The closet smelled of jasmine, vanilla, and the heavy, grounding cedarwood of his cologne.

You stood before the glass, smoothing the hem of a designer tweed skirt, turning left and right. "Babe," you called out, shifting your weight from one plush slipper to the other. "Is the matching headband too much, or is it just the right amount of extra?"

A pair of long, black-suited arms wrapped around your midsection from behind. Satoru dropped his chin onto your shoulder, his striking blue eyes crinkling at the corners as a soft smile tugged at his lips. Without his usual dark sunglasses, he looked entirely soft, relaxed, and utterly yours.

"There is no such thing as too much pink, sweetheart," he murmured, pressing a warm kiss to the side of your neck. "You look perfect. They’re going to adore you. Just smile, let them buy your charity auction tickets, and look beautiful."

You giggled, turning in his embrace to loop your arms around his neck. "I can do that. Being married to you is a full-time job, you know. Very exhausting."

"I compensate you well, don't I?" he teased, nipping gently at your lower lip before pulling you into a slow, deep kiss that tasted like the sweet morning coffee he always shared with you.

You loved your life. Satoru was the brilliant, wealth-laden chief executive of a massive corporate empire, a man feared in boardrooms and fawned over by the media. But to you, he was just your doting, slightly codependent husband who left love notes on the bathroom mirror and let you decorate his sleek, minimalist apartment with pastel throw pillows.

You didn't know much about his past, other than the fact that he went to the same massive university you did. You had graduated with a degree in fashion merchandising— which mostly consisted of looking cute in the front row and passing with a solid C-plus— while he had apparently been some sort of tech and business prodigy. You hadn't known him back then. Your university days had been a blur of bright tracksuits, sorority mixers, and gossiping with your girls. You lived in your own bubbly, glittery bubble. You didn't pay attention to the boys who didn't open doors for you.

You certainly hadn't noticed him.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦•┈๑⋅⋯✦•┈

The lunch was a massive success. You had charmed the older executives' spouses, secured a large donation for the animal shelter you patronized, and by the time you got home, your feet were aching from your heels.

Satoru wasn't home yet, so you decided to do a little tidying of his private study— a room you usually left alone because it was filled with boring financial binders. But today, you wanted to surprise him by organizing a chaotic stack of old boxes he’d brought from his family’s storage unit last week.

You pulled down a dusty, heavy cardboard box labeled 'Uni - Tokyo'

"Let's see what corporate secrets my tech-genius hubby was hiding," you hummed to yourself, sitting cross-legged on the rug and popping the tape.

Expecting old textbooks or business models, you were surprised when the first thing you pulled out was a thick, black sketchbook. Curious, you opened it.

The pages weren't filled with art. They were filled with dense, manic scribbles. Ink scratches so heavy they almost tore through the paper.

Why are they looking at me?

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.

Don't look at them. Just look down.

I hate it here.

Your breath caught. You flipped the pages further, your heart dropping into your stomach. There were no names, just dark paragraphs detailing a crushing, suffocating loneliness. The handwriting was jagged, completely unlike Satoru’s current elegant script.

Beneath the journal was a stack of old student IDs and photographs. You picked up an old identification card.

The name read Gojo Satoru. But the picture... the picture broke your heart.

It was Satoru, but entirely unrecognizable. His beautiful white hair was long, unkempt, and shaggily chopped, hanging over his face like a curtain to hide behind. He was wearing thick, outdated, prescription glasses that completely obscured his eyes. He looked painfully thin, slouching deep into an oversized, stained gray hoodie. He looked like... a ghost. An outcast. The kind of guy people avoided in the hallways because he looked entirely detached from reality.

Suddenly, memories you had buried deep in your brain came rushing back.

"Eurghh, did you see the guy in the back of the library? He was staring again."

"Don't look at him, he’s strange. He literally doesn't speak to anyone."

"I heard he sits in the dark computer lab for twelve hours straight."

You gasped, a hand flying to your mouth. That was him... The campus pariah. The one everyone whispered about, the one who looked so miserable and isolated that people actively crossed the street to avoid him. You had never participated in the cruel rumors—your brain was usually too occupied with matching your lip gloss to your outfits— but you had never stopped to help him, either. You had just walked right past him, laughing with your friends.

At the very bottom of the box, a small, laminated photo fell out.

You picked it up. It was a candid photo of you.

You were standing by the campus fountain, wearing a bright sundress, laughing hysterically at something a friend had said, holding an iced latte. The photo was taken from a distance, slightly blurry, through what looked like a long-distance lens. On the back, written in that same jagged, shaky handwriting, were the words:

She looks like spring. I wish I was alive enough to talk to her.

A tear slipped from your eye, splashing onto the plastic lamination. Your chest ached with a sudden, violent wave of sorrow. While you were living in a pastel dream, the love of your life had been drowning in a pitch-black ocean, staring at you from the shore, believing he was completely unworthy of affection.

The front door of the penthouse clicked open.

"Sweetheart? I'm home early!" Satoru's cheerful voice echoed through the hallway.

You couldn't answer. Your throat was tight.

Hearing no response, his heavy footsteps approached the study. "Babe? Are you–"

Satoru stopped dead in his tracks. He stood in the doorway, taking in the scene. The open box. The journal. The old ID card. And the photo of you in his hands.

The color drained from Satoru’s face. The confident, untouchable executive vanished in a split second, replaced by a terrified boy. His shoulders tensed, dropping into that familiar, defensive slouch from the old photo.

"You... you found that," he whispered, his voice cracking. He looked exposed, stripped raw. He didn't move, terrified that if he came closer, you would look at him with the same disdain the rest of the world had shown him back then. "I'm sorry. I forgot that box was in there. I... i was different back then, you know, i was unwell, messed up. I know it's strange that I had that picture of you. If you want to leave, I–"

You didn't let him finish.

You scrambled to your feet, dropping the photo, and threw yourself across the room. You slammed into his chest, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck, burying your face into his expensive suit jacket.

Satoru froze, his breath catching in his throat. He didn't know what to do with his hands until he felt your body shaking against his. You were crying.

"Hey... hey, princess, don't cry," he panicked, his hands immediately finding your waist, pulling you flush against him. "It's okay. It's in the past. I'm normal now, I swear. I clean up nice for you, don't I?" He tried to joke, but his voice was trembling with a profound, aching vulnerability.

"I'm so sorry," you sobbed into his chest, clutching the fabric of his jacket. "I'm so sorry I didn't see you. I'm sorry you were so alone."

Satoru’s heart skipped a beat. Of all the reactions he had feared— disgust, mockery, fear— he hadn't expected your overwhelming warmth. He hadn't expected your gentle heart to reach backward through time to heal a wound he thought would bleed forever.

"Oh, sweetheart..." Satoru sighed, the tension melting out of his frame. He lifted you easily, carrying you over to the study's plush leather sofa. He sat down, keeping you securely on his lap, cradling you like something fragile. He buried his face in your jasmine-scented hair, breathing you in.

"You don't have to be sorry," he murmured softly, stroking your back in slow, soothing circles. "You were the only bright thing in that entire place. You have no idea."

"You were so sad," you whimpered, wiping your nose on his shoulder, not caring that you were ruining his designer suit. "Those journals... Satoru, nobody should have to feel like that."

"I was really down," he admitted quietly, the honesty heavy in the quiet room. "My family put so much pressure on me to take over the company, and I hated myself. I hated everything. I didn't take care of myself. I thought I was a ghost. But then I'd see you walking across the quad, practically glowing in pink, smiling at everyone, being so sweet to the stray cats on campus... and it reminded me that the world wasn't completely gray."

You looked up at him, your eyes red and watery. "Why didn't you just come talk to me? I was so superficial back then, Satoru, I would have talked to literally anyone who complimented my shoes."

Satoru let out a genuine, wet laugh, his blue eyes shining with a mixture of leftover tears and adoration. "Babe, look at what I looked like. I was a disaster. I didn't want to bring my darkness into your pretty little world. I just wanted to admire you from afar. You were my anchor, even if you didn't know it."

You cupped his face with both hands, forcing him to look at you. "Well, I know it now. And you are never, ever going back to that dark place. Do you hear me? You're my husband. You're brilliant, and handsome, and you deserve all the love in the world."

Satoru’s eyes softened, a profound sense of relief washing over him, completely erasing the ghosts of his university days. The scared, lonely boy inside him finally felt safe.

"I know," Satoru whispered, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. "I have you now. My beautiful, sweet girl. You're my whole world."

"And don't you forget it," you sniffled, finally offering him a small, watery smile. "Now, carry me to the bedroom. My feet hurt from lunch, and you need to take this suit off so I can hold you properly."

Satoru grinned, the brilliant, blinding smile that you loved so much. He stood up, scooping you into his arms effortlessly. "Your wish is my command, princess."

As he carried you out of the dark study and into the warm, sunlit bedroom filled with the scent of vanilla and pink pillows, Satoru knew that the past didn't matter anymore. The gray days were over.

The rest of his life was entirely yours— bright, sweet, and filled with love.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦•┈๑⋅⋯✦•┈

Coach Yaga says it dryly as he slaps a paper down onto the desk in front of him.

Satoru doesn't flinch. In fact, he laughs.

"You can't bench me, Coach," he says, leaning back in the chair. "It's finals season."

"I can, and I am." Yaga points to the top of the page Satoru still hasn't bothered looking at. "You have an overall 2.0 GPA."

Okay. So maybe he is good at everything except academics.

"What's the problem?" Satoru asks lazily, though he straightens a little in his seat, scratching the back of his neck. "It's not like you need math to qualify for the pros."

"The problem is you need it to graduate. Do you seriously think scouts only come to watch you play?"

"Well… yeah."

Yaga pinches the bridge of his nose. "They watch you play, then they check your standings. No one is going to recruit you with grades this bad."

Satoru scoffs immediately. "That's bullshit. I've had plenty of options." He gestures vaguely. "Look at all the scout business cards I've got."

"And how many called you back?"

That shuts him up for a half a second.

His jaw ticks. "Whatever. This is stupid. I'm your best player—the captain! Finals are in like six weeks."

"Looks like you have six weeks to get your grades up if you want to play." Yaga slides the report closer toward him. "There's information for the tutoring center attached. I suggest you use it."

Satoru stands abruptly, shoving a hand through his white hair. "This is fucking bullshit," he mutters, snatching the paper off the desk.

He looks it over with disgust before turning on his heel and storming out of the office.

He makes it exactly three steps before someone throws an arm over his shoulders.

"Yo! Number 8!" Ren says loudly. "Did you get the lineup for Friday?"

"No."

"Ooookay…" he drags out. "Then why were you in there so long? Yaga chewing you out for bad form?"

"No."

The bulky goalie smells badly of BO with a poor attempt of covering it with body spray. And if he keeps talking for another five seconds, Satoru is genuinely considering punching him in the throat.

"Then what's this?"

Before Satoru can react, the paper's ripped right out of his hand.

"Yo—give me that shit back!"

"Ooooh, no fucking way." Ren beams down at the page. "Yaga was talking to you about grades?"

Satoru snatches it back with ease, exhaling the rage from his nose. "Yeah. But it's whatever."

"Those grades are shit. Did he bench your ass?"

Silence immediately bounces around the locker room.

Then Ren bursts out laughing so hard he nearly doubles over, drawing the attention of the few teammates still hanging around after practice.

Great. Perfect.

"You're benched?" one of the defensemen asks, staring at him.

"No way," another joins. "Right before finals season?"

Satoru closes his eyes for a brief second, summoning every ounce of patience he has left. When he speaks again, his voice is tight beneath the usual cocky edge.

"Yeah, well, you idiots better pray I fix my grades, otherwise you can kiss that sweet championship goodbye."

"You don't think we can win without you?" someone calls from the showers, towel slung around his neck.

"Hah. Absolutely not. You guys are shit without me."

Satoru nearly regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth; not that he'd ever admit it out loud.

Their team is good. Really good. There's a reason they've made it this far, and it wasn't just because of him, even if he likes acting like it was.

Luckily, the team knows him well enough not to take it personally.

A chorus of fuck you's, middle fingers, and dramatic threats about replacing him as captain follow him out of the locker room while he flips them off over his shoulder.

But by the time he gets back to his dorm, his irritation has settled into something heavier.

He drops onto his unmade bed, staring down at the paper in his hands. His grades.

His future.

School has never mattered much to him. Why would it? Hockey is the plan. Hockey has always been the plan. Sitting through lectures about subjects he barely understands feels pointless when he is destined to be in arenas packed with screaming fans anyway.

But underneath all the arrogance is something he rarely admits, even to himself.

He genuinely didn't get any of it.

Half the shit his professors ramble about all blur together after about ten minutes. He stopped trying a long time ago.

His fingers pinch the attached business card, pulling it free from the paperclip.

TUTORING CENTER

M-F | CALL FOR MORE DETAILS

Satoru flops backward onto the mattress he barely fits on, holding the card above his face. He stares at the number written across the back for a long moment.

And honestly? He actually considers calling. Right up until he scoffs and flings the card across the room instead.

He doesn't need a fucking tutor.

─── ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ───

He needs a fucking tutor.

When Satoru shows up to practice the following Monday, he leaves even more pissed after realizing Yaga had actually been serious about keeping him off the ice.

No games. No practice. No hockey, until his grades came up.

And despite how unbelievably stupid the whole thing is, he can't sweet-talk his way back into playing. He actually has to fix the problem.

So he starts going to class.

Turns out attendance is a giant part of his grade. Unfortunately, being so far behind means that his professors talking just sounds like another language. The last two mornings end the same way too—with his arms crossed on the desk, sunglasses barely hiding the fact he'd fallen asleep halfway through the lecture.

Back at the dorms, he opens the stupidly expensive laptop he bought solely because people said he "needed one for college," then starts dragging himself through missing assignments. The few he barely understands take hours.

Even with all that effort, his grades barely move.

The only real option left is acing midterms and finals while grinding through extra credit. And looking over the study guide makes one thing painfully clear.

He is absolutely fucked.

Maybe it is pride, but calling the tutoring center feels humiliating. Star athlete Gojo needing help understanding basic concepts? People would laugh. Word would spread. It'd be a disaster.

So instead, he ends up at the campus library.

People study here all the time. Easy. He'll just find some nerd willing to discreetly help him out and charm his way into a few lessons.

The library is quieter than he expects, nearly empty except for a few scattered students hunched over their laptops.

Satoru adjusts the strap of his bag, feeling out of place wandering between the shelves toward the back study booths.

And there you are.

Sitting alone with one headphone in, the other hanging loose against your sweater. Wire-framed glasses rest on your nose—which he thinks are kind of hot—while you chew absentmindedly on the end of a pen, eyes scanning over a textbook filled with enough highlighted notes to make him nauseous.

Perfect.

Without hesitation, Satoru slides into the seat across from you.

Your eyes lift immediately, widening just a little with recognition when they meet his. A faint blush dusts your cheeks.

"Hey."

"Hi," you answer softly. "Can I help you?"

"Actually," Satoru drawls, leaning forward onto his elbows to casually invade your space. "I think you can."

You blink at him, visibly confused.

Of course you know who he is. Everybody does. Satoru Gojo makes his presence known whether people want him to or not. Why he is suddenly sitting across from someone like you, though, clearly isn't adding up.

"You're smart, right?" He nods towards the mountain of notes spread across the table. "I need to get my grades up. Think you could be a sweetheart and help me out?"

The nickname immediately makes your face warmer.

"I'm sorry," you say carefully. "I don't really tutor, but I can refer you to the tutoring center."

Satoru pushes his bottom lip out dramatically. "Already tried. They suck." Total lie. "C'mon, really? Not even for me? I'd… compensate well."

You hesitate, still trying to figure out why he is talking to you in the first place.

But extra money is tempting.

"How much? Would you pay hourly?"

A grin spreads across his face instantly, arrogant enough to light the whole room.

"Well, I was thinking maybe I could pay a different way."

"I only take cash or Apple Pay."

Satoru chuckles.

"What if we could have some fun instead?”

You stare at him.

"Fun?"

"You know." His smirk deepens. "You come back to my dorm, I show you a good time."

Your eyes widen, complete shock washing over your features before it's replaced with pure disgust.

"Are you kidding me?" you whisper-yell. "Absolutely not!"

Satoru leans back just as fast, momentarily forgetting all about his grades as offense flashes across his face.

"What do you mean, absolutely not?"

"I mean," you hiss, "I am not sleeping with you! Who even asks someone that?"

"Who do you think you are to reject it?" he shoots back automatically.

A sharp shush comes from somewhere deeper in the library. He lowers his voice, but not the attitude.

"Do you know how many people are waiting to fuck me?"

You let out a sharp, bitter laugh, completely flabbergasted while starting to stuff your things into your bag now that your concentration is completely ruined.

"Well, I certainly am not."

"Why not?"

"Because you're not my type."

Satoru scoffs. "I'm everyone's type."

You don't even bother responding.

Still visibly horrified by the audacity of the entire interaction, you swing your bag over your shoulder and briskly walk out of the library.

Satoru stays there for another minute, slouched back in his chair with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, irritation buzzing hot beneath his skin.

Nobody ever flat-out rejects him like you just did, and sure as hell nobody looks at him like what he said was actually offensive.

You are just being dramatic.

He throws his bag back over his shoulder with far more force than necessary before leaving the library.

Barely halfway to the dorms a familiar figure materializes at his side.

"You look irritated."

"I'm not."

"Mhm. I mean, you do always look like there's a hockey stick up your ass," Suguru snickers.

Satoru turns his head sharply, a muscle ticking in his jaw as narrowed eyes lock onto his best friend, whose smirk only widens in the dim glow of his phone screen.

After a second he shakes his head and focuses forward. "Some uptight nerd just ruined my night."

"What'd you do?"

"Nothing!" Satoru scowls. "Why are you assuming I did something?"

Suguru chuckles, locking his phone and shoving it into his pocket as they enter the dorm building. "Maybe because I've known you for years. Or lucky guess."

"I didn't do shit. It was her that made it all a big deal."

"Oookay…" Suguru pushes open the door to their shared room and toes off his shoes. "What exactly did you say?"

The blue eyed hockey star flops face first on his mattress, voice muffled by the pillow beneath him. "I offered to sleep with her in exchange for tutoring."

"And?"

"And…" he hesitates, suddenly feeling embarrassed to recount his rejection out loud. "She stormed out. Bein' dramatic and whatever."

There's a moment of silence before Suguru bursts out laughing.

Satoru rolls onto his back so fast he nearly falls off the bed, glaring daggers at his dark-haired friend as he doubles over, clutching his stomach.

"The fuck are you laughin' at?"

"Did you hear what you just said?" Suguru wheezes.

Satoru snatches the nearest pillow and launches it at his head. "Fuck off."

Gratefully, Suguru does eventually shut up, though the lingering grin on his face remains as he pulls his headphones over his ears and starts minding his own business.

Lying flat on his back, Satoru stares at the speckled ceiling above him and tries to brush the entire thing off.

Except he can't stop replaying it.

You're not my type.

His nose wrinkles.

What the hell did that even mean?

He is tall, attractive, popular, athletic—objectively speaking, there wasn't a universe where Satoru Gojo isn't someones type. Half the campus practically throws themselves at him on a daily basis. Hell, he's rejected more people this month alone than most people get approached in their entire lives.

And yet, you'd looked at him like he'd tracked mud onto your favorite shoes.

The more he thinks about it, the more annoyed he becomes.

Whatever.

He didn't need you.

Tomorrow he'll find another tutor, get his grades up, get off academic probation, and get back on the ice where he belongs. Then everything will go back to normal.

Except the following day is a complete disaster.

It isn't hard for him to find a tutor, but finding one he can actually tolerate is the issue.

The first girl he meets spends the entire hour flirting instead of teaching. Twirling her hair around her finger, batting her eyelashes, leaning over the table enough that her breasts nearly spill out—so every five minutes she is exaggeratedly adjusting her shirt while explaining the same equation for the third time.

Normally he doesn't mind the attention. Actually, he loves it.

But with midterms approaching and Coach breathing down his neck about his grades, the whole thing just rubs him the wrong way. He doesn't need someone giggling every time their knees brush under the table. He needs someone who can explain concepts before his GPA tanks hard enough to permanently bench him for the championship game.

So he tries again.

The second tutor of the day lasts all of ten minutes before recognizing him from the hockey team and deciding he isn't interested in "helping arrogant assholes coast through college."

Apparently his reputation is worse than he'd thought. Which is bullshit, honestly.

Satoru is already in a foul mood by the time he wanders toward the coffee shop off campus, desperate for a pick-me-up. Hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie, he moves on autopilot, barely registering where he's going until something solid slams into his chest.

"Ah— shit—"

He looks down.

And there you are.

Again.

For a second, time genuinely seems to stop.

Your eyes widen in surprise, fingers tightening around the drink in your hand before recognition flashes across your face.

You are close. Close enough for him to notice the irritation bubbling in your expression and catch the faint scent of whatever perfume you wear. And really, what are the odds? He doesn't really believe in fate, but perhaps you are some form of academic savior.

Then your face hardens.

"Are you serious?" you snap. "Could you please watch where you're going?"

"Right, yeah." Satoru steps back immediately, hands lifting slightly in surrender. "Sorry. My bad."

"Yeah, your bad," you snap, sidestepping him before briskly walking past.

Satoru watches you go for half a second, hesitating, trying to decide if what he was about to do is a good idea.

"Hey—"

"No."

He sighs, jogging to catch up anyways. "You don't even know what I was gonna say."

"I don't need to. The answer is no."

"C'monnn," he groans, dragging the word out shamelessly. "Look. The sex thing was—"

"Horrifying? Degrading? Borderline sexual harassment?"

He visibly winces. "I was gonna say misinterpreted…"

You stop walking so abruptly he nearly walks into you again.

"How," you ask slowly, turning toward him with narrowed eyes that are quite terrifying, "do you misinterpret offering me sex in exchange for tutoring?"

"…Yeah, alright," Satoru admits after a beat, for once looking a little ashamed.

But you do not care, continuing your swift walk away from him.

He moves fast, stepping in front of you before you can get far, blocking your path with an awkward sort of determination.

"Dude."

"Just hear me out for like—thirty seconds."

"No."

"I'm sorry.”

The words come out quieter this time, genuine enough to make you pause. Satoru stuffs his hands into his pockets, expression tight with obvious discomfort at having to say any of this in the first place.

"You're right. It was outta line."

"Tch," you scoff, but stay still. "You're telling me."

"Look, I…" He exhales sharply through his nose, visibly struggling with the vulnerability of the situation. "I really need help, okay? I'm benched right now and if I don't get my grades up soon, I'm going to lose everything."

You blink once as he continues.

"I don't get the material," he mutters bitterly, gaze flicking away for the first time since you'd met. "Like at all."

"And all of this is my problem how? Why don't you ask someone else?"

"I've tried!" he says instantly, sounding genuinely exasperated now. "Seriously, do you think I'd be standing here begging for another chance if I had found another option?"

It's quiet for a long moment, the two of you standing there beneath the afternoon sun, locked in a strange standoff right outside the coffee shop.

Satoru searches your expression carefully, waiting for any sign that you are considering it. And as much as you already loathe this guy, you know you have the upper hand.

"Cash only," you say finally. "Eighty bucks for two hours, Tuesdays and Thursdays only, and I want the money upfront."

The relief on Satoru's face is immediate, but you hold up a finger before he can speak.

"Absolutely no flirting. No touching. No missing sessions. If you do any of that or say one more weird thing to me, I'm done tutoring you. Got it?"

Satoru looks down at you, confidence slowly returning now that he can practically see himself getting back onto the ice.

"Yeah," he says quickly. "Okay. Got it."

"Great. You got money?"

A breath of laughter escapes him at how serious you sound. "Yeah."

You hold your hand out expectantly, opening and closing your fingers against your palm.

Satoru reaches into his pocket, pulling out his wallet and a crisp hundred dollar bill before slapping it directly into your palm.

"Keep the change."

"Meet me here Tuesday at twelve," you say, tucking the bill into your bag. "Whatever subject you need… just don't make me regret this."

"Trust me, sweetheart, you'll—"

Your glare sharpens, and he stops himself with a cough.

"…not regret it," he corrects.

"Mm."

With one last suspicious look, you turn and walk away.

Satoru watches until you disappear down the sidewalk, and weirdly enough, his chest feels lighter.

He finally secured a tutor.

─── ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ───

Tuesday comes faster than expected.

And Satoru is ten minutes late.

He shoves through the coffee shop doors in a rush, drawing irritated glances from the students sitting near the entrance as cold air sweeps in behind him. His bag hangs loose over one shoulder, white hair a mess from sprinting all the way across campus the second he realized what time it was.

Relief washes over him when he finds you sitting at a little corner table near the windows, notebook open neatly in front of you beside an untouched drink. One leg is crossed over the other as you absentmindedly tap your pen against the page.

You waited, which surprises him.

He's walking a tightrope with you, he knows that much. Showing up late to your first tutoring session together surely earned him another lecture, and he feels oddly foolish as he approaches the table.

"Sorry for being late," he says, mildly sincere.

"Save it," you reply, though the words lack the sharp bite from your previous conversations. "Sit. Do you have a subject that you want to focus on today?"

Satoru obeys, dropping into the seat across from you with obvious relief that he escaped being scolded. He shrugs off his bag and pulls out a notebook that looks brand new.

"Yeah," he replies. "I was thinkin' stats."

You only nod before opening your own bag, and Satoru notices the thing looks heavy enough to kill someone. Folders, binders, loose papers, color-coded everything.

"Damn," he mutters, leaning back in his chair. "Do you carry an entire office supply store around with you or what?"

You ignore his comment completely.

"How far behind are you?"

Satoru waves a hand dismissively. "Not that bad."

"Mhm." You click your pen. "Can I see your grades?"

"…Why?"

"Because if I'm tutoring you, I need to know where you're struggling."

Satoru felt his confidence shrivel and die, crossing his arms defensively. "Look, all you need to know is that I need help in basically every class."

You blink at him, entirely unimpressed and a bit annoyed. "Do you want me to help you or not?"

He exhales slowly before reluctantly pulling out his phone. After a painful amount of hesitation, he opens the student portal and slides the device across the table.

The moment you start scrolling, his stomach twists.

"…Satoru."

"What?"

"How are you even academically eligible to still attend this school?"

He snatches the phone back immediately, "Okay, don't be dramatic."

"You have a forty-three percent in statistics."

"That's basically fifty."

"That's still failing."

Satoru slumps back in his chair while you jot down something in your notebook.

"I just suck at tests," he defends.

"And homework."

"Homework's stupid."

"And attendance."

"Okay, well attendance being graded is dumb."

You stare at him for a long moment before exhaling slowly through your nose.

"Alright," you mutter, flipping open the folder. "Let's figure out what you actually know."

And for the first twenty minutes, it becomes miserably clear that the answer is close to nothing.

Half of the concepts you mention from the syllabus sound completely unfamiliar to him, and with every note you scribble down, Satoru becomes increasingly aware that he may have genuinely fucked himself over. Hockey. Graduation. His future. Sitting across from you in that tiny coffee shop, and all of it suddenly feels a lot less stable than he’s been pretending.

But as the time passes, and he admits he doesn't understand something, you don't look surprised or judgemental.

You just adjust.

When he gets lost reading through textbook definitions, you stop relying so heavily on the slides and start explaining concepts out loud instead, breaking them down in ways that somehow make way more sense than any lecture he has ever sat through—which isn't many.

Still.

It's weirdly natural for you despite claiming you "weren't really a tutor." Because you are really good at it.

"You should probably write this down."

"Oh, right," Satoru snaps from his daze, reaching into his bag.

Nothing.

He digs around harder, and still, nothing. No pen. No pencil. Not even a half dead mechanical one shoved in the bottom somewhere.

"You have got to be kidding me," you mutter.

Satoru looks up sheepishly. "How obvious is it that I didn't think this through?"

"Painfully." You sigh, reaching into your pencil pouch before holding one out towards him. "Don't lose it."

His fingers brush yours briefly as he takes it, that stupid cocky grin finding its way back onto his face.

"I'll treasure it forever."

"Just focus."

And… he does.

Not very gracefully or quietly. But somewhere between borrowed pens, a bruised ego, and your increasingly exasperated sighs, Satoru Gojo finds himself actually trying.

He sits in that coffee shop making study sheets about standard deviation and solving equations filled with words like probability and distribution. Every time he gets confused, he asks questions instead of brushing it off, determined to get something out of the hundred bucks he'd spent.

The two hours pass faster than he expects.

And by the end of the session, he feels… productive. Like he actually learned something for once, even if he got almost every practice problem wrong.

"Here." You slide a stapled packet across the table toward him. "I wrote out a practice sheet. Give me eighty and we can review it Thursday."

"Homework on the first day?" he smirks.

You close your eyes and rub at your temples.

"What!" he laughs, pulling out his wallet. "You said no weird comments, not no charming ones."

And he swears the corner of your mouth twitches upward for half a second before you look away.

Thursday he shows up on time.

Satoru completed the worksheet, brings his laptop, and even remembers a pen—though halfway through he still ends up using yours because he likes the way it writes better.

Of course you notice.

"That's mine," you point.

"Mhm."

"…so give it back."

"You can pry it from my cold dead hands."

You huff. "You are genuinely the most irritating person I've ever met."

Satoru grins lazily, clicking the pen obnoxiously while leaning back in his chair. "And yet, you came back to tutor me another day. Curious."

Your eyes narrow. "Don't push your luck. Finish question six."

Right.

He learns quickly that you are harsh with criticism in a way that normally would have pissed him off. You don't soften corrections or sugarcoat mistakes to protect his ego, but after the first few comments, Satoru starts realizing you are not trying to make him feel stupid.

You really want him to understand.

It's weird. Really weird.

No professor has ever bothered slowing down long enough to figure out why he gets lost halfway through explanations or give up after realizing he zones out every five minutes. But you adjust without making a big deal out of it.

And it works. It’s effective enough that he finds himself less awkward when he slides the latest assignment closer to you, tapping the paper with the end of the pen.

"Hey… uh, is this the correct formula?"

You tilt your head, leaning slightly closer to examine his work. A few strands of hair fall forward as your eyes scan over the equation.

"Yeah," you say after a second. "Just keep following through and you should get the correct answer."

Satoru nods, pulling the paper back towards himself. The tip of his tongue sticks out slightly in concentration as his—your pen scratches across the paper. His brows pinch together while he works through the rest of the problem, muttering numbers beneath his breath before circling the final answer.

Then he slides the worksheet back toward you for validation.

"Yup. Good job."

And damn does that tiny bit of praise hits him embarrassingly hard.

Satoru ducks his head back towards the paper, biting the inside of his cheek to hide the smile threatening to spread across his face while he works through the remaining problems.

Ridiculous, honestly.

Two little words of encouragement shouldn't be rewarding enough to make his chest feel warm.

But things continue shifting in ways Satoru doesn't notice at first.

The sessions have settled into routine surprisingly fast. Tuesdays and Thursdays at the coffee shop. You arrive with a bag overloaded with enough supplies to survive an academic apocalypse, and he shows up with slightly fewer missing assignments and just enough effort—and money—to keep you from giving up on him completely.

Today, you have spent a lot of time chastising him for fidgeting or cracking jokes instead of focusing.

"Can you sit still for like five seconds?"

"No."

"You've tapped your pen against the table thirty-seven times."

"You counted?"

"I wanted to know."

"Wow," Satoru smirks. "Obsessed with me. I was wondering how long it'd—"

Your notebook smacks loudly against the table, cutting him off before he can finish the sentence.

"Question eight."

Satoru makes a face at you before reluctantly turning back towards his laptop, adjusting his grip on the pen to continue the assignment.

You can complain all you want, but he knows for a fact you've laughed at his jokes before.

Once.

Kind of.

It was more like a scoff, really, but your mouth did twitch upwards while you shook your head at him, and ever since then he's started slipping dumb comments into conversations just to see if he can get that sound out of you again.

Sometimes he does.

Most of the time you just roll your eyes so hard he thinks they might permanently stick that way.

"You skipped a step."

Your voice drags Satoru out from his thoughts. He glances down at the latest problem he'd solved, confused because he is almost positive the answer is correct.

"What's the issue?"

"You missed a step," you point at the worksheet before explaining the concept again.

"Yeah, I did it. Just in my head."

"Your professor cannot grade your thoughts, Satoru."

"But I still got it right."

You stare at him blankly before snatching the worksheet out of his hands.

Satoru leans back smugly, folding his arms behind his head while you scan over his work, actively searching for something to criticize. Your eyes move across the page, brows pinching together with growing annoyance.

Low and behold—

He is correct.

You frown slightly.

"Huh," he grins. "Look at that. Natural talent."

With a huff, you shove the worksheet back across the table so hard the paper flutters towards his chest.

"Whatever. You still need to show all your work for full credit."

"You know what I think?" he asks, spinning your pen between his fingers now. "I'm academically gifted too. I just needed a little push."

"Don't get ahead of yourself. You still have a D minus."

His smile drops instantly.

"Man," he groans dramatically, letting the pen clatter to the table. "Why do you always gotta humble me?"

"It comes with the tutoring session, free of charge." You quickly snatch your pen back from him before pointing towards his backpack. "Now get out your economics stuff. You seem to have the hang of stats."

Satoru wants to complain about losing the pen, but it feels like a breath of fresh air to move on from weeks of mathematical equations trying to kill him, so he lets it go without much of a fight.

Tucked away at your usual corner table, you begin explaining different ways he could salvage his grade in the class before the semester ends. Satoru is mostly paying attention, lazily playing with a highlighter while you talk—pulling the cap off with his teeth before snapping it back on over and over again beneath the table. His eyes drift between your face, your notes, and the little doodles crowding the corners of your notebook page.

He probably should be focusing more. And he is really going to tune into whatever you're saying that has you tapping your fingers against your coffee cup, but then the bell above the coffee shop door chimes.

And instead of ignoring it he glances up automatically—

Then immediately whips his head back down.

Fuck.

At least five members of the hockey team walk inside, loud and sweaty from practice. Their voices carry across the room, familiar enough to make Satoru physically tense.

He has been so focused on studying lately—so focused on these sessions and getting his grades up—that hockey hasn't crossed his mind once while sitting here with you.

And now it's hitting him all at once.

The first round of playoffs is approaching fast. If his grades continue to go up, there is actually a chance he can get back on the ice to play.

But persuading Coach is not important right now, because he completely forgot to mention he would really appreciate it if you didn't actually tell people you are his tutor.

"Okay," you say, tapping your pen against his notebook. "Explain what I just said back to me in your own words."

Satoru blinks and looks up slowly, a faint flush dusting across his cheeks and climbing towards the tips of his ears.

You sigh, but it isn’t as dramatic as it used to be. "You didn't hear a word I said, did you?"

"Yeah. Sorry," he mutters quickly, subtly shifting his body farther away from the counter as his teammates move deeper into the cafe. "I got distracted."

Perceptive as ever, your gaze follows his before landing on the group.

"Hey," you start slowly. "Aren't those your—"

"Shh!" Satoru hisses, leaning across the table so fast his knee bumps yours underneath it. "Don't—" he lowers his voice further, eyes widening in genuine panic, "don't draw attention."

Your lips slowly curl upward as realization clicks into place.

"Ohhhh," you drag out quietly. "You don't want them knowing you have a tutor?"

"Tsk. No. I don't care if they know."

"You just panic shushed me."

"Because… they're annoying."

You press the end of the pen to your lips, grin widening by the second while Satoru very deliberately keeps his eyes on his notebook instead of the hockey team.

"Oh my god," you laugh softly. "You're embarrassed."

"I am not."

"You are totally embarrassed."

"Look," Satoru grumbles, running a hand down his face before flicking his hood on. "It's already bad enough that they know I'm benched because of my grades. A tutor on top of that? I'd literally never hear the end of it. And I'd prefer to keep my image intact."

You hum thoughtfully, eyes flicking briefly towards the group before landing back on him, tilting your head. "And what exactly is your image?"

"The hot, strong, and not completely stupid hockey captain," he answers. "Obviously."

"Riiight."

Satoru looks down at his notebook, distractedly scribbling bright yellow ink onto the corner until the page starts curling beneath the saturation.

"I'm not asking you to do anything," he admits after a second, voice more subdued than usual. "You're already helping me enough."

"But?"

"But…" he shrugs one shoulder awkwardly. "Nothing, I guess."

Because he has already decided that you will probably laugh at him for caring this much in the first place. Honestly, maybe he deserves it.

But instead, you shrug back, your teasing expression softening into something more understanding.

"If they come over, just say we're studying together." You gesture between his notes and your own work spread across the table. "I mean… that's technically what we're doing anyway, right?"

Satoru finally looks back up at you properly. Your expression stays completely casual, and something loosens in his chest.

"Right," he says faintly. "Right, yeah."

"But only because you're actually trying," you add promptly, pointing the pen at him now. "So don't make me regret it."

A grin tugs at his mouth again.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Thankfully, his teammates never notice him. The group stays crowded around the counter for a while before eventually piling back out of the shop just as loudly as they entered. The second the door shuts behind them, Satoru relaxes in his chair.

You snort. "That was pathetic."

And instead of being annoyed, he finds himself laughing with you.

By the time the two-hour session ends, the tension from earlier has dissolved into something softer. The two of you pack up your papers in a comfortable silence, shoulders occasionally brushing in the small space between chairs.

"Alright," you say, sliding your laptop into your bag. "See you Thursday?"

"Uh, yeah," Satoru slings his backpack over one shoulder. "Definitely."

"Cool."

Both of you end up walking out together, stepping into the warm midday glow side by side. It's pretty peaceful here away from the campus buzz, and Satoru doesn't feel particularly rushed to leave.

"Hey, earlier…" he starts lightly, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Thanks. For not, y'know… outing me."

"Oh. Yeah. It's whatever."

"No, really." His voice softens just slightly. "It means a lot."

Your smile is strangely smaller at that. Almost shy. "Yeah, no problem."

The silence that follows isn't awkward anymore, and Satoru glances sideways at you after a moment.

"Do you maybe want to meet at the library next time?"

You meet his gaze.

"It's quieter," he adds quickly, trying to be casual about the way he can't ignore the sun glinting in your eyes. "Probably easier to uh, focus. Closer to campus too."

The suggestion seems to brighten your expression.

"Let's do it."

"Cool," he clears his throat, looking away. "See you in two days."

"Two days it is."

And you walk off towards campus, disappearing into the distance. Satoru watches you go before turning in the opposite direction, realizing halfway down the sidewalk that you hadn't even asked for payment upfront this time.

─── ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ───

Satoru Gojo was early.

It wasn't the first time he was early to something. Sometimes he showed up before practice to get extra laps in on the ice, or arrived at games ahead of everyone else just to skate alone while the arena was still quiet. He liked the feeling of being settled in before the noise started. Before people started expecting things from him.

He was early for things that mattered.

And apparently, your tutoring sessions were becoming one of those things. The realization annoyed him enough that he tried not to think about it too hard.

He watches the door for you, and when you finally walk into the library, scanning the rows of tables beneath the dim overhead lights, something strange tightens in his chest.

You aren't wearing your glasses today.

It shouldn't make that much of a difference, but without them your face looks softer somehow. Less hidden. He can see your eyes more clearly, and the second they land on him, his heartbeat picks up stupidly fast.

"You're here early," you say, lacking the teasing edge you normally bring with you. "Didn't think you'd beat me here."

Satoru stretches his arms lazily across the back of the bench seat like he hasn't been sitting there waiting for the last fifteen minutes.

"I was just nearby."

A hum is the only response before you settle in across from him.

"So… no glasses today?"

"Oh," you blink, tugging your sleeves over your hands when cold air drifts from the vent above. "Yeah. Contacts."

"Nice. You look cool."

Seriously?

Satoru barely recognizes his own voice and immediately decides he should probably stop talking before another painfully lame comment slips out.

The library feels different from the coffee shop. Smaller somehow. More private. There are no dishes clattering or loud conversations filling the silence between you both. Just the quiet typing somewhere deeper in the building, pages turning, and the soft scratch of your pen against paper.

Satoru finds it distracting.

Or maybe the distraction is just you.

He tries focusing while you explain concepts in that calm, patient voice of yours, but his attention drifts anyways. Towards little things he normally wouldn't notice.

Like the sticker wrapped around your drink peeling near the seam because you keep picking at it every time you concentrate too hard.

Or your rings spinning against your fingers whenever you pause to think.

Something about it makes him realize that despite spending hours with you every single week lately, he barely knows anything about you at all.

Satoru isn't used to that.

Most people hand him pieces of themselves without him even asking. Girls tell him their life stories just to keep his attention for a few extra minutes.

But you don't.

He doesn't know your major. Doesn't know what music leaks faintly from your headphones. Doesn't know what your dorm looks like, or what time you usually go to sleep, or if the faint shadows beneath your eyes are because you weren't getting enough of it.

He shouldn't care, except you seem completely fine keeping those things to yourself, and it bothers him more than it should. And makes him notice more instead of less.

The first conclusion he comes to is that you're actually kind of shy.

Not in an obvious way. You aren't nervous or awkward, but you lower your voice whenever someone walks pasts your table. You never hold eye contact with him for too long before looking back down at your notes. Even when your mouth gets sharp with him, Satoru notices you don't actually like attention very much at all.

Then suddenly he realizes what he's doing and looks back down at his study sheet, internally scolding himself for being weird and not focusing on the midterm tomorrow.

The session remains quiet.

Truthfully, he could've finished most of the material on his own tonight, which still feels insane to think about considering where he started.

But you don't seem eager to leave either.

You work through your own assignments across from him while faintly nodding along to whatever song was playing through your headphones, occasionally pushing hair behind your ear.

At some point, the library empties almost entirely. Neither of you notices how late it's gotten until Satoru leans back to stretch and catches sight of the windows.

"Woah," he mutters. "The sky looks sick."

You turn your head, eyes landing on the streaks of orange and pink spilling across the darkening campus skyline.

"Oh," your voice is soft. "Yeah, that's really pretty."

You both continue looking out the window, letting the moment linger for just a second longer.

"Didn't realize it was so late," you add.

And just like that, you start packing your things because that's just what the two of you always do when the sessions end.

Satoru finds himself packing up automatically too, shoving loose papers into his backpack before you can finish first and disappear on him.

"Thanks for the company today," he says, mostly to fill the silence. "I know I didn't really need that much help."

"No problem," your smile is gentle. "I'm glad you're actually improving."

"All because of you."

The words come out way sweeter than intended, and judging by the way you look at him, you notice it too.

Satoru looks away, pushing himself away from the table and making a quick escape toward the exit before he can embarrass himself further.

The air outside is cold enough to sting a little, bits of winter still clinging to the early spring. He watches you adjust the strap of your bag, and before he can really think too hard about why he wants to, the words leave his mouth.

"I'll walk you to your dorm."

You look up at him in surprise. "Oh. You don't have to do that."

"Yeah well." He shrugs. "It's getting dark. And if you get kidnapped, I lose my tutor."

"Campus is pretty safe, I think I'll survive."

Satoru groans. "Oh c'mon. Humor me."

Your cheeks warm slightly before you finally nod. "Alright. Fine."

You start walking down the path towards the dorms, Satoru falling into step beside you. He shoves his hands into his pockets, glancing sideways at you every couple seconds while trying to think of literally anything to say that doesn't involve tutoring or the fact he's spent the last few hours noticing entirely too many things about you.

"So, uh, what do you like to do for fun? Besides tutoring, of course?"

"First, I don't tutor. Second, you think I'd do tutoring for fun?"

Satoru laughs. "Okay, throw me a bone here. I'm trying to make small talk."

"Ah," you hum. "First time for everything huh?"

Satoru looks at you flatly. "You're brutal."

"Truth hurts."

God. Were you always this—

Satoru cuts the thought before it can root, kicking a loose stone and watching it skitter across the sidewalk.

"So?" he presses. "No sports? Clubs? Anything?”

"Not really."

"Why not?"

"Just never interested me much."

Satoru doesn't buy that for a second.

"If I admitted stuff, you have to too," he nudges your shoulder lightly with his own. "Only fair."

You hesitate before answering.

"There's just a lot of expectation for me to do well in school. From my family. From myself too, I guess. I focus on that."

"Yeah," he exhales slowly. "I get that."

You look at him curiously. "With hockey?"

"Hockey's kinda my whole life. So not being able to play feels…" he trails off. "I dunno. Weird."

"Do you miss it that much?"

"Do I?" A thousand different things come to mind. "Yeah. It kinda feels like I'm screwing up the only thing I'm supposed to be good at."

The vulnerability is so raw, you both can feel it in the space between you. Satoru isn't used to this feeling, and immediately tries covering it back up.

"But y'know," he grins weakly, "I'm Satoru Gojo. I've got everything handled."

The statement falls flat, he knows it does, but you don't pity him too badly for it.

"Give yourself more credit," you look over at him. "You've been working really hard this last month."

Satoru nods, absorbing your words into his heart instead of his ego. People compliment him all the time, but not like this.

"I guess."

You look up towards the sky, as if the answer for him is written somewhere within the stars that begin to shine.

"Perhaps you are just growing into a different version of yourself."

Satoru snorts softly. "That sounds poetic."

"I've always thought I should become a poet"

That pulls a laugh out of him.

The rest of the walk passes with light conversation about favorite foods, movies, places to waste time and things that could disappear from the earth without either of you shedding a tear.

Turns out you both have a mutual hatred for weather that's way too hot, and engage in a passionate debate about which type of sushi roll is the best.

Talking to you is easy, and Satoru feels very irritated at how fast the dorm building appears in front of you both.

Neither of you say goodbye immediately, you just stand there awkwardly beneath the streetlight for a second.

"Thank you," you break the silence first. "For walking me back. I'm sure you scared off all the potential kidnappers with your…" you gesture vaguely towards him, "…everything."

Satoru smirks, but it's kinder. The light is hitting your face just right, and he really doesn't want the conversation to end.

"Oh, shit" he reaches for his wallet. "I forgot to pay you for tonight and last time."

"Don't worry about it," you insist, waving him off. "Consider them free since you weren't a menace."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure." You start backing towards the dorm entrance. "Good luck on your midterm tomorrow."

Shit. Right, that was tomorrow.

"Yeah," he clears his throat. "Right. Thanks."

Your hair swishes as you turn, fumbling briefly with your keys before unlocking the door. Right before stepping inside, you glance back and give him a small wave.

Satoru lifts his hand automatically in return.

Then you disappear into the building, and he stays there way longer than he should, thinking about how he just voluntarily spent hours studying, walked a girl home, and paid attention to the way she doodles in her notebook.

Since when did he care about stuff like that?

What the hell was going on?

─── ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ───

He is still benched for the first playoff game.

Satoru tries not to let it get to him, really. But after all the bullshit assignments he's dragged himself through lately, still not being allowed back on the ice feels genuinely insane.

I mean, come on. His statistics midterm scores came back.

Eighty-one percent.

At this point, he's half convinced you're a witch, because there's no other explanation for him suddenly pulling scores like that. But apparently your weird tutoring magic only works on grades and not on convincing Yaga to stop being stubborn, because despite looking impressed for maybe half a second, the old man still doesn't budge.

Something about the lineup already being finalized. Plays already built around the current roster. Team chemistry and all that shit.

And just to piss him off more, they fucking win.

Satoru watches the celebration through Instagram stories with his jaw clenched so tight it aches. The team group chat won't stop blowing up while he's stuck in his dorm reviewing flashcards like some miserable honors student, trying to keep his GPA high enough for second-round eligibility.

It's humiliating.

Satoru doesn't think of himself as an angry person. Hockey usually burns the worst of it out of him before it settles too deep under his skin. Without it, the frustration just sits there festering, hot and ugly beneath the surface.

So by the time he's shoving through the crowded hallways to get to class the next morning, he's in a terrible mood.

Then the universe decides to fuck with him even more.

He rounds the corner and spots you immediately.

And some guy.

Talking with you.

Not casually, either.

No, Satoru knows flirting when he sees it. He's mastered it, perfected it. He knows every little trick—the slight lean in, the lowered voice meant to force someone closer, the subtle shoulder brush that lingers just long enough to test boundaries and see what someone will allow.

How funny.

So this random asshole gets to flirt with you, but he isn't allowed to?

Maybe it's the leftover rage from being benched. Maybe it's something else entirely that he refuses to unpack anytime soon.

Either way, his feet are propelling him forward before he fully thinks it through.

"Hey," he cuts in smoothly, interrupting the guy mid-sentence without a shred of guilt.

Satoru steps directly between the two of you like it's the most natural thing in the world, broad shoulders blocking the other guy out completely before he glances down at you.

"Still on for this week?"

Your eyes widen slightly. "Hi, Satoru. Um, yes?"

"Mm, good."

Behind him the guy scoffs. "Hey, dude. We were kind of having a conversation."

Satoru turns slowly like he genuinely forgot another person was right there.

"Oh, were you?"

The guy straightens a little at that, clearly trying not to back down. Kind of funny, honestly.

"Yeah," he says. "We were."

Satoru stares at him for a second before a grin spreads lazily across his face.

"My bad," he laughs.

His tone says the exact opposite, and it gets him the reaction he wants. The guy's expression tightens before he mutters something under his breath and walks off, deciding you aren't worth dealing with an asshole this early in the morning

The smug grin is still sitting on Satoru's face when he turns back towards you, but slowly drops the second he sees your expression—the same look you gave him after he fucked up the first time you met.

Shit.

"What the hell was that about?" you ask, arms folded tightly across your chest.

An answer doesn't come fast, because really, what the hell was he doing?

It’s all he knows, so his voice turns defensive automatically. "What? I can't come talk to you?"

"Obviously you can. I'm not referring to that."

"Then what are you referring to?"

You exhale slowly, tilting your head in exasperation. "Don't play dumb."

Satoru runs a hand through his hair, biting the inside of his cheek until it stings. He probably should feel ashamed, but the anger inside is boiling over that feeling.

"I'm not."

You gesture toward the hallways the guy disappeared down. "You totally scared him away."

"So?"

"So?" you echo incredulously. "So that was rude."

"Oh, what, so you care about him or something?"

"That's not the point! He was probably a really nice guy. Why does it matter to you anyways?”

Satoru turns his head away, jaw flexing.

Of course you'd want the nice guy. The guy who walks you to class instead of riling up the students in the hallways. The guy with perfect attendance and a normal future that doesn't revolve around bruises, aggression, and chasing adrenaline across ice rinks every night.

Why does it matter?

"Whatever."

"Satoru—"

But he's already in motion, speed-walking away from you before you can say anything else, shoving his headphones over his ears to drown out the sound of his own heart pounding violently against his ribs.

The anger doesn't dissipate.

And maybe that's a good thing, because Coach lets him play that night for the second round of playoffs.

Satoru arrives to the rink early, skating hard laps around the ice until the cold air burns in his lungs harder than the frustration clawing through his chest. He only stops to grab his stick and start firing pucks into the net from every angle he can think of.

Each shot is harder than the last. Sharp cracks echo through the empty rink as puck after puck slam into the net.

Your face keeps flashing through his head between swings.

The softness of your expression during tutoring.

The irritation in your eyes this morning.

He shoots again, too hard this time, and the puck ricochets off the goalpost with a loud clang before skittering across the ice.

A miss.

How fucking ironic.

"Sure you're ready to be back?"

Satoru doesn't even bother turning around. "Not in the mood, Suguru."

"Oh, you're never in the mood."

Suguru skates closer, dark hair tied back into a loose bun, already fully dressed in uniform.

"Is it that girl?"

"What girl?" Satoru grumbles, skating over to retrieve the puck.

Suguru steals it before he can reach it, smoothly dragging it away with his stick as he glides towards the opposite goal.

"Your tutoring chick."

Satoru goes defensive instantly—with hockey and everything else

"What about her?" He shoulders Suguru hard enough to steal the puck back before skating towards the net.

"You like her, huh?"

The words catch him off guard for half a second, more than enough time for Suguru to swipe the puck back into his possession and skate past him.

"I don't fucking like her," Satoru snaps, chest heaving as he pivots to chase after him.

Suguru shoots. Scores.

The net snaps and waves with the force before Suguru circles around it with a laugh.

"And is that supposed to convince me or you?"

He doesn't give Satoru time to answer, already skating backward toward the tunnel while calling out something about not missing the pregame meeting. Captain duties.

Satoru stays where he is for a moment, standing alone at the center ice while Suguru's words settle uncomfortable deep in his chest.

He doesn't like you.

No fucking way.

Except it's all he can think about for the entire game.

They win, obviously, but not without a fight.

The energy in the arena is brutal from puck drop, bodies slamming hard into the boards, skates carving sharp lines into the ice as the game turns increasingly aggressive by the period. Satoru throws himself into it recklessly, like if he hits hard enough or skates fast enough he can physically outrun the mess in his head.

It doesn't work.

He misses passes, takes risks, and ends up shoved into the penalty box after nearly starting a fight in front of the net.

And sitting there behind the glass with adrenaline pumping in his veins, your voice is louder than the crowd—where you are no where to be found.

By the time the final buzzer sounds and the crowd erupts around them, he barely feels the excitement.

They're headed to the conference final. His teammates are yelling, shoving each other around, celebrating as they skate off the ice.

But Satoru doesn't linger. He rips off his helmet the second he reaches the tunnel, damp white hair sticking to his forehead as cool air rushes against his overheated skin, trying and failing to calm the lingering buzz of the game—and something much deeper inside his chest.

─── ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ───

They said that falling for someone was like falling asleep. Slowly, then all at once.

Satoru remembers reading that cheesy ass quote somewhere online once and laughing his ass off about it because seriously, who even writes stuff like that?

Apparently someone wiser than him.

Because this? Whatever the hell this is, sneaks up on him so quietly he doesn't realize he's screwed until it's already happened.

Satoru had completely ghosted you.

For the first time in over a month, he skips tutoring without warning. Then he skips again. And again after that.

He tries not to think about you sitting alone at the library waiting for him. Tries not to picture your eyes lifting every time the door opens before falling again when it isn't him walking through. He hopes you didn’t eventually check the coffee shop just in case he went there instead.

At least you never exchanged numbers. That fact feels equally relieving as it does horribly disappointing.

He's still mortified about the last time he saw you. The jealousy. The possessiveness. The way he shoved himself between you and that guy like some territorial jerk.

It's insane, because you two weren't anything, and Satoru doesn't do jealousy. He flirts. Hooks up. He gets bored.

So he handles you the same way he handles every other girl: distance himself before things get messy.

Except its already messy, and the more he avoids you, the worse it gets.

Because Satoru Gojo has real feelings for you. Actual feelings that make him restless and irrational and weirdly miserable because you don't worship him like everyone else does, you see him exactly how he sees himself sometimes.

Arrogant. Performative. Kind of an asshole.

The version of himself he hides behind because it's easier than letting people get too close.

Those quiet tutoring sessions felt more real than packed screaming arenas ever did. No expectations ever came from those moments between flashcards and stolen glances. And he can't tell if it terrifies him because he ran or because he wanted to stay.

The rink is freezing at eight in the morning. Empty too.

Satoru skates mindless laps around the ice, sharp turns cutting white lines into the fresh surface while cold air burns in his lungs. There's no practice today, No game. Just him trying to outrun his own head.

The rink door opens, then closes.

He notices you immediately.

You don't speak at first, just linger near the entrance by the glass, bundled against the cold with your hair braided back. Your eyes meet his before dropping away again. Even across the rink, he can see the hurt sitting on your face, and his stomach twists unpleasantly

Pretending he's irritated is easier than admitting he feels guilty, so Satoru keeps skating.

One lap. Then another.

The scrape of his blades echo through the arena while he acts like you aren't standing there watching. But when it becomes obvious you're not leaving, he finally slows near the boards, snow spraying beneath his skates as he exhales through his nose.

He still can't fully look at you.

"What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you."

"Why?" The roughness in his voice sounds forced, even to him.

"Because you missed tutoring this week." Your voice bounces off the walls in the empty arena. "Again."

Satoru keeps his eyes down, dragging the tip of his skate against the ice.

"I figured you were still pissed," he mutters. "And you were probably gonna drop me anyway since my grades are decent now."

Silence.

Then—

"Do you always make assumptions?"

Icy blue eyes finally lift to yours, but before he can answer, you walk towards the benches and crouch down to pull something from underneath them.

Satoru blinks.

Are those—

"What the hell?"

You sit casually and start lacing up a pair of skates like this entire situation is completely normal.

"Where did you even get skates?"

You gesture towards the rental storage closet near the front. "They left it unlocked."

"So you broke in?"

"One could phrase it that way."

"You're a criminal now?"

"And you're not guilty of anything?"

Satoru swallows hard while you stand and wobble towards the rink entrance. The second your blade touches the ice, your balance completely disappears. You slam yourself against the wall before you can fall.

Satoru stares at you because you are actually unbelievable.

"Okay," he sighs, skating over before you crack your head open. "What exactly are you doing?"

Your cheeks are flushed pink from the cold. Or embarrassment. Maybe both.

But despite how obviously nervous you are, you straighten stubbornly and meet his gaze with a determined look that makes warmth bloom painfully in his chest.

"I'm gonna ice skate," you declare. "What does it look like?"

"It looks like a baby deer who’s learning how to use its limbs."

You glare. "Well, teach me then."

"Me teach you how to skate?"

You scoff and push away from the wall too confidently and immediately start flailing. Satoru catches both of your hands on instinct before you eat shit.

"Gonna yell at me for breaking one of your rules?"

"Shut up."

Something helplessly fond pulls at his mouth as he begins slowly skating backwards, keeping your hands in his while guiding you forward. Skating he can do, so his focus directs to that.

"Bend your knees a little," he says. "You're too stiff."

"I'm trying."

"You're just letting me drag you."

"Because I don't wanna die."

He laughs quietly.

God, he missed this.

"Okay, you're not gonna die." He says. "Push with one foot first. Not too hard." He tightens his grip when you wobble again. "Alright. You're doing it. Kind of."

"Wow. Such encouragement."

"You want me to lie?"

You roll your eyes, but try again.

The rink settles into silence again, broken only by the scrape of blades across ice. It's a sound he's heard most of his life, but right now it's completely new.

Little by little, your movements smooth out. The death grip you originally had on his hands loosen and your shoulders relax. Satoru keeps skating backwards in front of you, guiding you through slow turns while trying not to focus on how cold your fingers are against his palms.

Or how badly he doesn't want to let go.

But you've found your rhythm, so he starts pulling one hand free, only to be met with your fingers tightening around his before he fully can.

"Why did you stop coming to sessions?"

Satoru debates lying, and almost does. But the rink is empty, your hands are in his, and somehow honesty feels easier here.

"I didn't know how to see you again after how I acted."

"Why?"

He lets out a dry laugh. "What do you mean, why? I was being a douche bag. Acting weird. Scared off your boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend."

"Whatever. Still." His jaw tightens slightly. "How I acted was not cool. I know that."

"Why didn't you just apologize then?"

Satoru spins you both slowly in a small circle before bringing you to a stop.

"Pride," he admits.

You just nod lightly, like that answer makes perfect sense. Like you understand him.

"So do you not need a tutor anymore?"

He looks away. "Yeah. Guess not," he forces a shrug. "You're free now. We don't have to see each other again."

"You're so dramatic," you remark. "I said you don't need a tutor. Not that you have to banish me completely."

Satoru huffs out a laugh through his nose. "Well. I still owe you an apology." He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. "So… I'm sorry."

"And I forgive you."

Simple and easy, like you hadn't spent the last few weeks wondering why he'd disappeared, and he wondering why he did.

Guilt still sits ugly in his chest, but it loosens enough for him to breathe around it now.

"Alright," he says finally, changing the subject before anything else can slip free. There's already too much lingering in the air between you both. Too much he doesn't know how to unpack yet. "You wanted to skate? Lets skate."

It's like the roles reverse.

Satoru teaches you something he's actually good at, just like you'd done for him all those days at the coffee shop and the library. He corrects your stance lightly when you lock up. Laughs when you panic every time you gain speed.

While you skate, he learns about you—and not just the simple little things, like your favorite color or why you decided to come to this college. The deeper parts of yourself that most people don't know because they don't come easy.

Why you find yourself anxious over things that seem small to everyone else. Why some nights sleep feels impossible no matter how exhausted you are.

He shares things about himself, too.

Not the version of Satoru that everyone else knows, but the real parts. The pressure he puts on himself. The moments he wishes he could take back.

The chasm created doesn't feel so vast anymore. Like maybe it could be crossed if he stopped being afraid of it.

Eventually, he lets go of your hands completely.

For three whole seconds, you're actually skating on your own, face lighting up in disbelief right before your balance gives out.

"Oh my god—"

You pitch forward, the world tilting before one arm wraps around your waist the other finding your wrist, the force pulling you flush against him before you can fall.

Everything goes still.

Your bodies press together, skates drifting slightly while cold air fogs between you.

Too close.

Way too fucking close.

Satoru can see every detail of your expression—the surprise in your eyes, the slight part of your lips, the way your lashes flutter when your gaze drops to his mouth.

His own eyes follow before he can stop himself, and for one second, he really thinks you might kiss him.

He thinks maybe he'd let you. Or maybe he'd stop being such a coward and kiss you first.

Then you pull away suddenly, scrambling clumsily against the ice with one hand pressed against his chest, face burning red.

"Thanks," you stutter. "Sorry."

"It's cool."

But his heart is racing, hands still tingling where he held you so close just seconds ago.

Satoru bites the inside of his cheek, and he's genuinely about to say something he's never said to anyone else before.

Then the rink doors swing open.

"What the— hey!" an older employee yells from the entrance. "We're closed right now!"

Your eyes widen in panic, and Satoru just bursts out laughing.

"Gojo!" the man calls again. "I'm serious. Get your ass off the ice or I'll make you drive the Zamboni."

"You act like that's a punishment, Lee!" he shouts back before turning his gaze back to you. "C'mon, lets go."

He offers his hand, and you take it without hesitation. He keeps one hand hovering behind your lower back as you carefully step off the ice onto solid ground again, prepared to catch you if needed.

Down you both collapse onto the bench side by side, shoulders brushing while you unlace the skates.

"So,' he says, focusing too intensely on the laces so he doesn't have to see your reaction. "Are we cool?"

"Yeah," the reply is immediate. "Of course we are."

Pure relief. Enough for him to ask something bigger.

"We've got the conference finals this weekend. Big game."

"Mm."

"You should come."

You pull your feet free from the skates and glance up at him. "To your game?"

"Obviously."

"Oh should I?" you tease. "After you avoided me?

Satoru can't stop the cocky grin on his face at your banter, feeling more like himself.

"Hey, I said I'm sorry," he says. "And I just saved you from a concussion."

Your socked foot kicks his shin lightly, and Satoru grins so hard his face hurts.

"Really though," he gets quieter, his smile softening around the edges. "You've only ever seen me challenged." His eyes finally meet yours. "I think it'd be cool if you saw me doing something I'm actually good at."

You just look at each other, the almost-kiss swirling electric and unfinished in the space between you both.

"I'll come to your game, Satoru."

"Yeah?" his voice lifts an octave higher.

A small smile spread across your face.

"Yeah."

─── ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ───

There's two things that Satoru is going to do tonight.

First, he's going to win the conference game and drag his team straight into finals.

Then he's finally going to tell you how he feels. No more dodging around it like a coward.

After you left the rink that morning, after that almost-kiss still burning hot in his head, Satoru spent the next few days mentally kicking his own ass for not just doing it. For not telling you the truth and then grabbing your face and kissing you stupid right there on the ice while you looked at him like that.

It was fine. He'll make good on it after the game.

Assuming these idiots listen to him for once.

"Yo!" he calls over the locker room noise buzzing with a mix of pregame excitement. Gear clatters against benches while music blasts faintly from someone's speaker. "C'mon. Huddle up."

The arena tonight is massive compared to their home one. Packed, too. Satoru could hear the crowd before they'd even stepped onto the ice—a least a hundred voices blending into one roaring pulse of excitement that vibrates through the walls.

He hopes yours is somewhere inside it.

"Listen," he says, his voice carrying that intense captains edge he slips in naturally. "I don't need to tell you shit you already know. You guys can play. It's why were here."

A few guys laugh. Someone shoves another.

"So just… don't fuck it up at the last second." He points around the circle. "Let's win this game, so we're closer to taking that pretty cup home, yeah?"

The response erupts loud enough to shake the room, and adrenaline floods his veins instantly.

The tunnel to the rink glows brightly ahead of them, arena lights spilling across the ice while the crowd explodes the second the team skates out.

Satoru isn't paying attention to any of it.

The pregame announcements blur together while he skates a lazy loop around the ice, scanning rows and rows of faces. Girls scream near the glass when he passes, whistles echoing behind him while people pound excited fists against the barrier trying to get his attention.

Usually he'd grin. Wave. Feed into it.

Tonight he doesn't care. Not until he sees you.

Halfway up the lower section you sit, wire-rimmed glasses catching the lights but not hiding the way you're watching him.

The noise disappears the second your eyes meet. No screaming crowd. No announcers. Just the violent pounding of his own heartbeat.

You're here.

And when he finally skates past, forced to break eye contact, the sound comes rushing back in as he goes to the center.

The game starts brutal. From puck drop, Satoru plays like he has something to prove.

The opposing team is good, but comes out aggressive immediately, throwing hard checks into the boards and trying to force sloppy passes under pressure. Satoru reads through them fast. Their defense is overcompensating and they leave gaps open whenever they get impatient.

So he exploits it.

Hard.

The first interception happens barely four minutes in. Satoru cuts across center ice, steals the puck clean off their right wing, and accelerates so fast the crowd rises before he even shoots.

The goalie barely reacts before the puck rockets into the top corner.

The arena erupts, and you're on your feet too. Smiling so hard it nearly knocks the air from his lungs.

The rest of the period moves fast and violent.

The opposing team gets close to scoring but loses the puck in a battle. Satoru intercepts another pass late in the first, setting up an assist that is barely caught by their goalie.

It's alright. It's still one-zero.

By the time line changes finally roll around, his chest is heaving with exertion. He taps gloves with his teammate before collapsing onto the bench, spitting his mouth guard free.

He squirts water into his mouth, then leans forward and lets some droplets spray onto the ice.

And immediately catches you staring.

Your chin rests against your hand, eyes locked onto him with complete focus until you realize he's looking back. You turn away too fast, fingers spreading across your cheek to hide your face.

Satoru bites back a grin.

You're so fucking cute.

"Gojo!" Yaga snaps. "Quit flirting with the crowd!"

The second period gets uglier as the other team starts losing patience.

A defenseman twice Satoru's size drives him hard into the boards after a whistle, a shoulder slamming into his ribs hard enough to make the glass shake. The crowd boos, and Satoru shoves him back without hesitation.

"Get off me, fucker."

Then the guy grabs his jersey.

"Back off, pretty boy," the defenseman spits.

Satoru grins meanly, his glove shoving against his chest to break free. They bicker for another minute before the ref breaks it up.

As he skates off, he secretly flips him off behind the ref's back while sticking his tongue out, making the guy nearly lunge for him again.

Penalty box for them both.

Worth it.

The game tightens by the third.

Two-one.

Then two-two.

He didn't think the game would be easy. He didn't want it to be. By the time overtime hits, his lungs burn and his legs feel heavy, but the rush buzzes through his body hard enough to make him forget it.

Sudden death. First one to score wins.

So Satoru scores first, obviously.

The puck snaps clean off his stick, low and fast, sliding past the goalie before he can react. The buzzer erupts through the arena a second later as their spot in the championship is secured.

His pulse pounds violently while he rips off his helmet, white hair damp with sweat and sticking it messily to his forehead. His teammates crash into him, shouting into his ear, patting his back hard enough to jostle him forward.

But he just needs to get to you.

Breaking free as fast as possible, he rushes through the handshake line with barely enough patience to be polite before disappearing through the tunnel. He only stops long enough to swap out his skates, fingers trembling from the energy while his heart refuses to slow down.

You're already waiting for him when he exits the locker room.

His uniform is still on, bulky, but doing absolutely nothing to hide how broad he is, how tall, and how unfairly good he looks flushed from a game. Sweat darkens the collar of his undershirt, strands of damp hair falling into eyes still bright from the win.

You'd never been to a hockey game before.

Never realized how intense it was. How violent and fast and overwhelming. How hot it was watching players slam each other into the glass.

Or maybe it was just him.

Your cheeks warm as you slowly meet him halfway.

Words, Satoru thinks desperately. There were words. He had practiced them for days—actual sentences that were smooth and honest. But standing here with the high of winning and you right there, none of them feel big enough.

"Hey, nice game—"

He cups your face before he can stop himself, and then his mouth is on yours.

The kiss lands messy with excitement, somewhere between soft and starving. He exhales softly against your lips, thumbs pressing lightly against your cheeks like he's been wanting to do for weeks.

You're stunned at first, fingers twitching against his jersey before you start to lean into him—

"Gojo! Get your ass back here for huddle."

Satoru is going to fucking kill his team.

He pulls away too fast, breathing hard as the realization burns the tips of his ears pink. You stand frozen in place, lips glistening and still parted from the kiss.

His team starts yelling from down the hall, and then, somehow, they're physically dragging him backwards.

He shoves at them, stumbling away. "I hate every single one of you."

They only laugh harder.

"Don't wait up!" he calls quickly, eyes darting back to you. "I'll— I'll come to your dorm after!"

The words are rushed, nervous in a way Satoru Gojo never sounds.

But he does show up.

After the debrief, the celebration, and the fastest shower he can take, Satoru practically sprints to his car and speeds to campus until he gets to your dorm with damp hair and a wrinkled shirt.

Now that the adrenaline is fading, anxiety takes it's place immediately.

He kissed you.

Didn't even confess first like he planned. Didn't ask. Just completely short-circuited and kissed you in the middle of a hallway like an idiot.

And you hadn't fully kissed him back—granted, his team interrupted after like three seconds, but still.

Maybe he got carried away. Maybe he read this whole thing wrong. Maybe you only tolerated him because you were nice and he turned that into something its not.

By the time he reaches your door, his stomach is in knots.

He knocks anyways.

And the door opens.

You've swapped your clothes for something softer that makes him ten times more nervous. Everything feels more real and every thought in his brain trips over itself.

"Hey. I'm sorry for just kissing you after the game. I don't wanna come off weird, or like a complete fuckboy like I did when we first met. I've actually been trying really hard not to say dumb shit around you because I respect you. Like, genuinely."

He inhales sharply, running a hand through his still-damp hair before continuing without giving himself time to stop.

"I just—fuck. I really like you. Like, a lot. And I've never really had feelings for someone before, so I know I'm probably terrible at this, but if you don't want anything to happen, then nothing will. I can deal with it. Probably." He laughs anxiously at himself. "But I think of you constantly. Anytime I smell coffee or see shelves of books or—"

Satoru cuts himself off abruptly and stares at the floor for half a second, horrified. Just how long has he been talking? Why are words still coming out? Why haven’t you kicked him out yet?

“Are you done?” you ask softly.

“I think so,” he answers weakly.

“Good.”

Your fist curls into the front of his shirt, tugging him down before he can process anything else.

And then you’re kissing him.

Actually kissing him.

Every ounce of tension in his body melts instantly at the feeling of your lips moving against his. He lets out a startled breath into the kiss, hands finding your waist on pure instinct while he walks you backwards without ever pulling away.

His hand fumbles behind him until the door shuts with a quiet click.

You taste like something sweet and instantly addictive.

The kiss deepens, his thumbs brushing along your jaw as his tongue swipes against your bottom lip. A groan catches in his throat when you let him in, the sound swallowed by your mouth before it can fully escape.

He walks you back a few more feet. One hand cradles the back of your head until your shoulders meet the wall. The impact is soft, but the way he melts into you isn't.

Your hands disappear into his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp as need shoots through him so fast it nearly makes him dizzy. He exhales sharply against your lips, fingertips toying with the hem of your shirt.

Then they slip underneath.

"Is this okay?" he finally gasps, managing to pull away only enough for the words to brush against your lips.

"Yes," you whisper.

Satoru lets out a soft sigh before capturing your mouth again. Higher his hands roam, tracing the curve of your spine while you arch instinctively into his touch.

Of course you're not wearing a bra.

He's always been dominant, always the one in control—but he's more than willing to follow when your hands press firmly against his chest, breaking the kiss only long enough for you to shove him backward.

His brows shoot up as he stumbles towards the couch, landing against the cushions with a soft grunt, hands immediately finding your waist as you climb onto his lap.

And that's when Satoru turns pink.

He's painfully hard from nothing but making out with you, and the warmth between your thighs pressing exactly where he's throbbing beneath his sweats is not helping.

His hands tighten slightly at your waist as a slow, knowing smirk spreads across your face.

Satoru knows he's in serious trouble way before you dip your head and start pressing kisses along his jaw. Then lower, hunting for a sensitive spot to latch onto.

And then you start grinding your hips. Just slow, lazy passes that drag yourself over his length.

"Fuck," he pants.

His hands slide down to your ass, grabbing a handful in an attempt to slow you down. It does the exact opposite, and you whine against his skin before rocking your hips faster.

"Shit— you gotta—" his eyes squeeze shut. "Are you sure?"

"Satoru," you breathe against his neck. "Can you not tell how much I want you too?"

Something about the way you say those words—soft and sweet—snaps the last thread of restraint clean. His mouth finds yours as he starts pushing you forward, meeting every roll of your hips with one of his own.

His shirt is gone first. Yours follows seconds later.

The moment you're bare to him, he's all over you. Mouth dragging down your neck, across your collarbone, then circling your nipple with his tongue until it hardens beneath the attention.

You moan, a syrupy little sound he's no longer shy about chasing.

He guides you off his lap only to tug at the rest of your clothes, fumbling in impatience to find out just how many more of those noises you can make.

You dissolve into giggles.

"Move," you laugh, swatting his hands away. "You're going too slow."

He huffs but relents, yanking his sweats down while you finish stripping yourself. The thin cotton of your panties brushes against the hard length straining in his boxers when you settle back onto his lap.

You bat your lashes innocently, dragging your fingers beneath the waistband, tracing his hips.

"You want it?" you purr.

"Do I—" Satoru lets out a strained laugh. "Yeah. I fuckin' want it.".

"How bad?"

He catches your chin, forcing your gaze down. His cock twitches impatiently beneath the fabric.

"That bad."

You don't pull away from his grip, just smirk as you tug his boxers down. His cock springs free, smacking his stomach lightly. Angry red at the tip, a bead of precum already gathered—his need is obvious.

And so is the fear he's absolutely going to embarrass himself.

Satoru's flush spreads down his neck as you wrap your small hand around his cock, instantly pumping your fist.

"Oh s-shit—" he chokes out, his head falling back and exposing the long line of his throat.

"Mmmm… so big, 'Toru…"

Eyes squeezed tight, he tries to focus on anything—anything at all. The couch. The wall. The weather. Anything except the fact that he feels like he's about to bust a load already from a few dainty strokes of your oh-so-soft hand.

But your squeezing him just right, stroking in a perfect rhythm while making these little knowing giggles—

"Ah— okay— stop," he pries your hand off, flushed and laughing in embarrassment. His Adam's apple bobs. "If you want this to last, we gotta stop for a second."

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I just…"

He trails off, deciding his best reply is leaning forward to capture your mouth instead of explaining anything at all.

The movement presses your nipples flush against his chest and his cock twitches against your lower stomach.

His hands explore, swiping aside your panties and finding the warm, sticky mess between your thighs. You mewl into his mouth as his fingers find your swollen clit, rubbing slow and gentle circles until you're squirming on top of him.

Then he shoves his fingers inside you, working you open as your breath catches in sharp little bursts against his cheek.

"Satoru… oh god… fuck," you coo. "Please… please put it in."

His fingers don't slow, thrusting against the spongy spot inside you. "Okay…. okay, do you have protection?"

"I'm on the pill."

Satoru groans.

You're really gonna fucking kill him.

He gently pulls away his fingers, your slick mess stretching like a web between them as he helps you hover over his length. You slide his cock through your folds, coating him in a mix of your wetness and his precum.

"You're…" he tugs his lip between his teeth as you nudge the tip just barely inside. "A fucking tease."

You hide a smile. "You love it."

Then you sink down.

He's so thick, stretching your gummy walls perfectly. The agonizingly slow descent is on purpose, letting him feel every flutter of your pussy swallowing every inch.

Satoru thinks the next few minutes he blacks out.

He thought you were such a sinless sweetheart, but the second you adjust, a mischievous glint hits your eyes right before you brace your hands on his shoulders and start bouncing on him.

Straight from a wet dreams, you take him deep, tits bouncing with the movement as everything between you turns slick.

He's moaning— fuck, whimpering at how good you feel, letting praise slip from his mouth in jumbled slurs of pleasure he can't even think through.

"Fuck, baby— just like that— feels amazing— good fucking girl, take my cock—"

You let out a series of pretty whines, accompanied by the obscene sound of how wet you are each time you slam your hips against his.

And you're so beautiful. And you're his. And holy fuck it's only been a few minutes but—

"Shit—babe—" he gasps. "Wait— I'm gonna cum if you don't—"

But it's too late.

Satoru lets out a strangled moan as his cock throbs violently, hips driving upward and pressing his tip against your cervix before shooting rope after rope of his warm release inside you.

He's trembling from the ecstasy and pure embarrassment from his body's betrayal. He doesn't think he's cum this fast in his life, ever, and hides in your neck as he floats back to earth.

Your hands gently stroke his back, grounding him with kisses to his sweat-slicked shoulder. "You okay?"

"No," he grumbles, returning a lazy kiss to your skin anyways.

"Why not?"

"You know why."

He takes a few more deep breaths before clutching your body close and flipping you both with easy strength until he's braced on his forearms above you. His cock is still nestled inside you, sensitive, but still really hard.

His lips find the shell of your ear, nibbling the lobe before he whispers. "Promise I'm gonna make you cum, sweet thing."

And then his hips snap forward hard, dragging a broken moan out of you. The couch shifts beneath you both as he starts fucking you into it, determined to make you a babbling mess by the time he's done with you.

─── ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ───

It's loud. So loud it feels the celebration is cheering inside his skull.

Winning the cup is no small thing. It's what he's worked toward for as long as he can remember. Every morning practice, every brutal loss, every moment that should have broken his dreams but didn't.

And yet, somehow, none of it hits him as hard as you running toward him on the ice.

As you jumping straight into his arms.

He catches you instantly, crushing you to his chest and spinning you in a light circle that lifts your feet. You squeal and it locks itself into his mind as the sound he wants to hear forever.

Your laugh.

When he finally sets you down, he doesn't let go. His arms stay firm around your waist, keeping you close just in case the chaos around you tries to steal you away. Your eyes are bright when they look up at him, confetti tangled in your hair and blue stars painted across your cheeks from your support.

"Congratulations!" you beam, practically vibrating with joy. "You were so amazing out there!"

"Thank you," he says, grinning as he leans in and tilts your chin up. "You look really cute."

You blush, which is the exact reaction he wanted.

"Be my girl," he blurts over the noise. "I should have asked you way sooner."

But you only grin.

"I thought I already was."

2026 © thewrldx

your roommate brings it up three days before finals week officially starts, which already tells you the idea is terrible. the two of you are sitting cross-legged on the floor of your apartment living room surrounded by open textbooks, half-folded laundry, and empty instant noodle containers.

she’s supposed to be writing a paper. instead, she’s online shopping for bikinis. “i actually can’t do this anymore,” she announces dramatically, laptop balanced on her thighs. “if i read one more discussion post i’m walking into traffic.”

you hum absentmindedly, highlighting a paragraph without processing any of it.

outside, rain taps against the windows in soft uneven bursts. campus looks gray and muddy and exhausted. even the frat houses have gone quieter this week. everyone’s studying, or pretending to.

your roommate suddenly gasps. “spring break,” she says.

“what about it?”

“we should go to your beach house.”

that gets your attention. you look up slowly from your laptop. “we?”

“yes, we.” she tosses a sock at you. “like. everyone.”

“everyone…us girls? or—”

“no, the frat too,” she says, smiling. “i want choso to be there.”

you roll your eyes, focusing back on your notes. she’s been glued to her boyfriend’s hip ever since they got together. it’s almost sickening, if they weren’t so perfect for each other. you’re rarely in the house alone anymore.

“dunno if that’s a good idea,” you say, because your brain immediately supplies the image of suguru geto.

it’s geto. always geto.

your roommates notices your change in expression instantly. the grin that spreads across her face is immediate and evil. “oh my god.”

you narrow your eyes. “don’t.”

“you thought about him first.”

“i literally didn’t,” you mumble, pushing your glasses up your nose.

“you literally did.”

you throw the sock back at her head and she dodges it, laughing. “you’re soooo weird about him.”

and she’s right. you are weird about him. not in an obvious way, no. whatever thing between you and geto occurs in fragments. in pauses and glances held half a second too long.

eye tag.

that’s what gojo called it once after catching the two of you staring at each other across the frat kitchen while everyone else argued over beer pong rules. “you guys do this every time,” he’d said.

you’d denied it immediately. geto had just looked away.

your roommate clasps her hands together. “please invite them. choso already said yes if you say yes.”

“you asked him before asking me?”

“well, yes.”

you sigh, rubbing your forehead. “the house isn’t huge.”

“it has four bedrooms.”

“one of them barely counts,” you point out.

“we can make it work.”

your parents are never at the beach house this time of year, anyways, and know you’re responsible enough to handle it on your own.

it’s few hours from campus along a quieter part of the shoreline. you haven’t been in almost a year.

the thought of ocean air instead of stale lecture halls makes you exhale slightly.

“aha,” your roommate says, pointing at you. “that was a considering face.”

“it was not.”

“come on. it’ll be fun.”

“it’ll be loud.”

“only a little.”

“imagine bonfires,” your roommate says dreamily.

“imagine property damage.”

“imagine volleyball.”

“imagine bail money.”

you already know you’re going to cave. despite everything the rest has somehow become tangled into your life over the past semester. in the middle of late-night food runs and campus events and parties is geto’s face and how you notice him before he notices you almost every time.

at parties, he’s usually tucked somewhere quieter while everybody else spirals around him in chaos. sitting on kitchen counters, leaning against walls with a drink untouched in his hand. watching. and eventually his eyes find yours, every single time.

the first few times it happened you thought you imagined it. you? nerd you? suguru geto looking at you?

but it kept happening. across crowded rooms and across lecture halls.

“you’re thinking about him again,” your roommate says.

it’s his deep voice and calmness and the way he rolls his sleeves to his elbows when he’s focused. the exhaustion constantly sitting beneath his eyes lately because he’s balancing classes and internship applications and responsibilities and everybody else’s problems too.

“shut up,” you say weakly.

“i’m texting choso. this is happening.”

you sigh, knowing that once your roommate wants something to go her way, it’s happening.

how bad can the trip really go, anyway?

“gojo’s already asking if the beach house has speakers.”

“tell him yes, but the neighbours don’t like noise past 10pm.”

“geto says he can drive.” your roommate looks up at you, chewing her lip, and you’re suddenly very interested in the notes you’ve been trying to read over.

now you’re imagining geto driving, one hand on the wheel, ocean air and his stupid rings glinting under the dashboard lights

you stand abruptly, gathering your notes before your imagination gets worse.

thursday - eight days from departure

geto realizes he’s in trouble on a thursday night while half-drunk freshmen scream-sing nextdoor to music that sounds like somebody attacking a speaker with a hammer. he’s sitting at the frat dining table with an untouched beer beside his laptop, trying to finish an internship application before midnight.

keyword : trying.

because you’re here. you’re not even doing anything particularly distracting either. you’re sitting cross-legged on the couch in one of those oversized university sweaters, glasses sliding slightly down your nose while you argue with choso’s girlfriend over how many bags of chips are too many for one week at the beach house.

you shouldn’t be this difficult to ignore, and yet geto’s cursor has been blinking on the same sentence for six minutes.

gojo and toji yell something at each other from across the room. everyone starts talking over each other, except for choso, who’s curled into his girlfriend’s side, and you.

you stay focused, tapping at your laptop with concentration pulling your brows together slightly. geto watches your mouth move while you talk.

that’s becoming a problem too. noticing little things. the tiny crease between your eyebrows when you’re annoyed. the way you tuck your legs underneath yourself without thinking.

it’s gotten worse recently, or maybe he’s just stopped pretending it hasn’t been happening. for months now, every room he walks in feels altered slightly if you’re there.

he hates how aware he’s become of you. worse, you notice him too.

geto’s not stupid. he sees the way your eyes snag on him before flicking away. the pauses, the tension, that look you get when he stands too close.

it’s there constantly, like static humming between you both.

“geto.” your voice cuts clean through his thoughts.

he looks up immediately. you’re staring at him from across the room now, brows raised slightly. his stomach does something deeply irritating. “yeah?”

“you haven’t answered a single thing we asked.”

gojo grins instantly from the kitchen island.

“he was staring at you.”

geto doesn’t react outwardly. years of dealing with satoru have made his self-control nearly supernatural.

you, unfortunately, do react. irritation flashes visibly across your face before you glare at gojo. “oh my god, shut up.”

“am i wrong?”

“yes,” both you and geto say at the exact same time.

toji starts laughing so hard he nearly chokes. “jesus christ,” he mutters. “you two are painful.”

geto drags a hand down his face slowly. you’re suddenly very interested in your spreadsheet.

cute.

“i made categories,” you explain, stuttering over the last word as you regain composure. “colour coded. it’s a shared excel sheet so you can all access it too.”

geto smiles softly. you’re focused and bossy and pretty. he thinks he should probably stop looking at you like that.

“okay,” you say, tapping the couch. “can everyone e-transfer me their share tonight so i can book groceries in advance?”

gojo raises a hand. “no. actually, toji and i pass.”

you run a hand down your face. “what?”

“we’re the entertainment,” he explains, like it makes total sense.

“eighty dollars, each of you, please,” you say, tilting your head back. “i hate all of you.”

“that’s not true,” gojo says. “You like suguru.”

the room goes quiet instantly. choso coughs into his drink. gojo’s girlfriend physically turns away to hide her smile.

gojo points between the two of you lazily.

“the vibes are crazy.”

“there are no vibes,” you say immediately.

“you look flustered,” toji notes helpfully.

everybody starts talking over each other again while you try defending yourself with rapidly deteriorating success. geto says nothing, because while the others laugh and argue his eyes stay on you.

you can feel it too. he knows you can. that tension pressing tighter every time your gazes meet.

your eyes lift to his and his gaze flicks to your mouth for one brief, horrible second.

you both look away just as fast.

sunday - five days from departure

your bedroom looks like a clothing store exploded. bikinis draped over desk chairs, shorts hanging off your bedframe, three different pairs of sandals abandoned in the middle of the floor. “i hate everything,” you announce.

your roommate barely glances up from where she’s laying across your bed with choso half beneath her like a human mattress. “dramatic.”

“none of this looks right.”

“you’ve changed outfits six times.”

“because i look weird.”

“you literally don’t.”

you turn sideways in the mirror, scrutinizing yourself harder. the dress is just soft black fabric that skims your body, thin straps, lower neckline than what you normally wear. you bought it for some finance networking event your department hosted last month because your mom said you needed “staple outfits.”

your roommate sits up on her elbows finally, exasperated. “you know most people going on beach trips are worried about, like, sunscreen?”

“i am worried about sunscreen.”

“i forgot you made a spreadsheet for sunscreen.”

“uv rays are serious.”

choso laughs quietly from beneath her, hands resting loosely on her thighs. you point at him immediately. “don’t encourage her.”

“i didn’t say anything.”

“the laugh felt judgmental.”

your roommate rolls her eyes before looking back at you properly. “you look hot,” she says flatly. “actually annoyingly hot. if you don’t pack the dress i’m stealing it.”

you scoff softly, turning back toward the mirror. “it’s too much.”

“for who?”

you shrug. some part of you already knows exactly who you’re thinking about, which is ridiculous. you’re literally standing in your bedroom overanalyzing a dress because suguru geto might see it.

your roommate seems seconds away from teasing you about exactly that when choso speaks absentmindedly from the bed.“geto likes that one.”

the room goes silent and you slowly turn around. “…what?”

choso freezes and his eyes widen slightly like he physically felt the mistake leave his mouth in real time.

your roommate lifts her head immediately. “what do you mean geto likes that one?”

“nothing,” choso says too quickly.

“choso,” she says.

“i’m serious.”

you narrow your eyes at him. “how would he even know this dress?”

another pause then choso makes the fatal mistake of hesitating. your roommate gasps dramatically. “OH MY GOD HE DOES KNOW THE DRESS?!”

“baby,” choso says weakly.

“no, no, come back.” she grabs his arm before he can sit up. “what do you mean he likes the dress?”

“i wasn’t supposed to say anything.”

you cross your arms slowly. “that’s an insane sentence.”

choso looks deeply distressed now. your roommate softens instantly though, because unfortunately for choso, she knows exactly how to handle him. she cups his face gently, pressing a tiny kiss against his jaw. “please?” she asks sweetly.

choso exhales heavily through his nose, cheeks going pink. weak man. he folds almost immediately. “okay but you cannot tell geto i said any of this.”

you and your roommate both nod way too fast and he points at both of you suspiciously before continuing. “you wore that dress to the frat one night.”

your brows pinch together slightly. “…when?”

“when you came to pick her up after that finance networking thing.”

oh.you remember that night.

you’d stopped by the frat around midnight because your roommate was too drunk to uber home alone. you were still dressed up from the event downtown. heels hurting. hair done. tired and irritated because gojo had answered the door already yelling.

you hadn’t stayed long, just long enough to drag your roommate upstairs to collect her stuff while half the frat stared at you like they’d never seen a woman before.

apparently including geto.

“what happened?” your roommate asks immediately.

choso rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “nothing happened exactly. some guy made a comment after you left.”

your stomach tightens slightly. “what kind of comment?”

“just saying you looked good or whatever.”

“and?” your roommate presses.

choso sighs. “and geto got weird about it.”

heat crawls instantly up your neck. “weird how?”

“he just…” choso pauses, visibly trying to decide how much to say. “he looked annoyed.”

your roommate’s jaw drops. “he got jealous?”

“well, I dunno, not—”

“choso.”

“i’m serious.”

“what did he say?”

another long sigh. “he said you don’t even realize how pretty you are.”

your roommate physically collapses face-first into the bed, laughing into a pillow. you just stand there your heart suddenly beating way too hard. “that’s not…” you clear your throat softly. “that’s not that serious.”

both of them look at you. your roommate lifts her head slowly. “you are genuinely the dumbest smart person i know.”

“i’m not dumb.”

“he said you don’t know how pretty you are.”

“people say things.”

“not like that.”

choso looks like he regrets existing and unfortunately for him your roommate isn’t done. “what ELSE has he said?”

“nothing,” choso mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.

“liar.”

“baby.”

another soft kiss against his jaw, pretty doe eyes, and you watch the fight leave choso’s body. he groans quietly. “he just asks about you sometimes,” he mumbles, glancing up at you.

your stomach flips again. “asks what?” your roommate says immediately.

“normal stuff.”

“define normal.”

“like if she’s seeing anybody.”

your eyes widen slightly.

“or what her type is,” choso admits.

your roommate grabs your arm so hard you almost lose balance. “i knew it.”

“stop saying that,” you hiss, feeling too warm and out of place in your own body now.

choso keeps talking now that he’s doomed anyway. “there were these guys talking to you outside one of our econ buildings a while ago and geto asked after if you knew them.”

you blink. you remember that too. two business majors from another frat trying very hard to impress you after class. geto had walked by while you were talking to them and you hadn’t thought he even paid attention.

apparently he had.

“and,” choso adds carefully, “he asked if they were bothering you.”

something warm and dangerous and twisting settles low in your stomach, and your roommate looks one second away from planning a wedding. “this is insane.”

“it’s not insane,” you say weakly.

“he likes you.”

“you don’t know that.”

“y/n,” she says flatly. “be serious.”

you sit on the edge of your bed, the black dress clinging to your skin, and now all you can think about is geto noticing it. remembering it. liking it enough to mention it after you’d already gone.

your roommate watches your expression carefully from the bed and then smiles slowly.

friday - day of departure

departure day starts at eleven in the morning and immediately feels cursed. gojo is late, even though the meetup spot is outside the frat. toji's holding an iced coffee and is directing where bags are to be put instead of actually helping. somehow, your roommate's lost one of her sandals already. choso's carrying about fourteen bags (thirteen of which are his girlfriend's) and you?

you're standing in the driveway trying to figure out how seven people accumulated this much luggage for a beach trip. a seven day beach trip. “why do you have three suitcases,” you ask gojo’s girlfriend.

"two of them are satoru's," she says, patting her boyfriend's head, and he grins like a lovesick puppy. "i don't know why he has so many clothes."

geto’s car sits at the curb behind gojo's girlfriend's car - the two drivers for the trip. geto's leaning against it, typing on his phone, and of course the fact that he looks good pre-noon makes your heart pang. you can only imagine what you would look like standing beside him, what with your frizzy hair and crooked glasses.

he's wearing a dark hoodie and shorts, sunglasses pushes up into his hair while choso helps him load luggage into the back. you try not to stare but your brain seems to enjoy self-destruction.

because watching geto lift heavy bags with one hand while calmly reorganizing everybody’s mess should not be attractive.

"okay," gojo announces loudly, clapping once. "vehicle assignments."

getp closes his trunk with a final solid thud. "my car's got the most space," he says. "why don't you transfer all the luggage over from the other car?"

your roommate perks up immediately. "perfect."

"there'll be room for one person up front too," geto adds casually. then he looks directly at you. your stomach flips so hard it almost makes you angry.

you glance away first. before you can say literally anything, your roommate beams. "great! y/n'll go with you."

you whip around instantly. "what?"

"you get carsick in crowded backseats," she says innocently.

which is true. unfortunately. “i can survive.”

“and i want leg room,” toji says. "no fuckin' way am i cramming in the back with the lovebirds," he grumbles, pointing to choso and your roomate, "with this fucker in the front." he points his thumb to gojo, who's smiling happily.

"then you can go in the front with geto," you say.

your roommate gives you a deadpan look. gojo's girlfriend sighs.

"toji, just sit in the back, please," choso says quietly. "it's only a two and a half hour ride."

he opens his mouth to retort an excuse but gojo's girlfriend promptly elbows him in the chest. he grumbles but settles in the back of gojo's girlfriend's sedan anyway.

geto looks almost relieved, but he quickly masks it with his typical aloofness.

your roommate grabs your shoulder, grinning ear to ear. "have fun!"

you narrow your eyes at her. “i hope your phone charger breaks.”

gojo leans out the passenger window of the other car. “pee break every forty-five minutes!”

“absolutely not,” both you and geto say simultaneously.

gojo points between you both immediately. “they’re married already.”

you ignore him completely, mostly because geto is already walking around to the passenger side of his car and opening the door for you. which should not affect you this much.

it’s basic manners. normal behavior. except when you pass him, the scent of his cologne mixes with cool morning air and coffee and suddenly your thoughts short-circuit for half a second.

annoying. very, super annoying.

you settle into the seat while geto finishes loading the last bag.

the car smells clean, like sandalwood and detergent and something distinctly geto. you hate that you know what he smells like.

the second he slides into the driver’s seat beside you, the space feels smaller. you feel him glance at you before putting the car into start, and you're driving off, leading the other car behind you.

your phone buzzes immediately.

roomie: have fun on your first date ❤️

you: i’m going to kill you with my bare hands

you shove your phone away quickly before geto can accidentally see. “you have the address?” he asks quietly.

“yeah.” you pull up the map. “did gojo’s girlfriend save it too?”

“i sent it to her twice.”

“good.”

“you don’t trust them?”

you stare out the windshield where gojo is currently hanging halfway out the car window yelling something about his spring break arc. “…should i?”

geto laughs quietly beside you and the sound makes your head spin happily. you don't hear him laugh often, unless he's mocking gojo. this quiet, real laugh is something you notice every single time.

after twenty minutes you hit the highway and you sink back into your seat with a sigh. “finally.”

“you stressed?” geto asks lightly.

“i like plans.”

“i noticed.”

you narrow your eyes slightly. “that sounded judgmental.”

“it wasn’t.”

“mhm.”

he glances at you briefly while turning onto the highway. sunlight catches against the rings on his fingers resting on the steering wheel. your brain immediately decides to become unhelpful so you look out the window instead.

for another few minutes, it’s quiet except for road noise and the distant bass vibrating from the other car behind, then geto taps the screen on the dashboard. “you want music?”

“i don’t mind.”

“you sure?”

“...yeah? why?” you glance over at him.

“because now if you hate my music taste you'll have to be super polite about it and the car ride will be awkward.”

you laugh softly. “i promise it won't be bad. i won't be that harsh.”

his mouth curves slightly before he scrolls through his phone. music fills the car a second later and you recognize it almost instantly.

your head turns before you can stop yourself. “wait,” you say. “is this the smiths?”

geto glances over briefly. “…you listen to the smiths?”

“obviously.”

“obviously?”

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

“nothing,” he says, clearly amused now. “i just didn’t expect it.”

you scoff. “what did you expect?”

he thinks about it for a second. “something old. like classical music.”

"i don't mind classical, but the smiths have always been one of my favourites."

he flashes you a genuine smile, fingers gently tapping the rhythm of the song on the wheel. "i'm glad."

after that, conversation begins to flow easier. favourite albums, worst profs, gojo. (lots of gojo). he says something that makes you snort and that same small, real smile etches onto his lips and god, this is dangerous.

you watch the highway stretch under the pale morning sunlight while trees blur at the edges of the road. after a moment you steal another glance at him. he's relaxed, one arm resting near the window, sunglasses low on his nose.

he's so...pretty.

the thought hits so fast and hard it almost embarrasses you. as if sensing it, geto looks over suddenly. your eyes meet instantly and there it is again. that thing. that horrible, suspended moment where neither of you looks away fast enough.

his gaze flicks down briefly to your mouth then back up. your pulse stutters.

behind you, gojo’s girlfriend's car suddenly swerves slightly as gojo sticks his head out the sunroof, shouting something imperceptible.

the moment breaks. you clear your throat quickly, looking forward again. “they’re going to die before we even get there.”

geto’s laugh rumbles low beside you. “probably.”

gojo’s girlfriend has both hands gripping the steering wheel like she’s transporting explosives. “if you scream one more time,” she says flatly, eyes locked on the road, “i’m pulling over and leaving all of you on the highway.”

“that feels hostile,” gojo says from the passenger seat.

“you barked at a motorcycle.”

“it barked first.”

from the backseat, toji groans dramatically as choso’s girlfriend shifts closer into choso’s side again. “i’m in hell,” he mutters.

“you’re just bitter because nobody wants to cuddle you,” she says cheerfully.

“wrong. women love me.”

“do they?” gojo says from the front, shit-eating grin on his face.

“historically. your mother would know.”

“you don't know shit about my mom,” gojo laughs. “she doesn't have your fucking number.”

“that's cause she gave it to me.”

choso quietly adjusts his arm around his girlfriend’s waist so she can lean more comfortably against him. toji gags loudly. “there they go again,” he says. “the world’s most nauseating couple.”

"you're just single. quadruple-wheeling the trip. us, choso and his girl, and whatever the fuck is going on in geto's car."

toji kicks the back of gojo’s seat and the car swerves slightly.

everyone yells immediately. “if we die,” gojo’s girlfriend says through gritted teeth, “i’m haunting all of you.”

“you’d look hot as a ghost,” gojo says instantly.

she snorts despite herself. from the backseat, choso’s girlfriend glances down at her phone.

“they’re probably having the most awkward car ride ever right now.”

gojo twists around immediately. “you think they’ve kissed yet?”

“it’s been thirty minutes,” choso says.

“exactly.”

“they’re not kissing,” his girlfriend says, though she sounds deeply unconvinced.

toji stretches his long legs out miserably. “they do have weird tension though.”

“thank you,” gojo says, pointing dramatically. “finally someone sane.”

choso’s girlfriend smiles to herself a little, gaze drifting toward the road ahead where geto’s car moves steadily a few lengths in front of them. “i think they’re both just nervous,” she says softly.

“geto?” gojo laughs loudly. “nervous over a girl?”

if only they saw how bright geto's smile was right now as you talked animatedly about how well your finals went. with you and your legs propped up on the dash, smooth and perfect and he couldn't stop staring without seeming weird. how his heart skipped a beat every time one of your perfect smiles were directed to him.

if only they knew how gone for you he really was.

the second the beach house comes into view, everyone in the other car completely loses their minds. your phone starts vibrating before geto’s even finished pulling into the driveway.

SPRING BREAKKUHH

gojo: HOLY SHIT???

gojo: WHY IS IT HUGE

roomie: i warned u

you laugh softly under your breath as the other car practically screeches to a stop beside you. the house sits glowing gold in the late afternoon sunlight, all warm cedar and giant windows overlooking the water below. dune grass sways softly around the edges of the deck while waves crash faintly in the distance.

home.

you hadn’t realized how badly you needed this until now. gojo launches out of the car first. “BEACH ARC!” he screams.

“inside voice,” you call automatically.

“we’re outside.”

“future inside voice.”

toji steps out next, stretching dramatically. “thank christ. my knees were touching my organs back there.”

everyone starts unloading luggage in a blur after that. bags thumping against the deck, music already blasting from someones speaker, and of course, gojo attempting to carry six things at once before immediately dropping half of them.

you’re hauling one of the grocery bags up the front steps when your roommate appears beside you wearing the smuggest expression imaginable. “so,” she says casually.

you already know. “don’t.”

“you and geto looked cozy.”

“we were in a car.”

“alone.”

“with seatbelts.”

gojo’s girlfriend appears on your other side immediately. “the sexual tension was visible through the windshield.”

you nearly trip over the doorway. “there is no sexual tension.”

both of them stare at you and you adjust your glasses defensively. “there just objectively is not.”

“you’re doing the nerd thing,” your roommate says.

“what nerd thing?”

“the glasses push.”

your hand drops instantly away from your frames. traitors, the both of them. behind you, geto lifts two suitcases from the trunk effortlessly while listening to choso say something beside him.

he glances toward the front porch, toward you, and your stomach does the stupid thing again. once inside everybody immediately scatters to explore the house.

gojo runs directly toward the back windows dramatically. “the back deck is is insane.”

“don’t break anything,” you warn.

“you say that every time.”

“because every time you almost break something.”

toji opens the fridge. “this thing is bigger than four of the fridges at the frat.”

you kick your shoes off near the entryway while everybody talks over each other around you. the house smells faintly like cedarwood and ocean air, comfortable and familiar. comfortable. familiar.

geto pauses beside one of the windows quietly, gaze moving across the living room and you watch his expression shift slightly. he looks good, his hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair loosened slightly from it's usual knot, sunlight catching against his skin through the windows.

you look away before your brain gets worse.

eventually everyone gathers in the living room surrounded by luggage and grocery bags while you attempt to regain control of the chaos. “okay,” you say, clapping once. “room assignments.”

immediately, “dibs,” both gojo and choso say at the same time.

their girlfriends laugh. “obviously,” gojo’s girlfriend says. "we can take the upstairs bedroom, if you don't mind? the one on the side?"

“don’t be loud,” you say, and gojo flips you off. within seconds choso and your roommate have claimed one of the downstairs bedrooms, which leaves you, geto and toji, and two remaining bedrooms.

the master, upstairs. the guest room, downstairs, which has a double bed.

you’re mentally calculating sleeping arrangements when geto speaks first.

“y/n should take the master.”

your head lifts. geto’s leaning back slightly against the kitchen island now, arms folded loosely. “it’s her house,” he says simply.

heat flickers low in your stomach at how immediate the answer was. before you can respond, toji lets out a deeply offended noise. “what,” he says flatly.

everyone turns toward him. he gestures broadly at himself and geto. “so your solution is to cram two six-foot-plus men into a queen bed?”

“you survived the car,” gojo calls from halfway down the hall.

“barely. my spine compressed.” toji points accusingly at you. “i already sacrificed circulation for this trip.”

your roommate’s eyes flick between you and geto so fast it’s almost cartoonish. “easy fix,” she says. “geto and y/n share.”

silence, and your heart drops to your ass. nobody says anything immediately because apparently every single person in this house has collectively decided to make your life harder.

you stare at your roommate. she grins back innocently. beside him, gojo's girlfriend physically bites the inside of her cheek trying not to smile.

toji shrugs instantly. “works for me.”

“of course it does,” you mutter.

your roommate looks dangerously delighted now. “i mean…”

you whip around. “okay, that's--that's enough.”

“it makes sense.”

“does it?”

“logistically?”

you narrow your eyes. she smiles sweetly. geto has gone suspiciously quiet beside the kitchen island and when you risk one glance towards him he's already looking at you completely unreadable except for the faintest pink creeping up his ears.

your pulse stutters embarrassingly hard. “i can sleep on the couch,” you say quickly.

“absolutely not,” geto says immediately. too fast. the room goes quiet again and you feel every single person notice the tension. especially when geto clears his throat softly afterward. “i mean,” he adds more evenly, “it’s your place.”

gojo looks one second away from exploding with laughter.

toji stretches lazily against the armchair. “well i’m not sharing with him.”

your roommate suddenly stands. “perfect! problem solved.”

you stare at her in horror. “you didn’t solve anything.”

“you and geto get the master.”

your brain short-circuits. you open your mouth to protest then glance toward geto again. his eyes meet yours instantly, and you both look away.

biggest coward of all - your one and only, y/n.

everyone disperses after that. gojo immediately starts trying to connect his phone to the speaker system downstairs, toji disappears toward the back deck with a beer already in hand, choso and his girlfriend vanish into their room carrying bags and giggling like a disease.

you flee upstairs before your friends can torment you any further. your heartbeat still feels weird - you hate that.

the master bedroom sits at the end of the hallway overlooking the water, all soft linen and huge windows glowing gold from the lowering sun outside. you’ve always loved this room, not that you were in it often. throughout your childhood, it was occupied by your parents.

you especially love it at sunset. usually it calms you down.

usually.

right now all you can think about is the fact that suguru geto is sharing this room with you for an entire week.

it's insane and horrible and slightly thrilling in a way you refuse to examine too closely. you drop your bag onto the bed with a sigh before digging through your suitcase for something more comfortable. the drive left you sticky and overheated so you tug your shirt over your head absentmindedly, tossing it onto the bed before reaching behind yourself to unclasp your bra.

finally. freedom.

you’re halfway through pulling on a loose tank top when the bedroom door suddenly opens. you turn automatically.

geto walks in mid-sentence. “i was just gonna leave my ba—”

he stops completely. so do you.

silence detonates through the room because your bra is currently halfway off your arms and your tits are fully out.

oh my god. you yelp immediately, clutching the tank top against your chest. geto looks genuinely horrified. not in a bad way but shocked, like his brain physically short-circuited. his eyes flick upward instantly but it’s too late because the image is already there now, permanently burned into his consciousness forever.

“fuck,” he blurts immediately. “shit. fuck, sorry. jesus christ.”

you make another strangled noise while trying to cover yourself and pull the shirt on at the same time. geto turns around so fast he nearly walks into the doorframe. “i’m sorry,” he says again, voice suddenly rougher than usual. “i thought you were downstairs.”

“it’s okay,” you squeak.

it is not okay. your face feels approximately one million degrees.

geto grabs the doorknob blindly. “i’m gonna— yeah. sorry.” then he practically slams the door shut behind him.

you stand frozen in the middle of the bedroom clutching your shirt to your chest while your nervous system completely implodes.

oh my god.

OH MY GOD.

geto descends the stairs with a flushed face and rigid expression - the kind of forced composure that immediatley attracts attention in a house full of idiots.

gojo looks up from the couch instantly. “…the hell happened to you?”

geto keeps walking toward the kitchen. “nothing.”

“you look like you saw a ghost.”

“something like that,” geto mutters.

friday - 7 pm

by early evening, the house finally settles into something softer. the unpacking chaos dies down, most of your group is watching the ocean from the back porch. you’re cleaning up dinner dishes with choso, who keeps (politely) asking why you’ve got a weird look on your face.

it’s been four hours since that disaster upstairs. the awkwardness still hangs between you and geto, who can’t look you in the eye.

you change into one of your bikinis eventually, tugging an oversized button-up over it before heading downstairs with your glasses perched back on your nose. the second you appear, gojo grins. “beach time.”

“beach time,” you confirm with a small smile.

outside, the air smells like salt and warm cedar as everybody trails down the private wooden path toward the shoreline. the beach stretches mostly empty around you, pale sand glowing gold beneath the lowering sun while waves roll lazily onto shore. your roommate immediately grabs your hand and drags you toward the water. gojo sprints in after you both screaming for no reason. toji lights a cigarette. gojo’s girlfriend seems reluctant to put her feet in the water but she explodes into giggles when the white-haired man hauls her over his shoulders.

geto hangs back slightly. he still can’t think normally, not after upstairs. not after accidentally walking into the bedroom and seeing you half-dressed with your tits out looking shocked and all cute and soft beneath afternoon light.

jesus christ.

he’s trying very hard to be normal about it but the image keeps replaying against his will. the gentle curve of your chest and your startled expression and the way you scrambled to cover yourself.

he feels insane.

“you good?”

geto blinks. choso stands beside him now holding a cooler in one hand.

“fine,” geto says immediately.

choso hums, not believing him at all. ahead of them, you’re standing ankle-deep in the water now while your roommate splashes at gojo nearby. the ocean catches sunset light in shifting ribbons of gold and blue around your legs and fuck, geto’s pulse jumps instantly.

your oversized shirt hangs open slightly over your swimsuit whenever the wind catches it. your hair glows warm at the edges beneath the fading sun while you laugh at something gojo yells from farther down the shoreline.

pretty doesn’t even feel like the right word anymore.

it’s worse than that now. every time geto looks at you lately, something low in his chest tightens painfully. beside him, choso watches quietly for about three seconds. “you should probably stop staring.”

geto tears his eyes away immediately. “i wasn’t.”

“mhm.”

annoying.

they walk farther down the beach together while the others spread out ahead. waves crash softly nearby, the wind cool against their skin. “you know,” choso says after a minute, “she likes you too.”

geto nearly chokes. “…what?”

choso shrugs lightly. “i’m just saying.”

“you shouldn’t say anything.”

“okay.”

barely a pause before geto blurts, “does she actually?”

choso laughs quietly while geto rubs a hand over his jaw with a sigh.

this whole situation feels increasingly impossible to manage. before this trip, there was distance. space and campus distractions. now there’s shared car rides and a shared room and seeing you every five minutes. and apparently accidental nudity.

and of course there’s the fact that geto genuinely likes being around you. he likes talking to you. likes the way your brain works. the way you explain things when you’re excited. the little irritated face you make whenever gojo says something stupid.

it’s becoming a real problem.

“you’ve spent six months pretending you weren’t obsessed with her,” choso observes quietly.

geto glares at him. “i’m not obsessed.”

choso looks unconvinced. fair enough.

the sound of you laughing (at something toji or gojo did, likely) hits geto square in the chest. there’s something different about you here already. you’re lighter, less tense than you are on campus. he watches you push your glasses back up your nose while smiling toward the ocean, sunset washing warm gold across your skin.

beautiful.

the thought arrives with startling clarity this time, like he could spend an entire lifetime memorizing moments exactly like this. you glance back toward him suddenly and your eyes meet across the beach.

there it is again, that pull.

that awful suspended feeling like the rest of the world drops slightly out of focus whenever you look at each other too long.

friday - 9 pm

it's properly evening when you all head back to the beach house. the sky's a pretty shade of dark blue, stars shining little dots above your head. you all file into the house and you say something about not trailing any sand in, looking very pointedly at gojo.

salt clings faintly to your skin, your hair's a mess from the wind, and your brain still hasn't recovered from the way geto looked at you on the beach. you slip into the kitchen first to grab water, hoping for approximately thirty seconds alone to regain your sanity.

so, naturally, geto walks in immediately after you. of course he does.

you busy yourself with the fridge while he moves toward the sink beside you, sleeves pushed up again as he washes sand from his hands.

silence stretches, and it's not uncomfortable, exactly. it's worse - aware. you can feel him there without even looking. the heat of him beside you, the sound of water running over his hands. your pulse does something deeply irritating when his shoulder brushes yours accidentally reaching for a dish towel.

“sorry,” he murmurs.

“you keep saying that this trip.” you regret the words as soon as they come out. why would you bring up that incident?

his mouth twitches slightly.

before either of you can spiral further or say anything else gojo’s voice erupts from the living room.

“movie night?!”

you close your eyes briefly. saved by the idiot.

everybody migrates downstairs afterwards where the basement living room is. it's cozy and there's a huge projector setup against one wall, and an entire cabinet full of old dvds your parents collected over the years.

gojo kneels in front of it like he’s discovering sacred texts. “this is so fucking cool.”

“don’t touch them with your greasy hands,” you warn.

“snob.”

he ends up carefully plucking the first indiana jones movie from one of the shelves and hands it to you. "good pick? i've never seen it."

"great pick," you approve. you crouch down to the dvd player, fiddling with the wires to connect it properly to the projector. behind you, everyone's already claimed spots on the couches.

you don't think much of it until you finally turn around and freeze. one end of the sectional is occupied by toji's giant limbs. the rest has a very comfortable looking choso-and-roommate combo who are already curled into each other. the beanbag has gojo and his girlfriend squished onto it.

the only open spot left is beside geto on the loveseat.

your roommate suddenly becomes very interested in not making eye contact and gojo's girlfriend looks seconds away from laughing. you narrow your eyes at both of them before trudging toward the loveseat.

you sit as far from geto as physically possible, which on the loveseat is not very far. there's maybe a foot of space between you both ,close enough to feel hyperaware of each other's presence.

as the movie starts gojo's already stealing popcorn from his girlfriend and your roommate is practically asleep against choso's chest within minutes. geto's still infuriatingly still beside you, one arm draped along the back of the couch. not touching you, just there, and your heartbeat won't calm down.

you manage to balance this thin line of whatever-this-is between you and geto for half the movie, hardly paying attention to the plot, though you've seen the flick a dozen times. you keep gettind distracted by his arm (it's right there) and how if you inched just a liiiitle bit over, you'd basically be pressed against geto.

your bubble's interrupted by gojo bolting up from the beanbag, shouting about about a plot twist he 'totally saw coming,' and the volume of his screaming is so aggressive you jolt slightly.

your thigh brushes geto's. the rush that flows through you is electric and you both go still instantly. the contact lingers half a second too long before you shift subtly back except now geto's arm behind you lowers slightly. closer. his fingers brush your shoulder lightly and your pulse spikes so hard it hurts.

you stare very intensely at the movie screen pretending your entire nervous system isn’t imploding, then his thumb moves - small absentminded circles against your shoulder through the thin fabric of your shirt.

oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god -

you stop breathing for a second and beside you, geto’s voice drops low enough only you can hear. “…this okay?”

your throat feels weirdly tight. you nod once, his arm sliding lower around you slowly, careful enough to give you time to pull away if you want.

you don’t.

so instead he gently pulls you against his side, warm and solid, your brain short-circuiting instantly. somehow curling against him feels natural already. your head settles near his shoulder while his arm stays firm around your waist now, thumb still tracing slow patterns against your side.

the movie disappears completely and all you can think about is him. his cologne and the warmth radiating through his hoodie and the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath your cheek.

your heart feels seconds away from exploding.

geto feels equally doomed. having you tucked against him like this is significantly worse than he imagined. you fit there too easily. soft against his side and warm beneath his arm. he can smell coconut sunscreen faintly lingering on your skin from the beach and it’s actively destroying his ability to think. he's also trying very hard not to tighten his grip every time you shift closer unconsciously.

from across the room, toji announces, with zero social awareness, “i’m cold.”

toji’s voice cuts through the moment like a gunshot. you pull away instantly and geto’s arm drops from around you immediately like he touched fire.

“i can get blankets,” you say quickly, already standing.

“i’ll help,” geto says, glancing at you.

“you don’t have to—”

“it’s fine.”

you swallow thickly and nod, walking up the stairs, legs feeling like jello, geto right behind you.

from the couch, choso's girlfriend grabs a pillow and hurls it directly at toji's head. “what the fuck is wrong with you?”

toji catches it midair, deeply offended. “what?”

“they were having a moment.”

“how was i supposed to know that?”

“because everyone with functioning eyes knew that.”

gojo starts cackling.

when you make it upstairs, the silence between you and geto feels heavy and sharp and you move the hallway quickly trying to regain control of your heartbeat while grabbing blankets from the linen closet.

geto stands too cloise behind you that when you turn accidentally, you nearly walk straight into his chest.

your breath catches. his does too.

for one suspended second neither of you moves.

the hallway feels narrow suddenly and you're focused on warm, dim light spilling softly across his face and his dark eyes fixed on yours. your pulse pounds violently as geto's face flicks briefly to your mouth, then back up.

you think he’s going to kiss you.

you really think he’s going to kiss you.

instead, he quietly says, “…you don’t have to feel weird about downstairs.”

the words feel strange and your stomach drops slightly. “…weird?”

his expression shifts instantly like he realizes too late how that sounded. “no, i just meant—”

“right,” you say quickly.

humiliation flashes hot beneath your skin. he thinks you misread things, or worse, that he did. you step back first, push your glasses up too quickly. “no yeah. obviously.”

geto looks frustrated suddenly. “that’s not what i—”

“it’s okay,” you interrupt softly. “really.”

the tension curdles painfully into awkwardness as you grab as many blankets as possible before he can say anything else, then practically flee downstairs.

everyone looks up when you return. you toss blankets at people mechanically before settling onto the far end of the loveseat, as far away as you can from geto.

your roommate notices immediately. so does choso. so does gojo. gojo's girlfriend would've, too, if she weren't out cold asleep.

geto comes downstairs a second later quieter than before and he hesitates briefly looking toward you, then sits separately too.

on the floor.

distance stretches cold and strange across the room now. your chest aches and you tightly pull a blanket around yourself, staring at the movie screen without really seeing it.

geto watches the side of your face in silence from his spot on the floor and from that point on the rest of the movie feels wrong. nobody says anything outright but everybody notices, because thirty minutes ago you'd been curled into geto's side looking soft and shy while he stared at you like you painted those stars in the sky over the ocean.

now you're curled up like a hermit and geto's face seems almost painful as he stares at his feet.

gojo's eyes flick between the two of you every few seconds with all the subtlety of a car accident. his girlfriend, now awake, elbows him every time

choso notices too, though he’s more discreet about it. he just keeps glancing toward geto occasionally like he’s trying to figure out which one of you panicked first.

(toji remains blissfully clueless.)

you stay tucked beneath your blanket staring blankly at the projector screen while the movie plays out in blurry colors you barely register.

geto looks equally miserable. worse, actually, because now that he's replaying the conversation upstairs in his head, he realizes exactly how badly he phrased it. 'you don't have to feel weird about downstairs'. god. he sounded like he regretted it, like he was trying to backtrack, which is the opposite of what he meant.

he’d only wanted to make sure you weren’t uncomfortable. that you didn't feel pressured and that he hadn't crossed a line. instead he'd watched your face fall in real time. idiot. he's an idiot.

when the credits finally roll, everybody starts talking at once again. gojo arguing about the ending and toji asking if there's leftover chips and your roommate whispering something to choso while glancing at you.

you quietly push the blanket aside and stand. “i’m gonna go to bed,” you mumble. you’re not even sure anyone hears, but geto does. his head lifts immediately but you don't look at him, disappearing upstairs before anyone can stop you.

you trudge to your bedroom, straight to the en suite. the shower helps a little. the warm water and the silence as you scrub salt from your skin and try very hard not to think about how close geto had been in the hallway upstairs. or how badly you wanted him to kiss you.

humiliating.

by the time you finish changing into your university sweatshirt and tiny sleep shorts, exhaustion finally starts creeping in around the edges. the bedroom is dark when you return except for moonlight spilling silver across the floor through the giant windows.

geto isn’t there yet. your stomach twists at the thought but you climb into your side of the bed anyway, pulling the blankets up to your chin while ocean waves crash softly somewhere outside.

you tell yourself not to care, then eventually fall asleep anyway.

when you wake up again, the room is still dark. for one disoriented second you don’t know why your chest feels strange then you glance toward the other side of the bed.

empty. empty?

your brows knit together immediately. the digital clock beside the bed reads 4:07 am. you push yourself upright slowly. “…geto?”

nothing, and the bathroom’s empty too. confused now, you slip quietly out of bed and head downstairs.

the house is silent, dark except for one of the kitchen lights left on.

and there he is. geto's asleep on the downstairs couch, or at least attempting to be. one arm thrown over his eyes, long legs awkwardly cramped against the cushions because the couch is way too short for him, a blanket half falling onto the floor.

your chest tightens. he thought you didn't want him upstairs and guilt floods through you instantly. you carefully walk closer. “geto,” you whisper.

he wakes almost immediately. years of frat-house living apparently killed deep sleep permanently. his arm drops from his face slowly when he realizes it’s you standing there. his hair’s messy, voice rough with sleep. “…hey.”

you hesitate, suddenly nervous again. “why are you down here?”

his eyes flick away briefly. “didn’t wanna make things uncomfortable.”

your heart sinks. “you weren’t,” you say quickly. “i just thought…” you trail off awkwardly.

geto pushes himself upright slowly, watching you carefully in the dark. “thought what?”

you fiddle with the sleeve of your sweatshirt. “that maybe you regretted it. when...we were on the couch.”

his expression changes instantly, softens to something almost confused. “what?”

“upstairs,” you mumble. “when you said i didn’t have to feel weird.”

geto exhales quietly through his nose then drops his head back against the couch cushions. “that is not what i meant.”

heat creeps into your face again. “oh.”

he looks up at you then, eyes all sleepy and honest in the dim blue light. “i was trying to make sure you were okay,” he says quietly. “because i wanted to kiss you.”

your breath catches hard. silence fills the room save for the hum of the fridge, ocean waves somewhere outside and your heartbeat going completely feral.

geto's gaze stays fixed on yours. “and i wasn’t sure if you wanted that too.”

you stare at him for one suspended second. “i thought you were going to.”

his mouth parts slightly, something warm flashing through his expression. “yeah,” he says softly. “i was.”

your pulse feels violent now and you shift your weight nervously. “you should come upstairs.”

geto studies your face carefully for another second like he’s making absolutely sure, then stands. the couch blanket slips forgotten onto the floor while you both just stand there in the dark living room breathing the same air.

when geto’s hand brushes lightly against yours heading toward the stairs, neither of you pulls away. walking beside him somehow feels more intimate than the almost-kiss downstairs. your hand brushes his once on the staircase and suddenly your pulse is trying to escape your body.

neither of you talks much once you reach the bedroom either. it’s painfully awkward now in that fragile post-confession way. you hover near your side of the bed, and geto stands near the dresser rubbing the back of his neck.“…sorry again,” he says quietly.

“for what?”

“all of this being weird.”

you blink at him then laugh softly despite yourself. “you saying that is making it weirder.”

his mouth twitches. “right.”

when you both scramble into bed you face opposite directions, approximately three feet apart. you can physically feel the tension across the mattress. as you stare at the ceiling you're trying very hard not to think about the fact that geto is right there.

same bed, same room, close enough that you can hear his breathing if you focus.

saturday - 10 am

you stir faintly as the sun wakes you up, bright enough to peek through the edges of the blinds. you stir faintly, something heavy resting around your waist. your brows pinch together sleepily.

wait.

you blink your eyes open slowly and realize with immediate horror that sometime during the night, both of you migrated completely across the bed. you’re practically tangled together now, your head tucked against geto’s chest, his arm wrapped firmly around your waist beneath the blankets, one of your legs halfway thrown over his.

before you can even process it fully, geto shifts too, his arm tightening instinctively for half a second before he wakes up enough to realize.

you both freeze then very slowly, geto looks down at you. his hair is completely loose from sleeping now, dark strands falling around his face messily and eyes still heavy with sleep.

his voice comes out rough and groggy when he finally speaks. “...morning.”

his voice sounds unfair, deep and sleepy and warm against the quiet room. you want to choke. instead you stare at him for one embarrassingly long second before scrambling backward so fast you nearly fall off the bed. “good morning!”

too loud. way too loud.

geto pushes himself upright slowly, clearly trying not to laugh.

you’re suddenly acutely aware now of your oversized university sweatshirt riding up slightly from sleep and the tiny shorts you forgot you were wearing. you can feel oil slicking to your skin and you probably look horrible, meanwhile geto looks basically offensively attractive for a man who literally just woke up. dark pools of hair fall over his shoulders, features softened

your nervous system cannot survive this week. “i’m gonna change,” you announce suddenly.

geto blinks once. “…okay.”

you point at him very seriously while backing toward the bathroom. “do not come in there.”

that finally gets a real laugh out of him, low and sleepy. “wasn’t planning on it.”

“good.” you disappear into the bathroom before your dignity can deteriorate further and once inside you stare at your reflection while trying to regain basic human functionality.

you slept wrapped around suguru geto. comfortably.

eventually you change into denim shorts and a fitted tank top before putting your hair up and emerging from the bathroom again.

the bedroom’s empty and for a confusing second you think maybe geto left downstairs already, before movement catches your eye through the balcony doors.

geto’s outside stretching in the early morning sunlight. shirtless. warm golden light spills cross his skin while he stretches one arm over his head lazily, back muscles shifting beneath the sunlight. his sweatpants hang low enough that the sharp v-lines disappearing beneath the waistband are very visible.

extremely visible.

you feel warm all over immediately because sure, you knew geto was attractive. obviously. but this feels actively engineered in a lab to ruin your life specifically.

outside, he rolls his shoulders once before turning slightly and immediately catches you staring. your soul leaves your body as geto pauses then very slowly raises a brow. “…morning again.”

heat floods your face so fast it’s almost violent. you look away instantly. “you could warn people.”

“about what?”

you gesture vaguely toward him without looking directly.

“that.”

his laugh drifts softly through the open balcony door and when you glance at him again you see how prettily the sun catches against the winding tattoos along his arms.

geto watches your expression carefully and smirks slightly.

you swear you'll die before noon.

the house is (unfortunately) wide awake as you and geto walk downstairs. gojo’s voice echoes through the kitchen before you even hit the last stair. “WHY IS IT SMOKING?”

you immediately close your eyes. “what did you do,” you say, voice dangerously low.

“nothing!”

you walk into the kitchen to find everyone gathered around the coffee machine like it’s a bomb squad situation. steam hisses violently from the side of it and gojo stands there holding the glass pot. “i pressed brew,” he defends.

“with no water in it,” his girlfriend says.

toji looks half asleep at the island. “natural selection should’ve taken him years ago.”

your roommate's eyes narrow immediately as she sees you and geto walk in. her gaze drifts to the living room, specifically the blanket crumpled on the couch and the pillow on the floor.

you grab a mug to avoid eye contact with her, geto moving toward the counter beside you like this is a completely normal morning.

gojo squints suspiciously. “…you two look weird.”

“you always look weird,” you mutter into your juice.

“true but irrelevant.”

“the coffee machine’s dead by the way,” toji interrupts.

“i figured as much,” you sigh, examining the machine with a frown.

“he killed it,” gojo's girlfriend says.

“it was weak,” gojo argues.

“it was a twelve hundred dollar espresso machine,” you say, rubbing a hand over your eyes. "my parents are so going to kill me."

gojo freezes. “it was how much?”

you groan softly, dropping your forehead against the counter. “i’m going back to bed.”

beside you, geto laughs under his breath, low enough only you heard it. your stomach flips and you glance at him accidentally and immediately regret it because his hair's tied loosely back and he's in a fitted black t-shirt that does nothing helpful for your concentration.

plus you know what's under it. worse - you know what it looks like first thing in the morning sunlight.

your brain needs to be chemically sterilized.

everyone slowly migrates toward breakfast eventually while arguing over plans for the day. gojo offers to toast bagels (provided he doesn't break the toaster, too) and your roommate keeps kicking your ankle beneath the island every time you look at geto too long.

“stop that,” you hiss quietly.

“make me.”

you’re still groggy as hell from waking up at four in the morning and emotionally spiraling before sunrise so eventually everyone starts looking at you expectantly when discussion turns toward plans.

“what’s the weather?” choso asks.

you glance out the giant kitchen windows toward the water. clear skies, barely any wind. perfect.

“it’s gonna be a good beach day,” you say, wrapping your hands around your mug (yes, still full of juice. you'd kill for coffee right now). “we can stay down there most of the afternoon.”

gojo pumps a fist. “beach arc continues.”

“then maybe head into town this evening,” you continue. “there’s a boardwalk and some restaurants by the marina.”

“shopping?” your roommate perks up instantly.

“you don’t need more clothes.”

“counterpoint, yes i do.”

“we can do dinner there,” you say. “then come back for the sunset.”

everyone nods along pretty quickly after that but geto’s not really paying attention anymore, because while you’re talking, sleepy and slightly disheveled in your little tank top with your glasses sliding down your nose, sunlight catches against your skin through the kitchen windows.

all he can think about is waking up with you curled against his chest.

you look over toward him mid-sentence.“does that sound okay?”

geto realizes a full second too late that everyone’s waiting for his answer. “…yeah,” he says quietly, eyes still on you. “sounds perfect.”

after breakfast, the second you head upstairs, your roommate and gojo’s girlfriend follow immediately with excited little grins. you barely make it into the bedroom before your roommate shuts the door behind her dramatically.

“spill.”

you blink. “about what.”

both of them stare at you. “y/n,” gojo’s girlfriend says flatly, “there was visible yearning at breakfast.”

“there was not.”

you move toward your suitcase quickly before they can corner you properly. “nothing happened.”

“liar,” your roommate says instantly.

“nothing serious happened.” you push your glasses back up your nose. you ignore their little comments and start sorting through your bikinis instead. “we’re focusing on beachwear now.”

“avoidance,” your roommate whispers solemnly.

“coping mechanism,” gojo’s girlfriend agrees.

you throw a swimsuit at both of them and eventually the three of you end up sitting cross-legged around the open suitcase debating bikini options. “this one’s cute,” your roommate says, holding up a blue floral set.

“i dunno why i packed that one.”

“this one?”

“too bright.”

gojo’s girlfriend suddenly digs deeper into the suitcase before pausing. “…wait.” she lifts a black triangle bikini from the pile. sleek black fabric and a tiny gold charm dangling between the cups.

you laugh nervously. it's smaller than what you typically wear - you prefer more full-coverage, something that doesn't let the plush of your stomach and thighs fully exposed. the top'll push up your tits way more than anything you normally wear.

both girls stare at it reverently like archaeologists uncovering forbidden treasure. “THIS one,” your roommate breathes.

“absolutely this one,” gojo's girlfriend agrees.

you snatch at it immediately. “that’s too...much. i don't -”

“y/n, you're going to look amazing in it, no matter what comments you have to say about yourself or your body,” your roommate says. “you're hot. it's hot. you're going to look good.”

“i’m literally not wearing dental floss to the beach.”

“y/n.”

“what.”

“put it on.”

five minutes later you emerge from the bathroom already regretting every life decision that led here. the bikini really is tiny.

the black fabric contrasts sharply against your skin while the gold charm rests perfectly between your chest. the top pushes everything up unfairly well and the bottoms sit low against your hips with thin strings at the sides.

you instinctively cross your arms slightly. your roommate’s jaw physically drops and gojo’s girlfriend just stares.

“…holy shit,” she says softly.

“you HAVE to wear that.”

“i look insane,” you say, glancing at your feet. "bad insane."

“you look hot.”

heat crawls across your face instantly, and you glance toward the mirror again. okay. maybe it does look good. “it’s more revealing than what i usually wear,” you mumble.

“and you rock it.”

eventually they encourage you to keeping it on and you throw on a loose white cover dress afterward at least, something soft and flowy enough to hide most of the bikini beneath it.

then you start filling your beach bag. book, sunscreen, waterbottle, lip balm, portable charger.

your roommate watches with deep affection. “you pack for the beach like a divorced father.”

“preparation prevents suffering,” you say wisely, and gojo's girlfriend laughs while you shove sunglasses into your hair.

the three of you head downstairs together where the guys are still getting ready. gojo's already shirtless and toji's hoarding chips and choso nearly walks directly into a wall when his girlfriend appears in her bikini.

geto looks up from the kitchen counter when you enter. you feel his gaze drift down your face, down the cover dress you're wearing, and your pulse jumps instantly.

gojo ruins the moment by throwing sunglasses at him. “beach.”

everyone starts heading outside after that. the walk toward the shoreline is warm and breezy, sunlight sifting through dune grass while everybody talks over each other around you. you’re halfway down the road when somebody calls your name suddenly.

you turn instantly, recognizing the voice with a smile. “aaron?”

geto watches as a guy about your age jogs over from the neighboring property, grinning broadly. he's tall, sun-bleached hair, and apparently he knows you very well because he immediately pulls you into a quick hug.

“holy shit,” he laughs. “when’d you get here?”

“yesterday! i didn’t know your family was coming down this week.”

“mom wanted the boat out, even though it's kinda early.”

you smile easily at him - you did practically grow up together, summer after summer.

behind you, your friends have gone suspiciously quiet.

“oh, these are my friends,” you say, gesturing to your group. aaron shakes everyone’s hands easily while you chatter beside him naturally, smiling more openly than you usually do around new people.

geto watches the entire thing in silence and immediately dislikes this guy. he knows it's irrational but you look happy talking to him. not nervous or flustered, just easy and warm and familiar. aaron says something that makes you laugh and geto's jaw tightens.

logically, this means nothing. he knows that, but still. he watches aaron’s hand brush briefly against your arm while talking and suddenly feels the deeply primal urge to throw him into the ocean.

gojo notices instantly, of course, despite being a bumbling oaf most of the time. his eyes slowly widen behind his sunglasses. “he’s jealous,” he whispers as he leans towards choso.

“obviously,” choso whispers back.

the second aaron finally heads back toward his family’s place, the group starts moving again. something's shifted now, though. you notice it almost immediately walking beside geto down the sandy path toward the beach.

he’s quieter. thinking.

gojo notices too, his grin getting increasingly more dangerous every few seconds. eventually he speeds up to walk backward in front of you both. “so,” he says brightly. “beach boyfriend.”

“don’t start,” you sigh.

“he looked rich.”

“his parents are both lawyers and they own three beach houses here.”

“shit, well -”

gojo’s girlfriend drags him away by the arm before he can get worse. bless her.

for a minute it’s just you and geto walking side by side while the others move ahead laughing about something. ocean wind catches softly at your cover dress, your sunglasses rest pushed into your hair.

geto finally speaks. “…you two close?”

you glance over. his expression’s careful, casual sounding. “kinda,” you say. “i only really see him in summers though. it's been a while.”

geto hums once. silence stretches another few steps then before he can stop himself, he asks, “you ever date?”

your brows lift slightly.

geto stutters, “i just mean—”

“no, i know what you mean.” you laugh softly under your breath a little awkwardly now. “not seriously. we messed around a little as teenagers.”

geto goes still. you say it so casually, like it means nothing, and his brain instantly starts supplying images he absolutely does not want. you younger, laughing with that guy at bonfires, swimming together at night.

that guy touching you.

“oh,” he says evenly.

you glance at him sideways. “…you okay?”

“fine.”

liar. he’s absurdly jealous which is insane because he knows he has zero claim over you whatsoever. (and yet he thinks about last night and how you almost kissed and that soft look in your eyes and he feels waves of jealousy wash over him again.)

the thought of anyone else having touched you makes something dark and unpleasant twist low in his stomach. the walk to the beach is silent and the shoreline opens wide before all of you again.

everyone starts setting up camp and the warm sand burns pleasently beneath your feet. umbrellas, chairs, coolers, towels are all placed in motion

toji tries to ram an umbrella into the sand with zero clue what he's doing and you laugh softly, setting your beach bag down near one of the chairs.

geto watches you from a few feet away while pretending to unfold a towel as you reach for the ties of your cover dress.

his brain short-circuits instantly, watching the thin fabric slip from your shoulders. jesus christ, that bikini is devastating.

sleek little triangle top, gold charm catching sunlight perfectly between your chest, tiny straps against your skin. the bottoms sit low on your hips with those little thin side ties and geto physically has to look away for a second because blood rushes south immediately.

fast.

he’s actually in hell because now not only does he remember accidentally seeing your chest upstairs yesterday, but he also has visual confirmation that your body is genuinely engineered to ruin his life specifically.

nearby, your roommate whistles. “see?” she says smugly. “told you.”

heat creeps across your neck while you shove your sunglasses on quickly. “stop making announcements.”

toji glances from you to geto and laughs under his breath. “…dude.”

geto doesn’t answer. he's still staring until toji smacks his shoulder hard enough to jolt him back to reality. “get in the ocean.”

geto blinks. “…what?”

“cold water.”

realization hits instantly and his ears turn red immediately.

“shut the fuck up,” geto mutters. gojo walks by and smirks, shouting no way at the top of his lungs with absolute glee.

you look between all of them confused. “what’s happening?”

“nothing,” geto says too quickly.

toji’s grin turns downright evil. “he just really likes the scenery.”

your face burns alive instantly.

geto looks seconds away from committing homicide. he starts trudging towards the ocean, following everyone who's running towards the water.

choso's girlfriend stops him, pausing with the slyest smile you've ever seen in your life. “y/n needs someone to put sunscreen on her.”

geto stares at her blankly. “…okay?”

your roommate glares at him pointedly. “you dumbass.”

when realization hits, geto goes still, cause you’re standing there in that tiny black bikini looking suddenly very interested in literally anything except him, and now he’s imagining touching sunscreen onto your skin for an extended period of time while already painfully hard.

cool.

great.

awesome.

gojo’s girlfriend physically drags your roommate toward the lake before either of you can escape.

“have fun!” she calls sweetly.

silence settles immediately afterward except for distant waves and screaming from the water where gojo’s already drowning dramatically. you stand awkwardly beside the chairs clutching the sunscreen bottle and geto pushes a few loose strands of hair back from his face slowly before reaching for it.

his fingers brush yours. your pulse jumps. (his does too.)

“…so,” he says.

“mhm.”

“…where do you want it?”

you choke, brain interpresting that in the worst way possible.

geto's eyes widen slightly. “i didn’t mean it like that.” his ears are turning red again.

“right,” you mumble weakly. god, the tension between you lately feels actively lethal.

geto clears his throat once. “i just meant sunscreen.”

“i know.”

“okay.”

you very quietly mumble, “…just put it everywhere.” you realize how that sounds approximately one second too late.

geto shuts his eyes briefly like he’s asking the universe for strength then gestures toward the towel laid out beneath one of the umbrellas. “you can, erm, lay down. or stand. dunno.”

you nod quickly, and the sand's warm beneath the towel as you settle carefully onto your stomach. geto kneels beside you, close that you can hear the bottle of sunscreen click open. your heartbeat pounds harder instantly.

“tell me if i’m using too much,” he says quietly.

“okay.”

cool sunscreen hits your shoulders first, then his hands. geto’s fingers spread the lotion slowly across your skin, warm palms gliding carefully along your shoulders and upper back.

he’s trying very hard to stay normal about this but your skin’s warm from the sun and soft beneath his hands and when you shiver slightly when his thumbs press near the base of your neck it certainly doesn’t help his…situation.

geto swallows hard. “…cold?”

“no.” your voice comes out quieter than usual.

you hear him exhale softly through his nose and his hands move lower slowly, fingers spreading sunscreen across the middle of your back now, dragging lower and lower inch by inch. it feels intimate, the kind of slow touch that settles beneath your skin.

you wonder, briefly, what your roommate, or gojo’s girlfriend, or choso, or any of them really, think of the sight (if they’re looking) geto leaning over you beneath the umbrella with his hair falling loose around his face slightly while his hands move slowly across your skin like he’s memorizing it. you lying there visibly tense every time he touches you.

“you missed a spot,” you mumble weakly, pointing toward your side mostly just to say something.

mistake. big huge mistake because you throb as geto’s hand slides carefully along your waist, thumb brushing just beneath the curve of your ribs. as your breath catches so does his and his hand lingers one dangerous second too long against your side before pulling away.

“…done,” he says roughly.

you sit up slowly, face to face with him at extremely close range. his hair’s falling into his eyes slightly from the wine, jaw tight, expression unreadable except for the very obvious tension simmering beneath it.

the moment snaps apart before either of you can do something catastrophically stupid. “y/n!” gojo’s voice echoes from the water.

you jerk backward slightly like you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t and geto clears his throat immediately and pushes to his feet a little too fast. “…i’m gonna get in the lake.”

“okay,” you say too quickly.

he nods once before practically escaping into the water, leaving you sitting there afterward feeling completely disoriented. your skin still tingles everywhere he touched so to attempt to distract yourself you grab your book from your beach bag.

it doesn’t work. you read the same sentence six times in a row without processing a single word because all you can think about is the feeling of geto’s hands slowly sliding over your waist.

you’re hopeless.

your roommate and gojo’s girlfriend eventually wander back up from the shoreline dripping water everywhere and both immediately clock your expression.

“wow y/n,” your roommate says sweetly.

“don’t.”

“your sunscreen is blended sooo thoroughly.”

gojo’s girlfriend nods solemnly. “very even application.”

you close your book dramatically over your face. “i hate both of you.”

“he looked one touch away from cardiac arrest.”

“i’m serious,” you say, voice muffled from beneath the pages.

“and you looked like you were gonna melt into the towel,” your roommate adds wisely. you groan into the book.

out in the lake, geto’s standing waist-deep in freezing water, mind still scrambled, because shit, he can still feel the shape of your waist beneath his hands. he can still remember the tiny sound you made when he touched your side.

he thinks you might have noticed his situation downstairs. the water helps a little, at least, and beside him, gojo suddenly appears floating on his back. “you know,” he says conversationally, “you were sporting a fucking hard-on.”

geto nearly drowns him. “what the fuck is wrong with you.”

“you could see it from across the beach.”

“why were you looking, you piece of shit.”

“because you looked stupid.”

toji barks out a laugh nearby. “i’ve never seen you this bad over anybody.”

geto drags both hands through his wet hair with visible frustration. he knows they're right. this is bad. worse than bad. you're going to be upstairs sharing a bed every night walking around in tiny little outfits and looking at him with those shy nervous eyes whenever he gets too close.

from your spot in your chair on the beach you glance to the shoreline again over the edge of your book. you make the mistake of seeing geto standing waist-deep in the water with his wet hair pushed back.

by late afternoon, you're all making your way to the marina, everyone sun-kissed and buzzed off coolers. there's cute little boutiques with sun-faded signs, ice cream stands, tourists wandering around with shopping bags, boats bobbing against the docks while seagulls scream overhead.

it should be relaxing but instead, everyone’s acting weird. well, not everyone - gojo is still normal, unfortunately, which means he’s being loud as shit and trying on ugly sunglasses in every store while his girlfriend tells him he looks like a divorced dad. toji's carrying everyone's bags very bedgrudgingly and choso’s girlfriend keeps linking arms with him and dragging him into little souvenir stores.

meanwhile you and geto keep ending up next to each other by complete accident, which is to say, absolutely on purpose by everyone else. you’re walking along the docks eating gelato at one point when your roommate suddenly grabs your arm. “come into this store with me.” before you can respond, she’s already yanking you inside.

you blink, looking back where geto’s left standing outside with gojo and toji before you get tugged into a store.

gojo smirks immediately. “you gonna keep staring at the door like that?”

geto doesn’t even look at him. “shut up.”

“bro.”

“satoru.”

“you’ve had the expression of a war widow since sunscreen.”

by dinner, if possible, things have gotten even weirder. you all end up at this marina-side restaurant right on the water, string lights overhead and music drifting faintly from somewhere nearby.

the seating arrangement was personally made to ensure you don't survive the meal, obviously, what with gojo and his girlfriend together, choso and his girlfriend together, toji sitting like he’d rather die, and you and geto next to each other. close enough that your knees almost brush beneath the table.

drinks come, everyone's talking about the beach tomorrow and whether they should rent paddleboards. "we have the budget, but everyone has to pitch in," you say, which makes toji groan.

gojo says, "i saw that you can get a boat tour? we could go fishing or something."

you're all talking animatedly (save for geto, who's oddly quiet and keeps looking at you from the corner of his eye) then the waiter comes over. he's probably around your guys' age, eyes skimming over gojo's girlfriend tucked under gojo's arm, choso's girlfriend pressed against choso's shoulder, then you.

sitting alone, or rather alone-adjacent. “and what can i get for you?” the waiter asks you with a smile that lingers a little too long.

you look up awkwardly. “um…”

“good choice on the drink,” he says after glancing at your glass. “not everybody appreciates taste.”

your roommate nearly chokes on her water and you stare at the waiter awkwardly. “thanks?”

the waiter grins. “you guys visiting?”

you can physically feel everyone at the table stop listening to their own conversations. geto’s gone silent beside you, more silent then earlier. “yeah,” you say after a beat.

“nice,” the waiter says, leaning slightly against the table. “hope someone’s shown you the good spots around town.”

you laugh weakly because what the fuck do you even say to that. “uh…”

“hey, if you need someone to show you around, i get off at ten.”

“i think i'll get the chicken parm?” you say, laughing nervously. “please.”

“or maybe i could just give you my number,” the waiter says with a smile that makes your toes curl in disgust.

geto finally looks up, slowly, expression completely unreadable except for the fact that he looks deeply unimpressed. “she’s very clearly not interested.”

silence. complete silence. you even stop breathing, and the waiter blinks, looks between you and geto. “…sorry, man,” he says with an awkward little laugh, hands up. “can’t blame me for trying.”

geto doesn’t even smile. “yeah.” he pauses before saying, coldly, “just get the food and go.”

the waiter straightens. “alright.” he scribbles something on his pad quickly, then mutters, “didn’t know your boyfriend was so serious,” and walks away.

the silence is nuclear. nobody says anything, nobody moves, and your face is so hot you think you might actually die.

because boyfriend.

because geto didn’t correct him.

because nobody corrected him.

gojo is staring at his plate so hard his shoulders are shaking. your roommate won’t look at you. choso’s girlfriend is chewing on her straw like she’s witnessing live television and toji actually says nothing for once in his miserable life.

you risk one glance sideways to see geto staring straight ahead, jaw tight, ears slightly red.

you immediately look away.

dinner proceeds in the most painful silence known to man.

conversation starts back up eventually, but it’s all stilted and everyone keeps exchanging looks when they think you and geto aren't noticing.

you barely taste your food. geto says maybe twelve words the entire meal.

when the bill comes everyone’s kind of ready to leave purely to escape the tension. checks get split, gojo grabs his and his girlfriend’s without looking. choso pays for his girlfriend’s too.

toji stares at his own bill like it insulted his bloodline.

“why the fuck is grilled salmon thirty dollars.”

“because you ordered grilled salmon,” gojo says.

you reach for your wallet quickly.

“i got mine.”

“same,” geto says at the exact same time.

your fingers brush awkwardly near the bill tray, both of you jerking back like you touched fire. chairs scrape back and everyone starts filing out onto the marina walkway under the string lights and the tension between you and geto follows like a third person walking right between you.

saturday - 10 pm

on the drive back to the beach house, gojo’s girlfriend controls the aux while everybody talks intermittently about dinner and shopping bags and whether toji could survive prison after complaining about restaurant prices loud enough for the waiter to hear.

but underneath all of it sits that awful electric awareness between you and geto. every glance feels more loaded than before now, especially after the boyfriend comment. especially because a small part of you didn't want to correct it.

you stare out the window most of the drive pretending the cool night air coming through the cracked glass is enough to settle your heartbeat. (newsflash - it isn't).

when you finally pull into the driveway, the sky’s gone deep navy overhead, stars scattered bright across the water beyond the dunes. gojo stretches dramatically exiting the car. “i feel alive. this was a good day.”

“you screamed at a seagull today,” his girlfriend says.

“well, it was disrespectful. did you see how it took the hotdog out of my hand -”

everyone slowly filters toward the back deck unloading leftovers and drinks while the ocean crashes softly somewhere below. you’re halfway through carrying cups into the kitchen when gojo’s girlfriend suddenly says, “bonfire?”

you all immediately agree and you're honestly grateful for the distraction, because if you had to go straight upstairs right now and exist in a quiet bedroom with geto after today, you think your nervous system might actually collapse.

outside, the fire crackles warmly against the cool night air while everyone settles into chairs scattered around the pit.

you end up directly across from geto. the flames flicker gold across his face while he leans back slightly in his chair listening to gojo argue about horror movies beside him.

he’s not really listening, you can tell. every few seconds his eyes drift back to you again, and the look in them makes your stomach twist painfully.

yearning.

there’s genuinely no other word for it anymore. it’s there in every glance and every pause and every second too long his eyes stay on your face. you feel warm all over despite the ocean breeze.

around the fire, conversation drifts lazily between everyone else toji and gojo arguing and your roommate curled against choso’s side and music humming faintly from someone’s speaker. nobody comments on the way you and geto keep looking at each other. they just quietly notice, giving you both space.

across the fire, geto feels like he’s losing his mind a little.

you look beautiful tonight, your hair slightly windblown, oversized hoodie on, firelight dancing warm across your skin while you smile softly at something choso says.

he can’t stop looking at you and doesn’t really want to. his chest physically aches with it now, this awful wanting.

god, geto’s never been this gone over anybody before.

when yawns start appearing, everybody heads inside. gojo drags his girlfriend upstairs and your roommate shooting you one deeply knowing look before disappearing too.

it’s just you and geto left outside.

you crouch near the firepit gathering empty bottles quietly while embers glow soft orange against the dark.

geto watches you for a second.“…wanna walk to the beach?”

your heart stumbles immediately. “sure.”

the shoreline’s almost completely dark except for moonlight silvering the waves. sand cool beneath your feet, wind soft against your skin. you walk side by side in silence at first. comfortable silence this time. above you, the stars stretch endlessly bright across the sky untouched by city lights.

you stop eventually near the waterline where waves curl around your ankles gently before retreating again.

geto looks at you like he’s trying to memorize something. like his chest hurts with it. like every glance all semester somehow led here, to you, moonlight catching softly against your face when you tilt your head upward to the stars.

beautiful.

the thought, though not new, hits him so hard it almost steals his breath. “…you know what the worst part is?” he says quietly.

you glance over. “what?”

geto laughs softly once, self-aware and helpless. “i spent months trying not to want you this bad.”

your breath catches yet his eyes stay fixed on yours, steady and honest in a way that makes your pulse pound harder. “and now i don’t think i’ll ever stop.”

something in your chest melts completely. there's no teasing in his voice, just aching sincerity. geto looks at you like you're something precious and terrifying and like you're everything all at once, and suddenly you can’t stand the distance anymore.

so you kiss him.

his breath catches sharply against your mouth before he melts instantly, completely. one hand slides gently against your waist while the other cups your face like he can’t believe you’re real, kissing you back slow and deep beneath the stars. warm, careful for approximately two seconds before all that pent-up wanting finally cracks open.

you feel him exhale shakily against your lips. it feels a lot like relief.

you kiss him back just as deep, hands sliding up into his hair you've been aching to hold for months now, tangling your fingers there, and he groans into your mouth, pulling you more flush against him.

your toes curl from the sand when you feel his hardness poking against the top of your stomach.

from one kiss?

when he pulls back it's reluctant, his hands cupping your face and staring into your eyes like you're the only person he's ever seen.

"should we go back?" you ask softly, and he nods immediately. your lips are tingling, geto's hand laced tightly with yours like he physically can't let go now that he finally has you. every few steps he glances at you again with that same dazed expression that makes your stomach flip violently.

like he still can’t believe you kissed him first.

the house is dark when you slip inside, quiet, everyone asleep in their rooms already. you barely make it through the kitchen before geto pulls you gently against him again, kissing you hard enough to steal the breath from your lungs.

you laugh softly into it, hands catching against his chest while he kisses you like he’s trying to memorize the feeling.

months of tension finally snapping all at once.

you nearly stumble into the staircase together trying to stay quiet and by the time you reach the bedroom, both of you are flushed and breathless and grinning a little helplessly.

the door clicks shut behind you and suddenly geto’s hands are on your waist again and your back hits the wall softly beside the door while he kisses you deeper, warm and hungry. your fingers slide automatically into his hair again and he makes this low sound against your mouth that nearly destroys you.

“fuck,” he murmurs quietly against your lips. you can feel how nervous he is underneath it too though, how his hands careful despite how badly he wants you. you tug at the hem of his shirt first and geto pulls back just enough to drag it over his head quickly before immediately kissing you again.

shirtless in the dim moonlit bedroom, he looks unfair. your eyes stare at the tattoos winding along his arms and chest, dark hair loose around his face from the beach wind.

you stare for half a second too long because geto's cheeks flush slightly. (this, of course, makes him infinitely more attractive.)

“don’t look at me like that,” he mutters.

you laugh breathlessly while your hands slide down his chest, his muscles tensing beneath your touch instantly. his fingers hook gently into the hem of your hoodie, hesitation flickering briefly across his face. you nod softly, and that's all he needs.

geto pulls the hoodie over your head slowly and when it drops to the floor he just stares quietly. his eyes drag across your skin with open awe now, nothing hidden in his expression anymore.

this is how he wanted to see you. not startled or accidental. wanted.

heat blooms across your entire body under that look and geto steps closer again slowly, one hand settling against your waist while the other brushes lightly up your side like he’s still convincing himself you’re real. “…pretty girl,” he says softly.

you kiss him again immediately because otherwise you think you might combust, your fingers fumbling with the button of his pants while geto's lips start to press kisses down your jaw.

your back eventually hits the mattress gently as you both stumble toward the bed, and for one second he hovers over you breathing hard while moonlight spills silver across the sheets behind him. he's gazing at you with those lidded eyes, his boxers strained as his hands run up your stomach slowly, savouring, until he's cupping your tits in his hands, squeezing with gentle reverence.

“…i wanna take my time with you,” he says quietly. one hand moves to slide up your thigh while he properly settles over you, his other elbow braced beside your head. one of his legs slips naturally between yours and the pressure makes your breath catch immediately.

a faint smugness flickers briefly through his expression now, that quiet confident energy finally surfacing. “there she is,” he murmurs softly.

heat floods your face instantly and geto kisses you again before you can hide from it. your lips, deeply, tongue sliding against yours, brushing along your mouth. then your jaw, then your neck. his mouth lingers just beneath your ear, sucking gently, while his hand drifts carefully along your waist, thumb brushing slow circles into your skin.

“fuck,” he mutters quietly against your throat. his voice sounds wrecked already.

your fingers slide through his hair, tugging lightly without thinking, and geto exhales sharply against your neck before lifting his head to look at you. dark eyes and flushed cheeks and hair falling loose around his face.

he looks gone.

completely gone for you.

his hand smooths slowly along your waist again before drifting higher, fingertips tracing along your side with almost unbearable patience. your breathing stutters when he holds your tits again, kneading them once before rolling your stiffened nipples between his fingers.

“you okay?” he asks softly.

you nod quickly and he kisses you again while his thumbs slowly brush over sensitive skin, drawing another shaky breath from you. the sound goes straight through him - geto's spent months imagining this. wondering what you'd sound like, how you'd react to him touching you.

(the little, jealous part of his brain remembers aaron. he shoves the thought away immediately.)

reality is infinitely worse for his self control. you squirm slightly beneath him and his leg presses more firmly between yours automatically.

your breath catches harder this time and geto looks at you, something a little darker simmering beneath his eyes. “that feel good?” he murmurs quietly.

you hide your face briefly against his shoulder. “…maybe.”

his laugh comes soft against your hair. “maybe?”

heat floods your face when he tilts your chin back toward him gently. “use your words, pretty girl.”

your stomach twists and you nod once. “yeah.”

“yeah what?”

you stare at him in disbelief. “you’re annoying.”

he grins properly for the first time all night. “and you’re avoiding the question.” before you can answer, he kisses you again, swallowing the tiny embarrassed sound you make while his hand drifts lower along your thigh slowly.

your fingers curl against his shoulders when his mouth returns to your neck again, kissing lower this time while his hand squeezes gently at your thigh. when his hands defly dip into the waistband of your shorts, tugging them down, you moan quietly, head turning to the side.

he makes you so nervous and excited your heart feels like it's going to lurch out of your chest.

"can i touch you here, pretty girl?" he murmurs, fingers sliding along your inner thighs until they ghost over your cotton panties. if you'd known you'd end up like..this tonight, youd've chosen a more tasteful pair of underwear.

"please," you whisper, pulling him to your mouth as his fingers press against your clothed cunt, applying just enough pressure to make you mewl into his lips. you feel him smile, pushing your panties to the side before running a finger through your folds.

"you're wet," he chuckles before pushing his finger in, crooking it against your spongey insides. your head falls back against the pillow, hands digging into his back.

"oh my god, geto," you whimper, lips parting.

"suguru," he corrects, pushing another digit in, curling them deep enough to find the gooey spot that has your nails making crescent against his arms.

"suguru, please, 's so good," you babble, thrusting your hips to meet his hand.

he stills for a moment at the sound of his name on your lips. how you moan his name so prettily, begging for more. he leans down, kissing you hard, fingers moving faster and faster inside you, the sound lewd and so dirty and buzzing right to his crotch.

geto feels how you clench around his fingers, and he swallows thickly at the thought of how you'll take his cock. he groans, low and wrecked, capturing your nipple between his lips, teeth grazing along it slightly.

your head's dizzy, stars behind your eyes, gazing at geto and how he's sucking little bruises along your tits, up your neck, down your stomach. constellations of bite marks across your body.

"suguru, i—i'm close," you say, voice breaking. his eyes darken and he thumbs tiny circles over your clit, his two - no, three - fingers curling against all the right spots inside your core.

when you cum, body pulsing hard and hot in waves that make you tingle all over, geto groans, fingering you slowly until your breathing evens. the sight of you coming undone for him has him hardening impossibly more in his boxers, now damp at the front with precum.

you're panting below geto and your hand inches to his boxers, itching to tug them off. "you sure?" he asks quietly, restraint obvious in his voice.

"i'm sure, suguru," you say softly, kissing him again, palming over his boxers. he lets out a strained sound as you reach to pull them down and he quickly obliges, shrugging them off.

suguru geto, in all of his naked glory, is the most beautiful man you've ever seen.

you're rather partial to his pretty, leaking cock, too.

your eyes trace over the vein that runs along one side, the flushed, mushroomed dip, slick with precum, the thick shaft. how it twitches slightly under your gaze, hard and angled up towards his abs. you watch in a daze as he pumps himself slowly, his lips parted, watching you sprawled out so prettily for him, your hair like a halo around your head as you lay there.

you watch his gaze drift down your body, down past your tits, down past the splattering of marks he's left across practially every square inch of your skin. down to your pussy, still slick from your orgasm.

you squirm under geto's face and he tuts, leaning down and pressing his tip to your core. "don't have to be nervous, pretty girl," he says, kissing the side of your neck. his cock brushes against your folds and you both moan quietly.

geto's forehead drops to yours as one of his hands hooks through your thighs, pushing it up as he pushes in slowly. you wince at the pressure, eyes watering slightly - none of the men you've been with have been this...proportionate. he's quick to wipe the tears from your eyes, kissing your cheeks softly, jaw tight as he pushes in more, and more, passing each wall of muscle with a grunt.

"you're squeezing me, y/n, shit," he manages, pushing your thigh higher to deepen the angle. when he finally bottoms out his eyes roll back and you whine.

loud.

geto pushes his thumb into your mouth, his hand cupping your face, and you suck on it gently, face contorting with pleasure as he starts to thrust slowly, struggling to fit his cock back in when he pulls out.

"so tight," he groans raggedly, and all you can do is moan in response, his thumb still in your mouth, his other hand still warm against your thigh, sliding up to squeeze your waist. when geto manages to set a slow, steady pace, he's grunting every time he thrusts in fully, watching your hands grip the sheets desperately.

"right there, suguru," you moan, muffled against his thumb.

"here, pretty girl?" he rumbles, pistoning his cock deep and faster now, brushing your cervix with every thrust.

you nod, babbling incoherently, tugging his hair, holding his biceps, wrapping around his neck, touching everywhere you can and he lowers himself, chest pressed to yours. your tits soft against his skin, your tongue swirling around his thumb.

he holds you reverently, kneading the plush of your thighs as you clench around him, chasing another orgasm. you pull his thumb out of your mouth with a pop, a string of saliva connecting your lips to the digit. "suguru," you whimper, "suguru, suguru, suguru—"

"yeah, i know," he coos, thrusting so deep inside you you can see where he pokes at your stomach, the bulge bumping against your skin every time his cock presses deep in your cunt. "look at that, pretty girl. taking me sooo good, yeah? so good for me."

blood rushes hot through your body, liquid heat coursing through your veins, and your back arches off the bed, pulling geto impossibly closer to you as you moan softly into his ear, biting his neck as you feel your climax build and build and build.

"are you close? 'm gonna cum," he says, voice rough and eyes blown wide. "you feel me here?" he presses his hand to where his cock bulges against your stomach, the pressure stealing the air from your lungs.

"inside," you breathe, panting now. "cum in me, suguru."

and so he does, seconds later, because your voice saying those words along with his name fully break him. he holds you against him as he cums, pulsing thick and hot spurts of release, coating your walls. he rubs circles over your nipples as you climax, too, with a cracked moan of his name and your hands tangled in his hair.

after, you’re both a little breathless, tangled in rumpled sheets with the balcony doors cracked open enough for the ocean air to drift in. geto just stays close, one arm wrapped around your waist while his fingers lazily trace little patterns against your skin like he doesn’t quite know what to do with all this softness in his chest. you’re tucked against him, cheek pressed to his shoulder, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat finally slowing down. “…you okay?” he asks after a while, voice low and sleep-rough now.

you tilt your head to look at him, how pretty he looks with his pink lips and flushed cheeks. you smile softly. “you’ve asked me that like eight times.”

“i know.”

“paranoid?”

he huffs a quiet laugh, looking at the ceiling. “a little.”

your heart squeezes and you lift yourself enough to kiss him softly. geto smiles into it, eyes closing briefly. "you like me," he murmurs, and you bury your face in his shoulder so he can't see you smiling.

he helps you clean up, gently rubbing a warm cloth along your inner thighs where his cum's dried, hands you your hoodie, tucks blankets around you when you both collapse into bed. when you instinctively curl toward the far side like you did the first night, geto just blinks at you. "...seriously?"

you look over. "what?" and he wordlessly lifts an arm. your stomach flips and you slide back over, letting him pull you into his chest. his chin rests lightly on top of your head, one hand smoothing once down your back.

sometime in the middle of the night, you both fall asleep smiling.

sunday - 8 am

the next morning feels surreal. when you wake, blinking sleepily, you realize two things immediately. one: you're basically half on top of geto. two: he's already awake, watching you. the second your eyes meet, he smiles, small and sleepy and completely soft. "...hi," you mumble.

"hi." his voice is still rough with sleep and you both just stare at each other for a second like idiots then start laughing quietly for no reason at all.

everything feels weirdly giddy, soft. you brush hair out of his face, he catches your wrist and kises your palm. as you both get dressed you exhange stupid little smiles the entire time.

however, when you both head downstairs together, something awful starts to creep into your brain. there's no way anyone heard, right...? gojo's girlfriend is a notoriously heavy sleeper, though you don't know much about how gojo sleeps...toji and choso and your roommate, being downstairs, couldn't have heard anything at all. and you weren't that loud.

the living room comes into view where choso's sitting drinking coffee (from a new, temporary machine you bought at the marina yesterday). when he sees you and geto walk down the stairs he goes tomato red and your soul leaves your body. beside you, geto's trying so hard to act normal.

"morning," he says in the most suspiciously casual voice ever.

choso makes a sound that is not a word. "...morning." he looks away so fast he nearly spills coffee on himself. you stare at him, horrified. there is no way. there is absolutely no way they heard anything. they couldn't have.

before you can spiral further, gojo strolls in from the kitchen, looking smug for no reason. "good morning!" he says brightly. you narrow your eyes immediately. never trust that tone. he starts making coffee, chatting casually about breakfast plans like a completely normal person. too normal.

geto relaxes as gojo stirs sugar into his cup. takes a sip, then says, "so."

you feel the danger immediately. gojo glances over with the smile of a man about to ruin lives. " 'cum in me , suguru'?" he says thoughtfully. "that's the best you got?"

you swear time stops. geto goes completely motionless, full red ears to collarbone. your body leaves this earthly plane. choso coughs so hard he nearly dies on the couch. from the back porch, where you now see your roommate, gojo's girlfriend, and toji watching with rapt attention, they all burst laughing.

which means. oh my god.

you stare blankly at the wall in front of you and geto slowly turns toward gojo. "i'm going to kill you."

gojo raises both hands, grinning. "hey, don't shoot the messenger. walls are thin, lover boy."

you make a strangled noise and bury your face into your hands. somehow, impossibly, gojo makes it worse. "also," he says, taking another casual sip, "the name thing was kinda hot. personal fave detail."

"SATORU."

"WHAT? i'm being supportive!"

“Aren’t you going to tell him?” you asked, voice light and teasing.

Geto didn’t look away from the mirror. He ran a wide-tooth comb slowly through a section of his long dark hair, de-tangling with careful strokes. “Nah. Let him suffer a little longer.”

You rolled onto your back, kicking your legs in the air with a soft laugh. The sheets were still warm from when he’d napped earlier, and you buried your face in his pillow for a second just to breathe him in. “You’re so mean. He’s been pacing around the quad like a lost puppy for days.”

Geto hummed, not disagreeing. He squeezed a small amount of leave-in conditioner into his palm, rubbing it between his hands before working it through the mid-lengths. Step two. His movements were precise, almost meditative. You loved watching him like this—completely in his own world, yet always aware of you in the room.

You rolled again, this time sideways, tangling yourself further in the blankets. Your tail swished across the duvet, knocking one of his neatly folded towels onto the floor. “Oops.”

He glanced over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. “You’re going to mess up the bed I just made.”

“That’s the point,” you said sweetly, grinning wider. Your sharp canines flashed. “Makes it more fun when we mess it up later.”

Geto shook his head, but the corner of his mouth twitched. He went back to his routine, applying a smoothing serum next, fingers gliding through the lengths with practiced ease. The quiet between you felt comfortable, familiar. You had been doing this for months now—slipping into his room between classes, teasing him while he took care of his hair, stealing his hoodies and teleporting away before he could grab you back.

You watched him start step four, the deep conditioning mask. He sectioned his hair with clips, movements smooth and unhurried. The silence stretched pleasantly until you got bored of rolling around. With a playful glint in your eyes, you disappeared.

First your abdomen faded, then your limbs, until only your wide grin remained floating in the air above his bed for a few cheeky seconds. Then that vanished too.

Geto didn’t even flinch. He’d grown used to it.

A moment later your grin reappeared right behind him, floating near his left shoulder. Then your face followed, ears perked, followed quickly by the rest of you. You pressed against his back, arms sliding around his waist as you peeked over his shoulder into the mirror.

“Hi,” you purred, tail curling around his leg.

“You’re going to make me drop the mask,” he said, but he didn’t sound mad. His free hand came down to rest on your arm, thumb brushing your wrist.

You reached past him for the small ornate bottle you’d brought earlier. “I got you something from Wonderland. Special oil. The caterpillar said it works wonders on stubborn strands.” You uncorked it and poured a few drops onto your fingers. The scent was warm and slightly floral, with a hint of something magical that made the air shimmer faintly.

Geto watched you in the mirror as you reached up and started working the oil into the section of hair he hadn’t gotten to yet. Your fingers moved gently but firmly, massaging it from root to tip. Almost immediately the strands seemed to relax under your touch, settling smoother, almost leaning into your hand. A few loose pieces even curled lightly around your fingers, wrapping softly like they wanted to hold on.

You smiled wider, ears flicking. “See? They like me better than you.”

“They have good taste,” Geto murmured. He set down the conditioning brush and let you take over, leaning back slightly into your chest. Your tail flicked happily behind you, brushing against his thigh.

You continued the massage, working the oil through with both hands now. The long dark hair felt silky under your palms, still slightly damp from the earlier wash. Every time you stroked downward, more of it seemed to calm, the usual restless movement slowing until it draped peacefully over your hands. A thick lock curled affectionately around your wrist, holding gently.

Geto let out a slow breath, eyes half-lidded in the mirror. “That feels good.”

“Yeah?” You rested your chin on his shoulder, purring softly near his ear. “Good enough to tell him?”

He chuckled low. “Still no. He can wait.”

You nipped at his earlobe, playful. “Cruel. I like it.”

The two of you stayed like that for a while. You massaging the oil through the rest of his hair while he finished the remaining steps around your help. Step five was a heat protectant spray. Step six, the final serum. By the end his hair looked glossy and perfect, falling smoothly down his back. Your hands were still in it, though, fingers combing lazily now that the routine was done.

You teleported again suddenly, appearing sitting cross-legged on the dresser in front of him. Your tail curled around a bottle of his shampoo, tail tip flicking against the glass. “You know he’s going to figure it out eventually. Especially with Legacy Day coming up.”

Geto stepped between your knees, hands settling on your hips. “Maybe. But watching him spiral is entertaining.” His thumbs traced small circles on your sides, eyes warm as they met yours. “Besides, I’m more interested in what we’re doing right now.”

You leaned forward and bumped your forehead against his. Your cat ears brushed his bangs. “And what are we doing, exactly?”

“Whatever we want,” he said simply. He kissed you then, slow and deep, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck. You melted into it, purring louder, tail wrapping around his waist to pull him closer. When he pulled back, his lips were slightly shiny. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Only if you’re lucky,” you teased, grinning against his mouth.

He kissed you again, harder this time, hands gripping your thighs as he lifted you off the dresser. You wrapped your legs around him instinctively, arms around his neck. The two of you moved back toward the bed in a clumsy, laughing shuffle. You teleported mid-step just to mess with him, appearing already lying down with your head on the pillows, grin floating above you before your body followed.

Geto rolled his eyes fondly and crawled over you, caging you in with his arms. His freshly oiled hair fell around both of you like a dark curtain. “Cheater.”

“Always,” you said proudly. Your tail flicked up to brush along his spine.

The mood between you shifted easily from playful to something warmer, more charged. His fingers traced the edge of one of your ears, making it twitch. You arched up into him, hands sliding under his shirt to feel the smooth skin of his back. The afternoon light was fading outside, turning the room softer, more intimate.

Geto pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then lower. “You’re going to wrinkle my shirt.”

“You’re going to take it off anyway soon anyway,” you countered, already tugging at the fabric.

He laughed quietly, the sound vibrating against your neck. You helped him pull the shirt over his head, tossing it somewhere across the room. Your hands roamed over his chest, admiring the lean muscle and the way his hair now spilled freely over his shoulders. You reached up and ran your fingers through it again. The strands curled happily around your digits, holding on like they never wanted to let go.

“See?” you whispered. “They missed me.”

Geto hummed in agreement, kissing you once more. The weight of him above you felt perfect, grounding. Outside, the campus continued its usual rhythm—students heading to evening classes, the distant sound of someone practicing flute near the fountains. But in here it was just the two of you, the familiar teasing, the easy affection that had grown stronger over the past months.

You nipped at his bottom lip. “Still not going to tell him?”

“Not yet,” he murmured, smiling against your skin. “Let him figure it out on his own.”

You laughed, bright and unrestrained, and pulled him down again. The oil from Wonderland left a faint pleasant scent on your hands as you tangled them deeper in his hair. Whatever secret he was keeping could wait. Right now, with his body warm against yours and his hair wrapped gently around your fingers, everything else felt far away.

The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the bed. Geto’s routine was long finished, but neither of you were in any hurry to leave this moment. There would be time for confessions and Legacy Day drama later.

The last drops of oil glistened on your fingers as you gave Suguru’s hair one final, slow stroke. The dark strands had gone completely calm under your touch, draping smoothly down his back and curling affectionately around your wrists like they refused to let go.

Suguru let out a low, satisfied hum, eyes half-lidded in the mirror. He turned around slowly, hands settling on your hips where you still sat on the dresser. His thumbs traced small circles over the fabric of your skirt.

“You did a good job,” he murmured, voice lower than usual. A small smirk played on his lips. “I think you deserve a reward for helping with my hair.”

Your ears perked up, tail flicking behind you with interest. “Oh? What kind of reward?”

Instead of answering with words, Suguru leaned in and kissed you deeply, tongue sliding against yours until your head felt pleasantly fuzzy. When he pulled back, his eyes had darkened with clear intent.

He lifted you off the dresser like you weighed nothing, carrying you the few steps to his bed. He laid you down gently on your back, crawling over you until his long hair spilled around both of you like a curtain. “Let me take care of you,” he said softly against your lips. “You’ve been such a good girl today.”

Your breath caught as he kissed down your neck, then lower, pushing your shirt up and tugging your skirt and panties down in one smooth motion. He settled between your thighs, strong hands spreading them wider. Your tail curled nervously-excitedly against the sheets.

Suguru looked up at you through his lashes, a rare soft smile on his face. “Relax.”

He leaned in and dragged his tongue slowly up your slit, tasting you with a pleased sound. Your back arched instantly, a soft mewl escaping your throat. He didn’t rush. He took his time licking broad stripes over your folds, circling your clit with the tip of his tongue before sucking it gently between his lips.

“Fuck— Suguru,” you gasped, fingers threading into his hair.

The moment you tugged lightly on the dark strands, his hair seemed to respond, wrapping loosely around your fingers like it wanted more. You pulled again, a little firmer, and he groaned against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine. He licked deeper, tongue pushing inside you before returning to your clit with focused, wet strokes.

You writhed beneath him, hips rolling against his mouth. Every gentle pull on his hair made him work harder, sucking and licking with perfect pressure. Your cat ears flattened against your head in pleasure, tail thrashing wildly beside you on the bed.

He slid two fingers inside you without warning, curling them just right while his mouth stayed on your clit. The wet sounds filled the room, filthy and intimate. You moaned louder, gripping his hair tighter, guiding him exactly where you needed.

“Right there— don’t stop—”

He didn’t. He kept the steady rhythm until your thighs started shaking around his head. Pleasure coiled tight in your belly, then snapped. You came with a broken cry, tugging hard on his hair as your walls clenched around his fingers. He worked you through it, licking you gently until you were twitching and oversensitive.

When he finally pulled back, his lips were shiny and his eyes were dark with want. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looking unfairly composed except for the flush on his cheeks.

You were still catching your breath when he shed the rest of his clothes. His cock was hard and flushed, curving slightly upward. He climbed back over you, kissing you so you could taste yourself on his tongue.

“Want you,” you whispered against his mouth, legs wrapping around his waist.

Suguru groaned softly. He lined himself up and pushed inside you in one smooth thrust, burying himself to the hilt. You both moaned at the feeling. He stayed still for a moment, forehead pressed to yours, breathing you in.

Then he started moving.

At first his thrusts were deep and steady, hips rolling against yours in a rhythm that made your toes curl. Your hands stayed in his hair, pulling gently every time he hit that perfect spot inside you. His hair kept reacting, strands wrapping around your wrists and fingers like living silk.

“Feels so good,” he murmured, voice rough. He kissed you again, messy and desperate, as his pace gradually picked up. The bed creaked under you. Skin slapped against skin. Your tail curled around his thigh, holding him closer.

Suguru fucked you harder for a while, chasing the pleasure, then slowed again, grinding deep and slow like he wanted it to last forever. Every thrust dragged against that sensitive spot inside you until you were whimpering into his mouth.

He came first this time, burying himself deep with a low groan, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you. The feeling pushed you over the edge again, clenching around him as another orgasm washed over you, softer and longer.

For a minute you just breathed together, bodies sticky and warm. Suguru stayed inside you for a little while longer before carefully pulling out. He disappeared for a moment to grab a warm cloth, then came back and cleaned you up with gentle hands.

Aftercare with Suguru was always like this.

He pulled you against his chest, spooning you from behind. One arm wrapped around your waist, the other sliding under your head. His long hair, still slightly scented with that Wonderland oil, draped over both of you. Several thick strands curled around your body like a second blanket, wrapping loosely around your waist, one thigh, and even gently around your tail.

You purred, sleepy and content, pressing back into his warmth. Your ears twitched lazily as he kissed the back of your neck.

“Comfy?” he asked quietly, voice soft with affection.

“Mhm.” You nuzzled into the pillow, eyes already half-closed. “Your hair likes me more than you.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm against your skin. “Can’t blame it.” One of his hands stroked slowly up and down your side, soothing. “You’re warm. And you smell nice. And you help with my routine.”

You smiled, tail curling around his calf. The two of you fit together perfectly like this—his taller frame curled protectively around your smaller one, his hair acting like a living embrace. The room had grown darker as evening settled over the campus, but neither of you made any move to get up.

Suguru pressed another kiss behind your ear. “Thank you for the oil. And for calming them down.”

“Anytime,” you mumbled, already drifting. Your voice came out slow and sleepy-cat soft. “Even if you won’t tell him yet.”

He laughed quietly. “Still no. But maybe soon.”

You didn’t push. You were too comfortable, too full of warmth and the pleasant ache between your legs. His fingers kept tracing lazy patterns on your hip. His hair stayed wrapped around you, gentle and secure, like it never wanted to let go.

Outside, the towers of Ever After High stood quiet under the emerging stars. Inside Suguru’s dorm, the world felt small and safe. Just the two of you, tangled together, breathing in sync.

You purred again, softer this time, as sleep finally pulled you under. Suguru stayed awake a little longer, holding you close, his hair still lightly curled around your body like a silent promise.

Whatever secret he was keeping could wait until tomorrow.

For tonight, this was enough.

The lecture hall for Advanced Destiny Theory was only half-full, the usual morning chatter mixing with the scratch of quills on parchment. Suguru Geto sat near the center, posture relaxed, his long dark hair tied in a loose half-up style after last night’s routine. You were supposed to be three rows back. Of course, that rule had never applied to you.

Right as Professor Baba launched into a lecture on narrative binding, your grin appeared beside Geto’s left shoulder, floating cheerfully. Then the rest of you materialized, dropping into the empty seat next to him with a soft pop of displaced air. Your cat ears twitched happily, tail curling around his ankle under the desk.

“Morning,” you whispered, leaning in to press a quick kiss to his jaw.

Geto exhaled through his nose, but the corner of his mouth curved. “You’re going to get us written up again.”

“Worth it,” you said, already digging into your pocket. You pulled out a small silver spoon you’d lifted from a tea party yesterday and slipped it smoothly into the back of his hair. The dark strands shifted on their own, wrapping around the spoon and tucking it neatly out of sight.

Geto reached up, fingers brushing the hidden lump. “Stop treating my hair like your contraband vault.”

“But it likes it,” you purred, scratching gently at the base of his neck where the strands met skin. Several locks immediately curled around your fingers in response, holding on softly.

Across the aisle, Gojo leaned over, sunglasses perched low on his nose. “You two are sickeningly domestic. Not even a little scared about disappearing if you skip signing the Storybook? Legacy Day is right around the corner and you’re playing hide-and-seek with stolen goods.”

Geto shrugged, calm as ever. “Nah.”

You grinned wider, tail flicking. “We’re fine.”

Gojo raised an eyebrow. “That’s all? I’m over here losing sleep about apples and losing the love of my life to a prison of mirrors and you two are just vibing. It’s almost insulting.”

You teleported again, vanishing completely except for your floating grin lingering near Geto’s ear for a dramatic second. Then even that disappeared.

A heartbeat later your grin reappeared on his right side. You fully materialized and dropped a shiny golden button into his hair. The strands welcomed it instantly, folding over the button and hiding it perfectly.

Geto sighed, but tilted his head slightly to help. “You’re impossible.”

“Your hair disagrees,” you said sweetly, running your fingers through the front sections. The dark locks wrapped around your hand, almost vibrating under your touch.

Gojo watched the exchange with growing frustration and amusement. “You know most people are panicking, right? Sukuna’s probably planning something dramatic to stay with his pretty cupid girl. I’m trying to get my story straight and you two are out here acting like the rules don’t exist.”

Geto glanced at him. “Maybe they don’t. Not the way everyone thinks.”

You teleported onto Geto’s lap this time, legs draped sideways, arms looping around his neck. He caught you automatically, one hand resting on your thigh. His hair shifted again, a few strands curling around your waist like a living belt.

Professor Baba cleared her throat sharply from the front. “Miss Cheshire, please return to your assigned seat or I will have to separate you two.”

You gave the professor your sweetest smile and teleported back to your original chair. But not before slipping a small crystal charm into Geto’s hair. The strands swallowed it eagerly.

The rest of class passed with you blinking in and out of existence every few minutes, each time adding another tiny stolen treasure to Geto’s hair. A thimble. A tiny key. A playing card. Every single item disappeared into the dark lengths, hidden flawlessly while the hair itself seemed to preen under your attention.

When class finally ended, the three of you walked out into the bright quad together. Gojo couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“Okay, seriously,” he said, falling into step beside you. “What’s going on? You’re both way too relaxed about Legacy Day. Everyone else is terrified of vanishing and you two are just… dating in public and turning Suguru’s hair into a smuggling operation.”

You leaned against Geto’s side, purring softly. “We have inside information.”

Gojo stopped walking. “What kind of inside information?”

You teleported in front of him, grin appearing first, followed by the rest of you. Your tail swished. “Wonderland kids have known the truth for generations. The Storybook of Legends doesn’t make you disappear if you don’t sign. It just loses its power over you. You step outside the main narrative, but you still exist. My mother told me years ago. All of us from Wonderland know.”

Gojo’s mouth fell open. “You’re joking.”

“Nope,” you said cheerfully. “So when we say we’re not worried, we mean it. I told Suguru months ago.”

Geto slid an arm around your shoulders, calm and unbothered. “And I decided it was more entertaining to watch you scramble.”

Gojo stared at his friend, betrayed. “You’ve been letting me stress about this for weeks because it’s funny? LEGACY DAY IS IN TWO DAYS AND I'VE BEEN PUSHING MY GIRL AWAY FOR NOTHING?”

“Pretty much,” Geto confirmed, not even pretending to feel guilty. His hair shifted, letting the silver spoon peek out for a second before tucking it away again.

You laughed, pressing closer to Geto. “He finds your suffering amusing.”

Gojo ran both hands through his white hair, groaning dramatically. “I can’t believe this. My best friend is hoarding the one piece of information that would stop me from having a breakdown every night, and his cat-girl girlfriend is enabling him while using his hair as a treasure chest.”

“Very effective treasure chest,” you added, reaching up to pet the dark strands. They curled happily around your fingers.

Geto kissed the top of your head. “She’s right.”

Gojo pointed at both of you. “You’re both terrible. I’m telling everyone.”

“Go ahead,” Geto said. “They won’t believe you. Most people here are too attached to the idea that the book controls everything.”

You teleported onto Geto’s back, arms around his neck, legs around his waist. He adjusted his grip on your thighs without missing a beat. His hair wrapped gently around your arms and waist, securing you in place like it had done last night.

Gojo shook his head, but he was smiling now, the heavy tension in his shoulders finally easing. “I hate you both. But also thank you. I think.”

You rested your chin on Geto’s head, purring. “Anytime.”

The rest of the morning passed in easy chaos. You kept teleporting around Geto during breaks, hiding more random shiny objects in his hair. He pretended to scold you every time, but never actually stopped you. His hair, on the other hand, actively helped—shifting and curling to conceal everything perfectly while reaching out for your hands whenever you got close.

By lunch, Gojo had mostly recovered from the betrayal and was bombarding you with questions about Wonderland lore. You answered between bites of stolen pastries, tail flicking happily as you sat half in Geto’s lap at the dining table.

Geto watched the two of you with quiet amusement, occasionally feeding you bites from his own plate. Every so often a student would stare at the way his hair moved on its own or at how openly affectionate you both were. Neither of you cared.

When the bell rang for the next class, you slipped your hand into Geto’s. His fingers laced with yours immediately. His hair brushed softly against your shoulder, warm and familiar.

“Still not telling him everything?” you whispered as both you walked back to his dorm. He had asked a little someone to erase every conversation he had today from Gojo's mind. For funsies he says. Because it's apparently going to entertaining to see Satoru push away his girl just to realize everything in two days.

Geto smirked. “Not yet. Let him suffer just a little longer.”

You laughed brightly, the sound carrying across the quad. Whatever Legacy Day brought, you and Geto would face it together—playful, unbothered, and completely unafraid of a book that no longer held power over you.

The moon hung high over Ever After High, casting silver light across the west tower dorms. Only two days remained until Legacy Day. The campus felt heavier with anticipation, but inside Suguru’s room the atmosphere was quieter, more intimate.

You had teleported back in earlier after paying a visit to your mother in Wonderland without your usual dramatic flair. No floating grin lingering in the air, no cheeky comments. You were curled up on his bed now, knees drawn to your chest, staring at the wall with a small pout you kept trying to hide.

Geto had just finished his evening hair routine. He turned from the mirror, dark strands falling smoothly down his back, and looked at you. Something was off.

Your cat ears were drooping, pressed flat against your head. Your tail, usually in constant playful motion, lay still against the sheets, barely twitching. You were pretending to flip through an old storybook on your lap, but your eyes weren’t moving across the pages.

He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed beside you. “You’ve been quiet tonight.”

“I’m fine,” you mumbled, forcing a small smile that didn’t reach your eyes. You rolled onto your side, turning your back to him a little. “Just tired. Legacy Day stress or whatever.”

Geto watched you for a long moment. He reached out and gently ran his fingers along the base of one drooping ear. It flicked weakly under his touch but didn’t perk up like it normally would. Your tail gave one half-hearted swish and went still again.

“You’re not fine,” he said softly. “Your ears are down. Your tail isn’t moving. Talk to me.”

You stayed facing away, shoulders hunched. The silence stretched until you finally let out a shaky breath.

“I’m scared, Suguru.”

He shifted closer, one hand resting on your hip. “Scared of what?”

You turned slowly to face him, eyes glassy. “That you’ll get tired of me. Of all my shano— shena— whatever that word is. The teleporting, the stealing, hiding things in your hair, driving you crazy every day. Two days from now everything changes. If we don’t sign… you’re giving up your whole story. And I keep thinking… what if you regret it? What if you wake up one morning and wish you had followed your destiny instead? You could be in your tower, waiting for your rescue. With Manami. She’s the one the story picked for you. She’s supposed to be your fated one. Proper. Calm. Not chaotic like me.”

Your voice cracked on the last part. You looked down, ears flattening even more. “I keep imagining you realizing you made a mistake by choosing me. That you’d rather have the scripted ending than this… whatever we are.”

Geto was quiet for a second, processing the weight of your words. Then he reached out, cupping your face with both hands, thumbs gently brushing under your eyes.

“Hey,” he said firmly, voice low and steady. “Look at me.”

You did, reluctantly, golden eyes meeting his dark ones.

“I would never regret choosing you,” he said. “Not for a single day. Not for a single second. I don’t want the tower. I don’t want the scripted rescue. And I definitely don’t want Manami.”

You sniffled. “But she’s—”

“I don’t like her,” he cut in gently but decisively. “She’s boring. She follows every rule like it’s law. She talks about destiny like it’s the only thing that matters. Every time we’ve been forced to interact for rehearsals, I spend the entire time counting down the minutes until I can leave. She doesn’t make me laugh. She doesn’t challenge me. She doesn’t sneak into my room and turn my hair into a treasure chest or teleport onto my lap during class.”

A tiny, watery smile tugged at your lips, but doubt still lingered in your eyes.

Geto leaned in closer, forehead resting against yours. “I love your shenanigans. I love how you teleport around me just to mess with me. I love that your grin appears before the rest of you. I love coming back to my room and finding random shiny things hidden in my hair because you decided they belonged there. I love how your tail wraps around my leg when you’re happy. I love all of it.”

He brushed a strand of hair from your face, voice softening even more. “The Storybook doesn’t get to decide who I spend my life with. I choose you. I’ve been choosing you every single day since you started popping into my life with that floating smile. Two days from now, when we don’t sign, I’m not going to wake up wishing for a different ending. I’m going to wake up next to you — or with you teleporting on top of me — and be glad I’m free to do exactly that.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks. You wiped at them quickly, embarrassed. “Promise?”

“I promise.” He kissed your forehead, then the tip of your nose, then your lips — slow and lingering. “I’d rather spend the rest of my life figuring things out with you than live out some perfect tower rescue with someone I don’t even like. You make every day interesting. You make me happy. That’s more than any destiny could give me.”

You let out a shaky breath and finally uncurl, shifting closer to him. “I just… I got scared. Everyone keeps talking about what they’ll lose if they don’t sign. I started thinking maybe I’m the thing you’d lose by not signing.”

“Never,” he whispered against your hair. “You’re what I gain.”

You climbed into his lap, straddling him, arms wrapping tightly around his neck. Geto held you close, one hand rubbing slow circles on your back while the other stroked gently behind your ears until they finally started to perk up again. Your tail began to sway, wrapping around his waist.

“Better?” he asked quietly.

You nodded against his shoulder. “Yeah. Sorry for being pouty.”

“Don’t apologize. I like knowing what’s going on in that chaotic head of yours.” He kissed the side of your neck. “Even when it’s worrying about things that will never happen.”

You stayed in his lap for a long while, just breathing each other in. The fear that had been gnawing at you slowly eased under his steady reassurance and warm hands.

Eventually Geto shifted you both, lying down on the bed and pulling you with him. He spooned you from behind, chest pressed to your back, arms wrapped securely around your waist. His long hair spilled over both of you. Several thick strands moved on their own, gently caressing your cheek, brushing softly against your ears, and curling lightly around your tail like a protective embrace.

You purred, the sound low and content, pressing back into his warmth. “Your hair is cuddling me again.”

“It likes you,” he murmured, lips brushing the back of your neck. “Almost as much as I do.”

Your ears twitched happily. The gentle caress of his hair against your skin felt soothing, almost like it was trying to wipe away the last traces of your insecurity. You intertwined your fingers with his where his hand rested on your stomach.

“Two days,” you whispered.

“Two days,” he agreed. “Then we start writing our own story. No towers. No rescues. Just us.”

You smiled in the dark, tail curling more firmly around his leg. The fear was still there, small and distant now, but Geto’s presence — his words, his arms, his hair gently stroking your cheek — made it feel manageable.

“I love you,” you said softly.

“I love you too,” he replied without hesitation. “Chaos and all.”

You drifted toward sleep like that — safe in his arms, wrapped in his warmth and the living silk of his hair that continued its gentle, affectionate caresses against your face. The weight of Legacy Day still loomed, but for tonight, it felt far away.

Geto stayed awake a little longer, holding you tighter, his hair continuing its soft ministrations until your breathing evened out completely and your tail stopped twitching in your sleep.

Whatever came in two days, he knew one thing for certain: he had already made his choice.

And it was you.

The morning of Legacy Day dawned bright and tense over Ever After High. The grand hall buzzed with nervous energy, students filing in wearing their finest ceremonial clothes. But Suguru Geto and you had chosen a different vantage point.

You both sat on a wide stone balcony overlooking the courtyard that led to the grand hall, far enough away to avoid the ceremony but close enough to watch everything unfold. Geto leaned against the railing, long dark hair loose and flowing down his back. You were half in his lap, tail curled comfortably around his waist, fingers idly playing with his hair.

“You’re really not going at all?” you asked, twisting a thick strand around your finger before letting it go. The hair immediately curled back toward your hand, seeking more attention.

Geto hummed, eyes fixed on the crowd below. “No point. We already know how this ends for us.”

You grinned, teleporting briefly so your floating smile appeared in front of his face before you reappeared fully, now straddling his lap facing him. “Good. More time for this.” You buried both hands in his hair, massaging his scalp gently. The dark strands wrapped around your wrists like they always did, warm and affectionate.

Down below, the ceremony had begun. Headmaster Grimm’s voice carried faintly on the wind as names were called. Geto’s gaze stayed sharp, focused on one figure in particular.

“There he goes,” Geto murmured.

You turned slightly, still playing with his hair, and spotted Gojo walking up to the podium in his pristine white suit. His hair was neatly styled for once, but you could see the tension in his shoulders even from this distance.

Sukuna had already gone. The four-armed figure had stood on stage, refused to sign, and remained completely solid when the minute of silence passed. The shock still rippled through the crowd below.

You watched Geto watch his friend. Your fingers never stopped moving through his hair, braiding small sections only to let them unravel again. The strands kept reaching for you, some of them brushing playfully against your cat ears.

Gojo stood at the Storybook of Legends now. The quill hovered in his hand. The entire courtyard seemed to hold its breath.

Then Gojo set the quill down.

His voice rang out clearly, even from where you sat. “I won’t sign it.”

A fresh wave of gasps echoed below. Geto’s shoulders relaxed. A small, genuine smile curved his lips as he watched Gojo step away from the podium and walk straight toward his girl—in the audience.

Suguru turned his head to look at you. His dark eyes were soft, warm with quiet satisfaction.

“I’m glad I didn’t let Cupid bind me to Manami,” he said quietly.

You paused your hands in his hair, ears perking up. “Yeah?”

He nodded, one arm wrapping around your waist to pull you closer. “I would’ve ended up in that tower, waiting for a rescue I didn’t want, with someone I never chose. Instead I get this.” His free hand came up to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear, thumb brushing the soft fur. “I get you teleporting into my room, hiding random things in my hair, making every day unpredictable. I get to be free with the person I actually love.”

Your tail swayed happily behind you. You leaned in and bumped your forehead against his. “Sap.”

“Only for you,” he replied, smiling wider.

Below, the ceremony was descending into controlled chaos. Students whispered frantically. Some looked inspired, others horrified. Gojo had reached the evil queen's daughter and pulled her into his arms in front of everyone. Even from the balcony you could see the relief in his posture.

You giggled softly, nuzzling into Geto’s neck. “Look at him. He finally did it.”

Geto’s hair shifted, several thick strands curling gently around your shoulders and waist, holding you securely against him. “Took him long enough. He was spiraling for weeks.”

“Because you thought it was funny to watch,” you teased, nipping at his jaw.

“Exactly.” He tilted his head to kiss you properly, slow and unhurried, like Legacy Day wasn’t happening just below you. When he pulled back, his expression was peaceful. “No regrets.”

“None,” you agreed.

You stayed like that on the balcony as the sun climbed higher. You kept playing with his hair, braiding and unbraiding, letting strands wrap around your fingers while your tail flicked contentedly. Geto watched the scene below for a little longer before his attention returned fully to you.

“Think they’ll try to force us to sign later?” you asked, grinning.

“They can try,” he said calmly. “Won’t work.”

Your grin widened, sharp and mischievous. You teleported for a second, leaving only your floating smile in front of his face, then reappeared sitting behind him on the wide railing, legs dangling on either side of his body. You draped yourself over his back, arms around his shoulders, chin resting on top of his head.

His hair immediately reacted, wrapping around your arms and brushing softly against your cheeks.

“I love you,” you whispered near his ear.

“I love you too,” he answered, reaching up to squeeze your thigh. “Chaos and stolen spoons included.”

You laughed brightly, the sound carrying on the breeze. Below, Legacy Day continued without you. Students made their choices. Some signed. Some didn’t. But up here, none of it touched you.

Geto leaned back into your embrace, completely relaxed. His hair continued its gentle caresses against your skin, like a living reminder of everything you’d chosen together.

No towers.

No forced destinies.

No regrets.

Just the two of you, watching the world try to follow its script while you wrote your own.

“Come on,” he said, voice light but with that gentle push underneath. “Just think about it. Signing together would be perfect. You, me, following the path our parents set. It’s what we’re supposed to do.”

You closed the textbook with a soft thud and looked at him. The two of you had grown up together in Snow White’s castle after your mother’s fall. Snow had taken you in out of pity, raising you alongside her son like you were family. Satoru had been your constant—playmate, protector, best friend. The one person who never looked at you like the next Evil Queen in waiting.

“I’m not signing, Satoru,” you said quietly.

He turned his head toward you, blue eyes bright behind the slight tilt of his sunglasses. “You always say that. But Legacy Day is only two months away. We could practice the scene. You poison the apple, I take a bite, fall into the deep sleep. Then Utahime shows up, true love’s kiss, and we wake up to our happily ever after. It’s beautiful. Classic.”

You felt the familiar twist in your stomach. “Beautiful for you, maybe.”

He sat up straighter, turning fully to face you. One of his hands reached out and nudged your knee. “It’s beautiful for everyone. That’s the point of our stories. You get to play your role, I get mine, and everything ends right. You’ve been part of my life forever. It makes sense that you’d be the one to send me into the sleep. Who else could I trust with that?”

The words should have felt sweet. Growing up, you’d spent countless afternoons running through the castle gardens, sharing secrets under the apple trees, him promising he’d always look out for you. But every time he talked about destiny, the walls felt closer.

“I end up in the mirror prison, Satoru,” you said, voice tighter than you wanted. “Just like my mother. Trapped for the rest of my life, watching the world through glass while everyone else moves on. That’s not a happily ever after for me. That’s a life sentence.”

He frowned, but the optimistic shine didn’t leave his eyes. “It’s only temporary. The stories always balance out eventually. And I’ll visit. I’ll bring you news from outside. We can talk through the mirror. It won’t be forever.”

You stood up and walked to the window, arms crossed over your chest. The quad below was busy—students practicing lines for their own tales, others comparing destiny notes. “You make it sound so easy. Like I should be excited to lock myself away so you can get kissed awake by your princess charming.”

Satoru got up too, following you. He stopped just behind your shoulder, close enough that you could smell the faint crisp scent of apples and fresh snow that always clung to him. “Utahime is… well, she’s the one the story picked. She’ll come through when it matters. I know she will.”

A short laugh escaped you. “She hates you, Satoru.”

“She doesn’t hate me,” he said cheerfully. “She just… strongly dislikes my personality sometimes. But true love fixes that. It’s part of the narrative. She’ll see me sleeping and realize what she’s been missing. Then boom—true love’s kiss. Everything falls into place.”

You turned to face him. His expression was so sincere it hurt. This was the same boy who used to sneak you extra slices of pie when the castle cooks tried to follow the strict “evil diet” rules your mother had given snow hite through the mirror. The one who had defended you when other students whispered about your bloodline. But his belief in destiny was unshakable.

“I don’t want to poison you,” you said softly. “Even if it’s pretend. Even if it’s the story. I grew up with you. You’re… you’re important to me. More than just some step in a tale.”

His smile softened. He reached out and took your hand, squeezing it. “That’s why it has to be you. Because you care. It makes the whole thing more real. More meaningful. Come on, just say you’ll think about signing. For me?”

The pressure in his words was gentle, wrapped in that sunny tone he used so well, but it was pressure all the same. You pulled your hand back, though not harshly.

“Two months,” you reminded him. “I still have time to decide. And right now, I’m deciding no.”

He sighed, but the sigh was dramatic and theatrical, the kind meant to make you smile. “You’re killing me here. Literally, if you don’t sign. I can’t have my happily ever after without the poisoned apple part. It’s the setup. The drama. The romance.”

You rolled your eyes, some of the tension easing despite yourself. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously charming,” he corrected with a grin. “That’s what they say in the previews.”

The two of you ended up back on the couch. Satoru stretched out again, this time resting his head in your lap like he used to do when you were kids hiding from lessons. You found yourself threading your fingers through his white hair without thinking, the motion familiar and comforting.

“I hate when you do this,” you muttered.

“Do what?”

“Act like everything will be perfect if we just follow the book.”

He looked up at you, blue eyes serious for once. “Because it will be. My mom got her happy ending. Your mom… well, things went wrong for her, but that doesn’t mean it has to for you. We can do it right. Together. You poison me, I sleep, Utahime kisses me, and then we all celebrate. Maybe you even get released early for good behavior. The mirrors aren’t that bad. I hear they have great lighting.”

You flicked his forehead lightly. “You’re impossible.”

He caught your hand again, holding it against his chest. “I’m hopeful. There’s a difference. And I want you to have your part in my story. You’ve always been in it, ever since Mom brought you home. Don’t you want that too?”

The question lingered between you. Part of you did—the part that remembered late-night talks in the castle, the way he made you feel less alone in a world that already labeled you as trouble. But the bigger part, the one that had nightmares about endless reflections staring back at you, refused.

“What if I don’t want to be the evil queen’s daughter in that way?” you asked quietly. “What if I just want to be… me. Not trapped. Not waiting behind glass while you live your perfect life with Utahime.”

Satoru was quiet for a moment, something rare. His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “Then we find a way to make the story work for both of us. But I need you to sign, at least. The rest we can figure out later. Please?”

The gentle push was back, wrapped in affection. You looked down at him, this golden boy who believed so strongly in happy endings that he couldn’t see how some endings weren’t happy for everyone involved.

“I’ll think about it,” you said finally, because saying no outright always led to more arguments, and you were tired today.

His face lit up like you’d already agreed. “That’s my girl. See? We’re already on the right path.”

You didn’t correct him. Instead you kept running your fingers through his hair while he talked about potential ceremony outfits and how he’d make sure the apple was perfectly poisoned—not too deadly, just right for the deep sleep. His voice was bright, full of excitement for the destiny he craved.

Inside, your chest felt heavy. Signing meant betrayal—of yourself, of the future you wanted, of the friendship that had kept you steady all these years. Not signing meant disappointing the one person who had never looked at you with fear or suspicion. And the risk of everyone involved in the story disappearing.

The common room slowly emptied as afternoon turned to evening. Students headed to dinner or evening rehearsals. Satoru eventually sat up, stretching dramatically.

“Want to grab something to eat? I heard they’re serving those sugar apples you like. Symbolic, right?”

You managed a small smile. “Sure.”

He stood and offered his hand. You took it, letting him pull you up. The two of you walked side by side through the corridors, shoulders brushing, the easy rhythm of years of companionship carrying you along. But every step reminded you that Legacy Day was approaching, and Satoru’s gentle pressure would only grow stronger.

Later that night, back in your dorm room, you stood in front of the tall mirror on your wall. Your reflection stared back—features that carried too much of your mother’s sharpness, eyes that already looked tired of fighting fate. You imagined glass closing in around you, years stretching out in cold silence while Satoru lived his perfect story with Utahime.

Utahime, who rolled her eyes every time Gojo tried to talk to her in the halls. Utahime, who once told him to “go find someone else to annoy for eternity” during a group project. The idea of her kissing him awake felt almost laughable. But Satoru believed it would happen. He always believed.

You touched the mirror’s surface, cool under your fingers.

“I don’t want to end up like you,” you whispered to the reflection.

No answer came. Only the faint sound of campus life outside your window—laughter, footsteps, the turning pages of countless destined stories.

Two months. That was all the time you had before you had to decide whether to poison the boy who had been your family, or risk breaking the heart of the only person who had ever truly believed in you.

You turned away from the mirror and curled up on your bed, the weight of destiny pressing down harder than the blankets. Satoru’s hopeful words still echoed in your head, gentle and relentless.

Just sign. It’ll be perfect.

But perfection, you were learning, always came at someone’s cost.

The days after your conversation in the common room grew heavier, like storm clouds gathering over the castle spires. Legacy Day was still two months away, but it felt closer every time Satoru looked at you. The easy rhythm you’d shared since childhood started to fracture, small cracks appearing in places you never expected.

You noticed it first during lunch in the grand dining hall. The long tables were filled with students comparing destiny notes and practicing lines. You sat in your usual spot beside him, poking at a plate of roasted vegetables. Satoru had always saved the best apple tarts for you, sliding them over with that bright grin. Today he didn’t.

Instead, he took the last tart for himself and said, voice light but edged, “You should probably get used to simpler meals anyway. Evil queens don’t exactly get castle banquets after they’re done with their schemes.”

The words landed like a quiet slap. You stared at him. “What?”

He shrugged, blue eyes hidden behind his sunglasses. “Just being realistic. Part of the role, right? You poison me, I sleep, you get locked away. Might as well start adjusting now.”

You set your fork down. Around you, conversations continued, but the space between you and Satoru felt suddenly loud. “That’s not funny.”

“Wasn’t trying to be funny.” He took a bite of the tart, chewing slowly. “You keep saying you’re not signing. If you don’t, you know what happens. But if you do… everything works. I get my sleep. Utahime gets her moment. You get your part in the story. Simple. I promise i'll release you someday. In ten, fifteen years maybe.”

The subtle rudeness stung more because it came wrapped in his usual cheerful tone. He wasn’t yelling. He was just… pushing. Every conversation for the next week carried the same undercurrent.

In the library archives one evening, while you were helping him research sleeping curse variations, he leaned back in his chair and sighed. “You know, if you actually cared about me following my destiny, you’d stop making this so difficult. It’s like you want me to miss my happily ever after.”

You looked up from the heavy book, chest tightening. “I grew up with you, Satoru. I do care. That’s why I don’t want to trap myself in a mirror for eternity.”

He waved a hand dismissively. “Temporary. I keep telling you. But sure, keep thinking only about yourself. That’s very… evil queen-like of you.”

The comment hurt. You closed the book harder than necessary. “I’m not my mother.”

“Could’ve fooled me lately,” he muttered, just loud enough for you to hear.

You left the library after that without saying goodbye. Tears burned behind your eyes as you walked back to your dorm through the dimly lit corridors. This wasn’t the Satoru who used to sneak into your room during thunderstorms to keep you company. This version felt calculated, like he was trying to make you angry enough to sign just to prove him wrong.

But underneath his words, you caught glimpses of something else. The way his eyes lingered when he thought you weren’t looking. The way he still sat near you in every shared class, even as his comments grew sharper. The Satoru you knew was there, buried under layers of destiny-driven stubbornness. He didn’t want you to disappear. He just wanted you to choose the story he believed in.

A few days later, you ran into him and Utahime in the training courtyard. She was practicing spellwork, her dark hair tied back, expression already annoyed as Satoru hovered nearby.

“Looking good, Princess Charming,” he called out, flashing his trademark grin. “Can’t wait for that true love’s kiss. Gonna be epic.”

Utahime shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Keep dreaming, Gojo. I’d rather kiss a frog.”

You stood a few paces away, watching. Satoru laughed it off like always, but when his gaze slid to you, the humor faded into something colder. “At least she’ll show up when it matters. Unlike some people who won’t even sign the book.”

The words were meant for you. Utahime glanced between you two, eyebrows raised, then shook her head and walked off muttering about “idiotic princes.”

Alone with him now, the courtyard felt too open, too exposed. “Why are you doing this?” you asked quietly. “Pushing me away like it’ll make me change my mind?”

Satoru crossed his arms, white hair glowing under the afternoon sun. “Because you need to see it. If you don’t sign, you disappear. Poof. No more you. And I…” He paused, jaw tightening for a second. “I need my evil queen for the story to work. It’s not the same if it’s someone else. It has to be you. We grew up together. It’s supposed to be you.”

His voice cracked just slightly on the last part. Yearning slipped through the cracks in his armor—raw and honest for a breath before he covered it again.

“Then stop being cruel,” you said, stepping closer. “Every time you say something mean, it makes me want to sign even less. I don’t want to hurt you, Satoru. But I don’t want to hurt myself either.”

He looked away, toward the enchanted apple trees lining the courtyard. “You think this is easy for me? Watching you fight the one thing that gives our lives meaning? I hate it. I hate thinking about you fading away because you’re too scared to play your part. So yeah, maybe I’m pushing. Maybe I’m being a little rude. But it’s for us. For the ending we deserve.”

You laughed bitterly. “The ending where I’m in prison and you’re happily married to someone who can’t stand you?”

“True love grows,” he insisted, but the words sounded weaker now. “It always does in the stories.”

The tension stretched between you, thick with years of shared memories and clashing futures. Part of you wanted to reach out and hug him like you did when you were kids. The other part wanted to walk away before his gentle pressure turned into something that broke you both.

Over the next week the pattern continued. Subtle jabs in the halls. “Evil queens are supposed to be decisive. Guess that part skipped you.” During group study sessions he’d sit across from you instead of beside, laughing loudly with others while occasionally shooting you looks that said he missed your company. At night, you sometimes found small gifts outside your door—an apple tart, a note with old inside jokes—only for him to act distant the next morning.

He missed you. You could feel it in the way his eyes followed you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. The way he lingered near your usual spots even after saying something cutting. He didn’t want you gone. He just wanted you compliant. The conflict tore at him, and he handled it by pushing harder, hoping the pressure would force your hand.

One evening you confronted him in the east tower common room again, the same place where this latest tension had started. The fire crackled low. Most students had gone to bed.

“Stop it,” you said, standing in front of him as he lounged on the couch. “The rude comments. The pushing. If you keep this up, I’m just going to avoid you until Legacy Day.”

Satoru sat up slowly. For once, the cheerful mask slipped completely. His blue eyes looked tired. “I don’t want you to disappear,” he admitted, voice quieter than usual. “That’s the last thing I want. You’ve been… you’ve been my person since we were kids. Mom brought you home and you became part of everything. But if you don’t sign, that’s what happens. You vanish. And I’m left with a story that doesn’t have its proper beginning. No poisoned apple from someone I actually trust. No real narrative.”

He stood, towering over you but somehow looking smaller. “So yeah, I’m being an ass. I’m sorry. Kind of. But I’m scared too. Scared you’ll choose nothing over the destiny that could give us both closure. Scared I’ll wake up from the sleep and you won’t even be there to see it.”

Your heart ached at the raw honesty. You wanted to tell him that his destiny wasn’t worth your freedom. That Utahime’s hatred wasn’t something a kiss could magically fix. That you loved the boy he used to be more than the prince he was trying so hard to become.

Instead you said, “I’m scared every day. Of the mirror. Of losing myself. Of signing away my future just so you can have yours.”

He reached out, fingers brushing your arm before dropping away. The touch was brief, almost hesitant. Yearning flashed across his face—clear and painful. “Just think about it. Please. Signing together… it could still be good. We could make the bad parts shorter. I’d visit every week. I’d make sure the mirror prison had the best view in the kingdom.”

The gentle push was back, softer now, mixed with genuine fear of losing you.

You stepped back. “I need space, Satoru. Stop trying to force me toward the apple. I’m not ready.”

He nodded once, but the look in his eyes said he wouldn’t stop completely. Destiny was too deeply rooted in him. As you left the common room, his voice followed you softly.

“I miss you already.”

The corridor felt colder. Less than two months until Legacy Day. The pressure was building, his rudeness a clumsy shield for how badly he wanted you in his story—and how terrified he was that refusing would make you disappear from his life entirely.

You held the wall for support, breathing slow. The boy who had been your family was turning into the prince who might break your heart before the story even properly began. And worst of all, you still cared enough that every sharp word from him cut deeper than it should.

The clock on the tower chimed softly. Time kept moving. Destiny waited. And Satoru Gojo, for all his brightness and belief, was learning that some choices couldn’t be gently pushed into place without consequences.

The east tower felt colder these days. Five weeks until Legacy Day, and Satoru Gojo couldn’t stop watching you. You sat across from him in the library again, flipping through a book you clearly weren’t reading. Your shoulders were tense, the way they got whenever he brought up the Storybook. He hated it. Hated the distance growing between you when all he wanted was to keep you close forever.

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, forcing that light tone he knew annoyed you lately. “Still pretending you have a choice? Come on. Signing isn’t that bad. You do your part, I do mine. Everything works out.”

You looked up, eyes sharp. “Stop pushing, Satoru.”

He shrugged like it didn’t matter, but inside his chest twisted hard. He didn’t care about the sleeping curse or Utahime or any of it. The happily ever after they wrote for him meant nothing if you weren’t in this world to see it. He had loved you since you were children running through the castle halls. Loved you in the quiet way that grew deeper every year. But saying it now would only make you pull away more. So he kept being an ass. If you hated him enough, maybe you’d sign just to get it over with. Maybe you’d stay.

“Fine,” he said, standing up. “Keep delaying. But when you disappear because you refused, don’t expect me to act surprised.”

He walked out before you could answer, jaw tight. The hallway blurred a little as he moved. Five weeks. That was all the time left to convince you. He would rather watch you poison him a thousand times than live in a world where you simply stopped existing.

That night he couldn’t sleep. He ended up on the balcony of his dorm, staring at the stars above the towers. Memories kept surfacing, especially the old ones.

He remembered when you were both six. Snow White’s castle gardens in full bloom, apple trees heavy with fruit. You had scraped your knee falling from a low branch. He had run over, clumsy and small, pressing a slightly dirty handkerchief to the cut.

“It’s okay,” he had said, all serious innocence. “I’ll marry you one day. Then I can protect you from everything. Even high branches.”

You had laughed through your tears, calling him silly. He meant it with every part of his little heart. Even then, the idea of you not being there beside him felt wrong. He still meant it now. But the story demanded a different path, and he was terrified the book would erase you if you refused it.

He clenched his fists on the balcony railing. “Just sign,” he whispered to the night air. “Please.”

The next few weeks dragged and flew at the same time. Four weeks left. He kept the pressure on, subtle but constant. In the dining hall he sat with others more often, laughing louder than necessary whenever you passed by. “Evil queens are supposed to be decisive,” he’d say if you got too close. “Guess some people just want to fade out instead.”

Every sharp word tasted bitter on his tongue. He saw the hurt flash across your face and it killed him inside. But he couldn’t stop. If softness brought you closer, then cruelty might force your hand toward the quill. He needed you here. Alive. Even if it meant you hated him by the end.

Three weeks left. You avoided him in the corridors now. He still found excuses to be where you were—training yard when you practiced spells, library when you studied late. One afternoon he cornered you near the enchanted fountains.

“You used to trust me,” he said, voice low. “We grew up together. I looked out for you when no one else wanted the Evil Queen’s daughter around. And now you won’t even do this one thing for me?”

You stared at him, pain clear in your eyes. “This one thing traps me forever, Satoru.”

He wanted to scream that he didn’t care about forever for himself. That the only forever he feared was one without you in it. Instead he laughed, cold and short. “Selfish. That’s new.”

He walked away before the guilt choked him.

The days blurred. He threw himself into rehearsals, practicing his lines for Legacy day while his mind stayed on you. Utahime rolled her eyes through every session, making it clear she wanted nothing to do with the script. He barely noticed. She wasn’t the one he needed to stay.

Two weeks left. He left small notes under your door again—old jokes from childhood, drawings of the two of you as kids under the apple trees. Then he acted like they meant nothing when he saw you. “Don’t read too much into it,” he said once when you tried to thank him. “Just habit. You’ll be gone soon if you keep this up.”

He saw you cry once, from a distance, hidden behind a pillar in the west courtyard. His hands shook for hours afterward. He loved you. Had loved you since you were small and he promised marriage like it was the simplest truth in the world. Now he was breaking both of you to keep you here.

One week left. The campus buzzed with Legacy Day nerves. Students practiced signatures and final fittings. Satoru found you in the common room late one night, the fire low and the space almost empty. You looked tired. He hated that he had caused some of it.

“Three weeks ago you said you’d think about it,” he said, sitting on the opposite end of the couch. “Time’s running out. I need you to sign.”

You didn’t look at him. “Why do you care so much? You get your princess either way.”

He almost told you then. Almost admitted that Utahime’s kiss meant nothing compared to the years of quiet love he carried for you. That he would happily sleep for a hundred years if it guaranteed you stayed in this world. But he bit it back. Hate me, he thought. Hate me and sign. Just don’t disappear.

“Because you’re supposed to be part of it,” he answered instead. “My story doesn’t start right without you.”

You stood up. “I’m not poisoning you just so I can rot in a mirror.”

He stayed seated as you left, staring at the empty space where you had been. The ache in his chest felt permanent now.

Five days left. He stopped the cruel comments. The pressure remained but quieter, heavier with everything he couldn’t say. He watched you from across rooms, memorizing the way you moved, the sound of your voice when you spoke to others. Every night he lay awake thinking about that six-year-old promise in the garden. He had meant it. Still meant it. If the story let him, he would choose you over any destined princess.

Three days before Legacy Day the tension felt unbearable. The grand hall was already being decorated—banners, the Storybook pedestal polished and waiting. Satoru found you on the balcony of the east tower at dusk, the same one where he had stood alone weeks ago. You leaned on the railing, looking out over the darkening campus.

He stepped beside you, close but not touching. For a long moment neither of you spoke.

“I don’t want you to go,” he said finally, voice rough. “Not like that. Not erased. I’d rather have you hate me and stay than lose you completely.”

You turned your head. “Then stop trying to force me into the mirror prison.”

He swallowed hard. The truth sat right there on his tongue—I’ve been in love with you since we were kids. Since I promised to marry you under the apple trees. But he held it in. If you knew, you might choose to run. Better you think he was just a destiny-obsessed prince.

“I can’t,” he whispered. “I need you here. Even if it means you’re angry at me forever.”

The sun dipped lower, painting the towers in soft oranges and reds. He wanted to reach for your hand like he did when you were small. Instead he kept still, heart heavy with all the love he couldn’t confess and all the fear of a world without you in it.

Three days. That was all that remained. He would keep pushing until the last moment, hoping it would be enough. Because the alternative—waking up one day to find you had simply vanished from existence—was something he couldn’t survive.

He stayed on the balcony long after you left, the evening wind cool against his skin. Inside his chest the years of quiet love burned stronger than ever. You had been his since childhood. He just needed the story to let him keep you.

The night before Legacy Day, the campus was eerily quiet. Most students had gone to bed early, nerves and excitement stealing their rest. Satoru couldn’t sleep. The pressure in his chest had built for weeks until it finally snapped.

He walked the empty corridors of the east tower in silence, white hair messy, sunglasses left behind in his room. His heart hammered harder with every step closer to your dorm. When he reached your door, he didn’t knock softly. He didn’t hesitate. He knocked hard, three sharp raps that echoed down the hall.

You opened the door in sleep clothes, eyes wide with surprise. “Satoru? It’s late. What are you—”

He stepped inside without waiting, closing the door behind him. The room was dim, lit only by a small enchanted lantern on your desk. He looked at you for one long second, all the years of love and fear crashing together, then cupped your face with both hands and kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle. It was desperate, months of aching poured into the press of his mouth. You stiffened at first, then softened, hands coming up to grip his shirt. When he pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead rested against yours.

“I’m in love with you,” he said, voice raw and shaking. “I have been since we were kids. Since that day in the garden when I was six and told you I’d marry you one day. I meant it. I still mean it.”

Your breath caught. “Satoru…”

“I don’t care about Utahime. I don’t care about the sleeping curse or any of it. I only pushed you to sign because I can’t live in a world without you. If you don’t sign tomorrow, you disappear. You’re gone. Erased. And I’d rather watch you poison me and visit you in that mirror prison for the rest of my life than wake up one day and know you don’t exist anymore.”

Tears stung his eyes but he blinked them back. His hands trembled against your cheeks. “I need you here. Even if you hate me. Even if you’re trapped. Just… here. With me. Please.”

You whispered his name again, something broken in your voice. He kissed you once more, deeper this time, walking you backward until your legs hit the bed. “Just let me have this tonight,” he murmured against your lips. “Please. One night before everything changes.”

You nodded, pulling him down with you.

Clothes came off in a rush. His shirt, your sleep top, pants shoved down and kicked aside. He laid you on the bed and settled between your legs in missionary, skin against skin. No protection. No prep. He didn’t even think about it. He needed to feel all of you.

At first it was rough. He pushed into you in one deep thrust, groaning at the tight, silky heat surrounding him. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. He set a hard pace right away, hips snapping against yours, burying himself as deep as he could go. The bed creaked under you. Every thrust was urgent, almost angry, like he could fuck away the fear of losing you.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your neck, biting down gently. “You feel so good. So fucking perfect.”

He gripped your hips harder, angling deeper, pounding into you with weeks of pent-up emotion. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the small room, mixed with your moans and his low, broken grunts. He kissed you messily, tongue sliding against yours, then moved down to suck marks into your neck and collarbone like he needed to leave proof that tonight happened.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, meeting his thrusts, whispering his name like a prayer. The roughness slowly shifted. His movements grew slower, more deliberate. He pulled back to look at you, blue eyes dark and wet with emotion as he rolled his hips deep and steady, grinding against that spot inside you that made your breath hitch.

“I love you,” he whispered again, voice cracking. “I’ve always loved you.”

Every slow thrust felt like a confession. He savored the drag of your walls around his bare cock, the way you clenched when he hit deep. His hand slid between you, thumb circling your clit in slick strokes while he kept that unhurried rhythm. Tears built in his eyes again but he kept them from falling where you could see, pressing his face into the crook of your neck instead.

You came first, trembling beneath him, crying out his name as your walls pulsed around his length. The feeling dragged him right after you. He thrust deep one last time and stayed there, spilling inside you in thick, warm pulses, hips jerking with every wave. He kept moving slowly through it, drawing it out, filling you completely.

When it ended, he stayed buried inside you, arms wrapped tight around your body. Silent tears slipped down his cheeks. He hid them against your neck, shoulders shaking just slightly as he held you like you might vanish at any second. The love he’d carried since childhood poured out in those quiet tears. He didn’t let you see. He couldn’t. Not tonight.

He stayed like that for a long time, breathing you in, feeling your heartbeat against his chest. Tomorrow Legacy Day would come. Tomorrow you might sign or you might not. But tonight you were here, warm and real and wrapped around him.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispered so softly you might not have heard it. “I won’t.”

He eventually pulled out gently, rolling to the side and pulling you against his chest. His arms stayed locked around you all night, one leg thrown over yours like even in sleep he refused to let go. The lantern burned low. Outside, the campus slept under the weight of destiny.

But in your dorm, Satoru Gojo held the only person who had ever truly mattered to him, heart still raw, body spent, tears dried on his skin where you couldn’t see them.

One night wasn’t enough. But it was all he had asked for.

And for those few hours, it felt like everything.

The grand hall buzzed with nervous energy on Legacy Day. Students filled the rows in their finest clothes—gowns, tailored coats, crowns and tiaras polished to perfection. Satoru Gojo stood near the front in a crisp white suit that hugged his frame perfectly, the fabric gleaming under the enchanted lights. His white hair was tamed for once, swept back neatly instead of its usual wild mess. He looked every bit the prince he was supposed to be.

But inside, his stomach twisted. His hands felt clammy. He kept glancing across the aisle to where you sat, dressed up and beautiful in the front row. Every time your eyes met, his chest ached. You hadn’t given him an answer. Not after last night. Not after he had kissed you, confessed, and buried himself inside you like the world was ending.

He was supposed to sign second, right after Sukuna.

Headmaster Grimm called the first name. Ryomen Sukuna stepped onto the stage in his true form—four arms, two faces, monstrous and unapologetic. The hall quieted. Satoru watched, breath tight, as Sukuna approached the Storybook of Legends. The quill hovered in one of his hands.

The entire hall seemed to hold its breath.

Sukuna looked down at the book for a long second. Then he placed the quill down with a deliberate click. His voice rang out, loud and clear.

“I won’t sign it.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Grimm’s face tightened. “Mr. Sukuna, this is not a choice—”

“I said I won’t,” Sukuna cut him off, the second face echoing with a growl. “I’m not accepting the beauty they want to force on me. Not Yorozu. Not anyone. My story ends here if it has to. But it ends on my terms.”

Silence crashed over the hall.

Satoru’s heart pounded so hard he could hear it in his ears. A full minute stretched out, thick and unbearable. No one moved. No one breathed. He waited, just like everyone else, for Sukuna to start fading—shimmering out of existence like all the old warnings promised.

But nothing happened.

Sukuna remained solid on the stage, four arms relaxed, two faces calm. The seconds ticked by. One minute passed. Then more. Still nothing. No disappearance. Just Sukuna, real and defiant.

A quiet murmur spread through the crowd, growing into stunned whispers. Satoru felt something crack open inside his chest. His eyes subtly grew shinier, a glassy sheen he tried to blink away as he turned his head across the aisle.

You were already looking at him.

Your gaze locked with his, wide and full of the same stunned hope. For the first time in weeks, Satoru felt the crushing weight on his lungs lift, even if only a little. If Sukuna could refuse and stay… maybe the rules weren’t absolute. Maybe you didn’t have to disappear.

His hands trembled at his sides. He wanted to run to you right then, pull you into his arms like he had last night, and beg you one more time. But his name was called next.

“Next—Satoru Gojo.”

The hall quieted again as he walked up the steps. His white suit felt too tight now. Every eye was on him. He stopped in front of the Storybook, staring at the golden pages. The quill waited.

He thought of last night—your body under his, the way you whispered his name, the tears he hid in your neck. He thought of six-year-old you laughing in the garden when he promised to marry you someday. He thought of a world without you in it and felt sick.

Satoru picked up the quill. His fingers shook.

He looked out into the audience again, straight at you. Your eyes were shiny too, lips slightly parted.

For a long moment he said nothing. The pressure of destiny, of years believing in the script, warred with the raw fear of losing the only person he had ever truly loved.

He set the quill down without signing.

A new wave of gasps filled the hall.

Satoru’s voice came out steady, though his heart raced. “I won’t sign either. Not if it means forcing her into a prison just so I can follow some perfect ending.”

Grimm looked stunned. The silence returned, heavier this time.

Satoru stepped back from the podium, eyes never leaving yours. The fear was still there—sharp and real—but so was the fragile spark of hope Sukuna had just proven possible.

He walked off the stage, straight toward you. Students parted as he moved down the aisle in his white suit, hair starting to fall out of place again. When he reached you, he didn’t care who was watching. He pulled you up gently and wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in your hair for a brief second.

“We’ll figure it out,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “Together. I’m not losing you. Not today. Not ever.”

You held him back just as tightly. Around you, the Legacy Day ceremony continued in chaos, but for Satoru Gojo, the only story that mattered was the one where you stayed.

“So are we going to talk about it?” Shoko’s words confuse the hell out of you. It must be obvious the way she sighs, and Geto laughs without looking up from his phone, probably texting another girl. “Are you going to continue to sit there and pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about?”

“So, I actually have no idea what you’re talking about?” Another bold-faced lie to two of the people you care about the most.

“Oh, c’mon, Y/N. Next week, not ringing any bells for you?” You retrace the days until you’re hit with an upcoming December 7th. Now Suguru's smugness makes sense. Instead of admitting that you know what they’re talking about, you slump back into the couch and pick the next best option— playing dumb.

“Hmmm, nope. Nothing’s coming up.” That finally pulls Geto away from his phone, and Shoko puts her unlit cigarette down, to just deadpan. Their stares linger long enough for you to finally give in with a sigh. You couldn’t ignore his existence forever. “Yeah, I know.”

“We’re throwing something for him. You should be there.” That uncomfortable pit in your stomach opened up again. It had been months since you last saw Gojo. You didn’t even see him when he was in the hospital; you couldn’t bring yourself to. Seeing him all managed up, tubes sticking out of him, face uncharacteristically unresponsive to you made you nauseous, but not seeing him all that time made seeing him now harder.

“I don’t think either of us wants to see each other, or else we would have by now.”

“You don’t want to see him for some reason, but he wants to see you.” Suguru’s words hit the dead center of your armor, stinging you a little.

“He asks about you all the time,” Shoko adds, another stinging sensation.

“It’s honestly starting to get annoying.” You can’t help but laugh at Geto’s words. If anyone was being forced to put up with Satoru, it’s Suguru. They’d been best friends for what felt like a lifetime. You’d know, you and Satoru had been friends for an actual lifetime. You remember when Suguru Geto first became friends with Satoru, after all, Satoru practically forced you two to get along. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t missed your shared obnoxious best friend. 

You’d actually be doing more than lying, whatever is worse than lying. That's what you’d be doing if you said there wasn’t a Satoru-sized hole in your life. 

Anyone in their right mind would miss their childhood best friend. Especially if they beat the odds against dying, but that feeling of seeing Gojo— stupidly walking around, talking, and somehow taking all the space when doing so, laughing loudly with no regard for volume—felt wrong. All you could imagine is his lifeless body on the operating table, and a bunch of words you wished you had said hanging on your lips. If you’re being honest, that’s the reason you won’t see him. You were too much of a coward to admit you were madly in love with your best friend, and after surviving, you don’t think you could hide it from him anymore.

If he didn’t feel the same, it might kill you on the spot. To know that the person you loved more than anything got the chance to live again, and you can’t be there because of something as potentially one-sided as feelings, was too much. The lump in your throat builds, and you’re blinking back tears, realizing the two other people in the room were watching you struggle.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. He’s probably mad that I haven’t seen him, and I don’t blame him. Why would he even want me there?” Shoko sighs and turns around with a simple "whatever," but Suguru keeps his eyes on you, unmoved by your words.

“This is his first birthday after almost dying, and all he wants is to see you. I’m not saying you have to stay long, but…” His phone vibrates in his lap, a loud buzz filling the room and cutting him off, “…give the guy a proper goodbye if you’re set on not seeing him anymore. He deserves it.” With that, he hops up off the couch and answers whoever is on the other side of the phone.

You hate Suguru Geto so much. You hate how good he is at reading people and getting under their skin without all the information. However, you’re sure that he knows that you’re head over heels for his best friend. Which makes you standing inside of Satoru’s house dressed up, and almost about to pass out, even more sinister on his part. Shoko had warned you it was a surprise party, but you didn’t think sitting in Satoru’s place without him would make you feel so nauseated.

 It was almost the same. The same art that you put up on his living walls still held in place, the couches you fell asleep on way too many times to count, even the busted KitchenAid mixer that Toji had gotten (stolen) from his ex (situationship) still sat on the polished marble counter—a perfect capsule of time, unmoved by the months of change in Satoru’s life.

You wondered if he had stayed the same?

“Nanami just texted me! Everyone in position!” 

For those few minutes of you hiding alongside Suguru and Shoko, you felt the anxiety at its peak. Palms sweating profusely, heart about to break your ribcage, breathing rapid enough that it makes Shoko pull you towards her. Calming you down slightly enough to force a smile on your face when the lights come back on and scream surprise. For a moment, you forgot that you hadn’t seen your best friend in months until your eyes looked past his familiar white hair. His ghostly pale skin is covered in deep beige scars. They litter his body, one after the other, past his black top, and you assume the rest of his body.

That accident was written all over him. Seeing him didn’t make you as sad as you expected. It made you angry, angry at yourself for making him go through this change by himself. That anger almost completely takes you over before your eyes bounce to his— the same blue eyes that always make your breath catch. Gojo could never hide what he was thinking. The look of utter shock caught in his eyes pointed directly at you. He looked like he saw a ghost, and just as you were getting ready to say something, Haibara moved forward with his specially decorated birthday hat.

The party moved on as normal, or as normal as a party could while you’re actively dodging the host. Especially, after he stared you down whenever the group sang Happy Birthday. You managed to avoid the birthday boy at his own party. The getaway plan was even better. You’d go to the garage to grab another case of beers for everyone before saying goodbye. Fortunately for you, no one was nearby to see you sneak into the dark room. Clumsily, you look around trying to find the switch, praying you don’t accidentally open the garage door, before finding it.

Instead of your sweet ticket out of the party, you’re met with a motorcycle. Satoru’s motorcycle, specifically. In absolute pristine perfect condition. Something about seeing the motorcycle made you livid. Why the hell would he keep something like that around?

“If you were planning on never speaking to me again, I highly recommend not coming to my birthday party at my house.”

The words immediately freeze your anger into fear. Your heart drops to your feet when you turn to be met with a clearly very pissed-off Gojo. Arms crossed his broad chest, making him only look wider. Unlike most other people, Satoru's eyes get brighter when he’s angry, pissed, or irritated. Right now, two piercings, cold blue eyes stared down at you, locking you in place. You scramble for words to say, looking around for anything that could help you before you see it again, and your anger comes back.

“You still have the motorcycle?” The words come out with more bite than you mean, but right now, you really want to scream at him for being so reckless. He scoffs before laughing, almost maniacally.

“Are you kidding right now? You avoid me for months, and the first thing you have to say is some smart remark about the motorcycle? Seriously Y/N? No, how are you? No, are you okay? No, I’m sorry that I ghosted my childhood best friend during the hardest part of his life?!”

He’s right. You know he’s right. Anyone in their right mind would’ve cussed out. Screamed in your face, kicked you out of their home, and told you never to see them again. Yeah, that stupid motorcycle pissed you off, but he’s more right now.

“Gojo…”

“No! I’m not done.” He closes the door behind him. The music of the party muffled, leaving only you two truly in the moment. “You didn’t call. You didn’t text me. You didn’t let me know if you were okay. I’ve been up for months trying to get as much information about you as possible without crossing the random wall you put between us, Y/N.” He was beyond angry; he was livid. 

“Gojo-“

“Do you know how awful it feels to have to learn how to walk again, all while worrying if the most important person in your life is okay? For the first person you think of when you wake up from almost dying, to not want anything to do with you?”  His bright eyes start to redden with tears. Satoru was always sensitive, something you’ve always loved about him. “Every day, part of me hoped you would come through that hospital door, and every day you didn’t. My first friend, the last person I’d expect not to show up, did!”

“Gojo.”

“Why are you here now?! Why, after all this time, did you show up here? Especially if you were going to leave before I could say anything to you. If you were going to leave, haunt my fucking house and me, then you should’ve never come.” His voice cracks at the end, and that’s when he finally looks away from you. He’s right, you should’ve never come to his house or this party. You should’ve been a better friend. You should not have fallen in love with him. He was so upset with you in a way he had never been before; it felt like it was eating you alive. He shouldn’t be crying on his birthday. He should be laughing, making others laugh, annoying everyone in his general vicinity, being the Satoru Gojo you had the opportunity to fall in love with over the years. 

You hadn’t even noticed your own tears building before they dropped. Throat tightening, you struggle with what to say. So you settle for the easiest option.

“I’ll leave.” 

“No.” His head whips around, as if the two words startled him. “Not until you tell me why you disappeared?”

“Gojo.”

“I deserve to know why my best friend of almost three decades decided to stop talking to me for no apparent reason.” The misty-eyed stare between you is strong. Neither of you is backing down in silence for what feels like an eternity. Somewhere in between his anger and frustration, a pleading look flashes across his face. He needed the truth, and you were too scared to admit it. The words taste like bile just thinking about them. “Y/N please. You don’t have to stay. We don’t ever have to speak again. Please tell me.” The words come out so sweet, sweeter than you deserve, and it finally makes you snap.

“I couldn’t- I couldn’t look at you like that. I didn’t know how I could ever look at you as lifeless. No one wants to see the person they’re in love with barely grasping onto life. I didn’t have the courage to face you, and I couldn’t see you again without telling you that I’m in love with you. I couldn’t take it knowing I’d lose you after you got a second chance, because I can’t help but love you, Satoru. I know I’m a coward, and you deserve a much better best friend, but if you want an answer. I’m scared that knowing how I feel will make you not want to be around me, and I just can’t take that.” 

You’re a mess. The makeup you had on definitely was ruined. The anxiety of the confession burns through your body, followed by the lightheadedness of the relief. If you don’t get out of here soon, you’re definitely going to pass out.

“You’re in love with me?” All you can do is nod.

“I’m so sorry-” Satoru cuts you off. More specifically, his lips are what cut you off, and it takes you a full second to register that Satoru Gojo was kissing you. When the second did register, you’re quick to follow through. Hands finding his chest, and slowly up to his hair. His lips taste like whatever fruity seltzer he’d been drinking before, but they were as soft as they always looked. Slowly, but surely, the anxious and timid kiss grew needy and feverish. Somehow, your back is pressed against the fridge, and you’re clawing at both his shirt and hair. Satoru’s no better; his hands are focused on keeping you close, but his foot kicks your legs apart enough to slot his thigh right against you. Lips locking slower and messier each time, both of you practically out of your mind.

A loud thud is what pulls you away from the rather starving man in front of you. You don’t realize how desperate you were for air until you see how heavy you’re breathing. Satoru just kissed you. You two just made out. He has you pressed against his fridge because you two were making out. Sixteen-year-old you is probably somewhere losing her mind right now.

Before you can question what that noise was, Toru is pulling your face back towards him. He’s holding himself a few inches away, close enough that if you could lean and close the gap, you would, but far enough for Satoru to keep you back.

“You love me?” The question barely comes out above a whisper. You attempt to nod, but his hand keeps your head from moving. “Uh uh. I need you to say it.” His words are quick, but soft, like he’s afraid to break the moment with his need to hear you say the four simple words, so you do.

“I love you, Satoru.” His brows scrunch together like the words almost hurt him. “Are you okay with that?”

“What do I have to do to keep you here?” Maybe it’s the blood coming back to his head, but his question catches you off guard. 

“Huh?”

“What do I have to do?”  he repeats, “to make sure you don’t stop loving me, Y/N?” You can’t help but laugh at how ridiculous he sounds.

“I could never stop loving you, Satoru.” His eyes finally open to meet yours. He obviously was both amused and upset by your answer.

“Just tell me anything. I need you not to leave again. It’ll kill me.”

“Gojo. That’s not funny.” You try to move back to emphasize your seriousness, but the now warm stainless steel presses back against you.

“I’m not joking. I can’t have you leave again. I’ve been waiting since the day I met you for you to tell me you feel the same. If you leave me now, I don’t think my body can withstand that. So please.” Your eyes widened. 

Gojo loves you back.

He’s been waiting on you this whole time, as you had. Two idiots dancing around the fact that you both were hopelessly in love with the other. You’re so happy you could cry, and the tears do start to come, but Satoru squeezes your jaw, pulling your attention back to him.

“Tell me what I need to do to make sure you don’t leave me again.” You try to think of anything, but you keep drawing a blank, until that stupid hunk of metal shines over Satoru’s shoulder. Your entire body freezes up, and you feel that irrational anger coming back.

“Get rid of the bike. That thing almost took you from me.” He looks behind him briefly before snapping back to you.

“Deal.” Before he can open his mouth to say another word, you’re putting your lips back on his, dragging him back to you. Just like a perfect match, it feels like second nature to kiss Satoru. He knows just where to put his hand without getting into deep water. Just a row of deep, slow kisses, until you go to pull him closer and he does the same. Leaving you to grind harder than expected on his thighs, a pathetic moan tumbling out of you. Satoru breaks the kiss, bright blue eyes peering down at you in shock. 

“Sorr-” His hands drag your bunched-up dress across his thigh again, forcing another breathy moan out of you. 

“You sound better than I could’ve ever imagined, and I’ve imagined a lot.” He does it again, this time flexing this strong muscle, making you fall forward in a shudder.

“Tell me what you’ve imagined?”

“Oh, my god.” The heat between your thighs builds as you gleam under Satoru’s gaze and shamelessly ride his thigh. “This. Turning you on. Making out. Making you feel good.” The way his soft lips lightly trail down your neck, kissing between the confessions. It’s dirty and pulls another moan from you. Grinding down on his thigh shamelessly harder this time. “Making you cum for me, and just for me. Over and over, just like how I’m going to now.” 

It’s pathetic how much you’re chasing your own orgasm, but the high of the confession is lighting every nerve in your body on fire. He smells good, he tastes good, he feels good, and he’s all yours. As if he reads your mind, he presses his thigh into you, practically lifting against the fridge. 

“Tell me you love me.”

“I love you, Satoru.” You pant, eyes rolling back in your head, at a particularly rough drag. “I’m so close. Oh my-”

He snaps his thigh from you, and it practically hurts. You chase the feeling of the rough denim material, only for him to press your hips into the fridge. Pulling you into a sloppy kiss, tongues lazily meeting, almost your dying protest. You try to get his attention even though you could barely focus, by pulling his hair, but it just makes him moan unashamedly, hands squeezing at your waist. When he finally pulls away, his eyes are so low you’d think he was high if it wasn't for the obvious blush across his face or the swollen, spit-covered lips. He stares at your eyes, slowly bouncing between your lips and your eyes, questioning something.

“I was so close.”

“I know. I heard.” You’re sure your blush is now matching his. His chest shudders with anticipation. “Can I ask you a big favor?” At this point, you’re convinced you’d do anything for this man.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll get rid of the bike if you get on it.” Scratch that. You’d do anything but get on Satoru’s once highway ticket to death. 

“No.”

“Y/N-”

“No! I’m not letting you take me out on a ride. I hate that stupid bike.”

“We’re not going out. I just-” His eyes avert from yours, looking up at that garage ceiling. Are his ears turning red? “-I just want you to get off on it.” A beat of silence passed, and then another. By the time the fourth passes, Satoru closes his eyes and swallows in obvious embarrassment.

“What?” How the hell does one get off on a motorcycle? Let alone one that tried to kill your best friend?

“It would be in park! You wouldn’t have to go anywhere, but here. It’s a thing I’ve had for a while, and I dunno...” He rambles on and on before he finally looks back at you with an absolutely hopeless look in his eye. Past the point of pleading, this is his entire ego on the line. 

“Is it something you really want?” He nods before the sentence ends. You think long and hard about it before looking in his eyes and sighing. You’re just as hopeless as he is. “Fine, but don’t be hurt when this doesn’t end up working.” His entire body lights up with a new vigor, arms wrapping around you and lifting you easily over the bike. You knew Satoru was strong, but he lifted you like it was nothing, which shouldn’t be possible after all his body had gone through.

You’re pressed against the metal head of the bike, thanking your earlier judgment that you wore a skirt. Satoru looks like he’s about to explode from just staring at you sitting on the damn thing. He swallows hard again—it’s kinda cute. His eyes are locked on where your panty-clad cunt is meeting the cold black metal.

“Satoru?” You squirm at the intensity of his stare.

“Right, m‘sorry. You have no idea how long I’ve thought about this. I thought it would never happen.” His eyes finally look at yours, softening when he sees the worry in your eyes. “If you don’t want to do this, you don’t have to.” You mull it over for a second before letting the fear creep in. 

“No. I want to do this for you.”

“Jesus, don’t say that.”

“But I do. I want to recreate every little fantasy you have about me locked away.” Satoru shuts his eyes and drags a hand down his face, bringing a cocky grin to your face. You’ve always liked teasing Toru. He shakes his head in some form of restraint before narrowing in on the start.

“If you’re uncomfortable at any point or want it to be over, you tell me, and I’ll toss the thing to the curb faster than you can blink.” He’s serious, and it is sweet enough to warm your heart and ease your nerves, but you can’t help but giggle at him. “You ready?” You give him a small nod, and the engine revs, filling up the garage. 

Your question about how one gets off on a motorcycle gets answered as soon as the metal rattles against your swollen clit. Immediately, your body slumps forward.

“Oh my god-” The vibrations are so strong, you know your entire body is shaking with the bike. It feels so good. It feels even better when you lift your eyes to see Satoru staring down at you like you just set off his world. Another strong vibration has you loudly moaning. There’s no way you’re not going to cum fast. “Satoru, it's so good.” 

“Yeah?” You nod, unable to say anything that’s not an incoherent mess. How you two can hear each other over the loud ass engine is a miracle you’re not going to question. This stupid motorcycle is pushing closer to an orgasm than you’ve been able to bring yourself to in months. The harsh shift of the metal against your clit is too much; you’re too sensitive, forcing you back searching for some reprieve, but Satoru is quicker. “Nuh uh. Don’t run from it, baby.” 

Oh, he’s an evil son of a bitch. Hands forcing your hips to grind hard into the rapidly shaking metal, leaving you with no escape. You reach out to grab his wrist, hoping it would alleviate the pressure, but it doesn’t. 

“Want you to cover it, baby. Need you soaked so I can lick you clean and give you another one. So I can get you wet all again when I sink into that pretty pussy, and make you cum all over again.”

“Wan-ahh to fuck me, Toru? Oh fuck!” He smiles and wipes the thin line of drool you have yet to notice.

“Yes. More than anything. I think I can cum from just thinking about it. I’ve gotten off more times than I can count.” If you were in a better state of mind, you’d probably ask him why, but instead all you can say is—

“I’ve gotten off you, too, Toru.” It’s rushed, and there was definitely some kind of curse word thrown in there, but it works. Satoru’s ears are burning red, and his mouth is gaped open, hands slowing their motion to a teasing rhythm. “Ngh- All the time.”

“Tell me more.” His words are just as quick as yours. “Y/N, please tell me more.” You’re trying so hard to focus on him and his words, but the way Satoru keeps pushing you into the vibrations is making you want to tip your head back and ride out the feeling that’s starting to cool in you. One of his hands holds your face, forcing you to look at him.

“I- I think about you touching me, Toru.” It’s all you can manage.

“Like how I am now?” You nod, or nod as best as you can in Satoru’s grip.

“Think about how good your hands feel when you touch me. H-oh, how- they’d feel better in me.”

“Want to know what I think about when I’ve gotten off to you?” You’re quick and eager to nod. “When we were sixteen, the first time I ever saw you in a real swimsuit, I wanted to lay you on my bed and eat you out until you were begging me to stop. I think I fucked my hand raw to the thought of it.” Your eyes widen at the confession. You’re sure there’s a huge sopping mark on the metal, from how wet you were.

“I still had braces-”

“And they were cute. You’ve never not been beautiful. There’s never been a moment when I haven’t thought you were beautiful.” What? The rush of emotions fills you, almost over-taking the lust-hazed brain you had. The tears in your eyes are becoming more out of the random sincerity, than the overwhelming pleasure between your legs. 

“You think I’m beautiful?”

“Yes.” He’s quick with it. Mouth dropping right on your pulse point, and dragging his way to your ear. “Always will. Thought you were beautiful the first time I met you. I thought you were beautiful when you gave me that pity dance at prom. I thought you were beautiful at graduation. I think you’re beautiful now, riding my motorcycle in an inch of your life, and I know you’ll be beautiful when I take you upstairs and fuck you full.”

Everything is too much. His cologne, the sweetness of his words, the filth rolling off his tongue, the battering of the shaking metal against your clit. It’s no surprise when your vision starts to go white.

“S-Satoru. I’m gonna-”

“Yeah? You want that?” You’re nodding dumbly, as to be expected by now. “Baby, you’re dripping off the bike.” Were you? Oh well. “Gonna let me clean you up with my tongue before I take you inside and show you everything I’ve wanted to do to you for years?”

“Oh my god, Satoru.” Your hand flies on the bike onto one of Satoru’s forearms for leverage. Nails digging into his skin so hard that it would surely leave marks.

“I know, baby. Just say yes for me. You can do that, c’mon.”

“Yes-fuck. Yes! Please.” His face lifts from your ear, blue eyes focused on your face in just enough time to watch you fall over the edge. Eyes rolling back, mouth hanging open, surely nothing but obscenities and Satoru’s name coming out. You don’t know if you’ve ever cum this hard in your life, but it just won't stop. It’s probably embarrassing how pathetic you look on Satoru’s bike, the same bike that you hated for so long. That now you probably hate just a little bit less.

By the time you’re coming down, the motorcycle is off, and Satoru is peppering sweet kisses up the side of your neck. The sweetest of words leave him that are barely being comprehended. His face finally comes into view again, albeit a little hazy.

“You did great, baby.” That signature Satoru smile was there again, pointed at you. It felt great, almost better than that insanely strong orgasm you just had. You hadn’t realized just how desperately you needed a Satoru Gojo smile aimed at you until you finally got it again. The music inside the house cuts through the moment.

“Satoru, the party-” His hands leave your face, swinging your body towards him before he drops to his knees. 

“It can wait.”

“Satoru-”

“I distinctly remember someone telling me I have a mess to attend to, and from the looks of it, I got a lot to clean up.” Curse Satoru and his height. There’s no way any normal man could get on his knees and still be taller than his bike, but Satoru Gojo has never been normal. His slow kisses up your still quivering thighs make you also want to forget the party. Hell, if you could make everyone in this house disappear right now, you would.

“Everyone is inside.” He leans in closer, with another sloppy kiss.

“I’m aware.” His breath tickles the inside of your sensitive thighs.

“Everyone wants to celebrate you.”

“They’ll want to celebrate me later.”

“Satoru, it's your birthday.” You hate the way your voice wavers.

“I’ll have other birthdays, but since it’s my birthday, why don’t you let me have my gift?”

“Be serious.” Satoru’s eyes flicker up to yours, a look so stern it snatches the air out of you. He is being serious.

“If you don’t want to do this, I will walk away right now, happily. I’d never make you do something or do something to you that you don’t want, but I’m not leaving unless you and you alone don’t want me.” The intensity in his voice makes a shiver go down your spine. “Because right now, Y/N, I couldn’t care less about this damn birthday party.” 

That throb in your heart gets mistranslated somewhere down in the pussy, because you’re practically inching your lower half closer to Satoru’s face, forcing him to be face to face with your soaked panties. 

“Fuck, you’re soaked.” Satoru’s eyes glistened over as he'd just seen something amazing. Before you can say anything, he pulls your legs closer and further apart before slotting his face right against your core and taking a deep inhale. Only to let out the most pathetic moan ever. “And you smell so good. Wonder if you taste just as good?”

You practically jolt at the long drag of Satoru’s tongue against your covered pussy. The sensation was almost too much; you’re still so sensitive from your orgasm from just a few minutes prior. Here he was eating you out through your panties like a madman.

“T-Toru!” Your body tenses at the unabashed groan he lets out, against you. When his mouth latches against your clit, sucking the sensitive bud, you damn near scream his name out. Your hands find their way into his messy white locks, tugging harder than you meant to.

“Haa— do it again.” Oh, Satoru was overly freaked out. His sharp nose catches your clit perfectly, long tongue stuffing itself into your core through the cloth, sure enough, your hands are pulling Satoru’s pale hair again, earning yourself a pathetic moan from him. 

“T-Toru, are you, shit- gonna take them off?” Without a word, he yanks them down like he’s crazy. The fanning of hot breath against your core makes you twitch. He pulls away slightly enough before dragging two fingers through you; the loud pop of your wetness is almost deafening against the muffled music. You watch him gather your sex all down his fingers, watching your previous orgasm damn near run down his wrist before he drags his eyes to yours, and puts the fingers in his mouth.

Your jaw unhinges at the sight. Satoru Gojo is lapping at his fingers, greedily sucking and making out with them. Pale skin flushed, eyes so hazed over they could be mistaken for black, moaning like a porn star over the taste of your pussy. His other free hand comes down to palm himself over the jeans that seem way too tight for him, eyes rolling back. It was almost like he was alone, but it was you he was tasting. It was downright pornographic and depraved, and it was severely turning you on. Your body is turning into a furnace from how hot the scene made you. 

This would be an image that would stick with you forever.

“Fuck you taste perfect. You are perfect.” Is he…pussy drunk?

“Satoru…are you okay?”

“Yes.” He pops the digits out of his mouth. “Gonna be better after I eat this pussy, and get her all ready and stretched for me.” Satoru’s mouth is back on you before you can do anything. If his hands hadn’t already locked your legs back into place, you surely would’ve fallen off the bike.

Satoru was starved. Lewd slurps fill the air enough to make your ears hot in embarrassment and pleasure. Satoru could’ve sworn he was in heaven.

That he ever actually got out of that hospital bed, and died right there on the table, but the very real sounds of your pretty moans, the feeling of your twitching legs around his head, the addictive taste of your wet cunt, it was all too real to be fake. So much better than all the filthy fantasies he had stored in his head for years. If the perfect rough drag of his scarred lips right before they latch to your clif again didn’t get you, then the feeling of his fingers pressing against your opening will.

“Toru, I’m s-so sensitive.” If he heard you, he didn’t say anything, instead letting out a high-pitched, muffled moan against your core that has you shutting your eyes. When those pretty fingers you’d always wished were in you instead of yours were, it takes everything in you not to ride them, as the work past the ring of muscle, stretching you so good.

Satoru is so close to cumming his pants. You’re just as fucking warm and wet as he knew you’d be, and it’s driving him insane. Well, he’d already gone insane when he watched you cum on his bike, eyes rolling back with his name on your swollen lips. If he were any less of a man, he would’ve gotten it on camera and watched it over and over again, have it etched into every part of his body until his wrist snapped in half, every fleshlight he owned was battered, and his dick fell off.

Squelch.

Squelch.

Squelch.

You had the nosiest fucking pussy, and it was making him weaker with every push of his fingers that you cunt greedily swallowed.

“Satoru, you eat it so good.” Had you even meant to say that? No, but Satoru was both so happy and angry when you said that. Happy because you couldn’t keep yourself together enough to keep those inside thoughts inside. He was eating it good; he had been practicing for this day since he found a stray thong you accidentally left at his dorm years ago. He put it on a Fleshlight and taught himself how to eat your pussy. Making his jaw ache until he knew that he’d have you crying out for him to stop because it was too good. Almost cumming in his pants the first fifteen times. 

Now that’s why Satoru’s angry. All those fantasies don’t live up to the real thing. He could only imagine what you would say to him in those moments, but you’re here in real life, saying all the dirtiest words he could’ve prayed for. He knew how not to cum in his pants when practicing, but the real thing, oh, it was too much. Which is why he practically sobs into your soaked core, mouth, and fingers, desperately picking up speed to hide the way his hips pathetically fucked up into the tip of dangling foot for any kind of pressure like some ravaged animal.

“Hnng-ah fuck! Are you b-breathing?” Satoru Gojo couldn’t care less about air. He could go back on a ventilator for all he cares. He needs to make you come as soon as possible. His tongue circled your clit, desperate to hear those tantalizing sounds leave you. You were practically dripping down his wrist. When his long fingers graze that sweet spot, that’s when it unravels. “Satoru, I’m gonna-” You try to pull him away, tugging at his hair only for him to smack your hand away and push even further into you. 

He needed to make you cum more than anything right now, and he’ll be damned if you don’t cum on his face after he worked so hard.

“So good, so good, so good, I’m- cumming. Satoru, I’m gonna-” Right over the edge you went again. This time, with so much intensity, you think you actually do black out. Satoru doesn’t dare let up, his eyes roll to the back of his skull, watching the thin line of drool hang from your lips as your head tilts back. Wet patch in pants growing as stream after stream of cum leaves his weeping cock right as your foot presses down in uncontrolled pleasure. Obscenely loud, moans escaping you both like you’re getting ready to fuck on camera. 

It takes you, silently begging, and both of your hands to get Satoru to come off your poor, battered pussy. Neither of you says a word, just desperately staring at one another, breathing heavily. Satoru’s face is almost completely red except for the beige scars that almost look pink against his skin. Eyes low like eating, you put him in a daze. The entire lower half of his face is soaked, soft lips puffy and glistening, just begging to be kissed. Though you’re not fully down, after waves of your orgasm are still hitting you, you can’t help but lick your lips.

“Don’t.” Satoru’s voice is hoarser and deeper than it was when you two first walked in here. Something about him was laced with lust and want. It sent sparks down your body. He sounded so fuckable.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t lick your lips like that. Don’t look at me like you’re starving for me. I can’t-” He takes in a shuddering breath like he’s barely holding on before he pops up. One hand pulling you by your throat for a kiss, making you taste yourself on him, and damn, do you both taste good. Satoru’s hands are the only reason why your wobbly legs haven’t given out from underneath you.

Sloppy kisses that end with loud smacks, an inappropriate amount of whining, and the need to touch everything you could. The scene was enough to make someone look away in embarrassment. You two are stuck on each other, obsessed even. You pull away when the air supply runs out, shivers going down your body. 

Have you ever been this turned on? The answer is obviously no. Even fantasizing about Satoru wasn’t enough to get you like this. Satoru has that effect on you.

“I can't resist you.” Seems you have the same effect on him. He can’t help but get a couple more small kisses in before trailing down your face again. “Are you okay?” Satoru’s voice is soft; it's almost sickening.

“I can barely feel my legs.” He laughs, eyes crinkling at the end. He’s still your Satoru.

“That’s a problem.”

“I know, how am I going to walk back in there without looking stupid?” Without so much as a grunt (or a warning), you’re being lifted off your feet, body held bridal style with no ease.

“Nah, I mean you shouldn’t be able to walk at all. Guess I got to fuck that mobility out of you?” Your hand swats his chest like an impulse. Cheeks feel as if they could turn red. He makes quick steps to get inside, but before he can open the door, you stop him. 

“Everyone is still inside.”

“Then they’ll get out.” He says it like it's obvious.

“Satoru.”

“I’m serious. They’ll either get out, or they’ll hear us. I don’t care about them right now.” He’s insane. That accident took all the common sense out of his head.

“Sat-” It’s too late, the garage door flies open, and you close your eyes, hoping the dark lights hide your ruined makeup, disheveled dress, and loose ponytail. The music doesn’t stop, neither does Satoru, but he does laugh.

“You can open your eyes; no one is here.” What?

You do open your eyes only to be met with the fact that a single soul is in the house. Not even any on the balcony like they were before.

“Wait, does that mean-”

“Now we really don’t have to be quiet.” Satoru doesn’t even pay attention to the empty room, circling the apartment to find his bedroom. He doesn’t even bother closing the door behind him, making quick strides with you in his arms before he gently tosses you on the bed. He’s almost immediately taking his clothes off, blue eyes almost glowing in the darkness of the room. Satoru practically rips his black shirt off his body before he goes for the belt.

“Wait.” His eyes widened in fear, halting immediately. “Can I take them off?” You think the question might’ve killed him because he stares at you in shock before nodding his head like an idiot. He’s rushing over to the side of the bed, and he has to hold his smile back when he watches you struggle to balance your weight on your knees.

Yeah, he needs one more round.

The moment you get your hands on the belt, it’s over. Heat zaps down Satoru’s spine. As crude as it sounds, he’s never had you this close to his dick before. He doesn’t know just how long he’d last if you were even to stare at it long enough. Before he can bring himself to tell you to stop, you’re already pulling his pants down, damp boxers on display.

“Did you-”

“Yes.” He answers embarrassingly too fast. 

“You got off eating me out?” That blush creeps up Satoru’s neck all the way up to his ears.

“Yeah, I’ve gotten off from your perfume lingering in my bed.” He hadn’t meant to say that, but it makes your jaw unhinged enough to flash another sinful image through Satoru Gojo’s head. Making him visibly twitch.

“You’re such a perv, Toru.” The words are meant to be mean, but in all actuality, you’re not any better. The number of times you’ve gotten off to his cologne being stuck in your passenger side seat belt is one too many for you to admit. You shift closer, planting a kiss on his tip through his boxer, making his hips buck into your mouth.

“Don’t.”

“You can get a taste of me, but I can’t get a taste of you?” You drag your tongue across his print and the damp patch, watching his mouth drop slightly, a coy hum on your lips. “That’s unfair, don’t you think?” Toru nods dumbly, body unconsciously leaning into you. “Can I go down on you, Toru? I’ve thought about it so much.”

“Yes. Fuck yes, please.” Satoru knows this is a bad idea. He cannot cum again before he has sex with you, but as he made clear earlier, he can’t say no to you. So when you pull down his boxers only for his dick to smack right against his stomach pulling a weak moan from him, he just prays he has it in him to pull you off before he comes down your throat.

“Toru-” You’re in utter shock. Satoru’s dick is big. Not just big, it’s humongous, he’s fucking hung. No wonder he was so arrogant all the time; he had the size to back it up. “You’re so big.” There’s enough lubricant from his previous orgasm for you to stroke him comfortably.

“Fuck, you can’t say that.” He twitches in your hand as you let the spit from your mouth dribble down his oh so sensitive, bright red tip. He was so cute under your hand, slightly bucking up into your hand unknowingly. 

“But you are, and it’s so pretty.” Satoru Gojo loved to be praised. Any person with working eyes could tell you that. “Need to taste it.” You don’t let him say anything before you kiss the tip, earning a soft whimper from him. 

So he does whimper? Good to know.

One torturous, slow lick after the other has him clenching his fist by his side until they look like they’re going to pop. When you finally take him in your mouth, every thread in him snaps. Hands find purchase around the back of your head. He was right, you guys don’t have to worry about being quiet anymore. He’s practically moaning like a bitch in heat at every bob of your head. You’re not much better, loud slurps filling the room if it’s not your own pathetic moans around him. 

“Shit! I’m- you feel so good-ahh. Hnng- please don’t stop.” Like you would ever, Satoru Gojo has you wrapped around his finger just as much as he’s wrapped around yours. You’re practically dripping all over his sheets at every thrust, gagging a moan every time he tip hits the back of your throat. Spit spilling at the corners of your lips like the Satoru only slut you are. Watching his eyes roll to the back of his head, his chest rise at a sharp breath, the way your name rolled off his tongue. It was breathtaking being the one to make Satoru Gojo fall apart like this.

Just a little more, and he’ll cum down your throat just the way you wanted. Your hand that was absent mindedly drawing rough circles on your clit, moves to cup his spit-covered balls, fondling them gently. The change made Satoru stop with a particularly rough thrust to your throat and rather loud broken whine. One hand gripping your hair with a tight lock, and the other holding your throat in place. His tilted head comes back down, his chest erratically heaving as he gives you an almost pained look.

“Don’t do that.” It’s quick, and thought it didn’t sound as assertive as it was meant to be you pause befoe pushing your luck, moving your hand again, which makes Gojo thrust forward again, a loud gag coming from you, your hand constricting your throat. His other hand knocked yours away. He looks almost lost, torn as he works your throat over him. “I’m not cumming anywhere that’s not inside of you. If you do that, I’ll cum all over your face and waste all of it. We wouldn’t want that now?”

Satoru was so close to coming that the corner of his vision started to turn fuzzy. If he hadn’t stopped when he did this night might’ve taken a different turn. Mouth still full of his cock you shake your head no, eyes hazed over in your own lust. He painfully removes himself from your mouth, cussing himself out internally the entire time. It’s taking everything in him not to pull your warm, wet, hot mouth back over here and fuck it raw. 

“Take the dress off.” You scramble to pull the dress over you, moving to the middle of the bed and tossing it somewhere into the abyss. “You’re so good for me, baby. I love it.”

“Yeah?” Oh yeah, you’re gone. Who wouldn’t be looking at Satoru’s perfect body, even if all scared up, he’s still undeniably sexy. “You’re so good for me, Toru.” His weight shifts the mattress as he makes his way over to you. 

“I always want to be good for my girl.” His hands grab your ankles, pulling you. towards him. “Need to fuck you good.” That fucked out look on his face is all you see before he’s pushing your hands into the mattress for another sloppy makeout. You could kiss Satoru forever. His tongue knows just what way to lock with yours in the most lewd way, like he was made to kiss you. He pulls back, grabbing the base of his dick, which his hand could barely fit around.

He slowly glides his jerky cock through your wetness, making you both twitch. Saying nothing but watching it slip through and gather more lubricants, the tip hitting your abused clit so sinfully it made your jaw drop.

“She’s so messy.” You couldn’t care less what he was babbling about right now. You just needed him to put it in already.

“Stop teasing Toruuu.” You whine only to get a cocky grin from him. He was letting up, picking up the pace, to watch you squirm. 

“You want it that bad-oh.” All that squirming managed to slip the tip in, stopping you both. The smile is wiped clean off his face. Instead, one of awe replaces it as he watches himself fuck the same inch into you, sensitive head trapped between your warm, gummy, wet walls. “You- you- feel so-”

“Yeah, bet it would be better if you actually fucked me.” His eyes meet yours with a hard glare. 

“Count.”

“What- oh my god.” Your mouth forms a ‘o’ as he sinks more into you.

“Count. C’mon, my smart girl can tell me how. How many inches are in her right?”

“T-Two.” 

“There we go.” He pushes in more, holding back on his bodily urges that are telling him to quit with all the teasing, but he can’t.

Three follows with four, five with six, and by the time you’re at the last two inches, you’re practically shaking. There’s a line of drool hanging from Satoru’s mouth like he’s gone completely brain dead, eyes not disconnecting from where you two meet, like he’s hypnotized.

He is hypnotized.

“Just two more, baby.”

“Eight-ngh Satoru, please. I can’t!” Your body burned at the stretch. No one’s been as big as Toru.

“No. You can.”  You let out a high-pitched whine when he finally bottoms out.

“Nine! Fuck Satoru, I’m so full.” Those words bounce off deaf ears. Satoru is falling off this plane of existence; the only thing keeping him grounded is the clench of your core around him, sending shivers down his spine. When he doesn’t move, you call his name, only to hear a muffled moan into your neck. It takes pulling him out of your neck to see what’s happening, finally.

He’s so fucked out he’s not comprehending right. His blue eyes are crossed in pleasure, line of spit rolling down to his thick neck, shaking body completely flushed red.

“Pussy so good. It’s gonna kill me.”

“Toru, I need you to move.”

“I can’t. Need a second. It’s too good.”

“Toru, please, I want you to fuck me. Need you to fill me up.” It’s those words that put Satoru out of his daze, or at least his body out of its daze. His hips roll into yours with a sinfully quick pace. His hands roam your body, trying to find something to feel. 

“Want me to cum inside?” He grumbles in your ear with another fast snap of his hips. “Want me to fuck you full?” You nod as best as you can, mouth hanging open with pathetic noises coming from you, and another lewd squelch comes from you. “I think this pretty pussy wants that too. Just listen to her.” 

Nothing but the nasty wet smacks filling the room makes your ears burn. 

Plap, Plap, Plap.

“She’s practically begging me to pump her full of my cum. She’s so good. She’s so fucking addictive. So much better than anything I’ve used.” You’re half paying attention to him. More focused on how deep his dick is in you. Every thrust feels like the air is getting snatched from you in the best way. Besides, you’re not too far behind him in sounding incoherent.

“Toru, it’s so deep-ngh. I-hic” Were you crying? “Fuck don’t stop. Please don’t, don’t, don’t.”

“Wouldn’t fucking dream of it. Your pussy is so good to me, you’re so good to me.” One of his hands comes down, forcing your legs to wrap around his shoulders. “I need to fill you. Need to fuck you good. Need it. Need it. Fuck I need it.” The new angle, the stretch, the pressure, it has you seeing stars, and when Satoru hits that one spot, your entire body tenses. 

Something’s different.

“Oh my god, Satoru!”

“Right there?” He whines out, head reeling back every time he hits that spongy spot inside. You nod, fat tears rolling down your body, it’s almost too much, but before you can even think about Toru’s already pinning your hips. “Don’t you dare think about running from me. Waited too long for this, for you.” Each bed shaking brutal smack brings you closer, but something is different. 

More intense, it’s deeper. It makes your entire body tremble. 

“Sssatoru I- something feels-” 

“Nuh-uh. That’s not my name.” Fuck he’s hitting it so good you may not be able to tell him. Your back is starting to arch in, tasting your release, which makes your vision come in and out.

“Baby! Something’s different! I’m-” Your cut off entirely by the smack of Satoru’s fingers against your clit, making you jolt in pleasure. You’re so close.

“Don’t call me that. That’s not what you call me. You want to cum, you want me to fill you up so good you’ll be dripping me for days? Then you call me by- FUCK-” Your cunt clenches around him, making his head pop from your ear to the air, making him look at you. He’s just like you—unfocused eyes, pathetic moaning, completely fucked out and pussydrunk to your dickmatized. “You-you call me by my name.”

“T-t-t-” You’re right there.

“C’mon, be good for me and say it.”

“Toru! I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna-” His fingers come down in a harsh rub of your throbbing clit, and you’re gone. Your warning is a faded memory of the past, as the tremors of your orgasm take over. Vision completely gone, ears ringing, in what is the strongest orgasm of your life, given to you by none other than your childhood best friend.

“Oh, my god.” Satoru watches you spray the entirety of the sheets beneath you, his hand, lower stomach, and most importantly, his cock. Never in his wildest dreams did he think watching the girl he loves the most squirt all over would happen, but when it does, it hits him like a bag of bricks. Making him cum so hard he slumps forward, letting out the most pornographic cries, eyes almost shut as he watches his seed mix in with your cum, and it sends lightning down his spine. “It won’t stop.” He doesn’t know who he’s talking about, but you still haven’t stopped. He fucks you through it, almost losing his fucking mind doing so, house full of sounds that would surely get him a noise complaint.

When you both come down from the mutual orgasms, neither of you dares to move an inch. Both of you are still shaking too hard to be fully conscious. It’s only when that tear hits your stomach that you start to come back. Satoru’s head is down, in shoulder trembling just like you.

“Toru?”

“Don’t move. I can’t- don’t move, please.” He sounded so weak, it damn near made your heart clench. “Listen, baby.” You almost yelp at the overstimulation when Satoru gives a few weak, shallow thrusts. A popping squelch rings through the room. “Sounds so beautiful.” 

“Satoru, come here.” He doesn’t hesitate, meeting your lips one more time, with the shakiest and sweetest kisses of the night. He gently pulls out, and you groan at the big loss. Missing the fill now that it’s gone. How were you ever going to get anything done now that you know what sex with the love of your life feels like? His head falls to your shoulder, making sure to keep his weight off you. It’s silent for a little while, you two bathe in the post-sex afterglow, until the question in the air rings too loud in your mind. “So what does this mean for us?”

“Don’t ask such dumb questions.”

“I’m serious-”

“I am too. You’re not going anywhere, Y/N. Whether that's you being my girlfriend or, preferably, my wife, you’re here to stay. I’m here to stay. We’ve spent too much time avoiding the obvious to be picky about what we are now. We’re in love. Simple.” His arms sling around you, pulling you closer. The warmth of his body felt grounding.

“I love you, Toru.” You declare for the umpteenth time.

“I love you, Y/N.”

It’s your phone that wakes you up from your deep sleep with your boyfriend(?) at what had to be noon. 

“Satoru.” You grumble against his chest, refusing to open your eyes.

“Ignore it.” He makes no effort to move. The ringtone faded for all of three seconds before it blares up again, making you sigh.

“I got it.” He pulls you against him again, weakly trying to hold you back. “Toru.”

“Fine.” He rolls over, allowing you to crawl over him to grab the blaring phone, but not before smacking your ass as you bend to do so. You shoot him a dirty look, and he shrugs. “What? It’s great ass, and it’s mine.”

“Yours?”

“Yeah, baby, that’s my ass, that's my pussy, that’s my heart, you’re my girl.” You have to bite back a smile at his words. The thought of finally being Satoru’s girl makes your chest all fuzzy.

“So does that mean that’s my dick and my heart?”

“You know it. Now I highly suggest you answer that phone, or else I’ll show you what else your dick can do.” You scoff, but it’s clear by the way your nipples perk up that you’re turned on. Satoru pulls you on top of him, pressing his half-hard dick against your bare cunt. Disregarding who can hear you two, as he kisses down your bare body. You press the accept button before you have half the mind to ride him and show him what his pussy can do.

“Hello?”

“Oh. My. God.” Geto and Shoko’s voices flood the other side of the phone. “This was better than we could’ve imagined.”

“What are you two going on about?” Satoru looks up at you through his pretty lashes, a confused look on his face.

“We called Satoru, not you.”

Oh.

Oh.

“Please tell me you two have finally sorted things out. I was plastered by the time Geto was kicking everyone out of the house.”

“I think they did more than just sort it out. I’m never touching that motorcycle again.” Your jaw drops in horror before Satoru grabs the phone from your hands.

“You two really need to get a life.” You make out the words “dumbass” on the other end of the phone. “Uh-huh. Anyway, I got some time to make up for. I'll talk to guys later.” He tosses the phone to the other side of the bed, pulling you closer to him. “Good afternoon, baby.” You giggle at his antics, heart swelling with joy. Everything feels perfect.

“Good afternoon, Toru.”

A/N: I wrote this over the cycle of two ovulation cycles...no regrets! I'm hella rusty too, this might be a mess potench. Also, this wasn't proofread... so my bad!

a smile breaks across his face.

“…you got your wish,” he murmurs.

your heart skips. “what?”

he looks at you, eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them.

“she looks like you.”

the words hit you like a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

slowly— carefully, you look down again.

and this time, you see it.

the color of her eyes. the softness of her features. the tiny expressions already forming— familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

your little mirror.

“oh…” your voice comes out barely above a whisper. “she does…”

satoru lets out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh, shaking his head a little.

“finally,” he says, and there’s something like relief in it— but not for himself.

for you.

you glance up at him, eyes still glassy. “you’re not… upset?”

“upset?” he repeats, like the idea doesn’t even make sense.

his hand comes up gently, brushing a stray tear from your cheek before it can fall.

“why would i be?” he says softly. “you’ve been asking for this since before she was even born.”

he leans in closer, one hand resting lightly over yours where it cradles the baby.

“i’m happy, sweetheart,” he adds, quieter now. “really.”

your lips press together as your emotions catch up all at once.

“i just…” you sniff, looking down at her again. “i really wanted this.”

“i know,” he says.

he watches you for a moment longer, then smiles— soft, fond, completely gone over both of you.

“…she’s got your face,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “and if she ends up with your personality too…”

you huff weakly. “hopefully.”

“of course,” he says immediately, without hesitation. “the world could use more of you.”

that makes your breath hitch.

“…you mean that?”

“always.”

silence settles between you, warm and full.

your thumb brushes over the baby’s cheek, and she shifts slightly, settling closer into you like she already knows where she belongs.

satoru watches the two of you like it’s the easiest thing in the world to love.

“…she’s perfect,” you whisper.

“yeah,” he agrees softly. then, with the faintest smile— “took after the right parent this time.”

you let out a small laugh, nudging him weakly with your shoulder.

“don’t start.”

“i’m not,” he says, still looking at her. “i’m serious.”

his hand slides over yours, warm and steady.

“…you did good,” he adds quietly.

and somehow, that’s the thing that finally makes your eyes spill over.

you sit there for a while, just holding her, memorizing every little detail you’d been hoping for.

and then, softly—

“…next one can look like you again. this is all i need.”

he pauses.

“…dangerous information,” he smirks, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your temple. “y’know, i’m not one to back down from a challenge.”

the door creaks open not long after.

small footsteps. hesitant, but excited.

“can we come in?” one of your boys whispers way too loudly, already halfway through the door anyway.

satoru glances over his shoulder, a quiet huff of amusement leaving him. “c’mon, say hi to your sister.”

they shuffle in, both of them peeking up at the bed, blue eyes wide and bright in that familiar way that used to make your argument feel so unfair.

for a second, neither of them says anything.

“…she’s tiny,” the younger one breathes.

“that’s because she’s a baby,” the older mutters, though he’s just as awed, leaning closer.

you shift slightly so they can see her better, and the baby stirs, making a soft sound.

both boys freeze.

“…she looks like mama,” one of them says suddenly.

you blink.

satoru snorts quietly under his breath, ruffling the boys hair.

“she does,” the other insists, frowning a little like he’s studying her. “her eyes are like yours.”

you look down at her, then at your boys, then back at him.