisfaction, your heartbeat had not slowed. You stood with practiced grace, stepping down from the dais with your ladies-in-waiting close behind. You walked slowly, carefully, as tradition required.

But before you exited the chamber, you dared one final glance over your shoulder.

He was watching you again.

No smile. No sign of invitation.

Only that silent, steady gaze.

Your steps didn’t falter, but the rest of you did. Your heart. Your breath. Something pulled inside you, deep and invisible, as though the space between your body and his was not empty but full—tied by something you didn’t yet understand.

You passed through the painted doors, the court fading behind you.

But that strange ache—deep in your chest, low and pulsing—stayed.

The corridors of the inner palace were hushed as you left the audience chamber. The echo of court voices faded behind you—syllables clipped and formal, dissolving into the polished stone floors. Your attendants trailed at a respectful distance, but you did not acknowledge them. You moved forward in silence, eyes fixed ahead, posture flawless. On the surface, you looked composed. Regal. Untouched.

But your hands trembled slightly within your sleeves.

You dismissed the court ladies with a wordless flick of your fingers the moment you reached the marble walkway that led toward the garden pavilions. They bowed quickly and retreated, leaving you alone. As always, they obeyed without question. You were a princess. You were not expected to explain your solitude—only to make it look intentional.

You stepped past the carved doors and out into the garden.

The air was warm with early spring. Plum blossoms stirred gently in the trees, their petals falling like soft, scattered prayers. You let the scent of them fill your lungs, as if breathing deeply enough might quiet the restless ache inside you.

The garden was quiet this time of day—too early for poets and too late for priests. Just the wind and the birds and the slow hush of water trickling through the stone basins beneath the flowering trees. You walked slowly, your slippers barely whispering against the path of worn stone, your silk sleeves trailing behind like ripples on still water.

And still, you could feel him.

Not his presence, exactly. Not his footsteps behind you, or a shadow hiding among the trees. No—it was more abstract than that. A pull. A thread. A quiet knot of tension beneath your ribs.

You didn’t know his face before today.

You were certain of it.

And yet, when you saw him... something in you had moved.

It wasn’t attraction. At least, not in the way your court tutors had described it in whispered warnings. It was deeper. Heavier. A quiet sense of knowing, like standing in a ruined temple and realizing you had once prayed there long ago.

You paused at the edge of the pond, where koi glided beneath the lilies in lazy circles. Their scales shimmered gold and red in the light, their movement hypnotic. You stared at them without really seeing.

Who are you?

The question bloomed unspoken in your mind, over and over again.

Why do I feel this way?

You had met many men before—envoys, scholars, distant noble sons presented for approval. You’d seen beauty, heard flattery, danced with politics. And yet none of them had made your heart tighten the way this stranger had by simply standing still.

His eyes...

Even now, the memory of them made your fingers curl tighter into your sleeves. They hadn’t been soft. Or kind. Not even curious. But they had looked at you like they had known you. As if your presence was expected. Remembered.

That was the part that terrified you most.

Because you didn’t remember him.

And still, part of you ached as though you’d lost him.

You lowered yourself onto the edge of the pavilion bench, your skirts spreading like ripples of silk around your legs. Your shoulders sagged slightly—not with exhaustion, but surrender. It was difficult, being someone else all the time. The princess. The example. The daughter of heaven.

But now, in this quiet moment, you weren’t sure who you were anymore.

You stared at your reflection in the pond. The woman staring back at you wore your face. She sat straight, elegant, draped in gold and scarlet. But her eyes...

They were filled with a strange longing.

A yearning that had no name.

And the more you tried to ignore it, the stronger it became.

The stillness of the garden wrapped around you like a second robe—soft, warm, protective. You remained seated on the pavilion bench, watching the water ripple with each passing breeze. Yet your thoughts had drifted so far from the koi pond that you barely noticed when the wind picked up, carrying with it the faint scent of woodsmoke and pine.

You straightened.

It was nothing—just the wind, you told yourself. But your heart disagreed. That invisible thread tugged again, pulling from somewhere just out of sight.

And then—there it was.

Footsteps.

Soft, deliberate. The kind that did not wish to intrude, and yet could not help but be heard.

You turned your head just slightly, eyes lifting past the flowering tree at the corner of the path.

He was there.

Jinu.

He walked slowly, his steps as silent as breath, his hands tucked behind his back in the manner of one deep in thought. He was alone, which you hadn’t expected. No court escort, no attendant. Just him, weaving through the garden like a shadow that belonged to the light.

He didn’t see you at first. Or if he did, he pretended not to. His gaze was cast slightly downward, thoughtful. His posture—calm. But even from a distance, you could sense it: the tension coiled within him. Controlled. Contained. But always present, like a bowstring drawn tight but never loosened.

You stayed still, your breath quiet.

He moved closer.

Not toward you exactly, but in your direction—along the same curved path that wound around the reflecting pool, past the stone lantern, beneath the arch of the plum tree just now shedding its blooms.

And then, as he passed within several paces, he looked up.

His eyes met yours.

There was no startle. No surprise. Only stillness.

A pause in time.

He stopped walking, just for a breath. The two of you locked in that strange, silent space—neither of you speaking, neither daring to move. You felt your pulse surge beneath your ribs, not from fear but from the overwhelming familiarity of him. Not his face. Not his name.

Him.

Something behind your ribs ached. You could see it in his eyes, too—that same restrained unrest. Like something within him recognized you, not with certainty, but with sorrow. As if he were witnessing the shadow of something he had once loved and lost.

You parted your lips. You didn’t know why. You weren’t going to say anything—you didn’t have the words. But the weight of the silence was unbearable.

Then, quietly, he gave a slight incline of his head.

It wasn’t a bow. It wasn’t courtly or rehearsed. It was something simpler. More personal. A gesture of acknowledgment… as if to say, Yes. I see you. I feel it too.

You returned the motion with the barest tilt of your chin.

And just like that, he moved on.

No words passed between you.

No names exchanged. No explanations offered.

But as he disappeared down the path, your eyes lingered long after his footsteps faded.

The silence he left behind was not empty.

It was full. Heavy. Stirring.

Like the breath just before a name is remembered.

Or a promise is broken again.

You did not see him again for three days.

Not among the lacquered pillars of the royal court, where officials and nobility moved like clockwork—smooth, rehearsed, distant. Not on the walkways of the garden, where spring had begun its slow bloom in soft blossoms and fragrant winds. Not even in the corridors between dawn and dusk, where you sometimes passed scholars and foreign envoys with a nod that meant nothing.

You looked, without meaning to but he was nowhere and still, his presence lingered in your thoughts like perfume—light, haunting, impossible to forget. You tried to dismiss it as a momentary fascination, the result of a long court session and a strange glance. A passing thread. Something foolish but the mind forgets. The body remembers.

Your body remembered how your breath had caught. How your gaze had clung to his as though it were some distant memory returned in flesh. You remembered the weight of his stare, not oppressive, but undeniable. As though it had reached past your skin and recognized something inside you before you even knew to resist.

You told yourself it meant nothing but moments, you were learning, could bend the fabric of things.

Could unmake silence.

Could rearrange the world without a single word.

On the fourth night, sleep did not come.

You lay beneath layers of embroidered silk, the sheets cool against your skin. Above you, the ceiling gleamed with gold-painted clouds, dragons frozen mid-flight across the lacquered beams. Your hair had been loosened from its ornaments, your maids dismissed hours ago. The palace was wrapped in silence—thick, total, endless.

And yet you were not at rest.

The moon was full that night. Not soft and silver, but low and gold, casting molten light across the polished floor. Its glow stretched in long, quiet ribbons—touching the corners of your chamber, slipping through the slats of carved windows, turning the air into something ethereal.

You breathed in and the ache was still there.

It sat beneath your ribs—not sharp, but constant. A tension. A pull. As though a thread had been tied somewhere deep in your chest, and now something far away had begun to tug it gently, insistently.

You rose without thinking.

You did not ring the bell.

You did not call for your ladies.

You left the bed like a ghost shedding its bindings. You moved through the room on bare feet, the cold wood grounding you. There was no lantern in your hand, no slippers on your heels. You stepped into the corridor as you were, silk brushing softly around your ankles, hair falling like ink down your back.

There was no fear. Only certainty. That something waited.

The halls were hushed, lit only by moonlight. The lamps had long since been extinguished. Shadows stretched from every alcove, still and solemn like silent sentries. You passed beneath the painted beams without looking up. Past the shrine room. Past the winter garden. Toward the plum grove.

The doors to the outer garden yielded to your hand with no resistance and there—beneath the flowering trees—you found him.

Jinu.

He stood at the far edge of the reflecting pool, his back to you, his posture still but not tense. One hand was clasped loosely behind him, the other resting against the small of his back. He was not dressed for an audience—no formal sash, no fan, no ribboned adornments. Just simple black robes that rippled faintly with the wind.

He did not move as you stepped into the garden but you knew he had heard you.

You hesitated. The garden was nearly silver beneath the moon, every leaf aglow with soft fire. The scent of plum blossoms was heavy, dreamlike, falling in slow spirals to the stone path. There was no sound—only the quiet trickle of water from the carved basin, the faintest creak of tree branches shifting overhead.

And him.

You moved forward, slowly, steps careful. Measured. As if approaching a memory. You said nothing. Nor did he. Only when you drew near—near enough to feel the warmth of his presence—did he turn. Slowly. Deliberately. And then your eyes met.

There was no surprise in his expression. No smile. Just stillness.

His gaze was steady, dark beneath the moonlight, as though he'd known you would come. As though he'd been waiting—not out of impatience, but something quieter. Something deeper. Recognition. He didn’t bow. You didn’t speak.

And yet, somehow, everything in the world narrowed to the space between your gazes.

You had faced nobles and generals, monks and sages. You had sat above the court in your layered robes and heard confessions of sin and pride. You had danced the politics of a nation with perfect grace. But in that moment, you forgot all of it. Because he looked at you—not like a princess. Not like a sovereign's daughter. But like something sacred. 

Known.

Found.

When you finally spoke, your voice was quieter than you meant it to be. “I thought you had left.”

The words hung suspended in the moonlight, delicate as a breath. He did not look away. “I was told to remain in the city. The disturbances haven’t ceased.”

Your hands remained folded inside your sleeves, the picture of royal composure, though your pulse had begun to race. 

“I see.” You turned slightly, angling your gaze toward the still water of the pool, unwilling to meet his eyes for too long. You felt unsteady beneath that stare—not weakened, not embarrassed. Simply… exposed.

As though every mask had been gently removed, one by one. Then his voice came again—low, graveled slightly by something you couldn’t name. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

You tilted your head slightly, spine still straight, voice soft but sure. “I’m not.” you replied with confidence.

His expression changed at that. A breath, no more and then, quietly, he smiled. Not the smile you were used to, those polished things nobles wore like veils. This was different.

Faint. Quiet. Honored. As though he understood what your words truly meant and what it had cost you to say them.

You looked at the still pond with a heavy expression. “Jinu.” Your voice was quiet, but it carried.

He turned toward you not with surprise, not with haste. Just quiet readiness. As though he had been waiting for your voice, not expecting it, but welcoming it all the same.

You studied him in the moonlight. The way he stood, unmoving, hands folded behind his back, the fall of his robe gently stirred by the wind. He looked like someone out of time, like a statue carved from shadow and memory.

You let the silence linger a moment longer.

And then, with no more ceremony than a breath, “You saved me.” You said with certainty.

He didn’t deny it. His eyes flickered downward, briefly, before finding yours again. “You were alone,” he said softly. “Something waited in the dark.”

You felt it again, that cold stillness from the other night—the way the air had shifted, how your body had known before your mind. The way fear had curled its claws beneath your skin before vanishing into the wind the moment he appeared.

“What was it?” you asked.

He didn’t answer right away.

“Something old,” he said finally. “And hungry.” 

A pause. You tilted your head slightly, keeping your expression composed despite the knot beginning to form in your throat.

“And you knew it would come?”

“I knew something would.”

You didn’t let yourself react. Not outwardly. You were still a daughter of the court. Still the blood of kings. Your face remained smooth, still. But your gaze sharpened—narrowed, searching his face for something hidden.

He didn’t flinch beneath it and that, more than anything, unnerved you.

“Why didn’t you tell the court?”

His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer before he replied. “Would they believe me?”

You didn’t answer because you both knew they wouldn’t.

The following days, the palace slept but you did not. You walked beneath the high eaves of the eastern corridor alone, moonlight slipping through the carved screens like lacework over stone. Your sleeves whispered as they trailed behind you, the silk glinting faintly in the silver glow. You walked slowly—not with hesitation, but with intention. Every step you took was as measured as a poem. Composed. Controlled. As you had been trained to be from the moment you could stand in the throne room without wavering.

But tonight, for all your practiced grace, something inside you was not still. It had started days ago, this strange shift. A change so quiet it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else. But not you. And not him.

That morning, your royal duties had passed in a blur. Your voice had echoed in the council hall, your hands had signed scrolls, your eyes had read names and numbers and omens. But your mind—your heart—remained elsewhere. Always returning to this hour. To this path. To him.

You found him where you always did now—by the pond, beneath the old plum tree that had not yet finished blooming. A few petals clung stubbornly to its branches, defiant against the late spring wind.

He was already seated when you arrived. Not on the stone bench, but on the low step before it, his posture relaxed in a way that no courtier would dare assume in the presence of royalty. His arms rested loosely on his knees, hands clasped together. He was facing the water, but you knew he had heard your footsteps long before you reached him. He didn’t rise.

And you didn’t ask him to. You paused a moment before approaching, your shadow brushing the edge of his.

Then, carefully, you lowered yourself to sit—deliberately keeping space between you, enough to preserve the unspoken distance that always existed between a royal and… whatever he was.

You folded your hands neatly in your lap, back straight, eyes trained forward. You didn’t speak right away. Nor did he. The silence between you was not discomfort. It was something else. Like a breath held between notes in a song, waiting for the next phrase to begin.

And finally, you gave it voice. “What province do you come from?”

Your tone was smooth, formal—not out of coldness, but habit. You didn’t look at him as you asked. You looked at the water, where the moon shimmered in long ribbons across the surface.

He answered after a pause, his voice quiet. “Near the mountains.”

You tilted your head slightly. “There are many.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—not a full expression, but something ghosted and dry.

“The northern range,” he said. “Where the sky touches the stone. And the wind forgets its name.”

You turned to look at him then.

Not sharply. Not openly.

Just enough to see.

He did not meet your gaze. His eyes remained on the pond, distant, thoughtful.

“There were temples there once,” he said. “Before the fires. Before the silence.”

You studied the line of his jaw in profile, the way the light caught the edge of his cheekbone. His voice did not carry sorrow. Nor nostalgia. It simply was. Steady. Unvarnished.

“And your family?”

The question hung in the air longer this time. You weren’t sure why you asked it. You had not meant to. 

He shifted slightly, hands tightening just once before releasing.

“Gone.”

One word. Bare. Clean. Without ceremony but not without weight.

There was no tremor in his voice. No mourning curled behind it. But the stillness that followed it was not empty. It was heavy. Like an altar long abandoned, but still sacred.

You wanted to ask how. When. Why. But something in you told you not to.

So you didn’t.

You turned your gaze forward again, your face calm, still as a painting. The wind moved through the garden gently, rustling the leaves above you. 

A petal drifted down from the tree and landed near his hand. He did not brush it away.

“I never knew mine,” you said after a time, quietly. “Not truly. I was raised by wet nurses and tutors. Bowed to by strangers before I learned to speak. My brothers call me sister, but they do not know me. The court calls me a jewel. A daughter of heaven. But none of them see me.”

You weren’t sure why you said it. The words surprised you as they left your mouth, unfiltered, unpolished.

He turned to look at you, finally and for the first time, you let yourself meet his eyes fully.

There was no pity there.  No flattery. No attempt to comfort or impress. Only the kind of attention that feels like a mirror. Not reflecting your face—but your soul.

You looked away first. Not because it was too much—but because it was too known. The silence returned. But it felt warmer now. Fuller. Like a cup being filled, slowly.

You stayed longer than usual. Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Neither of you counted them. At last, when you rose, you did so slowly, every movement practiced but unhurried. He stood as well, though not because he had to. Because he chose to.

You turned slightly to face him, hands folded, chin lifted in the poise of a royal daughter. Even here, even in this strange softness, you remained composed. You always had.

But your voice was different this time.

Softer.

More you.

“Good night,” you said.

The words were simple. But they came from somewhere deeper than you expected. A place untouched by ceremony.

He looked at you.

And though his face did not change drastically, you saw it—clearly. The pause. The shift. The breath.

As though those words were something he had not heard in a very long time.

Something small.

But deeply human.

“Good night,” he replied after a moment and then, quieter… “Princess.”

But the title did not feel distant, not this time. It felt reverent. Not because of what you were but because of who you were. You held his gaze a moment longer. Not with command. Not with coldness. 

Just… recognition.

Then you turned and walked away, each step echoing faintly against the stone. You did not look back. But you felt his eyes remain on you and you carried the warmth of them with you long after the moon had disappeared behind the eaves of the sleeping palace.

On the following nights, It rained endlessly. Not a storm— no. No thunder, no sudden violence. Just a steady curtain of silver, falling from the eaves of the palace in long, unbroken strands. The sound was soft and endless, a quiet rhythm that seemed to blur the edge of waking thought. Most of the court remained indoors. Servants hurried to draw shutters closed, to cover the walkways in tarps, to ensure the braziers were not snuffed out by wind. Even the lanterns in the side halls had been dimmed, their lights softened by paper already damp at the edges.

But you?

You went anyway.

You walked the garden path in silence, the world around you softened by the rain. It clung to your hair, to your sleeves, beading against the outer silk of your robe like dew on petals. The hem of your skirt darkened where it brushed the stones, the weight of it dragging just slightly, just enough to ground you. The corridors behind you had grown hushed. Even your guards—never far, always watching—had retreated under the excuse of the weather. You had not called for them.

There was no fear in you tonight.

Only this ache again. Low in your ribs. A thread pulled taut.

You drew your robe closer around you as you crossed beneath the arching gate that led to the plum grove. The old tree rose at the center of it, as it always had, its blossoms scattering like soft prayers in the wind and beneath it—

He was already there.

You slowed to a stop, barely a breath from the pavilion's edge. Your heart, which had been steady the whole way here, stumbled.

He stood with his back to you, but not in disregard. His presence acknowledged yours the way the sky acknowledges the sea—wordless, but inextricable. He did not startle, did not turn with haste or surprise. Instead, as though he'd felt the rain shift with your arrival, his posture lifted. His head tilted slightly.

Still.

Steady.

Even in the rain, he was unmoved.

His robe—plain black, trimmed in ash grey—clung lightly to him in places, heavy at the hem, darkened by water. His hair, unadorned tonight, had come loose slightly from its tie, a few strands clinging to his temple. Raindrops traced the line of his jaw, shimmered across his collarbone where the fabric had slipped low.

But his breath…

That, you could see.

Slow. Deep. Even.

He was calm.

But not untouched.

You stepped forward at last, one careful footfall at a time, the sound of your approach swallowed by the rain. “You always come,” you said softly.

It was not a question. Not a complaint. Just truth—gently spoken.

He turned, only slightly, enough to let the moonlight catch the edge of his face. His gaze met yours without hesitation.

“I told you I would,” he answered.

His voice—low, gravel-soft, threaded with something weightier than mere words.

It wasn’t a vow. And yet it sounded like one.

You moved toward him, each step deliberate, not because you feared him—but because the moment felt fragile, as if rushing might shatter something not yet spoken into being.

You stepped beneath the tree’s sheltering boughs.

The rain softened there, caught in branches, falling more slowly like the breath of something divine.

You stood beside him—close enough to feel the warmth rising faintly from his form, from where his robe had soaked through, from where his body waited just beyond reach.

But you did not touch.

You didn’t even let your sleeves brush his.

Your hands folded neatly within the length of your robe, knuckles tight with the restraint you had practiced since childhood. That was the discipline of a princess. The art of stillness. The dignity of silence.

But your heartbeat. It betrayed you. It fluttered. Quietly. Unwillingly and yet, you spoke.

“You speak so little,” you murmured.

He did not look away.

“You carry so much,” he replied. “I didn’t wish to add to it.”

The answer struck you like the echo of something you had once known and forgotten.

So often, the court silenced you with expectations. With polished words, with praise laced in demand. You were not supposed to speak of burdens. You were not allowed to show them but he had seen them anyway and what’s more for that he had chosen silence not because he feared your power, but because he honored your weight.

You turned your gaze fully to him. Carefully. Openly. Your voice came quiet, but strong. As though you had known the words long before you ever gave them shape.

“I would rather share the weight than carry it alone.”

It was not an invitation. Not fully.

But it was the closest thing you had offered anyone in years. You felt the truth of it leave your mouth like warmth from your lungs and then, he looked at you. Truly looked. Iin his eyes, something ancient stirred.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. He simply stood, breath held as though the memory of your words touched something he didn’t know still lived inside him. The way he looked at you then…

Not like a soldier before royalty. Not like a man before a woman but like someone hearing the same line of a forgotten song after centuries in silence and recognizing the singer.

You.

He bowed his head slightly. A slow, reverent tilt—not of deference, but of acknowledgment. Not of who you were but of what you meant.

The space between you shimmered dense, warm, and alive and yet still untouched. No more words passed between you that night. You remained beneath the plum tree as the rain fell softer and softer, until the garden stilled and the moon slipped free of the clouds overhead. The petals that fell from the tree landed around your feet and his and for one long moment, you stood in silence, as if neither of you dared breathe too loudly for fear of breaking whatever strange, fragile thing had begun to bloom between your hearts.

So it began… night after night, beneath the hush of moonlight and the watchful silence of palace walls, you and Jinu met in secret. Always the same hour, when the world seemed to pause. Always the same garden, veiled in shadow and scent.

No words were spoken at first. Only glances. Only the soft echo of your steps as you found each other again and again, as though drawn by some ancient thread neither of you dared name.

It became a rhythm.

The garden, once merely a place of solitude, turned sacred. There, the ache of the day was shed, and in its place bloomed something fragile and burning. You would sit in stillness, sometimes near, sometimes apart, but never unaware of the other’s presence. His gaze would find you like a whisper in the dark. And yours would linger on him like a question you were too afraid to ask.

You returned as you always did, though you told no one where you went. Not your ladies-in-waiting. Not the guards who were always three steps behind. Not the eldest court minister who watched you like a fragile relic meant for worship, not for life but still—you came.

Drawn not by duty, not by desire, but by something older. Something wordless and constant, like the way tides know the moon and he was already there. Jinu stood beside the reflecting pool, still as stone, eyes lowered. He didn’t turn when you approached. Not immediately. But you knew he felt you. He always did.

You paused a few steps from him, allowing yourself that moment. The ritual of distance before closeness. The quiet tension of nearing without reaching.

He turned then. Slowly. And his eyes found yours. The ache in your chest returned at once—immediate, uninvited, yet so familiar. Like a bruise beneath your ribs that never quite healed. One glance and it bloomed again. You hadn’t spoken since yesterday’s rain. You hadn’t dared ask why the sorrow in his voice had settled deeper that night. But tonight, the silence between you felt different.

Not charged.

But weighted.

“Your eyes,” he said softly.

You blinked. “What of them?”

He studied you as though you were something fragile and holy. 

“They’re the same.”

You frowned. “The same as what?”

He didn’t answer. Not at first. He turned from you, looking down at the still water, the reflection of the moon warping around fallen petals.

“It doesn’t matter,” he murmured.

But it did. You felt it in his voice. You stepped closer. Not much. Just enough that your sleeve nearly touched the edge of his. Close enough to feel the warmth of him, not from body, but from memory. A memory you didn’t own.

“I don’t understand you,” you said quietly.

“I know,” he replied, barely a whisper.

You waited.

And then—finally—he turned to you again, and for the first time since your first meeting, he looked tired. Not in body. Not in spirit.

In the heart. As though he had carried something heavy for far too long.

“You look at me,” you said, “like you know me.”

He didn’t deny it.

“You speak to me as though I’ve spoken to you before…..” You hesitated before you uttered more quietly “...As though I’ve broken your heart...” 

A silence stretched long between you.

Then… “You did.” He spoke.

The words weren’t bitter. They were reverent. As if even that pain had been something precious. Your breath caught. Your throat tightened.

“What are you saying?” 

He looked at you now with a gaze that belonged to another time. Another life. Another you.

“I’ve known you before,” he said. “Not in name. Not in title. But in the way your soul moves. In the way your voice softens when you speak truth.”

You felt your spine stiffen, not out of offense—but out of fear. What truth? What memory did he carry in those steady hands of his? You shook your head slightly. “I would remember something like that.” you scoffed in disbelief.

His voice was gentle. “Would you?”

Your jaw tightened. “What do you remember?” You pushed on.

He didn’t answer for a long time, from what felt like ages with you looking at him with expectant eyes, daring to know the answers. Maybe because of this ache? For this longing? For this…regret? You do know… You can’t somehow pinpoint what it is.  

“A temple. A crown. A night of fire. Your hands in mine.” He stated simply, looking through you gauging your reaction.

And with a stuttered breath, he exhaled slowly. “Your death.”

You stepped back. Just one step. Just enough to break the warmth between you. You hadn’t meant to but the word struck something deep.

“I think you’re mistaken,” you whispered. Your eyes broke contact with him.

He didn’t follow. He let the space between you grow. “I wish I were,” he muttered.

Your voice trembled. “I don’t remember… This.. What– What you’re talking abou–”

“I know,” he murmured, not daring to look you in the eye.

And that was the worst part. The kindness in it. The grief of someone who had waited lifetimes for your voice to remember his name and accepted, without anger, that it never would.

You didn’t speak again that night. You only watched him as the wind shifted through the trees, carrying petals into the dark.

He bowed, low and reverent, not as a courtier, but as a man laying something sacred at your feet. Then he turned and left you beneath the plum tree.

Alone.

With the ache of something lost you could not name and a memory not yours… but that still made your eyes burn with ache.

That night, the palace walls felt heavier.

The garden’s stillness clung to you even as the moon rose over the curved rooftops, its pale glow stretching long shadows across the floor of your chamber. You bathed. You prayed. You drank the calming tea the court maidens left by your bed. But none of it quieted your thoughts.

You lay beneath silken covers, eyes closed, hands folded over your chest as if in mourning.

But your mind would not let you rest.

And eventually, sleep came—not gently, but all at once.

You fell.

Into silence. Into snow.

The dream was not a place at first. Only sensation. Cold air against your cheek. The muted hush of falling snow. The scent of cedar and smoke. Then slowly, images formed like ink spreading through water.

You stood beneath a pale sky, the light bruised violet, clouds like smoke curling around the edges of the world. Before you, a temple stood in ruins. Its once-red gates charred black. The prayer stones along its path shattered, half-buried in frost.

Your breath curled in the air, though you felt no cold.

And then—you saw him.

He stood with his back to you at the far end of the ruined path, his long dark robe stirring faintly in the wind. His shoulders were broad, but something about the way he stood looked… tired. As if he had been waiting too long. As if he didn’t dare turn around.

You took a step forward.

The snow beneath your bare feet didn’t crunch. It didn’t resist. The world felt muffled, distant, dream-thin. Your voice caught in your throat, but something in you cried out to him all the same—Don’t disappear.

And slowly, he turned.

You couldn’t see his face clearly. It shifted—light and shadow playing across it like ripples on water. But his eyes… those you saw. Deep and dark and full of something sharp. Longing. Grief. Recognition.

He opened his mouth to speak.

You leaned forward. You needed to hear him.

But the dream fractured.

The temple split. The ground beneath you cracked with a sudden roar, like thunder underwater. You reached out. He did too. The world between you shattered like glass—light and smoke and ash spiraling up around your hands before they could meet. And in the last sliver of the dream, you heard a voice.

Not his. Yours.

A whisper, spoken across lifetimes.

“Come back to me. Even if I forget—come back.”

You woke up with a gasp.

The room was quiet, bathed in early pre-dawn blue. Your pulse throbbed in your throat. You sat up slowly, hands trembling, sheets damp with sweat. The sound of your own breath filled the silence.

You pressed a hand to your chest. The ache was still there. You couldn’t remember what you had dreamed.

At least not fully.

The details slipped through your mind like sand. But you remembered the voice. The cold. The reaching. And the eyes. Always the eyes. Yours—and his.

Different in every dream, but always the same. And somehow, as the sky outside your window began to lighten, you knew with sudden clarity that this was not the first time you had dreamed of him.

Only the first time you had wanted to remember.

You told yourself you wouldn’t go tonight. The ache had grown unbearable—slow, consuming, like the flame of an incense stick that left no visible wound, only smoke that clung to your skin long after the fire died. 

You had tried, for the sake of your composure, to stay in your quarters. You sat beneath the polished glow of your chamber’s lanterns, the same scrolls spread across your lap, the same courtly petitions laid before you and yet your eyes had passed over the characters without reading, your fingers numb against the paper, your body still—but your thoughts miles away.

Worse than longing was uncertainty… and this… this thing between you and the envoy—had begun to unravel the careful architecture of your world. He had never touched you, not once. Had never stepped too close, had never whispered anything that could be held against you in a court of law or tradition. And yet he had undone you more completely than any sword might have.

By merely standing in your presence. By looking at you like he remembered. And worse still—by saying it.

You hadn’t answered him when he spoke those words under the rain. When he said he remembered your death. That you had been his. That he had lost you once.

It had unsettled something too deep to reach. Not because it sounded false—but because it didn’t.

…and that terrified you.

Still, you went. You told yourself it was only a walk. A short one. Nothing more.

You crossed the stone walk in silence, ignoring the guards’ subtle glance, the tilt of your lady’s head, the quiet ripple of unease that followed you like a whisper. You said nothing. You didn't need to. You were a princess. You owed no one an explanation for the direction of your footsteps. But the truth was that you were not walking to clear your mind. You were being pulled.

Drawn by something invisible. Old. Sacred.

The wind stirred faintly through the plum trees, now nearly bare, their petals strewn across the garden paths like the remnants of an old prayer. The air was heavier tonight. Damp. Cool. The moon above is half-shadowed by clouds. You moved slowly, as if the night itself demanded reverence. As if your presence here, at this hour, was not a chance—but a ceremony.

And there he was.

Jinu stood beside the pond again. Jinu stood by the edge of the reflecting pool, the pale arc of the moon behind him, casting a halo across his shoulders and silvering the dark fall of his hair. His robes stirred lightly in the breeze, loose and unbelted, like he too had been drawn here by instinct rather than will. His posture was still, deceptively at ease, yet there was tension in the way his fingers flexed once—barely noticeable. His posture was as still and silent as the surface of the water, but there was something about him tonight—something quieter. Sadder. As if his silence had become a weight.

He didn’t turn when you first appeared. He did not look up when you approached, which alone struck a sharp note inside you.

You stopped, just a few paces behind him, your hands buried in the folds of your sleeves. The moon cast a faint silver sheen on his shoulder. You could see the rise and fall of his breath, steady but low. As if each inhale required effort.

Then, you moved closer. Wordlessly. Slowly.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, voice low, almost too soft to be real. Still had his back turned.

You swallowed. Your throat was dry.

“No,” you said, after a beat. “I dreamed.” He didn’t budge to turn around but the flinch that was barely ignited some sense in you. 

The silence returned, stretching between you like a thread pulled taut. The moon reflected dimly in the water, a fractured glow that danced with every ripple, just like the unsettled feeling twisting in your chest. 

You didn’t speak again. Neither did he and yet the air between you thrummed—thick with the weight of unspoken things. Like something reaching across time, across lifetimes, straining to be remembered. Something more than mere coincidence.

Jinu’s turned his head and gazed at you. Flickering—not in surprise, but with quiet recognition. “You remember it, then?”

“I remember... the cold. And your face. Or part of it.” You wrapped your arms more tightly around yourself, though the air wasn’t cold. “There was a temple. A voice.”

Jinu looked down for a moment. Then back at you. “You’ve dreamed that before. Many times.”

The words made your skin prickle. You stared at him, uncertain. “How would— how do you know that?”

He exhaled slowly, as if he hadn’t meant to say so much. “Because I’ve been there, too.”

You took a small step backward. Your voice trembled.

“Who are you, really?”

You stared at his back for a long time before you spoke.

“Jinu.” The name came unbidden.

You hadn’t planned to say it. You hadn’t even meant to. But it was the first time it had passed your lips aloud. And the moment it did, something shifted.

He turned to you, slowly, his expression unreadable. But it was his eyes—always his eyes—that betrayed the ache behind the calm. He met your gaze, and something in you fractured.

You felt it.

A thrum. A shock of emotion, as if the sound of his name in your voice had stirred something buried deep in both of you. And gods—it hurt. Not like a wound. But like recognition. Like coming home after centuries in the dark.

He didn’t speak and neither did you, for a long while.

But you stepped forward. One step. Then another. Until the space between you had narrowed to only a breath. You could feel the warmth of him now. The nearness. The heartbeat that pulsed in time with your own.

“I…” You faltered, unsure why you had come, what you meant to say. The words stuck like thorns behind your ribs. “... Feel like… There’s something I should ask you, but I don’t even know how.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt. He waited. Always, he waited.

You forced yourself to meet his eyes again. “When you said... that you remembered me. That I had died in your arms.” You swallowed hard. “That wasn’t… metaphor, was it?”

His eyes closed, only briefly. As if the memory pained him too much to hold all at once.

“No.”

Just one word. Quiet, Unyielding, and the world tilted.

A strange pressure built behind your eyes. Your hands clenched in your sleeves. You could feel something inside you shatter and reform all at once. Because you had felt it too. The pull. The ache. The way your chest had seized the first time your eyes met his in the audience chamber.

And now—

Now there were fragments rising to the surface.

Not images. Not names.

But sensations.

The weight of your head in his lap. The scent of blood and burnt wood. The feel of his hand pressed against your ribs, trying to stop something. Your own voice, trembling, saying his name—not Jinu. No, it had been something older. Something softer. Something yours.

You staggered a half-step back, breath caught in your throat.

“No,” you whispered. “No, that’s not real. It can’t be.”

But your body didn’t believe you. Neither did your soul. You could feel it—like the echo of a scream in an ancient hall. Like a scar long healed, aching with the weather.

His voice was low when he spoke again. “You don’t have to remember, Princess.” His eyes burned with grief that did not belong to this life.

“Your soul already does.” And that—that—undid you.

Your knees nearly buckled. Not from fear, not even from disbelief, but from the weight of it all. That you could walk through this life blind to what your soul had carried through death. That he had remembered you, mourned you, found you again—only to face you without the warmth of recognition returned.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “I don’t remember. I want to—but I can’t. And it hurts. It hurts, and I don’t know why.”

He stepped forward, slowly, deliberately, but stopped just short of touching you. His hand lifted—hesitating in the space between you—then lowered again. He would not reach for you. Not unless you asked him to.

“I came here for you,” he said, softly. “Every night. In this life, and the last. Whether you remembered me or not.”

Tears burned behind your eyes, unfallen. You didn’t know why. “No,” you whispered.

Jinu didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He only watched.

“I don’t remember,” you said again, but the words trembled now. Hollow. Because part of you did. It lived in the deepest part of you, beneath thought, beneath language. A thread of gold sewn through your soul that pulled tighter every time he stood too near.

“You died in my arms,” Jinu said softly, “and I have carried the silence of that moment for lifetimes.”

You flinched.

“I don’t—” You swallowed. “I don’t believe in such things.”

He stepped forward then, slowly, carefully, his voice a hush meant only for you.

“You don’t have to believe. Your soul already does.” 

Gods help you—you did believe him. You believed him in the way the tide believes the moon.Your heart was racing now. Your hands trembling in your sleeves. You turned away, desperate to hide the rising chaos inside you. “It’s not possible.”

He didn’t reach for you. He didn’t try to prove it. Instead, he said, quietly— “Then why do you come to me every night?”

You froze. The wind stirred your hair. The petals from the tree fell around you like snow and still, he waited. Not demanding. Not even hoping. Just knowing.

You stood still for a long, shattering moment. And then—Your voice cracked when you answered 

“I don’t know.”

But you did. You both did.

Only that his voice struck you with a sorrow so old, so familiar, it felt like a wound being reopened by the one who once tried to heal it.

“I think,” you whispered, “I once loved you.”

A pause. His breath caught.

Then, barely above the sound of the wind—

“I never stopped.”

And just for a moment, the space between you vanished.

Not with a kiss.

Not with a touch.

But with something far more sacred.

A memory.

Shared.

Felt.

And in your chest, your soul whispered a name you still could not speak—but would never again forget.

For a long while, neither of you moved. You stood in the garden as though the air itself had thickened around you—charged with memory, aching with the weight of everything unsaid. The night had deepened, but neither of you marked the hour. It didn’t matter. The palace might as well have fallen away, the moon disappeared, the world stilled. There was only the distance between you and how unbearably sacred it had become.

Jinu did not look away. His expression didn’t change. He stood like stone—and yet not cold. No, never cold. He carried the stillness of someone who had waited a very long time without demanding anything in return. He had always left it to you.

The choice. The pace. Even now, as your fingers trembled within the shelter of your sleeves, as your heart pounded like something wild against your ribs, he made no move to close the gap. No whisper of invitation. No reaching out and somehow, that broke you more than anything else.

Because he didn’t assume he was owed your touch. He didn’t believe he deserved it. He was waiting—with the quiet, soul-breaking patience of someone who had held you once, and lost you forever.

You swallowed hard, the sound deafening in your ears. Your breath shook and then—Your hand moved. Barely at first. A slow, quiet shift within the sleeve. The subtle flexing of fingers against silk. You took a step forward, the motion small but deliberate. And you looked down—past the folds of your robes, past the petals scattered at your feet—to where his hand rested at his side, still and open.

He hadn’t hidden it. He hadn’t offered it. He had simply… left it there. In case you ever chose to return to him. Your hand lifted, unsure at first, suspended in the space between doubt and desire. You hovered there—your fingers trembling inches above his. He did not move and that gave you the courage to go further.

You touched him. Just the lightest brush of your fingertips across the back of his hand. And the moment you did— Your breath caught. Not because it startled you, but because something deep within you stirred, like a bell struck in the marrow of your bones. A warmth bloomed beneath your skin, quiet but all-consuming, like sunlight reaching into the corners of a temple long abandoned.

You felt something click into place. Something that had been missing.

You curled your fingers around his slowly, as though the memory of it lived in your body already. You didn’t think. You didn’t speak. You just reached.

And he—He didn’t gasp. He didn’t flinch. But something in him changed, subtly, devastatingly. You felt it in the way his fingers slowly closed around yours. In the silent exhale he released, like a man who’d been holding his breath across lifetimes. In the way he bowed his head just slightly—not in deference, not in fear—but in quiet gratitude.

As though your hand in his was a prayer answered after a century of silence. You didn’t let go. Not right away. You couldn’t. Because the moment your hand touched his, the ache inside you shifted. Not gone—but quieter. Bearable. As though your soul, so long exiled from something it once called home, had found its way back to the threshold.

Neither of you said a word. You stood there—your hand in his, fingers barely curled, heart unraveling—and let the moment stretch, wide and eternal.

He looked up at you again and this time, when your eyes met, there was no fear.

Only knowing and beneath it—something deeper still.

Something not yet spoken, but already true. Love.

His fingers wrapped around yours with unbearable gentleness—careful, reverent, as though you were something sacred and fragile, a living relic pulled from the ruins of time. There was no hunger in the touch, no urgency. Only quiet certainty. A recognition that pulsed between your joined hands like a heartbeat shared.

The garden stilled around you. Even the wind, which moments before had stirred the petals beneath your feet, fell into silence. No birdsong. No rustle of leaves. Just the soft rush of blood in your ears, the tremble of your breath, the world folding inward.

Then something shifted. Your vision swam. Not like faintness. Not like fear. It was deeper than that. As if the very air had cracked, and something inside you—the oldest part—had split open to pour through. Your breath hitched and the breath you drew was not your own.

It came sharp and ragged, thick with heat, choked with the scent of burning pine and smoke-soaked stone. You smelled it before you saw it. Felt it before you understood. Your lungs filled with ash. Your skin prickled with phantom heat. And before you could cry out—

The garden was gone. It didn’t vanish—it simply peeled away, like paint flaking from ancient murals, revealing the true layer beneath.

The moon above you burned red. Not from beauty—but from flame. The sky was split open, thick with black smoke, curling from rooftops half-collapsed and glowing at their edges. Screams echoed from far-off courtyards. You could hear the panic in every bell that rang—loud and unrelenting, not in ceremony but in alarm. The kind that never stops. The kind rung at the end of things.

You were barefoot.

Your feet bled, though you hadn’t noticed. The ground beneath you was stone slick with water—or maybe blood—you didn’t look too closely. Your robes, once embroidered with silver moons and lined with soft mink fur, hung from you in torn ribbons. The silk was scorched along the seams. One sleeve had burned away entirely. The other clung to your arm, soaked through with something warm. You were cold, despite the fire. But not alone. He was with you.

Jinu—no. That wasn’t his name here. Not yet. He was younger, or maybe older, his face thinner, sharper, streaked with soot and blood. His hair was longer, tied hastily with a red ribbon that now hung loose, as if it too had given up its purpose. His hands were blistered. A blade was strapped across his back, dark with runes and old iron. Not a royal envoy. Not a demon hunter.

A soldier? A guardian? No.

A protector. Of you.

He stood with you beneath the temple ruins, the shattered archway above still glowing faintly where fire had not yet reached. His eyes—those same eyes that held the weight of centuries—were fixed on you, wide with grief.

Not fear. 

Grief.

As if this moment had already happened a hundred times, and he had tried to change it in every single one. His hand clutched yours. Tight. Not crushing, but grounding. Desperate.

“I promised I’d protect you,” he said.

His voice was hoarse, dry from ash and pain, and yet it cut through the roar of fire like a blade through silk.

“And I failed.”

You turned to him—weakly, barely able to hold yourself upright. Your legs trembled. Your mouth tasted of copper. The edges of your vision swam red. But your hand in his stayed firm, even as your knees buckled.

And somehow, you smiled.

Not with joy.

But peace.

“You didn’t fail,” you whispered. “You found me.” The words weren’t conscious. You didn’t decide to say them. They poured from you like breath. Like memory. Like something your body had memorized long ago.

He drew closer, his brow pressed to yours. His shoulders shook—not from pain, but from the weight of loss already known. You felt it in the way his hand trembled against your wrist. In the way he pulled you close, even knowing he could not keep you.

“I tried,” he whispered. “I tried everything. I begged the gods. The stars. Anything that would listen.” 

You rested your forehead on his. The temple burned behind you. You didn’t flinch.

“I know,” you said softly. “You always do.” Your voice was faint now. Your pulse slowing but you weren’t afraid. You weren’t alone. He kissed your knuckles. Just once. As gently as one lays a prayer on a shrine.

“I won’t forget you,” he said. His voice cracked. “Not in this life. Not in any other.” You smiled again. Slower this time. Sadder.

“I’ll find you,” you whispered. “Even if I don’t remember. Even if it takes a thousand years.”

His eyes closed and as your body gave out, your soul lifted— Not away.

But forward and just as your last breath left your lips—

A vow passed between you, silent and binding.

Return. Remember. Love. Again.

Then, The vision tore away.

You didn’t return to your quarters that night. Not right away. The garden stretched long and quiet around you, bathed in the soft hush of midnight. The plum blossoms had begun to fall in earnest, scattered like snow across the stone paths, and your hand still lay within his—warm, trembling slightly, but unwilling to let go.

Neither of you spoke at first.

You sat together in silence, his shoulder against yours, the edge of your sleeve brushing his robe. It should have felt forbidden. Improper. You were royalty, after all. He was nothing more than an envoy, a guest, a shadow at court. And yet—out here, in the dark, with only the moon as witness—none of that mattered.

You had seen a part of the truth.

You had felt it in your bones.

Still, it wasn’t enough.

Not yet.

You turned your head slightly, just enough to glance at him—his profile calm, his gaze distant, fixed somewhere beyond the garden. His features were drawn tight in thought, jaw clenched not in anger, but in restraint. Like he was trying not to speak. Like he had held something back for too long.

“Jinu,” you said quietly.

He blinked once, slowly, as though waking from a long sleep.

You hesitated. “Tell me. All of it. Please.”

For a moment, you thought he might refuse. He turned his face away, his lips parting slightly—then pressing into a thin, quiet line. But after a long pause, he nodded Not out of obligation but out of exhaustion because some truths can’t be buried forever and this one had waited long enough.

He began slowly, his voice low, barely above the wind.

“It started long before you were born. Before any of us were. In a life I no longer remember clearly—only in fragments. I wasn’t born into royalty. I wasn’t chosen by the heavens. I was… a guardian. A keeper of old paths. I walked between this world and the next.”

You listened, heart quiet, breath steady.

“I made a vow,” he continued. “To protect a temple of the forgotten gods. Not out of piety. Out of love. It was sacred to you. And I… I would have followed you anywhere.”

You turned toward him slightly, your gaze catching the faintest shimmer at the edge of his lashes. Not tears. Not yet. But the promise of them, held back by pride or grief.

“I broke that vow,” he said. His voice cracked, just barely.

“I failed. You died. And I lived.” He swallowed hard. “I begged the gods to take me instead. To undo time. To change the ending.”

You could feel your heart aching now—not in confusion, not in pity, but in terrible, helpless understanding.

“And they answered,” he said.

He finally looked at you then. Not as the envoy. Not as the stranger. But as the man who had been yours once, long ago.

“I was cursed,” he whispered. “Not to die. Not to forget. But to remember. Every time you returned to the world—I would remember. Who you were. Who we had been. How I failed.”

You stared at him, breath caught.

“And I would remember,” he added, “even when you didn’t.”

The words struck like a blow, not in their cruelty, but in their truth. You had seen only fragments—one vision, one night. But he had carried the whole of it. For lifetimes.

“Why?” you whispered. “Why would they do that to you?”

He looked up at the sky. Not bitter. Not angry. Simply… resigned.

“Because I asked them to,” he said. “Because I begged to remember you, no matter what. Even if it meant suffering. Even if it meant being born into every lifetime as a stranger to you. I chose it.”

Your chest tightened.

A rush of heat stung behind your eyes. You reached for his hand again—not out of obligation, but out of instinct. As though your body remembered what your mind still struggled to name.

He didn’t resist.

“I didn’t want to forget your face,” he said softly. “Not again.”

A silence fell between you, deep and fragile.

You sat beneath the flowering branches of the tree, hands entwined, lives entwined, the past curling around the present like mist. The wind stirred faintly, lifting the scent of old petals, and with it came the truth you had no language for.

This man had loved you through death.

Through time.

Through every cruel rebirth.

And he had carried the weight of that memory alone—all for the chance to see you again.

And you had.

At last.

You exhaled slowly, your thumb brushing over the back of his hand.

“I’m here now,” you said.

He looked at you.

And for the first time, a flicker of something softer passed through his eyes.

Hope.

.

.

.

The moment lingered.

You sat together beneath the plum trees—his hand in yours, the scent of blossoms like incense in the night, soft petals collecting in the folds of your robes. For a heartbeat, there was only silence. A silence that felt full, not empty. You felt it in the warmth of his fingers, the aching steadiness of his gaze.

Your soul had begun to understand him.

Even if your mind still chased questions.

But then—

A sound. Sharp. Hollow. Distant. Bootsteps on stone.

You both froze.

The rhythm of it was unmistakable. The hurried march of armored feet, five or six men at least, coming from the eastern corridor. It echoed through the garden like thunder, chasing away the stillness like wind scattering prayer scrolls.

You looked at him, your fingers tightening around his instinctively.

Jinu’s jaw tensed.

He stood without a word, hands already releasing yours, his posture shifting with uncanny calm—like a shadow returning to its shape. He no longer looked like the man you’d just bared your heart to. In an instant, he was once again the envoy. The outsider. The one who did not belong.

You rose more slowly, brushing your hands down your robe to steady yourself. But your pulse was racing. You knew the guards would be looking for you by now—curfew long passed, your presence long missed.

And yet—

You had never heard them move this quickly.

A crack of voices cut through the air. 

“Secure the perimeter!”

“Over there!”

The guards' silhouettes appeared between the flowering arches—dark shapes in lacquered armor, blades drawn. Their torches flared orange and angry against the soft hush of the moonlit garden.

Then one of them saw you. “Princess!” The guard claimed.

You flinched. His voice wasn’t one of relief.

It was panic. Urgency.

He rushed toward you, the others not far behind. “Your Highness, we must return you to the palace immediately. There’s been a breach near the outer gate.”

You turned sharply, eyes darting to Jinu. He remained still beside you, but his eyes… they had gone sharp, distant, alert. A familiar tension rolled through him—like a hound scenting smoke before fire.

“What kind of breach?” he asked quietly.

The captain didn’t look at him. Didn’t even acknowledge him.

“The monks at the outer shrine sent a hawk—they say something clawed tried to cross the river ward. It didn’t make it across… but it was fast. Strong. Not human.”

Your heart dropped. 

The guards didn’t see it, but you did. The way Jinu’s shoulders stiffened. The flicker of heat beneath the calm in his gaze. It wasn’t surprise that crossed his face.

It was recognition. He knew what it was. He had seen it before— you. Had seen those things before, it was the ones who tried to pry on you… to eat you, and now, it was close.

“Escort the princess,” the captain barked. “We’re locking down the entire palace. No one leaves the inner grounds until sunrise.”

Another guard stepped forward, reaching gently for your arm not to touch but merely hovering over it. “Forgive us, Your Highness, but you’re not safe here.”

You opened your mouth to protest—but before you could speak, Jinu took a step back, away from you, hands at his sides.

He was vanishing again. Not literally—but behind the mask. Behind the role. The man you had just touched—the one who held centuries in his eyes—had retreated.

As if he could not be seen beside you now. As if this moment, this truth, would be burned away by the torches of men who did not understand.

“Go,” he said quietly, not looking at you. “Your highness, it is not safe here.”

You look at his eyes with reckless abandon. It hurt more than it should have.

You stepped forward, unwilling to let it end like this. “Wait—Jinu—”

He looked at you finally and the pain in his gaze—masked though it was—struck you like a blow.

Just like the blow of a wind it was redirected immediately. He looked at the captain of the guards. “I’ll find it,” he said. “Whatever crossed the wards tonight… I’ll deal with it.”

You knew what he meant. 

Not ‘I’ll help.’ 

Not ‘I’ll try.’

He was already hunting it. 

Even now. 

Your chest ached.

Still, the guards surrounded you. You couldn’t stay. Not without drawing suspicion. Not without risking him.

So you let them guide you away.

But as you turned back once—just once—you saw him standing beneath the tree, petals falling around his shoulders like snow.

Alone.

Watching you leave again. The way he always had. The way he always would.

It was not the first life. Not even the second. But it was the first time he failed you in a way the gods would not forgive.

It began with fire. Not the kind that rages and burns—but the kind that waits, patient, breathing smoke beneath the floorboards of the world. It crept in slowly, like rot. Like a whisper. The skies had turned red days before, the moon swollen and rusted like a dying eye. The monks had muttered about omens, drawn talismans in vain. The people had begun to pray louder, to offer more.

But it wasn’t enough. Nothing ever was. That night, he had been late.

He remembered the details with agonizing clarity—the scent of lantern oil, the cold sweat along his back, the way the forest had gone too quiet. The stars had vanished behind a veil of cloud, and still he had pressed forward, not yet knowing what he would find.

You were already gone from the palace by the time he arrived.

He’d warned the king. Pleaded. Begged. Told them something was coming. They hadn’t listened.

You had insisted on leading the ritual yourself—brave, stubborn, always trying to carry the weight of your people with dignity. You never should’ve been there. You never should’ve been alone. He found the field outside the temple gates in ruins.

Blood soaked the grass, mingling with crushed blossoms. The shrine’s wooden arch had splintered, talismans torn from their posts. The sacred circle meant to repel demons had been defaced—scratched through by claws that gouged through stone like silk.

And in the center of it— You.

Collapsed at the base of the offering altar, your ceremonial robe torn, your arm streaked red. A wound to the stomach, deep and glistening, like something had tried to claim you.

He dropped to his knees beside you, breath leaving his lungs in a single broken sound. “What… did you do!”

You were still breathing.

But not for long.

“Stay with me,” he had said, over and over, his voice raw with disbelief. “Stay. With. Me.”

Your eyelids fluttered.

And in that brief moment of clarity, you looked at him—not with fear. Not with confusion.

With recognition.

As if, even dying, you knew him.

As if your soul remembered what the body had barely begun to understand.

He tried to lift you.

Tried to carry you to the healers, to the monks, to anyone who could undo what had been done.

But you reached for him weakly, fingers brushing his cheek.

“No,” you whispered. “I’m sorry—”

He shook his head.

“I can fix this. I can—I’ll offer anything—”

You smiled.

It broke him more than the blood.

“You always do, my lov…” you muttered.

And then—Your eyes looked at him. A shortness of breath. And you were gone. The Gods did not come with thunder or wrath. They did not scold. They watched and when he screamed at the heavens, when he bled into the shrine’s soil, when he swore he would give anything—his soul, his name, his next thousand lives—to undo this, they answered in silence.

And then they bound him. To time. To memory. To you. You would return. In another form. Another face but he would remember.

And he would be made to walk beside you again and again—always too late, always too far, always unrecognized—until he had paid the price.

And so he did.

He woke from the memory with a start, not in sleep but in the garden.

Now.

Your scent still lingered on the breeze. The warmth of your hand still ghosted against his palm and yet the ache in his chest burned like it had that night because something had crossed the wards and this time—he would not be late.

Not again. He stood, turned toward the shadows, and vanished beneath the plum trees.

Silent.

Deadly.

Ready.

˚ 　 ⤹ 　 ❝ ©twstedfreak | all rights reserve to the owner. . . . do not plagiarize, steal, translate, or modify my work. . . . banner & header is made by yours truly

taglist: @sparky2020sworld. @enerofairy.

[twstedfreak]

sorry for the long hiatus everyone:((

Lately, things have been tiring and difficult kjsadgfiue due to... y'know,,, life

BUT... LONG FIC incoming... <3

featuring: Protector!Jinu x Princess!Reader

5 days deep into the Kpop Demon Hunters Fandom AND i'm alr depressed wjdfhauwrkf ily Jinu... This is my tribute to you<3

Comment if you want to be added to the taglist :) love y'all! i promise, the updates for my other fics are nearly there too hehe thank you for reading my fics ily all

TEASER FIC INCOMING!!

that's all for now :P stay tuneeeddd lmaoooooo (my back hurts)

[twstedfreak]

I just finished watching the movie.......... Jinu is so,,, UHAKDSFHDIEF I LOVE HIM

I'M ON IT!!

Can someone PLSSSS make a jinu x reader fic I begggg PLZZZ 🙏😭😭😭😭

[twstedfreak]

literally me rn,,,,,, IM JUST READING. READING. READING. AND READING OMLLLLLLL

MY FICS THAT ARE LITERALLY GATHERING DUST AREEEEE ToT (we don't talk about that)

me when @dilvei @erosiism @carnalcrows @stillwatervoid @obsessivevoidkitten

[twstedfreak]

this is my man btw

the fucking brainrot…i’m sorry (no i’m not)

[twstedfreak]

Leon and Carlos 🙈

ac: umbrella_rpd

[twstedfreak]

When there isn’t 20 new fics for me to read after refreshing the tag (I just finished reading everything and have absolutely no patience)

[twstedfreak]

I’m weak for a cozy-looking, domestic Alastor~

Did a couple studies of J. C. Leyendecker’s work! I love his style and attention to detail. He and Norman Rockwell were truly iconic Saturday Evening Post artists.

Edit: drew one last Leyendecker inspired Alastor for this set! Print samples will be arriving soon 👀

[twstedfreak]

I love him so much

insta: Midas.S.Crow

[twstedfreak]

VIRGIN!JJK FIC RECS

something about virginity loss fics makes me sooo wet... req by anon ^^ adding onto the list whenever i find more <3 mdni, nsfw content!

gojo digimon—but making u cum is my real hobby - blkkizzat strongest sorcerer virgin - megumiluv virgin and unexperienced bf!gojo - fatal fairies number one sorcerer (and virgin) - inmaki nerds do it better - sugugasm virginity loss & riding - creamflix inculpatus - jaegerbby teach me how to pleasure my future wife (you) - fvsm4x

geto reformed player!geto - akicult virginity loss & riding - creamflix losing your virginity to geto suguru - yasu-1234 his favourite - h34rtbeat just let me love you - sttoru salvation - puppykento inked - choslut

nanami she said it's her first time - classyrbf sins of the flesh - semisgroupie perfect lover: the life of nanami kento the 35 year old virgin (series) - kanekisfavouritegf

yuuji oh my god, pretty - lokissweater virgin!yuji x virgin!reader - nana-au bff & virgin!yuji - nana-au yuji x f!reader - ickyuji

megumi best friend megumi fushiguro - onismdaydream megumi's birthday - mommypeick first time having sex is awkward - wild-jackaloupe how to fuck 101 - chosok-amo i think i'm ready - romantichomocide95 first time - megvmijx

yuta that boy is mine! i can't wait to try him! - rosesaints gummy bear - loveanddeepdick right here - love-jelly smile, you're on camera - seraphdreams

choso virgin!choso - teasingchoso choso kamo x f!reader - jaegerdilf mind body and soul - admirxation cherry blossoms ( 1 2 3 4 5 ) - sellenite cherry smoke clouds - kleftiko he's such a (hot) looser - classyrbf emo boy - krys4h

toji sins of the flesh - semisgroupie

taboo crush - spideyyeet best friend's dad - nanaslut

sukuna virgin!sukuna - screampied

etc jjk!boys x virgin!fem reader v!rgin killa - screampied asking the jjk characters to take your virginity - nanaslut cherry popper - satorusugurugirl

[twstedfreak]

@ 𝙭𝙓𝘿𝙞𝙜𝙞𝙂𝙤𝙙69𝙓𝙭 𝙞𝙣𝙫𝙞𝙩𝙚𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙩𝙤 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙮...

AND GOD KNOWS I'M TRYIN', BUT THERE'S JUST NO USE IN DENYING... ❤︎︎︎︎ THE OTAKU IS MINE ❤︎︎

⏯︎︎ OTAKU!GOJO X BIMBO!READER SERIES

bunny, how on earth did you end up dating this huge otaku nerd? urgh, you actually like him and match his freak too? and he buys you what?! omg! what will your friends think?!

⏯︎︎ 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘

𖦏 genre: college au

𖦏 ratings: 18+MDNI. unprotected, ecchi gojo, dubcon, cnc, bdsm, puppy play, public sex, creampies, spanking, sugar daddy/baby dynamics, edging, squirting, threesums, femdom, the ridiculous ass pervy pet names gojo gives you & reader is called 'bunny' in lieu of 'y/n'. each story will have warnings on its story page.

𖦏 pre register: comment to be tagged. i may not respond to everyone but rest assured if you comment you will be tagged!

𖦏 gamer's guide: all fics are listed in chronological order, but likely won't be written in chronological order. summaries subject to change slightly. they also will be written over time so please don't rush me for the next installment but feel free to ask me questions i love talking about this lil freak❤︎︎

⏯︎︎ 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘:

𝐥𝐯𝐥 𝟏: ❝ DIGIMON—BUT MAKING U CUM IS MY REAL HOBBY! ❞

𖦏 your best friend gojo is a hopeless otaku virgin with zero rizz that's still obsessed with digimon—despite being a grown ass man. you're a slut who despite her best whoring efforts—can't cum. you'll take his v-card and he'll fix your broken pussy, deal? ⏯︎︎ plays: 13.3k

𝐥𝐯𝐥 𝟐: ❝ STICKS N' STONES MAY BREAK MY BONES BUT CHAINS N' WHIPS EXCITE ME! ❞

𖦏 so now that you have a filthy rich boyfie who is completely obsessed with you and has moved you into his house, you're winning, right? or you will be at least— if can survive a trip to the sex dungeon. don't worry it's professionally sanitized after each use! ...what? that's not what you're worried about? oh... ⏯︎︎ plays: lvl in-progress

𝐥𝐯𝐥 𝟑: ❝ AND ALL OF THAT WAS OKAY, CAUSE IT WAS IN A 3-WAY!❞

𖦏 the three of you: you, gojo and geto are like peas in a pod, especially since its summer! and if two of you start f*cking in that pod well its only natural that the third want to join in, right? besides, you both already want to f*ck him. just make sure your current boyfie doesn't get too jealous from how hard you are moaning on your other besties' joystick. your only his ecchi angel, remember? ⏯︎︎ plays: lvl in-progress

𝐥𝐯𝐥 𝟒: ❝ IN THE BEDROOM I BE SCREAMIN', BUT OUTSIDE I KEEP IT QUIET—OR TRY TO AT LEAST!❞

𖦏 you can only keep your relationship underwraps from the rest of your friend group for so long. but you need to ease them into the idea first! although, when there's a yacht party for nanami's bday how is your uber clingy otaku boyfie supposed to keep his hands off of you when you're looking like the most perfect pervy princess in that itty bitty swimsuit? ⏯︎︎ plays: lvl in-progress

𝐥𝐯𝐥 𝟓: ❝ YEAH, HE MY MAN, HE WAS NEVER YO TYPE! ❞

𖦏 school is back! thankfully you somehow manage to instill some kind of decency into your otaku boyfie over the summer so he can come across as normal enough to make his own friends. but did you do too good of a job? wait, he actually has a lil rizz now? you mean you aren't the only girl attracted to him anymore... hol'up! ⏯︎︎ plays: lvl in-progress

𝐥𝐯𝐥 𝟔: ❝ MOVE IT UP, DOWN, LEFT, RIGHT, OH—SWITCH IT UP LIKE NINTENDO! ❞

𖦏 hey, when did you become freaker than your otaku boyfie? so he caught you touching yourself to his femdom p0rn when he came back early from a business trip? yikes! now he wants to try it out with you? don't worry you will do a great job training your new play puppy boyfie! ⏯︎︎ plays: lvl in-progress

⏯︎︎ 𝐃𝐋𝐂:

𝐛𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐥𝐯𝐥 𝐧𝐧𝐧: ❝PU$$Y GOT MORE M⛧RDERS THAN SHIBUYA.ᐟ❞

𖦏 your loser otaku boyfie wants to take you to an anime convention and enter a couple's cosplay contest. you agree on one condition, he has to participate in No Nut November. Fair trade right? What could go wrong? ⏯︎︎ plays: 5079

⏯︎︎ 𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐒:

𖦏 soundtrack: [ x ] 𖦏 moodboards: [ lvl 1 ] 𖦏 amazing art by amazing readers: [ x ] 𖦏 faq/thirsts: [ x ]

©𝐛𝐥𝐤𝐤𝐢𝐳𝐳𝐚𝐭 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒. 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 𝐨𝐫 𝐠𝐟𝐱, 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞.︎︎

[twstedfreak]

Silent Serenades Masterlist

♔ Part One ♔ Part Two ♔ Part Three ♔ Part Four ♔ Part Five ♔ Part Six ♔ Part Seven ♔ Part Eight ♔ Part Nine ♔ Part Ten ♔ Part Eleven ♔ Part Twelve ♔ Part Thirteen ♔ Part Fourteen ♔ Part Fifteen ♔ Part Sixteen (Final) ♔

Alt chapter six

♔ Pairings: Satoru Gojo x you - Satoru Gojo x mistresses, Nanami x you, It's messy and will get messier- MAIN pair is Gojo x reader

♔ Warnings: Sex, infidelity, mentions of past self harm, panic attacks, disordered eating, emotional damage like a mf, emotional abuse, physical abuse, cheating on both ends, cruelty from Duke Gojo. OOC. ANGST, explicit sex, horny ass masquerades, regency era but make it wild, toxic relationships, arranged marriage, SLOW BURN enemies to lovers. Toxic MC (she makes bad decisions lol) Love triangle w/Nanami Gojo is TERRIBLE at first, you're warned- Happy ever after- angst with a good ending <3

♔ Word count 152k FINISHED

♔ Summary: you are the diamond of the season, he is the charming Duke, it’s the marriage of the decade. Prominent families joining, and it so happens that Duke Gojo is gorgeous. But, he doesn't want you at all, leaving you a crying mess on your wedding night, alone. Now you're trapped in a loveless arranged marriage that destroys you from within. Royal AU, Cruel Duke Gojo x reader. OOC Set in 1800s England. Gojo is awful in this. You'll hate Satoru, warning you now. HEAVY angst Basically- Gojo is a royal dick and doesn't wanna marry you

Playlist:

Moodboard for our reader:

Reader inspired art here - Buy me a Coffee ☕️ - Masterlist

Ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58976983/chapters/150345196

[twstedfreak]

I’M TIRED OF SMUT, I WANT TOOTH ACHING FLUFF AND HEART SHATTERING ANGST.

[twstedfreak]

Why They Would Cheat On You

Gojo

He got bored. Of course, you were never just a toy to him. Having been friends for a while, he truly enjoyed your company more than you’ll ever know. You’d gone through a lot together, had each other’s backs more than times than he could count, and you understood him better than anyone. He owed you a lot. Perhaps that was why he didn’t reject you when you finally confessed your feelings, why he let it go on for so long, and why he didn’t realise that what he felt for you wasn’t love but, rather, loyalty. 

She wasn’t anyone special, just a girl he thought was cute. So was the other girl, and the one after her. They were all cute. Nice enough, too. It was never an ego thing, he thinks, but it was nice to have people look at him like he’s a god, rather than just, ‘Toru who’s late to the date because he was off saving people. Again.’ Or ‘Toru who doesn’t text for days because he forgot about your existence, since, you know, he’s saving people. Again.’ 

You asked him, ‘Why? Why would you do this to me?’, when you found out. There was a calmness to your voice and it was so familiar, his lip twitched. He never wanted to hurt you but surely you knew that it was never going to be a forever thing, that just wasn't how things worked in your world.

Having no answer he could give you, he instead offered to stay as friends. You were appalled. He could tell when you did that eyebrow twitch you always did. It was cute. You tried to slap him. His infinity was up. And both of you went your separate ways, wondering how long it had been like that.

Geto

He no longer needed you. You were a resourceful person; he respected that. Loyal, intelligent, strong, you were everything he needed to start his mission. Unfortunately, your loyalty came with strings – you wanted love. Needed it. And well, he wasn’t exactly opposed. You weren't terrible company and he did enjoy his time with you. Long walks, light chatter, a warm body, obedient pet, it was all perfect… until you eventually grew complacent, started taking on roles far exceeding your rank simply because you thought your connection with him equated to a partnership, and dared mutter some useless thing about abandoning your posts together to live a quiet life. 

You didn’t understand. 

She did, though. She never reached out first, always waited for his time, his approval, and prioritised the work over everything else. It was all he wanted: someone who shared his vision and could appreciate the future he’s trying to build. 

You caught them in the act and he did resent the tackiness of it all — it wasn't his style and was so far beneath him. But you had to find out eventually, he supposed. When you left wordlessly, he moved her in faster than you could even pack your things up.

He never thought about you again, not until you were there on the battlefield, on the other side of things. Kind smile was met with a sneer and he didn’t blame you, not even in his final moments.

Choso

He liked the attention. At first, he was so happy you were attracted to him and that you wanted to go on a date. Ecstatic even. Having you as his girlfriend was fun! He had someone who shared his interests, who was patient and understanding. You were sweet and kind too.

But then it stopped being fun. You’d nag him to clean up after himself, tell him he shouldn’t eat this and that, that he should hang out with his brother less because that’s all he did and you missed him. He didn't understand why you did since you lived together, though he didn’t dare argue that. Being a boyfriend was a lot of work; it was like he was doing everything wrong. You wanted flowers but you didn't want to have to ask so how was he supposed to know when to get you flowers?

You wanted space when you were down but then you'd get mad at him if he didn't chase after you. He had to guess what you wanted for lunch every single time when he just wanted to eat. It was tiring.

She was your best friend. She always gave him so many compliments, looked at him like everything he said and did was so interesting, so funny, whereas you didn't have that spark in your eyes anymore. You only thought about the laundry, the mortgage, and the cost of the things you used to like. It was nice to be understood – she had your qualities but none of your burden.

You didn’t even get angry when you found out. Just told him the lease is under your name so he can find somewhere else to live. It’s odd though that when he turned up to her house, she didn’t answer the door, or his messages. The two of you just disappeared from his life.

Toji

He needed some cash. That thing between you was never serious. You were lonely and he didn’t have a place to live. And man, you took him in faster than everyone else. Guess you were really pent up. For a while, you were managing well – had a steady job, big enough house, and a car. And sure, you nagged him about his bad habits but you always let him get away with nabbing a couple hundred from your wallet, so it was fair game.

Your body ain’t bad either, better than lots of the women he’d slept with, cleaned well too, which was a rarity amongst the people he hung around with. He put up with all the sex, the fixing things up round the house, and all the hand holding and cheesy matching couple fits, or whatever, ‘cause you kept him fed. Yeah, he had it good.

Then, you lost your job and became a real pain in the ass.

She had money.

Pity actually arose in his head when you begged him to stay, to give you some time to figure things out, and promised you’ll do better, give him more than he’s ever had. God, lonely women were pushy. And as much as he’d love to stay in one place, he couldn’t handle how clingy you were. Such a turn off.

Guess he'll have to try his luck elsewhere. Again.

Nanami

He needed to feel like a man again. Your marriage was perfect. A literal fairytale. He’s never been happier and he was doing it all with his dream woman. When did things fall apart, he couldn’t say for sure, but he did know why: you wanted to give him a big family. It was all you wanted, the one thing you thought you needed to give him in exchange for all the love he gave you.

The doctors told you it just wasn’t going to happen and you were so stuck on the idea of doing it naturally and having your very own children that you didn’t listen to any of the times he vowed you were more than enough. Sex was planned around your ovulation period. You didn’t touch him outside of that, shrugging him off when he’d lay kisses on your shoulder or cheeks. When you did have sex, you weren’t even there, just counting down the seconds until he could cum inside you. You wouldn’t even bother taking off your clothes, much less foreplay. It was like he was making love to a corpse. 

She was warm, young, alive. He never thought the new associate would take an interest in an older, more worn down man like him, but she flirted like the ring wasn’t on his finger, and eventually, he did stop wearing it; she didn’t like the feel of it on her skin. 

You were distraught when you found out, clinging to yourself and sobbing. You repeated, again and again, ‘I knew it. I knew it.’

Like a switch had been flicked, he begged for you to forgive him, promising that he’ll do better, that it’ll never happen again, but the damage had been done. Leaving your ring with him, you went away, last he heard, to your hometown, rekindled some lost thing with someone you once knew. You never did have any children.

And he never remarried.

Sukuna

He never promised otherwise. For a human, you were actually interesting, or rather, he found you interesting. All the things you showed him made him feel things, things he never got to experience and never saw the value in doing before. That was probably what he liked so much about you – your ability to entertain. And he thought for as long as you fulfilled your purpose as his new object of interest, he’d be satisfied living a quiet life, but all humans do is disappoint. And change. Soon, you were lecturing him about the sanctity of life, admonishing him for being cruel, scolding him like a child. Fuck, humans are annoying. One day, when he had killed someone you were close to, he tried to explain that they deserved it, that their spirit reeked of ill-intentions but you flinched. 

She didn’t. In fact, the filthy little thing liked the things he did to her, even wanted him to go further. Now, that was entertaining. He didn’t even realise how bored he was getting with all the ‘make love’ bullshit you spewed; going slow was never his style. Neither was vanilla missionary with all the fucking eye contact. She never looked at him with disappointment every time he acted out, not even when blood reached her shoes, or when she was covered in it. 

None of the women who’d offer themselves up to him did. 

So, when you found out and that was all that filled your eyes, the sight took him aback, just as your cries did. He didn’t ask you to stay but he thought, in that one moment you hesitated, that maybe you expected him to.

Pathetic.

[twstedfreak]

a guide to ditching the world’s most persistent nerd!

CH03 – you can't flirt your way out of protein deficiency

pairing - nerd!gojo x baddie!reader

summary : gojo satoru has been the bane of your existence since kindergarten. you invited him to play during recess? he chose studying instead. you tried to give him chocolates? he rejected them for the sake of your dental health. you called him boring and never looked back.

years later, you’re a party girl with daddy issues, and he's the smartest, richest, greenest green flag at your elite university. when you're paired up for a project worth 60% of your final grade, you think you can slack off—except gojo keeps finding you at every exclusive club, dragging you back to work like the menace he is.

you flirt to distract him, he humors you. you push, he pulls. you seduce, he tucks your hair behind your ear and looks at you like you're the most precious thing in the world.

oh no.

tags -> modern au, university au, tooth rooting fluff with a side of light angst, unresolved romantic tension, suggestive themes, gojo satoru is a green flag menace, reader has issues, power struggles but gojo is unaware he's in one, forced proximity via group project, reader tries to ditch gojo satoru and fails spectacularly, pining disguised as irritation, rich kids and their rich kid problems, the art of denial, humor (i hope), eventual happy ending

previous | series masterlist | playlist | next

chapter summary : step three in ditching the world's most persistent nerd : do not wake up in gojo satoru’s condo. do not let him steal your custom-made designer heels. and absolutely do not, under any circumstances, let him blackmail you with breakfast.

the pillow collides with satoru’s face with a satisfying thud, muffling his startled inhale. for a moment, he remains perfectly still, as if processing the sheer audacity of your assault. then, slow and deliberate, he peels the pillow away, adjusting his glasses with unhurried precision before leveling you with a heavy, unimpressed stare. sunlight filters through the windows, casting sharp edges across his cheekbones, his messy white hair catching the morning light like spun sugar. meanwhile, you are already smoothing the sheets, fingers lazily combing through your hair, entirely unbothered by your own violence. if anything, you look like the picture of elegance, stretching out against the expensive cotton sheets like a pampered house cat.

satoru exhales—not a sigh of frustration, but something closer to amusement, something too composed to be truly exasperated. “good morning to you too, princess.” his voice is dry, lightly teasing, but entirely unshaken, as if being assaulted first thing in the morning is just another tuesday. you narrow your eyes at him, suspicion curling in your chest, irritation already simmering beneath your skin. “i swear if you pulled anything—” your tone is accusatory, sharp, but he only raises a brow, the barest trace of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “you drooled on my notes,” he deadpans, “if anything, i’m the victim here.”

silence. long. seething. you refuse to acknowledge that piece of information. instead, you inhale, tilting your head as if the past five seconds of conversation never happened.

you shift, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed, only to realize something is missing. a second passes, then another, before it clicks. your heels. your very expensive, very limited-edition, custom-made heels with your initials engraved inside. your stomach twists. your eyes flicker to satoru, sharp with suspicion, and you feel it immediately—the way he knows you’ve figured it out. “…where are my heels?”

satoru takes an obnoxiously slow sip of his milk, because of course he drinks milk—because coffee is too bitter for his celestial tongue. he exhales, gaze flicking toward you, and—without a single ounce of remorse—says, “confiscated.”

your mouth falls open. you blink. “excuse me?”

he hums, completely at ease, swirling the milk in his glass like it’s aged wine. “can’t have you running off before breakfast.”

breakfast? he’s delusional.

you immediately push the blankets aside, scanning the room in a frenzy. where the hell did he put them? you check under the bed, inside the closet, even peek into the ensuite bathroom, but they are nowhere to be found. behind you, satoru leans lazily against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching your efforts with the deepest amusement. “you can look for them,” he muses, voice rich with smug satisfaction. “but statistically speaking, you’ll give up before you actually find them.”

you clench your jaw, seething. statistically speaking, i am going to strangle you.

straightening, you cross your arms, eyes burning into him. “satoru, it’s saturday. you have to let me go.”

he tilts his head, expression unbothered. “do i?”

“yes!” you throw your hands up. “we’re not in class, i have no obligations, and you have no reason to keep me here.”

he hums, feigning thoughtfulness. “mm. incorrect.”

your brows furrow. “incorrect?”

his gaze sharpens, and something in his tone shifts—soft, but steady. “it’s not about keeping you here,” he says, voice smooth, deliberate. he takes another sip of his drink, placing the glass down with a quiet clink. “it’s about preventing you from running off to make another irresponsible decision.”

your arms tighten around yourself. your nails dig into your skin. “what irresponsible decision?”

he lifts a single finger, all patience, all calculation. “the one where you ignore our project, go out drinking, and pretend like the deadline doesn’t exist.”

your nostrils flare. “i wasn’t—”

his second finger goes up. “the one where you text me at two a.m. saying ‘i’ll make up for it, pinky promise’ and then disappear for another twenty-four hours.”

your mouth opens, then closes.

his third finger lifts. “the one where—”

“okay!” you snap, hands flying up in frustration. “i get it.”

he smiles then, all smug victory and soft amusement, sipping his stupid milk. “thought so.”

whatever. if you’re going to be stuck here, you might as well be comfortable. your dress is tight, your patience is thin, and gojo satoru is still standing there, too smug for someone who just kidnapped you over a stupid project. you exhale, tilting your head as if this entire situation isn’t already ridiculous. “at least let me change before you start your villain monologue.” he hums, unsurprised, already reaching for something. with an infuriating lack of effort, he tosses a neatly folded pile of clothes onto the bed, not even looking as they land perfectly in place.

you narrow your eyes, picking up the fabric like it’s personally offended you. oversized sweatpants, a soft cotton t-shirt—his clothes. obviously. your fingers smooth over the material, taking in how annoyingly soft they are, how they probably cost an obscene amount despite being so plain. gojo watches you with lazy amusement, arms crossed, waiting. “don’t flatter yourself,” he smirks. “they’re just extras.”

you scoff, holding the shirt between two fingers. “you expect me to wear this?” the fabric is light, draping between your hands like it was made to be comfortable. he shrugs, unbothered, like he hasn’t trapped you in his condo. “unless you wanna walk around in that tiny dress all morning.” you inhale sharply, hating that he has a point, hating that you agree. without another word, you snatch the clothes and turn on your heel. “where’s the bathroom?”

he gestures lazily down the hall. “take your time. i’ll be making breakfast.”

perfect. time to find your damn shoes.

the second you step out of the bathroom, fresh clothes hanging loosely around you, you’re focused. satoru is too relaxed, too confident, which means your heels are hidden somewhere close. you watch him carefully, studying the way he moves around the kitchen, looking for any subconscious tells. does he glance toward a certain cabinet? does he tense when you walk too close to a particular area? he’s sharp, but so are you when you wanted to be.

casually, you wander through the condo, trailing your fingers along the furniture as if admiring the interior. you open a drawer. satoru doesn’t react. you walk past the living room. nothing. but the second you get too close to the coat closet—his grip on the spatula twitches. your heart leaps. got him.

nonchalantly, you inch toward the closet, watching him carefully. his jaw ticks, just slightly, as you place a hand on the door handle. then—swiftly—you throw it open. jackpot. perched neatly on the top shelf, your heels gleam under the soft lighting, practically mocking you. you reach up, fingers brushing the leather but then—

“ah, ah, ah.”

an arm snakes around your waist, pulling you back before you can grab them. warm, steady, effortless. your breath catches for half a second before you twist in his hold, eyes burning into his smirking face. “bold move, princess,” he murmurs, voice rich with amusement.

you struggle, pushing at his chest. “let me go.”

“mmm, no.” he kicks the closet door shut with his foot, still holding you in place, like he isn’t taking any of this seriously. “gotta admire your dedication, though. i almost let you have it.”

“almost?” you glare, seething. “you were this close to losing, gojo.”

he chuckles, releasing you—but only so he can reach up and grab your heels himself, lifting them with ease. you watch, horrified, as he dangles them just out of reach, like a goddamn villain. “what was that about me losing?” he muses, smirking.

you grind your teeth, so close to committing a felony.

and then, before you can lunge for them, he tosses them onto the highest shelf, where even your most expensive stilettos can’t help you now.

“better luck next time,” he winks, already walking back to the kitchen.

you hate him.

statistically speaking, you are going to commit a crime.

the plate lands in front of you with an air of finality, accompanied by satoru’s insufferable smirk. he leans back, arms crossed, watching you with the quiet satisfaction of a man who knows he’s about to be annoying. steam curls from the freshly prepared food, filling the kitchen with the kind of rich, savory aroma that should be appetizing. but instead of appreciation, you only narrow your eyes at the dish, taking in the suspiciously nutrient-dense arrangement. the omelet is folded too perfectly, golden edges sealing in the spinach, mushrooms, and cherry tomatoes like some overpriced brunch order. beside it, the whole-grain toast is adorned with smashed avocado, a poached egg, and a pretentious sprinkle of chili flakes, sitting next to a bowl of greek yogurt, granola, and freshly sliced strawberries.

you stare at it like it personally insulted your entire bloodline. after a long, drawn-out pause, you lift your gaze, voice flat. “…why does this look like something from a wellness influencer’s meal prep vlog?” satoru doesn’t even blink. “because it has nutrients.” your lips press together, fingers tapping against the edge of the plate, contemplating violence. “you say that like it’s a threat.” he shrugs, unbothered. “your body probably doesn’t recognize them as food.”

you scoff, tilting your head, fully prepared to dismiss him and his ridiculous health agenda. “why are you even doing this?” he leans against the counter, adjusting his glasses with the same ease he delivers his next words. “logical reasoning. i can’t have you dropping dead or getting sick when we have a project to finish. given your current eating choices at the cafeteria, you’re at risk of becoming a liability.” your brows furrow as he casually lists off the stove evidences of your supposed malnutrition—your tray with a single iced coffee and a single croissant for lunch, multiple days in a row. the overheard joke from some acquaintance claiming you live off champagne, wine, and spite.

you hum, feigning intrigue as you lean forward, propping your chin on your palm, eyes gleaming with amusement. “so you watch me?” you purr, tapping a manicured finger against your cheek. “i didn’t take you for the obsessive type, satoru.” he doesn’t even flinch, simply reaching for his milk—because of course he drinks milk—before replying, “you wear billions yen worth of clothes to school every day.” he takes a slow sip, completely unfazed. “you’re hard to miss.”

your lips curl downward as you cross your arms, glaring at him. you hate him. you hate that he’s right. but most of all, you hate that your stomach growls, traitorous and weak, at the sight of the food. satoru, always prepared, simply sets his glass down and gestures toward the plate. “i’ll leave it here,” he says smoothly, “but you’re not getting your heels back until at least 75% of it is gone.”

your fingers tighten against your arms. “50%.”

satoru doesn’t even blink. “70.”

“60.”

“74.”

you groan, grabbing the fork, already regretting every decision that led you here. the first bite is annoyingly good, the kind of well-balanced meal that tastes fresh in a way your usual diet does not. satoru watches as you grumble through another mouthful, amusement flickering in his gaze like he’s thoroughly enjoying this. you hate him. him with his stupid carrot. him with his stupid perfect family. him with his stupidly delicious breakfast.

you shove the plate away with dramatic flair, as if the very act of finishing a balanced meal has physically wounded you. the scrape of porcelain against the table echoes your irritation, your chin tilting upward in defiance. satoru, completely unbothered, lifts his cup with an infuriating smirk. he takes a slow sip, stretching out the silence between you like he’s savoring this exact moment. “there. happy now?” you huff, extending your hand expectantly, fingers curling. “great. now give me my shoes.”

satoru hums, head tilting, eyes glinting with something far too thoughtful for your liking. the pause is just long enough to make your stomach twist, a telltale sign that he is about to be insufferable. finally, with a lazy shrug, he exhales. “hmm. nah.” you blink. “gojo.” his smirk widens, and you know—you know—this is going to be a battle.

“look, princess, i did the work last night,” he says smoothly, setting down his milk with a soft clink. “you owe me at least a couple more hours of focus.” the way he says it—calm, reasonable, completely unshaken—only fuels the fire burning beneath your skin. you open your mouth to argue, to tell him he owes you for this entire ordeal, for stealing your shoes, for ruining your Saturday. instead, he slides something across the floor toward you, the sound soft against the polished wood. cotton slippers.

you stare at them. then at him. then back at them.

oh. oh, so this is war.

your fingers twitch, nails pressing into your palms as you wordlessly slip your feet into the slippers. no reaction. no visible irritation. he wants a fight? fine. you storm toward the door, posture sharp, head high, fully prepared to make the most dramatic exit of your life—until something catches your eye.

you freeze.

the full-length mirror by the doorway reflects a horrifying truth. oversized t-shirt. baggy sweatpants. cotton slippers.

oh. oh, hell no.

your breath catches in your throat, a slow, creeping horror settling in your stomach. there is no reality where you let anyone see you like this. your heels—custom, initials engraved inside—are the only way you are leaving this condo with your dignity intact. your fingers clench at your sides, jaw locking as you inhale through your nose.

retreat is the only option.

the study is set up like a war room, everything meticulously arranged—his laptop open, notes stacked neatly, a fresh glass of milk still steaming beside him. satoru settles into his chair with practiced ease, fingers already moving over the keyboard like he was born to do this. you, on the other hand, drag your feet, slumping into the seat across from him like you’re being held hostage. which, technically, you are. you sigh—long, exaggerated, a pointed display of suffering. three minutes pass before you do it again, just to be insufferable.

satoru doesn’t even glance up. “you sigh that dramatically again, and i’m charging you per exhale.” you shoot him a glare, arms crossing as you sink deeper into your chair. he remains unbothered, typing away, his attention focused entirely on the screen in front of him. the case study sits between you like a physical barrier, detailing how high-end brands manipulate exclusivity to maximize profits. for once, he is the one completely immersed in work, and you are the one plotting something else entirely.

he’s too focused. too comfortable. you need him distracted. so, as he types, you lean forward—slow, deliberate—elbows resting against the table, chin propped in your palm. your movements are fluid, effortless, the kind of ease that comes with knowing exactly what effect you have on people. “you know, satoru…” your voice is honeyed, smooth, the kind of tone that makes men listen.

he doesn’t stop typing, but you see it—the brief flick of his eyes, the way his fingers hesitate, just for a second. “no,” he hums, still focused. “but i have a feeling you’re about to tell me.”

your smile curves slow, knowing, as you tilt your head just enough to let your hair cascade down one shoulder. “you work so hard,” you murmur, trailing a single finger along the edge of his notebook. “shouldn’t you take a break? relax a little?”

he hums again, as if actually considering it. your breath catches—not from nerves, but from the anticipation of winning. and yet—

“fascinating,” he says instead, voice lower now, laced with quiet amusement. “i seem to recall you saying you’d ‘just sit pretty and get the grade.’”

your lips part slightly before you recover, before you let the smirk return, slow and deliberate. “i could help you relax,” you whisper, voice edged with something dangerous, something inviting.

satoru finally looks up.

and oh, he looks.

not in the way you expect—no fluster, no hint of weakness, just sharp, assessing eyes that take you in entirely. his glasses are missing, leaving nothing to obstruct the clarity of pale blue, framed by thick lashes, unreadable and steady. his hair is slightly tousled, the result of him running his fingers through it absentmindedly, a stark contrast to the crispness of his tailored shirt, sleeves rolled up with casual elegance.

he has always been unfairly good-looking, but this—this—is irritating. because as per the disney movies you watched as a kid—nerds aren’t supposed to look like this. nerds should be awkward and fumbling, stuttering when girls like you flirt with them. they should be socially inept, incapable of handling someone like you.

gojo satoru is none of those things.

he is calculating. meticulous. impossible to throw off balance. and worst of all—he’s looking at you like he already won.

your stomach tightens, and you hate that it does. it’s an involuntary reaction, a betrayal of logic, and yet you feel it—low, insistent, coiling beneath your ribs like something dangerous. satoru hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken, hasn’t done anything except look at you, but somehow, that’s worse. his gaze, sharp even behind the lenses of his reading glasses, is steady and assessing, pale blue cutting through the space between you like a finely honed blade. he isn’t flustered. he isn’t falling for it. he’s just sitting there, adjusting the sleeves of his neatly pressed shirt with the ease of someone who already knows how this will end.

then, finally, his lips curve into a smirk, slow and deliberate, like he’s humoring you. “huh.” a quiet, thoughtful sound, like he’s observing a puzzle in motion, waiting to see if the pieces will fall into place. anticipation curls in your stomach—warmer now, thrumming—because you recognize this game, have played it before, have won before. but just as you settle into that confidence, just as you prepare to push further, he shifts. a subtle tilt of his head, a glance downward through his glasses, a movement so calculated that it makes your breath catch.

and then he leans in.

closer. slow. mirroring your energy perfectly, matching you in a way that makes your pulse stutter. his movements are effortless, precise, not the hesitant reaction of someone caught off guard, but the deliberate advance of someone fully in control. his breath is warm against your skin, a ghost of heat, and for the first time tonight, you feel the weight of his presence like something tangible. framed by his reading glasses, his gaze flickers down, cool and unreadable, his expression impossible to decipher. he is closer than he should be, closer than you expected, and the moment stretches between you, stretched thin, electric—

then, voice dipping lower, teasing, “tell me—what’s the ROI of this strategy?”

you blink.

“…what.”

he leans back, smooth, unbothered, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as if that’s all this was. his hands return to his notes, fingers tapping idly against the paper, focus shifting like you hadn’t just offered yourself up to be indulged. “return on investment,” he repeats, tone bordering on conversational, as if this is a casual business discussion and not an outright reversal of power. “if i stop working to entertain you, what’s the profit margin?”

your lips shut at that.

but you are nothing if not determined.

so, as satoru turns his attention back to setting up the presentation slides, fingers skimming across the keyboard, you shift slightly in your seat, stretching out one bare leg beneath the table. it’s lazy, absentminded—except it isn’t. the movement is slow, deliberate, just enough to brush your foot against his calf, a soft touch, fleeting, barely there. his fingers pause over the keys for the briefest second, hesitation so minuscule that most wouldn’t notice. but you do.

he doesn’t react.

your lips curve, pressing a little more, your foot nudging against the muscle of his leg, lingering warmth against fabric. you hum, voice dipping lower, amusement threading through your words. “you know…” the suggestion is light, teasing, edged with something playful, something calculated. “this project would be so much more fun if we loosened up a little.” your touch lingers, slow and patient, waiting for the inevitable reaction, waiting for the shift in his composure.

satoru finally looks at you again.

except—this time, his gaze sharpens.

your breath catches, but you keep your smirk, waiting, expecting something—a quip, a flustered look, a flicker of something to prove that this is working. then—without breaking eye contact—his hand moves. fingers grazing over your ankle, warm, steady, barely a whisper of touch. your pulse skips, anticipation curling at the base of your spine.

then, effortlessly, gently—he lifts your foot, his fingers skimming over the curve of your ankle, warm and deliberate. the touch is barely there, almost reverent, like he’s handling something fragile, something worth preserving. your breath catches, pulse tightening in anticipation, but he doesn’t waver—doesn’t hesitate—as he guides your foot downward. soft fabric brushes against your skin, unwelcome, final. and before the weight of the moment can settle, before you can even think to react—he pats your ankle.

twice.

it is the kind of gesture meant for small children, for sleepy kittens curled up in their beds, for something harmless—something lesser. like a parent indulging a tantrum. like you were never playing the same game to begin with.

and then, just like that, he returns to his keyboard, his attention already elsewhere.

you gape.

he did not just do that.

“you’re predictable.”

satoru's voice is calm, absentminded, like he’s merely making an observation. like he has already moved on from whatever game you thought you were playing.

silence. absolute, deafening silence.

heat prickles at the back of your neck, irritation creeping up your spine like a slow-moving fire. this isn’t new. it’s never been new. he’s done this before—stolen the upper hand, outmaneuvered you, made you feel small without even trying. when you were five, chocolates cradled in your hands, heart wide open—only to be met with rejection. when you were fifteen, watching him sit there, perfect, untouched by the kind of ruin that had hollowed you out. it has been years of this, and now, here you are, again.

but this time—this time, you thought you had him. and yet, there he sits, completely unfazed, as if you never stood a chance. your nails dig into your palms, jaw locking, frustration bubbling up before you can stop it. in the game of seducing countless of nameless idiots who call themselves men, you have been winning, effortlessly. and for the first time in a long, long time—you lost.

and you hate it. hate that he saw through you so easily. hate that he dismissed you so effortlessly. hate that he’s right.

so you do the only thing you can do—you tilt your chin up, smooth down your shirt, and pretend like it doesn’t bother you.

(it does. it really, really does.)

you sulk as you scribble down numbers, barely sparing them a glance, not even pretending to check your work. bored, you start reading over satoru’s shoulder, eyes skimming across the words on the screen as his fingers move over the keyboard. at first, you’re only half-paying attention, your chin propped up in your palm, counting the seconds until you can leave. but then—something catches. a tiny inconsistency, a missing link between numbers and reality, something he should have accounted for. your frown deepens, and before you can stop yourself, the words slip out. “…wait.”

he doesn’t stop typing, but his head tilts slightly, acknowledging you. “hm?”

your hand gestures vaguely at the screen, brows furrowing. “you missed something.” that finally gets him to pause, his fingers hovering over the keys. your eyes flicker over the data again, mentally sorting through the logic. “your numbers are right, but this doesn’t account for social perception. brands don’t just limit supply to make something rare—they manufacture desire.”

he exhales, slow, thoughtful. “…elaborate.”

you tilt your head, considering how best to phrase it, tracing a pattern against the wood of his desk with your finger. “luxury brands aren’t just selling exclusivity,” you murmur, the thought coming together as you speak. “they sell identity. people want what they think will make them feel important. it’s not about who can afford it—it’s about who wants to be seen affording it.”

satoru stills.

it’s subtle—the way his fingers stop moving, the way the air between you seems to shift. when he finally turns to look at you, his usual lazy amusement is gone, replaced by something sharper. it’s the first time you’ve seen him really listen, really assess you like you’re more than just a puzzle he’s already solved.

“…huh.”

your brows pull together. “what?”

his gaze flickers over you, unreadable. “nothing. just… didn’t expect you to actually think about this.”

your lips curl, chin tilting slightly. “surprised i have a brain?”

he exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “nah. just amused you actually use it.”

your hand moves before you think, launching a pen straight at his head.

he dodges, of course—leaning slightly to the side without even looking up, still grinning. “that was uncalled for.”

“so is your entire existence.”

he smirks, tapping his fingers against the desk, but there’s something else beneath it—interest, still lingering in his gaze. “tell me more.”

you blink. “…what?”

he gestures toward the screen, expectant. “the whole ‘manufacturing desire’ thing. break it down.”

your eyes narrow, skeptical. “…why?”

he leans back in his chair, arms crossing as he watches you. “because it makes sense. and you clearly have thoughts on it.”

you hesitate. there’s no teasing lilt in his voice, no smug challenge—just a casual statement, an easy invitation to keep going. and for a brief second, something flickers in your chest—something foreign, something unsettling, something dangerously close to satisfaction. because satoru gojo, for once, is actually listening to you.

you should be smug about it. should be flipping your hair, rolling your eyes, brushing it off like his sudden interest doesn’t get under your skin. but instead, you just stare at him, momentarily thrown off by the simple fact that this is is new.

so you scoff, tilting your head, voice deliberately light. “wow. gojo satoru, actually listening to someone else? historic.”

he just grins, spinning his pen between his fingers. “nah. just enjoying the novelty of you saying something that isn’t complete nonsense.”

there it is. the irritation you needed to shove away that strange feeling in your chest.

you huff, grabbing crumpling a sticky note and tossing it at his head. “never mind. i take it back. go back to being insufferable.”

satoru dodges again, still smirking. “too late. tell me more.”

you almost do. almost get caught up in the fact that he wants to hear what you have to say, that he’s watching you like you actually matter. but then reality settles in—the project still unfinished, your actual shoes still out of reach, and the longer you entertain this, the longer you’re stuck here, in his oversized clothes, in his stupid cotton slippers, playing his stupid game.

your lips press into a thin line. focus.

with a dramatic sigh, you stretch out your arms, feigning disinterest. “whatever. let’s just finish this so i can get my heels and leave.”

he smirks, tapping his pen against the desk. “wow. didn’t think you’d be the one saying that.”

you roll your eyes, already reaching for the keyboard. “shut up and pull up the market segmentation reports.”

satoru huffs a quiet laugh but complies, spinning his laptop around. “yes, ma’am.”

afternoon sunlight spills through the windows, stretching long shadows across the study. the air is thick with the remnants of concentration, the quiet hum of progress settling between you. the introduction is done—barely, but enough to count—so when satoru pushes back his chair and stretches, you barely glance up. when he leaves the room, you assume it’s to grab another glass of milk or some other infuriatingly wholesome thing. but when he returns, something gleams in his hand, catching the light.

“here.”

your head snaps up. your heels. your very expensive, custom-made, long-suffering stilettos, finally returned to you. you don’t waste a second—snatching them from his grasp and shoving them onto your feet with the desperation of a woman reclaiming her dignity. the familiar height steadies you, makes you feel normal again, no longer reduced to the soft, pitiful comfort of cotton slippers. before he can say anything else, you grab your dress from the guest room, tossing it over your arm like a war trophy, and stride toward the door without a single glance back.

“alright, thanks for the hospitality, gojo. it’s been terrible.”

you know you look ridiculous—white t-shirt, oversized sweatpants, designer stilettos, party dress draped over your arm like evidence—but you refuse to acknowledge it. if you have to walk through tokyo looking like a scandal waiting to happen just to escape, so be it. commit to the bit. escape with what’s left of your pride. but just as your fingers brush against the doorknob, a hand catches your wrist.

you turn, slow and deliberate, gaze flat, unimpressed. satoru stands there, leaning against the doorway like he has all the time in the world, arms crossed, posture relaxed in that effortlessly smug way that makes you want to throw something at his head. his expression is unreadable, but his presence alone is an obstacle, another roadblock standing between you and your much-needed exit. his voice is calm, too casual, as he says, “i’ll drive you back.” there’s no inflection, no hesitation—just a simple statement, as if it’s already decided.

you hum, tilting your head, considering him for a moment before your lips curve. “aw, can’t bear to let me go yet?” the teasing lilt in your voice is light, effortless, a carefully crafted trap—but he doesn’t bite. doesn’t roll his eyes, doesn’t scoff, doesn’t even give you the satisfaction of a reaction. instead, he watches you, expression steady, the corner of his mouth twitching—mildly amused but not enough to give you the upper hand. when he finally speaks, his voice is smooth, completely unaffected. “no.” simple. final.

your pout deepens, purely out of spite, fingers lazily tracing the smooth fabric of your dress draped over your arm. “don’t worry,” you murmur, eyes glinting with mischief. “you’ll see me in your dreams.” it’s meant to be a parting shot, something to fluster him, something to at least chip at his infuriatingly composed exterior. but satoru just exhales through his nose, something close to a laugh—not mocking, but certainly not flustered, either.

he raises a brow, unimpressed, amusement barely concealed behind his glasses. “i’ll see you in class, where you’ll be late, as usual.”

your eye twitches. annoying. so annoying.

his gaze flickers downward, scanning you, slow and assessing, like he’s only now taking in the full absurdity of your situation. then, finally, his lips curve—barely noticeable, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the edges. “you are about to walk around tokyo in a white t-shirt, my sweatpants, and heels—while carrying your skimpy little dress like evidence.”

you don’t react. just stare.

but of course, he isn’t done.

“probability of people assuming you just got kicked out of some guy’s condominium? 86%.”

your jaw clenches.

“probability of old women on the train side-eyeing you in disappointment? 94.3%.”

your eye twitches.

“probability of you running into someone from university and them recognizing the pants as mine? 78%. higher if they have working eyesight.”

deep inhale.

he taps his chin, feigning thoughtfulness, tilting his head slightly as if going over the numbers again. “probability of them taking a picture and posting it on the university forum with a vague, scandalous caption?” he pauses, lips curving ever so slightly. “mmm. 67%.”

you hate him.

you hate that he’s right. hate that he’s always right, that no matter how much you maneuver, no matter how much you scheme, he somehow stays three steps ahead. but more than anything—more than his arrogance, more than his stupidly smug expression—you hate that you now have two options. one: suffer the consequences of your own stubbornness. two: let him win.

so you choose violence instead.

before he can say anything else, you latch onto his arm, syrupy sweet, bright-eyed and deadly. your fingers curl into the fabric of his sleeve, your full weight pressing against him like a clingy girlfriend, voice dripping with feigned resignation. “you’re right, gojo,” you sigh, exhaling dramatically, batting your lashes. “guess i’ll just have to stay by your side, huh?”

his gaze flickers to you, mildly amused, as if you’ve just done something vaguely entertaining but ultimately unsurprising.

no blink. no hesitation. no telltale crack in composure—just the slow, deliberate way his eyes skim over you, unreadable, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t even seem remotely affected, only watching you with a kind of detached curiosity, like he’s waiting to see what else you’ll try. then, with infuriating ease, he lifts a hand, adjusts his glasses, and exhales—slow, bored, utterly unshaken. “guess so.”

and then—without a single pause, without even acknowledging your grip—he starts walking.

your brain short-circuits.

your heels dig into the floor, fingers tightening around his sleeve, gaping. this was not the plan. he was supposed to freeze, to stammer, to at least acknowledge what you were doing. instead, he just keeps moving, unbothered, uninterrupted, dragging you along with the same level of concern one might have for a shopping bag hooked around their wrist.

“…you were supposed to be flustered.”

he shrugs, effortless, not even sparing you a glance. “try harder.”

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[twstedfreak]

love comes in small sizes

chapter one : fatherhood dlc unlocked!

pairing – ex situationship gojo x fem reader

summary : you and satoru have always been something—never labeled, never defined. from jujutsu high to stolen rooftop kisses, your dynamic is a mess of healing hands, half-confessions, and his infuriating habit of getting hurt just to keep your attention.

but when the weight of loss and pride tears you apart, you walk away—until fate (and a tiny, pink-backpack-wearing menace) drags you back into his orbit six years later.

tags –> canon divergence au, fluff, angst, humor, hurt/comfort, unlabeled relationship, grovelling satoru, secret child trope, reunions, miscommunications, second chances, happy ending for my own sanity

series masterlist. | collection m.list | next.

you and satoru gojo have always been something.

it’s just never been labeled.

from the moment you met at jujutsu high, he’s been a persistent force in your life—loud, overbearing, impossible to ignore. he pokes and prods, worms his way under your skin, grinning all the while like he knows exactly what he’s doing. and maybe he does. because despite your best efforts, despite the way you roll your eyes when he drapes himself over you or tugs at your sleeves like a child craving attention, you never really push him away.

it’s not just him, though.

because when he gets himself banged up on missions—when he returns with blood crusted at the edges of his uniform, bruises forming along his jaw, the scent of battle clinging to his skin—you’re always the first to reach for him. your hands glow with soft, golden light, the warmth of your cursed energy threading into his wounds, coaxing his body to knit itself back together. petals flicker at your fingertips, dissolving into faint sparks of vitality as you work, the remnants of your technique blooming in the air between you.

“you’re reckless!” you snap one evening, pressing your palm firmly against his shoulder where a deep gash is slowly knitting itself back together under your touch. his uniform is torn, the edges stiff with dried blood, and you can feel the way his muscles twitch beneath your fingers, still tense from the battle. “you always do this. you push yourself too far, like you think you’re invincible—”

“well,” satoru interrupts, flashing a toothy grin, his glasses pushed up just enough to reveal the brilliant blue of his eyes, “i kind of am.”

his voice is light, teasing, but you can feel the way he’s watching you—closely, carefully, like he’s waiting for something. the smirk he wears is easy, practiced, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, not when he’s tilting his head just slightly to the side, pressing into your touch like it’s the only thing anchoring him. and you hate that it works, that even now, even with blood still drying against his skin, he makes you want to soften. you press your fingers harder against his wound instead, ignoring the way he winces.

“not funny,” suguru chimes in from across the room, his voice steady, edged with something like exasperation. he’s lounging on the couch, flipping through a magazine like he’s only half-listening, but you know better—he’s watching, just like you are, waiting for satoru to take this seriously. “she’s right, you know. if you keep acting like you can’t get hurt, one day you will.”

“oh, come on,” satoru groans, tilting his head back against your lap dramatically, the weight of him pressing against your legs. his hair, messy from the fight, falls over his forehead in uneven strands, white against the deep red of his uniform. “not you too.”

shoko, sitting cross-legged on the floor, exhales a slow stream of smoke from her cigarette, her eyes lidded with fatigue. “they’re not wrong,” she mutters, flicking her gaze toward you. there’s something knowing in the way she looks at you, something amused. “you’re enabling him, you know.”

you scoff, fingers glowing faintly as the last of his wound seals shut beneath your touch. the golden light of your cursed technique flickers briefly, petals of energy curling along his skin before fading. “i am not enabling him,” you argue, shaking your head. “i’m keeping him alive.”

“see?” satoru grins, nudging your thigh with the back of his hand, the warmth of his skin bleeding through the fabric of your pants. “she cares about me.”

shoko scoffs. “no one’s arguing that.”

suguru finally glances up, closing his magazine with a quiet thud, something unreadable in his expression. “just don’t let him drag you down with him.”

your fingers still against satoru’s skin for just a fraction of a second, your breath catching in your throat before you shake your head, forcing yourself to keep moving. “as if.”

but suguru just hums, unconvinced.

and maybe he has a point.

because this is your dynamic: you take care of satoru, and he lets you. you worry, and he pretends there’s nothing to worry about. he teases, you scold, he grins, you sigh. and beneath it all, something quiet lingers, something neither of you are willing to name.

and if he lets himself get wounded just once, just enough for you to heal him—if he lets a single well-timed hit slip past his defenses, allows an enemy to believe, for the briefest moment, that they’ve bested him—well. that’s his secret.

it’s calculated, precise, a game only he knows he’s playing. he times it perfectly, choosing the kind of wound that won’t alarm you too much, won’t make you furious enough to see through him. a shallow cut here, a bruised rib there—just enough to warrant your hands on him, to feel the warmth of your cursed energy bloom against his skin. because no one touches him like you do. no one else can.

you’re careful with him, always, even when you’re mad—especially when you’re mad. your fingers press firmly against his skin, your lips pressed together in concentration, a deep furrow between your brows that he finds himself staring at more often than he should. your cursed energy hums through him, soothing in a way nothing else ever is, wrapping around him like petals caught in the wind—delicate, fleeting, something he wants to hold in his hands but knows will slip through his fingers if he grips too tightly.

so he watches you, through half-lidded eyes, through lashes that are a little too long and glasses that slip just slightly down the bridge of his nose. he commits the moment to memory—the feel of you, the way you hover so close but never quite meet his gaze, like looking at him too long will make you realize something you don’t want to. he wants you to realize it. he wants you to notice the way his breathing slows under your touch, the way he always finds a reason to lean just a little closer.

but you never do. or maybe you just pretend not to.

so he lets himself get hurt, just enough. lets himself have this, just for a little while longer. because if a single wound is the price for your hands on him, for the way you fuss and scold and heal him all the same, then—well. that’s a price he’s more than willing to pay.

but then, one summer night, something shifts.

it’s late—too late to be sneaking around campus, but that’s never stopped him before. the air is thick with the lingering warmth of the day, cicadas humming lazily in the distance. the two of you are perched on the roof of the dorms, your legs dangling over the edge, the wind stirring your hair as you watch the city lights flicker beyond the trees. it’s peaceful, or at least it should be, but satoru is shifting beside you, too fidgety, too present, like he’s itching to say something but hasn’t quite figured out how.

“so.” he nudges you with his elbow, his sunglasses pushed up into his hair, silver strands catching in the glow of the moon. his eyes, unshielded, are startlingly bright even in the dim light, a vivid cerulean that traps every flicker of movement like a kaleidoscope. “you like anyone?”

you glance at him, raising an eyebrow, unimpressed. “what?”

he grins, but there’s something a little too deliberate about it, the corner of his mouth curling just so. “you know. anyone in particular? anyone special?”

it’s meant to be casual. lighthearted. but there’s something just beneath the surface, something careful and quiet in the way he’s looking at you. his fingers tap idly against his knee, his posture loose, but you can feel the tension coiled just beneath his skin, like he’s holding his breath.

you hum, pretending to think, tilting your head slightly. “maybe.”

his grin widens, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “yeah?”

“yeah.” you tap your fingers against the edge of the rooftop, the faintest flicker of cursed energy sparking at your touch, like an afterthought. the air shifts, charged with something unspoken, something weightier than the teasing banter you’re used to. “he’s a pain in the ass, though.”

“must be a great guy.” his voice is light, but there’s an edge to it, something strained and expectant.

“oh, he is.” you glance at him out of the corner of your eye, watching the way his jaw tenses just slightly. his lips part like he wants to say something, but no words come. “except he never shuts up.”

“rude.” he gasps, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense, his other hand bracing against the rooftop beside you. he’s closer now, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the faint brush of his knee against yours. “i am a fantastic listener.”

you snort. “sure, satoru.”

but he’s still watching you, still leaning just a little too close, his breath feather-light against your skin. the glow of the city lights flickers in his eyes, catching on the sharp angles of his face, softening the usual mischief in his expression into something quieter, something almost careful. his lips part like he wants to say something, but he hesitates, tongue flicking out to wet them before he closes his mouth again. his fingers twitch against the rooftop, curling and uncurling like he’s resisting the urge to reach for you, like the only thing keeping him still is the weight of whatever he’s holding back.

and then, just as you’re about to look away—

“you know,” he says, voice softer now, like he’s testing the weight of his own words, “if you did like me, i wouldn’t mind.”

your breath catches, the warmth of the night suddenly pressing too close, thick and stifling against your skin. cicadas drone in the distance, but the sound barely registers, drowned out by the rushing in your ears, the quickening of your pulse. the wind stirs your hair, cool against the heat creeping up your neck, but it does nothing to ground you when he’s right there, close enough that you can see the way his lashes flutter, the way his throat bobs as he swallows. the moment stretches, fragile and precarious, balanced on the edge of something neither of you can quite name.

he shrugs, tilting his head like it doesn’t mean anything, like he hasn’t just shifted the entire atmosphere between you. “i think we’d be good together.” the words are light, almost offhand, but his fingers betray him again, tightening into fists against his knees before forcing themselves to relax. his lips twitch at the corners, not quite a smile, not quite a smirk—something caught between expectation and defense, bracing himself for whatever comes next. the confidence in his voice doesn’t match the way his body betrays him, and it hits you then—he’s nervous.

your heartbeat quickens, hammering against your ribs, the weight of his words settling into your chest with something sharp and dizzying. you swallow, throat suddenly dry, fingers pressing against the rooftop like you need something to hold onto. “is that so?” your voice is steadier than you expect, but there’s something uncertain about the way it lingers between you, something questioning, something hopeful.

“yeah.” his gaze doesn’t waver, doesn’t drop, doesn’t shift away like he’s waiting for you to call his bluff. he leans in, just barely, just enough for his knee to brush yours, for his breath to ghost against your cheek, for the air between you to thin into nothing. “it is.” 

he’s waiting. you could push him away, laugh it off like you always do. you could pretend this is just another one of his games.or—

you let the moment stretch, your fingers tightening in your lap, cursed energy sparking faintly against your skin. the world narrows, the sound of the cicadas fading, the city lights blurring at the edges of your vision. and then, before you can second-guess yourself, before you can let yourself hesitate, you lean in, pressing your lips to his.

he makes a small sound of surprise—quickly swallowed by the way he cups your face, the way he kisses you like he’s been waiting forever. his hand slips to the nape of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair, his touch warm and sure. he leans into you, pressing closer, like he wants to drown in the moment, like he wants to lose himself in you.

and maybe he does.

because the next thing you know, he’s pulling you into his lap, arms wrapping around your waist, his grip possessive in a way that makes your breath hitch. his infinity is off, the faint hum of his technique gone, and it’s only then that you realize—he wants this. wants to feel you, every point of contact, every shiver that runs through you as he presses open-mouthed kisses to your jaw, your throat, your collarbone.

“satoru.” you murmur, fingers curling against his chest.

he exhales a shaky laugh, his forehead resting against yours. “just let me have this.” he whispers, and for once, there’s no teasing lilt to his voice. no cocky bravado. just quiet, aching sincerity.

the night stretches on, the cicadas singing their endless summer song, and somewhere between the tangled sheets and the soft, breathless laughter, you think—maybe he’s been waiting for you, too.

after that night, everything changes.

not all at once—at first, it’s subtle. the way satoru lingers a little too long when he passes you in the hallways, his fingers ghosting against your wrist before he pulls away like it never happened. the way he leans in when you speak, as if he needs to hear every single word, as if your voice is something he can’t go without. the way his gaze finds you in a crowded room, even when you’re not looking back, even when you pretend you don’t feel it burning into your skin.

but then, it happens again.

it happens when he grabs your wrist after training, dragging you away before you can protest, his grip loose but insistent. “come on, let’s go. training is boring, and it’s not like you need it—you already have a god-given talent. or, well, a you-given talent, i guess.” he flashes that insufferable grin, the one that makes it impossible to say no, the one that makes it feel like you’re the only one who matters. his thumb brushes over the inside of your wrist before he lets go, like he’s reluctant to lose the contact. like he’s testing a boundary neither of you are willing to acknowledge.

it happens when he shoves a half-melted ice cream into your hands, his own already half-eaten, a smudge of chocolate at the corner of his mouth. “i got your favorite,” he says, like it’s nothing, like he didn’t memorize the exact flavor you picked out the last time. and when you reach out with your thumb, swiping the chocolate away, his mouth closes over your finger without hesitation—lips warm, tongue flickering against your skin, blue eyes watching your reaction like he’s waiting for you to flinch.

but you don’t.

it happens when you end up pressed against the side of a vending machine, his hands braced on either side of you, his breath warm against your cheek. the fluorescent lights flicker, his sunglasses slipping just low enough for you to see his eyes—half-lidded, unreadable, something unspoken resting just behind them. he tilts his head, his lips brushing against yours, not quite a kiss, but close enough that it feels like one. and when you let out a slow, shaky breath, his fingers skim against your waist, trailing up the fabric of your uniform, just light enough to make you shiver.

it happens when he sneaks into your dorm after curfew, flopping onto your bed like he owns it, his hair messy from the wind, the scent of the night still clinging to his clothes. “move over,” he complains, but he’s already pressing against your side, already hooking his chin over your shoulder, already making himself at home in your space like he belongs there. and when you sigh, when you give in, he grins against your skin, his hand slipping beneath the hem of your shirt like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

and then, it just keeps happening.

but it also happens in other ways.

like when you fall asleep in class, forehead pressed against your arm, and you wake up to find his jacket draped over your shoulders, the faintest trace of his scent lingering in the fabric. you don’t mention it, don’t thank him, but the next time he dozes off, you tug your scarf loose and wrap it around his neck, watching the way his lips twitch in something like satisfaction even in sleep.

or when he holds his umbrella over your head instead of his own when it rains, his hair dripping wet, grinning like an idiot when you call him stupid. “what? i have my own built-in defense system,” he teases, tapping his temple like he’s making a point. but he doesn’t turn infinity on, not once, even when the water beads against his skin, soaking through his shirt. even when you huff and tug him under the umbrella properly, even when he bumps his shoulder against yours and murmurs, “see? you do care.”

or when he shoves a handful of candies into your pocket, grinning when you shoot him a confused look. “i know you like these.” he says, voice light, offhanded, like it isn’t something he noticed just from watching you. later, you find a small sticky note tucked between them, a doodle of himself with his tongue sticking out, with tiny scribbled words beneath: for when you miss me. you will.

it’s not a relationship, not exactly. neither of you say anything about it, neither of you try to define it. but there’s a shift between you now, something thick and heavy in the air, something that settles in the pit of your stomach whenever he looks at you like that.

like he’s waiting for you to stop him.

like he knows you won’t.

and when it happens again—when his lips finally, finally press against yours, when his weight settles over you, pinning you down in a way that makes your breath hitch—there’s no hesitation. there’s no teasing remark, no cocky grin, just the warmth of his hands on your skin, just the quiet hum of satisfaction when you pull him closer. he doesn’t turn infinity on, doesn’t keep any distance between you, lets himself feel you completely, like some lovesick idiot. like he wants to remember exactly how this moment feels, how you feel.

shoko notices first.

it’s not even subtle—the way she leans back against the school’s rooftop railing, cigarette dangling from her lips, eyes half-lidded in amusement as she watches you fuss over satoru’s scraped knuckles. he’s practically melting under your touch, his head tilting slightly as if he’s trying to press more into your palm without making it obvious. you’re focused, brows drawn together, lips pursed in mild annoyance at his carelessness, but your hands are gentle, fingers skimming over his skin with practiced ease. his long legs are stretched out in front of him, his glasses perched low on his nose, letting you see the way his bright blue eyes soften when they flicker up to meet yours.

“so, are you two, like… a thing?” shoko asks, lazily exhaling a puff of smoke, watching the way satoru’s mouth twitches at the question.

“no,” you say immediately, your voice firm, but at the same time, satoru hums, “hmm, maybe?”

your head snaps toward him, brows raising in disbelief, while he merely grins like he expected this reaction. his free hand comes up to push his sunglasses up properly, but the motion is slow, languid, like he’s trying to keep his grin hidden behind his palm. shoko lets out a snort, flicking the ash off the tip of her cigarette, unimpressed.

“yeah, okay.”

suguru is quieter about it, but he doesn’t need to say anything. it’s in the way his gaze lingers when satoru drapes himself over you, in the way his lips twitch like he’s holding back a knowing smile whenever you roll your eyes but don’t push satoru away. when satoru unceremoniously drops himself onto your lap one afternoon, long limbs sprawling across the bench, suguru doesn’t comment. he just looks at you, looks at the way your fingers absently thread through satoru’s hair, the way his lashes flutter at the contact, and he knows.

“you’re really serious about her, huh?” suguru muses one evening, when it’s just the two of them on the rooftop, the sky bleeding into shades of deep purple and burnt orange.

satoru scoffs, stuffing his hands into his pockets, but there’s no real bite to it. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

suguru only shrugs, turning his gaze toward the horizon, the wind ruffling his dark hair. “nothing. just wondering.”

but if there’s one thing about suguru, it’s that he doesn’t wonder about things unless he already knows the answer.

still, life goes on. there are missions, there are late-night walks, there are stupid jokes and stolen glances and moments where the world feels like it’s standing still, like it will always be this way. satoru still rests his chin on your shoulder when he’s bored, still tugs on your sleeve when he wants your attention, still lets his infinity down when you touch him. suguru still watches with quiet amusement, still nudges satoru’s foot under the table when he gets too obvious, still exchanges glances with shoko that say this idiot is hopeless. everything feels steady, like nothing could possibly go wrong.

until it does.

until riko amanai dies. until satoru comes back from that mission looking—different.

his presence is still overwhelming, still too much, but there’s something sharp underneath it now, something cold that wasn’t there before. his shoulders are broader, his stance heavier, his hands looser at his sides, like he’s more aware of their power now. he’s grinning, like always, like nothing’s changed, but it doesn’t reach his eyes—not really. the endless blue of them looks deeper now, like a well with no bottom, like something in him has caved in and been swallowed whole. he’s stronger, untouchable, but suddenly, it feels like he’s farther away than he’s ever been.

and worse than that—suguru is slipping.

you feel it before you fully understand it. the way his voice is quieter, the way his patience wears thinner, the way he sighs more often, rubbing a hand over his face like he’s tired in a way that sleep won’t fix. his words become sharper, his glances more distant, and when you reach for him—when you try to hold onto whatever is still left—he only offers you a fleeting smile, a ghost of what it used to be.

one day, you watch satoru and suguru stand side by side, just like always—just like they always have. satoru is saying something, something cocky and arrogant and so typically him, but suguru doesn’t bite back the way he used to. he just listens, nods absently, something unreadable flickering in his expression. and for the first time, it feels like there’s a canyon between them, a chasm that wasn’t there before, widening with every passing second.

you don’t know it yet, but things will never be the same again.

one year passes.

twelve months, fifty-two weeks, three hundred and sixty-five days—each one dragging by in a haze, dissolving into the next like watercolors bleeding together. sometimes, satoru forgets where he is, what day it is, what he was supposed to be doing before his mind wandered again. everything feels muted, muffled, like he’s watching the world through a fogged-up window. time keeps moving, but nothing feels real.

suguru is gone.

satoru barely blinks when it happens. it should feel like something—something bigger, something louder, something that shakes the world the way it shakes his chest. but all he does is sit there, in the quiet aftermath of his best friend’s defection, listening to yaga’s words like they’re coming from underwater. the room is too small, too tight, pressing against the edges of his skin, and yet he’s weightless, floating in some vast nothingness where things don’t really matter. his fingers twitch, restless, aching for something to crush between them, but what’s the point? if he destroys the walls, the floor, the entire goddamn building, it won’t bring suguru back. it won’t change a thing.

he doesn’t remember leaving the room, but suddenly he’s outside, staring at the sky. it’s clear, painfully so, stars scattered across the darkness like someone thought to mock him with how vast it is. the wind tugs at his uniform, cool against his too-warm skin, and still, he doesn’t feel anything. it doesn’t make sense. none of it does. suguru wouldn’t leave. suguru is—was—his other half, the one who understood him in ways no one else could. he has you, he has shoko—but it’s not the same. it will never be the same. satoru is the strongest. the strongest doesn’t lose things.

except now he has. and no matter how tightly he grips the edges of his own world, everything still slips through his fingers.

you find him there, quiet for once, his head tilted back as he watches the stars. the moonlight catches on his white hair, turning it almost silver, his sunglasses hanging loosely between his fingers. you don’t say anything right away, just stand beside him, close enough that your shoulder almost brushes his. he’s grateful for that, the silent understanding, the way you don’t push him to talk when he doesn’t want to. but it’s you—you—and eventually, your voice cuts through the thick, choking air.

“come inside, satoru.”

he exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “not yet.”

you hesitate, then sigh, your fingers brushing over his sleeve. it’s light, barely there, but he still feels it. you’re real. that’s something, at least.

“you can’t keep doing this.”

he doesn’t know what you mean—staring at the sky? ignoring everything? pretending suguru didn’t leave?—but he just laughs, a short, hollow sound, and grins at you like none of this matters. like he isn’t crumbling under the weight of something he refuses to name. “doing what?”

you don’t smile back.

you don’t say anything at all.

but your fingers tighten against his sleeve, just for a second, just enough for him to feel the warmth of you before you step away.

and he can’t—he won’t—let that happen.

before you can take another step, his fingers close around your wrist, pulling you back toward him. it’s not gentle, but it’s not rough either—just firm, desperate in a way he won’t let himself acknowledge. you stumble slightly, your palm landing against his chest, and he doesn’t let you move away.

“don’t,” he says, barely above a whisper. his voice is raw, frayed at the edges, like he’s holding something back. his fingers tighten, his grip the only thing grounding him. “not yet.”

your eyes search his, looking for something, anything, but he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to give you. he only knows that he needs you to stay.

“satoru…” your voice wavers, and he hates it—hates that you sound like you pity him, hates that you might see him for what he really is. but you don’t pull away.

his free hand lifts to your face, brushing against your cheek, barely there, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he holds too tightly. you don’t. you stay.

and then you’re kissing him. or maybe he’s kissing you. it doesn’t matter—he just knows that your lips are warm, that your hands clutch at his jacket, that he’s losing himself in the way you breathe against his mouth. it’s messy, uncoordinated, more about needing than anything else. he doesn’t care.

he just wants.

it doesn’t take long before he’s pushing you inside, backing you into his room, his grip never loosening. you let him. maybe you need this too. maybe you need something real just as much as he does.

it’s not love. not really. it’s a desperate, clumsy attempt to hold onto something—each other, maybe, or just the pieces of a world that’s slipping through both of your fingers. it’s the press of his body against yours, the way his hands shake against your skin, the way neither of you speak because there’s nothing left to say.

when it’s over, you stay, your fingers tracing idle patterns against his skin. his arms are loose around you, his breathing slow, almost steady. but he’s not asleep. he won’t sleep. not tonight.

his grip tightens just slightly, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. it’s unhealthy. he knows it. you do too. but neither of you move.

not yet.

a month later, you come to him late at night, standing in his doorway like you’re already bracing for a fight. your arms are crossed tight over your chest, fingers gripping at the fabric of your sleeves, like you need something to hold on to. your weight shifts from one foot to the other, hesitant, uncertain, like you’re not sure if you should even be here. but your eyes—your eyes are worried. tired. heavy with something he can’t quite name yet, but it makes his stomach twist all the same.

“satoru, we need to talk.”

he groans, throwing himself back onto his bed like a petulant child, limbs sprawled carelessly across the sheets. his uniform jacket is crumpled beneath him, the collar tugging awkwardly at his neck, but he doesn’t bother fixing it. instead, he throws an arm over his eyes, sighing dramatically. “ugh, if this is about me skipping out on yaga’s stupid lectures again—”

“it’s not about that.”

your voice is clipped, firm in a way that makes his fingers twitch where they rest against his forehead. something in your tone makes him hesitate, but he doesn’t sit up just yet, doesn’t acknowledge the way his stomach knots at the sharp edge of it. instead, he props himself up on one elbow just enough to grin at you, lopsided and careless, blue eyes glinting in the dim light of his room. “then what? are you finally confessing your undying love for me?”

you exhale sharply through your nose, pressing your lips together so tightly they pale at the edges. your jaw tightens—not in frustration, but in restraint, like you’re biting back words you can’t afford to say. for the first time since you walked in, your gaze flickers away, dipping down toward the floor, then back up again. “satoru.”

his smirk falters.

it’s barely noticeable, the shift so subtle that most people wouldn’t catch it—but you’re not most people, and you always notice. he covers it up with a roll of his shoulders, a quick raking of fingers through his hair, but he can’t stop the way his chest tightens, the way something uneasy coils deep in his gut.

he doesn’t like it.

you take a breath, shoulders rising and falling with it, like you’re steadying yourself. your stance shifts, one foot moving slightly behind the other, like you need an escape route, just in case. “i—”

“’cause i mean, it’s pretty obvious.” he barrels right over whatever you were about to say, voice light, teasing—too quick. he leans back against the pillows, arms crossed behind his head, a lazy grin stretching across his lips. “can’t blame you, really. i am incredibly handsome. the strongest, too—”

“satoru, this is serious.”

your voice cuts through his like a knife.

his grin twitches, faltering at the edges, but he doesn’t let it fall completely. instead, he groans, sitting up in one fluid motion, his frustration bleeding through in the way he rakes a hand through his hair. his bangs fall messily over his forehead, but he doesn’t push them back this time. “yeah, yeah, everything is serious with you lately.” his words come out sharper than he intends, but he doesn’t stop. “you know, you used to be fun. we used to be fun. now all you do is worry, and nag, and—”

you flinch.

it’s small. barely a twitch of your fingers, a quick inhale, a tightening of your shoulders. but he sees it, and the moment he does, regret clenches in his throat.

too late.

your fingers curl in on themselves, your nails pressing into your palms. your expression remains composed, but he sees the cracks forming—the slight tremble in your exhale, the way your shoulders stiffen as if bracing for impact. “satoru, i need to tell you something.”

his pulse kicks up.

it’s barely noticeable, the way his fingers tighten around the fabric of his pants, but you’re not most people, and you always notice. there’s something about the way you say it—something final, something that makes his skin prickle with the kind of unease he can’t shake.

he doesn’t let you.

“what? that i’m reckless? that i’m changing?” he cuts in, sharp and bitter, words laced with something dangerously close to something real. something he doesn’t want to name. “yeah, i’ve heard it all before.”

“satoru—”

“what do you want me to do, huh?” his voice rises, frustration twisting into something uglier, something more desperate. “cry about it?”

a long, heavy pause.

your face shifts—something breaking, something splintering right in front of him, and he hates it. your gaze flickers downward, away from his, away from the conversation entirely. your fingers curl tighter, drifting to your stomach, barely grazing the fabric of your shirt like—

he doesn’t get the chance to figure it out. because whatever it is, whatever you were going to say, it dies before it can even reach him.

you exhale, slow and measured. your fingers curl deeper into your sleeves, knuckles turning white, tension wound so tight in your shoulders that it hurts. there’s something unreadable in your expression, something quiet and distant, and for the first time in a long time, satoru doesn’t know what you’re thinking. the uncertainty makes his skin itch, makes his stomach turn. and then, finally—

“nevermind. i’m leaving.”

he scoffs, an ugly, humorless sound, sharp and bitter in the stillness between you. his lips curl, not in a grin, but in something twisted, something that doesn’t reach his eyes. “yeah, right.”

but you don’t roll your eyes. you don’t laugh. you don’t give him the reaction he’s expecting, the easy back-and-forth that makes it all feel normal. you just look at him—long and quiet and sad, your fingers still trembling where they clutch your sleeves.

“i’m serious.”

his chest feels tight, like he’s breathing in smoke, like his ribs are about to crack under the weight of something he refuses to name. the words don’t settle right in his ears, don’t make sense in his head, don’t belong in your mouth. you don’t leave. not him. not this.

but then you say it—you tell him you can’t do this anymore, that you’re leaving jujutsu society, that you can’t watch him become someone he’s not. your voice is steady, but there’s something fragile in it, something raw at the edges, like you’re trying to convince yourself just as much as him. you say it like a choice, like something you’ve decided on, but all he can hear is that you’re leaving him.

and it makes him panic.

so he does what he always does when he panics—he lashes out.

“fine, go then.” his voice is venomous, cutting, every syllable sharpened into a weapon. he means for it to hurt. he needs it to hurt. “if you really think i’m so hopeless, just leave like he did.”

the second it’s out of his mouth, he wants to take it back.

because you freeze. because something inside you cracks, visible in the way your breath hitches, in the way your fingers curl into your palm like you need to hold something, anything, just to keep yourself together.

your mouth opens—then closes.

whatever words were lingering on your tongue, whatever truth you had been about to give him, they wither before they can take shape. they don’t belong here, not after what he’s said. not when he’s already decided to throw you into the same abyss as him. the realization settles in your chest like something sharp, something splintered, pressing against your ribs.

he doesn’t deserve to know. he doesn’t even want to know. so you just nod, slow and deliberate, as if committing this moment to memory—his face twisted with something between anger and regret, his fingers curled so tightly into the fabric of his pants that his knuckles go white. something hollow settles in your gaze, something distant, something final.

then you turn around.

and you walk away.

but just before you cross the threshold, just before the distance between you stretches into something permanent, you pause. your hand lingers on the doorframe, fingers splayed against the wood, as if you’re waiting—waiting for him to stop you, to say anything that might make this easier, to give you even the smallest reason to stay.

he doesn’t.

so you exhale, steady and soft, and when you finally speak, your voice is barely above a whisper. “i hope it’s worth it, satoru.”

he doesn’t ask what is ‘it’—his pride, his stubbornness, his refusal to let you in—because he knows. he knows. then you leave, and he watches you go, convinced you’ll come back.

(you don’t.)

six years pass him by, and it’s safe to say that it wasn’t worth it.

he never says it out loud—never lets the words leave his lips, never even lets himself think them too long—but the truth lingers, settling deep in his bones like a slow, creeping ache. he feels it in the way silence stretches too long in his apartment, in the way he still catches himself pausing at the door, expecting to hear your voice. it’s in the way his fingers twitch, like they still remember the shape of your wrist in his grasp, the way his bed feels too big now, empty in a way that nothing else quite fills. he tells himself it doesn’t matter. that he doesn’t care.

(he does.)

at first, he’s bitter. you left him. you gave up on him. just like he did.

the thought twists, ugly and sharp, digging into the tender parts of him that he refuses to acknowledge. he doesn’t dwell on it. won’t. he has better things to do, more important things—missions, responsibilities, a world that won’t stop turning just because he wants it to. so he throws himself into work, into being the strongest, into playing the role that everyone expects of him. if he keeps moving, if he keeps winning, maybe—maybe—he won’t have to think about what he lost.

but then the quiet comes.

it always does.

he can hold it off for a while, can drown it out in the noise of battle, the weight of duty, the voices of the students he’s taken under his wing. but eventually, when the dust settles and the world slows, when it’s just him and the empty space where you used to be, the silence seeps in, heavy and suffocating. it presses against his ribs, sits in the hollow of his chest, winds around his throat like something clawing for a home. and in those moments, there’s no ignoring it.

he dreams about you.

sometimes, they’re good. warm. the kind that make him wake up reaching for something that isn’t there. he dreams of your laughter—light and careless, curling around the edges of his mind like something precious. he dreams of your touch—the way you used to smooth your hands over his shoulders when you thought he wasn’t paying attention, the way your fingers would toy with the hem of his uniform absentmindedly, like you didn’t even realize you were doing it. he dreams of the way you used to look at him, with something so soft in your eyes, something he never knew how to name.

but other times, the dreams aren’t good.

sometimes you’re standing at the door, gaze unreadable, voice soft as you whisper, “i hope it’s worth it.” sometimes you’re walking away, and no matter how fast he moves, how desperately he reaches, he can’t catch up. sometimes you turn back, but there’s nothing left in your expression, like you’ve already disappeared, like you were never really there. and sometimes—sometimes, you don’t look back at all.

he thinks about looking for you. about dropping everything and scouring the world until he finds you, because if anyone can, it’s him.

but if you wanted to be found, you wouldn’t have left.

so he lets you go. or at least, he tries to. he tells himself it’s for the best, convinces himself that this—this missing, this hollow ache, this unbearable emptiness—is just another thing he has to live with. 

at least he pretends to.

and satoru seeing you again in what supposed to be an another monotone day clearly doesn't help his already pathetic facade.

he wasn't expecting to see you again, he dreamt about it often, that much is true but not like this.

not in the middle of a crowded mall, washed in artificial light, where the air smells faintly of buttered popcorn and overpriced coffee. not with the hum of idle chatter pressing in from all sides, footsteps tapping against the polished tiles, distant laughter ringing from a store playing a song he doesn’t recognize. not standing in front of a shelf filled with pastel notebooks and gel pens, head tilted in quiet contemplation as you skim the label of a glittery-covered planner. not looking so much like you that it knocks the breath from his lungs, like he’s been punched in the gut by the weight of time itself.

six years apart, and yet, seeing you now—nothing has changed.

your fingers still tap absently against the book’s spine, your brow still creases just slightly in thought, your weight still shifts from one foot to the other in that familiar, absentminded sway. it's the same little habits he used to watch from across a classroom, half-listening to you scold him for never taking notes, grinning when you’d huff in exasperation, muttering something about how even if you copied mine, you’d still flunk the test, gojo. it’s muscle memory now, the way he leans forward ever so slightly, the way his lips part to call your name before he even realizes it.

for a split second, he forgets the passage of time, forgets that you aren’t seventeen anymore, that he isn’t either, that the six-year gap between then and now has swallowed whole everything that was once soft between you.

somewhere between one breath and the next, his feet move on their own. he doesn’t remember closing the distance, but suddenly he’s there—standing right beside you, close enough to see the way the artificial lighting catches on the curve of your lashes, close enough that his pulse trips over itself in something stupidly close to nerves.

“woah,” he blurts out before he can stop himself, because he’s never been good at thinking before speaking, never been good at silence. his voice comes out rougher than he means, cracking on something fragile, so he leans into bravado, tilting his head with a grin like this doesn’t feel like the start of something dangerous. “didn’t take you for the cute little stationery type.”

you freeze.

not in an obvious way. it’s a flicker, a split-second hesitation, just the faintest shift in your shoulders, the way your fingers still against the spine of the planner. it’s long enough that something in his chest tightens, long enough that he wonders if you might run.

then, finally, you turn to him.

and satoru, for all his power, for all his foresight, for all his years of learning how to predict and anticipate—he’s completely unprepared.

your face is the same. but not really. the softness he remembers is still there, but refined, tempered into something quieter, something heavier. time has carved something sharper into the delicate lines of your features, something weary, something distant, something closed. and when your eyes meet his, something ugly churns in his gut at how unfamiliar it feels, how your gaze doesn’t hold him the way it used to—how it skims over him like he’s anyone else.

and then you open your mouth.

your lips part, hesitation flickering in your gaze, the faintest shift of your brows betraying something unreadable—something he isn’t sure he wants to name. for a moment, your throat bobs like you might say something else, something more, but then your expression settles into something carefully neutral. practiced. distant.

“gojo.”

not satoru. never satoru.

his stomach twists, and for a brief second, he hates himself for expecting anything different. of course, it would be gojo. of course, you would opt to say his last name like it belonged to a stranger, disregard his first name like it was just a word, just a title—like you hadn’t once whispered it into his skin, like it hadn’t once meant home.

he exhales sharply, a smirk curling at the edges of his mouth, though it feels stiff, foreign, like it doesn't quite fit on his face anymore. his hands shove into his pockets, his shoulders rolling with a forced ease, but the tension lingers, settling somewhere in his spine.

“so,” he drawls, playing it easy, playing it light, playing it like the years between you never happened, “you a teacher now? or just hoarding sparkly pens?”

there’s a flicker of something—amusement, maybe, or the ghost of it—passing through your expression. fleeting. barely there. but he catches it, latches onto it like a dying man gasping for air, like proof that maybe, just maybe, he isn’t the only one drowning in this moment.

and then you exhale, a quiet huff—not quite a laugh, but close enough that something in his chest clenches, tight and aching.

“it’s not for me.”

not for you.

his fingers twitch before he can stop them, the urge to reach out settling deep in his bones like an instinct he thought he’d long buried. his six eyes, ever-perceptive, drink you in without permission, tracing every minute detail, cataloging every shift in your stance. the way your shoulders hover between tension and ease, the way your weight subtly shifts as if you’re fighting the impulse to move—toward him or away, he can’t tell. but it’s your hands that betray you the most, your thumb brushing absently against your palm, slow and methodical, a grounding habit, a tell he never got the chance to memorize.

and yet, for all the little details his sight clings to, it’s the absence of something that twists like a knife beneath his ribs.

the faint indentation on your finger. a whisper of what once was—or maybe what never came to be. a ring should have been there. but it isn’t.

hope is a sickness, and it spreads fast, coiling through him like wildfire, igniting something reckless, something desperate. before he can stop himself, before he can think—before he can remind himself that hope has never done him any favors—the words slip out, raw and unfiltered as he stepped closer. “then who—”

but you do something he doesn’t expect. you step back. not much. just an inch.

but it’s enough.

enough to silence him, to lodge something cold and sharp in the hollow of his chest. enough to remind him that time is not a wound that can be rewound, that the six years between you are filled with things he was never there to witness. enough to remind him that no matter how tightly he might want to cling to the past, you have already let it go.

your expression doesn’t falter, doesn’t crack, but there’s something in the way your lashes lower just slightly, in the way your lips press together, careful and deliberate. restraint, or maybe consideration—like you’re choosing your words with more care than he deserves.

“it was nice seeing you, gojo.”

was. past tense. final.

his stomach twists, his throat constricts. he hates how easily you say it, how effortlessly you close the door between you.

you turn to leave. his whole body locks up. he should let you go. if he were a better man, he would let you go.

but he’s never been a good man, has he? never been selfless, never been someone who could bear to lose something precious to him—not again, not again, not again—

“wait,” he blurts out, reaching for you—

but in the corner of his vision, something shifts.

small. deliberate.

he doesn’t see it.

doesn’t see the way a tiny figure leans forward from behind a display shelf, chin tilted up in blatant curiosity, eyes sharp and calculating. doesn’t see the way her fingers tighten around the straps of her pink, glittery backpack like she’s bracing herself for something—like she’s trying to piece together the scene before her with the unrelenting scrutiny of someone who refuses to be left out.

she isn’t hesitant. she isn’t uncertain.

she watches.

studies.

eyes flicking between you and him, her expression shifting through something unreadable—thoughtful, shrewd, maybe even the slightest bit unimpressed, like she’s already decided she doesn’t like what she’s seeing.

he doesn’t see her.

doesn’t see the way she plants her feet, stance wide like she’s ready to charge forward and insert herself into the conversation the way only a child with too much confidence can. doesn’t see the way her tiny mouth presses into a firm, stubborn line, the way her nose scrunches in concentration, the way her little fingers drum against her arm as if waiting for the right moment to interrupt.

because right now, for the first time in six years, he finally saw you again. he only sees you.

he can only see you.

satoru doesn’t breathe.

not at first.

not when you disappear from sight, not when the absence of your presence leaves behind something gaping, something cold, something he doesn’t have the words to name. six years. six years of nothing, of static, of moving forward because what else was there to do but move? and now—now you were here, now you were leaving again, and if he doesn’t do something, doesn’t say something—

before he can even take a step, before he can even exhale—a tiny, pointed presence looms at his side.

looming shouldn’t be a word that applies to a child. but here she is. cornering him.

when he finally registers her, she’s already staring up at him, blue eyes sharp, head tilted in deep, almost theatrical thought. her posture is relaxed, but not in the way a child’s should be—no fidgeting, no nervous glances, no uncertainty. instead, there is something deliberate in the way she plants her feet, how she clasps her hands neatly in front of her, how she breathes so evenly it’s like she’s assessing him.

the soft scent of vanilla clings to the air around her, mixed with something delicate, maybe peach-scented lotion. her sneakers—pink and white with sparkly laces—are pristine, barely creasing as she shifts her weight. her cardigan, worn off her shoulders like a fashion statement, matches the ribbons in her hair, and her ruffled socks peek out from beneath the hem of a dress that isn't a princess dress but might as well be with how carefully chosen it looks—pale pink with embroidered flowers, soft and dainty.

but the most striking thing about her, above all, is that she is him. down to the way her lips purse in contemplation.

she blinks. once. twice. assessing.

and then, with all the grace of a tiny, self-proclaimed noble who has just encountered a most peculiar sight, she tilts her chin up and announces—“ugh. you’re taller than i thought.”

satoru blinks down at the little diva frowning up at him, her brows furrowing like he’s already failed some unspoken test.

she is… dazzling.

for all the wrong reasons.

because that is his nose. those are his eyes.

the slope of them, the sharp, fox-like tilt—so much like his own that it knocks the air from his lungs. it’s all there in the way her gaze flickers between calculation and feigned indifference, in the way her lips purse in mild dissatisfaction, in the way she shifts her weight onto one foot, expectant. her presence is something deliberate, something intended, as if she is waiting for him to notice her. but that’s ridiculous, right? right?

his throat bobs, dry. he clears it anyway.

satoru barely catches himself before he lets out a laugh—sharp, surprised, incredulous. instead, he exhales through his nose, slow and careful, before slipping his sunglasses off and hooking them onto his collar. the world is suddenly too bright without them, but he needs to see her properly. he lowers himself to one knee, eye level with the little diva who stands before him, hands on her hips like she owns the entire shopping district.

“uh.” he cocks his head, scanning her face for any sign of hesitation. none. not a single crack in that unshakable confidence. “hey, kiddo? are you, uh… lost?”

the reaction is instantaneous.

she gasps—loud, dramatic, affronted.

both hands fly to her chest as though he’s just accused her of something heinous, scandalized horror flashing across her tiny face. her perfectly arched brows shoot up beneath the sharp cut of her bangs, pink lips parting with the kind of exaggerated disbelief that could only be described as theatrical. she takes a step back, but not like she’s retreating—no, she makes it look intentional, like a leading lady on stage setting up the perfect moment of tension.

“excuuuse me?” she demands, her tiny chin tilting higher, voice dripping with the kind of indignation only the truly self-assured can muster. her hands, small but precise in their movement, land imperiously on her hips. “do i look like a peasant who gets lost?”

satoru blinks.

for once, his mouth moves faster than his brain, but that doesn’t mean it makes sense. he opens his lips, closes them, then opens them again, fingers twitching slightly at his sides. “uh—”

“i have an impeccable sense of direction,” she continues, not even sparing him a glance as she flicks her hair over her shoulder, her tiny fingers adjusting an imaginary crown. her eyes shut briefly—dramatic, self-important, as if recalling some great tragedy. “unlike mommy, who keeps walking the wrong way even with google maps.”

he startles.

it’s subtle, a twitch in his fingertips, a shift in his stance—so minor most wouldn’t even notice. but he does. he notices everything. the way her voice rounds out just slightly as she says mommy, the sharp, confident edge softening into something softer, something practiced. it’s natural, the way she says it, habitual, like it belongs to her in a way no other word does. there is no hesitation, no awkwardness, no resentment—only warmth.

only fondness.

or maybe he’s imagining things.

he’s still trying to process it when—

“anyway.” she rolls her eyes, slow and deliberate, like she’s giving him the benefit of the doubt and immediately regretting it. her voice is lighter now, offhanded, but the unimpressed arch of her brow makes it clear: he is wasting her time.

“let’s get back to business.”

his brows furrow. “business?”

“yes, business.” she plants a tiny hand on her hip like she’s about to announce the world’s next big fashion trend. her stance is commanding, legs slightly apart, the picture of confidence despite being barely three feet tall. “keep up.”

satoru isn’t sure what to expect, but it definitely isn’t this.

because the way she looks at him—no, studies him—is unnerving. there’s nothing idle about it, nothing remotely innocent. her gaze is razor-sharp as it sweeps from his feet to his head, dissecting every detail like she’s mapping out a blueprint only she understands.

the pristine uniform. the tall frame. the striking, almost unnatural contrast of white hair and blue eyes.

he's been stared at his whole life, but never like this—never like he's the one being judged. the gaze on him is unwavering, sharp, dissecting him piece by piece as if stripping him down to something more raw, more human. then, as if arriving at some profound conclusion, she lifts her tiny chin and flips her bangs with a small, decisive nod.

“you have white hair.”

her lashes lower slightly, a subtle shift in expression that tightens something in his chest.

“you have blue eyes.”

satoru’s pulse stutters.

before he can process the shift in atmosphere, she clasps her hands together, fingers lacing neatly over her chest. the movement is fluid, graceful, too composed for a child so young. it reminds him of a practiced performer, someone who understands the weight of gestures, of theatrics.

then, with the finality of a verdict, she nods again.

“i guess you’ll do.”

…do what now?

he stares, momentarily incapable of thought.

there is something deeply unsettling about being scrutinized by someone who barely reaches his waist. yet, there is an undeniable weight to the moment, a strange sort of gravity pressing against him. he can feel it—his own energy mirrored back at him, sharp and self-assured, too knowing for a child so young.

his lips part, but he isn’t even sure what he wants to ask.

the answer comes before he can find the question.

“so,” she announces, as if stating the obvious, “i need you to pretend to be my dad.”

satoru chokes.

the cough rattles his ribs, sharp and sudden, like his own body is rejecting the reality of what he just heard. he presses the back of his hand against his mouth, shoulders tensing, but it does little to stifle the noise. his throat burns with the effort, and yet, the words still echo in his mind, rearranging themselves into something even more absurd.

he drags his palm down his face. “come again?”

the menace—no, the tiny, immaculately dressed con artist—squints at him.

“are you hard of hearing?” she enunciates, slow and patient, like she’s explaining a simple concept to a particularly dense student. her small hands settle on her hips, fingers tapping in silent judgment, and the stance is so eerily familiar that it sends a ripple of unease down his spine. her chin tilts up, her expression unwavering—like she’s used to being the one in control of conversations, and the thought alone is terrifying. “i said, i need you to pretend to be my dad for a father’s day event at school.”

something in his stomach lurches.

his brain can’t keep up. the words don’t fit, don’t make sense, don’t align with anything logical. she says them with such ease, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, but for him, it’s the equivalent of a meteor crashing into his reality.

his throat is suddenly dry. “that’s… uh…”

“obviously, i don’t have one. and you were talking to mommy earlier, so you must be one of her friends.” she shrugs, breezy, nonchalant, as if she’s discussing the weather.

but it is a big deal.

a very big deal.

his heart is pounding so fast he might actually pass out.

“mommy always comes with me, and i guess she’s cool and all,” she continues, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. the movement is casual, self-assured—the same unconscious confidence he had as a child. satoru watches, helpless, as she flicks the curl over her shoulder with a tiny sigh, her expression morphing into something contemplative. “but i pity her, y’know?”

his throat tightens.

“pity.” he repeats, blankly.

“yeah, like.” she exhales, weight shifting onto one foot, lashes fluttering like she’s the protagonist of a soap opera. “all the other kids have dads, and she’s stuck with me all the time.”

his breath catches.

she sighs again, deeply, dramatically, as if she’s making some grand sacrifice. her lower lip juts out ever so slightly, just enough to look a little more pitiful, like she’s spent time perfecting this exact expression. “so, i figured i’d do something selfless and find a dad for the day.”

satoru swallows, something thick and unnameable clogging his throat. “that’s… very generous of you.”

she preens. “i know, right?”

and then—she leans in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“but don’t tell mommy,” she warns, expression shifting in an instant. her eyes are dead serious, her tiny fingers curling into the fabric of her dress as if to physically hold the secret in place. “she’d get mad.”

his stomach drops.

the weight of her words slams into him with the force of a truck, hollowing out his insides. his pulse roars in his ears, loud enough to drown out the hum of the store’s overhead music, the chatter of passing customers, the clatter of shopping baskets. he feels it somewhere deep in his chest, a sensation not unlike free-falling—because of all the ways this day could’ve gone, this was never in the realm of possibility.

“mad?” he echoes, voice suddenly hoarse, the word barely scraping past the dryness in his throat.

“mhm.” she nods sagely, lowering her voice even further, like she’s sharing classified information. her tiny fingers tighten around the straps of her pink backpack, knuckles pressing into the glittery fabric as she leans in just a fraction more. her expression is thoughtful, brows furrowing slightly, as if she’s considering something heavier than a child her age should. “i think she still misses my real dad.”

satoru stops breathing.

his chest tightens, a sharp, unbearable squeeze, as if his ribs have turned into a vice, crushing him from the inside out. the world around him dulls, the chatter of passing shoppers fading into static, the fluorescent lights overhead buzzing like a swarm of unseen locusts. the air in his lungs turns thick and heavy, refusing to move—because everything, everything, is falling into place so fast he can barely keep up.

the kid stationeries you were browsing, the set of pastel pens you picked up only to set them back down, like you were debating whether to buy them. the pink, glittery backpack in her hands, the same shade of obnoxious bubblegum pink he once claimed to hate, but now realizes he would buy in a heartbeat, no questions asked. the way she looks just like him—the sharp slant of her nose, the high curve of her cheekbones, the impossibly bright blue eyes that reflect his own like a taunt. even the way she stands, weight shifted slightly to one hip, tiny hands confidently gripping the straps of the backpack—like she already owns the space she stands in, like the world itself is just a little too small for her.

holy shit.

“anyway.” she huffs, as if he’s the one wasting her time, her small mouth curving into a pout of mild exasperation. she adjusts the straps of the backpack in her arms, shifting its weight against her chest, fingers drumming impatiently against the sequined fabric. she tilts her chin up ever so slightly, radiating a confidence that shouldn't belong to someone so tiny. “it’s on friday, 9:00 a.m., at kikyo kindergarten.”

he blinks, the words sluggish as they filter through his brain, like a broken radio signal cutting in and out. “what?”

“the event, duh.” she frowns, unimpressed, tilting her head with all the attitude of someone who cannot believe they have to repeat themselves. her lips press into a thin line, tiny shoulders rising as she takes a slow breath, like she’s summoning every ounce of patience she has to deal with an absolute idiot. “weren’t you listening?”

his mouth opens, then closes, then opens again, but nothing coherent comes out. “uh—”

“you better be there.” she declares, arms crossing over her chest, voice firm and unwavering, the kind of voice that does not take no for an answer. her stance shifts as she leans in closer, an almost imperceptible movement, but one that carries all the weight of an unspoken challenge—daring him to refuse, daring him to disappoint her. there is something unreadable in her gaze, something old and knowing, something far too perceptive for a child her age. “or else.”

his pulse jumps. “…or else?”

she meets his gaze head-on, unflinching, as if she already knows she has him backed into a corner. her small fingers tap against her arm, considering, calculating—then, her lips curl into a smile that is nothing short of mischievous.

“or else, i’ll tell mommy you tried to kidnap me.”

his soul leaves his body. “WHAT—”

“bye now!” she beams, the picture of innocence, her entire face transforming in real time, as if she didn’t just completely dismantle his entire world in the span of a conversation.

in real time, satoru watches his own child scam him.

his tiny daughter—his menace of a child—spins on her heel, dropping the entire conversation like it never happened. she prances away, light on her feet, twirling slightly as she rounds the aisle you disappeared into, her little frame swallowed by the shelves.

her voice, when she speaks, is a melody, high and sweet and utterly deceiving. “mommy! look! this is the backpack i want!”

satoru can only stay there. staring.

his breath is shallow, like his lungs have forgotten how to function, like his entire body is refusing to move, to react, to process what just happened. the world feels too sharp, too clear, yet somehow far away, like he’s watching himself from outside his own skin. the fluorescent lights above hum too loudly, the colors of the store seem too vivid, and the ground beneath his feet feels like it's seconds away from giving out.

his daughter just found him before he ever found her.

his hands feel cold. his mouth is dry. his brain, usually a relentless, unyielding machine, capable of dissecting complex battle strategies in seconds, is blank. utterly, hopelessly blank.

she’s real. she exists. she is his.

and she just walked away like it was nothing. like she didn’t just turn his world upside down. like she didn’t just unknowingly rip open a part of him that he didn’t even realize had been closed off.

satoru exhales, slow and shaky, dragging a hand down his face. it doesn’t help. he blinks rapidly, trying to reboot his system, but all he can hear is the echo of her tiny voice—matter-of-fact, unimpressed, brimming with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what she was doing.

he comes to terms with something horrifying.

his menace of a child just blackmailed him. she didn’t ask. she demanded. she set her terms, delivered her threat, and walked away like a goddamn professional.

the absolute audacity.

the sheer talent.

his chest swells, something warm and bright bubbling beneath the overwhelming shock. his lips twitch, his vision goes a little blurry, and then—a slow, unhinged grin spreads across his face.

he has never been more proud.

“holy shit,” he breathes, blinking rapidly, his pulse still hammering in his ears. then, after a long moment of processing the absolute scam he just walked into, he straightens, grips the nearest shelf for support, and mutters under his breath;

“she so gets that from me.”

a/n: any normal person would be horrified finding out they missed out years in their child's life but he's not any normal person sigh he's so silly

tag list: @akeisryna

comment to be added on the tag list xx

[twstedfreak]

told the nerd to film it and he exported inside me instead!

pairing — tech nerd!gojo x fem reader

synopsis : you crushed on him for months, watched him dodge every advance like you were malware. so you dressed up a little, played a little dumber—and now he’s got you spread out in pixels and moaning in surround sound. worst part? you kinda want him to do it again.

tags/cw — masturbation, degradation, praise kink, dacryphilia, marking, overstimulation, explicit language, filming, voyeurism, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, squirting, rough sex, dirty talk, power dynamics, obsession, lingerie, virgin weeb satoru, questionable but effective way of seducing ur crush. 13k wc, 18+ only, minors DNI.

a/n : plz don't nitpick about how a fashion vlog shouldn't be like that bc that's the point. toru doesn't know the difference because all he watches is 2d girls

the compressor’s peaking again.

satoru squints at the waveform, drags the threshold down two decibels, then listens back to the same three-second clip of voiceover for the tenth time. it’s a podcast intro, some wannabe influencer droning about mindfulness. he doesn’t care. he’s just here to make it sound less like it was recorded in a bathroom.

“sounds like shit,” he mutters, even though it’s clean. crisp. perfectly balanced.

it doesn’t feel right. nothing ever does. he tweaks the bitrate, checks the export codec, wonders if he should build a custom ffmpeg preset. maybe write a quick script to batch clean all future files—something to shave off a few milliseconds of his life. his fingers hover over the keyboard, itching for efficiency, for control.

ping.

discord overlay glows in the corner of his ultrawide monitor, a neon-green intrusion on his meticulously organized desktop. he freezes. the notification pulses like a heartbeat.

you.

he stares at it, lets it sit there like it’s radioactive. doesn’t even remember keeping you added. your username—something stupid with a heart emoji—feels like a splinter under his skin. he should’ve purged his contacts months ago, but here you are, slipping through the cracks of his digital fortress.

hey. remember when u edited our project? can u help me trim some vids pls…

his jaw tightens. of course you’d ask now, at 2 a.m., when he’s neck-deep in audio plugins and caffeine. his fingers hover over the keyboard, poised to dismiss you.

“no,” he types, then erases it.

“what kind of vids,” he tries, but deletes that too. too eager. too curious.

after a solid twenty-five seconds of overthinking, he finally sends:

i guess. send what you have.

he leans back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. his room is a cave of glowing screens and scattered energy drink cans, the hum of his overclocked pc the only sound besides his own shallow breathing. he shouldn’t care. you’re just another art student, another distraction. but his pulse betrays him, thudding a little too hard in his throat.

flashback.exe

he hated group projects. despised them. a bunch of useless art students in overpriced streetwear, trying to make films with no understanding of pacing or continuity.

they’d fumble with premiere pro like it was rocket science, leaving him to clean up their shaky cuts and mismatched audio tracks. he always ended up doing 90% of the work, and he preferred it that way. control was his god, and he worshipped it.

but you were different.

not better. just... a different kind of stupid.

you showed up late to the editing suite, glitter pens spilling out of your bag, heart stickers plastered on your water bottle like a middle schooler’s diary. you called the lav mic a “weird nipple thing” and giggled when he glared at you. once, you spilled your lip gloss on the soundboard, leaving a sticky pink smear he had to scrub off with isopropyl alcohol. another time, you asked if uploading to drive made your data heavier, and he almost threw you out.

but.

you let him do whatever he wanted.

you didn’t hover or micromanage. you just sat there, cross-legged on a swivel chair, watching him cut scenes like it was magic. you leaned over his shoulder, close enough that he could feel the warmth of your breath, your wide eyes reflecting the glow of the timeline.

“whoa... you made it feel like a real movie,” you whispered, like he’d just parted the red sea.

you smelled like something artificial. strawberries, maybe, or some overpriced body mist from a mall kiosk. your hair was always tied with a ribbon—pink, blue, sometimes yellow, always obnoxiously bright.

he didn’t care.

he told himself he didn’t.

but he remembered. every fucking detail.

the zip file lands in his downloads with an obnoxious ka-chunk, snapping him out of the memory. he doesn’t rush. just opens it like it’s any other favor, like his heart isn’t clawing at his ribcage. the folder name stares back at him: “pls help <3”

typical.

he clicks it open, expecting shaky iphone clips of cafes and shopping hauls. maybe some cringe tiktok dance you think is cute. he’s ready to hate it, to scoff at your lack of framing or shitty lighting.

but then—

you appear on screen.

not just appear. you perform.

you’re biting your lip, laughing into the lens like it’s your lover. wearing something stupidly short—a skirt that barely qualifies as fabric, hugging your thighs like it’s painted on. you spin around in front of your mirror, the camera catching every angle, every curve, like you’re being filmed for someone else. someone who’d appreciate it.

you pose. cock your head. giggle. the sound is loud, breathy, smiling when you speak. “do you think this is too short?” you ask, tugging the hem of your skirt, your fingers lingering just a second too long.

he blinks.

backs the video up three seconds.

watches again.

your laugh echoes through his headphones, a little distorted, a little too close. he pretends he’s checking the audio, tells himself it’s for sync, that he’s just doing his job. but his eyes are glued to the screen, to the way your skirt rides up as you twirl, to the flash of skin that makes his breath catch.

he watches again.

his mouth is dry, his tongue heavy against his teeth. your skirt flips up higher this time, and you gasp—like you’re surprised, like you didn’t mean to show that much. but you don’t stop filming. don’t cover up. just... laugh, a sound that curls around his spine and sinks into his gut.

he doesn’t even realize his hand is moving until it’s there, slipping under the waistband of his sweatpants. his fingers brush against himself, and he hisses, the contact sharp and sudden. he’s already half-hard, his body betraying him before his brain can catch up. the room feels too warm, the hum of his pc too loud, but he doesn’t care. he can’t care.

he rewinds the clip again, pauses on the frame where you’re mid-spin, your skirt flared just enough to show the curve of your ass. his hand wraps around his cock, slow at first, tentative, like he’s testing how far he’ll let himself go. the texture of his own skin is rough, familiar, but it’s not enough. not when it’s you on the screen, laughing like you know he’s watching, like you’re daring him to lose control.

he strokes himself, a tight, deliberate rhythm, his thumb brushing over the tip where he’s already leaking. the sensation jolts him, makes his hips twitch in the chair.

he imagines it’s your hand, your fingers—small, soft, probably clumsy, but eager. he pictures you kneeling between his legs, looking up at him with those wide eyes, your lips parted like they are in the video, glossy and pink and begging to be kissed. or more.

the video plays on. you’re bending over now, adjusting your hair in the mirror, your skirt riding up to expose the thin strip of your underwear. he groans, low and guttural, his hand moving faster.

the sound of your voice—teasing, playful—fills his headphones, and he closes his eyes for a moment, letting it wash over him. “do you think this is too short?” you say again, and he wants to answer, wants to growl that it’s perfect, that you’re perfect, that he’d rip it off you if he could.

his grip tightens, his strokes growing erratic. he’s not gentle with himself—never is. it’s all pressure and friction, chasing the edge as fast as he can.

his free hand fumbles with the mouse, scrubbing the timeline back to the moment you gasp, to the split-second flash of your thighs. he loops it, the clip stuttering in time with his breathing, with the slick sound of his hand working himself over. his cock throbs, hot and heavy, and he imagines it’s you—your warmth, your wetness, the way you’d probably whimper if he touched you like this.

he’s close. too close.

his vision blurs at the edges, his pulse hammering in his ears. he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be jerking off to your stupid video like some desperate creep, but the shame only makes it worse, makes it sharper.

he pictures you catching him, walking in right now, seeing him with his pants down and his hand on his dick. would you laugh? would you blush? would you get on your knees and—

he comes with a choked gasp, his hips bucking up into his hand. it’s messy, spilling over his fingers, onto the hem of his shirt. his chest heaves, his head tilting back against the chair as the aftershocks ripple through him. your laugh loops in his headphones, oblivious to the wreck he’s become.

it’s filthy. it’s desperate.

ten minutes later, he’s cleaned himself up, his hands steady again as he trims the file like a good little editor. he cuts out the shaky parts, stabilizes the footage, adjusts the audio so your voice doesn’t clip. it’s clinical now, professional, like he didn’t just fall apart to the sight of you. he names it something sterile: “vlog_cut_1.mov.”

he exports it twice. once normally, for you. once... not. the second version is raw, unedited, every twirl and giggle preserved in crisp 4k. it gets copied to a different folder, buried in a directory labeled “shader_study_2022.” he tells himself it’s in case you need a re-edit. a backup. that’s all.

when you text back:

thank u!! lol i owe uuu :3

he stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. his heart’s still racing, a faint tremor in his fingers.

he types “anytime :)” and erases it. sends:

np.

what he doesn’t say: he rewatched the part where you bend over six times. he had his dick in his hand by the second loop. he renamed the close-up to “test_render_asscloseup.mov” and hid it behind three layers of subfolders.

he doesn’t even like tiktok girls.

he’s into 2d, girls with big swords and bigger tits, drawn in sharp lines and impossible proportions. he once bought a dakimakura because the shipping came with a free pin, and it’s still shoved in his closet, one corner stained from a late-night mistake. real girls are messy, unpredictable, too much work. but now?

he’s thinking about the way your laugh dipped when you turned around, the way it caught in your throat like you were nervous. the way you looked into the lens like you knew someone was watching.

someone like him.

next day, you walk in like a fucking weapon.

pink fuzzy shrug, low-rise jeans that sit dangerously low on your hips, a sliver of stomach peeking out like it’s 2004. your hair’s up in a ribbon—pink, of course, swaying as you move. you’re all glitter and confidence, a walking distraction in a lecture hall full of tired students and flickering projectors.

he scoffs under his breath. “tacky.”

but his heart’s pounding, a traitor in his chest. his fingers twitch against the edge of his laptop, betraying the calm he’s trying to project. you slide into the seat two rows ahead and twist around, grinning like a cat, like you know something he doesn’t.

your eyes catch his for a split second, bright and teasing, and he forces himself to look away.

he opens his laptop, types random garbage into a terminal window—some half-baked python script he doesn’t even care about. he runs a fake compile just to feel busy, to drown out the way his blood is rushing too fast.

you lean over to whisper to the girl next to you, your laugh spilling out, loud and careless. your hair tosses, and he swears he catches the scent of your perfume drifting past in invisible waves. saccharine, overwhelming, like strawberries dipped in sugar syrup.

his brain short-circuits. he snaps his headphones on, the cord tangling in his haste. not to listen to music. not to block you out.

to replay your giggle.

he’d isolated the audio last night, cleaned it up with a high-pass filter, boosted the mids to make it crystal clear. exported it as a high-quality .wav, tucked it into a folder labeled “audio_ref.” he tells himself it’s for study, just good reference for future projects. but he loops it now, the sound of your laugh layered over faint lo-fi static he added for texture. it’s you, distilled into a three-second clip, filling his skull.

he closes his eyes and pretends you’re saying his name. satoru, you giggle, breathy and soft, like you’re leaning over his shoulder again, watching him work. satoru, you made it feel so real.

the lecture drones on, but he’s not listening. he’s lost in the rhythm of your voice, the way it dips and rises, the way it makes his skin feel too tight. he shifts in his seat, adjusts his hoodie, tries to ignore the heat pooling in his gut. he’s not supposed to want this. not supposed to want you.

but he does.

the thing about addiction is that it never announces itself.

no dramatic thunderclap. no internal monologue screaming, ah yes, now i am a pervert. it’s quiet. insidious. it sinks in like static, crackling at the edges of satoru’s brain until he’s not sure where his old self ends and this new, wretched version begins.

it’s not like he’s not already a pervert who gets off from pixels. this simply wasn’t his brand of perversion.

that night, he stayed up longer than he should’ve. stared at code for so long his ide crashed, the screen flickering to black as if it knew he was wasting his time. not that he got anything done. 

he just kept switching tabs—your final cut in vlc, some useless bash script in vscode he pretended to care about, then back to your video, the timeline frozen on that twirl, that gasp. his fingers shook when he closed the laptop, but sleep never came.

and now it’s the next day. mid-afternoon. the sun is doing that thing where it turns his apartment into a blinding box of heat and regret. his ac hums like an old man, wheezing against the sticky air. he’s sprawled in his chair, one leg slung over the armrest, staring at the ceiling fan like it might tell him how to stop.

ping.

another discord notification. he doesn’t even flinch this time. your username glows, and the filename attached makes his stomach do a weird little roll: “try-on2_raw.mov”. his eyes linger on the heart emoji you’ve tacked onto the message, like it’s a personal invitation.

hiii! ty for the last edit, ur a lifesaver <3 can u check and trim this one too? i’m trying smth new but idk if it works… lmk what u think pls!!

he clicks download. no hesitation. doesn’t even pretend to care anymore.

the file loads into his editing software like second nature, the premiere pro interface blooming across his screen. muscle memory. routine.

he’s done this a hundred times—except never like this, never with his pulse hammering in his throat and his mouth already dry.

the video starts the same way as the last—handheld, messy lighting, your voice trailing in from offscreen as you fiddle with the camera angle. no mic, of course not. just raw cam audio, unpolished, real, every breath and rustle amplified. he leans closer, like proximity to the screen will make it less dangerous.

“okay—wait, hold on,” you mutter, slightly out of breath. there’s a plastic rustle, fabric scraping skin, the light jingle of a zipper. he catches the sound of your nails tapping the digicam accidentally, a faint clack-clack that makes him picture your fingers, probably painted some ridiculous color, fumbling in that endearing way you do. 

“ugh… come on…” your voice drops, a frustrated huff, low and throaty. “mm—sorry! this one’s hard to pull up.”

then—zipper slides. metal on fabric, slow and deliberate, like it’s teasing him on purpose. you let out a sigh, long, slow, just a little too satisfied, like you’re savoring the release of pressure. the sound coils in his gut, tight and hot.

he freezes.

his mouse stays hovering over the playhead, the cursor trembling slightly. blood is already rushing south, his sweatpants tightening in a way he can’t ignore. his breath catches, shallow and sharp, and the worst part?

you giggle.

“probably got the wrong size,” you say, tugging the dress up higher. the hem catches on your thighs, rising indecently, the fabric clinging to your skin like it’s reluctant to let go. “don’t tell anyone i didn’t try it on in-store first.”

he swallows nothing. jaw tight. the room suddenly feels suffocating, the ac’s hum drowned out by the thud of his own pulse. your lip catches between your teeth, a flash of white against pink gloss, and the camera catches that too, lingers on it like it knows what it’s doing.

you glance at the lens, eyes half-lidded, like you’re waiting for approval, like you’re asking him directly—do you like this?

satoru’s fingers twitch.

one hand stays on the mouse, scrubbing the timeline back three seconds to hear that sigh again. the other hand moves before he can stop it, slipping under his waistband, brushing against the heat of his skin. he’s already hard, achingly so, the kind of hard that makes his head swim.

he wraps his fingers around himself, slow at first, testing, like he’s not sure he’s really doing this again. but the sound of your voice—breathy, teasing—loops in his headphones, and he’s gone.

he strokes himself, deliberate and tight, his grip almost punishing. the video plays on, and you’re stepping into frame now, the dress half-zipped, hugging your curves in a way that makes his throat burn. your thighs shift as you adjust the hem, and he imagines them under his hands, soft and warm, parting just for him.

his thumb swipes over the tip of his cock, slick with precum, and he groans, low and broken, the sound swallowed by the hum of his pc. he pictures your fingers instead, clumsy but eager, your nails grazing his skin as you try to keep up with his rhythm.

he’d guide you, show you how he likes it—fast, rough, no mercy.

you sigh again, and he speeds up, his hand moving in time with the rise and fall of your voice. “this one’s kinda tight,” you murmur, tugging at the neckline, and the fabric stretches, exposing the swell of your chest.

he wants to rip it off, wants to hear you gasp for real, not for the camera but for him. his strokes grow erratic, desperate, the slick sound of his hand filling the room, obscene and unstoppable.

he scrubs the timeline back again, pauses on the frame where your dress slips, where your underwear peeks out—a thin, lacy thing that makes his vision blur. he imagines pulling it aside, imagines the heat of you, the way you’d whimper if he pressed himself inside.

he’s close, too close, his hips twitching up into his hand. the video loops your giggle, that satisfied sigh, and he’s drowning in it, in you.

he pictures you catching him like this, walking into his apartment right now, seeing him with his pants down and his cock in his hand, flushed and leaking. would you laugh? would you blush? would you drop to your knees and let him finish on your lips, glossy and perfect and—

he comes with a muted groan, his head tipping back, eyes screwed shut as his release spills over his fingers, hot and messy. his breath shakes, a ragged exhale that leaves him hollow. the aftershocks pulse through him, and he slumps in his chair, the video still playing, your voice oblivious to the wreckage you’ve caused.

he pauses the frame. your mouth is mid-word, forming the shape of “oops,” lips parted just enough to make his chest ache. he wipes his hand on a paper towel from his desk, crumpled and stained from earlier sins. doesn’t look at himself. doesn’t think.

exports the file without touching a thing. names it “final_edit.mov.” then saves another copy, the raw footage, every sigh and rustle preserved. he names it “jesusfuckingchrist.mp4” and buries it in a folder labeled “misc_ref.”

he tries to normalize it.

“it’s just grading,” he mutters the next time he opens the project, the lie sour on his tongue. “just adjusting white balance.” but the playback bar hasn’t moved from your thighs. he doesn’t touch the colors. not really.

he zooms in under the excuse of checking “grain smoothing,” but it’s just your lip, caught between your teeth, your breath clipped at the edges like you’re holding back.

he tells himself he’s just learning.

every artist has their muse, right? except now he edits to your audio. he used to play podcasts, background noise to keep his brain from spiraling.

now? your breathing is layered into the timeline, a track he’s labeled “vox_ref.” he loops your laugh in reverse, lets it pan from left to right like it’s some surround sound experience.

“this is practice,” he whispers, dragging eq curves around nonsense, boosting the highs until your voice is sharp and intimate. “i’m experimenting with filters.”

right. filters. filters until your voice sounds like it’s right by his ear, like you’re whispering in bed, your breath warm against his skin. he plays a clip of you saying “do you like this one?” over and over, the words detached from context.

he doesn’t even care what you’re referring to anymore. he’s got that part memorized, the way your voice dips, soft and unsure, like you’re asking him to love you.

the next class is worse.

you walk past him in that fuzzy pink shrug thing, one sleeve slipping off your shoulder, and it’s like a bomb goes off in his chest. the fabric clings to you, soft and teasing, and he wants to grab it, pull it down, see how much skin you’ll let him have.

you lean down to plug your charger in, your jeans riding low—too low, the kind of low that makes him wonder how they’re even allowed on campus. he catches a glimpse of your underwear, a flash of lace, and his brain whites out.

he glares at his laptop, scoffs under his breath. “that outfit’s… desperate.” the word feels like a blade, sharp and mean, but it’s all he’s got to keep you at a distance.

your head tilts, innocent, eyes wide like you’re genuinely curious. “you think so?” you say it like you mean it, like you don’t already know the answer, like you haven’t watched your own footage and seen what he’s seen.

he shrugs, keeps scowling, doesn’t look at you. his fingers grip the edge of his laptop too hard, knuckles white. behind the screen, he’s got a paused frame of you licking lip gloss off your thumb, minimized in the corner. it’s been open since he got here.

his file structure is disintegrating. he used to name things with logic—timestamps, project codes, version numbers. now his desktop looks like a manifesto, a digital shrine to his unraveling. “vlog_tryon_final.mov.” “edit_3alt.mp4.” “fuckmeagain_laughcut.mov.” there’s a folder called “NOT work (unless)” that he doesn’t even open anymore, too afraid of what he’ll find.

he tries to draw a line, but it’s blurry. always blurry. he doesn’t know where the edit ends and obsession begins. when he dreams, he dreams about zippers—except they’re not zipzers. they’re your legs, parting slow and deliberate, your breath hitching as he pulls you closer.

a new text lights up his screen:

 hey! idk if the last one looks good… should i redo it? it felt kinda awkward lol sorry T_T

you sound insecure, unsure, your words dripping with that self-conscious charm that makes his chest hurt. he stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard, his mind spiraling.

you don’t know, do you? you don’t know what you’re doing to him, how your voice alone is enough to make him hard again.

he types:

looks clean. don’t worry about it.

satoru watches the word clean sit there like a fucking lie. his dick twitches, traitor that it is.

he hates himself.

but he opens the raw file again. scrubs through, frame by frame, until he finds that timestamp—where you moan, soft and accidental, like you didn’t mean to let it slip. he watches it, his headphones sealing him in with the sound of you. he exports that single second, names it “moan_finalgodhelpme.mp4,” and tucks it away like a secret he’ll never confess.

the timeline sits open, your frozen frame staring back at him. he doesn’t close it. doesn’t want to.

it starts with static in his skull.

not the loud, electric kind that chokes you up or begs to be noticed. it’s quiet. a whir, like an old fan that never shuts off, humming behind his thoughts. when satoru drags his mouse across the screen and sees your name still on the folder, it buzzes—faint, familiar, a sickness with your scent.

he changes the name from “NOT work (unless)” to “ARCHIVE_21,” moves it to a different directory, pretends it’s work, or dead, or both. but the static doesn’t stop. it clings, sticky and warm, like your laugh looping in his headphones.

it doesn’t help.

not when he dreams in highlighter gloss and those half-bitten whines you make when stretching, your body arching just so. not when he wakes up rutting into damp sheets, mouthing your name like a damn prayer, his hips jerking against nothing. the shame burns, but it’s not enough to make him stop.

satoru’s trying.

really.

he takes up freelance gigs, edits wedding footage for some guy he hasn’t spoken to since second year. overlays cheesy filters, mutes the groom’s ugly laugh, syncs the vows to some overused acoustic track. it’s clean. respectable. sterile enough to make him itch, like he’s wearing someone else’s skin. but the folder’s still there, buried in his drive like it knows he’ll come back.

2:03 a.m.

his inbox pings, a sharp sound that cuts through the drone of his pc fans. your name lights up the screen, and his chest tightens before he even reads the message.

hiii satoru!! sorry for the late send, been sooo busy <3 can u take a look at this haul vid? i tried smth spicy but idk if it’s too much… lmk what u think pretty pls!!

march haul (raw).mp4

he knows he shouldn’t. there’s no logical reason, no business context, just the weight of your words—spicy, pretty pls—sinking into his gut. but his hands move on their own, clicking download, the progress bar filling like a fuse burning down.

click.

of course he does.

the video starts soft, your bedroom light diffused to a golden haze, casting shadows that dance across rumpled sheets. it looks like you’ve been tossing in them all day, the fabric creased and inviting.

you’re in lace—barely. something soft pink and flimsy, a slip of fabric that clings to your curves like it’s begging to be torn off.

your thigh’s out, one leg bent just enough to draw his eye, and the camera’s angled low, too low, like you meant to frame it this way.

“god, i hope this one fits…” your voice is breathy, a little strained, like you’re fighting the fabric. you adjust a strap, your fingers lingering on the lace, and your lip catches between your teeth, glossy and pink, a casual gesture that’s anything but. his breath stutters, a sharp inhale that burns his throat.

“oops, sorry—too much cleavage?” you laugh, not to yourself but at him.

he knows it.

his cock knows it, twitching against the seam of his sweatpants. the screen shakes as you set the camera on something unsteady—a stack of books, maybe—and it rocks just as you turn around, hips swaying, your ass hugged by that tiny thong, the lace cutting into your skin like a claim. you glance back over your shoulder, smirk poised like a dagger, eyes glinting in the soft light.

“i bet you’d pause right here, wouldn’t you?”

he does.

the video cuts mid-breath, and he doesn’t hear the silence. he’s frozen, hand halfway down, brain wiped clean. the frame lingers on your ass, the curve of it framed by lace, and his mouth is dry, his pulse hammering so loud it drowns out the static.

ping.

march haul (real).mp4

oops. wrong send lol. this is the real one!

his screen is still painted with the freeze-frame of your ass. his dick’s straining so hard it aches, a dull throb that makes him shift in his chair. he doesn’t respond, doesn’t move for a full minute, just stares at the message, the word oops taunting him. then—

he saves both files. drags them into “ARCHIVE_21” with a trembling cursor, his fingers clumsy on the trackpad. he opens the raw one again, slower this time, one hand on his lap, the other fisting his sheets until the fabric creaks.

you’re back on screen, adjusting the strap again, your laugh curling through his headphones like smoke. his hand slips under his waistband, and he’s already leaking, the tip slick and sensitive as he grips himself.

he strokes slow, deliberate, savoring the friction, but his mind’s elsewhere—on the hentai he’s spent years jerking off to, the doujins with dog-eared pages and cum-stained corners.

he pictures you like those girls, bent over and begging, your lace thong pushed to the side as he fucks you from behind, your moans louder, needier, than anything you’ve let slip on camera.

he imagines pinning you to those rumpled sheets, your thighs trembling under his hands, your ass bouncing with every thrust. no teasing giggles, no coy glances—just you, fucked out and whimpering, his name on your lips as he buries himself deep, so deep you can’t think.

his hand speeds up, the slick sound obscene in the quiet of his room. he scrubs the timeline back, pauses on the moment you turn, your smirk sharp and knowing.

he wants to wipe it off, wants to fuck you until you’re too wrecked to smile, until you’re clawing at the sheets and sobbing his name. he imagines your cunt, tight and wet, gripping him as he pounds into you, the lace of your thong rubbing raw against his skin.

it’s not enough to watch you anymore, not enough to stroke himself to your voice—he wants to ruin you, wants to feel you break under him, wants to make you his in a way those 2d girls never could.

he cums with a low, breathy whisper of your name, his hips jerking up into his hand. it’s intense, almost painful, spilling over his fingers and onto the hem of his shirt.

his chest heaves, his vision blurring as he slumps back, the video still playing, your laugh oblivious to the mess he’s become. he opens it again, doesn’t touch himself this time—just watches, memorizes, eyes glassy and mouth parted.

at one point, he swears he moans with you, a soft sound that slips out unbidden, his body betraying him even when he’s spent. when he edits the “real” file, he’s a machine. no stutters, no slips, just sharp keystrokes and surgical cuts, trimming shaky frames and boosting your voice until it’s crisp.

the guilt claws at him, a dull ache in his chest, but it only makes the next orgasm worse—and better. he exports it, names it “haul_march_final.mov,” and saves the raw file to a new subfolder: “stills_ref.” he doesn’t name the second copy. doesn’t need to. it’s just for him.

he plays it cool in class. “wow. another fit straight outta your grandma’s closet,” he scoffs as you pass, voice dripping with mockery, lips curling into something lazy and mean.

but his gaze flickers—just once, low and quick, like he’s checking for danger. and there it is. a flash of soft pink lace against the curve of your thigh as you shift your bag higher up your shoulder. just a sliver. deliberate.

he knows that lace. knows it from the raw footage, from the way it hugged your skin under golden light. his smirk falters for half a second, a crack in his armor.

you turn your head, slow as syrup, and smile at him over your shoulder. it’s airy, innocent, ditzy enough to play dumb, poisonous enough to feel like a threat. “mm? that bad, huh?” your voice is light, but your eyes linger a moment too long, sharp and knowing, like you’re peeling him open.

you take your seat two rows away, crossing one leg over the other with careful grace. your skirt rides up, just enough to show the edge of that lace again, and your fingers toy absentmindedly with the hem, brushing the fabric like it’s a game.

he doesn’t blink.

he knows what’s under that skirt, knows the way that lace bites into your skin when you move just like that. he’s seen it in soft lighting, tangled with shadows and sighs. he knows, and you know, and neither of you say a word.

he can’t breathe.

his hand trembles as he grips his pen, scrawling nonsense on the corner of his notes—random numbers, jagged lines, anything to keep his fingers busy.

someone’s asking a question about identity and performance, something about how we present ourselves versus how we wish to be perceived, and satoru’s already halfway to standing.

“sorry. washroom.” his voice cracks halfway through the lie, too sharp, too rushed.

satoru stumbles into the men’s room like he’s escaping a crime scene, the door clicking shut behind him. palm flat against cold tile, forehead pressed to the inside of his wrist, he tries to breathe, tries to think of anything else—code, deadlines, the wedding edit he’s behind on.

but it’s you.

always you. your smile, your laugh, the lace peeking out like a taunt.

he’s already hard, already leaking, the front of his jeans tight and unforgiving. he fumbles with the button, shoves them down just enough, and grips himself, his hand shaking as he strokes.

he closes his eyes and sees you—not the you in class, not the you playing dumb, but the you from his fantasies, the you he’s built from hentai panels and late-night desperation. he imagines you on your knees, lace thong pulled down, your cunt glistening as he fucks you against the bathroom sink.

no giggles, no teasing—just raw, desperate need, your moans echoing off the tiles as he slams into you, his hands bruising your hips, your body arching to take him deeper.

he wants you messy, wants you marked, wants to fill you until you’re dripping, until you’re his in a way that’s permanent.

he strokes faster, his breath hitching, his teeth sinking into his knuckles to muffle the groan clawing up his throat. he cums hard, too fast, his knees buckling as it spills over his hand, hot and shameful. he shakes, gasping, his forehead slick against the tile, and thinks of lace. thinks of lip gloss. thinks of your voice saying “oops” like it’s a sin.

it doesn’t take long for his desktop to become an altar.

the background’s still you, a freeze-frame from the first video, your lip gloss shimmering and fingers caught mid-twist in your hair. he tells himself it’s temporary, just a visual reference.

it’s been three weeks.

folders on folders: “hauls > favs > zoom_ins > stills > pantyshots.” “audio_samples > moan_loop > breath_only.wav.” “color tests > gloss_ref > lips.png.”

some nights, he replays a single frame just to watch your mouth form the word “fuck,” slows it down, isolates the syllables, pretends you’re saying his name instead.

the worst part?

you’re still pretending nothing’s changed. still calling them “favors,” still sending content like it’s work, like it’s nothing.

but your outfits are shorter, your giggles stick to the air longer, your eyes linger like you’re testing something. and when you purr, “you’re sooo good at this, satoru,” with that saccharine lilt, your voice curling around his name like a caress, he bites the inside of his cheek just to keep quiet. fists the sheets at night and prays.

he moans your name in the dark, face hot with shame, and hates how much he wants you to hear it.

satoru’s become sleep-deprived, dark smudges nesting beneath his eyes like fingerprints left behind by guilt or obsession or both. he wears his glasses more lately, less out of need and more as a buffer between him and the world—between him and you.

the lenses catch the glow of his new triple-monitor setup, a sleek beast he told himself was for coding, for editing, for multitasking. not for keeping your videos looping on the side monitor while he pretends to work on the main one. not for that at all.

your folder’s pinned in quick access, a permanent fixture in his file explorer. he keeps it open in the background at all times, a digital pulse that hums alongside his pc fans. second nature now, like breathing or wanting. not unlike a shrine.

in class, he pretends to take notes, his stylus scratching nonsense on his tablet. he’s not. he’s watching a gif on his phone, hidden under the desk—a loop of your tongue dragging slow across lip gloss, eyes soft with focus like you’re painting yourself pretty just for him. the gif’s only three seconds, but he’s memorized every frame, every flicker of your lashes. his thumb swipes to replay it, again, again, until his vision blurs.

ctrl+shift+eject brain.exe.

three days pass, and you haven’t messaged. he checks your chat thread more than he breathes—opens, closes, re-opens, scrolling through your old texts like they’ll reveal something new. every flicker of hope is a false start, a phantom ping that makes his chest lurch. he’s pathetic, he knows it, but knowing doesn’t stop the itch.

then:

ping.

april haul (suits).mov

hii satoru!! new haul vid for u to check <3 tried some swimsuits this time, hope it’s not too boring to trim hehe. lmk what u think!!”

he nearly drops his phone, his thumb smudging the screen as he fumbles to download. his new setup hums to life, the main monitor flashing with code he hasn’t touched in hours, the side monitor already open to your folder.

he drags the file into premiere, the timeline blooming across the screen, but his eyes are on the raw video, already playing on the right monitor, your voice spilling through his headphones like honey.

the video’s different this time. the camera’s lower, like it’s been left on a desk or shelf, pointing slightly upward to frame you from your knees to just above your head. your bed makes a cozy blur in the background, sheets tangled like an invitation.

you’re in a bikini top that isn’t trying very hard to stay on, thin strings knotted loosely at your neck and back, the fabric barely containing you. “mmm. does this scream summer, or slut?” you giggle, feigned innocence like frosting over heat, your voice curling around the words like you know exactly what they’ll do to him.

you play with the strings at your chest, tugging, adjusting, your fingers brushing the swell of your breasts. then, softer, breathier, to the lens: “baby, help me pick…”

baby.

it breaks him all over again, a crack that runs straight through his chest. his cock twitches, already hard, straining against his boxers.

everything after that gets softer, lazier, dangerous in how intimate it feels. there’s no performative energy now—just casual, candid seduction, your movements slow, like you’re not hurrying for anyone. like you know exactly who’s watching and how long he’ll linger.

when you shrug a dress off your shoulders, you sigh, the sound catching in your throat. when you twist to adjust a strap, you hum, low and absentminded. and when you struggle with a clasp at your back, your fingers fumbling, you moan—soft, unintentional, a sound that slips out like it surprised even you.

satoru’s thumb slams the spacebar, pausing the video, rewinding three seconds to hear it again. he watches the way your lips part, the way your brows twitch, the way your body shifts like you’re chasing the sensation.

he’s already leaking, his boxers damp as he shoves them down, his hand wrapping around himself. the side monitor loops the raw footage, your moan playing over and over, while the main monitor holds the paused frame of your parted lips. he strokes slow at first, his grip tight, his thumb swiping over the tip where he’s slick and sensitive.

his mind slips to the doujins he’s hoarded, the hentai he’s spent years chasing—the girls with flushed cheeks and desperate eyes, fucked raw and begging for more. but now it’s you, not some inked fantasy, and it’s so much filthier.

he imagines you sprawled across your bed, that bikini top ripped off, your thighs spread wide as he fucks you deep, relentless, your cunt clenching around him as you sob his name. no teasing, no giggles—just you, wrecked and dripping, your nails clawing his back as he takes you again and again, each thrust harder, messier, until you’re nothing but his.

his hand speeds up, the slick sound loud in his room, mixing with your looped moan. he wants you pinned beneath him, wants to feel you squirm, wants to fuck you until the bed creaks and your voice breaks, until you’re begging like those hentai girls, your glossed lips trembling as you say his name—satoru, please, more.

he imagines filling you, his cum leaking down your thighs, your body marked by him in ways he can’t unsee. it’s not enough to watch, not enough to stroke—he wants to own you, wants to make you his in every way those 2d fantasies taught him to crave.

he cums hard, forehead pressed to his desk, a low groan tearing from his throat as it spills over his hand, his keyboard, the edge of his new setup. his breath is ragged, like he’s run a marathon, his glasses fogging slightly as he gasps.

the side monitor still plays, your voice oblivious, your moan looping like a hymn. he doesn’t stop the video, just slumps back, spent and shaking, and watches again, his hand twitching like it’s not done.

it doesn’t take long for his room to reek of sweat and sin.

he edits shirtless now, sometimes in boxers, always hard, always leaking. every file’s renamed with trembling hands: “wifey_take7.mov.” “wifey_raw.mp4.”

he syncs your sighs to his lo-fi playlist, turns it into a lullaby, falls asleep to the sound of your breath. sometimes he slows your voice just to hear “baby” dragged out into velvet, makes gifs of your hands skimming your hips, kisses the screen when he’s drunk enough to forget shame.

you, on the other hand, don’t break character.

in class, you chew your pen and lean forward, the arch of your spine exact, your cleavage subtle—barely a tease, just enough to make his throat tighten. he looks away with a clenched jaw, adjusts himself under the desk, twice, his jeans unforgiving.

you whisper to a friend and giggle, and he lipreads, thinks he sees the words “can’t wait,” but maybe he’s hallucinating, maybe not. it doesn’t matter.

he starts responding to the clips aloud.

“fuck yes, that one.” “spin again, baby.” sometimes he mumbles your name like a prayer, sometimes he chokes it into his pillow. every orgasm has your name carved into it, a brand he can’t erase.

one night, he opens a file to edit, drags it into premiere, but he doesn’t touch it. just watches, headphones in, barely breathing. not a content creator now, not a student, not even a man—just a creature of need, and you his ritual, his muse, his goddess.

the screen shows you adjusting the straps of a silky babydoll, the lighting warm, your thighs bare, half-tucked under you as you sit prettily at the edge of your bed.

“okay, so this one’s… like, totally giving ‘come to bed’ energy, right?” you giggle, voice light, teeth sinking into your glossed lip as you bounce once, soft and natural, the fabric barely covering your chest.

satoru groans low in his throat, not even trying to hide it. “it’s giving bend over,” he mutters, lips twitching, his side monitor looping the raw footage, his main screen frozen on your smile. “fuck, look at you…”

you reach behind you, struggle with the clasp, wiggle your shoulders like you’re teasing whoever’s behind the camera. “oof. that’s tight… should i size up?” a breathy laugh follows, your sigh melting into it.

he licks his lips, your audio crystal-clear in his headphones. you’re right there, talking to him. “nah, baby,” he croons, eyes fixed on the curve of your spine as you turn. “tight’s perfect. keeps the goods in place.”

you blow a kiss at the lens. “hope you’re not bored yet,” you say with a wink. “i saved the cutest for last…”

you bend off-frame, your ass peeking just above the edge of the bed, round and inviting in cotton panties with lace trim, and when you rise again, your hands hold something sheer and tiny. “tadaaa,” you whisper, eyes glinting with mischief. “this one’s for my favorite viewer.”

00:05:46—satoru slams the shortcut, timestamp saved. a second later, he screenshots, then again, then again, frame by frame, until he finds the exact one where your lip’s caught between your teeth and your ass is still halfway in the air.

“fucking perfect,” he mutters, breath uneven. he pulls the image up on his main screen, zooms in, sharpens it, runs it through noise reduction. the side monitor loops the raw video, your voice sweet and teasing, while the right monitor plays a gif of your earlier moan, your lips parted in that soft, accidental sound.

his hand’s already moving, shoving his boxers down, his cock springing free, hard and leaking like it’s been waiting for this. 

he grips himself, rough and urgent, no pretense of patience. the new setup’s perfect—your video on the side, his code on the main screen like he’s working, but it’s all you, every pixel, every sound.

he strokes in time with your giggle, his eyes flicking between the gif of your moan and the screenshot of your ass, his mind spiraling into the filthiest corners of his hentai-soaked brain.

he imagines you on that bed, face down, ass up, the babydoll hiked to your waist as he fucks you so hard the headboard cracks. he wants you screaming, wants your cunt pulsing around him, wants to pull your hair and make you look at him as he fills you, over and over, until you’re a mess, until you’re his completely.

his strokes are frantic, his breath hitching, his hips bucking into his hand. he pictures you tied to the bed, like that one doujin he read last month, your wrists bound with those same bikini strings, your thighs trembling as he fucks you through one orgasm into the next.

he wants to cum inside you, wants to watch it drip out, wants to push it back in with his fingers and make you lick them clean. it’s not enough to jerk off anymore, not enough to dream—he wants to break you, wants to make you real, wants to fuck you until you’re as addicted to him as he is to you.

he cums with a choked growl, his head tipping back, glasses slipping down his nose as it spills over his hand, his desk, the sticky mess splattering his keyboard.

he’s shaking, gasping, his chest heaving as the side monitor loops your voice, your “baby” purring like a mantra. his wrist’s sticky, his room a haze of sweat and shame, but he doesn’t care. he’s not even really here.

you’re everywhere now—three monitors, three altars, your image burned into his retinas. he’d worship on his knees if you asked.

the next day, another file:

april haul (closeups).mp4

sorry! idk if this one’s helpful but i liked the shots hehe

he doesn’t unzip his pants. doesn’t need to. he’s already throbbing from the inside out, his body reacting to your name alone. he clicks, watches, kneels, and whispers your name like a benediction, the static in his skull louder than ever.

it starts with a ping.

innocuous. a single pixel shift on the main monitor mid-code, just as satoru’s debugging a script for a deadline he already missed. his side monitor hums with your last video, paused on that frame where your lip’s caught between your teeth, and the third monitor’s open to a half-finished render he hasn’t touched in days. he glances lazily at the notification, expecting another reminder from suguru to shower or eat—

but no. it’s you.

hey… do u do filming too?

his fingers freeze. heart jams, a dull thud in his chest. the cursor blinks, waiting, mocking. he doesn’t think. doesn’t breathe. his glasses slip down his nose, and he doesn’t fix them. the words burn into his retinas, and his cock twitches before he can process why.

yeah. totally. what kind of shoot?

he sends it, his thumb trembling over the enter key. no reply. not for five whole minutes. the wait is a crucifixion, each second stretching into eternity. he keeps opening and closing the chat, rereading your words like they might shift into something dirtier, something more.

his triple-monitor setup glows, your frozen frame on the side monitor staring at him, lips parted, eyes glinting. he’s already leaking in his pants, a damp spot spreading against his thigh.

then:

just a casual thing. home setup. come over?

he reads it twice. three times. his breath catches, sharp and shallow, like he’s been punched. come over. your dorm. your space. he’s hard, achingly so, his boxers tight and unforgiving. he doesn’t reply, just slams his laptop shut, grabs his camera bag, and stumbles out the door.

he shows up twenty minutes later, barely remembered to wear deodorant, definitely forgot his dignity. his high-end sony alpha mirrorless—loaded with a lens that costs more than most people’s rent—bounces against his chest as he knocks. his palms are slick, his glasses fogging slightly from the heat of his own nerves.

you open the door with a giggle, wrapped in a pastel pink robe that might as well be air. it clings to the curve of your waist, parts at the thigh, revealing soft skin that makes his throat burn. your hair’s still damp, sticking to your collarbones, and the scent of vanilla lotion hits him like a drug. “thanks for coming! i’m kinda nervous…”

he wants to bark out same, but his jaw locks. he swallows instead, the motion too loud in his ears. “no problem.” his voice is gravel, like he’s choking on his own want. he steps inside, and your dorm swallows him whole—warm, cutesy, a pastel fever dream of plush throw pillows, fairy lights, and a pink velvet couch that looks too soft, too inviting.

he’s already imagining you bent over it, your robe hiked up, your moans echoing off the walls. it smells like you sprayed your strawberry perfume over every surface, dizzying, suffocating. his glasses fog again.

he sets up the tripod with shaking hands, the sony’s weight grounding him just enough to keep from falling apart. you bounce around the living room, humming, fluffing pillows on the couch, fixing your gloss in a heart-shaped mirror propped against a shelf.

“does this lighting make me look washed out?” you ask, stepping back, tilting your head. then you bend to adjust a lamp, and your robe parts just enough to reveal the gentle curve of your ass, bare except for a sliver of lace.

he sees. pretends he didn’t. fumbles the lens cap, twice, the plastic clattering to the floor. his face burns, but he keeps his eyes on the camera, adjusting settings he doesn’t need to touch.

you brush past him again and again, your bare arm glancing his, silk whispering across his knuckles when you pass. he smells shampoo in the air, thick and sweet, and it’s you, all you, sinking into his lungs. “you nervous?” you tease, voice light, a giggle curling at the edges.

he scoffs, wiping his palm against his jeans, the denim rough against his slick skin. “pfft. nah. i’ve filmed worse.” a lie, bold and brittle, his voice too tight to sell it.

“worse than me?” you pout, stepping closer, close enough that he can feel the warmth of your breath. “ouch.”

“i didn’t say that.” his voice cracks, a hairline fracture. he’s too aware of you, of the way your robe slips an inch, of the way your eyes glint like you’re playing with him.

you tilt your head, wide-eyed, all fake innocence. “sooo… you have filmed pretty girls before?”

he falters, breath stuttering in his chest. he’s a virgin, hasn’t touched a girl in years, hasn’t wanted to—not when hentai’s been enough, when doujins have been his only lovers. but you’re real, and you’re here, and you’re breaking him.

“no one like you,” he says, unfiltered, raw, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

your lips curl, slow and sweet, a smile that says i know. “hm. figured.”

you disappear into your bedroom for a few minutes, the door clicking shut. he pretends to adjust the white balance, tweaking settings on the sony that are already perfect, but really he’s staring at the door like it owes him salvation.

his cock’s throbbing, a dull ache that won’t quit, and he shifts, trying to ease the pressure. the living room feels too small, the pink couch too soft, the fairy lights too intimate. he’s imagining you sprawled across that couch, your robe gone, your thighs spread, his camera capturing every gasp.

the door opens. you emerge. lingerie set, pale and sheer, a mini skirt that barely qualifies, lip gloss freshly reapplied. you look like a doll, saccharine and sinful, every curve a taunt. “can you help me zip this?” you turn, bare back exposed, the zipper halfway up, your spine a perfect line that begs to be touched.

he steps forward, too close, his exhale brushing your shoulder. his fingers graze your skin—soft, warm, real—and you shiver, a small, deliberate tremor. he pulls the zipper up with trembling hands, the metal catching once, his breathing uneven. the distance between you shatters into nothing, the air thick with static.

“you’re doing this on purpose,” he rasps, low in your ear, his voice rough with want.

“doing what?” you whisper, fake innocence thick as honey, your head tilting just enough to catch his eye.

you look back at him, lashes fluttering, lips parted, glossy and pink. he breaks.

“fuck.”

he grabs you, his hands rough on your hips, your mouths crashing together—teeth, tongue, gasps. your lip gloss smears against his cheek, sweet and sticky, and he groans into the kiss, devouring you.

you moan into his mouth, legs wrapping around his hips as he lifts you onto the counter, the edge biting into your thighs. you’re silk and heat and sin beneath his hands, and he’s forgotten everything else—his camera, his code, his shame. only you exist now.

you feel his hard-on through his jeans, pressed against your thighs, and he’s panting, his breath stuttering against your skin as he kisses down your jaw, your neck, the ridge of your spine. his mouth is everywhere, like he’s starved, like he’s trying to memorize you with his tongue.

his glasses slip down, and he grins against your collarbone. “need to get a better look,” he mutters, a flimsy excuse to lean closer, until the fog of his breath warms your skin. he bites your collarbone, hard, groaning when he leaves a mark. “wanna see that in playback.”

he drops to his knees without hesitation, a virgin’s worship, reverence born from years of hentai and nothing else. his fingers dig into your thighs, spreading them wide, and he groans like he’s just found salvation. he runs his tongue along the inner part first, slow and teasing, so close to the lace of your panties but not touching what you want.

you try to close your legs, but he forces them open, his grip bruising, his mouth finding the wet spot through the fabric. “fuck, you’re soaked,” he growls, voice muffled, his tongue dragging heavy and slow, the lace rough against your clit. “been wet for me this whole time, huh? fuckin’ tease.”

you whimper, hips bucking, and he moans into you, the vibration making you gasp. he licks through the panties, relentless, his glasses slipping halfway down his nose but he doesn’t care.

“you taste better than i dreamed,” he says, his voice hoarse, hentai dialogue spilling out like it’s natural. he sucks at the fabric, tongue pressing harder, and you’re trembling, your hands fisting his hair as you grind against his face. he’s messy, desperate, his moans louder than yours, like he’s the one about to cum. you do, hard, a cry tearing from your throat as you shudder against his mouth, and he doesn’t stop, lapping at the soaked lace like it’s his last meal.

he presses his cheek to your thigh, sticky and glistening, looking up at you with glassy eyes. “first one’s mine,” he says, grinding his hips into the floor, his jeans tight with his own need. you don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it. he spreads you open with his fingers, peeling the panties aside, watching your hole twitch with a hunger that makes his mouth water.

“look at that,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his voice dripping with awe. “fuckin’ perfect.” he slides two fingers in, slow at first, then deeper, curling them just right, like he’s memorized every doujin panel that showed him how. “shit—i’ve seen this in hentai but it’s better. fuck, it’s real.”

his fingers pump, slick and steady, and you’re moaning, head thrown back, the counter digging into your hips. he adds a third, stretching you, his free hand jerking himself through his jeans, matching the pace of his fingers inside you. “so tight, baby. you’re gonna feel so good around my cock.”

he spits on your pussy, a quick, filthy gesture, his eyes locked on yours as it drips down. “they never show that part right in hentai. had to test it myself.” you moan, loud and broken, and he moans louder, his fingers slipping out with a wet squelch. he licks them clean, slow, eyes fluttering shut like he’s savoring you. “fuck—want it all.”

he stands, trembling, his jeans tented painfully. “can i?” his voice is small, almost pleading, a crack in his bravado. you nod, and he fumbles with his belt, shoving his jeans down just enough. he lines himself up, his cock thick and leaking, the tip brushing your entrance. “you’re so warm—holy shit—you’re squeezing me—fuck—”

he slides in, slow at first, gasping as you take him, your cunt tight and slick around him. he’s a virgin, but he knows this, knows the rhythm from years of jerking off to scenes just like this. he freezes, trying not to cum, his glasses fogging as he pants. you clench down, deliberate, and he slaps your thigh, a quick, sharp sting that earns him a whine.

“don’t—fuck, don’t do that yet.”

he pulls out, just to slam back in, harder, the counter creaking under you. his rhythm’s sloppy, desperate, but he finds it, each thrust deeper, rougher. “look at you,” he growls, his voice pure filth, hentai dialogue spilling free. “taking my cock like a good little slut. you love this, don’t you? fuckin’ made for me.” he licks the tears running down your cheek, his tongue hot and greedy. “crying already? baby, i’m not even close to done.”

you moan his name, and he loses it, his thrusts turning frantic, messy, like he’s trying to ruin you. “film it. show me what you see,” you gasp, and he fumbles for his phone, almost dropping it with how hard he’s shaking.

the camera app opens in a blur of fingers, then steadies, the lens catching you spread wide beneath him, thighs trembling, pussy stuffed full of his cock. he holds it there, watching the way you flutter around him, his breath ragged. “watch this later and see how ruined you look, baby,” he pants, voice hoarse, wild.

he leans in, still recording, whispering filth against your ear. “that’s right. take it. cry for me. i want you loud.” his other hand drags the mic closer, the sony’s external recorder capturing every slick thrust, every broken sob, every wet squelch, loud and obscene.

he fucks you harder, the counter shaking, your tits bouncing with each thrust. “gonna fuck you on every piece of furniture in here,” he growls, his voice low, unhinged. “that couch? gonna bend you over it. that table? gonna spread you wide. your bed? gonna fill you till you’re screaming.”

you clench around him, and he groans, his hips stuttering. “fuck, you like that? you want me to wreck you everywhere, don’t you?” you nod, gasping, and he slaps your thigh again, harder, leaving a red mark. “say it, baby. tell me you want it.”

“i want it,” you whimper, voice breaking, and he grins, feral, his thrusts turning punishing. you cum again, a shuddering mess, your cry echoing in the mic as your cunt pulses around him, slick dripping down your thighs. he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, his cock throbbing as he fucks you through it.

“gonna fill you up,” he pants, his voice cracking, hentai fantasies spilling out. “gonna cum so deep you’ll feel me for days. you want that, don’t you? want my cum dripping out of you?”

you nod, moaning, and he loses it, slamming into you one last time as he cums, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. it’s hot, messy, spilling inside you, and he keeps thrusting, shallow and desperate, like he’s trying to push it deeper.

satoru doesn’t stop.

in fact, he lifts you, his arms wrapping under your thighs like you’re weightless, his cock still buried inside you, slick and pulsing. your head lolls against his shoulder, your breath hot against his neck, and he groans, low and guttural, as he carries you toward your bedroom.

the air shifts as he crosses the threshold, your perfume hitting him harder here—floral and sugary, the same scent that clings to your pillow, your wrist, your everything. it’s thicker in this room, curling around him like a trap, and he kicks the door shut behind him, the click loud in the quiet.

he pushes you toward the vanity, your back meeting the cool glass of the mirror with a soft thud. he bends you over it, slow and deliberate, his hands guiding your hips until your cheek presses against the surface, your breath fogging the reflection.

“look at you,” he groans, angling his phone to capture the scene—your flushed face, your glossed lips parted, your eyes half-lidded in the mirror as you whine in embarassment.

“pretty little thing, still trying to act innocent.” his voice is rough, edged with hunger, and he shifts his hips, thrusting shallowly, keeping you pinned, reaching for your lip gloss.

you mumble something, a weak protest or plea, but he shuts it up with a swipe of your lip gloss across your mouth, his hand trembling as he paints your lips pink, the applicator slick and messy.

“perfect,” he says, pulling back just enough to admire the shine, the way it catches the light. then he pushes in again, deeper, and you both moan, the sound mingling in the air, caught by the sony’s mic still recording from the tripod in the corner.

he kisses you messily—gloss smearing, lips hungry, teeth clashing as he grinds his hips, slow and torturous, never breaking the rhythm. the camera stays on, the phone propped against a perfume bottle, capturing every gasp, every shudder.

“taste so fuckin’ good,” he mutters against your mouth, his tongue chasing the sticky sweetness. “gonna kiss you till you’re dripping everywhere.”

satoru lays you on the bed next, gentle but urgent, his hands shaking as he props his phone against a stack of books on your nightstand, the camera app open, framing you perfectly—your body sprawled across the pastel sheets, thighs parted, lingerie barely clinging to your skin, the sheer fabric of your top stretched tight over your chest, the mini skirt hiked up to expose the lace of your panties.

he climbs over you, his glasses slipping down his nose, and pushes your legs up, hooking them over his shoulders, the angle forcing you open, vulnerable.

“fuck, you feel like heaven,” he says, voice cracking, almost reverent, as he slides back inside you, slow and deep, the heat of you pulling a groan from his throat. “i’m never gonna stop, baby.”

each thrust is deliberate, his hips rolling to hit that spot that makes you arch, your nails raking down his arms, leaving red trails he’ll stare at later.

he kisses you through it, his mouth sloppy and desperate, swallowing your moans like they’re his lifeline. the bed creaks under you, the fairy lights casting a soft glow over your tear-streaked face, and he’s lost in it, in the way you clench around him, so tight it’s like you’re made for him.

“so fuckin’ perfect,” he pants, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot and uneven. “taking my cock like you were born for it.”

he tugs at the straps of your lingerie top, pulling it down until your tits spill free, the sheer fabric catching under them, and he groans, his mouth latching onto a nipple, sucking hard until you whimper, your hips bucking against him.

but it doesn’t last—he needs more, needs to see you break in ways he’s only imagined in the dark of his room, his hand on his cock and your videos on loop.

he pulls out, his dick slick and throbbing, and grabs your hips, flipping you with a low grunt. he drags you up by the waist, positioning you on your knees, your ass high, your face pressed into the sheets, the skirt still bunched around your hips. his hand slides up your spine, pushing your chest down, arching you just right, and he yanks the lace panties to the side, not bothering to take them off.

“this is what you get for teasing me all these days,” he growls, his voice unhinged, as he lines himself up and thrusts in, hard and deep, the slap of skin sharp in the quiet room.

you whimper, muffled against the pillow, and he fucks harder, each thrust rocking you forward, the bedframe rattling, your moans spilling free despite the fabric. his phone’s still recording, propped precariously, catching every angle—your arched back, your trembling thighs, the way his cock disappears into you with every brutal snap of his hips.

“look at that pussy,” he says, his free hand gripping your ass, spreading you open for the camera. “so greedy, swallowing me whole. you love this, don’t you?” he tugs your hair, pulling your head back, forcing your cries to echo. “louder, baby. let the whole fuckin’ dorm hear you.”

he slows, just to torment you, his hips grinding deep, making you squirm, your overstimulated body shaking under him. you’re teary, sobs catching in your throat, but he doesn’t care—he wants you loud, wants you broken. he leans down, his chest pressed to your back, and bites your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark.

“cry for me,” he whispers, his voice rough, his hand slipping around to pinch your nipple, twisting until you gasp. “wanna hear you fall apart.” he pulls out, leaving you empty, and you whine, a desperate, keening sound that makes him smirk.

“patience, princess,” he mocks, slapping your ass lightly, the sting making you clench around nothing.

satoru guides you up, turning you to face him, and pushes you back onto the bed, climbing over you. “wanna see you ride me,” he says, lying back against the headboard, his hands gripping your hips as you straddle him. he tugs the skirt off completely, tossing it aside, leaving you in just the stretched-out lingerie top and soaked panties.

“bounce,” he growls, his eyes locked on where you sink down onto him, slow and deliberate, your cunt stretching around him as you take him inch by inch. “show the camera how you fuck me.”

his phone’s angled to catch it all—your tits bouncing, still half-caught in the sheer fabric, your thighs trembling, the way you gasp every time you drop down, taking him to the hilt.

you move, your hips rolling, your hands braced on his chest, and he’s sweating, his glasses slipping, his breath ragged. he doesn’t let you slow, his hands lifting you, slamming you back down, making you take him deeper. “that’s it,” he says, voice hoarse, his fingers digging into your ass, leaving bruises. “fuck yourself on my cock. show me how bad you need it.”

you’re sobbing now, tears streaming down your cheeks, but you keep going, your moans loud and broken, your body shaking from the overstimulation. he reaches up, ripping the lingerie top off completely, the fabric tearing with a sharp sound, and gropes your tits, squeezing hard, his thumbs brushing your nipples until you shudder.

“these are mine now,” he says, his voice pure filth. “gonna mark ‘em up so you can’t hide.”

he’s close, too close, but he’s not done.

he pushes you off, gentle but firm, and stands, pulling you with him toward the full-length mirror by your closet. he spins you, pressing your chest to the glass, your hands splaying against it, your tear-streaked reflection staring back.

he kicks your legs apart, his cock nudging your entrance, and slides in, slow and deep, his breath hot against your ear. “look at you,” he says, his lips brushing your neck, his hands caging you against the mirror. “look at my cock ruining your pussy.”

he thrusts, slow at first, watching your reflection—your tears, your drool, your gloss-smeared lips, the way your body shakes with every snap of his hips. “you wanted a nerd? this nerd’s gonna fuckin’ break you.”

he fucks you harder, the mirror rattling, your moans bouncing off the walls, loud enough to wake the neighbors. “so fuckin’ pretty,” he pants, one hand slipping to your clit, rubbing messy, relentless circles. “gonna cum all over my cock, aren’t you? gonna make a mess for me?”

you nod, sobbing, your body trembling, and he slaps your ass, the sting sharp, making you clench around him. “say it, baby. tell me you’re mine.”

“i’m yours,” you gasp, voice breaking, tears streaming, and he cums with a raw groan, spilling inside you, hot and thick, his hips stuttering as he rides it out.

he doesn’t pull out, doesn’t stop, his cock still hard, still twitching as he fucks his cum deeper, the slick sound obscene. “not done,” he mutters, his glasses fogged, his voice wrecked. “gonna make you cum again.”

he keeps going, relentless, his thrusts slower but deeper, each one pushing his cum back inside, making you shake. his fingers on your clit are merciless, circling fast, and you’re oversensitive, your body convulsing, your moans turning to desperate cries. “satoru—fuck—too much—” you sob.

he only slaps your thigh, sharp and stinging, and leans in, his lips grazing your ear. “too much? nah, princess, you can take it. wanna feel you squirt for me.”

he angles his hips, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur, and you’re gone, your body locking up as you cum, a gush of wet heat soaking his cock, dripping down your thighs, pooling on the floor. he groans, loud and broken, his hips jerking as he cums again, another hot rush filling you, spilling out around him.

“fuck—look at that mess,” he pants, his hand smearing the slick between your legs, rubbing it into your skin. “all for me.”

but he’s not done. he pulls you back to the bed, laying you on your side, one leg hooked over his arm as he slides back in, his cock still hard, slick with your cum and his. “one more,” he begs, his voice cracking, his glasses crooked. “gimme one more, baby. need to feel you again.”

he thrusts slow, deep, his hand slipping between your legs to tease your oversensitive clit, and you’re crying, tears streaming, your body shaking from the intensity. he bites your neck, leaving marks, and whispers, “love it when you cry for me. so fuckin’ loud, just how i like it.”

he shifts, rolling you onto your stomach, keeping you pinned as he fucks you into the mattress, his hand pressing your face into the sheets. “gonna cum all over you,” he growls, his thrusts turning sloppy, desperate. “gonna fill you up till you’re leaking me for days.”

you cum again, a shuddering, broken mess, your sobs muffled against the pillow, your body convulsing as you squirt again, weaker but still enough to soak the sheets. he cums with you, a third time, his groan hoarse, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you, the mess dripping out, pooling under you.

“fuck—baby—” he gasps, his voice wrecked, his body shaking as he collapses against you, his glasses falling off completely, clattering to the floor.

“mine now,” he whispers, hoarse and ruined, his forehead pressed to your back, his breath hot and uneven. “you’re mine now.”

you nod, too spent to speak, your body limp, your reflection in the mirror a blur of tears and gloss and him, the phone still recording every ragged breath, every whispered “fuck” as he pulls you closer, not letting go.

but then silence swells, heavy and slow, filling the room like a fog. the air’s thick with the aftermath—sweat, cum, and the lingering sweetness of your perfume, still clinging to the sheets, to him.

satoru’s hands tremble where they hold you, one slipping down to fumble with his phone, stopping the recording with a clumsy tap, the other pressing flat against your stomach, grounding him, grounding you. your breaths are too loud, ragged and uneven, syncing in the quiet like a metronome.

he leans away slightly, just enough to grab a towel from the edge of your bed, awkward in the afterglow like he just realized he desecrated a temple. his glasses are gone, lost somewhere in the mess of sheets, and his hair’s a disaster, sticking to his forehead, damp with sweat.

“shit,” he mutters, voice barely above a whisper, too quiet for the boy who was growling filth ten minutes ago. “did i—i mean. that wasn’t too much, right?” there’s a crack in his tone, a flicker of panic, like he’s replaying every thrust, every slap, every sobbed moan he pulled from you.

you don’t answer at first, too dazed, too wrung out, your body still humming from the overstimulation, your thighs sticky and trembling.

your silence makes him spiral.

“fuck, i knew it. i pushed too hard. i got carried away—i was recording—fuck—i didn’t even ask—” his words tumble out, frantic, his hand raking through his hair as he sits up, eyes wide, searching your face for any sign of regret.

you turn to face him, slow and sore, your cheek pillowed against your arm, the motion making your body ache in the best way. your eyes are still wet, lashes clumped with tears, lips kiss-bruised and sticky with half-worn gloss, swollen from his teeth. you stare at him—this boy, this dork, with his mussed-up hair and the panicked look of someone who just lived out a lifelong fantasy and now doesn’t know what to do with it.

“i’m okay,” you say, your voice shredded, raw from screaming his name. “jesus, i’m so okay.”

he exhales, a shaky rush of air, like he’s been holding it in for hours. he collapses back against you, burying his face in your neck, his lips brushing the bite mark he left earlier. “fuck, you scared me,” he mumbles, his voice muffled, warm against your skin. then, quieter, almost unhinged: “we just speedran my entire hentai folder.”

you laugh, a weak, breathy sound that bubbles up despite the ache in your ribs. “i know.”

“i didn’t even know i could,” he says, his voice small, like he’s confessing a sin. “i haven’t even done that in vr.”

you snort, the sound catching in your throat. “nerd.”

he groans, but it’s not annoyed—it’s mortified, the kind of sound that comes from knowing he’s exposed himself completely. “i’m never gonna recover from this. i glossed you like a fuckin’ bratz doll. i glossed you.” his hand gestures vaguely at your lips, still shiny and smeared, and you laugh again, the sound softer now, your body too tired for anything more.

you roll over fully, tugging him down into the blankets with you, the pastel sheets tangling around your legs. he follows like a kicked puppy, his head resting on your chest, his breath warm against your skin. you can feel his heart still racing, his body still trembling from the high.

“i just,” you mumble, your voice barely audible, “wanted you to notice me. back during the group project, you never looked at me. just your laptop. even when i wore that stupid short skirt.”

he goes silent, his fingers pausing where they’re tracing lazy circles on your hip. then, in a voice so small it barely carries: “…you wore that for me?”

you nod, your cheek brushing his hair.

he lets out the tiniest, most violated gasp, like you’ve just rewritten his entire reality. “i thought you were just one of those girls who always looked hot. like, default setting.” his voice cracks on the last word, and you can’t help the teasing smile that tugs at your lips.

“no,” you say, your tone playful despite the exhaustion. “i was trying to seduce the dumbass with the mecha desktop background.”

he muffles a sob into your chest, half-laugh, half-groan, his arms tightening around you. “i love mecha…” he says, like it’s the most tragic thing in the world, and you hum, stroking his hair, your fingers catching in the sweaty strands.

“i know.”

a long pause settles over you, the kind that feels like it could stretch forever. the fairy lights twinkle softly, casting shadows across the room, and your perfume lingers, mixing with the musk of sex. his breathing slows, but he doesn’t let go, his body still pressed to yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

then he lifts his head, his eyes serious, stripped of the wild edge they had before. “can i… hold you properly? not like—y’know—breeding press. like, real holding.” his cheeks flush, like he’s embarrassed to admit he wants something soft after all that.

“you already folded me in half like a love letter,” you whisper, but you shift into his arms anyway, letting him pull you close. he wraps around you, tight, needy, his hands trembling like he’s still processing you’re real, not just pixels on a screen. his hold is desperate, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you, every curve, every soft inch, in case this never happens again.

“don’t make fun of me,” he says, his voice muffled against your shoulder. “i think my crush on you just speedran into obsession.” there’s a rawness to it, a confession that feels too big for the quiet, but it lands soft, like he’s finally letting it out.

“you’re the one who begged for one more while crying into my shoulder,” you tease, your voice barely above a whisper, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

“stop,” he groans, burying his face deeper, his arms tightening like he could squeeze the embarrassment out of himself. “i’m gonna die.”

you press a kiss to his forehead, slow and deliberate, your lips lingering on his sweaty skin. “you’re not gonna die,” you say, your tone soft but firm. “you’re gonna eat me out on friday and wear your glasses while you do it.”

he whimpers, a pathetic, needy sound, his hips twitching involuntarily against your thigh. “say less,” he mumbles, his voice wrecked, but there’s a spark in it, like you’ve just lit something in him again. you giggle, wrapping your leg around his waist, pulling him closer, your skin sticking to his in the humid air.

and in the quiet, as you’re both drifting off—sore, sticky, still catching your breath—he says it again. not ruined this time, not even possessive. just low. certain. like he’s already planning his next sin.

“mine.”

you don’t answer. just smile into the pillow, heart pounding. because maybe you are. and maybe you’ll let him prove it again.

especially once he finds out what cosplay you ordered last week.

friday’s going to be filthy.