Here’s the thing about trying to do something nice for someone who is annoyingly capable of doing everything himself: it doesn’t work.
You’ve been trying for three weeks.
Three.
And you have nothing to show for it except a slightly bruised ego, a jaw that aches, a pussy that’s always throbbing, and a creeping, maddening awareness that Caleb Xia Yi Zhou might actually be impossible to spoil.
His birthday is in two weeks.
Two weeks, and you’ve cooked him exactly zero meals because every time you shuffle into the kitchen with some grand intention — a recipe pulled up on your phone, ingredients arranged on the counter — Caleb is already there.
Already at the stove.
Already flipping something in a pan with the confidence of a man who learned to cook before he learned to shave.
He’ll glance over his shoulder at you and smile, and it’s that smile, the soft one with the slight crinkle at the corner of his purple eyes, and you’ll feel your irritation deflate like a sad balloon because god, he’s so annoyingly pretty.
You tried cleaning.
You got up early. Practically military-early, which for you is a genuine sacrifice.
You dug out the cleaning supplies from under the sink and you had the vacuum cleaner out before seven in the morning, which should have earned you some kind of medal.
Instead you found the living room already clean. Not recently clean. Impeccably clean. Like it had never been touched by the concept of mess. There was a note on the coffee table in his handwriting: Don’t strain yourself, Pipsqueak. — C.
You may have crumpled that note aggressively.
You may have then proceeded to sit down in the middle of the clean living room floor and have something that could generously be called a meltdown. A tantrum, if you’re being less generous.
Caleb came in from wherever he’d been — still in that black and orange flight jacket, hair slightly messed, looking unfairly effortless — and found you sitting on the floor with your arms crossed and your expression set to full operational sulk.
He didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at you, and then the corner of his mouth tugged upward, and he laughed. Not mean. Never mean with you.
Just warm and rich and a little helpless, like you were the funniest thing he’d ever seen and also slightly exasperating.
“I just wanted to help,” you told him, which came out more like a whine than a declaration.
“I know,” he said, and before you could say anything else he had you up over his shoulder like you weighed nothing — like you were a bag of laundry, like the laws of gravity simply applied differently to you when he decided they did — and the world flipped upside down and his hand was firm and warm on the back of your thigh.
“Caleb—“
“You wanna work so much?” His voice had dropped, that particular low register that lived somewhere between teasing and intent. “Alright. Put that mouth to work.”
And the thing is. The thing is. You’re not going to dwell on what happened after that.
You’re absolutely not going to think about how you ended up on your knees on the floor of his office with his hands loose in your hair and his cock heavy on your tongue, or about the sounds he made, or about the way he looked down at you with those purple eyes gone dark and said good girl like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
You are not dwelling on any of that.
You’re especially not dwelling on the fact that you’d have done it again. Enthusiastically.
But the point is — and you have to keep coming back to the point because your brain has a truly inconvenient tendency to wander — his birthday is in two weeks.
And you have done nothing.
Zero.
You’ve been outmaneuvered at every turn by a six-foot-two military pilot who apparently never sleeps and has a pathological need to do everything himself before anyone else can.
Domestic route: blocked. Culinary route: blocked. Cleaning route: blocked and mocked, very gently, via handwritten note.
Fine. Fine.
If he won’t let you help him with the house, you’ll help him in a different way. A much more interesting way.
The idea had come to you in the middle of the night, the way good ideas tend to. If Caleb loves his uniform, and he does, he’s meticulous about it in a way that borders on religious — the pressed lines, the insignia, the whole Colonel energy he wears like a second skin — then what better way to short-circuit his brain than to wear it yourself?
You’d ordered it three weeks ago, back before the tantrum, when you still thought the cooking plan might work.
It had been sitting in your closet ever since, tucked behind a row of regular clothes, hidden in plain sight as something so mundane that Caleb, who does occasionally poke his head into your room to return folded laundry like some kind of domestic nightmare, would never look twice at it.
Just a dry-cleaning bag. Just a work uniform. Nothing to see here.
You pull it out now, holding it up in the soft late-afternoon light that comes through your window, and you look at it critically. It’s exactly right. The cut, the fabric, the insignia you’d had replicated. The jacket. The pants. The whole setup.
Caleb is in his room, the door cracked open the way it always is when he’s working at his desk, which means you can hear the faint occasional sound of papers shifting or his pen moving, which means he is exactly where you want him.
You look at the uniform again. You look at yourself in the mirror on the back of your closet door.
You’re going to march into his room, and you’re going to make Colonel Caleb Xia Yi Zhou lose every single thread of his composure, because it’s almost his birthday and you refuse — refuse — to be outmaneuvered a fourth time.
But here’s what they don’t tell you about ordering a uniform online when you’re more focused on the fantasy of it than the logistics: size matters.
Size matters a lot.
You step into the pants first, which is a process. You get them up past your knees fine. Past your thighs is already a project. By the time you’ve wrestled them up over your hips you’re already slightly out of breath, and when you look in the mirror the fabric is pulled so tight across your ass that you can practically count the individual seams.
You turn sideways. You turn back. You try bending at the knee to test the range of motion and the pants make a sound like a warning.
Don’t, the pants say. Absolutely do not.
Okay, so bending is out.
Moving with anything resembling caution is also out.
If you sit down in these you might genuinely be trapped.
You accept this as the price of the plan and move on to the jacket, which is the least of your problems until it isn’t — the buttons close over your stomach fine, but once you get to your chest it becomes a negotiation.
The fabric strains. The buttons are doing their best. They are trying so hard and they are losing, and there’s a gap between the second and third button from the top that wasn’t there in the product photos, where the fabric pulls apart just enough to show a strip of skin and the edge of your bra.
You look at yourself in the mirror for a long moment.
“Okay,” you say.
Your ass looks genuinely extraordinary. You have to give the too-tight pants that — they’ve done something transcendent back there. The uniform jacket hits just above the curve of it, which means when you lean forward even slightly there is an event happening. And the gap at the chest is doing something. It’s doing something you hadn’t planned, but you’re choosing to count it as a feature.
You rake your hair back, let it fall, tilt your chin. You point at your own reflection.
“He’s not gonna know what hit him.”
Your reflection looks back at you with the energy of someone who is sixty percent confident and forty percent about to back out.
You do not give her the opportunity.
You turn away from the mirror before the forty percent can gain ground, grab the door handle, and head out into the hallway.
The apartment is quiet. The late afternoon has gone gold and long-shadowed, and Caleb’s door is still cracked the way it was before, a thin rectangle of warm light falling across the hall floor. You can hear him in there — the faint shift of paper, the soft particular sound of his pen, totally absorbed. He has no idea.
You stop outside his door. You breathe.
You arrange your face into an expression of worried contrition, which takes some doing because underneath it you are absolutely delighted with yourself, and you knock twice on the door frame, keeping your body just out of sight around the edge.
“Caleb?” Your voice comes out with exactly the right wobble — concerned, a little sheepish, the voice of someone who has done something they feel bad about. “I’m really sorry, but — I was trying to do something nice, and I think I kind of messed up...”
There’s a pause. You hear his pen stop.
“Messed up how?” His voice is careful, not alarmed. Just attentive, the way he always is when you sound uncertain, because Caleb has never once in his life been able to hear you sound uncertain without immediately paying attention. It’s one of his more exploitable qualities.
“I tried washing your uniform for you,” you say, and you let the words come out small and guilty. “And I think — I think it might have... shrunk.”
Another pause. You can picture him at his desk, his brow doing that slight furrow, trying to work out why that’s a problem that requires you to sound this apologetic.
“Sweetheart.” His voice is mild, unoffended, just a little puzzled. The chair shifts. “Let me see it. Come here.”
That’s your cue.
You step around the door frame and into the light of his room, and then you walk toward him. You take your time with it, because the pants make fast movement inadvisable anyway, and because the whole point is to let him see every inch of you in this thing that barely contains you — the jacket pulled tight across your chest, the gap where the buttons strain, the pants that have given up any pretense of modesty and are simply painting you in detail.
Caleb goes completely still.
He’d been turned partway toward the door, one arm braced on his desk, and that’s how he stays — perfectly, completely motionless — as you cross the room toward him.
His mouth doesn’t drop open. He’s more composed than that. But his eyes go somewhere darker and the breath he’d been in the middle of just... stops. You can see it. The stillness of his chest.
His cock is already pressing against his pants. You notice this without looking directly, the way you notice a fire — by the heat of it, by the fact that the room feels different suddenly
You don’t say anything. You walk to his desk, turn so your back is to him, and lean against the edge of it. Your ass settles onto his work papers with a soft, definitive sound. You glance back at him over your shoulder.
He still hasn’t spoken. He’s just watching you.
His eyes trace the uniform, absorbing every detail like a blueprint he’s determined to master. His jaw is tight. The smirk hasn’t arrived yet — it’s building, you can see it in the set of his mouth, the way the corner of his lip is just beginning to pull.
You cross your arms loosely, settle your weight back, and look at him.
“Well?” you say, keeping your voice light, unbothered, like you aren’t desperately aware of your own heartbeat. “What do you think? Think it shrunk?”
And there it is — the smirk, slow and deliberate as a knife being unsheathed, landing at the corner of his mouth like he was never trying to hold it back, just waiting to make sure you were watching when it showed up.
“Mhm,” Caleb says. It’s not an answer. It’s not even a word. It’s just a sound in the low register of his voice that goes directly down your spine. The look in his eyes is the look of a man who has already decided what’s going to happen next and finds it very, very funny that you thought you were in charge of this.
You swallow.
Maybe you didn’t think this through all the way.
You think — well, you THOUGHT — that you have the upper hand here.
You’re sitting on his desk, his papers crinkled under your ass, wearing his uniform like you own it, and he’s just standing there in front of you looking at you with that smirk, and you think: yeah, okay, I’ve got him. You think: he’s flustered and I did that. You think a lot of things very quickly, in the way you do when you’re trying to feel confident and your brain is helping you lie to yourself.
Then Caleb stands up.
He’d been leaning slightly forward, one hand on the arm of his chair. He rises to his full height like the tide coming in, slow and inevitable, and suddenly he is very tall.
You’ve always known he’s tall. Six-foot-two is not a secret.
You have lived with this man, you’ve stood next to him at the grocery store and craned your neck at him across the dinner table and had him tuck you under his arm for years without really registering it the way you register it now.
You have to lean back just to keep eye contact. Your hands go automatically to the desk behind you, bracing.
“Hi,” you say, which is not what you’d planned to say.
He doesn’t answer. Instead he reaches out — and picks you up. Both hands, one at your hip and one at your thigh, and he lifts you like you’re a piece of paper he’s clearing off the desk and deposits you further back on the desk surface, higher up, and the pants — the beautiful, already-suffering pants — finally meet their end.
The seam goes with a sharp tearing sound right down the middle, and you feel the cool air of the room find your inner thighs, and you make a sound you hadn’t planned to make, somewhere between a gasp and a laugh, and your hands fly down to cover yourself automatically. That does nothing, by the way, because Caleb’s hands are already there, wrapping around your wrists and holding them to the side with a calm, immovable firmness.
His hands are enormous around your wrists. You could probably fight it but you don’t, because you’ve already forgotten what you were fighting for.
Your panties are orange. Bright, irreverent orange, the exact same color as the stripe on his flight jacket, and they are completely visible through the wreckage of the pants.
Caleb stares at them.
And then he does something you didn’t predict, because you should have known by now that Caleb in this mode is ungovernable: he drops his head.
He dips down between your thighs and puts his nose right against the fabric, and inhales. Long and deep and completely shameless, like you’re something he’s been wanting to smell for a long time and he is going to take his time about it.
You feel the breath of it through the fabric, warm and deliberate, and your hands jerk reflexively in his grip but he doesn’t let go.
“Caleb—“
He licks. A long, slow drag of his tongue over the front of your underwear, and the fabric is thin enough that you feel all of it — the wet heat, the pressure, the shape of his mouth working against you like he’s trying to memorize you through the cotton.
He does it again. He makes a sound low in his throat that is not a civilized sound, that belongs to something older and less housebroken than any version of Caleb you’ve been allowed to see before.
There is saliva soaking into the fabric now. There is the obscene warmth of his mouth. And there is you, gripping the edge of his desk with fingers gone white, breathing through your teeth.
He lets go of your wrists, steps back, and reaches into his own pants. He doesn’t bother taking them off — just shoves them down to his knees, enough to free himself, and his cock springs out like it’s been waiting for this, already flushed and heavy, standing up toward his stomach.
He wraps one hand around the base of it and strokes it slowly, watching you, watching the orange of your panties, watching the evidence of what he’s already done to them.
“Mmm,” he says again, that low sound from before. Not a word. An assessment.
Then he steps forward, and instead of pushing in — instead of doing the obvious thing, the thing you are absolutely ready for whether you’ll admit it or not — he just leans against you.
Pushes his cock down flat against the front of your panties, along your stomach, and the length of him is just. There. You both look down at the same time.
His tip passes your navel. Surpasses it. There’s cock laid against your stomach in a way that makes the math of the situation very, very clear.
“Look here, Pips.” His voice is low and easy, like he’s making an observation about the weather, like he’s discussing something reasonable and not currently resting every inch of himself against your skin. “I’m gonna be in here one day.”
Not I want to. Not can I? Just — I’m going to. The same tone he uses when he talks about flight routes and promotions and things he’s already decided are going to happen.
Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
He pulls back, and there are wet spots on your panties, and he looks at them with an expression of profound satisfaction before he presses himself back against you. Not inside, just along you, rubbing the length of his cock over your pussy through the ruined fabric. You’re so wet that it soaks through immediately and he can feel it.. You can tell by the hitch in his breath and the way his hips rock forward once, twice, following the slick heat of you like he can’t help it.
“Fuck,” he breathes, and it comes out reverent.
His cock moves against you in long, rolling strokes, gathering up your slick, dragging it across the fabric. Spreading isn’t enough. It isn’t enough, and Caleb knows it, and you know it, and the knowing doesn’t stop anything.
You feel the exact moment he loses the last organized thought in his head. It’s in the shift of his hips, the way they press forward with new intent instead of the rolling stroke from before.
His hands grip the backs of your thighs, and he pushes, and the wet cotton of your panties catches him, gives just a little, and his tip nudges in by a fraction — barely there, barely a suggestion of inside — and that’s all it takes.
He cums.
Just like that.
A low, bitten-off sound tears out of him, and you feel it — the heat of it soaking into the fabric, spreading in a wet rush that joins everything already there, and he’s still pressed against you, shuddering, his forehead dropping toward your shoulder without quite landing.
“Jesus—“ he breathes, and it comes out broken, like he wasn’t expecting himself.
You look down. The orange cotton is wrecked, soaked through and stained, clinging to you with the weight of what he’s done, and Caleb is looking down at it too.
“Again,” he decides, out loud, which is not a request.
He draws back and pushes forward again, harder this time, and the fabric holds for approximately one more second before it doesn’t.
The seam at the center tears cleanly, cotton splitting apart, and with the combined slick of you and the mess he’s already made, his cock slides and then doesn’t quite find the angle it was looking for. Instead it slides up, and he ends up fitted snugly between your lips, sandwiched in the wet heat of you, your folds closing around him on either side without him getting inside. The tip of him grazes your clit.
You make a sound that isn’t your voice, or isn’t a voice you’ve used before.
He goes still. Then his hips roll, experimentally, once, feeling it — the slick of you on both sides of him, your flesh pressing in, and the soft brush of your pubic hair against the base of his cock strike him directly in the brain stem.
“Oh, fuck.”
His hips find a rhythm, a steady roll that sends his cock gliding between your lips. Each thrust drags him against your clit, his length slick with your desire and the remnants of his own release. The room echoes with filthy, sloppy sounds—the smack of skin on skin, the lewd squish of his cock plowing through the fucking mess you’ve made together.
He cums again. Just erupts, fountaining up your stomach, over the ripped hem of the costume jacket, and it goes everywhere and he watches it go everywhere. His cock is still twitching.
Then he looks up at you.
“Ma’am,” he says, and the word is wrong and filthy in his mouth. Wrong because you’re not his superior, wrong because he’s never called you that in his life, wrong because of everything. He says it with a straight face.
With his hand already moving, rubbing the flat of his palm over your stomach, spreading what he’s put there into your skin. His jaw is tight. “I don’t think this uniform belongs to me anymore.”
“Caleb—“
“’Yes, sir’ works.” He isn’t looking at your face. He’s watching his own hand move, the cream worked into your skin going slick and shining. His thumb drags through the mess of you and he pushes it between your pussy lips — against them, not in, just the pressure of him insisting — and your thighs try to close and his hips stop them. “You’re so wet for me, Pips. You’re soaking. Did you know that?”
You knew. You’ve known for the last fifteen minutes in excruciating detail.
“You did this to me,” you manage.
“Yeah,” he agrees, like that pleases him enormously. “I did.”
He takes the ruined waistband of your panties in both hands, the torn fabric hanging in tatters, and pulls the remnants taut. A strip of it pressed flat against you, between your lips, and then he presses his cock back over it, and the combined friction is something your nervous system genuinely wasn’t prepared for.
He drags. Long and deliberate and slow, forcing the fabric tight against your skin, and the edge of the seam catches your clit just right and you make a noise loud enough to embarrass yourself, your hands scrabbling at the back of his neck.
“There she is,” Caleb says, very quietly, and he does it again.
Your thighs shake. The pressure builds with a speed that makes you feel cheated out of the anticipation of it, and when you tip over the edge you take him with you. You squirt, sudden and surprised and messy, and it hits him across the lower stomach and the base of his cock and he makes a sound like he’s been hit.
You expected this to slow him down. You expected this to be the moment he regroups, take a breath, bring some of that Colonel composure back to bear.
He grabs your hips instead.
His eyes are wide and dark and there is nothing composed about him. He looks at the mess between your bodies, your slick and his cum and the ruined orange cotton of your underwear, and his expression is the expression of a man who has found the meaning of life,
“Need gege to clean you up?” He asks.
His hips roll forward, coating himself back in you, and the mess makes a sound, and Caleb Xia Yi Zhou, Colonel, decorated pilot, the most responsible person in your life, looks at you with your ruined uniform jacket hanging off your shoulders and your thighs wrapped around him and his cock slick with everything that’s passed between you, and he smiles. Wide and a little wild and completely without apology.
You are in so much trouble.
Caleb grabs the remnants of your panties in both fists and pulls, and they give immediately. The cotton is already destroyed, and the last of it comes away with a sound of final surrender.
He drops it somewhere. He grabs the shredded ends of the costume pants, what’s left of them still clinging to your legs, and those go too, peeled down and discarded over the edge of the desk. You’re bare from the waist down in the ruins of this cheap costume uniform and the cool air of his room comes for your skin all at once.
Caleb doesn’t notice, or maybe he doesn’t care. He’s looking at you with the focused, slightly unhinged attention, and his cock is still hard and flushed and absolutely ready despite cumming all his kids all over you.
He picks his cock back up in his hand. Looks at you. And then he brings it down against your pussy in a single, deliberate slap.
The sound it makes is obscene. Wet and sharp and loud in the quiet room, and the splatter of everything already there — your slick, his cum, the accumulated evidence of the last twenty minutes — goes everywhere, and you jerk. Your thighs try to close and Caleb puts one hand flat on your inner thigh, open-palmed, holding you in place.
“Stay,” he says, like you’re a very beloved problem.
He does it again. The slap of his cock against your pussy, light and then firmer, and every impact sends a shock up through your hips. The wet sound of it fills the room and he is watching — watching it happen, watching the cream fly, watching the way your lips part and close around the impact, and his expression is so rapt and so unabashedly delighted that you almost laugh except that you’re too busy making sounds that aren’t laughter.
“Caleb—“
“Sir,” he corrects, absently, still watching what he’s doing with the focus of someone who finds it genuinely fascinating. “Or ma’am, I don’t care, pick one.”
“I’m not calling you ma’am,” you say, breathless.
“No, you’re the ma’am.” He looks up briefly. “You’re in uniform, Pips.” Then back down. “You’re technically outranking me right now.”
This is demented reasoning and you both know it. But it doesn’t matter because he’s moved on from slapping his dick on you to pressing his tip directly against your clit, circling it in slow, lazy strokes like he’s drawing something. His free hand has found your pussy lips, two fingers sliding along either side, pressing them together, releasing, pressing again, the wet sounds mortifying and you’re watching him do it with your mouth open because apparently your body has decided to spectate.
“Hi,” Caleb says to your pussy, conversationally. His fingers press your lips together again. They make a sound. “Yeah,” he says, nodding, like he’s hearing something only he can understand. “I know. Me too.”
“Are you talking to it—”
“Shh.” His tip presses down and rolls over your clit again and your sentence evaporates. “We’re having a moment.”
You are going to lose your mind.
In fact, you are already losing it.
You lost it approximately seventeen minutes ago and you’ve just been running on the fumes of it.
And Caleb is still working that slow deliberate circle with the head of his cock and squishing your lips between his fingers with the focus of a man who has found his calling.
“You’re so goddamn soft,” he says, and now his voice has dropped all the way down, into that register that does things to your ovaries.
“You know that? Every time I think about how — “ he presses down harder, rolls, and you make a sound that does things to his expression — “how fucking small you are—“ another stroke, the tip dragging slick — “I can’t even, Pips. I would fill you up to your throat, do you understand that? I’m not — I’m being serious right now—“
“Caleb—“
“Sir,” he says again, more firmly this time, though it’s undercut by the fact that he’s clearly struggling to form sentences himself.
His hips have started moving again with that roll, working himself against you, and the slick built between you is audible and continuous and bubbly. “I would split you in half, sweetheart, I would be so far in you—”
He cums.
It happens mid-sentence, which would be funny under other circumstances. His voice just stops, replaced by a rough broken sound, and he tilts forward and his cock kicks upward and he paints you with it. Long white stripes landing across your stomach and the open front of the costume jacket, soaking into the fabric and your skin alike. And he keeps stroking through it with his fist, milking every last drop out, watching it land.
The uniform is destroyed.
It is a complete loss.
There is no dry cleaner in the world that could help this uniform.
You don’t care. You reach out and grab his wrist.
“Again, sir,” you say, which is what he said earlier.
He looks at you. His chest is heaving. His hair is messed up, falling across his forehead. His pants are still at his knees, which looks ridiculous, but on Caleb it just looks like a man who didn’t have time for niceties.
He tries. He genuinely tries.
His hips shift forward, his hand moves, and then his whole body seems to make a decision. Caleb falls forward, catching himself on his forearms on the desk, and lowers his head until his forehead rests in the crook of your neck. His weight on you but managed, warm and enormous, his breath coming against your collarbone in deep, ragged pulls.
He doesn’t move.
The room is very quiet.
After a moment, Caleb says, in a muffled, genuine tone, “I think my soul just left my body, Pips.”
You stare at the ceiling. Your chest is heaving.
There is cum on the costume. There is cum on you.
Your pants are in pieces on the floor and you are sitting on his work papers and his face is in your neck and he has just, apparently, experienced some kind of astral event.
“Are you dead?”
“Yes.” A pause. “Don’t tell Gran.”
You bring your hand up — slowly, because everything is a little slow right now — and rest it on the back of his head.
His hair is soft. It’s always soft, stupidly soft, and he makes a low satisfied sound at the contact like a very large, very spent dog who has found his spot and has no plans to relocate.
“Don’t die yet,” you tell the ceiling.
Caleb laughs into your neck. It’s muffled and helpless and warm, and it shakes through his whole chest and into you, and you feel it everywhere.
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synopsis: Gojo Satoru could have anyone, but somehow he keeps coming back to you. One night at a party, one drink turned into two and he had you in his arms. After that night, you meant more than you should’ve to him. He says he loves you and says you’re his. But his pride and ego won’t let him have you properly. So you’re stuck somewhere in between wanted…but never chosen.
You told yourself you were done with Satoru Gojo. You promised Shoko you'd never speak to him again—so why?
Why were you on his bed, staring at the ceiling of his dorm, feeling completely spent?
You had convinced Shoko to attend the party Sukuna was hosting after Gojo hurt you for the millionth time. You swore you were moving on—at least, until you saw him at the party. One thing led to another and you ended up back here: in his bed, with him hovering over you, looking like he'd won the world.
Was it your fault? Maybe.
"Are you okay, love?"
That stupid nickname. You hated the way your heart fluttered despite everything. "Yeah, just tired.." you whispered, turning onto your side to meet those piercing blue eyes—the ones that haunted your dreams and your nightmares alike.
You loved them. You loved him. He met your gaze and offered that lopsided grin, the very one you'd fallen for in the first place.
"You can stay over," Gojo said, his voice a low drawl. "Geto's not coming back tonight."
"Isn't staying over what couples do?" The words slipped out before you could stop them. He looked at you, his gentle expression shifting into something unreadable. "You know I don't date, (name)."
You bit your lip, pulling away. It was always the same. Noticing the shift in the room, Gojo frowned. "Come on, pretty..don't be like that. You know I'm not into anything serious." He leaned closer, reaching out to touch your face.
You pulled back and sat up, scrambling off the bed. "Yeah, I get it. I can't stay over. Sorry."
Without waiting for a response, you grabbed your clothes and dressed in silence while Gojo lay there, watching you. His expression remained unreadable as you walked out the door.
He refused to acknowledge the sharp, unwanted pang in his chest as he watched you go.
You should have known better. He was Gojo Satoru. Everyone knew he didn't do relationships—so what made you think you were the exception?
.
.
.
"You promised." Shoko glared at you as you finished explaining the night's events. You kept your gaze fixed on the floor, ashamed of your own weakness. "I didn't mean to! I regret it. He's an ass. I promise you, I'm genuinely done with him this time."
Shoko looked at you, clearly unconvinced. "You said that literally two nights ago!"
"Well, it's not my fault! I thought he really loved me. I guess I was wrong. Maybe he thinks I'm ugly and only cares about the sex.." A frown deepened on your face—doubt, cold and heavy, beginning to settle in.
Shoko softened. She grabbed your shoulders, forcing you to meet her eyes. "Okay, listen to me. He's an ass. You are absolutely not ugly. Hell, I bet half the guys in this school want you! You just need to realize it."
A determined look crossed her face. "I'm going to prove it. We're going out tomorrow."
You looked at her, stunned. "Sho..I know you want to help, but how can I ever get over him? It's Gojo. There's literally no guy hotter."
You sighed, feeling the weight of the situation, but Shoko only grinned. Without a word, she grabbed her phone. "Are you calling someone?"
Shoko didn't answer. Her eyes lit up. "Choso! Hey, remember that party you're hosting tomorrow? I'll be there. And I'm bringing a friend, bring one too yeah?" She smiled as she hung up.
"What the hell are you doing?" you asked, confused. Shoko hated parties—you were usually had to drag her to them. "I'm showing you how to move on," she shrugged.
A small smile finally broke through your gloom. You were so lucky to have a friend who cared this much. "Thanks, Sho." You leaned in to hug her.
"Of course," she murmured, hugging you back.
"Tomorrow we'll get outfits, yeah?" she added.
Your eyes lit up. "Shopping? Hell yeah!"
"Shopping freak," Shoko rolled her eyes, though her smile widened. She was about to say more, but your phone buzzed, followed immediately by another. You reached over to check the notification, and Shoko peered over your shoulder.
Toru ♡ 11:54pm: "Hey, are u still awake?"
Toru ♡ 11:55pm: "Sorry for earlier. You know I didn't mean it, right, love?"
Your heart stuttered. Shoko groaned as she read the messages. "Nope. No way. He does not have the audacity!" She snatched the phone from your hand.
"Hey, wait, Sho! Let me respond first." Shoko narrowed her eyes. "No! He has you on a leash, literally. You're going to sleep now. Tomorrow? Class, then shopping. No Gojo."
She shut your phone off and set it aside. Your lips parted to protest, but she silenced you with a single, sharp glare. "Ugh, fine. Night, Sho." You moved to your side of the room, climbing into bed. "Night (name)."
As Shoko turned out the lights, you lay there in the dark, your mind racing. Is there anything you can do to make him want to date you? Does he really only care about the sex? Why are you never enough?
You bit your lip, squeezed your eyes shut and tried to force your thoughts into silence until sleep finally took you.
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.
.
"Satoru, what's gotten into you? You never go to Psychology class. Like, ever." Geto walked behind Gojo, who stopped just outside the lecture hall.
"It's time for a change, Suguru," he shrugged, stepping inside. Geto shot him a look before sighing and following his friend. Gojo's eyes immediately scanned the room, ignoring the professor entirely. They landed on your figure near the back, completely engrossed in your notebook. He grinned.
"Satoru and Suguru! This is the last time I will tolerate you two being late and interrupting my class!"
"Yeah, yeah, we're so sorry, Miss," Geto said with a wink. The professor's face flushed a deep red as she turned away, trying to hide her reaction.
Gojo made his way toward you, watching the moment your eyes met his. For a split second, he swore he saw a flicker of emotion in your expression before it turned cold and unreadable.
He slid into the empty seat beside you. "Hey, love. I texted you last night."
"I know."
He frowned at your attitude. "Uh, well..what are you doing later?"
"Why do you care?"
"I wanted to take you out. There's this party—" You looked up from your book and his heart skipped a beat. "Gojo, just don't. I'm going to another with someone else already."
Gojo's eyes darkened. Someone else? "Who?" he snapped before he could stop himself. "None of your business. Now, if you don't mind, I'm trying to pay attention."
You turned back to your book. Gojo kept his gaze fixed on your profile, shocked by the sharpness of your tone. A gloomy, bitter sensation coiled in the pit of his stomach. Did you really have a date? Was it someone who wasn't him? He gritted his teeth, refusing to call the feeling jealousy.
The bell rang, signaling the end of class.
"(name)..why are you being so bitchy?" he asked.
"What—you know what? Fuck you Satoru."
You packed your stuff and stormed off. He watched as you walked away without looking back. "Shit, she looks mad as hell," Geto noted, stepping up beside him.
"Shut up," Gojo muttered.
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.
.
"Sho, I felt so bad," you whined, sitting with her on the bleachers. You had just recounted the psychology class confrontation.
"Why would you feel bad?" Shoko asked, taking a bite of her sandwich.
"I was so rude to him! I was this close to cracking and apologizing." You showed her the tiny gap between your thumb and index finger.
Shoko rolled her eyes. "Oh, please! You don't think he talks to his friends about you like that? Besides, he didn't even apologize for his behavior last night."
You frowned, pouting. She was right. You shouldn't be pitying him. But you did.
"Uhm..well, I lied," you admitted quietly. "I told him I had a date to the party."
"It's not a lie. You have me," Shoko shrugged. You laughed, rolling your eyes as you leaned back. "Sure. Be my guest."
"Okay, seriously though," Shoko said, her expression turning serious. "I need to find you a real date."
.
.
.
The party was everything you expected and better. The music was heavy, the crowd was massive, and the bar? The bar was actually well-stocked. To be frank, this was a massive upgrade from Gojo's usual parties.
You sat on the couch, punch in hand, feeling a bit adrift. Shoko had abandoned you fifty minutes ago the second she spotted Geto. You sank deeper into the cushions. It was the definition of a "good time," so why were you so bored? Your mind kept drifting to Gojo, which annoyed you. Unsurprisingly, Gojo hadn't shown up at all—which is expected considering he hated Choso.
"You look lonely."
You looked up, your eyes meeting Toji's. He sat next to you, his massive frame making the couch cushions dip heavily. You've seen him a lot of times around campus but up close, he was even more intimidating—broad shoulders straining against a black compression shirt, a faint, jagged scar at the corner of his mouth and those sharp green eyes of his. In reality, he was hot—like really hot.
"Uh..yeah. A little," you admitted, swirling the punch in your cup. Toji leaned back, one arm draped lazily over the back of the couch behind you. He wasn't touching you, but the proximity felt deliberate. "Choso throws the best parties ever and you're over here lonely?"
You let out a laugh. "Fair enough."
"Name's Toji. You are (name) right?"
"Yeah."
"Ah. You're the one always running around with Shoko." You raised an eyebrow. "You've noticed me?"
Toji shrugged, taking a slow sip from his own drink. "I notice a lot of things. Especially when it's someone as beautiful as you who looks like she'd rather be anywhere but here."
You blushed at his compliment, a small smile taking place on your face. "Thank you."
Almost easily, you both fell into conversations quickly. You told him about the cycle you were stuck in with Satoru—for some reason, letting it out felt much better than expected. Toji listened without interrupting, just nodding occasionally, his expression never pitying you.
"Sounds like you've been dealing with a jerk," he says after you finished. "Guys like that are all the same. Think the world spins for them. They take until you've got nothing left to give."
You bit your lip. "Yeah..I guess so."
Toji's voice dropped, turning gravelly and serious. "Stop choosing him. It may not be it's easy, but staying stuck? That's worse."
You laughed softly. "You make it sound so easy."
"Cause it is," he replied with a lazy grin. "You just have to commit to it."
You guys spoke even more as he began talking about his own life. To your surpise, he did underground fighting matches to gain extra cash. Even more—you were surprised to find out you were actually enjoying listening about him.
"You're really easy to talk to," you said after a while, surprised by your own honesty. Toji chuckled at your words. "Don't tell anyone. I've got a nonchalant personality to maintain."
"Oh shut up." you smiled at him as the conversation continued. Eventually, the party started thinning out. Toji turned fully toward you, his green eyes locking onto yours. The teasing smirk softened into something more genuine.
"Look, I'm not gonna bullshit you. I like talking to you. You free this weekend? Let me take you out. A real date."
Your heart skipped a beat. Well he was certainly straight-forward. But for some reason, it felt different. Way different. You smiled, "Yeah..I think I'd like that a lot."
Toji pulled out his phone, his smirk returning. "Give me your number before you forget yeah?"
You both exchanged numbers the same time Shoko came back from wherever. You finally stood up to leave and he walked you and Shoko to the door, his hand resting lightly at your back.
"I'll text you later about the details," he said. "Don't make me wait, princess."
"Okay." You walked away with the biggest grin on your face. Shoko nudged your shoulder, a knowing finding her face. "Okay...that was smooth. And he's hot. Tell me everything!"
You laughed at her teasing, for the first time ever you realized, you had not once thought about Gojo. "Okay so..."
.
.
.
Unsurprisingly during the weekend, the news spread faster than expected.
Gojo was sprawled on the couch in his dorm, scrolling through his phone with one hand while Geto made coffee. Some guy had sent a message in the group chat earlier, casually mentioning how Choso's party went.
That's when Geto spoke. "Hey uh...your girl kinda hit it off with Toji at the party. Seemed really intense." Geto said casually. "Sho told me they were going on a date too..like..today."
Gojo froze mid-scroll. His usual grin dropped instantly. "Toji?" He let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "That walking fool? She's going on a date with him?"
Geto shrugged. "Sounds like it. They exchanged numbers and everything. Choso said Toji seemed actually interested, which is insane since he's usually never.
Gojo sat up, jaw tight. That same ugly feeling clawed at his stomach—heavier this time. He stood up abruptly, grabbing his jacket.
"Dude, where are you going?" Geto asked, already knowing the answer.
"To remind that asshole who she belongs to."
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.
.
Toji had just finished working out. He places the towel around his neck while checking his phone. A smile finding his face when he sees a text from you.
Princess 10:34am: hii:) I just got ready! Can't wait to see you.
Toji responds immediately, telling you he's sure you looked beautiful. Toji turns to leave when he sees Gojo walking towards him, Geto trailing behind looking worried.
"The fuck do you think you're doing?" Gojo snapped, stopping right in front of him.
Toji raised an eyebrow. "Leaving the gym? What does it look like Satoru?"
"You asked her out?" Gojo's voice was sharp, eyes flashing filled with rage. "You really trying to move in on what's mine?"
Toji's expression darkened as he realizes what this is about. Geto flashed Toji an apologetic smile.
Toji tossed the towel aside and crossed his arms, muscles flexing.
"Yours?" he laughed, low and mocking. "Last I checked, you told her you don't do relationships. Not only that—she's a person, not your damn toy."
Gojo stepped closer, chest bumping against Toji's. "Stay the fuck away from her Fushiguro."
"Guys, come on this is really silly—" Geto trails off helplessly.
"Yeah? Or what?" Toji smirked, tilting his head. "You gonna cry about it?"
That was the last straw.
Gojo swung first, punching Toji in the face. A surpised laugh slips from Toji, blood dripping down his nose.
"Oh, you wanna go down that path?" Toji growled.
He grabbed Gojo by the collar and shoved him hard, slamming him back against the brick wall of the gym. Gojo grunted but recovered quickly, driving his knee into Toji's side. They wrestled each other to the ground until Geto and a couple of other guys rushed in, pulling them apart before it got worse.
Toji wiped the blood from his lip, breathing heavily. "You're pathetic. She deserves better than some insecure little shit who only wants her when you want your dick wet."
Gojo glared at him, chest heaving. "This isn't over."
"Yeah? Tell that to her while she's on a date with me," Toji shot back with a smirk before walking out.
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.
.
You've been waiting for twenty minutes for Toji who seemed to forgot. You sipped on a cold drink and checked your phone to see if he sent any messages. The waitress had already come by twice, asking if you wanted to order anything while you waited—which you politely declined.
A small pit of disappointment was forming in your stomach as you wait. Just as you were about to stand up to leave you spot Toji.
Toji jogged up the sidewalk toward the café, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone. His lip was slightly swollen and there was a fresh cut near his cheekbone. His black shirt looked a little rumpled too. He spotted you immediately and his expression softened.
"Shit..sorry I'm late, princess,” he said as soon as he reached your table. He pulled out the chair across from you and sat down, leaning forward You stared at the cut on his face, frowning as you look at him. "Toji..what happened to you?"
He touched his split lip and gave a lazy smirk, like it was nothing. "Nothing important. Gojo didn't like hearing I asked you out."
Your eyes widened. "You fought Gojo?"
"He started it," Toji shrugged. " Don't worry about it, I'm here now yeah?"
"I'm sorry," he said again, more seriously this time. The sincerity in his green eyes made your chest feel warm. You smiled at him.
"It's okay, don't apologize. I'm just glad you came."
Toji's smirk returned, softer this time. "Good. I've been looking forward to this since Thursday."
He waved the waitress over and ordered for both of you. You guys spoke for almost 2 hours. It wasn't your fault really, who wouldn't wanna talk to Toji?
He was straightforward and really funny. He teased you when you got shy, made jokes about campus life and actually listened when you opened up about stuff. You laughed more than you had in..forever with him. He had this thing about him that made you feel safe.
At one point, he leaned back in his chair, watching you with half-lidded eyes. "You've got a really pretty smile, you know that?" he said casually.
"Smile more often it suits you." Your face heated up at his words, feeling like a teenage girl all over again. Toji chuckled at your reaction, loving how easy it was to get you flustered.
After your date he took your hand leading you outside. "C'mon. I wanna show you something before I take you back."
You raised an eyebrow as you followed him outside. "Where are we going?"
"You'll see."
He led you back towards the older part of town—a place you normally heard criminal stories about. You got closer to him out of instincts as the streets got narrower, the buildings more run-down. "You're not killing me right?"
Toji laughed at your words. "Nah. You're too pretty for that."
Eventually, he stopped in front of an old abandoned warehouse with a faded metal door. He turned to look at you. "This is where I fight sometimes, the underground ground ring I told you about? I want you to show you..if you wanna of course."
Your felt your heart beat a little faster. He took you to his scared place? You nodded with a grin. "Are you kidding? Of course I wanna see!"
Toji's lips twitched into a smile. "Good. Stay close."
He squeezed your hand and led you inside. The air was thick with sweat, smoke and loud music. A large makeshift ring sat in the center under harsh lights. People were shouting, money was exchanging hands and two fighters were already going at it in the ring. Toji kept you close to his side, one arm protectively around your shoulders as he guided you through the crowd. Your eyes widened in amazement as you scanned the area around you.
A few guys nodded at Toji in respect. One older guy with a scarred face grinned when he saw him. "Toji! You fighting tonight or what?"
He found a slightly elevated spot near the back where you could see clearly but safe enough from the chaos. The fight in the ring was chaotic—the crowd even worse. You watched with wide eyes as Toji leaned down, lips close to your ear so you could hear him over the noise. "This is how I let everything out," he said. "You scared yet, princess?"
You looked up at him. The colorful lights from the ring reflected in his eyes. He looked rough and masculine in the most delicious way possible standing there. He stared at you in such a way, you felt butterflies in your stomach.
"Nope." He grinned at your answer. "Good."
After the fight ended, Toji decided not to stay long, especially with you there. He said his goodbyes to some people and led you back outside. Once you were outside, he stopped and turned to you, brushing a strand of hair from your face.
"Was it too much?" he asked, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.
You shook your head. "No..I think it's pretty cool actually."
Toji's expression softened at your words. He loved that you were honest and didn't judge him for the person he is. He leaned down and kissed your forehead.
"Alright princess. Let's get you back to your dorm."
He walked you all the way back, hand in yours the entire time. When you reached your building, he stood infront of you. "Next Saturday. I have a match, do you wanna come?"
You looked up at him, biting your lip to hide your smile. "Yeah. I'll be free."
As you turn to enter your dorml, he caught your wrist. "Hey, I really enjoyed today."
A warm feeling spreads through your chest as you hear those words. As you looked at him, the biggest smile finds your face. "Me too. Thank you."
"Of course princess."
Toji waited until you were inside before finally leaving. As you enter, still smiling you were greeted with your best friend's gaze.
"Oh my god! You guys went on a date (name)! It's getting serious?" Shoko questions excitement clear in her voice. Your smile only gets wider.
"I'm not sure..I mean he invited me to his fighting match next Saturday."
"Girl? Are you serious? Toji never, and I mean never invited a girl there before—Choso told me all about it."
"Are you joking?"
"Uh..no!?"
You stared at Shoko, completely surpised. Learning this new fact about Toji made your heart flutter. You were the first girl he invited to watch his match? "See, I told you, getting over Gojo would be easy."
Right Gojo. He hadn't ran through your mind the entire time you were with Toji, nor the previous day. The mention of him now was the first time you ever actually thought about him. "Oh right. He got into a fight with Toji, can you believe that?"
Shoko laughed in disbelief, looking surpised. "No way? Tell me everything!"
.
.
.
A few days later you were lounging on the couch. Shoko had gone to visit family for a few days and Toji had been a bit busy. Just then, your phone buzzed. Picking it up you frowned at the message you saw.
Toru ♡: Hey love. I've been thinking about you. Come over? Just a movie night at my dorm. I miss you. Please?
You stared at the message for a long time. A part of you knew this was a bad idea—especially now that Toji was in your life, but the familiar ache in your chest won. Gojo had always been your weakness—even if you hated it.
You: Okay. Just a movie though.
Toru ♡: That's all I want. Door's open for you <3
When you got to his dorm, Gojo opened the door with that bright, charming smile—the one that always made your heart flutter even when it shouldn't, except this time there was nothing there. Not a spark or flutter. "See? Told you it'd be chill," he says, closing the door behind you.
"Whatever..let's just watch the movie."
"Sure, love."
For the first minutes of the movie, it was actually nice. You enjoyed the movie and Gojo kept his hands to himself. Was he finally changing?
However, just as you begin to think he had gotten better, his hand slid onto your thigh, squeezing lightly. Then it got higher. He leaned in, lips brushing your neck as he murmured, "You look so good love..I miss having you in my bed."
"Satoru.." you shift away, pushing his hand away. "I just wanna watch the movie."
Satoru however got bolder. He pulled you closer, hand slipping under your shirt, fingers tracing your waist as he kissed along your jaw. "The movie's boring anyway. Let me make you feel good. You know I can."
His touch grew more insistent—palm sliding up to your breasts, lips pressing harder against your skin. You felt yourself melting in his touch as guided you to lie back on the bed, hovering over you with that cocky little smirk.
"I missed this body," he whispered, voice husky as his hand moved lower. "Missed how you sound when I—"
You pushed against his chest. "Satoru stop."
He paused, but his eyes were dark with want. "You came over here wearing that..you knew what this was. Don't act like you don't want it too."
You frowned at his words. Usually, his boldness would really get you going but for some reason, all you could think about is how wrong it is. You had Toji, even though you weren't dating..it's Toji.
You sat up, pulling your shirt back down. "I came to watch a movie, not have sex with you. I'm trying to move on, Satoru."
Gojo sat back, running a hand through his hair. His expression twisted from frustration to something meaner. "Move on? With Toji?"
He laughed bitterly. "That's cute. Real cute. You really think he's gonna stick around for you? Some clingy bitch desperate for love and attention?"
Your breath caught. He'd never gone this low before. You and Gojo had your fair share of arguments but it never once got personal. He doesn't stop, instead he kept going, his voice getting meaner.
"You're so fucking attached, (name). Your dad dies and suddenly you need everyone to fill that void? That's why you keep coming back to me. Because I give you just enough to feel wanted, Toji can't give you that?"
Tears burned your eyes and your chest tightened painfully at his words. Years of pain you struggled so hard to bury began resurfacing.
"And be real with me," he continued, "Toji wouldn't want an insecure girl like you, always asking if you're good enough. Maybe that's why you spread your legs so easily—it's the only thing guys actually like about you.”
The words hit like knives. You raised your hand, slapping him across the face. "You're an asshole Satoru. Fuck you."
You stood up fast, grabbing your jacket with shaking hands. You slammed the door behind you, tears streaming down your face as you practically ran back to your dorm. The walk felt endless. Every cruel word replayed in your head on loop. Were you really only good for sex?
As you reached your dorm, you were a mess. You collapsed on your bed in tears. For years you've struggled with your body and father's death and he knew that—hell he comforted you. To have it used as a weapon by the same person who comforted you broke you even futher. You end up falling asleep from crying for so long.
Gojo on the other hand couldn't handle you leaving him properly. He sat on the floor of his room, surrounded by empty cans and a half-empty bottle of vodka. The argument played on repeat in his head—the way you looked at him before you left. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw you with Toji. Every time he did, he drank more. Gojo had never gotten this bad before. He loved you. Of course he loved you, you were the best thing in his life but he just couldn't do it.
"Fuck this," he muttered, taking another long swig. The alcohol burned, but it numbed the ugly knot in his chest. A few hours passed and he had drank at least 4 bottles of alcohol. His hurt twisted into rage—hot white rage.
He opened his phone, having only one thought in mind. If he couldn't keep you to himself, he'd ruin you for everyone else. He started with texts in group chats—the ones that included half the campus.
Satoru: You all think (name) so sweet and innocent right? Lol she's a whore and has been riding my dick for months and still begging for more like a desperate bitch.
Satoru: Dead dad and she still needs someone to fuck the sadness out of her every night.
Satoru: Dumb bitch went on to Toji next thinking he'll pity her too.
He went into the hidden folders on his phone, finding photos you had sent him months ago. Half-naked selfies. One in just his shirt, another in lingerie you'd bought just for him and aa few more photos where you were topless or completely naked.
For a moment he paused, he wondered if he would be going too far but the thought in head kept saying: "She sends all of these to Toji. You're not special to her anymore, pathetic."
In his drunken haze, he doesn't hesitate.
He posted everything onto his story. Gojo laughed bitterly as he hit send, then passed out on the floor, phone still in his hand.
By morning, it had spread like wildfire.
The screenshots were everywhere. Group chats, Instagram stories, Twitter—someone had even saved the photos and posted them on a campus confession page with your name attached.
Each comment underneath the posts were brutal and mocking. Your phone was blowing up—waking you in a confused haze.
You checked your phone to see dozens of notifications. Unknown numbers sending the photos. You frowned as you opened one message. There you were, an unknown number sent you a picture of your naked body. The caption underneath it saying: "Are you that easy? If I tell you you're cute will you let me fuck lol."
Your heart dropped. You felt sick as you checked the groups you were in, photos and messages of you filling each groupchat.
Their words were even worse than the photos. You saw Gojo's story, each one another exposed photo of you. You ran to the bathroom, feeling sick, everything you ate from the previous day found it's way back up.
You were a mess, you sat against the bathroom wall after throwing up, crying and shaking at the horror. Years of built up confidence, acceptance and self-worth came crashing down as you sat there. The dark thoughts you hoped to once gotten rid of found its way back once more as you began drowning in hate.
Now you knew for sure, all your chances with love..or with Toji were ruined. He would never want a girl like you, not anymore. You were all alone.
Shoko was still gone for the day. You had no one left by your side as the dark thoughts began taking a hold of you.
.
.
.
Toji was in the middle of his class when his phone started blowing up. First it was Choso, then a couple other guys he was acquainted with. Toji got annoyed by the notifications and finally checked them. Opening Choso's chat, he expects to see something dumb, but instead what he saw made his blood run cold.
There you were, a half-naked picture of you being plastered everywhere with disgusting captions. Toji's grip on his phone tightened until the screen nearly cracked. He saw red. There was only one person he knew would do this.
"That fucking piece of shit..."
Without a second thought, he got up and left the class. Ignoring the professor who repeatedly called his name. He found himself at the Psychology lecture hall where he knew Gojo had class that morning. The professor was mid-sentence when he slammed the door open.
Toji's eyes immediately found Gojo sitting near the back, looking like complete shit. "Sir you can't just—"
Toji ignores the professor, "Gojo." Toji's voice was low and filled with rage as he marched down the aisle. "Get the fuck up."
Gojo smirked at first, but it faltered when he saw the pure rage on Toji’s face. "The hell do you want?"
Toji grabbed Gojo by the collar and yanked him out of his seat, slamming him against the desk hard enough for the wood to creak. "The hell I want?"
"You leaked her nudes. You posted her fucking body and mocked her dead dad? After everything you already did to her? You pathetic fucking parasite."
Gojo tried to shove him off, but Toji's grip was strong. Gojo laughed, his breath smelling like alcohol. "Whatever. Why do you care? You just want to fuck her too—"
Toji's fist crashed into Gojo'a face with a sickening crack. Gojo's head snapped back. Blinded by rage, Toji punched him over and over, despite the screams of the others.
"Who the fuck do you think you are?" Toji sneered. "She trusted you, you worthless piece of shit!"
Gojo tried to fight back, landing a couple weak hits, but he was no match for Toji, especially not in his drunken state. Geto and a few others finally rushed in and pulled Toji off, but it was already too late. Gojo was slumped against the desk, his face as bloody mess.
"If I see you near her again Satoru I'll kill you."
Then he stormed out, pushing past the security with only one thought in mind.
You.
He arrived at your dorm within a few minutes, not bothering to knock. He opens the door, calling out your name. He frowns when he got no response.
He heads towards your bedroom when he sees the bathroom door slightly open. He paused, opening it wider and stepping in. Toji froze for half a second when he saw you on the floor with the blade. "What the...?"
In an instant he was on his knees in front of you, taking the blade from your hand and tossing it across the room. He looks down at your wrists, faint marks already there from earlier pressure.
"Fuck—hey, look at me princess," he said, voice cracking as he cupped your face with both hands. "I'm here. I've got you..it's okay. You'll be okay."
He pulled you into a hug, gently whispering words of comfort to you. You began crying the moment he hugged you. Your body shook as he gently strokes your hair. He didn't leave.
He came for you.
"I saw what he did." he whispered against your hair. "I dealt with it. But princess, I need you here...Shoko needs you here, we all do okay?
Toji stayed there with you on the bathroom floor as you cried your heart out, thanking him for not leaving too.
"I'd never do that princess. What kind of man would I be?"
.
.
.
Shoko came back the exact day she received the messages. She stayed by your side every single day, slept next to you, sat on the toilet while you showered—even took notes for you.
It has officially been two weeks since Gojo leaked everything for you. Even with Shoko and Toji there, the first few days were the hardest for you. You barely ate or slept. Every time you closed your eyes, it felt like you were reliving the day all over again.
Thankfully, you weren't alone—ever. Choso showed up with snacks one day when Toji had to take care of an issue. He sat with you and watched whatever you wanted to. Once it helped to distract your mind from those hateful thoughts.
Geto's first visit surpised you. Afterall, he was Gojo's best friend. He apologized on Gojo's behalf and helped with whatever you needed.
Your biggest supporter however was Toji. Toji was there every single day—well almost. He never pushed you to talk unless you wanted to. He stayed by your side throughout it all, he even managed to get every single picture of you taken off the internet—of course he doesn't tell you how. It didn't matter. The fact he was there for you and did that was enough.
For the first time sinfe then, you were outside sitting in the park with them.
Shoko and Geto sat next to each other, debating which was the better lover. Choso sat across from you, sharing a bag of chips with Yuki who tagged along and Toji sat right behind you, his legs stretched out so you could lean back against his chest.
You felt at ease. You were eating regularly again. The dark thoughts had subsided once more and you did therapy twice a week (thanks to Shoko).
"You know," Shoko began, looking at you, "you're glowing (name). I'm so proud of you."
You smiled at her words. "I couldn't have done it without you guys. Seriously, I'm beyond grateful."
Choso shrugged with a small grin. "We got you, especially now that you're Toji's girl." He winks.
Toji's arms tightened around your waist from behind at Choso's words. Although neither of you had confessed yet, everyone knew there was something there—it was painfully obvious. Ignoring Choso's words he looked down at you.
"You're strong princess, don't ever forget that."
You leaned your head back against his shoulder, feeling safe in his warmth. "Thank you."
You excused yourself for a moment, wanting to take a small walk. You headed towards the lake, watching in awe at the swans you saw. That's when you saw him.
Gojo was seated on a bench near the lake, a spot you both used to meet. He looked horrible. You headed towards him, sitting next to him.
"You got my message, I'm glad. Can we talk?"
You hesitated for a moment. "Okay."
Gojo stared at his hands for a while before speaking. "I fucked up," he started, voice cracking. "I know that's not enough..of course it isn't but I need you to hear this."
"What I did to you, leaking those photos, saying all that shit about your dad, your body...it's unforgivable. I was drunk and hurt and jealous, which isn't an excuse, especially knowing I violated your trust."
He looks up at you, tears in his eyes. You kept silent. He surpised you. When he texted earlier wanting to meet, you expected something really bad. Not tears and sincerity. "I was scared. You were actually moving on with Toji and I was losing the one person I truly love and I didn't know what to do. I never deserved you. You gave me everything and I took advantage of that because I'm a coward. I'm so fucking sorry (name). I really am, for everything."
Silence stretched between you. You stared at him, not knowing what to say to him. He loves you. A month ago, hearing those words would have been the best thing that happened in your life. But now, it's not. It could never be.
"I hated you for a while," you whispered. "When everyone saw everything about me, those hateful comments..I really wanted to die. I almost did too."
Gojo's eyes widened at your words. You wanted to die? Because of him? His heart sank as he listened to you.
"But I'm better now," you continued. "Thanks to Shoko, Choso, Geto and Toji. Toji especially. I really do love him Satoru, he makes me feel seen..cherished..everything you haven't."
You took a deep breath before standing. "I forgive you, Satoru."
His head snapped up, eyes wide with surprise. Tears streamed down his face at your words. He lost you completely.
"Thank you." he whispered, voice breaking as he stood. You smiled at him. "Well, I need to get back, take care Satoru."
"You too (name), he smiled sadly. "You deserve the world, I'm sorry I couldn't give you that. I hope Toji can."
"He does." You tell him honestly. "And it's time for him to know how I feel."
.
.
.
Shoko decided to stay the night at Geto's. Toji didn't want to leave you alone and decided to stay with you. You two had been watching a movie on your laptop, but Toji couldn't pay attention. He tried—he really did.
But you were curled up against his chest on your bed, his arm wrapped around you. He couldn't pay attention, all he could think about was the fact he loved you. He knew he did since the moment he met you—but now? You needed to know that.
He paused the movie and closed the laptop. He shifted so he could look at you properly. "Hey..come closer," he murmured, pulling you closer until you were straddling his lap. His big hands settled on your waist, thumbs gently rubbing circles over your shirt. Your hands rest on his shoulders instinctively as you stare at him. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong," he said quietly. "That's the thing, princess."
"These past few weeks..seeing you hurt, almost losing you, it fucked me up a lot," he admitted, voice
filled with sincerity. "I've never cared about someone this much before. I thought I was just looking out for you at first, but it's more than that."
His hands tightened slightly on your waist as he meets your eyes. "I love you, (name). I love how strong you are even when don't know it, I love how beautiful and honest you are, I love how you're just you. I'm not good with this romantic shit, but I want you."
Your eyes filled with tears at his words. Your heart felt so full you worried for a moment it could possibly explode. This was the best thing you've ever dreamt of.
"I love you too," you whispered, voice trembling. "I love you so much. You stayed when I was at my lowest. You saw all my mess—yet you still stayed, made me feel safe again.."
Toji gently wiped away your tears, being so gentle with you. "I'd never leave you princess. You're too good to me."
He pulled you into a kiss. It started slow and tender but the longer it went, the more hungrier Toji got. His hands slid under your shirt, caressing your skin like he was memorizing every inch. You tugged at his shirt and he helped you pull it off, revealing his toned, scarred torso. You ran your hands over his chest as he kissed down your neck, gasping in pleasure.
"Do you want this, princess?" he asks against your skin, making sure you're comfortable before he goes any futher.
"Yes," you whimpered. "I want you."
Toji was patient with you. He kissed every part of you—worshipped every inch with his mouth and hands. Both of you were soon stripped naked by each other, completely lost in passion.
"You're so beautiful," he growled softly between kisses. "Every fucking part of you."
He finally pushed into you, it was slow and gentle, making sure you could adjust to him before moving further. You moaned, gripping his shoulders as he filled you completely. Toji buried his face in your neck, groaning your name, pleasure filling him at your tightness.
"M-move..please, I need you." You begged desperately, your cunt gushing around him. The rhythm Toji chose was gentle, but he quickly grew impatient, his thrusts becoming meaner. His hips rolled against yours, hitting every spot that made you moan. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
"Fuck—I love you," he whispered again, voice strained as he thrusts into you, his tip hitting your cervix each time. "I love you so much."
"I—hah—love you too!" You cried out as pleasure built, tears of overwhelming emotion mixing with the sensation. Toji held you through it all—praising you for taking him so well. His fingers found your clit, rubbing in circles to drive you crazy. You came first, clenching around him with a broken cry, your back arches as he continues to fuck you through your orgasm. He doesn't last long however, following right after, burying himself deep and groaning as he cums inside you.
Toji stayed on top of you, holding you as you both caught your breath. His fingers stroked through your hair gently as he slowly pulls out, admiring the mess you both made.
satoru gojo, captain of his hockey team has been benched for his grades. looks like he needs a tutor...
photos are not mine, found on pinterest, credits to @ kynlv
STARRING: college au hockeyplayer!gojo x nerd f!reader
CW: gojo is very cocky, conceited, lowkey an asshole + a playboy in the beginning, he lowkey has ADHD, SLOW BURN, LOTS of plot, lots of time skips, kind of forced proximity, light enemies to lovers, opposites attract, banter, jealousy, some sexual tension (?), eventual smut, dry humping, premature ejaculation, creampies, happy ending
WC: 14.9k (sorry)
a note from j.... good lord. i have been working on this fic for over a month and have not wrote something this long in forever. i've loved it, hated it and now it is my baby so please be kind to it. i tried really hard to make the slow burn not too rushed and did my best to make the hockey aspect accurate. big shoutout to @luvinbloom for giving me all the tips and tricks with hockey and thank you thank you thank you @gardenialily for literally always being my rock—bouncing ideas, listening to my voice notes, and reading and commenting on my drafts. i literally can't do it without you. proofread as much as i could. love you all x
Satoru Gojo is good at everything.
On the ice, he's a star. The fastest skater on the team. Hardest player to get around. The captain's patch sits on his jersey for a reason, and a few trips to the penalty box means absolutely nothing to the career waiting for him after college.
Women aren't much different.
A lazy wink tossed towards the stands is usually enough. By the end of the game, lipstick stains decorate the plexiglass, phone numbers find their way into his pockets, and invitations fall in the form of bodies in his lap. If he wants attention, he gets it. If he wants company, he never has to look far.
Personable, outgoing, rich—people either want to be him or be around him.
Life has a habit of always working out for Satoru Gojo.
Seriously, it couldn't get any better than that.
"You're benched."
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.
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."
𝓲𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗰𝗵 ♰ you're so feverishly, impossibly hot that nanami, your husband, is losing his mind, trembling and rambling as he completely falls apart inside you.
✿ ◞◟) nanami kento 𝓍 female!reader
𝓬𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 18+ [ MDNI! ], explicit sexual content, established relationship, husband!nanami, unprotected sex (p in v), lots of kisses, praise & sweet talking, reader has a fever and nanami is losing his mind (fever-induced heat kink undertones), crying during orgasm, creampie, nanami is deeply in love.
nanami kento has always been a man of control.
he's precise in the kitchen, methodical with his huge hands, patient in the way he loves you — slow and thorough and devastatingly intentional. even in bed, even when he's buried so deep inside you that you completely forget where you end and he begins, there's a restraint to him; a gentleness, as if nanami is always holding back just enough to make sure you're okay, to make sure you're with him, to make sure he doesn't break you by accident.
but tonight is different.
tonight, you're burning up.
it started this morning — a little fatigue, a little flush in your cheeks that nanami kissed anyway before heading to work. by the time he came home, you were curled on the couch with a blanket and glassy eyes, the thermometer reading 102.3 and your smile still bright enough to make nanami’s chest ache. he'd made you soup, forced water into your hands, tucked you into bed with extra pillows and a cool cloth for your forehead.
the perfect husband, as always, all quiet concern and warm palms against your skin.
but then you'd pulled him down by the collar of his shirt, fever-bright and insistent, and whispered "kento, please" against his mouth, and something in him cracked.
nanami tried to be reasonable. he tried to tell you that you needed rest, that you were sick, that this could wait, but you'd just shaken your head and hooked your leg around his hip, and the sound you made when he'd accidentally pressed against you — half groan, half whimper, all desperate need — had shot straight to his dick like a live wire.
so now here he is.
here he is, kneeling between your thighs on the rumpled sheets of your shared bed, the soft glow of the bedside lamp painting everything in shades of gold and amber. here he is, watching you completely fall apart beneath him, your skin flushed an impossible pink, your lips parted and wet and whispering his name like a prayer.
and here he is, losing his goddamn mind.
because you're hot. not just in the way you always are — the way that made him fall in love with you in the first place, the way that still makes his breath catch when you smile at him across the dinner table — but actually, physically hot. like a furnace, like sin wrapped in skin and slick heat and the kind of wet that has him groaning before he's even all the way inside.
nanami sinks into you slow — he always does, because well… he's nanami kento and he believes in savoring things, in making them last — but the moment the head of his cock pushes past your entrance, he freezes.
"f-fuck," nanami breathes, and his voice cracks on the word, splinters right down the middle.
you're so warm.
you’re so impossibly, unbearably warm; it's like slipping into a bath that's just this side of too hot, the kind of heat that steals your breath and makes your muscles go liquid. your walls flutter around him, clenching and pulsing like you're trying to pull him deeper, and he has to brace one hand against the headboard just to keep from collapsing on top of you.
"kento?" your voice is soft, hazy, your eyes half-lidded and glassy in a way that has nothing to do with the fever and everything to do with him. "you okay?"
nanami laughs — it was a short, broken sound that's half sob, half something else entirely.
"am i okay?" he repeats, like you've asked him the most ridiculous question in the world. "sweetheart, you're—"
his hips twitch, an involuntary little thrust that sinks him another inch deeper, and the sound you make is so sweet, so wrecked, that he has to close his eyes.
"you're so hot. inside. it's—god, it's like—"
nanami can't even finish the sentence, he doesn't have the words for what it feels like. the heat is radiating through him, climbing up his spine, settling low in his belly like embers catching flame. every single nerve ending is on fire, every muscle pulled taut, and he hasn't even started moving yet.
you shift beneath him, trying to take more of him, and your hand comes up to cup nanami’s jaw, your thumb brushing over his cheekbone. your skin is warm too — not as searing as the rest of you, but warm enough to make him lean into your touch like the tide answering the moon.
"then move," you say, simple as anything else, like you haven't just turned nanami’s entire world inside out. "kento, please. i want you to move."
he's never been able to deny you anything, so he moves.
slow at first — because nanami is trying, he's really trying, to keep some semblance of control. he pulls out until only the tip of his cock remains, then pushes back in with a steady, rolling movement that has you arching off the bed, your nails digging into his shoulders. the wet sounds are obscene, amplified by the quiet of the room, and every single one of them makes his stomach clench with want.
but it's the heat that undoes nanami.
every single thrust feels like coming home and getting burned at the same damn time.
your body is so hot inside, so slick and welcoming and tight, and nanami can feel the fever radiating off you in hot waves; it's in the way your breath stutters against his neck, in the way your legs shake where they're wrapped around his waist, in the way your pulse flutters wildly against his lips when he leans down to kiss your throat.
"you feel—" he gasps, and his hips stutter, rhythm faltering. "you feel incredible. i can't—fuck, sweetheart, i can't think."
and nanami can't.
his brain has completely short-circuited, reduced to nothing but static and sensation. every logical thought has been burned away by the heat of you, replaced by something primal and desperate and almost frightening in its intensity. he wants to be gentle. he wants to take his time, to worship you the way you deserve, to show you just how much he loves you with every careful, deliberate movement.
but his body has other plans.
nanami’s hips are moving faster now, snapping against yours with a rhythm that's more urgent than he intended. the headboard knocks against the wall in a steady, rhythmic beat, and nanami knows he should care about that — nanami knows the neighbors will probably hear, nanami knows he'll be embarrassed about it tomorrow — but right now he can't bring himself to give a single shit.
not when you're making those sounds.
soft little gasps and moans that pitch higher every time he bottoms out, your head thrown back against the pillow, your throat bared and vulnerable and so beautiful it makes his chest hurt. your hands are everywhere — tangled in nanami’s hair, scraping down nanami’s back, gripping nanami’s hips like you're trying to fuse yourself to him.
"k-kento," you whimper, and it's broken, shattered, the kind of sound that goes straight to nanami’s dick and makes him see stars. "kento, don't stop. p-please don't stop."
"not stopping," he grits out, and his voice is ragged, wrecked, nothing like the composed, collected man he usually is. "never stopping. not when you feel—fuck, not when you're this—"
nanami loses his words again, and he buries his face in the curve of your neck instead, breathing you in. you smell like sweat and illness and something uniquely, achingly you, and he wants to live in this moment forever. he wants to drown in the heat of you, in the tight grip of your body, in the way you moan his name like it's the only word you remember.
you're clenching around him — tighter now, your orgasm building, and he can feel it in the way your thighs tremble, in the way your nails dig crescents into his back. but more than that, he can feel the fever; the heat that seems to intensify with every thrust, radiating from your core and soaking into his skin, making him sweat, making him need.
"sweetheart," nanami gasps, and his voice breaks on the word, splinters into something raw and desperate. "i'm—i'm not going to last. you're too hot. you're so hot, i can't—"
you turn your head, catch his mouth in a kiss that's all teeth and tongue and clumsy urgency. it's not graceful — nothing about this is graceful — but it's real, it's you, and he groans into your mouth like a man dying of thirst.
"then don't," you whisper against his lips, and your voice is thick with fever and want and something softer, something sweeter. "don't last. i want to feel you. want you to—ah—want you to cum inside me. please, kento. want to feel you."
nanami going to die.
he's actually going to die, right here, inside his wife, and he's going to die happy.
his hips snap forward harder, faster, every single ounce of control he had evaporating like water on hot pavement. he's gripping your thigh with one huge hand, holding you open for him, and the other is fisted in the sheets beside your head, knuckles white. nanami’s whole body is trembling — from the effort, from the pleasure, from the sheer overwhelming muchness of feeling you like this.
"you're everything," nanami hears himself say, and his voice sounds so strange, so distant, like it's coming from someone else. "you're everything to me. fuck, sweetheart, i love you. i love you so much. i love—"
he's rambling now, words spilling out of him unchecked, and he simple can't stop, he doesn't want to stop.
you're so hot, so wet, so perfect, and every time he pushes inside you, he swears he can feel your heartbeat, he can feel the fever thrumming through your veins, he can feel the way your body clings to him like it never wants to let go.
your orgasm hits you without warning — nanami feels it in the way you gasp loudly, in the way your back entirely bows off the bed, in the way your nails rake down his spine hard enough to sting. but mostly nanami feels it in the way you clench around him, a vise of slick, searing heat that pulses and flutters and tries to completely milk him dry.
"oh god," you sob, and there are tears on your cheeks — from the pleasure, from the fever, from the sheer overwhelming intensity of it all. "kento, oh god, oh god—"
nanami watches you fall apart beneath him, and it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
your eyes are squeezed shut, your mouth open in a silent scream, your whole body shuddering through wave after wave of pleasure. and through it all, you're so hot, so impossibly, devastatingly hot, and nanami can feel your orgasm like it's his own, nanami can feel it in the way your walls massage his desperate cock, nanami can feel it in the way his name falls from your lips like a benediction.
he follows right after.
there's no warning, no buildup — just a sudden, violent crest of pleasure that crashes over him and drags him under. he buries himself as deep as he can go, hips flush against yours, and spills inside you with a groan that's almost a sob. the heat of you surrounds him, consumes him, and for one perfect, eternal moment, there's nothing else in the universe.
just you.
just him.
just the two of you, unreservedly tangled together in the sweaty sheets, trembling and gasping and so full of love it might actually kill him.
nanami collapses on top of you — careful, always careful, one arm bracing his weight so he doesn't crush you — and presses his forehead to yours. your skin is still warm, still flushed with fever, but there's a softness in your eyes now, a drowsy contentment that makes his heart stutter in his chest.
"that was—" you start, but your voice is hoarse, faded, and you have to clear your throat before trying again. "that was not how i expected tonight to go."
he laughs, breathless and a little unsteady, and presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth.
"you're sick," he says, like it's just now occurring to him. "you have a fever. i shouldn't have—we shouldn't have—"
"kento." you cut him off with a hand on his cheek, turning his face so he has to look at you fully. "i wanted to. i want to. always want to, with you."
he closes his eyes, lets out a shaky breath, and when he opens them again, there's something soft and wondering in his gaze.
"you're going to be the death of me," he murmurs, but it sounds like a declaration of love.
you smile — that bright, brilliant smile that made nanami fall in love with you in the first place — and pull him down for a kiss that's slow and sweet and tastes like forever.
"good," you whisper against his lips. "then you'll die happy."
nanami laughs again, real this time, and gathers you into his arms. you're still too warm, still sick, still in need of soup and water and cool cloths and rest, but right now, in this moment, none of that matters.
right now, you're both exactly where you're supposed to be.
Hi everyone!! This is a fic I came up with off a whim LOL Actually my first time ever writing fan fiction, but I had to go out for Zaynie. I hope you enjoy!! 🩵
~mdni 🔞~
Tags: Zayne x reader, established relationship, body worship, self conscious reader, praise kink, inappropriate use of evol (just a tad), breeding kink if you squint, fluffy, smut, oral sex, p in v sex, cream pie CMON NOW
Synopsis: After following Dr. Zayne’s orders, you wanted a reward for your good behavior. Little did you know the reward he had in mind far exceeded what you expected. Luckily, your loving doctor knows just how to treat you when you get in over your head.
(p.s. there are a few song suggestions during the smut scene for the full immersion, but not required)
12,898 words
~~
It was Friday morning when you hopped out of bed, just as chipper as ever. Today was your check up appointment with your Zaynie, or “Dr. Zayne” when you’re in the hospital. Zayne has been your doctor for years, he’s the best there is when it comes to the heart. Unfortunately, your monthly check up appointments usually consist of a gentle scolding as 90% of the time you come battered and bruised from fighting wanderers. You were good at your job, truly, but mainly because you were never afraid to put yourself in danger for the sake of the mission. Sometimes you would go against standard protocol, resulting in more battle wounds than necessary. This, of course, made your loving doctor have to be more strict with you. You knew his lectures came from a place of concern. He loved you, unconditionally, and would never want to see you in any harm, but these injuries usually put more stress on your heart, which was already fairly unstable from the protocore syndrome. You knew all this, but still it never eases the twing of pain you get from seeing him disappointed.
This morning would be different. All month you have been on your P’s and Q’s, following protocol to a T when it comes to missions. For the most part, you would always be reluctant — or “stubborn” as Zayne would put it — about following doctor’s orders. He just didn’t understand that this was the way you’ve always done things, more careless than necessary; however, this time, you really wanted to please him. Rushing to get ready to see your favorite doctor felt less dreadful this time. Of course not because you didnt want to see Zayne, but because you knew with your appointments would come lectures. Today will be different you thought while doing your finishing touches and heading out the door.
~
Walking into Akso hospital, Yvonne immediately noticed the change in your mood from how you typically enter each month. “Good morning, Y/n, you seem to be in a good mood” the lovely receptionist chirped when you approached the front desk. You greeted her with a bright smile, “Hi Yvonne! I’m here for my 9 am with Dr. Zayne” She seemed a little confused by your buoyant voice and the lack of any noticeable bruises or marks, “Oh! Is that today? Let’s see…ah… yes! You’re all checked in. I believe Dr. Zayne is finishing up a consultation right now, but feel free to wait outside his office.”
“Thanks!” you responded and practically skipped off down the familiar hallway, of course not before grabbing some mint candies Yvonne had on her desk. You had to treat your sweet tooth doctor naturally.
Waiting outside Zayne’s office felt so different from the normal monthly checkups. While in the past, you would be bouncing your leg or picking at your fingers anxiously, knowing he would feel upset seeing the state of your body, today you were bouncing with enthusiasm. No cuts, no bruises, regular exercise, and even keeping up with his dietary suggestions for proper nutrition all month long has you actually excited for this checkup. You were proud of yourself, and you knew Zayne would be too.
The door swung open as his previous consultation patient left Zayne’s office. “Dr. Zayne said you can come in, we just finished.” the patient kindly informed you. Walking into his office, you could see the tired look on Zayne’s face. He had mentioned having to do more late nights at the hospital and you can see how the extra hours have taken a toll on him. His eyebrows were furrowed together while his fingers pressed on his temples. It looked like he was finishing up the notes from his previous consultation. You shut the door behind you, relieved to see the lovely, familiar face before you. “Good morning, Dr. Zayne” you said in a sugary voice. He looked up then, instantly recognizing your voice, and you could see the tension leave his body as his eyes immediately softened in your direction.
“Good morning, my love” Zayne softly spoke as he got up to greet you.
This was your favorite part of the checkups, before Zayne went into that clinical “doctor mode” that everyone in the hospital knew him for. In this office, for these few minutes before the check up began, he was just Zayne…your Zayne.
He quickly wrapped you in the strong embrace of his arms, by far the safest place you will ever be. You inhaled his scent, immediately comforted by his familiar fragrance. He smelled of floral — jasmine, which is his pet name for you— and something a little stronger, like a woody almost saffron like scent. All perfectly masked over the hint of antiseptic from working in a hospital.
You looked up at him with a big smile plastered on your face.
“I missed you Zaynie”
“I missed you too love” he replied while gently sweeping a stray lock of hair from your forehead behind your ear. He followed by placing a kiss on your forehead where the hair had previously been. “Are you ready to start your check up?”
“Yes!” you beamed, hoping he could feel your excitement. “But first…” Zayne watched as you reached in your pocket to pull out the two mint candies you grabbed from Yvonne’s desk. “I brought a treat for my favorite doctor.”
You watched him breathe out a gentle laugh. One that would’ve gone unnoticed had you not learned to pick up his subtle cues, like the slight upturn on his lips just at the corners and his eyes widening slightly at the first glance of the candies.
“Ahh so you’ve come to bribe your doctor? And with something you know very well I can’t resist. Very subtle, Miss Hunter.” he smirked as he stole one of the candles from your palm and popped it into his mouth. You chuckled at his reaction, he can be so sassy when he feels like it.
“Can’t I gift my doctor sweets without it being considered a bribe?” you said playfully, looking up at him with squinted eyes. “Maybe I should have kept them both for myself, and the big snowman can go sweetless.”
His smile grew wider then, maybe by a few degrees, but you always could tell. “No, I’m very grateful my jasmine.” he said sweetly, grabbing your other candyless hand. You blushed at the nickname, wanting to avoid his eyes, so he couldn’t tell the effect he had on you. Of course, he immediately noticed your aversion. “But shouldn’t you know by now…” he grabbed your chin to face you back to him “…that you are by far, the best sweet I will ever have.” With that, he gently lifted your chin, placing the lightest kiss on your lips. You melted at his touch, he always knows exactly what to say to make you swoon. When his lips left yours, you were breathless. “Now, are you ready to start your check up?” he looked at your dazed reaction from the kiss, amused at how easily you react to his touch. You were still speechless, looking up at him to respond with a simple nod as he led you to the examination table.
~
The check up began as usual: weight and height recordings, blood pressure check, reflex tests, eyes and ears, all part of the normal routine. You were used to this after all considering this has become your monthly routine for the past two years since you started seeing Zayne. When he reached for his stethoscope to check your heart and breathing sounds, this is when you would get nervous because usually the questions began; however, this time your heart raced a little in anticipation, rather than anxiety. Zayne had noticed something a little different with you today, ever the observant doctor. You’re sure he picked up that you weren’t limping into his office like last month, or bandaged up from a wanderer blast to the arm like a few months prior. At this point in the checkup, Zayne would usually find out about any other injuries hidden from plain sight.
You tried to resist squirming in your chair as he began listening to your heart. Up this close, you could see Zayne fully in “doctor mode”. The hard set lines on his face easily showed that he was focused on carefully listening to your heart. He removed the stethoscope, letting it rest around his neck as he assessed you. “Your heart rate is slightly elevated today. Any hidden injuries I should know about?”
“Noooo” you dragged out with an impish grin.
Maybe it was the sound of your voice, but he wasn’t convinced. He simply looked at you, one eyebrow raised, as he repeated back to you “No?” He was silent after that, clearly waiting for you to admit defeat.
“No, Dr. Zayne. I promise! I wanted to try something different this month at the Hunter’s Association” you chuckled, looking away in slight embarrassment under his watchful gaze. “I guess you can say I actually followed protocol this time, so no hidden injuries.”
Zayne just looked at you, taken aback? Almost as if he was struggling to believe you. You couldn’t even be offended by his reluctance, he had heard this tale many times before, but you would alway crack under pressure, revealing some scar or some internal bruising that you unnecessarily would get from your missions
You sighed at his reaction, “ Look you can even check with Chief Jenna. I mean it this time, no injuries.”
Zayne quickly recovered, looking a little guilty as he was hesitant to believe you in the beginning. “Well..” he began, then cleared his throat, “good. I am very pleased to hear that.”
You smiled at that, very happy to hear him praise you. It felt like there were butterflies in your stomach knowing you had satisfied him.
He continued on with his usual questions. “How has your water intake been lately?”
“Great! I recently found one of those water bottles that tracks how much water you drink and I try to finish that daily.” It felt so good to tell him your progress, knowing you weren’t in for a lecture since you followed his orders.
“That’s great to hear, Y/n. And your nutrition? Have you been following my suggestions?”
Zayne would always harp on your nutrition, preaching how proper food can help heart conditions. More fiber, more antioxidants, whole grains, etc. It was difficult to stick with. You would rather eat out or just skip a meal if you came home too tired.
“Yep” you replied, making an emphasis on the “p” sound as it left your mouth in a pop. “I even tried all the recipes you sent and never skipped a meal.”
His mouth curved up at your response. The slightest smile on his lips as he looked at you. “It seems you really did follow doctors orders this time. I’m very impressed.”
Your smile grew ten times as big at his praise. This was exactly what you were looking forward to. You wanted to make him proud of your progress.
“I think this concludes our check up then. I have no notes, just keep doing what you’re doing” he spoke as he removed the stethoscope from
his neck, placing it on the table behind him. He stopped his movements abruptly to look back at you “I’m proud of you Y/n. It makes me happy to see you in good health.”
Annnndddd there it is. The smile on your face was as bright as ever. He was proud of you. You couldn’t stop yourself from thinking how you wanted more. Maybe it was the subtle pull in your lower stomach or the slight squeeze of your legs together, but you wanted this praise to continue a little longer.
He diligently finished cleaning up his medical
supplies and returned to his desk. You sat there watching him, thinking of ways you could
possibly get this to drag out. “Yvonne can get you scheduled for your next appointment, does the third Friday of the month work for you?” he asked while looking through the planner on his desk.
“Yes, I can do that.” you replied, and while he began typing in his computer for your appointment details, it hit you then.
“Ummm, Dr. Zayne…” you said hesitantly, trying to think of the best way to phrase your question. He simply responded with a hmm, allowing you to continue, as he was still typing away on the keyboard.
“I was wondering…since I did so well today….can I get a reward?”
He instantly stopped typing, turning to fully face you now. You could tell he was amused by your question as he had this ridiculous smirk on his face. “A reward?” he prodded, hoping you would continue your reasoning.
“It’s just…well…I was thinking since I followed all of your orders. I should get some reward for this. I mean this is a complete turnaround from our usual appointments.” You felt silly as the words left your lips, slightly embarrassed now. Maybe you shouldn’t have said anything. His soft chuckling definitely didn’t help your embarrassment.
He stood now, circling his desk so he was directly in front of you, now leaning against the edge. “My love, if a reward was all it would take to get you to follow doctors orders, then I would have started with that months ago.” He was obviously entertained by all of this, which made you wish you never said anything in the first place.
“Forget it, it was a stupid idea and I—“
“No, no, it isn’t stupid” he abruptly cut you off, moving from off his desk to tower over you. “Now that I think about it, I guess you do deserve a reward.” He grabbed your chin, guiding you to look up at him as he gently swiped his thumb across your jaw. “Tell me, my jasmine. What would you like your reward to be?”
Fuck. You cursed to yourself. It should be illegal for him to make you feel like this. You were suddenly at a loss for words as you opened your mouth to speak.
“I think…” you started.
“Hmm?” he probed, lifting your chin even higher. You were gonna melt into a human puddle if he kept this up. How the hell were you supposed to even breathe , let alone speak.
Your brows furrowed slightly, clearly frustrated at your inability to speak. “I’m not sure okay” sighing in defeat, you tried to continue “I just was hoping you could give me a reward since i’ve been on my best behavior.” You turned your frustration into pleading by giving him your best puppy eyes, knowing how quickly he folds at this.
His smirk grew by a few inches the moment he saw your eyes. Bingo. This always works on him. He released you then, silently laughing to himself.
“Alright, alright” he said walking back around to his desk. “I have an idea of what you want. How about you spend the rest of the day at my house and when I get home, I can properly reward you.” You didn’t miss the way he accentuated properly and if you didn’t look like a dog wagging its tail before , you sure as hell do now. Your smile stretched from ear to ear at the thought of spending the rest of the day at Zaynes.
“You still have a spare key right?”
“Yep!” you responded, rather hastily, and pulled out your key ring showing the spare Zayne gave you after you first started dating. A light blue key with a little snowflake on it dangled from the key ring you spun around your finger.
He softly smiled back at you, pleased with your reaction. “Great, then I shall see you later tonight. I expect to be home around 7 pm., assuming all goes well at the hospital of course.”
“Sounds good! Bye Zaynie, I love you!” you whistled as you walked enthusiastically to the door. You can hear his sweet chuckling from behind you as he was quick to respond “I love you, my jasmine. See you soon.”
The blush on your face couldn’t have been more noticeable as you walked down the halls of Akso hospital, eager to get to Zayne’s where you would wait impatiently for your reward.
~
It was around 4 pm when you heard a knock on Zayne’s door. You had been thoroughly distracted, trying to pass the time by playing Tomadachi Life on Zayne’s nintendo switch. The two of you were avid game players, constantly looking forward to new releases of Mortal Kombat, Mario Party, and even Legend of Zelda. Zayne knew how much you loved The Sims, so when Tomadachi Life released, he made sure to get it for you.
You hadn’t expected any visitors and it was way too early for Zayne to be home — besides he wouldn’t knock on the door of his own home. You checked your phone, where you saw two missed messages from Zayne:
~ 3:30 p.m.
Mr. Frosty ❄️: Hi love. It looks like I won’t be out of the hospital until 8 p.m. There is an emergency bypass surgery I must attend to. There are leftovers in the fridge, feel free to eat before I come home.
~ 3:36 p.m.
Mr. Frosty ❄️: Also, expect a delivery at the door in 30 minutes. Think of it as an appetizer to your reward tonight. See you soon. Love you.
Closing your phone, you quickly jump off the couch and padded your way across the living room to the front door. Upon opening the door, you were greeted to a delivery man holding a small brown package.
“Hello. I have a delivery for a Dr. Li? I just need a signature.” the delivery man said, holding out a small tablet for a signature.
“Yes, I’ll sign.” you replied, quickly scribbling your signature on the tablet. You watched as the delivery man nodded, giving you the package, then turning to head away from the house.
As soon as you shut the door, you scrambled in to the kitchen, placing the mysterious box onto Zayne’s freakishly large kitchen island. As many times as you’ve been in here, you still never can get used to the size of it. His vast luxury kitchen could never compare to your tiny apartment’s sorry excuse for a living space. The minute you opened the package your jaw dropped in awe at the present Zayne had gifted you.
A light blue babydoll dress lay folded neatly in the center of the small box, right underneath a white tag with your name beautifully signed on. It was the most gorgeous outfit you’ve ever seen. The dress was made of a sheer, light blue, mesh fabric, just barely stopping at where the belly button is. The cups were covered in white embroidery, where two snowflakes rest on either side, and accentuated with white lace around the perimeter. The piece was held together with light blue ribbon, tied into perfect bows on the front and both sides of the dress. Paired with it, was a pair of little shorts, the same material of the dress, with a small ruffle at the bottom of them. Hidden inside the shorts was probably the smallest pair of underwear you had ever seen. A light blue silk thong with a single white embroidered snowflake in the center.
(The visualize, this is what I was referencing: https://pin.it/5en0YPQqY)
You were absolutely stunned. Had Zayne really done this? You couldn’t even react fully to the dress because just underneath it, not even properly hidden away, was a bundle of satin rope, just a shade or two darker than the dress. It felt like your jaw hit the floor the moment you locked eyes on it. No way this was the package Zayne wanted you to have.
You remembered the little white tag with your name on it and hurried to flip it over. This had to be some sort of mistake. Sure enough on the back of the tag was a note:
“To my jasmine,
I hope you enjoy the first part of your reward. I couldn’t help but think of how beautiful you would look in this.
Wear this for me tonight and i’ll show you just how surgeons tie knots. 🤍
Love,
Zayne”
Oh. Okay so this really was for you. You had hoped from the way he said he knew what you wanted, that you were on the same page. Clearly, his ideas far exceeded your own. You grabbed your phone to snap a picture of the package on the island and texted Zayne.
~4:20 p.m.
You: Um, Zaynie…would you care to explain this??
You sent the text along with the picture of your gift and waited anxiously for his reply.
~4:35 p.m.
Mr. Frosty ❄️: You know it’s illegal to open other people’s mail right dear?
That little brat. Does he really get a kick out of messing with you?
You: Hahaha the snowman has jokes I see.
You: Now seriously what is this?
Mr. Frosty ❄️: I would never joke about the law. I already excused your bribe this morning, any more of this and I will be locked away with you.
You rolled your eyes at his response, watching the three little dots on the screen.
Mr. Frosty ❄️: The note should have explained myself. I hope you like it.
Mr. Frosty ❄️: I have to scrub in for surgery now. I will see you tonight, love. 🤍
Smiling giddily, you hurried to reply as you walked back to the living room.
You: I love it, thank you Zayne. I can’t wait to see you ;)
Sinking back onto the sofa now, you were still shocked at his plans for you tonight. That’s when you quickly realized, it was 5 p.m., which meant you only had a few hours to prepare yourself for tonight.
~
6:30 p.m.
An hour and a half later and you had just hopped out of your everything shower. You wanted to save the dress for last as you slipped on Zayne’s robe to start prepping for tonight. Sure, Zayne would appreciate anything you had on — or didn’t have on — but tonight felt special, so you wanted to match the attire. The two of you had spoken before about trying new things in the bedroom, searching up BDSM techniques and marking down what you both would be interested in, but you never thought today would be the day you tried them. Your body was tense with anxiety as you styled your hair, leaving it down in a light curl pattern.
‘This is crazy’ you muttered to yourself as you applied some light makeup to your face, grateful that Zayne suggested keeping some of your personal items at his place to save you the trouble of having to go home to get ready. He always wanted to spend as much time with you as possible in the little free time he had out of the hospital.
While coating your lashes in mascara, you slightly jumped at the sound of your phone dinging.
~7:30 p.m.
Mr. Frosty ❄️: Leaving the hospital now. Be there soon my love.
Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. You completely lost track of the time. He would be home in 30 mins and you still have to put on your outfit.
Why were you so nervous? It’s not like you and Zayne haven’t been intimate before, but this time is so different. You both were each others first and you had never experienced anything like this before. The outfit. The…rope. Lord, you had been so busy getting ready you completely forgotten about the rope. This definitely wasn’t helping you calm your nerves.
You hurried back to the counter, where the dress was still folded neatly, and quickly slipped it on. Luckily, it was a rather simple garment, with no unnecessary clasps or ties to figure out, so it was easy to get on — and take off.
Walking back to the bathroom, you took a deep breath before facing the mirror. You had seen models and posts of beautiful women in outfits like this before, but never did you think you would be the one to where something like it.
Upon first glance you were taken aback. The outfit was beautiful, sure, but something about it on your body looked a little off. You were curvier than the women you had seen in dresses like these, with bigger breasts that hung from gravity, rather than standing up at perfect attention. Your arms were bigger too, likely from the time you had spent fighting wanders, building muscle to help your agility and strength. Your lips began to curve downward as you looked yourself in the mirror. This was a gift from Zayne. You were grateful, of course, but the thought that you didn’t look the way you expected in this turned your anxiety sour. Would he even like this? You thought, turning around in the mirror so you could see the different sides of yourself.
You knew your body was different and as much as you tried to stick to body positivity, you couldn’t help being human from time to time. This is supposed to be an exciting event, so why did your chest feel tight? Would you disappoint him if he saw you in this? Would he see your sunken boobs and your belly poking out under the hem of the dress and feel let down? Like this wasn’t what he envisioned you to look like in it.
The negative thoughts began to swarm your mind, causing your eyes to water slightly. Checking your phone for the time, you realized Zayne would be here any minute.
‘No Y/n. This is your reward. Don’t ruin tonight with your own insecurities. I’m sure it’ll be alright.’ You tried to give yourself a pep talk to rid the negative thoughts swirling in your mind. You were his jasmine, and tonight he has dolled you up to be his perfect flower. But you couldn’t stop your mind from wandering. It felt like your petals were all wilted and your stem was short and stalky, rather than elegant and thin. Maybe it’s because you’ve never worn anything like this before, but you were hoping to feel more beautiful, and now it’s like your body has let you down.
You heard Zayne’s car pull up in the driveway. This was no time to feel like this. Zayne is here.
You quickly dabbed at your eyes, trying to stop the tears from falling — thank god for waterproof mascara — and grabbed the silken rope off the counter, where you would be waiting for Zayne perched in the middle of his bed.
Sitting in criss crossed position, silk rope bundled in your hand, you could hear the front door open as Zayne entered. “Y/n?” he said, searching out for you in his home. In the past, you would be waiting for him at the door, but you couldn’t just wait there in a tiny napkin for an outfit.
“I’m in the bedroom!” you responded. The sounds of him taking his shoes off and dropping his keys on the counter was making you even more nervous. He would be here any second and see you in his gift. Trying to keep your anxiety at bay, you took a few deep breaths as you waited for him to enter.
As soon as he opened the bedroom door and saw you waiting for him, he immediately froze. His eyes widened the size of pearls and the tips of his ears turned a dark shade of pink.
“Hi Zaynie” you greeted him, with a cute little smile.
He quickly tried to recover, rapidly blinking his eyes while looking away. Another one of his subtle mannerisms you’ve noticed he does when he’s flustered. He entered the bedroom, grabbing his tie to loosen it while faintly chuckling.
Why is he laughing? Does he not like it? The thoughts quickly entered you mind, but you shoved them down
Your smile changed into a puzzled look. “What’s so funny? This was your gift after all.”
Undoing the top buttons on his shirt, he softly exhaled as he stepped closer to you. “It’s nothing…I was just thinking…” he towered over you now — much like how he did in his office— and lightly traced the back of his fingers along your cheekbone, “This was meant to be your reward. However, it seems I have a perfectly wrapped gift just for me.”
You looked up at him as he lightly cupped your cheek with his palm. “I hope you can forgive me for being so greedy.” he continued and bent down to place a light kiss on your forehead. “You look absolutely breathtaking, my perfect jasmine.”
You couldn’t even respond to the compliment as he continued with his trail of light kisses. One on the other side of your cheek. His hand slid from your cheek to your jaw, moving your face away from him. He continued peppering kisses starting from your collarbone and making his way up the side of your neck, reaching just below your ear where he softly whispered “And quite ravishing, might I add.”
“Th-Thank you” you stuttered, trying to collect yourself from the puddle he just melted you into.
He took a step away, still eyeing you up and down, taking you all in. “I know I have made you wait for me. I’m sorry I took so long to get here. Give me 15 minutes to shower and we can continue. How does that sound?”
“That’s fine…” you could breathe normally again now as you watched him gather a pair of briefs from the dresser.
“Perfect” he responded, walking towards the bathroom. “Don’t move a muscle. I will make this quick.”
“Yes, Dr. Zayne.”
He chuckled softly, surprised at your use of his doctor title inside the bedroom. You would only call him Dr. Zayne in the hospital…or if you wanted to get him flustered.
Those 15 minutes passed slower than the amount of time it took for him to get home. You tried to keep reassuring yourself. You’re okay. Zayne likes this. It will be okay. Repeating to yourself anytime the anxious thoughts in your head grew louder. The water stopped, and you waited for him just as he said to, in the same spot he left you.
He entered the bedroom, steam still coming off his body. He hadn’t even taken the time to properly dry off. Eager to make it back to you. In nothing but a pair of tight dark blue briefs — doing nothing to hide the half hard mass between his legs — and his towel draped over his neck, he was the spitting image of perfection. You watched as a stray water drop from his still dampened hair run down the planes of his sculpted chest and across the hardened lines of his six pact. Underneath the scrubs, this doctor had the body of a God. You swallowed as you looked back up at him, not realizing he was much closer to you than you thought.
“You know…” Zayne started, taking large commanding steps up to the edge of the bed where you sat waiting for him, “…you can be so obedient for me when you want to be.”
“Well…some people are worth being obedient for” you shot back, taking your fingers and slowly dragging them up his gorgeous body.
“Oh..?” He quickly grabbed your wandering hands, snatching them up to his mouth, inhaling your scent and following with a kiss upon your palm. “Then I guess…” he spoke between kisses up your forearm. “I should…” kiss. “…be grateful…” kiss. “…to those…”he stopped and lightly bit your forearm right above the crease in your elbow, soothing the bite with a kiss “who believe I am worthy.” He whispered softly, looking away from your arm and tilting his head with that knowing smirk on his face. That slutty little smirk he puts on when he speaks to you this way.
You yanked back your arm in defiance. “Only me” you responded, grabbing his hand to pull him closer to you. “I only want you to be grateful…to me.”
“Why of course…Miss Hunter.” He purred while leaning in to press his lips against yours.
At first, the kiss was tentative, exploratory almost. You quickly matched his pace, trying your best to mimic the movement of his lips with yours. Zayne was a great kisser, and honestly great was sort of an understatement. The kiss turned deeper as you felt the tip of his tongue come into play, slowing searching for your mouth. Matching his stride, your tongue began to tangle with his, turning more passionate as you reached up to run your hands through his silky black strands.
He softly slid his hand up your leg, stopping at your ribs to gently push you further onto the bed. His kisses moved from your mouth, making a trail across your cheek and jaw, where he would continue the path he made on you earlier.
Zayne loved spending time on your neck, faintly kissing and sucking over the area. You could tell he was trying his best to not leave any marks, but he couldn’t help getting carried away as he made his way to your collarbone.
Your hands began exploring the vast expanse of his back, grabbing his shoulders as an attempt to try to steady yourself. You were growing impatient, as you usually did when the two of you were intimate. One of your hands began to move from around his neck, snaking down between the two of you, hoping to grab the growing mass that kept poking you in the stomach.
Zayne knew exactly what you were going for and swiftly grabbed both of your hands, holding them together in one of his rather large hands and pinning them above your head.
“Patience, my love…” he whispered, in the midst of his heavy breathing “you seem to be forgetting the best part of tonight.” His eyes were dark now. Those beautiful green eyes turning into a thin line around his dilated pupils.
What were you forgetting?? You thought, struggling to free yourself from his grasp. It wasn’t until you saw him lift off of you, reaching for something across the bed, that you suddenly remembered.
The. Rope.
Why do you keep forgetting about the rope? You had been too preoccupied with Zayne and trying to keep the swarming insecurities from surfacing to even think about that damn rope.
“Now…can you keep your hands just like that for me?”
You nodded at his command, cursing yourself for forgetting the main part about tonight. Zayne was going to be tying you up…. In ways you were unsure of, but the thought of being tied up like some piece of pork roast, especially given your state of mind, began to make you very anxious.
Zayne started unraveling the bundle of silk rope, locking eyes with you, while your hands were still above your head. You wanted so desperately to be good for him, but thinking about being tied up, so vulnerable under his watchful gaze, made you start to fidget.
“My love, is everything okay?” Zayne questioned. You could never hide anything from him, not that you ever want to. It was just hard to open up to him about this, without feeling like you were ruining the moment, and you so desperately didn’t want to make things awkward.
“Mhm, I’m fine…” you muttered, continuing to hide what you really feared, “just a little nervous.”
“I see. If you don’t want to do this, we don’t have to try today. I would never want to make you uncomfort-“
“No no no. It’s fine. I want this…” you cut him off, slowly lowering your hands together to form a V over your stomach, “I want you, Zayne.”
His eyes widened at your eagerness and the corner of his mouth raised as he looked down at you. “Okay…okay, but if you start to feel uncomfortable…even the slightest bit….I want you to say ‘carrots’ and I will stop.”
“Carrots??” His suggestion surprised you. Why the hell would carrots be his safe word?
“Well…” Zayne muttered, putting a slight smirk on his face as he looked away from you, “In BDSM, it is customary to have a safe word in case things become too…much” he hesitated, maybe feeling a little shy on the topic “and carrots have no place in the kitchen, let alone the bedroom.”
You snickered at his absurd comment. This man has his hands in chest cavities for a living, but carrots is where he drew the line??
“Deal. No carrots” you replied, giving him a small smile and a subtle nod in confirmation.
Pleased with your compromise, Zayne continued his actions, slowly wrapping the rope around both of your hands. His movements were gentle, making sure not to tie your binds too tight, avoiding any unnecessary discomfort.
“Is this okay?” he asked, checking you were still with him.
You tried pulling at the ropes around your hands, finding yourself immobile, but not in any pain. Locking eyes with him, you inhaled a shaky breath, and nodded to allow him to continue.
He hesitated, likely searching your face for any signs of discomfort.
It wasn’t until he lifted your tied hands back above your head that you started to take notice of the little imperfections you had seen in the mirror. Turning your head to side, you noticed your arms again. How much bigger they looked in this position. Your breasts. How they hung spread off your body as the weight pulled them apart.
Zayne was quick to notice the way your breathing picked up and the worried look your face now had.
“Y/n, are you sure you want to continue?” he asked, snapping you out of your stupor.
You looked at him, kneeled by your head where he was in the midst of tying your hands to the bed frame, and tried to control your face to respond to him.
“…Yes, it’s okay.”
He didn’t seem too convinced, so you were adamant when you added “no carrots”, slightly smiling up at him to further sell your content.
Zayne hummed, trying to pick apart your expression, “okay then…I will continue.”
As he worked diligently on the knots securing you into place, you continued dissecting your body, the flaws becoming more apparent now underneath his sculpted frame. When you looked down, the dress you had on was now raised, revealing more of your belly. Your breathing started to increase, and your chest began to tighten as you searched past your stomach, making note of the small stretch marks adorned on your thighs.
You have to control yourself, Y/n. Just breathe. You were trying your hardest to comfort yourself, hoping Zayne wouldn’t notice, but the anxiety was overtaking you now. Your breath began to come quicker, trying to accommodate for the sickening feeling growing within you. How could you compare to him? Zayne was gorgeous. Every part of him pure perfection, and you just felt…so lacking.
Zayne stopped his movements; however, you hadn’t noticed due to the whirlwind quickly picking up in your mind.
“Y/n…hey look at me.” Could he feel your anxiety? You were doing your best to mask it, but he’s always been more observant when it comes to you.
You looked at him then, panic in your eyes , the mask quickly slipping from your face. His eyes widened as soon as he met yours.
“Let’s hold off on this for today. My love, you’re shaking.”
Fuck. You were ruining everything.
You nodded at him, too worked up to
respond. Were you really shaking? You hadn’t even noticed since you were too consumed by your thoughts.
As Zayne started to unravel the ropes from the bed, you could feel pressure in your eyes. Dammit, Y/n. Don’t tell me you’re about to cry. But it was too late, the gates had been opened now and your anxiety was taking over. This was supposed to be your reward, something for you and Zayne to experience together, and you had ruined it. Why can’t you be prettier for him? Why do you have to be so ordinary, so imperfect?
(so I was listening to Moon River by Frank Ocean here, and lowkenuinely made me emotional so if you wanna experience that feel free to play it smile)
The pressure in your eyes began to build, too much to hold back now. Small tears started to fall down your cheeks. You hated this. Hated feeling so…weak. So vulnerable. Like you were open on the operating table, where your perfect doctor could see each and every imperfection under the bright overhead light.
“Y/n?” Zayne must have overheard your sniffling. Looking up at him, the tears began to fall faster.
“Hey hey, what’s going on?” he asked, clearly worried at your state. “Give me a moment my love, i’ll get you out.” He was scrambling to free you, desperate to hold you in his embrace and calm you down.
The tears were falling harder now. You were embarrassed by him seeing you like this. This wasn’t how tonight was supposed to go.
Once you were freed, Zayne moved to sit you up in front of him.
“Did I hurt you, Y/n? I-“ he was frantic, scanning every inch of you to source the pain “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know, I-“
“No, Zayne. You didn’t hurt me” you stopped him, wiping the corners of your eyes with the palm of your hand, “I’m sorry I just got in my head and I…I’m sorry…i’m ruining our night.”
His brows turned slightly upward at your response. “My love, you haven’t ruined anything. Tell me what’s going on. Was it the rope?”
You shook your head at his question. “No , no it wasn’t the rope. I thought I would be okay…I don’t know I feel so stupid.
“You are anything but stupid, Y/n,” he was quick to dispel your harsh words, “was it the dress? If it’s too much, you don’t have to wear it. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”
He always apologized, ever so careful to not hurt you.
“It’s okay, Zayne. The dress is so beautiful, thank you for thinking of me. Honestly, it’s not the dress that’s the issue…” you started, hesitant to share more than what you let on.
Zayne looked at you, grabbing your hand to trace light circles over the back, hoping to calm
you so you can continue.
“It’s me that’s the issue”, you watched his brows furrow at your words, but he wasn’t planning on interrupting your thoughts.
“I just…”, taking a deep breath, you tried to continue, “when I put the dress on before you got here, I was a little disappointed in what I looked like in it.” It was hard to be so open about your insecurities like this.
“It’s not the dress. I just noticed so many things wrong with me. It felt like…like I wasn’t pretty enough for something so beautiful. Like I wasn’t pretty enough…for you.” Your chest tightened further at the confession. The tears growing in your ducts again.
Zayne sat in front of you, stunned at what you admitted to him.
“My jasmine, you look so beautiful right now. Words do little to describe how I feel when I look at you.” He let go of your hand, reaching to cradle your cheek, where he wiped your stray tear with his thumb. “How could there be anything more perfect for me than you?”
You leaned your head more into his hand, feeling comforted by the constant motion of his thumb across your cheek.
His face turned remorseful. “I’m sorry if I haven’t been more vocal about my feelings for you. That is on me, but please, don’t ever think you aren’t enough for me.”
You nodded at him, trying to will the tears at bay. “It’s not your fault, Zaynie. You’re perfect.” Taking his hand from your cheek, you lowered it back down to hold in your palms. “It’s just sometimes I feel so lack luster compared to you. When I look at you…you’re perfect and I feel so ordinary in comparison .” Your admission looked as if it pained him to hear you talk about yourself like this. “I just got self conscious. In the moment, I couldn’t help but think ‘if my arms weren’t so big’, ‘i wish my boobs didn’t hang like that’, ‘why can’t i be thinner?’, ‘why do i have these stupid stretch marks?’” The more you went on, the harder the tears fell.
Zayne saw you start to break and he quickly wrapped you in his warm embrace, stroking the back of your head to calm you. “Shhh, it’s okay, my love. It’s okay. Breathe with me.”
You sat there for a few minutes, safe in his strong hold, trying to match your quick breaths to his slow breathing.
Once you regained your composure, you lifted yourself off of him. His grasp tight around your frame, reluctant to let you go.
“I had no idea you felt that way,” Zayne whispered, eyes searching yours, showing his sincerity “Thank you for being so honest with me.” He paused for a moment, thinking of the best way to approach you. It pained you to see him hurting like this, knowing he is racked with guilt at the thought of not providing you with enough reassurance.
(if you’re brave, play Nothing’s Gonna Hurt You Baby by Cigarettes After Sex NO BALLS)
“My love, may I be honest with you for a moment?”
“Of course,” you replied, slightly anxious for what he had to say.
He smiled back at you and continued, “Do you remember our first time together?”
How could you forget? It was the first time you had ever seen him drunk. Who knew a single liquor-filled chocolate would break all of his restraints.
Smiling at the fond memory, you nodded, “you mean when a single chocolate melted the poor snowman?” Wherever he was going with this, it was already making you feel more relaxed.
The back of his neck quickly flushed. He tried to play it off with a small chuckle, but you could tell he was feeling shy from the way his arm reached across his body, lightly rubbing his shoulder. “Well yes…” he cleared his throat and pushed on, “while the night indeed took a turn that I did not expect, I remember the days leading up to it being very worrisome.”
You looked at him with concern laced in your eyes, but you waited for him to continue.
“I was…in my head…as you put it.” It looked like he was struggling with his words. You have never seen him this way before. “Self conscious about being intimate with you.”
His confession shocked you. What could he ever be self conscious about?
“Why?” you asked, hoping to understand him better.
At that moment, he broke his gaze with you, looking down now at his forearms. You knew he was looking at his scars. The times when his Evol would overwhelm him beyond his control, unleashing shards of ice from his hands and arms.
“My scars held me back,” he pressed on, “I was worried that they would frighten you…that you would be afraid I couldn’t control myself…and wind up hurting you.”
“And the thought of hurting you, knowing it would be beyond my control, frightened me more than anything. “
He closed his eyes for second, taking slow breaths to compose himself. You had no idea he felt that way. Of course he had told you about his scars before. All the times growing up when his arms would be covered in blood and ice, unable to control his powers. It broke your heart to hear how he carried that pain with him, in all that time leading up to your first night
You reached for him, grabbing his forearms to lightly rub your thumbs along his jagged skin.
“But Zaynie, I love your scars.” you said while smiling at him, hoping you could convey how much you truly meant it.
Matching his smile to yours he murmured, “And why is that?” Ah, so this is where he was going by sharing that with you.
You hesitated in your response, “…Becase…it’s part of you…I love everything about you.”
His eyes softened at your honesty. “Then, my love…” he started, taking his hand to tuck a stray hair behind your ear, “would it be so outrageous to believe I feel the same about you?
“That I love your body…” he continued, wiping a newly formed tear drop from the corner of your eye with his knuckle, “…because it is a part of you.”
You started to look down, slightly ashamed in feeling so self conscious when you have the most gentle and loving man in the world.
“My sweet, sweet jasmine..” he redirected your focus by lifting your head back up with his knuckle and thumb. The moment your eyes met again, his hand released your jaw, finding its way back to your cheek, where he pulled you forward, resting his forehead on yours. “There is no greater gift that I could ever have compared to you.”
He lightly kissed your forehead, then brought his head back to you. “You are, by far, the greatest thing to ever happen to me.” Your tears fell again, but not from anxiety this time. It was how vulnerable you felt in this moment. How loved. It was like Zayne had reached his hand into his chest and ripped his heart out to give to you.
“My beautiful girl…you’re all I could ever ask for.” He smiled at you, eyes staring into your soul with so much intensity. So much compassion.
He pulled you back into his embrace, leaning his head against yours as he softly rubbed up and down your back.
You don’t know how long the two of you sat like that. Wrapped in his loving grasp. It could have been minutes. Hours. But you couldn’t think of safer place to be.
Finally, his gentle strokes along your back slowed. He kissed the top of your head before peeling you off of him to catch your eyes once more.
“How are you feeling, love?”
“Better..” you muttered between sniffles, eyes surely red from crying “…better now, thanks to you.”
“Good. I’m glad to hear that.” He turned from you now, moving his legs off the bed. “Why don’t we get some desserts, hm? I believe the bakery is still open for another hour.”
Your snowman and his sweets. Zayne always had a sweet tooth and the suggestion was truly endearing. However, desserts was not what you were craving right now.
“Zayne?” You reached for his arm, stopping his movements.
“Yes, my love?”
You hesitated, unsure if he would be okay with this. “Do you…do you think we could pick up from where we left off? I mean if you want to of course.”
His face morphed into surprise, surely not expecting you to say that. “Is that what you want?”
Quickly nodding, you further confirmed “Yes. Unless you think it’s weird for me to want to have sex after crying.” You cringed a little at the end, feeling a touch of embarrassment from your action.
Zayne shook his head at your suggestion, “No, my love. I don’t think it’s weird at all.” Shifting on the bed to fully face you again, he continued, “I am happy to continue, so long as you are comfortable.”
“I am. I want to keep going…please.”
His hand moved to the outside of your thigh, tracing comforting strokes with his thumb.
“Okay,” he took a second to asses you, shifting his glance down at your lips, then reconnecting with your eyes, “but let’s hold off on the rope tonight.”
You nodded your head in agreement, starting to feel the surge of heat in your belly from the way his eyes moved over you.
“Tonight I want to reward you by loving you fully…and cherishing every inch of your body.” Zayne leaned in closer to you, refusing to break eye contact, “Would you be so kind as to grant me that luxury?”
The heat that rushed to your cheeks at his request was imminent. No longer feeling the tightness in your chest, you were ready to fully surrender yourself to him. A small “mhm” was the only sound you could get out, feeling overwhelmed by the desire starting to creep into his eyes.
“My sweet girl…” Zayne whispered, moving closer to you now. The hand rested on your thigh slowly rose up to your rib cage, while the other now cradled your cheek. He was so close now, but he was waiting for you. Wanting your full consent. “ I know very well that you can be more vocal that.”
You wanted him. God, you wanted him so bad. Your pulse raced under his touch, desperate to let him feel you, but you knew he wouldn’t move until he was 100% sure you wanted him to.
“Yes, Zayne,” your hand reached up to his resting on your cheek, “please…kiss me…touch me. I want you….please.”
That was all he needed. As soon as the words left your lips, he closed the distance, need overtaking him now. His lips were passionate, like he was trying to express all his love for you through the movement of his mouth on yours.
You responded in full, grabbing his cheeks with both hands to bring him closer. You needed him closer. To claim every ounce of him as your own. Your kisses were frantic, so overwhelmed with love. With the passion you felt for him. For your Zayne.
The push and pull of your bodies was intoxicating. Like you both were struggling with your own need. You broke off the kiss for second, climbing on top of him so you can feel more of his body on yours. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you flush against him as your mouths met once more. You sank into the kiss, allowing him full control. Control over you.
(Control You by MOVEMENT for this part yall CMONNN)
His hand snaked up your back, finding its way to the nape of your neck, deepening the kiss even further. The heat between your legs started to grow, desperate for any sort of friction. Zayne took note of the way you began grinding yourself on him. Such a needy little thing. He broke the kiss, nothing but a small string of saliva connecting the two of you.
He redirected his kisses to your neck, making his way up to your ear.
“Lie down for me” he whispered, nudging his head against your own, “let me see you fully.”
He guided you off him, gently laying you in the center of the bed.
Your hair fanned out around your head. The soft light from his bedside lamp overcast your face, an almost halo like glow as you inhaled a shaky breath.
Zayne was towering over you. His legs straddling your frame as he took in your state.
“You look so beautiful like this,” he softly spoke, eyes wide from lust and devotion, “An angel sent from heaven…just for me.”
You needed him closer to you. The distance felt so cold and your body yearned to feel his touch again.
Your arms extended out to him, desperate to pull him back into your grasp, but all he did was grab your arms, pulling them to center of your chest. He leaned in, softly kissing each hand, before making his way back to your face.
“I know what you want, my love,” he removed one his hands holding yours together, resting it on your cheek now, “but allow me to be greedy with you for a little longer.”
You moved your head into the hand resting on your cheek. Locking eyes with him, you nodded, allowing him to continue his worship on you.
“Sweet girl, you are so good for me.”
The praise shot straight through you and Zayne didn’t miss the way your legs squeezed together at his words.
He leaned in, planting a single kiss on your lips, before taking your arms to lay flat on either side of your body.
“Do you know what I love most about your arms?” Zayne said, holding on to both of your hands.
“It’s when I do this…” taking the tips of his fingers, he lightly traced up the length of your arms, reaching your shoulders, then traveling back down. He made no pressure, allowing his fingers to brush against your skin as if he were a feather. A shiver ran down your spine as he continued the motion, “…you form goosebumps. Your body telling me just how much my touch affects you.”
You squeezed your legs tighter and lightly whimpered, doing your best to be good for him.
Zayne’s hand held your jaw, turning your head to give him full access to your neck, where he kissed over the area. You closed your eyes and allowed yourself to melt as he made his way down your neck. The sounds coming from him as he worked you over, like he was addicted to your smell.
When he reached your collarbone, he sucked a little harder, forming deep marks on your skin, likely to still be present in the morning.
“While the dress is beautiful ,” Zayne muttered, carefully taking the strap of your dress and peeling it down your shoulder, “I would like to worship the true art piece in front of me.”
Lord, he was going to kill you. Where did he even learn to speak like that?
“Help me, Zaynie,” you pleaded, guiding his hands to the hem of your dress. You sat up, letting him remove your top in one fluid motion.
Your bare chest now on full display, Zaynes pupils blew. The green barely visible now.
His lips met yours, kissing you passionately as he laid you back down on the bed. The kisses starting to make their way down your body and you swore you heard him mutter “so beautiful” once he kissed the junction between your neck and shoulder.
God you wanted him to touch you. Anything to fill the ever growing hunger that dwelled between your legs, but Zayne was determined to take his time with you tonight. To love you the way you deserve.
A soft whine left your lips as Zayne’s kisses made his way below your collarbone. He was amused in watching you squirm, trying your best to be patient for him.
Zayne chuckled at your growing impatience, nipping at your skin then gently soothing the area with a kiss.
“While I could never choose a favorite part of your body…” he said, moving his hands around your breasts to bring them closer together, “…these are certainly a strong contender.”
His eyes honed in on your breasts. It almost looked like he was fighting the urge to lick his lips.
“I love how sensitive you are. Even the lightest touch…” his middle finger traced around one of your nipples. Upon first touch, you gasped, not expecting such a cold sensation. Was he…was he using his Evol?
“…makes you react for me,” Zayne smirked, satisfied by your reaction. The smallest whimper left your lips as he rubbed your hardened nipple between his ice cold fingers. “I could spend hours here,” he lightly tugged the bud, causing you to yelp, “and still be satisfied.” With that he took your other breast in his mouth.
The sensation was driving you insane. The cold from his fingers and the warmth from his mouth, fighting side by side, caused your breath to increase and soft moans to leave your lips.
He lavished over your hardened peak, alternating between sucking and licking with the flat of his tongue. Releasing your nipple with a ‘pop’, he worked his way to your other breast, taking the one he worked up with his cold fingers into his mouth.
If he kept this up any longer, you were sure you would cum from this alone. “Z-Zayne,” you whined. If his body wasn’t blocking you, your hand would probably find its way between your legs. The pull in your stomach growing more and more intense.
Despite your protests, he carried on, working your neglected nipple with his other hand, now ice cold from his Evol.
“Zayne…please…” The need was growing unbearable.
“Patience, my love, and I will give you what you want.”
I’ve been patient, you thought, but kept quiet as he moved his kisses down your breasts to your stomach.
“Good girl…now…do you you know what my favorite part about your stomach is?”
You shook your head at his question, still hanging on to his praise.
He smiled as his hands slid down your ribcage, thumbs lightly moving back and forth over your tummy.
“It’s proof”, he started between kisses across your stomach, “proof that you’re real…” marking you with a bite, “proof that you’re all mine.” He soothed the bite with a kiss, taking his time to claim every inch of you.
Looking up at you from where he worshiped, Zayne’s ears darkened to a deeper shade of pink. It seemed like a thought had crossed his mind and he was deciding whether to share it with you.
“Though I am reluctant to admit…I’ve caught myself thinking about your stomach from time to time.”
Your brows lifted, confusion striking your flushed face at his confession.
“I can’t help but wonder how beautiful you would look, pregnant with my child.” Zayne’s eyes redirected to your stomach. Sprawling one of his large hands over the center as he continued, “That the product of our love could make you even more beautiful than you already are.”
“Zayne!!” you shrieked. How could he not feel shy at saying these things??
“I’m sorry, my love, but I can’t help it. You have bewitched me, both body and soul…” he spoke with conviction, gazing deeply in your eyes, “ and I love you…so much so that it overwhelms me.”
His words melted your heart. Tears began to form in your eyes as you grabbed Zayne’s face, forcing him back up to you. “I love you, Zayne.” you muttered, following it up with a deep kiss to his lips. “I love you more than you could ever know.”
You both sat there for a moment with your foreheads touching, taking a moment to ground one another. There were no words left to say. In such a vulnerable moment, there was nothing you could say.
Zayne lifted from you, his hands now grasping the waistband of your shorts. “Raise your hips for me.” It wasn’t a request, but a command. He was feeling just as needy as you were, but desperate to take his time with you. He refused to rush this part.
You lifted your hips as he peeled your shorts off. His eyes immediately focused on your core, where a dark spot across your slit showed him how soaked you already were. He had been teasing you all night. Honestly, you didn’t even need any foreplay for how wet you had become from just his words alone.
“My love..you are truly extraordinary,” Zayne spoke, absolutely wrecked from just the sight of you.
Your eyes trailed his body. With him above you like this, it was easy to spot the large outline of his cock, suffocating in his briefs. You wanted nothing more than to free him. To pull your panties to the side and let him take you then and there, but you knew he would probably stop you.
“I’m like this because of you, Zayne,” you whispered, breaking him out of his trance, “please…keep going.”
(play Glory Box by Portishead if you really know ball )
You raised your hips again as he peeled the wet fabric down your legs and you didn’t miss the way his eyes turned black as he watched the string of slick connecting your panties to your soaked cunt.
Lying fully naked below him, you couldn’t stop yourself from trying to close your legs, feeling shy under his intense gaze.
Zayne was quick to halt your movements. His large hands on either one of your knees. “Don’t hide from me…not now,” he looked at you, his eyes pleading, “let me love you like this.”
Your head turned as you slowly opened your legs, fully displaying your wet pussy for him.
“Such a good girl for me,” he purred, taking his hand to your jaw, he returned your face to him, “focus…this is the most important part.”
Zayne lowered himself between your spread legs, assuming a sniper position as he moved his arms around your thighs, dragging you closer to him
He was so close to your core that you could feel his breath.
“Now, my favorite part about your legs…” Zayne started peppering kisses on the inside of your thighs. When he reached the stretch marks on the innermost part of your thigh, he made a point to kiss each. and. every. one.
“…is when I go like this…” he moved his hands from around your thighs, placing his thumbs in the crevice where your thigh connected your pussy. He applied pressure to the area, massaging your sensitive skin as he continued, “…you hold your breath, like you’re anticipating what comes next.”
The back and forth movement of his thumbs were spreading your lips apart, his breath making direct contact with your core. You slowly bucked your hips up to him, desperate to feel his tongue on you, but he simply looked at you, his mouth curved up at the sound of your whines.
“Tell me what you want, my love,” he urged.
Your whimpers started to grow louder. “Mmmmm Zaynie, please…”
Zayne started to kiss your pubic area, purposely avoiding the place you needed him most.
“Go on…say it…” he whispered in a low voice, continuing his teasing.
“I want you Zayne…please…stop teasing me,” you pouted, feeling frustrated at the lack of contact. “Please, let me feel you.”
The second the flat of his tongue ran across your slit, you melted. “You taste…absolutely divine” he moaned, before diving back in.
His thumbs pulled your lips further apart, fully exposing your swollen clit. He redirected his tongue, dragging up the slick that leaked out of you like a faucet as he finally made contact with your most sensitive part.
“F-fuck Zayne” you moaned, completely in bliss, “that…that feels so good.”
He hummed against you and you could feel
the vibrations on your clit, causing you to writhe against him.
His arms snaked around your legs, pulling you flush against him, halting your squirming.
“Use me…” he commanded, “take what you need.”
Your hands reached for his hair, pulling him further into you. Feeling his tongue leave, you whined at him. “Needy girl” he chuckled, wrapping his lips around the swollen bud as he sucked you.
“Oh my god…keep…keep doing that…please Zayne.” Your moaning grew more intense, feeling the coil in your stomach tighten. You were so close already, it won’t take much more of this before you fall apart.
Looking down at him, you watched as he grinded himself on the mattress, desperate for his own friction. You were mesmerized by him, but he broke your trance as he inserted two fingers into you.
The feel of him…stretching you out like this…was almost unbearable. Your head fell back on the pillow as you started grinding your hips on his tongue.
His fingers inside you hooked upwards, finding your sweet spot, and you gasped. “There!! F-fuck right there. I’m so close Zayne…please don’t stop.”
Like he would ever, this is exactly where he wants to be.
You noticed his breathing grew heavier and when you looked down at him, his other hand was wrapped around his cock, jerking up and down for his own release. The sight was marvelous. He was getting off to the sounds of your pleasure.
“Zaynie…are you-“
“This is what you do to me.” Zayne cut you off between his licking. “Say my name when you cum for me. I need you to cum for me.”
He returned to your clit, working his fingers at a much quicker pace, sucking you with more force. He wanted you to fall apart for him and lord you would.
“I’m gonna cum…you’re…you’re gonna make me cum Zayne.”
He continued his ministrations, determined to take you there. The coil in your belly was so tight, and when he hooked his fingers up, hitting your g spot, pleasure burst from within you.
“Zayne!!” you shrieked, falling apart on his fingers, all over his mouth.
He didn’t let up. He kept going until the pleasure quickly turned into overstimulation.
“T-too much!” you writhed under him, trying to force his lips off you.
Finally he released you. “Sorry, my love…you just taste so incredible.”
His lips glistened with your cum. Face flushed, pupils blown wide, his cock dripping with precum. The sight of it was so lewd. You couldn’t help but grab him, forcing his lips back on yours. You could taste yourself on him, the kiss messy as your need for him grew.
(Play Crazy in Love (Remix) by Beyonce I KNOW WHAT YOURE THINKING BUT TRUST. IT HAS TO BE THE REMIX. )
“Fuck me, Zayne…I need you inside me right now,” you pleaded.
He nodded against you, taking his hardened cock and guiding it up and down your slit, wetting the tip with your cum as he pushed into you in one fluid motion.
Your jaw went slack. The feeling of him stretching you open was overwhelming. He let out a shaky exhale, like relief washed over his face at the feeling of being inside you.
“Y/n…” Zayne struggled to get the words out, his cock stilled inside you, allowing you to adjust to him “…you feel incredible around me….so tight,” he continued, “so perfect for me.”
Your walls pulsed at the praise, causing him to drop his head on your shoulder, trying his best to hold back for you.
When you were ready, you wrapped you arms around him and pleaded, “please move…Zayne…hurry”
He rocked his hips into you, setting a steady pace as your walls stretched, pulling him deeper into you.
Your nails sunk into his shoulder blades, trying to ground yourself in the moment, but it was so hard. Zayne was so big. His dick touched all the sensitive spots inside you.
“God you feel so good” you moaned. The sounds of his balls slapping against you filled the room, but it was drowned out from the heavy breathing and moans coming from the two of you.
Zayne picked up his pace, soft whimpers leaving his mouth as he bit down on your shoulder. His finger tips buried into your hips. You’re sure there will be crescent shaped bruises there in the morning, but you were too blissed out to care at the moment.
Shifting the angle of his thrusts, his soft head scraped up against your g spot, causing you to gasp and your grip on his hair tightened.
“Just like that..” he whispered in your ear, “let me hear your voice.”
Your moans grew louder, chanting a string of “yes” as his dick bullied your sweet spot.
“M-more Zayne,” you begged breathlessly, “I’m close…please.”
“I know you are,” Zayne growled, snapping his hips into you harder, reaching your deepest parts, “I can feel you…tightening around me.”
He kissed your neck as his thrusts became pointed. “Your body…” thrust, “…has never…” thrust, “…lied to me…” thrust.
“Fuck,” you cursed. The pleasure was overwhelming, white spots in your vision as the coil in your belly grew taut.
Zayne looked in your eyes as his hand reached down your body. His thumb finding your clit, “Now cum for me,” he commanded, and with the added stimulation, you fell apart.
“I’m cumming!! Oh god, Zayne—i’m cumming!!” you shrieked, your walls pulsing rhythmically around him.
He didn’t even let you come down. His hands on your hips pulled you up on top of him. Your bodies now in lotus position as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you even closer to him.
In this position, you could feel everything. The way he grinded his hips into you added pressure to your already oversensitive clit. The tightness in your stomach started to pull again. My god he was going to make you cum again.
“My favorite part about your body…” Zayne whispered, snaking his hand up your spine to the nape of your neck, forcing you to look at him, “is how well it responds to me...”
He thrusted his hips harder into you and you started to grind against him, satisfying your need for him, “to my touch…” His other hand spread across your waist, sinking his nails into your skin, and a smirk adorned his face as you yelped out in response.
He moved his head up to your ear and whispered, “to my voice…” Your moans grew louder, desperate to cum with him this time.
“Zayne…” you whimpered.
“Every part of you was made for me.” As soon as the words left, his hips stuttered. He was close. Just a little longer. Your grinding matched the rhythm of his thrusts.
“My jasmine…you belong to me…” his brows drew together, desperate for release, but not before you. Never. This time he wanted to fall with you.
Your head fell back as your moans filled the bedroom. “Zayne…” you chanted repeatedly, “cum…cum with me…please Zayne.”
Your walls fluttered around him as your release washed over you. Zayne stalled his thrusts, grunting as his release came shortly after. Thick ropes of his hot cum painted your insides, filling you completely of him. If you hadn’t been on birth control — per his request— his wish to impregnate you probably would’ve come true tonight.
The two you stayed like that, trying to regulate your breathing off each other. Zaynes head rested on your chest, completely blissed out from the feel of you.
You could feel him softening inside you, but he wasn’t quick to pull out. He wanted to stay connected with you for as long as possible.
“Zaynie,” you whispered, causing him to look up at you in the midst of his heavy breathing.
Cradling his cheeks, your thumbs rubbed soothing motions along his skin. “I love you so much…that was…that was incredible.”
His eyes were hazy as he looked up at you, “I love you,” he reached his head up, planting a kiss on your lips, “… so much more.”
You smiled against his lips as you whispered a soft “impossible.”
He hummed at your response, too exhausted to debate you at the moment.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, hm?” All you could do was nod in response.
~
He carried you into the bathroom, placing you on top of the counter as he started the bath.
When he returned to you, a damp cloth in his hand to wipe you down, you snickered at him.
“And what could possibly have you so amused in this moment?” he teased.
“I’m sorry,” you said between your giggles, “I was just thinking…that was a really great reward.”
He softly chuckled, his lips curving up to form
the tiny little smile you’ve grown to love so much.
“Mmm, I’m glad you enjoyed it, my love” he spoke while taking the damp cloth between your legs, cleaning the mess he made of you, “Hopefully this will get you to behave more during our appointments.”
You stopped his movements by placing a hand on the center of his chest, “Woah woah woah…one step at a time now, Zaynie.”
“Of course…” he shook his head, hoisting you
back up in his arms as he carried you to the bath, “how presumptuous of me to assume you could be on your best behavior.”
That little…You lightly smacked at his bare chest, but he was amused with your reaction as he kissed your forehead before getting in the tub.
The warm water and his presence around you was so comforting. You melted the back of your head on his chest as he lightly traced his finger tips up and down your arms.
This was bliss. Pure heaven. Nothing could feel better than this moment right now. Zayne was everything you could have asked for. So gentle with you. No reward could ever come close to him.
As he faintly washed over your body, a sudden thought crossed your mind, causing you to jolt around to face him.
“What is it, love?” Zayne asked, a little startled at your quick movements.
“I just remembered! While you were at the hospital, I stopped at the bakery to pick up
some macarons for tonight. They’re in the fridge!”
His eyes widened like little boba pearls at your words. You always knew your snowman loved his sweets.
“And this, my sweet girl,” he smiled down at you, “is exactly why you are the only one for me.”
Your smile stretched at his response, and when he leaned down to kiss you again, you couldn’t help but think,
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loneliness was something you expected to feel for the rest of your life- but yuta okkotsu dared to change that
warnings ⋆.˚ mdni, smut, female!reader, strangers to lovers, this is so sexy and fluffy, emotional depth, angst, a little slowburn??, yuta is highkey husband material, descriptions of mental health, multiple sex scenes, teasing, piv, dirty talk, pet names (baby, sweetheart), oral (f&m), rough sex, sweet sex, angry sex, choking, coming inside, y'all freaky, both are switches, handjob, dry humping, hair grabbing, nipple play, cum eating, cum play, pussy slapping, praise, unprotected sex (wrap it up)
wc ⋆.˚ 11.1k
disclaimer ⋆.˚ my works are purely fiction with all events occurring between 21+ consenting adults
a/n ⋆.˚ aaaaaand fin with the reworks!! i saved (one of) the best for last ofc hehe this was so healing and hot to write ugh i love this fic soso much
january
“thank you, y/n. you’re free to go.”
you bowed to your boss before taking your leave, softly closing the door behind you as you exited her office. sighing, you reached your desk, mindlessly packing your things to head home for the day. it was late, having been asked to stay overtime, to which you so reluctantly agreed to. it’s not like you had anything better to do, anyway.
every day was the same. wake up, eat toast, brush teeth, subway, work, subway again, dinner, sleep, repeat. at that point, every activity blurred together that you were like a robot completing precoded tasks. you were hardly conscious of what you were doing, barely feeling alive, if you could even claim you did, even a smidge.
it wasn’t supposed to rain that evening, nor did you expect to be told your usual subway stop was out of commission due to emergency maintenance. the closest bus stop didn’t have a covered waiting area. you looked up at the grey clouds slowly changing to black, gentle raindrops bouncing off of your cheeks. it turned into a downpour within the matter of seconds. you frowned, flickering your gaze to the pavement below you, shoes soaked, reflection of yourself in the puddle showing how drenched you were. your laptop was probably completely water damaged at this point, despite your bag being waterproof. you were cold, long stringy droplets of water connecting the ends of your hair to your coat sleeves. you really should just carry an umbrella around with you on the regular.
and, it went without saying, being in the middle of winter didn’t help your misery.
suddenly, you couldn’t feel the rain anymore, a shadow now looming above your head. you looked up, seeing there was a man standing beside you. he kept his gaze forward, one hand holding the umbrella over the both of you, while the other was stuffed into his coat pocket.
“shit weather, huh?” he said after a few moments, glancing at you with a friendly smile. “the forecast always lies.”
he was beautiful. you’d never seen anyone like him. “yeah,” you agreed, silence following.
it was only the two of you waiting at the stop, the sound of pattering rain and passing cars nearly overstimulating your system. you stood still, breathing slowly, praying your body would start warming up while you were still forced to stand outside, soaked and cold.
you heard the man shuffling through what sounded like his pocket, holding a pair of handwarmers out in front of you once he found what he was looking for.
“here,” he offered, “i know it won’t do much, but at least it’ll warm you up a little while we’re stuck out here.”
your lips parted, “thank you,” whispering to him in gratitude.
he didn’t say anything further, just nodding and sending you the same, sweet smile he had when he first arrived at the street corner.
the bus was on time, thankfully. you didn’t expect the man to sit next to you for the ride, but he did. you jumped, slightly startled when you suddenly felt something weighted on your shoulders. you looked to see he had removed his jacket, much dryer than your own, and placed it over you.
“you need it more than i do.” he stood up before you could protest, beginning to walk towards the door to exit. his stop was next.
“wait,” you grabbed his wrist before he could get very far, “you’ll freeze out there!”
he chuckled and shrugged. “i’m only a block from the stop. just return it to me tomorrow.”
he was at the door now. you didn’t even have time to ask for his name, nor where you were supposed to meet him to return the jacket. you just stared in shock as you watched him step off the bus into the storm. he sent you a wave through the window as it drove off, a playful smile on his face despite his circumstances of now being the one freezing in the rain.
is he crazy?
✧・゚: ✧
you tried for the remainder of the week to find him when you left the office in the evenings, eyes jumping around from face to face in the bustling rush hour crowd as you made your way towards the subway station to return home after work. you sighed, tired from carrying his heavy puffer jacket around with you for three days straight, but also from feeling bad that you still had it. you just hoped he owned a second winter coat he was utilizing for the time being.
it was sunnier that day, warmer, in terms of january weather. you sat on the park bench just above the grounds of the station for a moment to catch your breath. the train wasn’t due to arrive for another fifteen minutes, anyway.
you huffed, tossing the jacket next to you onto the bench and crossing your arms. “how does he expect me to return it to him when i have no idea who he is?” you scoffed aloud.
you heard a chuckle from a few inches away, your eyes shooting in the direction of the sound. there he was, hands nonchalantly stuffed into his pockets once again. this time, an amused smirk rested on his face, rather than the kind smile he showed you the first time you met.
“maybe i wanted you to keep it longer,” he teased, having heard what you said. you blushed, feeling a bit embarrassed, sending your gaze straight into your lap and away from him. he laughed again, taking a seat beside you, his jacket acting as a divider. “thanks for keeping it safe for me, rain girl.” you shot him a glare, which only caused him to laugh even harder. he picked up the jacket, draping it over his forearm before he stood up again. “i’m yuta, by the way, since you were wondering.”
you rolled your eyes at his playfulness, too tired to be in the mood for it. “and you couldn’t have told me that in the bus, plus where to find you? my arms hurt! your jacket must weigh, like, one hundred pounds!”
“couldn’t miss my stop,” he shrugged, still keeping up with his teasing antics. you tsked. he just kept smiling. “what’s your name?”
“i think i should make you chase me around now, trying to find me before i tell you that,” you shot back, half joking, “give you a taste of your own medicine.”
“i like you,” he complimented, grinning ear to ear, “you’re full of spunk and it fascinates me.”
“how did you even know it was me sitting here?” you groaned, throwing your head back in frustration before standing up to your feet.
“i’ve had that jacket for years, i could recognize it from a mile away.”
“right,” you huffed, “anyway, now that you have it, i’m leaving.”
“w–wait,” he stopped you mid-step, “are you really not going to tell me your name?”
you stared at him blankly, but eventually fell into a softer expression. “it’s y/n.”
“y/n,” he repeated, as if he was analyzing it, “beautiful name.” you choked, not expecting him to compliment you like that. he hummed delightedly, tucking his hands back into his jeans and taking a step closer to you. “you get flustered so easily.”
“i–i don’t–,” you sighed, “i’ve known you for a grand total of fourty minutes and i can already tell you’re a menace.”
he pouted playfully. “man, you have that impression of me already?”
“yes.”
he stuck out his tongue, “good,” then turned swiftly on his heels and stepped away from you in the opposite direction, “see you around, y/n.”
you were astonished by his attitude. he was slightly irritating, sure, but you found yourself very attracted to him. he exuded confidence, unapologetically himself, having fun and not taking life too seriously. you were intrigued. captivated. moved. perhaps you could learn a thing or two from him.
you couldn’t stop thinking about him that night, the scent of his woodsy cologne somehow still embedded in your nose. you curled up into your bed, squealing as you kicked your feet like a school girl with a crush.
“what the fuck?” you groaned, face palming yourself. “what has he done to me?”
✧・゚: ✧
you couldn’t help it. every night you left the office, you looked for him. you’d see a puffer jacket in the swarm of bodies, but the shade of black was slightly off. a similar haircut and hue of brown would catch your eye, but the person’s height wasn't quite right. sometimes, you’d be halfway calling out his name, only to stop yourself when you realized it wasn’t him.
he almost felt like a mirage, someone you had just made up to curb your loneliness. you’d felt that way for a while– lonely– most of your friends either married or moved far away, not having much time on their hands to lend you anymore. in fact, you couldn’t even remember the last time you had a proper conversation with any of them past the surface of 'hope you’ve been well' monthly check ins.
sighing, you accepted your defeat, and that your life was fated for painful, agonizing solitude. you didn’t feel much else at that point, so what were you really missing out on?
“looking for me?”
a vibration of life rushed through you the moment you heard his voice, completely erasing your gloomy thoughts in an instant– yuta. you turned around, him standing now in front of you with a cheeky grin.
he held up the small plastic bag in his hand. “i bought some melon buns if you’re hungry.”
“somehow, you just keep finding me,” you exhaled, smiling.
“i’ve seen your face enough times now to recognize it.”
your heartbeat quickened. he rumaged through the bag, pulling out two packages of the bread, “want one?”
you nodded, taking it from his hands. you two sat down on the same park bench you had the previous week when you returned his coat to him.
the bun was still warm, you humming as it heated your body pleasantly while you ate it. “i haven’t had one of these in so long,” you expressed, savouring the treat, enveloped in nostalgia, “thanks for sharing.”
he shrugged, lips tugging upwards. “don’t mention it.” he took a bite of his. “you’re helping me portion control, otherwise i’d eat them all in one sitting.”
you snorted, swallowing the soft-textured pastry. the business complex quieted down fairly quickly as the two of you sat together. all of the employees had pretty much left the area to return home from their shifts by the time you both finished eating.
“ah,” you started, crumpling up your empty wrapper. you stuffed it into your pocket once you realized there wasn’t a trashcan nearby for you to throw it away in. “before i forget, should we exchange numbers?”
“thought i was a menace?” yuta teased, fishing for his phone
“you are,” your lips went straight, but not for long. “but, i don’t know. maybe we could be friends? we get along well enough, right?”
he smiled. your heart fluttered. you watched as he opened up a new contact file and passed you his phone. “here.” you quickly filled in your information and texted yourself before handing it back to him. for a moment, you thought you noticed a flicker of something unreadable flash across his face as he looked at the screen. there was a faint smile, and was he… blushing? it was a bit hard to tell in the dark evenings of the mid-winter season, but the screen brightness made it seem as if there was a tinge of red resting on his cheeks.
he offered to take you home that night, to ride the subway with you to your stop then walk you to your house from there. you refused, however. despite your friendliness, he was still a new person, and you were wary of trusting him that easily. he understood and didn’t press you, though he did feel nervous leaving you alone when it was so dark out.
“i’ll be fine,” you assured him, “if i told you the amount of times i’ve stayed overtime and left the office even later than this, it would probably send you into cardiac arrest,” you joked.
he chuckled lightly, pursing his lips in acknowledgment. “fair enough,” he said, stepping away from you just a little to start parting ways, “you’ll let me know when you get home, yeah?”
you nodded. “promise.”
he smiled. “okay. get home safely, then.”
“i will.”
you did text yuta when you arrived home, keeping your word, his heart settling immediately as he received your message. he chuckled at the selfie you sent along with it, too, a goofy look plastered on your face as you thumbed up the camera in what looked to be your kitchen.
you: safe and sound!! [image attached]
yuta: great 😁 sleep well, y/n
✧・゚: ✧
april
life felt a little brighter now. for the past few months, you and yuta texted and met up fairly regularly. sometimes you would meet at a cafè on weekends, but most of the time, it was just evenings after work, ever since you learned his office was located in the same complex as yours– which was easy enough to figure out as you two ran into each other in the area the first few times. now, it was just planned, rather than spontaneous. the park bench had become a second home to the both of you.
“you know,” you started, swallowing your bite of kebab, “it’s so nice to have someone to talk to. all of my friends– i mean, if i could even still consider them that– we barely talk anymore, and i haven’t seen them in over a year.”
“you must feel pretty lonely,” yuta deducted, voice completely serious.
it caught you off guard, since you were so used to his playful tone. “yeah,” you nodded, him nailing it right on the head, “you have no idea.”
his heart ached. he was happy to give you some comfort and company with his presence. “glad i can be of service,” he saluted you jokingly, and you nudged his side with a laugh.
you started allowing him to ride the subway with you to your neighbourhood stop, but still didn’t let him walk you home afterwards. as usual, he never pushed you to open up to him further. he wanted you to share what you wanted to in your own time. your comfort was important to him. he liked hanging out with you. he wasn’t in a rush to know everything about you, in fact, part of the beauty in friendship was the process of getting to know someone over time. he would cherish every moment, enjoy the present experience without worrying about what comes next.
he could feel your pain, no matter how unspoken it was. you mentioning your lack of friendships was only the tip of the iceberg of what he sensed you were battling with silently. there was this deep need within him to be with you, protect you, heal you, in some capacity. you only gave him a sliver of who you were beyond the surface, but his heart shuddered nonetheless. you were clearly hurting, and he wanted to help you fix whatever it was if it was within his means to do so.
yuta: brunch saturday?
you: sure, send me the place?
yuta: nah, your pick
you: what about here? [map location]
yuta: fuuuuck, they have shakshuka? sign me up
you: 😋 10 sound good to meet?
yuta: absolutely. see you then!
the rest of the week came and went, saturday arriving quicker than expected. you popped on a layer of lipgloss, checking yourself all but ten times in the mirror before making your way towards the restaurant. you had to stop a few blocks away from the building to calm yourself down before entering, because you were getting way too excited and ahead of yourself. you were taking this new friendship too seriously. lipgloss and a miniskirt? who were you kidding? you were growing a big, fat crush on yuta– if it wasn’t obvious already.
he was already sitting at the table when you entered, face beaming once he saw you step through the doorway of the establishment. you smiled, heart melting. he always seemed so happy to see you, like you simply existing brought him the greatest joy.
you stepped closer. his heart skipped a beat, now that he had a better look at how you were dressed, eyes trailing from your face down to your exposed thighs. you pretended not to notice, but god, was he shit at hiding his emotions. that’s something you learned about him pretty quickly. his analysis made you nervous, cheeks flushing even after he finally snapped his sharp attention away.
“you look great,” he cleared his throat, plastering his typical friendly smile onto his face. he was clearly trying to hide that fact he was just checking the fuck out of you.
“thanks,” you grinned, taking the seat across from him, “you look nice, too.” he did. he was wearing a beige crewneck and a slick pair of light blue jeans. casual, yet highly effective.
brunch was comfortable. warm– the kind of warmth that mimicked seeing wildflowers in spring for the first time. his smile was like that. every time his cheeks puffed out, eyes crinkling, melodic laughter escaping from deep down in his chest, you just wanted to bottle up that moment and keep it forever. to turn it into a film strip you could replay in your mind whenever you wanted. he was truly beautiful, every moment you spent together bringing more and more light into your dark days. your lonely heart was slowly starting to lift with each moment yuta was a part of. the dynamic between you two seemed so natural, almost too much at times.
something shifted not too long after that day. perhaps it was the fiery energy beginning to fill up the air as may was approaching that triggered the change.
you may not have invited yuta over to your place yet, but that didn’t mean he couldn't bring you over to his.
maybe it was the vanilla of your perfume that did it, or possibly the way your skirt was riding up your thighs just enough to tease him while you two walked through the art exhibit that evening. admittedly, he was barely looking at the actual displays at that point, far too distracted by the fact, if your hem lifted just a bit further, your panties would be visible. it was times like these that he was reminded that he was, indeed, a man, and no matter how respectful and gentle he treated you, he couldn't ignore how sexy you were; how often he dreamed about exploring between your thighs and fucking you until you couldn’t walk. what you tasted like, sounded like.
yuta had you trapped between him and the front door, locking it behind you once you were both inside of his apartment, breaths heavy, chests nearly pressed together. your fists clenched at your sides, lips parting and begging, legs trembling with pure desire.
“fuck,” he cursed, mouth dropping over your ear. you released a sound that was nearly inaudible. he chuckled darkly as he heard it. “do you have any idea how fucking crazy you were making me back at the museum?” you shivered. “your legs were practically begging to be spread apart in the middle of the fucking place.”
you could hardly breathe, heat pooling to your stomach, cunt soaked, knees turning to jelly as you prayed for him to do more. if his voice and words alone were enough to ruin you, then how much more could he wreck you with his cock?
you needed to know.
“you’re shaking, baby,” he cooed, daring to drop his hands from caging your head to land softly at your hips. he squeezed them, not too much, just enough to alert you of his intention, a quiet whimper falling from your lips. he pulled back to look at you, mischief written all over his face as he brought you in closer. this side of yuta was the polar opposite of what you were used to– and you liked it. “does somebody need me to touch them, hm?” he taunted, “does your pretty little pussy want to be fucked?”
“p-please,” you whined, almost instinctively, back sliding slightly down the door panel.
he licked his lips before dropping to his knees, hooking his fingers around the straps of your panties and pulling them impatiently down to your ankles. you lifted your feet to assist him in removing them completely, watching as he tossed them aside carelessly. he forcefully spread your thighs apart, your body causing the door to rattle as it slammed against it a little from the sudden movement. he peered up at you, eyes glistening, ready to devour your cunt, keeping his gaze burning into your eyes as he spread your folds apart, fingers tracing and pressing into you with different levels of pressure.
“jesus christ,” he huffed, elated, “you’re fucking dripping,” removing his hand off of you for a moment and lifting it to show you, “you fucking see this?” he moaned, stretching his fingers smugly as he observed your sticky mess expand between his coated fingers. “so perfect,” he placed his hand back where you needed him the most, “gonna make you scream for me.”
your nails dug into your palms as you stood there, biting your lip to silence your sweet cries, walls pulsing as he kitten-licked your bundle of nerves. the tips of his fingers prodded open your entrance, the singe from the stretch of his three fingers causing you to bite down hard enough to draw blood. you moaned, head falling back against the door while you lifted your hands to grab his hair. you were moving against him now, fingers squelching inside of you, so filthy and beautiful, while his tongue ate you out like a starved man. he could feel you were close, chuckling as he slowed the thrusts of his fingers to curl up into you hard and deep. a broken cry erupted from your throat, your grip in his strands growing devoutly as you pressed him firmer against your cunt.
“y–yu– oh, fuck,” you exhaled, eyes rolling back, unable to keep yourself from riding his face. “i’m gonna fucking come!”
“let go, baby,” he muttered against you. the vibration nearly pushed you over the edge, “give me your sweet cum.”
with one final curl of his digits and circle of the tongue, you reached your peak, hips jolting forward so violently that he just barely managed to catch your thighs to keep you still, helping you ride out your high with soft kisses and sucks on your pussy. your voice was loud, raspy, cracking as you trembled in his touch, mourning the absence of his fingers when he finally removed them from your hole. he stayed perched on his knees, looking up at you while he cleaned all of you off of him, humming blissfully at your taste. you watched him despite your blurry vision, his fingers shoved down his throat, your chest heaving.
yuta returned to his feet, face smug and full of pride, leaning forward gently to kiss your lips. you melted into him as you tasted yourself on his mouth, tongues gently rolling over each other as they snuck past teeth. your arms wrapped around his back, gripping at the material of his shirt as he deepened the kiss, his hands trailing up your spine until they reached your zipper. you heard the faint sound of undoing it down, permitting yourself to let your dress slide off your body and pool at your feet. you stepped out of it, pushing the two of you away from the front door, just leaving it there on the floor.
he picked you up, a small yelp escaping you as you folded your body around him, hands messily tangled in his hair, thighs squeezing his waist, kissing him fervently, him chaotically stumbling towards his bedroom. he dropped himself onto his back, pulling you to sit on top of him. you ground your hips against him once you settled around his lap, your arousal coating the outside of his pants.
“fuck,” he hissed, breaking away from you to breathe. his fingers dug into your waist as he forced you down onto him again, harder this time. “look at you soaking my clothes, baby,” his cheeks were flushed as he increased his speed, “might just come like this.”
you were panting, nearly out of the breath, blissful heat surging against your skin from the friction. his bulge pressed against your already sensitive clit, head falling forward limply with each thrust.
“oh– oh, shit,” he groaned, making a mess inside of his boxers with a piercing cry. he laughed, elated, gradually slowing your hips on him. he lifted you gently to sit you beside him, shimmying out of his saturated clothing and dropping the articles onto the floor beside the bed. you stared at his cock, hard and throbbing again, sticky, wet cum all over his length and thighs. “look at what you did,” he purred, flickering his gaze between you and the mess in his lap, “wanna clean it up for me?”
you were already drooling, licking up the insides of his thighs until you reached his tip, lips finally wrapping around his dripping length without giving him a verbal answer. he growled, fisting your hair to push you further along his cock, bucking up into your mouth with fervor. “yeah, like that,” he choked, back of his head pressing deeper into the pillows, “milk me again, sweetheart. swallow me.”
you struggled to take all of him, spit dripping all over his pelvis and thighs below you and down your chin. he watched you ruin yourself, sucking him in so earnestly, biting his lip, spurts of hot semen rushing down your throat as he unloaded every drop of his second orgasm into your mouth. you whined, his grip on your head loosening, you pulling away when it became too much. he watched his cum spill sloppily down your chin, your mouth unable to hold all of it. he smirked, coaxing you to move up his body further so he could help you. he licked the rest of his release off your face, swallowing the salty mixture before pushing your bottom lip down with his thumb. he grinned wickedly when he saw you had successfully swallowed what you could manage of him.
“such a good fucking girl,” he cooed, pecking your lips sweetly once, then twice, “taking me like a champ.” your mouth quivered. he could feel your skin pulsing desperately with need beneath his touch, grin spreading wider. “does someone want more?” you nodded. “baby needs my cock inside of her, doesn’t she?”
you swallowed, “yuta,” calling his name shakily, “i need you– fuck, please.”
“go ahead, then,” he taunted, moving your hips downwards to position your cunt above his tip, “let me watch you fuck yourself.”
you allowed yourself to sink down onto him, the stretch so painfully good, surging through every fiber of your being like a drug. you both moaned together, his hands settling behind his head as he watched you intensely, licking his lips, legs twitching as you slid along his length. you pressed your palms flat against his abdomen, uneven pants leaking out of you like your slick, lashes fluttering, hips moving faster.
“s-so good,” you choked every time his tip met your cervix.
he smiled at your determination; he found it so cute and endearing. “keep going like that then, baby,” he coached you gently, breaths exponentially growing shorter as you sped up, “shit– fuck yeah.” his hips were lifting to meet yours now, skin smacking against skin, passion in your veins swallowing his cock as filthy moans spilt out of you. “god, your sounds are so pretty.” he hit your pleasure point hard and deep, forcing a ragged cry out from the back of your throat. “that's it," he growled, "get loud for me.”
you did, succumbing completely to the pleasure, electricity flowing through your veins as if his cock is what you kept you alive. his hands were on your waist now, hips pistoning up into you mercilessly as you collapsed forward onto his chest. he wrapped his arms around you, squeezing you tightly as your head rested beneath his chin. he could feel your drool coating his chest.
“f-fuck, yuta!” you screamed, clawing at his shoulders “gonna– ah– gonna–”
“squirt on me,” he growled, hips stuttering against you as you clenched around his length. he was nearly about to explode. “let me feel you.”
with a final cry, you released, hot liquid streaming down the sides of his shaft and all over his pelvis. he grunted loudly, voice cracking, eyes squeezing shut violently as he let go a second later, painting your battered walls with his hot, white seed.
“holy fuck, baby,” he hissed, gradually stilling inside of you, releasing his tight grip around your body slowly as you both struggled to catch your breath again. you stayed like that for a while, lying chest to chest, him still pulsing inside of you, your walls teasingly continuing to clench around him. with a satisfied hum, you managed to pull yourself up enough to look down at him, fucked-out smile looking so perfect on your face as if it belonged there.
“you feel okay?” you asked, words slurring.
“yeah,” yuta grinned, lifting a hand to tuck your sweaty, loose strands of hair behind your ears, “you?”
you exhaled, smile extending past your cheeks, “yeah. really okay. so good, actually. i feel amazing.”
he chuckled, protruding his head upwards just enough to place a delicate kiss on the tip of your nose. you scrunched it teasingly. “let’s get cleaned up, then i’ll order some takeout for us, yeah? sound good?”
you nodded, body still trying to settle. “i want fried chicken.”
✧・゚: ✧
things with yuta felt… perfect. too perfect; it was almost unsettling. you couldn’t help the doom constantly lingering in the back of your mind, waiting for the other shoe to drop. he hadn’t made things official yet, despite you two having had sex multiple times and going out on numerous of what you assumed were dates. that was probably your first mistake– assuming. you were practically dating, right? that’s what this was, right?
yet, the ache stayed there, embedded and insulting you from the inside out.
maybe you were being ridiculous. it’s not like you didn’t have the power to ask him to be your boyfriend. the man didn’t have to be the one to do it. but, still, you wondered if he was feeling things as deeply as you were. if he saw you as more than a close friends and a good– really good– fuck.
it didn’t seem like he was seeing anyone else. he was so attentive to your needs, even remembering the silly little things, like how your favourite coffee shop put a little too much foam for your liking on your lattes sometimes, so he’d take a spoon and scoop the excess off the top and eat it for you. you’d smile, blushing at the sweet gesture, before enjoying your now perfect drink.
he was very present, too, not only in your life, but when you were intimate. he could sense every little change in your expressions, every tremble of your skin, like he was working to memorize every inch of you. he checked in with you often, making sure you were comfortable and felt okay, even in the midst of him pounding you into oblivion. his sweet words never felt like nothings. there was no way he didn’t feel more for you… right?
he noticed one night while you two were making slow, sweet love in your apartment. you had finally reached the point where you felt safe enough to share more with him, inviting him over, the lighthearted evening turning into a night of passionate sex.
“fuck, y/n,” he groaned, sliding into you steady and deep, “you feel so perfect around me.”
he detected the way your body clenched him ever so differently than usual. even with such a small sign, he knew. his eyebrows furrowed slightly, looking at you curiously as he came to a still.
something was clearly wrong.
he pulled out of you gently, sitting up on his knees. you looked at him, confused why he stopped. you realized soon after, though, that the lump in your throat wasn’t going anywhere. you should have known he’d figure it out sooner or later, that something was amiss.
“what’s going on?” he asked, softly, “you seem… off.”
the closer he got to you, the harder it was to suppress your feelings. he could read you all too well by now. “i’m–” you started, trying to gather your thoughts, “what are we?”
he looked surprised by your question. “what do you want us to be?”
for yuta, he was open to all possibilities. he liked you– a lot– but at the same time, he was an adult, willing to enjoy your company without the labels if that’s what you wanted.
“i really like you, yuta,” you whispered, “if that wasn’t obvious already.” he smiled. “i want us to be official. i don’t care about seeing anyone else, in fact, the thought hasn’t even crossed my mind since you shared your umbrella with me.” his heart warmed from the memory. “is that something you would want?”
in that moment, he grinned wider, heart fluttering in his chest as he leaned over to kiss you deep and sweet. he pulled away a few seconds later, resting his forehead against yours, your anxious breath mixing with his calm. “yeah,” he said, voice low and certain, “i want you to be my girlfriend.”
you bit your lip, unable to contain your happiness. your chest swelled with joy, pushing the lurking loneliness aside again. “thank god,” you laughed, relieved, “i was afraid you’d say no.”
“how could i ever say no to you?” he cooed, dropping his head slowly and deliberately to your still bare core, nipping your skin along the way, “i love taking care of you."
✧・゚: ✧
july
yuta: did you try on that dress i bought you yet?
you: not yet, i’ve been meaning to tho
yuta: put it on when you get home tonight. im taking you out.
you: oh? surprise date?
yuta: of course. meet me here at 8 [map location]
you: okay, mr. rizz 🤭 see you then
you stared at the clock. tick, tick, tick. it was only 1 pm– you had four more hours to go until you were finished working, five if you counted the commute home. you were buzzing with anticipation for whatever yuta had in store for you, conjuring up all sorts of scenarios in your head. your cube mate, kento, dropped his half-empty water bottle in front of you onto the desk, the sudden slam causing you to jolt, startled.
“what the hell?” you snapped.
“you’re daydreaming again,” he sighed, plopping into his chair. “we have a deadline to meet, y/n.” he turned to face you, legs and arms crossed, a cunning look resting on his face. “i bet it’s a guy.”
“what?” you gasped, shocked he was saying such a thing. you two weren’t close like that. you didn’t consider him a friend at all, just an acquaintance due to circumstances– you could hardly avoid a coworker, especially one that your boss partnered you up with often at that. “it’s not– you know what? it’s none of your business.” you huffed, refocusing on your work.
he chuckled, biting his lip in amusement as he turned back to his computer, as well. “definietly a guy.” he repeated, quieter this time.
the rest of the day dragged on so much that it felt like you were breathing for the first time in years when you stepped out of the building. the fresh, summer breeze brushed across your face, nearby food stalls with various culinary delicacies caused you to salivate. you weren’t sure if yuta had dinner planned, he didn’t specify, but with your meeting time, you assumed you would be having some sort of meal together. for that reason, you decide to fight your cravings for a small, tasty treat to enjoy on your commute home in hopes of not spoiling your expected dinner.
the dress looked even better on you than the pictures, much to your surprise. yuta had texted you on a random tuesday afternoon a few weeks before, a screenshot of a sage green dress with a decorative cut out on the abdomen area. he simply said ‘it’s otw’ to you without any further context, though it wasn’t hard to put two and two together.
“hot damn,” you smiled, feeling the most beautiful you had felt in god knows how long, “he’s going to freak out when he sees me in this.”
you opted to wear sneakers, accounting for any possible walking you’d have to endure. the pair you chose matched the dress’ colour well. you sat on the ledge of the fountain, just beside the clocktower downtown where he asked you to meet him. your heart was pounding, excitement bubbling in your stomach, as you waited for him to arrive. you were slightly early, only by about ten minutes. he messaged you that he was on his way not too long after you left your apartment.
yuta wasn’t usually one to be late. every time you two decided to hangout, he was always on the dot of your agreed meeting time. you kicked your feet impatiently, figuring he probably got stuck in some traffic. that was to be expected in your bustling city, even during the weeknights. you trusted he’d be there soon.
so, you waited.
and waited.
yuta was panicking in the taxi, running his fingers through his hair, eyes red from fighting back his frustrated tears. the traffic had barely moved for the past twenty minutes. he was still thirty minutes out, according to the map on the driver’s dashboard.
“shit,” he swore quietly, clicking mindlessly at the buttons on his phone that he, unfortunately, didn't get the chance to charge before he left to meet you, and now was dead. “fuck, this can’t be happening right now.” he was too wrapped up in making sure he made it to you on time that he forgot to grab his charger on the way out. he even tried asking the taxi driver if he had one he could borrow for the duration of the ride, but his phone model was different.
he knew how you would react. you’d give him the benefit of the doubt until a certain amount of time had passed, then you’d spiral. you weren’t completely healed of your loneliness, your fear of being abandoned, isolated, and he knew that. he couldn’t help but blame himself. “if only i’d paused for five seconds to grab the fucking charger,” he yelled silently to himself, “i’m so fucking stupid.” he beat himself up for not having memorized your phone number by heart yet to borrow someone else’s phone to reach you. he didn’t know the layout of the city well enough to trust himself navigating through the streets to where you were waiting without his phone. besides, even if he ran, he’d still be extremely late.
he knew it wasn’t completely his fault. he had no control over the pile up occurring enroute, nor your feelings in response. but, he felt it all the same. the guilt, the worry, the sadness. you were probably crying all alone at this point, believing he had stood you up. he had very little hope you’d still be waiting by the clocktower when he got there. he felt sick.
you stared at your phone screen, the text thread with yuta in view. nothing. it was nearly two hours past the time he was supposed to meet you. your heart hammered, louder, but it wasn’t from excitement anymore. it was terror, dreading the reality of the situation.
he wasn’t coming. that’s what you believed.
the corners of your eyes started to water, hot tears prickling, burning as they slid down your cheeks. you whimpered, nearly inaudibly, head pointed downwards as you fiddled with your fingers in your lap.
“what the hell?” you croaked, letting out a deflated laugh, “i can’t believe he actually stood me up.”
your lips quivered as you tugged anxiously at the material of your dress. you knew you were being irrational. yuta had never done this before, and you’d been seeing each other for six months now, give or take three months officially as a couple. there had to have been a viable reason.
but in that moment, every heartache, every painful experience from your past seared inside of your chest, and you couldn’t feel anything else.
you slammed the front door of your apartment shut with a loud bang, allowing your sobs to fall freely out of you once you were inside. you gasped, fists clenched against your chest, knees sliding to the floor as you tried to control your cries. you were so angry, so hurt. “why hasn’t he texted me again?” you gritted your teeth, thoughts loud, “did i do something wrong that made him ghost me?”
these disparaging thoughts mixed with others, all of your worst fears running through your mind. your head was pounding, ears ringing with nothing but horror. “what if something horrible happened to him?” you panicked, “fuck, what if he’s dead?”
you managed to crawl into the kitchen, body weak, head spinning, throwing open the fridge to grab a cool bottle of water. you sat on the floor, back resting against the island as you sipped slowly, squeezing your eyes shut, sobs still quietly escaping from your mouth.
at some point, you managed to make it to the couch, curling up into a ball as your eyes stained red, tired and worn out from crying for two hours straight. you didn’t have the energy to change your clothes, still wearing that stupid, beautiful dress yuta had bought for you.
there was a loud knock at the door around midnight.
“y/n,” it was yuta. you froze, “fuck, please open up. i’m sorry,” he sounded frantic, scared, “let me explain, please, i know you’re probably so mad at me right now.” you swallowed hard, curling up tighter into the pillows. your chest began to shake, slow tears forming in your eyes once again. “baby, please,” he whimpered, forehead bumping against the door as he waited patiently on the other side. “please, let me in. let me talk to you. fuck.”
you wanted to let him in. god, you fucking did. but the part of you that believed he left you stranded on purpose, that he didn’t want you anymore, was so much louder.
you heard him sigh, followed by what sounded like him sliding down the door to sit on the floor outside. “i’ll wait as long as it takes,” his voice cracked, “until you let me in, even if its all night.”
you bit your lip, silent whimpers breaking through your throat. your heart felt like it was being torn to shreds, cycling through disappointment, sadness, shame, and anger; over and over again, like a ticking timebomb.
“y/n,” he called out to you again a few minutes later, voice soft, deflated, “please.”
something broke inside of you right then. you were afraid of this part of you, the part that became enraged every time someone left you alone. you always forced it down, ignoring the pain, allowing it to fester and eat you alive. perhaps, you had finally reached your breaking point. you opened the door, slowly, eyes glowing red.
yuta noticed. he stood up off the floor, giving you a polite nod and soft 'thank you', treading carefully as he stepped into the apartment. you didn’t bother shutting the door behind him gracefully.
“y/n–”
“hours,” you cut him off, shaking in fury. you stood a few feet away from him, nails digging into your palms, “i waited hours for you to show up,” you seethed, accusatory. “no text, no call. nothing.”
“baby, my phone–”
you had him backed against the wall now, pointer digging into his chest. he exhaled sharply, feeling sorry for the deep hurt he had caused you. it was all a misunderstanding, and right now, you were too angry to hear him out. he knew that, unsure if trying to explain what happened to any degree would even be helpful currently. he was sure you’d understand in the morning, after you’d calmed down and rested well.
“fuck, yuta,” you laughed, hysterically, “i told you,” you hissed, “i told you that everyone just leaves me in the end, and what do you do?” he swallowed. “you go and do the same thing to me.”
yuta hated how turned on he was feeling in that moment. jesus christ, you were so fucking hot when you were mad. he tried to refocus on your words, on deescalating the situation, but it was increasingly difficult with the way his dick kept twitching in his jeans.
“do you have any idea how fucking excited i was for tonight? i could barely focus on my work all day,” you gritted your teeth, “and all i got was disappointment in the end.”
you were staring at him now, nostrils flared, fingers curling around the material of his shirt. your heart threatened to jump out of your throat, thighs clenching together as you just stood like that for what felt like hours. he was too afraid to move. you were too lost in your anger to be rational about the increasing heat pooling in your stomach.
for a moment, you forgot he was the one you were mad at. all you knew is that you were mad, and you needed to blow off the steam somehow.
you crashed your lips onto his, messy, hot, needy, tongue prodding his lips apart and sliding to the back of his throat. he grabbed your hips, pulling you aggressively against his body, pressing himself harder against the wall. you sloppily unbuttoned his jeans, shoving your hands into his boxers and freeing him hastily. he choked, hands releasing your sides to grip your hair wildly as you started pumping your hands along his veiny, dripping shaft, precum smearing all over his cock. he peered at you through hooded lids, cheeks flushed, drool sitting all pretty on his lips, while loud cries erupted from his chest.
“fuck– fuck, oh my god,” he growled, thrusting into your fists.
“i’ll really make you fucking sorry for standing me up,” you hissed, pumping him faster, your deadly gaze on his face unwavering.
“m–my phone– ngh– died before i could– jesus– could tell you what happened,” he choked, pulling on your hair hard enough that your head was thrown back. you let out a guttural groan in both pain and ecstasy.
“yeah?” you taunted, bitterly, “making up excuses now?”
“n–no,” he huffed, losing himself extraordinarily fast as you dropped to your knees, taking him into your mouth, “fucking– mph– there was an accident on my– right there, shit– on my route and i– jesus, i’m gonna fill your pretty little mouth– i went all the way to where we were supposed to me– fucking hell– meet, praying you’d still be there, even though i was–,” he tried to breathe, “i was so fucking late, and you were g–gone,” he was a moaning mess, shoving you down onto his cock, your beautiful choking sounds on his size being the most glorious song he had ever heard. “so, i got here as– god, baby, i’m going to fucking come– fast as i could.”
he reached the edge, body shaking violently as he spurted his hot, creamy cum down your throat, helping drag your mouth along him slowly as he rode out his high. “fuck,” his voice cracked, weak, “you’re so fucking perfect, jesus christ.”
you released him with a pop, standing up to your feet, licking your lips clean of him with a threatening look plastered on your face. you looked so hostile that his cock was hard again instantly.
“right,” you spat, tapping his cheeks sarcastically. he inhaled sharply. he always assumed he was the dominant one in the bedroom, but fuck, was he about to bow at your feet in uttmost worship of how mean you were treating him. you started walking away, disappearing into the bedroom. yuta kept his back glued to the wall, unsure if you wanted him to follow or stay put. “are you coming or not?” you scoffed, voice echoing down the hallway.
he cleared his throat, cheeks hot, bumping into the wall as he turned the corner to reach your bedroom. “shit,” he muttered, letting out a quiet groan in pain, rubbing his knee where it met impact.
you were sitting on the edge of the bed, fully bare, arms crossed and tapping on your biceps as if he was running out of time to earn your forgiveness.
“sit,” you said, lips straight, shifting to the side slightly to give him space. once he did, you stood up, positioning yourself in front of him. “shirt off.”
he obliged, head buzzing, while you completely removed his pants. he didn’t dare to touch you, just looked up at your piercing eyes, hands gripping the sheets, while he waited for further guidance.
you laughed, low and wicked, placing a hand on his shoulder as you leaned over his ear. he shuddered from your touch. “i’m going to ride you until you never even think of leaving me again.”
he never thought that in the first place, but he’d pretend he had in this moment if it meant you would ruin him for it. you straddled his lap, knees indenting into the mattress on either side of his thighs, sinking down onto his cock with an elongated, dramatized moan. he was already short of breath, hands hovering over your waist, afraid to fully place them there, while you started bouncing on him.
“mmm, yuta,” you purred, balancing yourself on him by gripping his shoulders, “i hope you know how fucking pissed i am at you right now,” you spat, sucking in your teeth as your cunt swallowed him whole.
“oh– fuck– i know,” he choked, stuttering, “be fucking mad at me,” finally touching your sides, “fucking destroy me if you need to.”
you picked up your pace, his head falling back limply as both his and your nails dug into each other’s skin. you cried, relishing in the sweet sound of your ass slapping against his thighs, hair disheveled and a mess, skin hot and glistening with sweat and dark passion.
his hand found your throat first, teeth gritting and hitting you deep as his hips started meeting yours halfway. you grabbed his wrist for leverage, using your free hand to choke him in return. he let out an ungodly sound, pistoning into you faster the more your fingers squeezed his throat.
“fuck, baby,” he hissed, eyes rolling, breaths raspy, “fucking ruin me.” he leaned forward, wrapping his mouth around you pretty, perked tits, circling them fast and slow as you both plummeted towards release. he nibbled gently on your nipples, you gasping ecstatically. “will you come for me?” he muttered against your chest, “please, please,” begging, “i promise i’ll never hurt you again if you let me feel you.”
you didn’t care if those words were a lie. yuta knew they weren’t, but you didn’t know what you believed right then. all you wanted was for him to fall apart for you and stuff your pretty little cunt with his cum, to milk him desperately.
“touch me, then,” you demanded, prying his hand off of your neck and placing it atop your swollen, puffy clit, “make me come.”
he did as you said, messily coating his fingers with your slick, flicking, pinching, and rubbing your bundle of nerves with every bit of his strength. he didn’t stop assaulting your walls with his cock, either, synchronizing the speeds of his hand and thrusts. you were screaming at this point, drowning out your own anger and focusing entirely on the pleasure coursing through your veins. your fingers tightened around his throat some more, his around your hip as he slammed up into you. you felt boneless, wrecked, nearly about to burst.
“fuck, fuck, fuck,” he growled, pulsing inside of you, buried deep to the hilt, ready to fall over the edge.
he slapped your clit, hard, an ungodly groan coming from your chest. your body shook, eyes rolling violently as you squirted all over his cock, his continuous, ardent thrusts pulling every bit of cum out of you. he sucked in his teeth, pressing hard onto your centre to steady you on him as he released his seed, filling you to the brim. he watched as the mixture of your cums oozed out of your hole, coating his shaft and dripped onto his pelvis.
“holy fucking shit,” he cursed, hips sputtering to a still, “you’re so fucking good to me.”
you collapsed forward, yuta catching you in his arms as he allowed you both to slowly fall back onto the bed together. your body trembled against him, his heartbeat still working to calm itself. his fingers were tracing your spine, listening to your steadying breaths as you settled.
the guilt didn’t give you any time to rest, rising straight into your chest. your eyes went wide once you realized what you’d done right then. allowing yourself to fall into his arms when you were so, so angry. but, not only that, you failed to trust him, to believe that his failure to show up that evening was no fault of his own.
you leaned up, looking at him, panicked.
his eyes furrowed with confusion and concern. he gulped, afraid you were about to tell him you never wanted to see him again.
“i–i’m sorry,” you whimpered, “i don’t know what came over me, i shouldn’t– fuck– i jumped to conclusions instead of trusting you and–”
“baby,” he soothed comfortingly, hands coming up to cup your cheeks, thumbs swiping across them delicately, “slow down.” he moved to rub your back in small circles again, more and more weight lifting off your chest with each rotation. you took a deep breath. “that’s it,” he smiled, voice gentle. he was always so gentle with you. “just breathe.”
“is it true?” you asked, eyes glistening with both fear and hopefulness, “that this was all just a huge misunderstanding?”
he nodded. “everything i said is one hundred percent true. you could even take a look at the traffic maps that matched the taxi route data in my rideshare app and–”
you chuckled, “i’m not going to do that,” rolling your eyes playfully, “i… believe you. yeah.” you nodded proudly, straightening your back with confidence, “i’m not going to allow my past to dictate the present.”
yuta snorted. it was as if you were quoting a movie script, pepping yourself up, and it was adorable. then, he smiled, so honestly and full of love. “i’m proud of you,” he kissed your cheek, “i’m sorry for making you cry and worry and… get so angry.”
“you didn’t do anything wrong,” you shook your head, “it’s all on me for making assumptions.”
there was a moment of silence, his dick urging to speak up. “well,” he pursed his lips, “at least the sex was worth it, don’t you think?”
you scoffed, but smiled all the same. “i’m trying to have a serious moment here!”
“sorry, sorry,” he smirked, throwing his hands up in surrender.
you cleared your throat, “you’re not wrong, though,” muttering nearly silent. he heard you, of course, smiling wider. you sighed, crossing your arms. “anywaaaay,” you drew out dramatically, turning the conversation around. your face softened. “i’m working on things, truly,” you admitted, “and i’m just– really grateful you’re willing to stick by me through all of this.”
“i love you,” he let slip, not even bothering to hide his feelings for you. he didn’t care if it was too soon or not. it was the truth. “of course i’m going to be there for you.”
your eyes widened, breath hitching in your throat. not once have you ever received those three words from someone. you were utterly astounded, unsure how to react. your heart was pounding, mind a mess. “d-did you just–”
“yes,” yuta smiled, lifting his head to kiss you softly. you immediately calmed from his touch. he was always doing that, it seemed. it was like he had some sort of superpower. “i love you, y/n.”
you sat there for a moment, processing his admission. for a while now, you had been highly aware of your own deeply rooted feelings for yuta. and, if you weren’t so convinced no one wanted you, you would have never doubted for a second that he felt the same.
you allowed yourself to finally feel happy– truly happy– and receive the love he was giving you. the love you deserved. your eyes crinkled thin and the corners of your lips spread out from ear to ear. you felt like a kid on christmas.
crimson tainted your cheeks. “i love you, too, yuta. so much.”
✧・゚: ✧
october
“what if they don’t like me?” you panicked, rubbing your palms along your thighs as you and yuta sat in the back of the taxi. “what if they hate me and–”
“baby,” he spoke gently, prying your frantic hands from your lap and intertwining them with his. “you’re doing it again.” you took a deep breath in shakily, remembering what he had taught you; how to calm yourself down when you were spiraling. “good,” he smiled, “in and out, slowly.” he leaned over and kissed your cheek sweetly, fingertips running across your knuckles. you released one final exhale, heart rate balanced again. “better?”
you nodded. “yeah. much.”
he pulled you in closer to his side. you allowed your head to fall onto his shoulder.
“i promise that they’re going to love you,” he whispered reassuringly. “if you get along with me, then you’ll absolutely get along with my friends.”
you nodded, swallowing hard as he squeezed your hands tighter. it didn’t take much longer for you to arrive at the restaurant; it was beautiful, and not too packed, either, so you were able to feel more at ease.
“yuta,” you heard a voice call out from the far left corner, “over here!” you looked up to see a man smiling and waving at the two of you. two others sat with him.
yuta waved back, rubbing your hand gently as a reminder that things would be okay. he turned and gave you a quick peck on the cheek for extra measure before guiding your bodies over towards the table.
his friends watched as he pulled out the chair for you, helping you hang your bag and jacket on the back of it before shuffling to take the seat across from you. they were in shock.
“damn,” one of them whistled, “eighteen-year-old you would have laughed at that,” he joked, “such a gentleman now.”
he tsked, slapping his arm playfully. “those days are far behind me.” you chuckled at the matter. yuta used to be a playboy? you would have never imagined. “anyway,” he cleared his throat, “this is my girlfriend, y/n.” he smiled widely, introducing you to the group. “y/n, this is yuji, toge, and megumi.”
you nodded politely, “nice to meet you,” greeting them softly.
“he hasn’t shut up about you for months,” megumi rolled his eyes playfully, “i’ve never seen him act like this, it’s…” he paused to think for a moment, “nice,” then smiled. “whatever you’re doing to him, keep it up. love looks good on him.”
you choked on your water, toge’s, who sat beside you, eyes going wide as he started patting your back concerningly. yuta frantically grabbed the glass from your palm, standing up to run over to your side.
raising your hand up to stop him, your coughs mixed with laughter. “i’m fine,” you inhaled once you were able to breathe again, “it’s just water.” yuta slowly sat back down in his seat, pulse settling. you were still laughing, and eventually he smiled. “you guys are dramatic.”
“what can i say?” yuta teased, “i learned from the best.”
if it were last year around this same time, you would have been offended by that comment. but, you had come such a long way with healing your trauma and the way you responded to things that you found it comical. “sure,” you snorted, smirking, “you know you’re just as dramatic as me.”
“ain’t that the truth,” yuji laughed, lifting his glass as if he were making a toast.
“so everyone’s just teaming up on me now, is that it?” yuta groaned, pretending to be hurt as he pouted mockingly with his hand over his heart. “it’s fine, i get it,” he fake cried, “i know she’s cooler than me.”
you grinned, satisfied.
the rest of the evening continued on like this, lighthearted banter, as well as the four boys reflecting on their past together. you surely learned a lot about how yuta used to be when he was younger. it was entertaining.
you didn’t expect megumi to stop you to talk with him privately for a brief moment as the five of you exited the restaurant together. he gave yuta a reassuring nod, that it wasn’t anything he needed to be concerned about. he trusted him, the rest of the guys stepping off to the side to let the two of you chat.
“i meant what i said back there,” megumi’s voice was quiet, delicate. he turned and faced you, a soft smile resting on his face. “yuta has been through a lot, i’m sure you’re aware,” you nodded, swallowing hard, “and i truly see how much happier he is now that you’re in his life. thank you,” he said with deep sentiment, “for loving him well."
your heart warmed, fluttering heavily with affection. yuta had poured his heart out to you not too long after you two started seeing each other more seriously over a lazy date night, pizza in his apartment with some card games. you learned quickly that he was not so different from yourself.
“i’ve… never loved anyone like you,” he said, gentle and honest, shuffling the deck. “no woman i dated ever saw me, like, really saw me, until you came around.” he smiled in gratitude. “thank you for letting me in, for trusting me, for allowing me to help you,” every word was felt deep within your body, “seeing you do the same for me is… i don’t know– crazy,” he laughed lightly, still surprised he winded up in this situation, “i never thought i’d have someone care for me the way you do.”
“yuta,” you called him gently, placing your hand over his as he set the deck onto the table. like instant medication, both of your pulses calmed from the shared touch. “the day you walked into my life was the day i knew you were going to be someone special to me,” you smiled. “turns out you're my person and i’m yours.”
you grinned widely at megumi, tears forming in the corners of your eyes from his beautiful words.
he looked horrified. “fuck, did i say something wrong–”
“no,” you shook your head, sniffling a bit, “they’re happy tears, i’m so… god, i feel amazing right now,” you laughed, looking up at him with pure joy and eyes radiating. “i was so freaked out that you guys wouldn’t like me when we met tonight,” you wiped your eyes with the back of your wrist, “i’m just so grateful to know i’m worth it to all of you, including yuta, and to feel so… so loved by everyone.”
megumi pulled you in for a friendly hug, you returning it without hesitation.
“woah, making moves on yuta’s girl now?” yuji joked, he, toge and yuta now joining you and megumi’s side again.
megumi rolled his eyes, pulling away from you with a gentle smile. “ignore him,” he winked. yuta knew everything shared between the two of you in that moment was wholesome and pure, no ounce of jealousy rising into his chest. “don’t fuck this up, you two,” he pointed threateningly between you and yuta, but failed to keep his face straight, “i like you both too much, so i need you sticking together for life.”
something about the evening reminded you of kento, your coworker. he was always friendly and talkative with you, so perhaps, if this successful night of meeting yuta’s friends was proof of anything, it was that it was time to stop being afraid of befriending others. you felt a surge of confidence, deciding that on monday, you’d make the effort to actually get to know him. to become friends. with your old friendships faded, the moment had come to finally put yourself out there and forge new ones.
the taxi ride home was quiet– the soft kind that enveloped you in peace. yuta cupped your cheeks and kissed you deep and full of passion once you two were back inside of his apartment, both of you kicking off your shoes carelessly somewhere onto the kitchen floor as he stumbled to press your back against the fridge. he pulled away, touching your foreheads together.
“told you they’d like you,” he whispered, sticking his tongue out teasingly.
“yeah, whatever,” you scoffed, lips curled upwards.
he kissed you again, tongue slipping past your teeth as you melted into his sweet embrace. his hands moved to your waist, pulling you flush against him. you involuntarily let out a moan.
he cock twitched in his jeans. “you know,” he purred, breaking apart from you again, “this dress has been driving me fucking insane all night.” he gripped your ass, smirking wickedly.
“has it now?” you taunted, trailing your fingers seductively up his torso, beginning at his waistband. you stopped at his collar, fisting the material. slowly and deliberately, you pulled him forward so your mouth could rest beside his ear. “then get rid of it.”
pairings : xavier, zayne, rafayel, sylus, and caleb (seperate)
synopsis : the lads men make you angry so they find a way to kiss it better
wc: 6.6k
general cw : nsfw, make up sex, oral (fem!receiving), overstimulation, piv, fingering, nipple play, dry humping, semi-public sex, unprotected sex
aexias talking : hii sorry this took me so damn long, ive been going thru writer's block LOL please enjoy <3
XAVIER 沈星回:
"Xavier, please." You rub your temples, smoothing your fingers through your hair. Seeing his face makes it difficult to stay mad at him. Even if you're upset over a silly reason, you still hold your ground. He stands outside your doorstep, eyes glimmering with sorrow. A soft dejection written on his face. He almost looks like a dog— Sad and pathetic.
The fact you fold so easily for him is pathetic though.
How could you not though? It's hard to deny Xavier when he makes you feel so good. You tangle your fingers into his strands, smacking your other hand against the wall to leverage yourself. Xavier crowds you, rubbing his nose into your thighs, kissing up the insides of your legs. He raises your thigh, letting it dangle over his shoulder. Xavier presses kisses into your hip, goosebumps flooding your body.
You're the pathetic one.
"My star." Xavier moans, his tongue lapping at your inner thighs. You make the mistake of staring down, seeing the haze in his eyes. It makes your stomach coil with need, throbbing at the mere sight of him. Xavier presses kisses into your skin, hands stabilizing you. "I'm sorry, I won't do it again, okay?" He mumbles, far too invested in your pleasure.
You know it's stupid, Xavier shouldn't be apologizing for your stubbornness. Yet, you can't help but feel a swirl of glee, seeing him indulge in your immature mannerisms. His nose bumps against your clit, letting his tongue explore your sex. His eyes still remain on your expression, feeling your muscles twitch and spasm under his palms.
"I'll only look at you, okay? Only you, my love." He drags his tongue up, gently suckling at your clit before one of his hands glides up the back of your thigh. His fingertips glide over your slit before circling your entrance. "I'll only make you laugh, okay? I'll only ever make you feel good. I'm yours." Xavier's finger presses against the opening, gently sliding in. You clench around a single digit, hips buckling.
"I know you're sensitive. It's been two weeks." He mumbles, pressing his finger deeper. His finger curls softly, the pads moving against your walls. You try your best to keep your noises down. You're right in the door way, anyone could hear you two.
"Xavier.." You moan out, pressing his head closer to you. Your hips weakly grind against your face, rolling into his touch. You can feel him smiling, slipping another finger into you. You stretch around him with little to no restraint, your body giving into his mouth.
"Did you try touching yourself?" He asks, pulling away from your clit for a moment. Frazzled, you look down with confusion.
"I, uh— What?" You stumble on your words, too engulfed in how he's making you feel. Xavier repeats his question, kissing around your clit. You buck your hips, silently begging for more. "Yeah, it didn't—Ah— go well…" You admit, ears flushing with shame.
"I thought so.." He says softly, returning to your skin. Xavier continues curling his fingers, thrusting them in and out of you. "I am sorry though." He speaks again, pulling his fingers out. You whine at the loss of contact, but Xavier soothes you. He lets your leg fall off his shoulder, opting to wrap his arms around your hips. His thumbs rub at your lower stomach, pushing up your shirt.
His hand smooths over your skin, applying a soft pressure to your pelvis while his thumb rubs at your clit. He dips lower on his knees, angling his head to lap at your slit. Your skin is puffy, desperate for his touch. This time, you pull at his strands with a soft grunt.
"Xavier, please. If you're going to keep teasing me, I'll be even angrier." Your brows furrow, watching his eyes go wide. That pitiful, pathetic stare makes you clench around nothing. But he listens—He's good at that—focusing on the task at hand. Xavier presses his mouth against you, his tongue curling inside of you.
It's an entirely different feel from his fingers, softer yet more prominent. You buckle against his mouth, his thumb continuing to swirl at your clit. It throbs under his fingers as you become nosier. Concern for who can hear you has long since left your mind.
"Fuck, Xavier. Keep going!" You cry out, head resting against the wall. Weeks after working with just your fingers has left you frustrated. Granted, you caused your own issues, but still. Having his mouth and attention on you is suffocating in the best way possible. You want nothing more than drown into his affections and touch, choke on the feeling of ecstasy. He builds you up so gently, guiding you to an overwhelming pinnacle before he guides you down.
The pressure he applies on your lower stomach only adds to the stimulation, driving you crazy. Your head spins with desire, grinding against his mouth. The entire time, Xavier's eyes never stray from your expressions. It's euphoric, being strung so high, knowing you're going to be just as ardently guided down.
Xavier rumbles something against your sex, but you're too far gone to pay any mind. You can feel your orgasm washing over you, ebbing straight into your body. Before you can process it, you're clenching around Xavier's tongue, staining his mouth and chin with your slick.
Xavier doesn't let up though, gently slowing his movements. You pant as roll into his touch before you start flinching away from overstimulation. You push at Xavier's forehead, feeling his detach from you. His arms still stay looped around your hips, pressing kisses into your pelvis and stomach. His chin rests against your stomach as he cranes his neck to look at you.
"My star… Am I forgiven? Or shall I keep going? I'll do it as much as you'd like— I'll do anything." He says it so pointedly you don't have the heart to tease him. You shake your head, letting go of his blondish strands.
"You're forgiven, Xavier…" You say with a sigh, thighs trembling in his hold. "Though, I wouldn't mind a massage—"
"Anything you desire, my love."
ZAYNE 黎深:
"Your greed knows no bounds, Doctor." You remark, narrowing your eyes at Zayne. The blue light of his laptop reflects in his glasses has his gaze flits up to you. He's in his night clothes, yet he's still sitting at his desk. To add salt to the wound, he ate your dessert. Zayne's brows raise slightly, his crimes dawning on him.
"I'll be there in—" Zayne begins to speak, but you abruptly cut him off.
"Ten minutes, I know. I heard that an hour ago, dear." You walk towards the front of his desk, placing your hands on the wood. He stares up at you, eyes flitting down to the screen. You lean in, pulling his glasses off his face. "Don't you think you owe me reparations, Doctor? You ate my pudding and now you're lying to me." You jut out your lip in a faux pout watching his expression morph. Zayne rubs his temples, sighing.
He rises from his desk, glancing at his phone to check the time. He walks around the desk as your eyes follow him, his arms soon caging you against the wood table. He rests his face into the back of your neck, hands smoothing down your sides. You tangle a hand into his hair, guiding his lips towards yours.
As you press into Zayne you can feel his heart beating on your shoulder, the hitch in his throat as you slide your tongue against his. He lowers his head once more, kissing down the back of your neck. Pulling down the straps of your shirt to feel the skin of your shoulder.
"Will this suffice?" It's rhetorical. Zayne knows that you are far greedier than he is. He huffs a laugh near your neck, massaging his fingers into your hips and tail bone. "Tell me how I can right my wrong, darling." He breathes against your ear, guiding your chin back.
Zayne presses his lips against yours, feeling you willingly part your lips for his tongue. His hands stay busy, thumbs pulling down your pants and letting it pool by your ankles. You step out of the fabric, turning around quickly to wrap your arms around his shoulders.
He takes a step back as if to guide you towards the bedroom, but you pull on the collar of his night shirt. You shake your head,
"No. Here. So next time you lie to me, you can remember what it will cost to make it right." You chuckle against his lips, kissing him once more. Your lips move in tandem and Zayne is quick to prop you onto his desk. He shuffles his things to the side, knocking down a few papers in the process.
That isn't important right now.
You raise your hips, slipping your panties off before tugging on the edges of Zayne's shirt. He quickly disposes it, allowing you to feel the contours of his body. Your fingertips glide over his chest, collarbones, and expand over the plains of his abdomen.
Zayne works quickly. An arm wraps around the backs of your shoulders, guiding you to lay across his desk on your hip. Zayne manages to slip a hand between your thighs, knuckles running along your soaked slit.
"Tell me where you want me." He whispers into your ear, kissing the underside of your jaw when you lean back. He manages to get you onto your knees, kneeling on the desk as your back faces him. Zayne kisses down your spine, fingers lingering near your sex.
You take his hand, guiding the tips of his fingers between your folds, dragging them up and down. His fingers flex gently, prodding your hole. Zayne presses a kiss to your shoulder as your hips push back into his hand. Two of his fingers slip effortlessly into you, eliciting a moan from you.
"I should have known you wouldn't wait for me. Did you get tired of playing by yourself?" He questions, holding back a smile. You huff into your forearm, flushing.
"You took too long." You groan, pushing back against his fingers. He curls them into your sweet spot, allowing you to set the pace. Zayne hums against your back, feeling the chill of his skin against yours. His thumb finds your clit, pressing down on the bud as he continues to arch his fingers. You gush around him, squeezing your thighs together.
"My apologies." There's no bite to his words, a soft smile displayed on his face. You glance over your shoulder, brows furrowing as he leans in to kiss you again. You're impatient though, growing far too tired of simply having fingers inside of you. You press the arch of your foot against his thigh, straining your ankle to drag it higher up his leg.
Zayne catches your ankle with his spare hand, pressing his thumb into the center. It effectively restrains you foot, causing it to curl inwards. You whine against his lips, but soon hear him shuffling out of his pants.
"Good things comes to those who wait." Zayne humors you, sliding your foot outwards. He parts your legs, guiding the head of his cock between your thighs. He groans at the sheer heat of you, feeling your ass pressed against his pelvis. "Greedy." He remarks, seeing you push back against him. His hand rests on your hip, guiding you onto him.
You groan as Zayne pushes into you, your body rolling against his hips. He holds you down, keeping you in place despite your incessant whines. Gently, Zayne guides you to sit up, his chest against your shoulders. With his lips beside your ear, you can hear his heavy breathing and groans.
"impatient and greedy." He repeats, coiling an arm around your center to palm at your exposed chest. Your head falls back into his shoulder, sucking and biting marks onto his neck. Come tomorrow, he may flush at the bright red markings on his pale skin, but for now, Zayne allows you to do as you please.
When he finally bottoms out, he doesn't waste anytime. He sets the pace for you, pressing a hand on your lower abdomen. You feel the pressure of him, his cock running into the deepest part of you. It drives you insane, your fingers coiling around his wrist.
The compression on your stomach makes your head spin, not to mention Zayne's moans and scent flooding your senses.
"So noisy. Is this what you wanted, my love? Is this a sufficient apology?" Zayne is aware a conversion will occur later as he peppers kisses into your chest and shoulders, uttering a promise to be more cautious about his time working late at night.
Especially on days where he is supposed to be in bed, curled into your warmth. But for now, he's willing to satiate your desires. Pleasure you until your eyes are rolling back and sweat under the folds and panes of your body. You nod fervently, jaw agape as you pulse around his length.
"Cum, my love. I know you want to. Let me—" Zayne pauses, a moan interrupting his speech. "Ah, let me makes you feel better." His hand drags from your hip to your chin, guiding your lips against his as you shatter in his arms. You can't escape the pleasure and sincerity he's forcing upon you. You're wrapped in his ember, indulging to the highest degree in the pleasure he provides.
Even as your lips part, your foreheads press against one another. Zayne pants against your lips before his orgasm crashes into him. His hips stammer, but continue rolling through the pleasure. Gently, you two ride out your highs together, collapsing against his body.
"I love you." Zayne mutters, imprinting kisses into your shoulder. "I'll manage my time better."
"No, don't." You chuckle, bringing your hand up to his face. You lightly squish his cheek between your fingers. "I like to kiss and make up." Zayne chuckles, shaking his head before pressing a kiss to your sweaty temple.
"Greedy."
RAFAYEL 祁煜:
Rafayel doesn't argue with you majority of the time. When you get angry, fuming at his behavior, he's quick to shrug it off. A master at adverting your attention to anything other than his wrongdoings. He refuses to address any issues with your relationship with the fear that you will give up on him— Leave him for good.
"Isn't this nicer, cutie?" Rafayel's breath tickles your ear, biting down on the soft flesh. You twitch under him, hips rutting into his palm. "You don't need to worry about anything. Just focus on me, okay?"
It's hard to focus on anything except him. His fingers curl into your just right, rocking his palm with the correct pressure. It should be a crime how good Rafayel makes you feel. The way you kiss and make up is addicting. The high you get from arguing to grabbing his collar and kissing him senseless.
Your arms coil around Rafayel's neck, sucking on his skin. He hisses, palming at your hip with his free hand. You bite around his neck and collarbone, decorating him with your markings. You refuse to leave him because regardless of his shortcomings, Rafayel makes up for them in a plethora of ways.
"Are you close, cutie? I can feel you. It feels so good, doesn't it? Grinding on my hand instead of yelling, hm?" He doubles down, pressing his thumb against your clit. He mercilessly swirls the bud, jerking his fingers to press deep inside of you. You moan into his skin, biting down harder the closer you get. Your hips press into his palm, meeting him halfway.
Your body stutters though, the sensitivity growing to an all-time high. Though, just before you cum, Rafayel pulls his hand away from your sex. A string of your slick chases his fingertips, making him smile at the sight. You're huffing, panting as you gaze at him with anger.
"All you do is make me angry." Your words hold no bite though, not when your thighs are shaking with need. He knows you won't be mad for long, not when he holds the power of your pleasure in his palm.
Rafayel snickers, leaning onto his forearms as he undoes his zipper. The bed sinks under his weight as your hands impatiently undo his belt. The metal clinks as it falls to the floor, your body moving in to kiss him. Your hands cup his face, drawing him in as he undresses himself.
You already know what's coming next. He forces you to sit up on your knees, pressing a hand to the backs of your thighs. Rafayel doesn't wait for you, sinking you down on his cock as his tongue takes the opportunity to slip into your mouth. Your moans muffle against his tongue as he pulls you down further.
Your nails drag into his skin, creating red angry marks. You push against his chest, letting him lay flat against the sheets. His hair puffs out, cheeks flushed as you rise up on your knees. Rafayel reaches out to touch you, but you swat his hand away.
"No. Just sit still. Do something good for me for once." You furrow your brows, sinking back onto his cock with ease. He watches from below as your knees spread, the way your head tilts back. Your hand presses onto his chest for stability, arching onto him. You lay flat onto him, your hips bouncing.
Rafayel groans beneath you, the tips of his ears a bright red. The room fills with heavy pants and moans. Despite your orders, his hands rest on your ass, aiding you. Your fingers splay over his sides, leaving marks down his chest and shoulders.
"You're such an ass, you know?" You grunt, legs trembling like jelly as you spread your knees wider. The burn feels so good, blurring the lines of pain and pleasure. "Making me chase you down all afternoon. Just for you to ignore me." Your nails dig into his skin as you try to push yourself up.
You swat his hands away again, ruffling your own hair to bounce on his cock properly. He lies deep in your stomach as you bite down on your lip.
"You're so fucking immature." You drag your nails down Rafayel's torso, his cock throbbing inside of you. You clench around him rhythmically, his hips winding into yours. His hand raises to your chest, pinching your nipple between his fingers. He lets out a strained huff, smiling despite all your insults.
"You still love me though. Right, cutie?" Rafayel pulls you down against his chest, hands grabbing your hips to bounce your ass onto him with a steady pace. You grasp at the sheets, digging blunt crescents into his skin.
"Never going to let you leave me, okay?" He hisses through gritted teeth. Despite his ability to speak, Rafayel isn't faring any better than you are. "We'll figure it out. I'll do better." The base of his spine tingles under your weight, a force driving his climax closer and closer. The longer it goes on, the sloppier Rafayel gets. His body tenses, growing dizzy at your mewls and whines.
His hand leaves your hip, driving your face towards him. The kiss is a mess of teeth and tongue, bitting at each other's lips as you both try to contain yourselves. But it feels too good. The way you tighten and gush around him drives Rafayel insane. In the same manner, Rafayel sinks deeply into you, thrusting his hips into yours with precision.
In sync, the two of you shudder chest to chest. Your nails tug at Rafayel's scalp, the pain forcing his orgasm to crash down. Your entire body trembles, thighs quivering as you gush around Rafayel's length. It's almost painful how hard you cum. You can hear Rafayel moaning into your ears before biting down on your shoulder.
Tit for tat.
Sweat drips down your bodies, slack against one another. Neither of you move, afraid to rock the serenity of the moment. Rafayel rests his hands against your upper back, leaning down to kiss the top of your head.
"I will do better, I promise." He mumbles into your hairline, drawing you in for a much softer kiss.
"We'll see."
SYLUS 秦彻:
The first thing Sylus does when he returns home is seek you out. Especially right now considering he's committed a criminal offense: He has missed date night. A ritual you two have at least once a week. Today though, he was caught in unfortunate circumstances. He almost got caught into a trap, negligent of his surroundings due to his mind being occupied by you. He finds you laying in your shared bed, slumped over the sheets.
You're still wearing your outfit. Your heels have almost slipped off your feet as they dangle over the bed, your dress riding up your hips. He has an incredible view, but he can't help but feel a pang in his chest. He doesn't even shed his gloves before laying beside you. His hand runs up your thighs, massaging the exposed skin of your hip. Sylus pulls you close, watching you rouse from your blissful sleep.
"Sylus?" You breathe out, eyes still shut. Your body curls into his, the cool leather of his hand smoothing over your forehead. Your makeup has gone askew, eyeliner smudging. He gently runs a hand under your eye, smiling softly. The low lights make it easier to see his face even as he draws near.
"I'm late. I'm sorry." There's a deep furrow in his brows, his silver strand swaying. You match his expression, linking your fingers together at your hip bone.
"I got all dressed up. I wanted to see the opera." You're disappointed, he knows it. Sylus leans down to kiss you, lips softly pressed into yours. You turn over, letting him hover over you.
"I know, sweetie. I'm sorry." He mutters into your lips, letting you coil your arms around his neck. You feel the prickly edges of the back of his head, fingers finding his strands. He feels nice pressed against you, holding you through the negative emotions that backpack off disappointment. Sylus cups your ribs, hands molding over your breasts as he kisses down your dress.
"So beautiful, hm?" His lips bite your skin gently, lapping at the wounds. Your thighs make room for his knee as it settles between your legs. You let your fingers make do of his shirt, unbuttoning the top as you tug his tie off. You can see the dust that sticks to his shirt, the splatters of blood on his cheek. You furrow your brows at the sight, pulling him closer.
"Did you get hurt?" You whisper against his lips, afraid that if you spoke any louder it would break the moment. Sylus shook his head, reassuringly kissing you. His lips move with yours in tandem, arms coiling around one another. "I'd be more angry if you did." You tell him when you part. Sylus laughs when your arms slip off his shoulders. You remove his shirt, hands exploring his body.
It's familiar terrain. The small dots on his body, the contours of his abdomen and hips. You know this area well, running a hand over his chest. He's sensitive there. Sylus moans above you, pulling your hips up to fully push your dress up. It clings to your waist as Sylus kneels near the edge of the bed. He pulls you forward with a tug to your ankle as he slips your heels back on.
"Can I walk you through what we would have done?" He mutters against your knee, looking up through his lashes. Your fingers find home against his head, nodding gently as you place your thigh over his shoulder. Sylus smiles softly, the edges of his eyes softening. "The opera would have been the first spot. And dinner afterwards, that's our tradition." He speaks fondly of your weekly routines.
"Then we would walk around a park. You always stuff yourself full, kitten. I'm glad though. Seeing you become greedier as the days pass." Sylus fully settles on his knees now, gently parting your thighs. He can see the way your panties gently glisten under the soft lighting. He smiles, kissing the insides of your knees.
"By then, I would have reaches my limit. Especially when you look this divine. How could I not?" You flush under Sylus's compliments, letting a small giggle slip. "Where would you let me have you? Near the entrance or in the elevator? Perhaps the lower living room? That is your favorite, no?" Sylus slips a thumb under your panties, gently tugging them down your thighs.
"Maybe the stairs on the way to the bedroom. I grow more impatient as the days pass, kitten" You can imagine it now, running away as he chases you up the stairs. Sylus is adept in chasing you though, a master in his craft. Pressing you into the stairs as your thighs squish his head.
That is his idea of paradise after all.
With your panties out the way, Sylus parts your thighs further. You scoot closer, guiding his mouth to where you need him most. He hums, satisfied with your orders. His tongue runs along your folds, wasting no time.
"Maybe the bathtub like last Friday? You enjoyed that greatly, didn't you? I've never seen you make such a face before." Sylus reminiscences the way you were trembling on top of him as your hips rose and sank. Desperately holding onto his hand, tears streaming with need. Tragically beautiful.
His fingers join the mix, circling your entrance to gather your slick. You accept his touch, rolling your hips into his fingertips. He thrives off watching you like so. You let out a shaky breath, his middle finger sinking into you. You feel the bump of his ring by your folds, thighs pressing around him. That has never stopped Sylus though. His free hand dips your body back, laying on the bed flat.
With a hand on your lower back, Sylus raises your hips into his mouth. Your weight settles onto his palm as your legs splay. He gets a clearer view of your sex now, noting the way you pulse around him. Sylus likes the take his time, savor every sound and taste. But tonight he has a mission to fulfill: Satisfy his beloved. Make it up to you.
Sylus does just that, his finger curling into your sweet spot. His fingers are your favorite part of him, long and stocky to hit in just the right places. You fist the sheets, tugging at the burgundy silk. It's sickening how smooth his sheets are. They slip from your fingers as your hips roll into Sylus's touch.
"Please. More, Sylus. Don't tease me…" You moan from above, letting your hand slip beneath the bodice to squeeze your breast. Sylus takes his hand from our lower back to glide up your body. He shushes you, bitting the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.
"Let me. Just enjoy, my love." He cups your exposed breast, kneading the skin before using the sides of his fingers to pinch and roll your nipple. All the while, he slips another finger inside of you. He works you well, curling and prodding your sweet spots. "That's it. It must feels so nice, right?" Sylus rises from your thighs to kiss up your stomach. He's bent at an odd angle, so you pull him back on top of you.
He cages you with his body against the numerous pillows, gliding his tongue against yours. Sylus moans into your mouth, angling his wrist to better touch you. His thumb glides between your lips to press at your clit. You jerk against him, thighs squeezing his wrist. It doesn't stop Sylus though, he keeps his pace.
With his free hand, he fully tugs down the top of your dress and lets the material bunch at your torso. Your nipples harden under the newly found air. Sylus suckles around the buds, but quickly changes his tune when you whine under him. He commits to the act, directly suckling at the bud. It hardens more in his mouth, growing puffy and swollen from his ministrations.
"Kitten." Sylus purrs against your skin, creating bites into your skin. "Beautiful. My beautiful sweetheart. I'm sorry, I'll make it up to you as much as you'd like." His voice rumbles in your ears. Your hands explore his bare body, dragging red lines down his biceps and shoulders. Sylus shudders under the pain, eyes gently rolling back.
He works guides you through it all, murmuring sweet words into your skin while his fingers curl and roll into your cunt. You pulse and gush around him, legs flailing.
"Sylus!" You cry out, tears brimming your eyes. Sylus kisses your lids, smiling.
"Cum for me, sweetie. You deserve that much." He whispers, feeling your body seize under him. It's euphoric, like fireworks exploding behind your eyelids. Your jaw slackens, pitchy moans and whines escaping your lips the longer Sylus keeps your strung out for. His fingers don't stop even as you cum, clenching around his digits. His palm rolls into your clit, hips chasing his movement.
"Good girl, good. I have you, sweetie." He rocks you through your high, even has you slacken under him. Sylus does not stop, gently guiding you into another high. You don't mind it though, your body in desperate need of his touch. Sylus presses a kiss to your lips, saliva pooled around the edges.
"We'll keep going until I've paid my dues, kitten. Be as greedy as you please."
CALEB 夏以昼:
Caleb is a nuisance when you argue. He would perish if he gave you even an ounce of space. He wants to solve issues in the moment rather than letting them linger in your mind for hours on end. Nip it in the bud, kind of guy. You hate that about him though— So clingy and in your face when all you need is a little space.
Though, you can't quite be mad at him when his tongue is buried deep inside of you.
"Pipsqueak, please? I'm sorry, honey. Won't ever put the cameras up again, okay?" Caleb says, pressed into your sex. You push at his forehead, yet your hips chase after his touch. You feel like a fool. How could you fold so fast?! Yet, how could you pass up the opportunity? It's not as if Caleb has ever given you a bad experience in the bedroom— Far from that.
You falter, seeing his eyes glimmering in the low lighting of his home. You shouldn't even be here, you should be ignoring me. You were headed back home after a bad argument, but he insisted you stay for dinner and or at least take something home. Yet, as the water on the stove comes to a roaring boil, Caleb pays it no mind.
"I'll be a good boy, yeah?" Caleb whines, his fingers working into your sensitive walls. You twitch above him, gripping onto the granite tiles. It digs into the base of your spine as you tremble on your toes. You tug at Caleb's strands as your heart races in your chest. His touch drives you mad, tongue swirling over your clit as his fingers veer into your sweet spots.
He plays so unfair.
Caleb presses a wet kiss to your clit, kissing all along the meat of your thighs. His nose rubs into the skin as he hums, watching your composure fail. He draws your hand covering your mouth back to his head, letting you push him further into your wet folds.
"I'll do anything, baby. I'm sorry, okay? I'll be such a good boy." He laps at your clit again, suckling on the swollen bud. Your hips jerk into his mouth, a sharp gasp escaping your lips. Caleb's eye brim with faux tears, pleasuring your most sensitive places. He rambles on, mouth pressed into your folds.
He works into your body, dragging two orgasms out of you. Your legs tremble around his head and thighs before he twirls you around. Gently, with an arm wrapped around the front of your shoulders, Caleb bends you over the table, pulling your panties to the side. From the corner of your eye, you can see your discarded jeans and one of your boots. Your eyes flutter shut as Caleb kisses down your spine, your hand seeking out his.
"Hm? What is it, pretty? You forgive me?" You ignore his teasing, looking over your shoulder to whine at him. Just as Caleb knows your every weakness, you know his all the better: Your needs. With flushed cheeks and glossy eyes, you give him the neediest look you can muster.
"Oh, my baby. Look at you. You just need me, huh?" You nod in reply. Caleb falters, cooing at your expression. He guides you back up, pulling you into his arms. His pants hand low on his hips as Caleb guides you to his bedroom. With your arms looped around his neck, you hold on tight.
"I'll be good, yeah? No more spying on you, baby." Caleb nudged the bedroom door open with his foot, guiding you to his bed. As your placed onto grey-ish black sheets, Caleb hovers over you. He aims for your neck, kissing and lapping at your skin. You let his chest press against yours, legs locking around his hips. "Would you like that, honey? Me being good for you? Is that what you need?"
Again, you don't reply, letting your noises answer for you. His hand rub at your sides, fingers finding their way between your thighs again. A shiver treks up your spine as Caleb's fingers spread inside your walls. He tugs on your earlobe, pulling away with a chuckle when you punch his chest.
"Behave, boy." You narrow your eyes, letting him place your ankles on his shoulders. Caleb doesn't like to waste time, not when you're ready for him. He nods, his bangs swaying softly.
"Can I, baby? Promise I'll make you feel so good, okay?" His eyes wane, melting into a look of needy tenderness. You can't say no, you don't want to. You roll your eyes at him, pressing your hips forward. As his hips presses into you, Caleb groans. Your wet heat envelops his length as he grinds on his molars. But soon, noises slip out of his mouth and his brows knit.
"Thank you, baby." Caleb sighs, relief spreading through his body. The deeper you sink onto his cock, the louder he gets. He repeats this mantra of thanks over and over into your neck, lapping and nipping the skin. His hips have a mind of their own, raising yours to thrust into you as deeply as possible. Eventually, he rises to see your face. The flushed, dazed expression makes his cock throb.
"My baby. You're so pretty." He mumbles into your lips, placing wet kisses all over your face. "I couldn't help myself. You were so beautiful and I just—Ah!— Wanted to make sure nobody hurt you, honey." In between thrusts he speaks, trying his best to keep his composure. But Caleb falters feeling your walls clench around him. His pelvis knocks into your swollen clit, only amplifying the pleasure.
"My pretty baby." He coos, kissing the insides of your knees, down to your ankle. Caleb pulls your sock off with his teeth, letting your foot rest in his palm before pressing a kiss to the underside. He strays down your heel to the sides before one final one at the base of your foot.
"Promise I'll be a good boy, okay? No more cameras, baby. Yeah?" Caleb lets your foot rest on his chest as his head smooths the hair out of your face. Sweat lines your naked body the closer you get. Your whines grow louder as your hips try to back away from his obsessive pleasure, but Caleb has never let you stray far.
"Shh, shh. Don't run, baby." Caleb whispers, pressing his body weight onto you. The pressure only makes you dizzier, unable to run from the onslaught. It's too much, yet not enough all at once. Caleb knows, he knows everything about your body. So his fingers find your chest, pinching your nipples between his thumb and pointer, gently tugging at it. "Shh, don't be fussy, I know. I know, baby. I have you."
He suffocates you with his love, locking his lips against yours. Caleb suckles on your tongue, letting you pull at his hair. Your nails rake angry marks all along his back, his necklace making its way between your lips. Your run your tongue along the beaded apple, letting the thick silver slip onto his.
"Cum for me, baby. Wanna make you feel so good, yeah? Let me do that much." Caleb's arms encompass your body, rutting into your heat before your nails dig into his biceps. It's too much, your body can't handle it. You spasm under him, eyes rolling back before the knot in your stomach bursts.
"There you go, baby. I have you." Caleb babbles, lost in the heat and tightness of your cunt. His hips keep rutting into you as he digs his face into your neck. With what little strength you have left, you tighten your hold on Caleb's necklace. You tug it towards you, drawing him into a kiss. Your teeth dig into his bottom lip, iron coating your taste buds.
That's the final push he needed.
Before you know it, Caleb cums inside of you. A warmth fills your lower regions as your ankles lock against his spine. He can't move, forced to withstand the overstimulating waves of his orgasm. He whimpers and jerks in your hold, but you guide him through it.
"Will you forgive me, baby?" His voice is so shaky, eyes brimmed with tears. You can't tease him now, not when he's trembling and desperate for your forgiveness. You sigh, your face hot with his breath. "I've been a good boy, tell me what else I can do, my love. All I want is for you to forgive me." You smooth his hair out of his eyes, pressing a kiss to his sweat lined forehead.
"I'll let it go just this once.." You grumble, reluctant. Caleb's eyes glow with joy, encompassing your body into a hug. He peppers kisses all along your exposed skin as he gently pulls out of you. You tag back on his necklace, whispering against his lips.
"Do me one favor though, Caleb." You say, watching his brows raise. If he had a tail, you'd imagine it would be swaying quickly.
"Yes, yes! Anything, baby." You push yourself a bit higher on the bed, your elbows shakily supporting your weight. You guide Caleb's face back between your leaking folds, watching his ears twinge red.
"Clean me up?" Caleb smiles in return, pressing a kiss to the top of your foot.
summary: in which you tell the lads boys that you haven’t shaved.
ft. xavier, zayne, rafayel, sylus & caleb
notes: MDNI / NSFW (obvi), they’re all eaters!!!!!! xavier is silly, zayne has an attitude, rafayel is dramatic, sylus #takesnobullshit, and caleb is strange…mentions of sex/sexual acts, fem terms used (!!!), that’s it (i think)
p.s. this is a silly spur of the moment post so if it’s awful ummmm kill me maybe!!!
a/n: i am not the type to care like At All about body hair in any capacity so i hope this was somewhat entertaining LOL. body hair no body hair anything WTV it’s all natural and all real do whatever you want ok love you bye…ty for reading (- -)(_ _)
୨୧ megumi fushiguro can’t stop kissing you during sex
megumi would kiss you all day if he could.
it’s the highlight of his day, he just loves your kisses. before he leaves the house, he always leans down to kiss you gently to not wake you if you’re still sleeping. if you wake up before he does, he will definitely not hesitate to pull you in closer, giving you a loving kiss even with your morning breath. he never cared, that’s how much he loves to kiss you.
whenever the two of you cuddle in down time, wether that be on the couch watching tv, or just sitting outside together, his lips always seem to find themselves on yours. he always kisses you with love and care, he knows that he always gets a bit flustered whenever he expresses his love for you, so his kisses makes up for it. a silent way of saying ‘i love you so much’
since he spends so much time kissing you, megumi is naturally a great kisser. he tends to get a little carried away when he makes out with you, always starting off soft and gentle, then shifting to passionate and greedy. lips almost swallowing yours, pressing you into the closest surface as his tongue invades your mouth.
at any opportunity he gets to kiss you, he takes it. he loves to kiss you anywhere, your forehead while he sits outside your bathtub while you soak, your cheek whenever he sees you concentrating on your phone. kissing down your shoulders whenever you show him your pretty outfits, gentle kisses on your thighs before and after eating you out.
megumi never knows how to let up when he gets to kiss you like that, always leaving you breathless every time you manage to pull away for a breather. he only allows a few seconds to pass before his lips needly slot against yours once more, letting out subtle moans into your mouth as his hard on pokes your thigh.
he’s especially the same in bed, getting lost in your lips as he pulls orgasm after orgasm from you. he’s got you in missionary, body leaning over yours, practically shielding you from the outside word as his tip pressing into your sweet spot with every deep thrust into your cunt.
he let out a drawn out moan into your mouth, pulling back mere inches to catch his breath. “s’fucking pretty..” mchh! “my pretty baby…” mchh! “love you so much.” he mumbled against your lips between kisses, hips speeding up and fucking his aching cock into you quicker.
the little space between you was sticky and sloppy, his precum mixing with your arousal as he hiked your thigh higher up, holding onto you gently compared to his rough thrusts. you could hardly catch your breath, his constant kisses making you dizzy with pleasure as his cock slid in and out of your soaked cunt, his tip bulging in your tummy every time he fucked into you to the hilt.
your nails raked down his back, moaning weakly into his mouth as his tongue traced yours, kisses growing more messy by the second. as much as you loved his kisses, you needed to catch your breath. you pulled on his hair, your agreed upon silent way of saying ‘i need a breather.’ megumi let out a small whine in protest, reluctantly pulling away to let you catch your breath.
the sight below him almost made him cum.
your lips were kiss swollen, plush tits rising and falling rapidly with each breath you took, subtle bump forming in your lower tummy from his deep and languid thrusts. “you feel so fucking good—baby…you feel that?” he muttered filthy, gripping onto your hand and pressing it into the cock print. you clenched around him impossibly tighter, whining as he pressed your hand into it, pleasure washing over you as squelches filled the room.
megumi’s lips crashed back onto yours, desperate to feel your lips on his once more as he reached up to cup your tit, kneading the supple skin as he continued to fuck you onto his cock with fervor, thrusts almost losing rhythm from how good you felt wrapped around him.
you wrapped your legs around his waist tighter, cunt sucking him in impossibly deeper every time he pulled his cock back, almost like it didn’t want him to leave. the hand that held your thigh snaked down to your clit, rubbing dizzying and intoxicating circles on your clit, eager to feel you come undone around him.
your back arched off the bed, chest flush against his as the kisses grew messy and sloppy, lips moving against each other desperately as your moans grew in pitch in his mouth. the lack of oxygen made your pleasure increase by tenfold, pussy throbbing and spasming around him as your orgasm approached rapidly.
megumi continued drawing figure eights on yours sensitive clit as his cock twitched and leaked pre into your cunt obscenely, taking everything in him to not cum before you just by kissing you. heat bloomed between your legs, your body locking up as an intense orgasm washed over you, your legs trembling around megumi’s hips as your slick cum soaking the both of you and the sheets below, moaning his name breathlessly into his mouth.
his hips lost complete rhythm, now moving on base instinct as he chased his orgasm, leaving short and desperate kisses on your lips between moans. his cum spurt into you deeply with thick, warm ropes filling you to the brim as his orgasm washed over him, cock fucking into you slowly and gently as he rode out his orgasm.
megumi finally pulled up, leaving one last lingering kiss on your now kiss swollen and worn lips, allowing you to catch your breath as he cupped your facd gently, his cum beginning to drip out around the two of you from the sheer amount of it.
he mumbled mindless praises as his hands gently soothed over your body, easing your body out of your intense orgasm with words of affirmation. his eyes fell from your face to your neck, leaning down to place soft kisses along your neck despite your playful whines and protests.
when it comes to kissing you, megumi would never be satisfied.
When THEY accidentally send you (p)🌽 link... (part 2)
When YOU accidentally send him a (p) 🌽 link....Here (part 1)
CW: Smut. Oral. P in V. Thigh fucking. Deep throating. Breeding kink. Masturbation. Praise kink. 🔞 MDNI 🔞
There are about 20 open tabs on your phone and a half finished list of new plushies you’ve been eyeing. It’s a problem. Your collection is already getting a bit out of hand, but there’s something about a new squishy companion that just makes the stress of your last mission melt away.
You’re scrolling through your favorite site, debating between a pastel jellyfish or a round, grumpy cat, when your phone buzzes with a text from Xavier.
Xavier: Found something. Thought it might look good on your bed.
You tap the link eagerly, expecting a picture of some ridiculously soft, oversized penguin or maybe a weirdly cute dragon. You’re already mentally carving out a space for it on your bed.
The link loads. You blink.
Then you blink again.
Your thumb freezes mid scroll. It is not a penguin. It is definitely not a dragon. It is an explicitVIDEO that makes your entire face turn red in approximately 0.5 seconds.
Just as the girl in the video lets out a soft moan, your phone vibrates again. This time, it’s a frantic succession of messages.
Xavier: Wait, did that go through?
Xavier: The link?
Xavier: Please tell me you didn't click that yet.
You look at the video one last time before quickly locking your phone and pressing the cool glass against your burning cheek.
🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟
He doesn't say a word. He doesn't have to. The look in his deep blue eyes is heavy, dark, and entirely unapologetic.
The transition from his accidental text to both of you completely naked in your bed happens in less than 10 minutes. Because you’ve only been intimate for a few weeks, there’s still this electric, terrifying novelty to it, the way your heart hammers against your ribs when his hands touch your skin.
He’s behind you, his body acting as a warm, solid anchor. His skin is hot against yours, a seamless fit that feels like it was designed by the universe itself. But it’s what he’s doing, the agonizing patience of it that is pushing you toward the edge of madness.
He isn't fucking you. Not yet.
He's doing exactly what you saw on that video. He’s sliding his cock between your thighs, the slick, heavy length of him dragging slowly against you. Every single time he thrusts, the tip of him catches the little hood of your clit before dragging the lenght of his cock across your most vulnerable spot with a precision that feels soooo good.
"Xavie..." you moan, your voice breaking, a plea you can't quite finish.
"Shh," his breath is hot, uneven, smelling faintly of mint. His lips brush the sensitive curve of your neck. "Just breathe, bunny. Let it build."
He pulls back, nearly losing contact entirely, only to slide forward again, with enough pressure to make your eyes roll back.
"I've been thinking about this," he whispers, his lips brushing your earlobe, sending a violent shiver down your spine. "For months"
You let out a choked sob, head falling back against his shoulder. "You're so beautiful when you're desperate, you’re close, aren't you?"
His voice vibrates against your skin and the smile you can feel against your pulse point is nothing short of predatory. He knows. He’s always known exactly where you are, even when you’re too lost in the haze of pleasure to find the words.
You try to answer, but your voice is trapped somewhere in the back of your throat, drowned out by the thrum of your heartbeat. You don't speak, and he thrives on that silence. To him, your quiet isn't an absence, it’s an admission. It’s the honest, raw truth of a body that has been pushed past its limit and is now screaming for a release it can't quite grasp.
His hand slides down from your ribs to settle firmly on your waist. His grip is certain, unyielding and controlled anchoring you to the mattress so you can’t squirm away.
He presses a kiss to your neck. Once. Slow. Then again, lower, his lips grazing the curve where your shoulder meets collarbone. The heat of it enough to make you arch backward, your spine curving into him, while the dirty intent of his touch makes you clench around the empty air.
"Ask me, bunny," you try to find your voice, but all that comes out is a breathless hitch in your lungs. Seeing your struggle, he doesn't let you off the hook. He reaches up, his fingers tangling in your hair to gently but firmly tilt your head back toward him. He never breaks the rhythm, he angles his hips with precision, pressing the length of his cock harder against your clit, forcing a loud moan from your lips directly into his mouth.
"Use your words," he insists, his eyes dark and hooded, watching the way your expression fractures.
The words tumble out of you, wrecked and desperate, "I want to cum, Xavie... please..."
His lips crash against yours, but the sweetness is gone. He kisses you like his patience has finally grown teeth, hungry and sharp. His hand moves to your thigh, pressing down firmly to maximizing the friction, ensuring every single nerve ending is on fire, making sure you feel every bit of what you asked for.
The world simply ceases to exist. You both break at the exact same moment. You’re gasping, your hands instinctively flying to your own breasts, squeezing them as you chase the peak, your fingers digging into your skin for any extra stimulation you can find.
"There you are..." he whispers against your lips as he spills over your thighs, your cunt, and the damp sheets beneath you. He holds you there, pinning you to the moment, letting the aftershocks roll through you until your muscles begin to tremble into stillness.
When the world begins to drift back into focus, a languid warmth settling over your limbs, a realization begins to dawn on you. He didn't just give you an orgasm. He found a hidden part of you, the part that craves to be unraveled, the part that wants to be ruined slowly and meticulously and he taught it to answer to him, and him alone.
Bzzzz. Bzzzz
Caleb [14:22]: Found a recipe for a honey glazed salmon. Reminded me of that place we went to last week.
You’re supposed to be working on a pile of halfway finished reports on your desk but he’s been rambling about dinner for the past hour.
Caleb [14:23]: Let's try it tonight. Let me know if it looks okay to you.❤️
A link follows.
You tap it, expecting a colorful food blog or maybe one of those YouTube tutorials with a soft acoustic soundtrack. Your brain practically short circuits.
A VIDEO loads instantly. It’s not salmon. It's a girl, sprawled out on a bed, and there’s a man, looming over her as he... well, he's fucking her face. The girl is looking straight up at him, eyes glazed and heavy lidded, completely lost in it. The sound of the video starts to play before you can find the volume button.
"Oh my god," you whisper, frantically trying to close the tab.
Was this a joke? Or maybe a very, very subtle hint? Did the great Colonel Caleb actually just fumble the most embarrassing mistake of his entire life?
Bzzzz
Caleb [14:26]: Pips. The link was wrong. Ignore that. It was supposed to be a cooking blog. Please delete it.
You could pretend you didn't see a single thing and let him stew in his own embarrassment all day. You could let him suffer.
But then again... he did say he wanted to try something new tonight.
You type out a quick reply, heart racing just a little bit.
“The recipe looks good. Do you think we have all the ingredients?😉"
🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎
The dim light of the bedroom catches the violet of his eyes, making them look entirely too satisfied. He’s hovering over you, his broad shoulders blocking out the rest of the world, leaving you in a private universe where the only thing that exists is his weight and the heat of his cock.
His hands frame your face. "Look at me, baby,"
He guides himself to your lips and begins to slide in. He moves slowly, testing your limits, watching your eyes widen as you try to adjust.
"God, you look so good like this," he breathes, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. "With your mouth so full of me..."
The praise makes your head swim and your throat tighten.
"I should have done this sooner... I should have stopped playing the gentleman and just taken what's mine."
His slow pace breaks, and he thrusts deeper, a sudden surge that hits the back of your throat. Your eyes water instantly, an involuntary gag catching in your chest when your body tries to protest the sudden fullness.
"Silly girl," he coos, not pulling back. He stays right there, buried deep "Don't fight it. Just breathe through your nose"
He waits until he sees your nostrils flare, until you take a shaky, shallow breath through your nose, eyes locking onto his.
The moment you manage it, the tension in his shoulders melt "Theeeere we go," he whispers, giving you one more deep, slow slide, making sure you feel every inch of him. "Such a fast learner. My perfect... fuck... perfect girl."
The need to see just how far you can push him takes over and instead of just taking him, you begin to draw him in, sucking your cheeks in slowly, creating tight pressure around him.
A groan rips from his throat and his hands, which were previously just guiding your head, suddenly dig into your hair, fingers knotting into the strands with a force that almost hurts.
"Fuck, Pips..." his head falls back for a split second before he snaps his gaze back to yours "I didnt teach you that..."
He loses the battle with his own restraint and his hips begin to move with punishing speed. Every time the tip of his cock hits the very back of your throat you can feel the involuntary reflex of your throat tightening and saliva begins to pool at the corners of your lips. It’s messy but it’s exactly what he wants.
"Look at you," he pants, reaching down to catch a stray drop of saliva and smearing it across your chin "So messy for me. You're dripping all over yourself because you can't get enough. You want it all, don't you?."
Your lungs are screaming, your chest heaving in search for oxygen, but you don’t care. The burning in your throat is nothing compared to the sight of him right now, his eyes blown wide, his jaw locked, his face twisted with a kind of agony and ecstasy that he’d never show anyone else.
He’s on the edge. You can feel it in the way his thighs are trembling and he starts to pull away.
Your fingers dig into the hard, tensed muscles of his ass and with a sharp tug, you yank him back inside, slamming him against your face.
The sudden change in pressure snaps the last of his restraint. He doesn't fight you, he doesn't even try. He just collapses into the sensation, his entire body shuddering as he finally lets go.
You feel the first hot, thick burst of him erupt in the back of your throat, a sudden flood that makes you choke and gag, eyes watering.
"Fuck, I can't.. I... " he's shaking all over, his fingers bruising your scalp as he rides out the waves of release.
When he finally pulls away, he doesn't move far. He lingers, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, his eyes searching yours.
"You really won't let me have anything for myself, will you? he whispers, his voice rough and ruined. "You just have to take it all."
Your workday has been a total slog. Between the endless briefings at the Association and the exhaustion of keeping up with Wanderers, your brain feels like it’s been through a blender. All you can think about is getting home, kicking off your boots, and maybe if you’re lucky getting a moment of peace.
Until your phone buzzes in your pocket.
You pull it out, expecting a tactical update or maybe a nagging message from your supervisor, but it’s a text from Rafayel.
Rafayel: "My darling, my muse, my precious bodyguard, don't you dare go home and sleep yet” the text reads, followed by a string of dramatic, pouting emojis. “Remember I have an exhibition today! It’s a secret location, very exclusive, very avant garde. You simply MUST come by after your shift. It’s going to be breathtaking, just like you. Don't be late, or I might actually die of loneliness. Here is the location!" 👇
LINK
You smile, a little warmth spreading through your chest despite the fatigue. He’s so much, truly, but he has a way of making the mundane parts of your life feel colorful. You tap the link, expecting a Google Maps pin or a sleek digital invite to a high end gallery in Linkon City.
Instead, your screen loads a video.
You aren't looking at a gallery. You are looking at a naked woman perched on a chair, looking entirely too comfortable, while a man, in front of her, puts on a very intense performance. The camera zooms in just as he reaches the grand finale, a messy orgasm that ends up all over the woman's legs, stomach and breasts.
You stare at the screen. You stare at the ceiling. You stare at the wall.
Did he... did he just send you a porn link?
Your phone vibrates again. A second text. Then a third. A fourth.
Rafayel: “Did you see it? The lighting is so evocative, don't you think?”
Rafayel: “The composition of the colors is quite striking.”
Rafayel: “Wait. Why aren't you responding? Are you mesmerized by the art? It's okay, take your time, it's quite a lot to take in"
Then, a final text arrives, and the tone shifts instantly from "pretentious artist" to "absolute disaster."
Rafayel:"Don't look at it! Close it! Close the tab! Throw the phone into the ocean! Forget everything you saw! It was a glitch! A spacetime anomaly! A Wanderer attack on my phone! "
You can’t help it. A snort escapes you, followed by a full blown fit of giggles that makes your coworkers glance over in confusion. You quickly type back a single, teasing reply.
You: “The lighting was lovely, Rafayel. Very... evocative.”
The "typing..." bubble appears immediately. It stays there for an agonizingly long time.
Rafayel: “I am literally dying. Bury me in the sand. Don't you dare come to the exhibition. Actually, come. But don't look at me. I'm never leaving my studio again.”
🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧
The exhibition was a triumph, of course. Rafayel was the star, basking in the praise of the elite, playing the part of the brilliant artist to perfection.
But now, the doors are locked, the lights are dimmed to a soft, amber glow and you aren't looking at his paintings anymore. You’re the centerpiece of a much more private gallery.
You’re perched on the edge of chair, your wrists pulled taut behind your back. He’d used a length of fine, crimson silk to bind them, tight enough to force your shoulders back and arch your spine, thrusting your chest forward, the cool air of the studio grazing your skin, making your nipples harden.
His hand is wrapped around himself, moving with a slow rhythm "You're staring, cutie," a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth "Is the view to your liking?"
You nod, looking up at him, licking your lips.
He lets out a shaky breath, his knuckles white as he grips himself. "I’ve spent my whole life trying to capture beauty on a flat surface. Trying to trap light and shadow and emotion in pigment and oil. But it's never enough. It’s always... static. It doesn't breathe. It doesn't react."
He moves closer, the heat from his body finally making contact with your open thighs. His gaze drops to your breasts, tracing the curve he’s forced you to present to him.
"But you..." He swallows hard, a low groan escaping his lips as he watches the way your chest heaves with every breath. "You are the only masterpiece that matters. I want to treat your skin like my finest silk and use your naked body as my own living canvas..."
He looks almost pained by need, his eyes wide and dark with a hunger that goes far beyond simple lust. He’s not just looking at a lover, he’s looking at his salvation.
"Every blush on your cheeks, every shiver that runs down your spine... that's the only art worth making."
His free hand moves to one of your breasts, thumb sweeping over your nipple with a pressure that is both worshipful and demanding. He watches the way your eyes flutter shut, memorizing the exact shade of your arousal.
"God, you're so beautiful it hurts," he whispers "Tell me you want it," the hand around his cock moves faster "Tell me you'll let me finish my work."
You don't make him wait. You lean forward as much as the silk allows, your voice a breathless rasp. "Fiinish it, Raf. Show me what you can do."
You can’t look away. You wouldn't even if you could.
A bead of translucent precum swells at the very tip of his cock, glistening like a misplaced jewel under the lights. The skin there is flushed a deep, angry rose, pulsing with the force of his arousal. His head is thrown back, his throat exposed and taut as he bites his lower lip to stifle the needy whimpers that threaten to spill from his lips.
He looks beautiful.
He’s close, so painfully close to the edge that you decide to push him.
Even with your arms bound, you find a way to arch your back further, thrusting your chest toward him in an unspoken invitation. You offer yourself to him, presenting your bare skin as a landing site for his release. "Give it to me. All of it."
The sound of your voice, the invitation in your tone, is the final blow to his crumbling resolve. His body jolts with the force of his release and you watch as the heavy, hot ropes of him arc through the air, splattering across the expanse of your breasts. The heat of it is startling, a wet warmth that makes your skin tingle.
The moment the tension snaps, the strength drains right out of his legs. There is no grace in it just the heavy, unceremonious thud of his knees hitting the floorboards right between your thighs.
He stays there, head bowed, hair falling over his eyes in a dark, damp mess. But then, slowly, so slowly, he lifts his gaze.
His eyes, blown wide and shimmering with liquid heat, find yours at the exact same moment your tongue sweeps out to lick a drop of cum from the corner of your mouth.
When your eyes finally lock, you see the exact second his breath hitches again.
His pupils are so dilated they almost swallow the color of his irises, and a fresh wave of heat, a visible crimson surges up his neck and into his cheeks. He stares at your mouth, watching the way your tongue retreats, his gaze tracing the wet glisten you left behind.
"God..." he groans, the word a broken fragment of a thought "You're going to ruin me completely."
The vibration of your phone against the marble countertop is enough to make you jump. You’ve been nursing a lukewarm cup of coffee for the last twenty minutes, trying to shake off the lingering chill of the Linkon City winter, when the screen lights up with his name.
Sylus
[Sylus]: There’s a private auction tonight. High stakes. It starts in an hour. I’ve been tracking that specific protocore for weeks.
[Sylus] : I’ll send you the catalog link. Take a look. Tell me if the energy readings look as tempting to you as they do to me.
You tap the blue hyperlink, ready to nerd out a little and give him the professional opinion he wants from you.
The video player loads, and you nearly drop your phone.
It isn't a protocore.
It's a VIDEO of a man sprawled across rumpled sheets, his chest heaving as a woman jerks him off. She isn't looking at a camera, she’s looking at him.
The sounds hits you next, the wet friction of her hand, the groans the man lets out, overstimulated.
You bite your lip, a nervous, hysterical little laugh bubbling up in your throat. You can almost see his expression if he knew, that slight, elegant tilt of his head, the way he’d probably pinch the bridge of his nose in a rare moment of genuine embarrassment.
With trembling fingers, you start to type a reply.
You: Sylus... unless this protocore is incredibly well endowed and prone to making loud noises, I think you sent the wrong link.
The silence that follows is agonizing. You stare at the "read" receipt, your thumb hovering over the screen, half expecting the phone to burst into flames from the tension. You’ve spent months navigating his moods, his riddles, and his terrifyingly intense presence, but you’ve never quite known how to handle a moment where the power dynamic shifts so abruptly.
The little bubbles appear. He’s typing.
Is he going to ignore it? Is he going to double down with some devastatingly smooth line that will make you want to crawl under the rug?
A moment later, the notification pings.
Sylus:It seems my finger slipped. Or perhaps my subconscious is simply being more honest than my conscious mind intended.
A few seconds later, another message follows, one that feels much more like the man who watches you sleep with predatory tenderness.
Sylus: I'll be at your door in twenty minutes. Let's not bother with the protocore I think we've found something much more interesting to bid on.
You’ve been at this for thirty minutes and your already obsessed.
There is something intoxicating about the power you hold right now. You never realized that teasing a man like Sylus could be this much of a rush. His entire frame shudders, his muscles coiling like a spring about to snap. He’s right on the edge, his breath hitching and just when you think he’s about to break, you pull away.
Your leg is hooked firmly over one of his heavy thighs, a grounding weight that keeps his legs spread wide for you, exposing him completely to your whims. He’s using his Evol to wrap around his own wrists, binding his hands so he can’t reach out and grab you. He’s forcing himself to endure the torture you’re inflicting, all because he wants this. He wants to feel every second of the ache.
He also looks wrecked. It’s a sight you don't get to see often. Fine beads of sweat are beginning to glisten along his hairline and his eye is glowing a dangerous crimson, tracking your every move.
You lean forward, your hair brushing against his stomach, and as your mouth latches onto one of his nipples he throws his head back against the pillows, his entire body vibrating with the force of his loud groan.
You lift your hand, slowly, dragging your tongue across your entire palm in a long lick just to make him watch, just to make him feel the anticipation. Then, you slide your hand down, finally wrapping your fingers around his cock again.
His eyes roll back into his head when you return your mouth to his nipple, sucking with punishing pressure.
“Please... fuck... Please, kitten. Put me out of my misery.
You feel him tense again, his muscles turning to granite beneath your touch. You stop again.
The sudden absence of your warmth makes him let out a frustrated sound, but you aren't done playing yet. Instead of a full stroke, you just use your five fingers to tease the very tip of him, dragging your fingertips over the sensitive head, over and over again.
“You’ve been so good, Sy,” you coo, your voice a honeyed purr against his skin. “Do you think you deserve to cum?”
“Please, sweetie,” he chokes out. You can see his knuckles turning white as his fingernails dig deep into the palms of his hands “I’ve been... so good...”
He’s lost. The great Sylus, the man who sees everyone's deepest desires, is currently a slave to his own. He probably doesn't even realize he's begging.
"Should I keep you like this all night?" you ask, watching his eyes widen, pupils blown so large they swallow the iris. "It's what you wanted, after all, wasn't it?"
He opens his mouth, the words of a fresh plea already forming on his lips, but you don't give him the chance to speak. Your hand suddenly drops, gripping the thick base of his cock with a firm hold, and you begin to stroke him fast, hard, and relentless.
“I won’t, though,” you whisper, leaning in close so your breath fans over his ear, your voice dripping with a playful, dominant heat. “Because you've been such a good boy.”
The moment the praise leaves your lips, something in him snaps, his entire body arching off the bed in a violent, beautiful spasm.
Even when his muscles quiver with the aftershocks, you keep your hand moving, stroking him to overstimulation, pushing him right past the edge of pleasure.
The energy bindings that were holding his wrists apart simply vanish, dissolving into thin air when his willpower finally snaps.
The air is knocked from your lungs as your back hits the mattress with a soft thud, and suddenly, the man who was just begging is the man who is commanding.
He’s over you, his large hands pinning your wrists to the pillows on either side of your head.
"You think you're so clever, don't you?" his nose brushes against yours, his breath smelling faintly of the cherry wine he loves so much. "Playing with me like a toy. Testing how much a man can take before he loses his mind."
His heavy, still sensitive cock slides between your thighs, a blunt reminder of exactly how much you just put him through. He looks absolutely lethal.
"You've had your fun, kitten," he murmurs, his grip on your wrists tightening just enough to let you know he's in total control now. "Now its my turn to see just how much you can take."
Zayne had been obsessing over that new bakery just a few blocks from your place, the kind of place that smells like heaven and costs way too much. He was mid text, rambling about the sourdough starter and the specific crumb structure of their croissants (of course he was), but he mentioned he’d send over the full menu link so you could decide on a weekend treat.
"Wait, let me send the link. They have a seasonal pastry list you'll love"
LINK
You tapped the blue link eagerly, expecting pictures of glazed danishes or maybe a list of gluten free muffins.
It was not a muffin.
It was a very loud, very explicit video of a man wrecking a woman with backshots, pulling out only for her to rip the condom off his cock so he could fuck her raw.
You: Zayne, there are no pastries in that link! There is only... a man. And a girl. And a very missing condom!
Zayne: ...
Zayne: Oh.
You: “Oh”? That’s all? You just sent me a full blown porn video in the middle of the afternoon!
Zayne: Stop. Please. I am currently in the middle of a ward round. A nurse just tried to look at my phone.
You: [Sends a laughing emoji]
Zayne: I'm coming over later. We are going to that bakery. And we are not talking about that "menu" until we have had at least two espressos. To settle my nerves.
You: Are you bringing the condom? Just kidding! Don't kill me!
Zayne: 🙄
🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺
The bakery was a lost cause. The sourdough was forgotten, the espresso was unbrewed, and the only thing "rising" in your apartment was Zayne's cock the moment he walked in and saw the way you were looking at him, flushed, eyes hazy, and, quite frankly, a mess.
Now, you were bent over the edge of your bed, your fingers digging into the mattress as he held you from behind.
"Zaynie, please!" you whimpered, your voice cracking. You were desperate, begging him to just stop being so careful, to just let go and give you what that video had promised. "Just... Take it off, Please!"
His hands gripped your hips with a strength that promised bruises. "Just because you’re on the pill doesn't mean the statistical probability of a mishap is zero. It’s... fuck... it's about risk management."
"Even in a committed relationship," he continued, his words punctuated by the rhythmic, wet slap of skin on skin, "one must account for... ah, god... hormonal fluctuations and the ... the unpredictability of the human reproductive system. It's not just about pregnancy, it's about...shit...it's about hygiene, and the prevention of... of unnecessary... fuck, you feel so good."
He was losing it. The doctor was losing the battle against the man. He was supposed to be lecturing you on biological safeguards, but the way he was cursing under his breath low, dirty words that he’d never say in the hospital halls told a different story.
"You're being... so difficult," he groaned, his fingers moving to your waist, pulling you back harder against him. "Trying to... to bypass all the... damn it... the precautions. Do you have any idea what you're doing to my concentration?."
He leaned forward, his teeth grazing the nape of your neck, his voice dropping to a commanding whisper. "Stay still. Let me... let me take care of this properly. Fuck, if you keep making those sounds, the condom is going to be the least of our worries."
"Who cares about the... the statistics, Zayne!" you gasped, your forehead pressed against the cool sheets. "Just... fuck, just give it to me! It’s just us, isn't it?
You were rambling, throwing out half baked excuses about how you will feel "more connected" or how the latex was a "distracting from the sensory input" basically using his own medical vocabulary against him just to get what you wanted. You were cursing, too, your language losing all its usual politeness as the friction and the heat drove you toward a breaking point.
Then, suddenly, the fullness vanished.
"Why did you stop?" you demanded, your voice small and wounded, eyes searching his. "Zayne, why did you... "
He was hovering over you, his chest heaving, his hair mussed in a way that was entirely uncharacteristic of the composed man you knew. He looked down at you with an expression that was almost exasperated, that specific, "are you actually serious right now?" look he gave you when you forgot your keys or ignored his health advice.
He didn't need to say the words. You lunged for it, your fingers trembling as you gripped him, ripping the condom off.
The moment he slid back into you, skin on skin, the sensation was nothing short of transcendental.
" Fuck!" you breathed out.
"God, finally," he growled back.
The sight of your cunt clinging to his cock was enough to shatter even the most disciplined mind. Zayne, the man who could maintain a steady hand while repairing a human heart, lost his grip on reality. The friction, the warmth, and the intimacy of being inside you without any barrier sent him over the edge far faster than he ever thought possible.
He stiffened and with a few deep thrusts that felt like they were reaching your throat he broke. A sound between a moan and a curse escaped him as he collapsed against you, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your neck.
When he pulled out Zayne wasn't looking at your face. He was staring, almost hypnotically, downward. His gaze was fixed on the junction of your thighs, watching with a quiet, intense fascination as the evidence of his release, thick and pearly, slowly leaked from your plump pussy, tracing a slow path down your skin. He looked mesmerized.
"You know," you said, voice dripping with playful sarcasm, "for a man so obsessed with 'risk management' and 'preventative measures'..." You paused looking at his flushed face. "Your breeding kink is really showing, Doctor."
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summary: You had always heard a weird, mocking voice in the back of your head telling you that the things were going to end just like that between you and Satoru. The Prince and the Pauper. You were destined to eventually drift apart.
Or not?
tags: AU, angst to fluff, breaking and making up, classical disparities, insecurities, gojo is a certified loverboy and a yearner as usual. mdni! eventual smut, p in v sex, soft emotional sex. nobamaki cameo!
MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT!
word count: 13.9k
author's note: hi everyone!! this is not the oneshot i wanted to finish in may, but i had some ideas brewing for quite a long time, though the concept is not really original. happy ending won, soooo enjoy and let me know your thoughts! art in the banner by @/yamada_souko. dividers are mine.
Looking back, you realised you had never got it easy for Satoru.
The tale as old as time: the Princess and the Pauper. Or, in your case, the Prince and the Pauper.
And you couldn't put it in a better way.
Satoru Gojo — the Prince of the campus, the heir to the Gojo Enterprises, the man who would get the business world in the palm of his hand, the captain of the university basketball team, whose face was plastered all across the campus, the president of the Alpha Delta Nu, so on and so forth. You got the gist. The crowd parted before him, the Universe shifted itself to accommodate his presence: he walked in every room as if he owned it, which he pretty much did — ruling every place with a charming grin and a quick wit. Guys were wishing to be like him. Girls were dying to be beside him. He barely granted anyone more attention than needed — keeping people at arm's length, except for a couple of his friends. Of course, you didn't belong to them. Not like you desperately wanted to. You were well aware of the hierarchy of the university: people like Satoru Gojo rested at the top, eyeing the crowd down. People like you? Scrambling to get to the middle. If you were lucky enough.
One spring day, you realised that either Satoru Gojo didn't know about those unspoken rules or couldn't care less about them. Because you couldn't come up with a plausible explanation for why he suddenly started pestering you. Or, in his eyes, flirting.
It began rather innocent: him accidentally bumping into you, flashing an apologetic grin; asking for a vacant place at the cafetery at your usual table in the corner, the one where the noise cut down a little and you had a better view on the students — naturally, that place become the center of everyone's attention, because wherever Gojo was, the crowd followed; helping you to get a book from the highest shelves in the library and then crushing your study sessions; waiting for you after the classes just to walk you out to the next campus with an excuse that it was on his way (it didn't. Business majors classes were hold in the corpus 20 minutes away from yours).
At first, you politely declined every single invitation to a frat party or a match. Then you tried to ignore him, but your disinterest would even more pique Gojo's attention. After this, it turned into clipped, gritted-out "no's". You even attempted to talk to his friend, Shoko Ieiri, the girl you shared the Advanced Chemistry class with.
"I don't think there's something I can do," she would murmur, eyes firmly set on some sample through the microscope, when you turned to her as a last resort. The sigh that left your lips was truly desperate. Shoko's gaze softened a tad as she looked up finally, since your presence kept looming over her like a tiny, grumpy cloud. "Satoru can be pretty stubborn, unfortunately. Especially, when he's pretty set on something."
"Yeah," scoffing under your breath, you crossed your arms, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in your chest. "Unfortunately for me. Am I another check mark on his to-do list? I just don't get it." The pencil in your hand almost snapped from the strength of your grip.
"Listen, I am not in a position to advice your something or anything," Shoko's lab chair screeched — the sound annoyingly loud in the tense silence of the lab — as she turned to face you fully. The irritation at her words flared up in you, but you forced yourself to listen to her. If not her, then who?! "But you might try to hear him out. He's not that bad of a guy."
Grimacing at her, you turned to return to your own table. "If he's not that bad, he would've taken a hint long ago."
An indifferent shrug was the only response you got.
After talking to Shoko, Gojo's pitiable attempts at "courting" you had weakened severely until coming to a complete halt. You couldn't believe your luck. But what annoyed you even more than Gojo himself was the way you would jump at seeing the familiar spark of frosty white hair in the crowd; the way your heart would do a little flip at the sound of his distant chuckles. The way the loneliness would engulf your usual table in the corner of the cafeteria without his company: you subconsciously craned your neck to see him, for all his persona and the impossible height were impossible to miss, and slumped in your seat, when he didn't happen to stroll in with a familiar effortless grace in his stride. In the quietness of the library, after the countless hours of studying, you could basically hear the grin in his voice as he handed you a couple of blueberry muffins and the bergamot tea from your favourite bakery — you didn't have the slightest idea how he managed to find out your usual order — and tapped on your nose, remarking that you actually should eat.
Somehow, Satoru Gojo annoyed you enough to...like him. Managed to creep under your skin like an itch you couldn't get rid of.
Or… didn't want to?
***
One basketball match changed everything.
"Sorry, sorry, oh— sorry again," you mumbled awkwardly, navigating through the crowd and somehow managing to balance two beer cups on your way to your seats.
"Geez, finally, where have you been?"
Rolling your eyes at Nobara, your bestie slash roommate slash the only person who made your university life not so miserable, you handed her the cup and tried to shout through the cheerladers' voices, the endless roaring of the crowd and the music coming loud from the speakers.
"There was a line!"
"Huh? What?"
"THERE WAS A FUCKING LINE!"
She took a sip from her cup with a satisfied nod and grimaced at you. "Don't scream at me."
Her audacity stole your voice, and you slumped down in your seat, huffing rather indignantly.
"Hey, don't pout. Sorry for that." Nobara lightly elbowed your side and opened a pack of salted peanuts, offering you a truce.
"Can't believe I agreed to go with you," a light grumpiness coloured your voice as you drank from your own cup.
"Aw, that's because I am awesome and you love me so, so much," she chirped gleefully and planted a kiss on your cheek. With her head on your shoulder, Nobara sighed dreamily at the sight of Maki Zenin — the manager of the university's basketball team. "She's so cute, isn't she?"
Meanwhile, Maki gestured widely, screaming something at her phone (not very pleasant as you might assume from your seat) and threw her bag at a guy in front of her. The guy followed her figure with puppy eyes.
Your lips twitched with a barely concealed smile that you hid behind another swig. "An angel, truly."
"Hey, what's that supposed to mean?"
Her words fell on deaf ears because at that moment, some airy melody rang from the speakers, followed by the joyful voice of the commentators to finally announce the start of the match.
Swallowing nervously, your eyes darted across the court, and the moment your gaze landed on the tall figure with stark white hair, your heart galloped at a racing speed.
"Who are you gawking at, huh?"
Gojo might've really had the eyes on the back of his head — he wasn't called Six Eyes for nothing, some weird sixth sense that you assumed related only to the basketball court — because that very moment he turned around and briefly scanned the audience. His eyes widened in surprise as he spotted you: the bright blue of his gaze and the joyous smile that broke on his face caught you so off guard you nearly dropped the cup. Like he was happy to see you there. Actually happy.
You offered Gojo a shy wave — a subtle move of your fingers — that only made his grin wider. Then, Suguru Geto tapped on his shoulder, and he quickly turned back.
Your hand fell limply to your side.
"Babe, what the hell was that?" Nobara hissed, jerking her chin towards the players gathered around for the last guides from the coach Yaga. "Have you just casually flirted with Satoru Gojo? Don't you hate his lungs?"
The next words came in a breathy voice. "I don't know anymore."
Your knowledge of basketball was rather... limited, but you dutifully roared along with the crowd the moment your university scored yet another point. The people's excitement was contagious, seeping right into you as well and lacing your voice with joy. You booed at the judge when he gave advantages to the rivals, screamed at the top of your lungs and held your breath at the last quarter. Your team went neck-and-neck with the other, and every point was crucial. You could see it in the way the player's uniform was drenched in sweat, their hair stuck to their temples, and laboured breathing. The stakes were too high.
The scorebox showed the fifteen seconds left — mere moments for you and the whole eternity for those at the court. Your eyes drifted to Gojo, as driven to him by some unknown force. His sharp gaze quickly darted from one teammate to another, calculating the last opportunities to score. And then...it found you amidst the sea of spectators. Cheeks flushed, hair a total mess, chest expanding with deep breaths. A small grin tugged at the corner of his lips as he took you in. Adorable.
But for you, the moment Gojo's gaze landed on you felt completely different — resembling more of a bolt of lightning that sent every nerve in your body on fire. You couldn't hear your own thoughts with the blood pounding at your temples.
Gojo barely tilted his head, nodding towards the basket and mouthed.
"This is for you."
He dodged one guy, then the other with perfect dribbling — you barely saw anyone in their element as much as Gojo was at the basketball court — and finally went for a shot.
Time seemed to stop moving in the gym of the Jujutsu University. The hundreds of eyes watched the ball cutting through the air with an impeccable trajectory.
Until it went through the net without hitting the rim and sealed the win.
You barely released a shuddering breath when Nobara crushed you in a hug, her beer mercilessly spilling on you both, but no one gave a damn. The crowd erupted with an ecstatic cheer and rose to their feet right then and there. The commentators were on the verge of crying, judging by their voices, but your world narrowed to one particular person. Gojo's teammates ruffled his hair, patted his back, and hugged him by the shoulders; someone even put him in a playful headlock, to which he responded with a wide grin.
A tight knot in your chest slowly seemed to loosen a bit.
Gojo found you later, at the party.
You stood a little away from the crowd, watching Nobara laughing with Maki Zenin near the bonfire. The light painted her auburn hair in copper tints every time she tilted her head, and judging by the way Maki's gaze lingered on her form, she noticed that too. A little smile curled your lips at the sight of lovey-doveys.
"Your friend has a crush on Maki, huh?"
Putting a can to your lips, you mumbled absent-mindedly, "She's pretty obvious."
"They both are, actually."
A light brush against your shoulder finally caught your attention. You lazily shifted your gaze, only to gulp at the sudden proximity to Satoru Gojo.
He stood beside you, hands tucked in his pockets, watching the rest of the party unfold with a faint smirk on his face. Standing there, existing, like he wasn't the one who flipped your world upside down a couple of hours earlier.
A forced smile made your cheeks hurt as you tumbled out nervously, hastily wiping your mouth, "I am— I, I mean, congratulations! You did so great! I don't understand much about basketball, but you—," your worried your bottom lip for a second before breathing out, "you were magnificent."
At your words, Gojo finally turned around. His grin softened into a gentle smile that showcased a pair of dimples on his pale cheeks. The firelight danced on his hair strands that seemed more ivory tinged now.
"You think so?"
"I do!" A sudden feeling of boldness flooded you as you stepped forward and reached for his arm to show how sincere you were. Or maybe it was just a beer.
Gojo immediately cast his gaze down and slowly wrapped his long fingers around your wrist. You gulped, but didn't look away from his face. The gods clearly spared nothing in sculpting it, otherwise you couldn't explain the sharpness of his jaw, the plumpness of his lips and the prominence of his cheekbones.
No one had a right to be that beautiful. Satoru Gojo wasn't aware of it.
His thumb pressed just a tad against your soft skin to feel an erratic pulse beneath it, but you did not attempt to pull your hand away. On the contrary, it felt strangely...natural.
"I am glad you were there." A gentle murmur hit you harder than expected.
Breath bated, you searched Gojo's face for any hint of the usual theatrics and grandeur until you saw none.
"You are?"
"Yeah".
The words about the last shot were on the tip of your tongue already, but they quickly died at the sight of shimmering blue in his eyes as Gojo finally looked up and released your hand from his grip.
You already missed its warmth.
"Listen, I knew I was a jerk towards you. Crowding and flirting and so on. I know, I know," a self-deprecating chuckle left his lips as the ironic roll of his eyes followed. You watched every expression, soaked it like Gojo was about to disappear again from your life. "I am not proud of this, I admit. I want to apologise to you for this."
You parted your lips to answer, but Gojo cut you off with a slight shake of his head.
"But I am not going to apologise for my feelings," his voice grew stronger, rising from the gentle murmur to the steady tone, eyes boring into you with an unsettling intensity that left you speechless. The people's cheerings fade into the background, and that chilly evening, thick with emotions so deep you couldn't name them, enveloped both of you in its bubble.
"I meant everything. I do like you. I like the way you smile when you finally grasp the concept you've been studying. The way your voice goes all that animated when you talk about the book you were reading. That little sparkle in your eyes when you saw the last cherry pie in the cafeteria...I love it all. And that shot was for you. I really meant it."
"I am gonna ask you just this once, and if you reject me, I will step back and never bother you again. You have my word," the weight of Gojo's promise would almost physically pin you to the ground, if not for the desperation lurking behind his gaze, darting between your eyes and your lips. He forcefully tore it away to glance right into your face. "Will you go out with me?"
You didn't believe what you were about to say. But hey, that day was already weird enough. You offered Gojo a crooked smile. "Yeah."
"Just one date, you won't — ", he blinked in surprise, a light frown crossing his handsome face. "Wait, what?"
You stifled a laugh and nodded, stepping closer, until you felt the hard planes of his chest. "I will go out with you."
A slow, almost dopey in its joy, grin curled Gojo's lips, until a small disbelieving chuckle left him. "You will? Just like that?"
Now you couldn't contain a smile either. "Just like that, Gojo."
A whoop full of happiness cut through the air and the noise of the party that slowly came to its eventual end as Gojo swept you off your feet and twirled you in a bone-crushing embrace. Your laugh was the prettiest sound Gojo had ever heard.
"Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you! I swear you won't regret it!"
Satoru Gojo kept his promise. And many others he whispered in the dead of the night to you beneath the star-spilt sky. His hand was a steady anchor amidst the stormy life that awaited both of you. His voice offered you peace of mind when the world was a little too harsh for you. His fingers traced reverently the silk of your skin every time he shared a night with you. His gaze was the first you searched for in every crowded room. His arms had become the safest place in the world.
Satoru memorised the way you organised your life, but you were more than happy when he eventually disrupted your usual order. Not because he was doing that on purpose. Rather, since that was Satoru: he was too big for your world, and you didn't want him to shrink himself into someone he wasn't. Dimming Satoru's light was the last thing you wished.
He had learnt by heart the things that even you didn't pay attention to: for example, your toothbrush always had to face the door — Satoru wordlessly turned it the way you preferred; your favourite plant was Zamioculcas that he made sure was always watered visiting you; you usually carried a few packs of wet cat food for the stray babies in your enormous bag — he ordered large boxes, so you wouldn't run out of them; your drink of choice was Margarita that you shared only while hanging with Nobara — Satoru learned on his way to pick you up; you hated the loud harsh sounds, and Satoru was the first one to whisper sweet nothings to you and rub soothing circles against the small of your back until you calm down. In other words, he made your life easier.
You, on the other hand, only added more difficulties to his. Satoru never told you that, not even mentioned in any way that you were somehow different from him. But some things didn't have to be pointed out to catch your eye.
Like his Prada glasses, which cost like your monthly rent or two. Satoru could leave them somewhere without batting an eye. Or the luxurious gifts he would get you out of nowhere just because you barely glanced at something while strolling. That warmed your heart, yes, but the cheque that Satoru couldn't care less about startled you. You stayed in the lab until you almost fainted from fatigue just to finish the project before the deadline to get an extra payment to spend on the gift, since you were adamant that the relationships were about taking and giving in equal measure. Not to mention the one social gathering he invited you to, just off-handedly, before the day it actually happened; you drained your bank account to look presentable by his side, and lived on the instant ramen the entire month after. Maybe if you had accepted Satoru's offer to live together, none of that would have happened, but you learned the hard way to rely only on yourself. Luckily, the iron argument sealed the deal: your tight schedules at the lab and his as a pro basketball player didn't match well.
The Gojo family was another... topic. While no one said anything directly to your face, you noticed the way their brows knitted in confusion for a fleeting second, eyeing you up and down. Sensed the baffled glances and fake, saccharine sweet smiles behind your back, questioning the fact of your presence. No. Your existence. The mere raise of the brow from one of Satoru's distant cousins at the sight of your shoes — the ones you borrowed from Nobara, who got them after the Fashion Week in Paris, albeit last year's Dior collection — had you doubting your entire life.
Complaining had never been on your list, though some thoughts did cross your mind. You made sure not to voice them, stoically listening to all the hushed whispers. Not once did your smile falter in front of them. It was the least you could do for Satoru. You knew he didn't have a lot of joy in standing up for you every single time, so, eventually, the gatherings got shorter, the invitations came rather rarely, and the calls, already small in number, would always leave him in a bad mood. The sound of your name appeared quite frankly between the gritted words and heated yells.
"Don't worry, baby," Satoru's lips always found the crown of your head in the reassuring kiss when you asked him what was going on. The bitterness in his voice poisoned your already tired, insecure mind even more. He was a master at hiding his emotions, but never from you. "I got this."
A strained smile — the corners of your lips lifting just barely — was your usual answer.
"Of course."
Satoru then offered you a quick grin that never reached his eyes. His large hands cradled your face in the gentle, trembling grip, and the faint murmur would twist yet another knife between your ribs. "I love you. I love you so much. You know that, right?"
Leaning into Satoru's palm like a kitten, seeking warmth, you bit inside of your cheek not to cry. Your hand came up to cradle his hand against your cheek just to memorise the way it perfectly engulfed your face.
"I love you."
Not to dwell on the way you voice cracked, akin to ice beneath one's feet, you simply moved forward to capture his lips in a kiss, until all you could taste were tears. Yours, his... Did it matter anymore?
And then, under the pale moonlight coming from the lone crescent peering right into the bedroom of his large penthouse, your gaze drifted unabashedly over Satoru's face, taking in every flutter of the long, snowy eyelashes. Every breath that left his lips. Every faint twitch in his expression, and even every tiny snore. Your finger tenderly traced the bridge of Satoru's nose, making its way to the perfectly sculpted mouth and down to the sharp cut of his collarbones. Committing each pale freckle and beauty mark to memory.
For you knew that night would be your last one.
Satoru loved you, and you loved him. He loved you fiercely, with the force so burning it could rival the Sun itself. It was only fair for you to step back and let him shine. Not to drive another wedge between him and his family. You loved Satoru enough not to burden him with your presence. He should soar up in the sky, not stay chained on the ground by the dead weight of you and waste his time knocking some sense into his parents.
A muffled sob escaped your throat as you pressed a small kiss between his collarbones. The next thing you felt was Satoru's strong arm curling around your waist to pull you against his strong chest. The faint smell of musk still clung to his skin, but you had never revelled in it as you did now.
"Why aren't you asleep, baby? Something's wrong?" Satoru's voice came in a deep, throaty tone that would usually have your toes curling.
The edge of the blade dug deeper into your heart, drawing blood.
"Nothing, love. Just some weird thoughts, that's all."
A boyish grin adorned his face — so handsome even in the middle of the night — as he lightly flicked your forehead.
"Your head will hurt from all the overthinking. Head so tiny, yet so many thoughts. Come here," Satoru let a shuddering yawn and tucked your head under his chin, nuzzling gently against your hair. "Better?"
Biting on your lip, you prayed to all the gods that Satoru wouldn't hear the tremble in your voice. The steady beat of his heart lulled you to sleep, but you knew you wouldn't close an eye that night. "Yes."
"Try to sleep, okay?" Satoru's finger came to play with a lone strand of your hair. The smile in his voice was evident. "And if you don't, just wake me up. We can talk or watch that documentary you mentioned earlier. I mean, did Tyra really not take any accountability?"
You gathered any ounce of your strength not to fall apart right then and there.
"Of course, Toru. Go to sleep now."
He sighed in mock exaggeration. "Always so bossy."
His chest rose steadily under your cheek. His skin felt warm under the weight of your palm. You registered it all subconsciously, clinging to every part of Satoru.
And only when his breath fully evened, you allowed yourself to whisper to the night.
"I love you. And I am so sorry."
***
You sincerely thought you were a nice girlfriend for scheduling your breakup over the weekend. Waited until Satoru finished showering and emerged all smiley and happy from the bathroom. Waited until he recalled all the TikToks he sent to you in the early morning, not even knowing you already had blocked him on all the socials. Waited until he dug in the last breakfast you cooked for him — fluffy pancakes with strawberry jam.
"Babe, this is so delicious," Satoru hummed, pointing a fork at you. "Are you sure you didn't wanna become a chief? I mean, this is the gift from the heavens."
"I think we should break up."
Satoru paused mid-way, mouth still open. He slowly closed it and heaved a hollowed chuckle, chewing on the pancake with more force than necessary. "Very funny, sweets. An excellent joke."
Straightening in the seat, you furrowed your brows in confusion. Weren't you clear enough?
"I said we should break up."
That time, Satoru finally stopped chewing and slowly lifted his gaze at you. The electric blue pierced deep in your soul as he pressed again, "And I said it was an excellent joke."
"Satoru," the movement of your throat was sharp as you fumbled with words. "I am not joking."
The desperate flex of his fingers caught your attention immediately when Satoru curled them into a fist before taking a deep breath. The smile that carved into his lips was as sharp as the knife.
"Care to explain why?"
A thousand thoughts twirled in your mind those days like a restless whirlpool, each of them seemingly worse than the previous: "I don't love you anymore", or "You suffocate me with your love", and the traitorous "I cheated on you."
All of them lie, of course.
So, you settled on offering Satoru the least you could do — the truth.
"We just don't work out, Satoru. It's better to break up before — "your voice was so tiny and fragile, Satoru thought he was hallucinating: his worst nightmare coming to reality, " — things get more serious."
The loud, screeching sound of the chair being pushed away, followed by a self-deprecating, disbelieving laugh, filled the room. You glanced up at Satoru only to find him pacing around like a caged animal. Your words punched him right in the gut.
"We don't 'work out?' Before 'things get too serious', huh? Sweets, that's gotta be a joke. The most shitty, not funny and cruel joke you have ever pulled on me, but okay," he nervously carded his fingers through the white hair, before walking to you. "Tell me this is it. Please."
You cast your gaze down, not able to see the way his eyes frantically searched your face for any hint of a joke and hear the crack in his voice, usually so steady and certain. A rock, a lighthouse in your stormy ocean.
The shake of his hands was violent as they came up to frame your face. You choked on a heavy sob, trembling like a leaf with the tears blurring your eyes so hard you couldn't see anything.
"But we were —, are working just fine. Have I done something wrong? Is it because of me? Just tell me what to do, I swear I'll fix everything!"
"It's not about you, Satoru. Never has been. It's about me."
His white brows furrowed in confusion. "You? What about you? But you are perfect for me," he chuckled almost tenderly — a small sound frayed around the edges — that only ripped your heart out. "You listen to all my stupid jokes, know how many sugar cubes I put in my coffee, and put the curtains down because you know how sensitive my eyes are. You stayed with me at the hospital after the injury and cheered for me the loudest." His voice rose just a tad to coax a smile from you. "You have never told me how to be someone I am not. Always seen me, not the Gojo heir. Not the star player. How can it be about you? No one in the world knows me as well as you do. Like —," his gaze swept across the room like something might've helped him to talk you out, "like your last Christmas gift, huh? That premium card you swore you just stumbled upon in the store, but I knew better how much it — Wait."
Satoru's smile slowly died as the realisation downed at him like a wicked joke of fate. "No, no, no, no. That can't be it. Is that because of money? My status? I told you countless times that it doesn't matter to me! What I have is yours." His voice dipped into the fragile, almost sacred warmth that he reserved only for you. "All I have is yours."
You couldn't do that anymore. Not even in the wildest thoughts did it occur to you that breaking up with Satoru would hurt that badly. It rather resembled a never-ending torture.
He never understood it. Growing up in a family that barely made ends meet. Pouring your blood, sweat and tears into studies to get a tuition fee waiver, because there wasn't any other option for you to get into the university. Scraping by taking double shifts at the cafe. Fighting tooth and nail over the place in the chemistry lab.
And never would.
Pushing Satoru away, you closed your eyes in defeat before forcing yourself to look back at him. He didn't dare to mutter a word, watching your face twist with pain as you shouted.
"It matters to me! It matters to me, Satoru, how fucking inferior I feel next to you!"
Something in his gaze faded away. He didn't recognise his voice when it came in a short, fractured breath, devoid of all strength.
"What?"
A violent sob rattled your frame as you hid your face in your palms. You cried and cried and cried until your chest tightened with pain, and you managed to utter hoarsely. "Every time I get into your home, or every time someone sees me besides you, I want to run and disappear into the cave. Don't you see that, To — Satoru?" No. He wasn't your Toru anymore. "I am like, dunno, a disastrous glob of ink on Monet's painting. A patch of dirt on the Versace gown. A bling-bling amidst Graff's and Harry Winston's. Well, you get it. Something to wipe away or hide in the closet. Someone who doesn't deserve to stand by your side."
"I don't get it," Satoru dragged his hands over his face and shook his head, letting out a humourless laugh. His eyes flashed with a weird gleam. "Did my parents or anyone at that point say something to you? Because if they did, I fucking swear —"
"No one said anything to me, Satoru! It doesn't matter. Because they say it to you —"
"And as I said, I don't care — "
"BUT I DO!" The rise of your voice to a frenzied cry startled both of you. Satoru stared at you with a gaze so desperate that a kiss of the gun would've been more merciful. You fiercely wiped your snotty nose — hell, you must've looked so ugly — and walked over to cup his face. He watched your every move as if you were about to disappear. In a way, you were going to.
"I do not want anyone to say something about me to you. I do not want you to fight with your family over me. I want you to be happy. Do not be torn between me and the world you belonged to."
Satoru wanted to shake you by the shoulders just to knock some sense into your head, scream and shout what a total bullshit your words were, but instead, he got rooted to the spot by your doe eyes. His stomach twisted at your next words.
"You'll meet a beautiful, smart, and kind girl, who wears pearls that cost more than I will ever be able to make, plays Brahms at the family gatherings, and who doesn't turn red in the face, while asked about favourite Japanese modern artists. Well, now I know plenty." You couldn't help but huff a tiny chuckle. Nothing twitched in Satoru's face. "And you will fall in love with her, and your whole family will like her. Everything will be just fine."
Satoru couldn't believe what was happening. Nothing in his life could ever prepare him for the pain that would follow with your leaving him. It didn't feel real. Probably, never would.
He slowly tilted his head down and rested his forehead against yours, whispering, barely audible. Like every word cost him a fortune. "Please, baby, please. I swear on my life, I will do everything. Just don't leave me. I don't —," Satoru's hands slip up your face as well, but you closed your eyes in defeat. Any ounce of strength left in your body evaporated. His arms fell to his sides as he croaked out helplessly. "I don't know who I am without you."
"You are you, Satoru. Always have been and always will be. A brilliant, wonderful, kind boy with a golden heart. And I..I am just me," you pressed your lips in a thin line before forcing a smile. "But I will work on it. As I said, it's all because of me."
"You don't get it." Somehow, Satoru's lifeless whisper hit you harder than any scream would. Because Satoru never raised his voice at you. Even now. There was a hunch to his shoulders that you rarely saw, if ever, as he turned from you and gripped the edge of the table. "I want to marry you. To become your family. But guess that doesn't matter anymore. Before things get too serious, huh?"
The room spun around you as you knitted your brows together, slumping in the nearest chair. Marrying… you?
But, on the other hand, it didn't change anything. You were still miles away from each other, standing on opposite sides of the societal hierarchy.
"I am so sorry, Satoru," words clawed up your throat as you shook your head.
Satoru finally turned around, and the dimmed, utterly devastated blue of his gaze tore you apart at the seams. "You are not sorry. If you were, you won't be leaving me now."
You didn't have enough in you to counter this. Words seemed meaningless, slipping like sand through your fingers.
"Please, Satoru. Let us go. It is for the better."
You had never seen an expression that hopeless and defeated on his handsome face.
"Is that what you want?"
"No," you wanted to scream, to shout, to cry out loud. "How can I possibly want to leave you? I have to. For both of us."
The silence stretched thin between you for so long, Satoru sincerely thought you didn't hear him. He stepped forward only to see you giving a short nod, almost cruel in its curtness.
After all, he never denied you everything. Even that. Even if it killed him from the inside.
Standing by the door with your bag, you couldn't help but steal a last glance at him. You parted your lips to say goodbye, but nothing even remotely plausible came to your mind. Satoru sat on the couch, shoulders slumped and gaze fixed on the floor. His name left your lips for the last time.
"Satoru."
His head snapped up as if he had been waiting for it that entire time. Maybe you changed your mind?
"Yes?"
That fragile hope in his tone twisted your insides.
"I love you."
Before he could answer, you slipped out of his apartments. And his life.
***
These months, the four agonising months, marked by Satoru's absence in your life, had sucked. Mildly put.
You sincerely thought you were doing the right thing — well, still were — breaking up, sparing his life from your presence, but it didn't mean it hurt any less. In a way, it was the opposite.
Pushing the love of your life away and then grovelling in the silence of your small apartment after putting on a brave face and assuring everyone that you were okay sucked. Crying yourself to sleep sucked. Feeling your heart breaking to pieces each time your gaze stumbled upon something that instantly reminded you of Satoru — like a photo on the fridge, his note with a smiley, kissy face between the pages of your comfort book and the tome of the manga he was reading — sucked. Walking around the places you used to hang out sucked.
What sucked even more was the fact that Satoru's presence seemed to linger everywhere. His laugh haunted you while you were lounging on the couch. The look of pure happiness on his face was ingrained in your mind while you were walking in a familiar park. And when your eye caught sight of a ball? Didn't even mention it. Perhaps that was your punishment. Now you were subjected to a lifetime of loneliness.
Still, you tried to do the thing you promised Satoru the final time you saw him. Attempted to go out of your shell. Took on some hobbies. Had a lot, a lot of time for self-reflection (given that you were free most of the evenings when you didn't throw yourself into work). And took small steps to discover what made you whole.
What and not who. That realisation sank on you with the force of a tidal wave. Kept you awake in three of the morning. Occupied all your thoughts until you finally, finally, were getting used to it. Still, there was a lot to be done. You only wished for Satoru by your side, though. Were you allowed to think about him, after all?
The revelation, of course, only made your mind drift to Satoru even more. How was he? Was his injury getting better? Did his father officially appoint him as the next CEO?
Gods. You sure had no right to worry about him anymore. Not after breaking both of your hearts. An utterly desperate and lifeless look on his face flashed every time before your eyes when you closed them.
You dragged your feet back from the nearest combini: Friday had finally marked the end of a long, exhausting week (not like you had many left, huh) and you treated yourself with sushi and a bottle of wine. There was nothing you wanted more than to run a bath and put Sex and the City on, rotting under the blanket. It would've been thousands of times better if Satoru were there, but alas...
A few raindrops fell on the asphalt, successfully putting the train of your miserable thoughts to a halt, and you hurried to the entrance of your block. Quickly fishing a pair of keys, you glanced up from your bag as something caught your attention in the periphery, and you got immediately rooted to the spot.
You would recognise the set of those shoulders, now slightly hunched, everywhere. A grey hoodie did nothing to hide his figure. White tufts fell over his forehead under the hood, and something twisted viciously in your chest at the sight. Your fingers twitched with the urge to feel the silk of that hair under your touch.
You took a deep breath, trying to take a rein over your hammering heart, and stepped closer, calling the man out softly. Rather hesitantly.
"Satoru? What are you doing here?"
Satoru went rigid for a moment at your voice. His shoulders tensed even more. Your throat clogged up.
But then he turned around and smiled. A tiny, almost pathetic lift of his lips, and he offered you a small wave. Just like the one you gave him at that basketball match.
"Hi, ba —" Satoru immediately corrected himself, wincing just for a second. His smile wavered, as did your composure. "Hi."
The effort that took you not to drop your things right then and run into his arms was only between you and the gods.
"Hello to you too." Swallowing the lump in your throat, you stepped forward. That totally wasn't the way you imagined that meeting would go.
"What are you doing here?" You prompted again, trying not to sound either harsh or desperate. Desperate to hear his voice. See his eyes. Look at his face.
"Just... was going around. Stumbled at your place. You still live here." Satoru lifted one shoulder in a nervous shrug, and his little smile morphed into a quick, uneasy grimace.
You didn't question those stalker-ish tendencies, but the doubt was clearly evident in an arch of your brow, because Satoru instantly raised his hands in surrender.
"No, really. I guess my legs just carried me there. Some memory, you know," he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, but then sighed, seeing your suspicion. "Come on, sweets. If I had been stalking you all that time, I would've done it way more discreetly."
That brought you some relief. "Guess you would've."
His Adam's apple bobbed with an effort. "Can we, uhm, talk?"
Something in your guts was telling you had a pretty good sense of the way this talk would go. You weren't sure it was the right time and way.
Casting your gaze down, you worried on your bottom lip before breathing out, "I'm — I'm not sure this is a good idea, Satoru."
"Please", his voice took on a pleading edge. You closed your eyes for a brief moment. "I just want to know how you are. That's all."
He was lying. And he knew you were well aware of it.
But, in the end, wasn't that what you wanted? To see him, at least? Well, here Satoru was.
Thunder roared somewhere in the distance, and you were pretty sure that soon you both would be drenched to the bone.
"Besides, you don't want to get me standing under the rain, do you?" An amusement curled Satoru's lips before he let a humourless chuckle. "Have some mercy on your ex-boyfriend."
That sounded like a slur coming from Satoru. You glared at him. His smile turned even sharper.
Torn between the current state of your... relationship, and the fact that Satoru was standing right in front of you, you completely didn't know what to do. You didn't part your ways that badly. And you had never wanted to be that person who would resent his ex and scowl at every mention of them.
Because that was never true. You loved Satoru. And, judging by the yearning lacing his gaze and the nervous flex of his hands as he awaited your response, he still loved you, too.
After minutes of debating, with the rain intensifying, you finally gave in and nodded towards the entrance.
"Get in."
Satoru's wide smile now resembled more of a child's on Christmas.
"Yes, ma'am."
The weight of Satoru's gaze, burning a hole in your back, felt rather physical. The tension in your kitchen threatened to suffocate you both, while you busied yourself with making tea and a gigantic cup of hot cocoa for Satoru.
You placed the drink in front of him, and Satoru shot you a small, curious grin.
"Whoa, marshmallows."
"Yeah," you still absent-mindedly bought them at the grocery store. Habit. "You know, three years of always getting your marshmallows weren't in vain."
Satoru looked at you as if he seriously considered offering himself as a sacrifice at your altar.
Damn those puppy eyes.
Rubbing your palms up and down your thighs, you cleared your throat and offered an awkward smile. God, you wanted the ground to swallow you. "So, uhm, how have you been, To — Satoru?"
He pressed his lips together and leaned back in his seat, right hand on the back of it, like he was incapable of sitting straight. Well, some things never changed.
Satoru didn't look at you, instead glancing out of the window at the heavy rain, drumming against the windows.
"Not so good."
You immediately dropped your gaze, hugging the cup with sea buckthorn tea. The scorching liquid might've burnt your hands a little, but it was nothing in comparison with the sharp pain in your chest.
Licking your lips, you forced yourself to look up at Satoru. He was still staring at the rain like it held something only visible to him. The muscle in his jaw jumped.
"I am sorry, but —"
Satoru released a long sigh and turned to you. You almost flinched at the sight of his eyes — usually so bright blue, flashing with mirth and charm, now reduced to the lifeless, dull grey. Under the better light, you also noticed the dark bags under Satoru's eyes, the hollow in his cheeks and even the light stubble. You had never seen him like it. Like he aged ten years or more in those months.
That was all because of you, right?
Tears filled your eyes so fast you couldn't even blink them away, when you felt salt on your lips.
You wanted to apologise once again, but then Satoru leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table, feverishly running his fingers through the white strands. Were you a little crazy, or even his hair seemed more…ashy?
"I am not gonna lie, I have never felt more awful and pathetic and miserable — well, you get it, in my entire fucking life," he waved his hand dismissively, and you closed your eyes just for a fleeting second, because you couldn't afford even a moment of not looking at him. That talk went even worse than you imagined. "But after you left, something has…changed."
You sat upright and drawled hesitantly, "Like…what?"
He huffed a humourless chuckle, and his eyes flashed with a weird, almost malicious glint. Your insides went cold.
"Well, I just told my father that he can suck my dick —"
You slowly covered your face with one hand. That was not good. Very, very bad, actually.
" — if he even for a moment thinks I was going to marry one of the girls he and my grandfather suggested. And then he started threatening to cut my trust fund off, blah blah, blah. Like I've ever given a single fuck about it."
Something in his tone was telling you that wasn't everything that had changed.
Satoru's voice sharpened in a way that could cut even the hardest steel.
"That was okay. Nothing I've heard before. But when he started talking about you," his voice dropped to a whisper and dangerously cracked. You couldn't hear it anymore. "That's where I draw the line. He knows that. Now everyone knows that."
A loud groan left you as you dropped your head in your hands.
"What have you done, Satoru?"
He just rolled his eyes. Harsh and sharp. "What I should have done, obviously. A long time ago. Tell all of them to fuck off."
"Oh —"
"Mildly put," Satoru scratched his head with a mild grimace. "And then got kicked out of the house. Trust fund cut off, obviously."
You couldn't believe what you had just heard. Satoru might've thought that his words would somehow soften you, so you could coo at him or whatever. But never did he expect you to slam your fist against the table and grit throught your teeth.
"Have you fucking lost your mind?"
Satoru blinked in shock, watching you suddenly stand up and turn from him, your hands curled into fists by your sides.
"What?"
Taking a deep breath, you tore your gaze from the windows and threw your hands in the air.
"Are you an idiot?"
Well, that kind of hurt. "I don't understand."
"Satoru." Oh no, he knew that tone. That only meant you were seething with rage. There were no means of escape, especially as you loomed over him. "So let me get it straight. You fought with your entire family, they kicked you out of the house and left you with no money."
"Pretty much, yeah."
"All because of me!?"
Satoru didn't like the way you said "me". As if you were something not even worth mentioning. The dirt beneath his feet.
"Satoru, we are not together! I am not your girlfriend anymore, I am not even in your life! We don't even talk! You can't throw your life away because of me! That's stupid!"
"Well, maybe I am stupid, hasn't it occurred to you?"
"Satoru," your voice trembled on the edge of tears. Why didn't he understand you?! "I am serious. This is serious. This is your life! This is all you have— had, especially given you can't damn play with your injury now!"
Satoru didn't answer you. You only saw the way he swallowed with effort, and the look of utter longing on his face told you everything.
You helplessly slumped back in your chair and hid your face in your palms for a small eternity. Satoru didn't dare to interrupt. He just watched you, soaking up every feature as if you were about to kick him out of your apartment forever. That was an option. You were pretty pissed.
He attempted to soothe you, "But there's something good."
You slowly glanced up, and Satoru almost snorted at the look of total disbelief in your eyes. "Such as?"
Satoru quickly stood up and kneeled between your chair, taking your hands in his. Cold as usual. Absent-mindedly, he rubbed your palms with his thumbs. As usual.
"I mean, you said it yourself, sweets. That is all I have known for my whole life. Rich kid, golden youth, spoilt guy born with a silver spoon in his mouth, all that stuff. I thought maybe it was it? My chance to find myself, huh? I don't want to be their toy to boss around all because of money."
Something crawled up your skin and twisted sharply in your chest as you breathed out, "What do you mean?"
Was he serious? So you both were doing the same thing all that time?
Satoru squeezed your hand harder and gave you a crooked smile.
"Just been here and there. Doing…some stuff."
You tilted your head in a silent question. He chuckled breathlessly and shook his head.
"Don't laugh, okay? I am teaching some kids basketball at school."
"Oh," your lips curled up in a tender smile as something warm bloomed in your chest. "That's really nice. You like it?"
"Yeah," Satoru's answer was immediate. And for the first time that evening, you saw a familiar spark in his eyes. "Kids can be a pain in the ass sometimes, but they are really cute. Listen to me, call me Gojo-sensei. Kinda gets in your head, you know."
A small snort escaped you, and the wide grin broke on his face. Oh, how he missed that precious sound.
"Where do you live now?"
"Crashing Suguru. He's not particularly happy when I drown my misery in another pint of strawberry ice-cream — "
Your smile slowly disappeared.
" — when he brings in some girl, but I bribe him with dark chocolate. You know he can't live without it."
"That he can," you uttered in a strained voice. Satoru's grin wavered as well, and he hesitantly reached to tuck the lone strand of your hair behind your ear. His hand trembled a little.
"What about you? There are boxes everywhere," he leaned back with a soft murmur, glancing around your apartment with packed staff around. "Moving out?"
Your heart suddenly felt twice its size, thumping violently against your ribs. "Uhm, yeah. Moving out."
"Where?"
Well, that was it. You squirmed in your seat, and Satoru's hand slowly fell to his side. He just waited.
"Eh…France."
He pinched his brows together with a slight frown and repeated incredulously, "You are moving to France?"
Satoru's sharp blue gaze seemed to pierce through you. Unable to meet it, you looked away.
"Yes."
"Why?"
Sighing deeply, you stood up and leaned against a kitchen counter, hugging yourself. Satoru immediately rose to his feet.
"That was a pretty much hard time for me too. Not delving into details, but…yeah. I felt like shit. Everyone was dating someone, or building a successful career, or, I don't know, just doing something meaningful," you gestured vaguely and combed your hair with a shaky hand. Satoru just stared at you like a lone, kicked puppy. "While I willingly kept fucking my own life over. Cooped yourself in that place. Left the love of my life."
Something in your face softened at the last words. Satoru forgot how to breathe.
"And that certainly shouldn't be…in vain, whatever. I told you I was going to work on myself, and I kind of do. Step by step, but I am going there."
"I still don't understand. I am happy for you, really am, but why are you leaving Japan? What about your mother, your job?"
What about me?
"My department's had its financing cut. My presence is not required anymore, as they said. I am just working the last two weeks, and that's it."
"Oh. I am..I am sorry to hear it."
"As for my mom," you didn't seem to hear Satoru's words at all, staring somewhere past him. "You know, she's never really cared that much about me anyway. She'll survive."
As cruel as your words might've seemed, you were right. Your mother was an…interesting woman indeed.
Satoru desperately cling to anything that could make you stay here like a lifeline.
"What about Nobara?"
Surely, you couldn't leave her. You two had been together from the first time he saw you at the university campus.
"Actually, she was the one who offered me that."
"Huh?!"
"She's recently been promoted at her job to the French edition of their magazine. Fashion weeks, runways, photoshoots… You know her, she's been ecstatic about it. So, when she asked me about it…I said I would give it a thought. I mean, it will be a nice fresh start, won't it? I don't have anything left here, so…why not? Gotta take risks, something like that."
Satoru couldn't believe his own ears. That would've been his nightmare coming true, if not for the fact that his worst one already was real. No. He wouldn't let you go that time. That was the stupidest thing he had done in his life, and if he had to beg…well.
The worst thing that you seemed pretty confident about it. But looking closely, he saw your hands trembled a little by your side, and your gaze darted nervously around. So, there still was some chance.
He ran his fingers through his hair. The gears seemed to work nonstop in his mind as he glanced around for any clue or sight for support. Until…
He weakly breathed out, "I am going with you."
Your eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. "You what!?"
Satisfied with your reaction and his genius mind, Satoru smirked lazily, "I am going to France with you."
Did you stare in The Office or something? Was there a hidden camera to look at?
Helplessly blinking, you finally managed to utter, "Excuse me? You going to France? With me?"
"I know, I know what you are thinking. He's crazy, an idiot, proper name, last name, backstory stuff, but hear me out!" Satoru walked to you and squeezed your shoulders, his eyes frantically searching your face for a hint of understanding. You still stared at him as if he had just announced he was going to fly to the Moon, no less. "You broke up with me because, citing "you felt inferior to me," right?
Pressing your lips into a thin line, you gave him a flat look. "Correct."
"But I am not superior in any way to you now! You're discovering yourself, me too, so why don't we do that together? Start everything from scratch? Including," his Adam's apple bobbed with effort as his hands slowly slid down your figure to rest on the dip of your waist. Your skin tingled at the contact. "Including us."
Blood defeaningly roared at your temples, and your heart jumped right into your throat. Wouldn't it be strange and weird? Getting back together after you pushed him away? After breaking both of you?
One of Satoru's hands drifted upwards to cradle your face, while the other pulled your figure closer to him. Your head spun at the sudden proximity. His thumb delicately traced the line of your jaw and settled on the apple of your cheek.
"How is that stupid and weird, if I love you?" Shit, had you been musing aloud? "And you love me."
You parted your lips to answer, but then Satoru tilted his head down just a bit, and it was enough to feel the faintest brush of his lips against yours. With knees slightly trembling, your hand flew up and twisted the fabric of his hoodie for support. Your tongue darted out to lick your lip for a mere second; it was enough for Satoru's gaze to flick there and stare at your mouth as if hypnotised.
"Or you don't?" You almost leaned in for a kiss when he suddenly pulled away, despite being a breath away from devouring you. You gulped and lifted a pleading gaze at him — and not like the look on Satoru's face was any better. A strange kind of bitterness settled in your chest at the shakiness of his voice: he really doubted it. Well, you gave him a good reason to, didn't you?
It baffled you. No. Weirded out in the worst way possible.
So, instead of answering, you simply stood on your tiptoes and pressed your lips against his. A feathery, almost invisible, but it was enough for Satoru to release a groan and kiss your back.
You forgot how to breathe. The room spun around you, and if not for Satoru's hand holding at your waist, you would've collapsed for sure. The familiar sense of heat shot through you as you boldly slid your hand up Satoru's toned shoulder, grazed his undercut — wait, did he actually whimper at that or what — and ran your fingers through the silky white hair. The months of raw longing, poured in that kiss, laced every brush of your tongues, stifled moan and impatient tug with desperate want. Damn, you almost forgot his lips slotting perfectly against yours, his gently nipping at your bottom lip, and his hot, raspy breath fanning over your cheek when you pulled away before delving in again and again.
Blinking away dizziness, you managed to gather your bearings together just to mumble, "Does it count as an answer?"
Satoru's chest rose up and down as if he had just run a marathon, and he slowly shook his hand in response before tilting your chin up. His eyes resembled more of a stormy ocean than a breezy sea, but his hold was as tender as always.
"I love you, Satoru. Still am and always have been. I told you the same when —," you swallowed the lump in your throat, "— when I left you." Voice sinking into a small, almost miserable whisper, you went on, "And I am sorry for that, so damn sorry, you didn't deserve it."
"No, no, no, baby, stop it," now both his hands cradled your face as his gaze gently caressed every twitch in it, every shift, every freckle and mole. "You did what you felt right to. I accepted that, even though it was the hardest thing in my life. Believe me or not, I felt so stupid and shitty and miserable for letting you go, but I had to respect that. I only wish I had noticed you feeling that way sooner," he ended with a small, bitter smile, placing a kiss on the tip of your nose before gently nuzzling it. "Missed you so, so much."
As much as you wanted to lean into Satoru's touch again with no care in the world, you felt the need to apologise for once again, "No, Satoru, but — Maybe if I told you that instead of going away, we wouldn't be apart these months. I am sorry."
"Stop that," his voice cut you off, not firmly but enough to shut you up. "Really, stop. I am not mad at you. I could never be mad at you. And maybe I need that too. Shook me good to realise what things really mattered in life."
A sad sigh left your lips when you remembered what happened between Satoru and his family. Yes, they were jerks, but you never wanted to be the reason for the wedge between them.
"But hey, now we're two psychos together, trying to figure out what to do with their life! Together, right?" Satoru's gaze carefully searched yours, and as you nodded enthusiastically, his face broke into the brightest grin possible. Maybe only rivalling the one he gave you when you agreed to go out with him at that bonfire party.
"Love you, love you, love you," you murmured between kisses, nuzzling against his jaw, eliciting shaky moans. Your hands slid under his hoodie to feel the hot skin under your palms, but the sudden roaring of the thunder made you jump.
"Oh, fuck."
Satoru wanted to tease you at first, but he quickly bit his tongue, remembering that noises like that still scared you. You mindlessly gripped his hoodie tighter, pressing your frame against his for comfort. His hand cradled the back of your head, and he tucked it under his chin, whispering soothing words.
"Maybe you wanna lie down or something?" Whispering into your hair, Satoru pressed his lips against the crown of your head as another tremble shook your body at the particularly frightening sound. His gaze briefly flicked at the sky through the windows. "Yeah, not getting better soon."
Without further ado, you sighed in response and gripped his hand to walk to your bedroom. In every other situation, his hands would've been on you in a second, but not now. Especially given that you had just gotten back together.
Your bedroom hadn't really changed: your favourite stuffed plush bear sat over the sheets, guarding your sleep; a stupid lava lamp that Satoru once gifted you was still on the bedside table, not to mention the horde of houseplants (he sadly noticed the absence of some) at the windowsill. You hadn't packed the bedroom stuff yet, though a couple of boxes obediently waited in the corner.
After all those months, Satoru's presence felt kind of weird in your bedroom, but now, with his hands enveloping you in an embrace, you had never felt happier.
You both stayed up the whole night: gods, you almost forgot how easy it was to talk to Satoru. He told you more about the kids he was teaching, the school, and that he tried to do some modelling photoshoots. It turned out pretty good. "Might be a nice gig," he shrugged nonchalantly, but you noticed his eyes sparkling with mirth.
You filled him in on the work drama, places you visited in your attempts to go out of your shell, hobbies you tried — his eyes widened at the mention of drawing and pottery, and he demanded to see your works the first thing in the morning.
You snorted quietly. "I don't think they are anywhere as good as your photos."
Satoru huffed under his breath and lightly nudged your shoulder. You both lie face to face now, smiling and giggling like a pair of students you once were. You felt as if you were floating in happiness.
"Come on, baby, don't be shy. I am positive they are nice."
"No, Toru, they are not. Believe me, my first flowerpot was disastrous." You turned a bit and waved at the deformed blob of clay, hiding in the corner. Satoru followed your move: his lips pressed into a thin line at the sight of a poor thing.
"Uhm…well, it's not that bad." His shoulders shook with a barely suppressed laugh, and you rolled your eyes good-naturedly.
"It's okay, you can laugh."
The laugh he let was truly thunderous, and even you, the mighty creator, couldn't help but laugh alone.
"Babe, I am sorry, it's just looking at me like I have to end its suffering," after some time, Satoru finally wept some tears and breathed out weakly with his hand on his stomach. You both looked at the hopeless blob. "Why do you keep it, anyway?"
Sighing in response, you murmured, "Dunno. I can't bring myself to throw it away."
Satoru just hummed in response and settled back against the pillows. "Will you take it to France?"
Your heart skipped a beat at the mention, and you just shrugged indecisively. The light mood you had slowly evaporated. After some minutes, you rolled back to face Satoru again, only to find him already watching you closely.
"Were you serious?"
He tilted his head in question; his hand came up to brush a hair strand behind your ear. "About what?"
The next words came in a hesitant whisper.
"Moving with me to France."
Satoru's thumb traced your bottom lip before he dropped his arm to the side. Shrugging casually, he lifted a steady gaze on you. "Are you still thinking about moving there?"
You swallowed nervously before nodding. "Yeah."
"Then I was serious too. We're dating again, it's only logical then."
You couldn't fight with that argument.
"Guess it is. I just…," you lifted one shoulder, still doubtful. "Can't believe you do that for me."
And he couldn't believe you questioned it. But instead, Satoru just blinked at you and muttered in the most serious tone possible.
"I told you I was going to marry you. Yes, I still want to. I wasn't joking and trying to hold you back in the heat of the moment —"
You wordlessly glanced at him.
" — okay, I did, but I was serious. And still am. Hell, baby," the mattress dipped under his weight as Satoru scooted closer. "You're the only thing — not a thing, person, I mean, you're the most serious I've ever been about anything and anyone in my life. I swear. Where you go, I follow."
His voice cracked at the last words, and you let a shuddering breath, cupping his face.
"Are you sure? What will your family say? Job? Suguru?"
Satoru lifted a corner of his lips in a small grin, recalling the same arguments he used to talk you out of moving.
"I am pretty sure I can find something there. Isn't this a part of discovering yourself, too? It could be pretty fun. Who knows, maybe I have some secret talent for pastries. Not just eating. Baking! Plus, I know French," he beamed at you like the Sun. You couldn't help but grin back. "It's a little rusty, though."
You both snorted, but then a frown crossed Satoru's face, and his tone turned more serious.
"Suguru…he'll understand. We still will be talking, right? Not as we used to, but…hey, now I will have an excuse to send him even more stupid memes."
"I am sure he will be ecstatic about it."
"He won't have any choice, heh. And my family…honestly? I don't really care. We both said everything we wanted to each other. I do not see any sense in bowing and scraping."
Your face crumpled in a grimace as you recalled that you were one of the reasons that entire thing happened, and hunched your shoulders. "Still sorry about it."
"And I am still saying you shouldn't be."
Minutes passed between you in a relative silence, interrupted only by the car noises and distant humming of the refrigerator as you stared at the ceiling. Finally, you turned to look at Satoru. Moonlight painted his features in an even more breathtaking way, highlighting the sharp jawline and illuminating the blue of his eyes.
"So…we are really going to France."
Satoru smiled at you — the gentle one he saved only for you — and reached for your hand to interlace your fingers slowly.
"We really are."
***
The morning sun crept through the blinds, bathing a bedroom in a soft, ethereal light, and its beams lazily caressed your face in feathery kisses. As your nose twitched at the sensation, begrudgingly, very begrudgingly, you blinked and reached for your phone. It came to life with a faint buzz; you tried to focus your bleary gaze on the time and sighed in relief as you still had half an hour before the alarm.
A careful attempt to sink back into the sheets didn't go unnoticed by the whole mountain of heat and muscle beside you. Satoru's arm snaked around your waist with an energy too restless for a sleepy man.
"Where are you going to, huh?" His voice, still deep and thick with sleep, felt like a pure sin against your nape. A shudder ran through your body as he gently nuzzled the soft skin there and pressed his lips against the point that shouldn't drive you crazy like it did. "Morning, ma choute."
Amusement curled your tone as you breathed out a chuckle, "Your favourite word, huh?"
Instead of answering, Satoru hummed something unintelligible against the curve of your neck, nosing it, while his lips found your pulse point.
"Can't help it. Not my fault if it fits you perfectly. So sweet," his head went into a dizzy, hazy state at the whiff of your chocolate shower gel and something so uniquely yours. "So soft." The hand that rested leisurely on your belly lazily drifted upwards to cup the tender swell of your breasts. Your breath caught in your throat as you arched into Satoru's touch with a quiet, sleepy moan.
"Ah, Satoru…"
When your voice dipped into that syrupy bedroom voice, laced with so much want, Satoru never could help himself. His hips bucked involuntarily, eliciting a surprised gasp from you, as you felt the throbbing of his length against your backside.
Your hair fanned over a pillow like a halo, catching the bright light, and Satoru's heart skipped a beat. He gently bit down on your pulse point, and as your gasp rose in a tone, he quickly soothed it with a lick of his tongue.
"Fuck, you're so beautiful. So, so beautiful. Can't believe you're mine." The heat crept up your body all the way to your cheeks, not only at the way Satoru rolled your nipple between his fingers, palming at the soft skin there, but at the bewilderment in his voice. As if he were actually shocked.
Another moan left your lips as you closed your eyes in the utter pleasure, coursing through your body and tightening your insides into the sweet knot. Subconsiously, you pushed your trembling thighs back against his front, to which Satoru responded with a low hiss.
"You're in a teasing mood today, huh?"
A sharp pang of disappointment shot through your body when his hand left your chest.
"Satoru…"
"Shh, patience, baby. Good things come to those who wait, don't they?" You almost whined at the loss of the contact, but then his hand — god, that hand — wrapped around your throat with a light grip, just enough to turn your face and capture your lips in a lazy, unhurried kiss. He licked at the seam of your mouth, and you immediately opened it, granting Satoru access. Your tongues lazily tangled, exploring each other; you slid your free hand down his toned pecs, sharp abs and wrapped it around the already hard cock. Giving it a few unhurried pumps, you heard Satoru moaning unbashfully against your mouth.
"Oh, fuck, yeah, keep going, love. Just like —, oh, just like that."
You fondled his balls with a sly smirk, to which he responded with a sharp, almost desperate cry, and…stopped.
"Hey, baby," the pout was evident in his voice, "That's not fair. Like totally not fair."
With a smirk widening, you turned just a tad to see his half-lidded gaze darkening with lust. "Haven't you just preached to me about patience, Toru?"
Satoru's head hit your shoulder as he let a groan, followed by a disbelieving laugh. "Vixen. You drive me crazy, you know that?"
"Yeah, yeah, yet you're still not inside me." After rolling your eyes impatiently, you finally heard the sheets rustling. Your insides clenched in anticipation.
Laughing quietly, Satoru kissed your shoulder, pulling you closer against his front. His hand slid under your hip, lifting it for better access, and hoisted it over his own. You almost whimpered as the thick head of his cock nudged your already wet entrance.
"Look at tha-a-a-t," the heat flooded your body even more at the cocky tilt in his voice and the way his fingers lightly grazed your folds. "For someone so soaked, you have a pretty big mouth running, ma chérie."
You attempted to glare at Satoru, but it ended rather poorly with the way your eyes were glazed with desire. Giving you a smirk, not even trying to hide his arrogance and smugness, he hastily fisted his cock and aligned it with your entrance, slowly yet surely filling you up inch by inch.
"F-fuck, you're so tight," Satoru's hot whisper fanned over your jawline as he pressed heated kisses up to your mouth. "So warm, so good, so p-perfect — babe, don't clench me like that, f-for me."
Your lips parted, forming almost a perfect "O" in its shape at the burn of the stretch, and the first loud moan tore from your chest, when Satoru finally gave you a shallow roll of his hips.
"Sa-Satoru, yeah…"
With no hesitation, you reached behind and tugged at the soft white tufts above Satoru's undercut, pressing his head into your nape to seek even more contact until your bodies fused in a messy, unintelligible tangle of limbs, needy touches and wanton moans. His hips built a slow, languid rhythm, moulding your insides into the shape of his cock; each thick vein and ridge of him against your velvet walls made your mind swim in pleasure, so overwhelming it drowned every coherent thought. One of his hands snaked up to squeeze your breasts, eliciting more shaky whimpers from you.
"Love you, love you so fucking much, you don't even, ngh, under-understand, shit, y-yes," Satoru slurred against your cheek after yet another sloppy kiss, his tongue darting to taste the salty skin as you literally cried in ecstasy when he hit that sweet spot inside. You were completely sure he would never let you forget this. His moves gradually lost their rhythm, giving in to a raw, primal desire. A string of desperate whimpers spilt from your lips, and you turned your head to muffle these cries in the pillow.
Wrong move.
Seeing it, Satoru's lips curled into a sharp smirk. He quickly wetted his fingers and dragged them down to press quick, tight circles on your clit, and with all the stimulation, your body jolted in pleasure. Heat, shameless and urgent, built at the base of your spine, coursed through your veins and lit every part on fire. His cock twitched inside you at the way you breathed out his name with such desperation that put all the prayers to shame.
"Give it to me, baby. Be a good girl, yeah? Cum for me."
Your thighs shook violently, which was a telling sign that you were close; he feverishly rutted against yours, rubbing your clit in quick motions, panting against the curve of your neck. His eyes rolled in pleasure as your cunt fluttered around him, coating his shaft in juices, and with a shameless guttural groan, he cummed too.
The sound of your name, spilling from Satoru's lips like it was the only word he knew, brought tears to your eyes. Of love, of longing, or devotion, you weren't even sure.
Satoru was still in you, behind you, wrapping you in his arms and scent, when you awkwardly tried to turn around. He lazily blinked at you — the blue of his eyes resembled the glimmering waves of the Mediterranean Sea, which lapped the shores of the city that had become your home. Swallowing a lump in your throat, you lean in to press a quick, almost chaste kiss on the corner of his lips. They twitched with a soft grin.
"Someone's awfully sweet. Good morning, I guess. Really good, that time. What if — "
Before Satoru finished, your hands framed his face, and you kissed him again, taking your time. He released a quiet, unexpected sigh and melted into it immediately, giving you all the reins. Sweet and soft, your tongue swept over his plump lips and explored his mouth, until you both pulled away to catch your breath. Resting your forehead against his, you muttered quietly.
"I love you."
Satoru didn't answer you right away; instead, he cupped your cheek, his thumb grazed the soft skin under your eyes, and he murmured back.
"I love you more."
You didn't want to delve into the endless fight of who loved whom more, so you just settled against his chest with a soft sigh. Satoru tucked your head under his chin and gently ran his fingers up and down your spine.
"How are you feeling? Wanna cuddle a little or go showering?"
"I wish we could cuddle more, but Nobara and Maki are coming in…very soon, actually."
Satoru stilled for a moment and released a groan, reluctant to let you go and leave that bed, jutting his bottom lip in the biggest pout known to the Universe.
"Is it today? Do we have to go with them, baby?"
"Yes. Toru, we promised them to show the Fine Arts Museum. Maki didn't visit it last time they were in Marseille because it was shut for some renovation. Apparently."
"Geez, I was hoping for a round two. And maybe three in the shower. Besides, we were there with Suguru last summer." His hand slid down to squeeze your butt in the last attempt to persuade you, but you stood your ground. With great effort.
"Satoru, no. We don't see them often. Get up."
Saoru's hand that reached to pinch your side as you hopped off to get to the shower, limply fell to his side. He groaned as his head hit the pillow, but as the sounds of water running filled the space, he enthusiastically got up and padded to the bathroom. He could be pretty…convincing when he wanted to.
Indeed, an hour later, Nobara suspiciously eyed both of you up and down — your hair told her everything she needed to know. Satoru didn't even try to hide a big dopey grin that screamed "I just got laid by the most gorgeous woman in the world". You elbowed him. Hard. His smile got even wider, so you sent him to help Maki with their suitcases.
"You know, I am so happy for you." You gave Nobara a cup of scorching latte, just the way she preferred. Her lips curled into an amusing yet soft grin. "No, really. You both look radiant."
She laughed heartily, nodding in gratitude; however, her gaze was fixed on your front yard. You followed the direction and chuckled as well, seeing Satoru and Maki trying to coax Nobara's cat — a fluffy, totally spoilt Persian named Lady — out of the carrier. She only hissed in response.
"Yeah. Me too. She's…I don't know how to explain it. But I am so happy she agreed to move here. The same is for you, by the way. Provence does wonders for both of you. Even Gojo."
You rested your elbows on the table with a melancholic sigh. Yes, the start of your journey in France was quite turbulent: a total mess with language, documents, fighting with landlords over the rent, and taking up any gigs for money…It only helped that you had some of it saved. Endless hours of work, tears and efforts poured into building your new life finally got its fruits: at one of the fashion shows, Nobara introduced you to the famous photographer, who instantly fell in love with your works. And Satoru…
"Phew, finally," the front door opened, revealing beaming Satoru with Lady in his arms, who…purred in content. Nobara's eyes widened in shock.
"Lady, what? He's a man! Have some dignity!"
"Can't help it if I am that charming," he scratched the kitty under her chin. "Even cats know that."
"That's, unfortunately, true." You squeaked in delight at Maki's tired voice and jumped into her arms. After a few solid minutes of hugging, you finally released her as she begged you to show her the bathroom.
"So, Gojo," Nobara drawled in a voice too casual. Satoru exchanged brief yet pointed glances with you. Lady cracked one eye open and yawned, staring at her catmom. "Do you have, by any chance, some calissons left?"
In Nobara's language, that meant she had been dying to taste them, but she would never admit it to Satoru. "Don't tell him, or his ego would grow even bigger!"
So you just happened to drop that you wanted to have those candies, and of course, Satoru whipped some up: they just waited to be baked. Judging by his cocky smirk, he already figured both of you out.
"Why do you call me Gojo? She's a Gojo too, you know?" The oven beeped a couple of times when Satoru put the tray with callisons inside. Nobara only rolled her eyes and hugged you with a grin.
And Satoru once decided to try his hand at the things that he loved the most in the world (after you, of course): sweets. In particular, pastries. To put it concisely, baking. It took a lot, a lot of time and years of learning in culinary academies under the guidance of chiefs, before he could finally name himself the one.
Marseille greeted you with arms open, the fresh scent of pastries lingering in the air, mesmerising views and the centuries of history ingrained in its walls. You left Paris after you realised it was high time to move forward, and since you mentioned a couple of times that you wanted to live in Provence for some time, Satoru started to look for a home and a place for his own bakery. His own thing. That he built only by himself, with no family barking and ordering him around. He and you. And Satoru could've never been happier for it.
You indeed had never made it easy for him. But now, seeing you laugh with your friends, among the paintings, with the sun casting a soft, almost amber glow on your figure, Satoru realised he would rather have things difficult with you than easy with anyone else. Because you were worth it.
synopsis: this beautiful thing continues to grow between you and xavier, and you become a bit bolder—as does he.
★pairing: xavier x f!reader
★wc: 8.4k
★content: fluff galore. the cute, giddy, still a little awkward stage of realizing your crush is returned. flirting! they're a tiny bit cringe but they're free. xavier reciting poetry. a lot of wanting to kiss but still being a bit shy. mc is lowkey a little horny too.
★a/n: crazy that in a month it'll be a year since I started this series. where does the time go? I'm sorry updates are so sporadic, but I still love this story so much and I'm so excited to share this chapter. (also thought this ch wouldnt be as long LOL)
★part viii ★read on ao3 ★series masterlist ★part x (coming soon)
The rest of the night felt like a whirlwind, stirred up in your chest and sweeping you away.
Even as you had sobered up under Xavier's watchful gaze, sipping at your water and snacking on pretzels at the kitchen counter while the party dwindled down, you felt buzzed. Your skin thrummed with heat, tingling just under his attention, sparking where your shoulder was pressed to his while you hunched together over his phone screen.
"This one's name is Puffball," he told you, pointing to the picture of the rotund yellow songbird. "He's my favorite, and he knows it."
You giggled, peering closer at the bird's talons wrapped around Xavier's slender finger in the photo.
"See, I knew you were a Disney princess," you teased, unable to help it.
When you looked up to see the perplexed look on his face, you couldn't help but laugh.
The way his expression melted when you did made you want to bury your face in your hands. But you just settled for bumping his shoulder, grinning to yourself when he bumped yours back.
At the front door, you had both lingered on the steps, illuminated softly by the buzzing lightbulb overhead. Moths were drawn to the flickering light, as you were to the happiness that radiated from Xavier's soft smile.
His goodbye had lingered in the air, his gentle voice low. It blurred the line towards intimate, even with the little space still left between you. And even when that distance grew as you walked towards your car, you were simultaneously thrilled and eased with the knowledge that this wasn't really a goodbye at all, but one said only for the excuse to soon say hello again.
That exuberant, giddy feeling lasted from the drive home until you were laying in bed. You fell asleep while replaying the night's revelations in your mind, and woke up the next morning already smiling when they replayed in tandem with your hazy dreams.
Now, you turn onto your stomach, stifling your sleepy giggles into your pillow while you mentally recount each and every smile, every heartfelt word. Hugging it to your chest, you kick your feet until you're a tangled mess in your blankets.
Early morning light slips through the slim gap left in your curtains, and as your excitement naturally slows, uncertainty creeps in. Turning onto your back, you stare up at the ceiling you'd pondered at for so many years, growing pensive.
Between the moments of happiness—as bright and consuming as they are—you can't shake that lingering feeling of being disheartened by the turn of events last night. Embarrassment still reared its ugly head whenever you thought of what happened in the living room. (And maybe a small part of you wanted to give Isaiah a piece of your mind the next time you saw him, emboldened by Xavier's voice echoing that his cousin was "an asshole.")
And yet, you were still so, so happy.
How such contrasting feelings could coexist inside you, you didn't know. Your chest ached from cracking it open to bear your heart and soul. You felt empty, and full. You felt the pain of picking at an old scab, and relief at seeing that it could heal over again.
Your mind felt clear for the first time in weeks, maybe even months, long before you came back home. A path forward had finally revealed itself to you: overgrown, but traversable. A way out.
And then you think of Xavier's smile from last night, and something inside of you glows.
Or, maybe even better. A way through.
You would find a way through again.
Reaching out, you fumble with your phone on your bedside table. The time on your lockscreen showed it was still early—a good thing, since the date reminded you that it was Monday and that you did, in fact, have a life and job you needed to return to.
But the text waiting to be read from ten minutes ago has you feeling giddy all over again.
Xavier★: Good morning
The simple greeting, nestled under the Ill find you from last night (and he did, you think with a lovesick smile), is accompanied by a photo that makes you laugh.
In it, Jeremiah is sprawled out on the couch. His head is head hanging off the edge, mouth wide open in a snore you can practically hear. Peeking from the corner of the picture is Xavier, mirth glinting in his eyes through the screen, holding a thumbs up.
me: you stayed the night?
You set your phone back down, sighing as you mentally prepare yourself for the arduous task of pushing your warm, comfy sheets off. There was no coffee waiting to be made now either, per doctor's orders. You'd have to make it through work on good old hydration and sheer will alone.
But you hold off on the rest of the world a little longer when your phone dings almost right away.
Xavier★: Yeah
You snort, bemused at his ever short text messages. But much to your surprised delight, the typing bubble pops up again.
Xavier★: Started cleaning up after U left
me: aw, that's sweet of you :3
You don't even have time to set your phone down again before he swiftly replies.
Xavier★: Really
An emoji follows, that little bunny mascot peering close, eye widened through a magnifying glass. You eagerly watch him type again before the next message nearly stops your heart.
Xavier★: Tell me more about how sweet I am
You feel your face get hot, an embarrassing noise escaping you in the privacy of your room. Rolling around in your bed, you smack your pillow in gleeful disbelief.
Dear god, was he flirting?
Was Xavier actually flirting with you?
At 7 in the morning?!
Last night's revelations still had you flustered, reeling as you revised the one-sided history in your mind to make room for two. If he was going to start flirting outright, you really would melt into that pile of goo you kept feeling dangerously close to.
Or explode into a million pieces (for the millionth time).
One of the two.
You stare at the words on the screen, teeth grazing over your bottom lip. Your heart skitters in your chest, nervous and something else, something very…indecent to be feeling at this ungodly hour.
But maybe ungodly hours make for ungodly thoughts…?
Your breath hitches, and you shake your head. God, no, be normal! This…this was just starting.
Still, the message taunts you. It's such a simple request, but you feel hot all over that he's asking it of you.
Or demanding it, something in you imagines, and you quickly shove that away before you implode.
Chewing on your lip, you type out a few different replies.
While you write, you imagine him sitting on Jeremiah's living room floor, watching you type with the golden morning light sneaking through the curtains to highlight his face. Is he smiling? Are his eyes all soft again, like they were last night when his forehead was pressed to yours?
You fluster yourself with the mental image, and hesitate over the send button before quickly pressing it.
me: I changed my mind. you're absolutely wicked, Xavier Shen.
You blink and already have a reply to read.
Xavier★: who, me?
The little bunny has a halo in the next emoji he sends, and you snort.
me: yes, you!
You add a pointing emoji, and grin while you quickly type before he can get the upper hand on you again.
me: now stop distracting me, I have to get ready for work!!
A crying bunny reacts to you, and you shake your head fondly. By the time you've gotten up and opened your closest, your phone has gone off three more times.
Xavier★: Okay, fine
Xavier★: Ill see U soon
Xavier★: ?
Sitting on the edge of your bed, you look at your high school backpack nestled in the corner of your closest, picturing the unsent confession still hiding away in that zipper compartment. You gaze from the worn star keychain, down to the message waiting for you.
This really was your life. It always has been.
me: yes, you will.
Work is made considerably difficult by the memory of warm, soft-spoken, almost-but-not-quite-but-still-just-enough confessions rotating in your mind. You doubt you made your quota in cases coded today, judged on how many times you buried your face in your arms to squeal over soft smiles and words, your heart swelling until it was about to burst in your chest.
And in those moments when you did manage to reign yourself in, you would catch a glimpse of the forget-me-nots in the lightly fragrant bouquet proudly displayed on your desk, and you'd start giggling madly all over again.
So, it's really no surprise that the minute you clock out for the day, you make it about all of ten minutes before you're out the door and on the way to the library.
You drop off your latest borrowed book in the returns before your feet quickly retrace the steps towards the table in the back. When you eagerly peek your head around the aisle that leads down to it, and see the sunlight grazing the familiar head of silvery hair, you don't even try to bite back a grin.
Said head is currently resting atop folded arms, his face turned away from you. You watch the steady rise and fall of his breathing while you quietly approach, your excited smile softening into something so fond it almost hurts to hold it all in.
Before taking the seat across from him, you lean in, head tilted to try and catch a glimpse of his face. His fluffy bangs are mostly covering his eyes, but at the right angle you can see the flutter of his long lashes, how his hair shifts a bit with each heavy breath in his sleep.
Cute, you think, swallowing the temptation to squeal before it can interrupt the quiet moment. So, so cute.
He shifts in his sleep, and you freeze, eyes wide, until he settles again. There's a rustle and slight crunch of papers beneath him, and you turn your attention to the book he had fallen asleep on.
Curiosity overtaking you, you circle around behind him, tilting to the side to try and capture some of the words on the pages. One of them was covered up by his cheek squished against it, but you can manage to glimpse a few lines on the opposite page.
Murmuring softly lip to lip,
Along the grass, along the sands,
Murmuring how far away are the unquiet lands
"Huh," you make the sound thoughtfully, quietly, fingertips grazing along a few of the words.
Was Xavier a fan of poetry? The idea of learning more and more about him has you smiling again. Him being tangible, knowable, real and with you makes you feel like you're in way too deep already.
And then you remember how he looked at you last night, what he said, and you don't feel all that self conscious about being this head over heels at all.
Your head tilts the other direction, leaning in further to read more. In your distraction, you don't notice when Xavier's breathing starts to turn from heavy to shallow.
Not until he makes a soft, sleepy sound, and your eyes snap to his as they flutter open.
The blue of them looks darker as he wakes up, blinking slowly a few times. You're struck by how content he looks in the crossover between sleeping and waking, snapping back into yourself only when a smile grows across his face.
It's small at first, then brighter, unabashed while he wakes and his eyes lock with a clear focus onto yours.
"You came," Xavier murmurs, and you feel a familiar, yet sharper thrill of infatuation go through you at how happy he sounds.
The thrill turns into a spark that almost consumes you when his fingers brush against yours on the page. You gasp, jolting back purely on instinct.
"Sorry!" You straighten up when you realize how close you'd gotten, smiling bashfully. "I didn't mean to invade your space. I just—I wanted to see what you were reading."
"Oh."
His brows furrow when you give him space, a look you can't quite catch flashing in his eyes. Was he upset with you for being nosy?
Xavier doesn't say anything about it though. Straightening, he stretches his back out with a pop of his joints. He makes a quiet, satisfied grunt that immediately sticks into your mind.
Oh, cool, more ungoldy thoughts at a totally normal hour.
You swallow thickly, clearing your throat. Xavier rubs his hand across the cheek that had been pressed to the book, and you giggle softly at how red it was from the pressure.
He turns back to you and smiles at your laughter. It's more faint now, a bit more tempered than when he'd first woken up, but no less fond.
Fond, you think again, remembering last night: his ardent reassurance under the fairy lights, the affection in his gaze when the fireworks lit up his face. You hadn't second-guessed it for a second, not like you used to. But it still hits you again as Xavier smiles just for you—at that little table he'd saved for you again, sunlight dappled in his hair, eyes sparkling—that this is real.
You might get addicted to this feeling, if you're not careful.
He adjusts the book in front of him, tugging it closer to the edge so you can see it better. He peers up at you through his thick lashes and, yeah, you don't really want to be that careful.
"This is my favorite poet," he tells you, showing you the cover to reveal When You Are Old: Early Poems, Plays, and Fairy Tales by William Butler Yeats. "I revisit this collection a lot." Xavier pauses, scratching at the side of his neck. His gaze slides away from yours when he admits quietly, "Especially when I have something to contemplate."
You glance back at the poem, eyes automatically catching on the words softly lip to lip, and feel your face grow hot.
Of course your mind would jump there first, without even reading the rest of the poem. But just the idea of him thinking about it too; Xavier kissing you, slow, intentional. Fingers cupping the nape of your neck, pulling you close…
"Oh," you say softly, a little breathless at your consistently overactive imagination when you were right in front of him!
Xavier looks at you, a nervous twitching of his lips at the corner. You wet your own subconsciously, hoping he doesn't notice.
There isn't much he doesn't notice, you've come to realize.
His gaze falls down to the motion, then away, his lips tilting further up. Your stomach flips, your chest hot. You're so transparent, aren't you?
"Join me?" He offers, tilting his head towards the book, and you're relieved by how he doesn't mention it. You were still…adjusting, to all this. To what you were finally, fully allowing yourself to want. "I can show you some of my favorites."
The idea of Xavier personally recommending—no, sharing—his favorite poems with you has you nearly swooning, and any response gets stuck in your throat. So instead, you make a very eloquent noise that might sound like you got a piece of food lodged in your throat, and hurry towards the chair on the other side of the table.
But you pause when Xavier stands and beats you to it. And not only that, but he tugs the chair over to his side of the table, until there's hardly any space between them.
He stays standing, gesturing for you to sit, and you squeak out like you're still choking on that imaginary piece of food before sinking down into the seat.
When Xavier sits back down, you feel the press of his hoodie sleeve against the bare skin of your arm. Your mind takes off like a plane gaining speed and lifting into the air because he's warm, so warm, and the fabric is soft. He must use a fabric softener, and it smells good too; fresh, like laundry right out of the dryer. There's no more teenage deodorant scent, but something subtle, deeper—is he wearing cologne? Does he usually? Or does he just naturally smell like fucking flower fields and angels?
Okay, chill, you tell yourself, taking a slow, deep breath.
But you think you still see a little stain on the front pocket of his hoodie from your coffee you spilled on him that first day you saw him again (so many years later but it still felt like the first time he caught your eye, every time feels like the first time) and you should feel bad you ruined it. But somehow, in some strange way, it feels like a tangible mark you've left on him, and something possessive but warm curls up in your chest.
You jump when you hear your name, falling gently from his lips. Your cheeks feel too hot when your attention goes first to those lips, transfixed by them yet again. They look even softer than his hoodie, his hair, but his eyes. Oh god his eyes are warm, gentle and you're so down bad to an even worse degree now that it's not even funny.
Those full lips curve up under your attention, one side tilted up more than the other. It's a familiar, sly look, like when he slid that smutty book across the table to you the first time you sat here together. Some impossible cross between an innocent smile and knowing smirk. And when you catch his eyes and see that same spark of mischief, you jump, your full wits finally snapping back to you.
"Sorry!" You breathe again, laughing shyly. You duck your head down, turning your attention to the book. "I don't mean to just stare." This time.
"You don't have to be sorry."
He sounds so genuine and you know how much he is now. It has your heart racing, hands curling into fists in your lap, mimicking the knot of nerves that stubbornly persist in your stomach. It's an exhilarating feeling, being this close to him, now more than ever.
"You can keep looking at me," Xavier whispers to you, like he was telling a secret. "However much you want."
His expression is wide-open when you do, and his eyes crinkle at the corners with his smile.
"Ah," he sighs. "There."
Xavier's eyelashes tremble, glancing down at your lips when you bite them. You don't delude yourself now that he hasn't been looking at them every time you've bitten them for weeks, and your face is so hot you feel like you're about to burst into flames.
The longing in your chest stretches out even further, and it tugs on you, like an invisible string that ties you to him. Begging you to close the distance between you now that it's gotten even shorter. In the library, of all places, hidden in this little golden alcove among the shelves of dusty pages and worn ink.
But you like him, you like him so much, and he's looking at you in a way nobody else ever has. In a way you may have missed every time you looked away, all those years ago. Like he's been waiting just as long, and when you think of last night again, you almost cave, the words kiss me dancing on the tip of your tongue.
But then Xavier looks away with a growing smile. He brushes his fingers over his lips, pressing them against his mouth, and yours tingle.
Wordlessly, he pulls the book between you, one page before each of you. His arm presses against yours, more firm now, and you go from tense to relaxed in seconds. His presence is steady, reassuring, and it's the most confusing contrast to how your heart is still racing at a mile a minute.
"There's one I want to show you," Xavier says, taking the pages into his hands sections at a time.
He flips through the book quickly, not looking at page numbers as much as he's moving on instinct. His fingertips trace the edges of each page, feeling out the place he's looking for by touch, memory alone.
Xavier flips backwards a couple pages, and nods.
"Here."
He pushes the book a little more in your direction so you can see the whole poem clearly. You take in the title: When You Are Old, the namesake of the collection, and glance from it to his expectant face.
Xavier smiles a little, and leans his head in closer, until his bangs just barely brush your forehead. His smile grows a fraction when you inhale a quick, quiet breath, before he looks back towards the page.
"When you are old and grey and full of sleep," he starts reciting from the page, and oh, this is the end of you. A very happy end, honestly—lightning could strike you right here and now and you'd feel eternally at peace with the low, melodic lilt of his voice with the rhythm of the poem. "And nodding by the fire, take down this book."
You tear your attention from him back to the book then, soaking in the words he quietly recites:
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
Yeah, you'd have to call Zayne again because your heart truly couldn't take this.
You watch Xavier's finger find the next few lines, tracing the words. He doesn't seem to be tracking it, as the way he reads this sounds more and more like he could do it in his sleep. You've caught him tracing his page once before while reading, and wonder if it's a habit of his; revering the words, soaking them in. Trying to touch something intangible, make it real.
He was like you, that way.
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
When he goes to read the second half of the stanza, you just barely catch the hitch in his breath. His voice goes quieter, hard to hear even in the relative silence of the library. You find yourself drawn in, naturally leaning further into him.
"But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you," Xavier breathes out, the warmth of it grazing your cheek. You read along with each word that falls from his lips, "And loved the sorrows of your changing face."
He pauses for a breath. His arm twitches a little where it's pressed to yours, and his gaze is heavy on your face, but you find you can't find the courage to look at him just yet.
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
For one brief, strange moment, you feel so very far away. Like it has taken a long time to get here. Like you were always meant to come.
You blink it away and see Xavier smiling shyly towards you, but not quite meeting your eye. His fingers retrace the last stanza, and his bangs cover his eyes when he leans forward. But you do notice, with a flip of your stomach, that the tips of his ears have gone bright red.
If time was kind, you think distantly, it would never move on from this moment.
Swallowing thickly, you finally manage to say, "It's very lovely."
Xavier looks back up at you. There's almost a…glow, in how his eyes light upon you. It must be the sunlight behind him, casting a halo effect around his hair as well. He looks very much like that distant star you'd always seen him as.
Except now, that distance isn't so far. He looks so real, and you're tempted to reach out, to feel the heat of his pink cheeks against your hands.
You don't, not yet. But you think, like many things, he can tell exactly what you were thinking anyway.
Xavier sounds breathless, a little lost when he agrees, "It is."
It's funny, how when you first came home, you were going crazy with how Xavier seemed to be everywhere you went. And now, only weeks later, here you were, seeking him out at each place you knew he'd be.
And the best part was that the urge to see each other again was mutual.
Monday night, as you were getting to settle into bed with Xavier's favorite book of poems (he'd insisted you checked it out, eager to hear your thoughts about them next Monday), your phone chimed with an invitation to stop by the high school on Thursday, when he'd be helping coach the fencing team's practice.
The few days separating you from that time feel impossibly long. You fill it by spending some extra time with Gramps, watching his favorite TV shows with him. It's a comforting pastime, listening to his chuckles and dry comments, and you sink farther into the familiar, worn cushions of the couch.
You drift off for a while like that, and wake up with an extra blanket tucked around you. One you wrestle out of in order to get him some water and his medication. You've found that he has a harder time dodging your request when you hand them directly to him and give him a look.
You also manage to get together with Harper on Wednesday afternoon, and she tugs you along to a new, surprisingly trendy boutique a few doors down from Jeremiah's shop.
You stop and jump up and down outside his windows on the way, striking poses until Harper joins in too, and you both get his attention. His watering can slips forward when he finally notices you, nearly drowning some poor, yellow chrysanthemums as his face twists in a laugh you can hear clearly in your mind, even outside the building.
He practically drags you in and doesn't let you leave before a little conversation that turns long, especially when it's both certified yappers Jeremiah and Harper together. He pawns off a few plants to you both while you're out the door: a little succulent that's seen better days for you to nurture, and some sunflowers for Harper, a long-time favorite of both her and her mother's.
At the boutique, you make some much needed updates to your wardrobe, thanks to Harper's enthusiastic insistence and the fact that your last paycheck was a fun one. Your fingers graze the fabric of a flowy dress that stops just above the knees, lingering on the little blue flowers speckled throughout the design.
She doesn't even have to try and convince you to get that one.
When Thursday finally rolls around, it's not the dress you wear, since you want to keep saving it for something a bit more special. You do put on some of your other new clothes, feeling much more refreshed somehow just by wearing them.
After making sure Gramps had everything he needed, you head out the door with more confidence than you've felt in a while. Tucked inside the tote bag you carry with you, wrapped up carefully in a purple Tupperware container, is the product of Gramps' and your hard work in the kitchen just the night before.
"I hope he likes it," you had murmured to yourself as you rearranged the last few strawberry slices on top of the cake slices again.
You made a point to ignore the warm, knowing chuckle beside you, and shooed him out of the kitchen before he could even think to stand on his feet for too long and do the dishes.
Pulling your car into the high school's parking lot brings forth a host of feelings you're not sure how to digest. It's been years, and you suddenly feel those years as you cut the ignition, watching a group of teenagers running, shrieking and laughing about something that they'd probably forget about when they got as old as you.
Not that you were old, but it suddenly felt like it as you hold the tote bag tight to you, walking through the main entrance. You head down the halls that were emptying out after school hours, treading a familiar path towards the gymnasium.
If you slow down a little bit when you pass your old locker, and even slower while passing Xavier's a few more down—wondering how many times you had missed him looking at you, right here in this spot—well, who's to blame you for the rush of nostalgia?
You hear the sound of sneakers scuffing the vinyl floors, echoing from the wide-open doors as you near the gym. Peeking your head in, you glance over the small group of students going through fencing drills, touches and parries that you're surprised you recognize, even years later.
It doesn't take you long to see Xavier, it never does. He's demonstrating something to a student with a sabre. A technique for a parry, it looks like, before he hands it back to the kid, who nods with determination and eyes glowing with admiration for their coach. Xavier nods back with a faint smile, exuding patience and kindness even across the room, and you smile.
There's a little shuffle of movement near you as a couple of the students notice you. The confusion ripples from them to another pair, a quiet din of conversation and distraction among the group that quickly reaches Xavier.
He turns towards where you linger in the doorway, and his smile grows, eyes lighting up. When he swiftly makes his way towards you, you hear the conversations growing in excitement, curious eyes fixed to you.
You hear girlfriend a few times from the kids closest to you, and when Xavier stops in front of you, smiling and cheeks tinted pink, you feel both incredibly shy and also not at all eager to correct anybody who thinks so.
"Hey," you wave, adjusting the strap of your tote bag.
"Hi," Xavier grins a little, brushing his bangs from his eyes, and gestures towards your bag. "Do you want me to take that for you?"
"Oh, no, that's okay."
You sway on your feet, hands clasped in front of you, and Xavier watches your excited movement, blue eyes shining bright.
You lean forward, feeling bold in your new clothes, and with time to think about this beautiful thing growing between you. Especially through all the increasingly flirty texts exchanged with him this week.
And maybe you're also feeling a little conspiratorial, a bit mischievous with what everybody in the room is thinking about you two right now.
"I have a surprise, you see, and I don't want it to be ruined."
There's keen interest in Xavier's eyes, his smile shifting into that sneaky little smirk that makes your heart skip a beat. "You think I'd ruin it?" His lips jut out in a playful pout, and you cover your mouth to hide your sickeningly lovesick smile.
"I think," you start slowly, rubbing your finger over your chin before pointing at him. "That you're a lot more devious than you let on, Xavier."
He shifts from foot to foot, rubbing the back of his neck. He manages to look a little bit bashful at your accusation, but the curved corner of his lips when he ducks his head down tells you he's also unashamed by being caught in it.
You shake your head, affection warming you from the inside out, and point towards the bleachers.
"I'll hang out until it's break time," you offer. "And then you'll get to be thoroughly surprised."
"Thoroughly," Xavier repeats.
"Thoroughly," you confirm, nodding, and he nods back.
"Okay." He watches you turn, halfway to the bleachers before he announces to the group unceremoniously, "It's break time," and your laugh is more joyful than you recognize when it echoes through the gym.
Contrary to Xavier's stubborn insistence and frequent pouts, the fencing team's main coach does not allow for an immediate break. So you get to watch as Xavier, brows pinched and frowning, insists on a demonstration bout between them instead.
"Why is Coach Shen trying so hard today?" a girl whispers to her friend, on the front of the row of bleachers that you sit in the back of. You hadn't even realized when you went right for the same spot you'd always sat in for his matches, not until he gets into position for the demonstration, and you're struck with intense déjà vu. "He always does these with, like, less than half-energy."
"Oh, come on," her friend sighs, nudging her. "You know why."
They both glance back towards you and then spin away, giggling to themselves as your face warms.
You feel a little silly for clapping when Xavier moves so swiftly, gaining another point from an elegant touch against the other coach. You feel less silly when the students oo and ahh and clap along, and even more shy when Xavier's eyes immediately find yours again, like they have after each point he gains.
The other coach snorts, pushing their ponytail off their shoulder. "Quit showing off, Shen," they accuse.
Xavier's wide eyes are the perfect picture of innocence when he refutes, "I'm just showing."
And then his eyes narrow, immediately locking in as he presses the advance for another point, and it shouldn't be as damn attractive as it is but it is.
Especially when he shoots you a satisfied smirk that time.
Once a break finally comes, the students disperse to hydrate, and snack, and try to make it not look so obvious as they watch Xavier join you on the bleachers.
"How'd I do?" Xavier isn't out of breath in the slightest, even with the way his bangs stick to his forehead with a thin sheen of sweat from the practice bout.
You laugh a little, teasing gently, "Come on, do you need me to say it?"
His lips twitch, and he rubs the back of his neck. A little shy, a little proud. "I'd like to hear you say it."
Your throat feels thick, and you force yourself to swallow, busying your fidgeting hands by rifling through your tote bag.
"Well, I think you're brilliant," you admit quietly, not missing the hitch in Xavier's breath at your sudden, unguarded honesty. "But I think you already know I do, as much as you know how good you are."
You glance at him from the corner of your eye, and this time, his wide eyes look genuine. The flush from exertion on his face deepens, spreading down his neck, and you smile.
"Oh." Xavier scratches idly at his ear, blinking. "Thank you."
You'll have to make an effort to keep building your confidence, just to tease him more. Most the time he was the one flustering you, and you loved it, but this—seeing him blush so readily at your praise, smiling to himself when you do, the way you do when he's the bold one—was a real addiction.
"And now," you say, hands wrapping around the Tupperware in your bag. "Prepare to be surprised."
You present the strawberry shortcake with a flourish and a ta-da! that has Xavier perking up instantly, eyes lighting up.
"I didn't forget," you say, pulling out a couple paper plates and plastic forks to slide the cake onto. "And I wanted you to be able to taste how good the strawberries are."
You hand him his plate, then reach back into your bag, feeling around blindly for the napkins.
"So?" you ask, smiling in triumph to yourself when you find them. "Are you surprised?"
When you look back at him, his face is already stuffed with cake, about half of the slice already missing. He flushes a little more when you laugh once in surprise.
Xavier swallows, nodding in thanks when you pass him the napkin to dab at the crumbs on his mouth. That mischief is back in his gaze when he says, "Thoroughly."
You giggle, knees turning towards him, and he follows your position, bumping his just slightly against yours. He pulls back, but does it again every now and then as you talk.
And you talk. The words are starting to come easier now, and he listens as attentively as he did at Jeremiah's shop, giving as much back to you as he did at the party. You still feel the tingles of excitement, maybe even stronger now—you didn't know if you'd ever stop feeling them, not for a long time.
But the apprehension you'd once felt around your crush was steadily melting off you in waves. You felt comfortable with Xavier, especially since that night under the fairy lights, the night everything had changed.
Because he wasn't just some crush now. He wasn't a daydream anymore. He wasn't the Xavier Shen, idolized in your youthful infatuation.
He was Xavier. Just Xavier, painfully human in how he eats so much and so fast that he looks like a bunny with his cheeks puffed out. Tangible in every brief brush of his knees against yours, wanting to be close like you do. Not quite sure how to breach the distance yet, but growing closer.
He's never seemed so real s he does now, in the things he reveals to you about himself, bit by bit to unravel a larger picture you'd always wondered at.
In a brief lull in conversation, as you eat the last slice of strawberry on your plate, you start to think about the party again, of the heavy words you'd confessed to him. You think of your way through, and then, a little farther out: a sunlit little apartment, two seats at a kitchen counter, sharing a plate of strawberry shortcake fresh out of the oven.
You blink it away. It's still much too soon for any of that, you know that.
But before you can stop yourself, you ask in a rush, "Have you ever wanted to leave?"
Xavier blinks at you, head tilted in confusion, not following.
"Town, I mean." You clarify, and chew nervously on the inside of your cheek.
"Oh."
Xavier scratches at his neck again. Something you're learning he does when he's uncertain, or thinking things over.
"I…" He looks at you, his shoulders stiff. His face seems more closed off than before, but glancing over your face, he must find something that eases up that tension a little. "I think I'd like to travel."
You perk up at this new bit of information. "Really? Where to?"
"Anywhere," he answers quickly, and then blinks, shying away a little. "All around the world, I mean."
"No place in particular?"
Xavier hums thoughtfully. He looks up and away from you, picturing something you couldn't see. "Not really. I think I'd like to just walk, for a long time. To go wherever I want, and see things nobody else has."
He stops, glancing at you briefly. He's still a little unsure, and it makes your heart ache. Has he never told anyone this before? Has anybody made him feel guilty if he did? "Does that make sense?"
"Yeah." You nod, smiling warmly at him, and he relaxes completely. "It sounds really nice. I didn't know you had such an adventurous soul."
His lips quirk up in half a smile, eyes catching onto yours. He leans in, more confident, "I'd like to go to college, too." You lean in too, happy to hear more about him, that he was sharing it with you. He continues, quieter, "I burned out after high school. My father hated it. But I think I'd like to go, someday. Just for me. For the things I want to keep learning about."
Your knee presses against his, gentle, reassuring. When you pull it back, his follows for another brief touch.
"What do you want to study?"
Xavier huffs out a quiet breath. "Don't laugh."
You arch a brow, then frown. "Why would I laugh at you?"
He stills, eyes widening a little at your genuine confusion. Then he softens. "You wouldn't," he realizes aloud; quiet, in wonder. Clearing his throat, he reveals, "I'd like to major in astrophysics."
You nod slowly, taking it in, filing it away with all the other things you've learned about him. "So, science about space?"
He nods, and you smile.
"It suits you," you say warmly, thrilled when he blushes. "Tell me more."
Xavier's eyes light up, two stars fixed on you as he starts telling you the basics on it, gaining in quiet enthusiasm as you listen and ask questions.
You'd always known he was smart, acing all his classes, but you also knew he tended to catch a lot of naps in them. So to hear him talk about something he was so clearly knowledgeable about, and realizing that he was studious in academics as much as he was a lover of literature and poetry; it was as attractive as his fencing prowess, if not more.
And when the break is over, and his brows furrow in irritation, frowning and nearly sulking at having to go back to coaching, he's suddenly so painfully human and real that you're endeared to him more than ever before.
"Did you go to school with Xavier?"
You're loitering around the doors as practice clears out, when the other coach, Morgan, stops next to you. Xavier's still talking to a couple of students as they pack up, answering their questions, and you look away from him at the question.
"Yeah, we were in the same class."
Morgan nods slowly, glancing back towards Xavier with you. They laugh a little, like they're wondering about something, or realizing it.
"Mm, makes sense." They nod to themselves again, and then consider you. "I always wondered if there was one that got away."
Your mind freezes, and you blink.
"Huh?"
They smile a little at your blank expression. "I've seen him lingering in the hallways a few times after practice. Not at the trophies, like I would've expected from somebody who won so many competitions in school." They shake their head. "He stops at a locker. I asked him once if it was his." They wave with their hand a little, like gesturing to something further down. "He said no, and pointed to one a few away. That one was his."
Oh, you think, heart racing, mind spinning, your very soul aching. Oh, Xavier.
He's walking up to you now, smiling, footsteps picking up a little when he glances from you towards his co-coach. Morgan waves goodbye to you both before heading out the doors.
"Ready to go?" Xavier asks when he stops in front of you.
You nod, but your mind feels far away again when you hum, "Mhm."
You walk the silent halls with him, something you had never done back in school. There was only the time he carried you to the nurse's office, and you think of the squeak of his sneakers against the floor, how he couldn't meet your eyes when he gave you your favorite drink.
You look at him now, side by side, and think of the pale yellow sweater of his uniform, his gaze finding yours each and every time you admired him.
He looks back at you now, older, so much older and so are you, and yet you didn't forget. Neither of you forgot.
By some old instinct, your footsteps naturally slow when you pass by your old lockers again. You think of sliding letters into his before hurrying back to yours. You think of him stopping here throughout the years, caught in the passing thought of you.
He's always thought of you.
The back of your fingers brush against his. You don't know who reached out first, or if it was another instinct, a pull of gravity.
Your fingers twitch, but you don't pull away. And when you don't, Xavier's index finger grazes yours again.
You look at the places you'd stood at so long ago, when neither of you did a thing about it.
You stand where you are now, and Xavier's finger hooks around yours. It's long, and warm, and a little callused from all those years of fencing. It's also gentle, almost tentative in how loose it is, before you curl your finger back around his.
Neither of you let go.
You're not exactly sure of how you got here. It felt like a rush, from the moment you left your alma mater together, the slow walk back to your car. How he didn't let go of your finger, and you didn't let go of his.
You made no move to unlock your door. The goodbye to say hello again waits to be shared between you, but neither of you have the heart to say it.
"Are you still hungry?" you ask instead, and Xavier's eyes light up.
"Almost always," he says immediately, only half-joking, and smiles when you laugh.
He smiles so much, now. More than you've ever seen him, more than you can count.
And now you're seated in a booth at the old diner you and Gramps used to always go to for big occasions; celebrating progress down another road to recovery after a surgery, your high school graduation. You came here with Harper and Aarya sometimes too, and distinctly remembered one occasion during Senior year where Jeremiah hopped into your booth out of nowhere, and yelped when Aarya accidentally kicked him in surprise.
You enjoy your grilled sandwich, a bit of a healthier choice for your heart than the massive burger Xavier had already eaten half of.
"I didn't know you had such a big appetite," you muse aloud, and Xavier blushes a little.
He swallows a bite, and takes a sip of the strawberries and cream milkshake he'd ordered. Your own strawberry one is already mostly finished beside you.
"I like meat," he admits simply, and shrugs a shoulder.
"Mm. And fries," you note, glancing pointedly at the few left on his place. "And strawberry shortcake."
Xavier pouts a little, but it's as teasing as your words. "You tempted me with the cake."
"I surprised you."
"Yes, thoroughly," he replies without missing a beat, nodding seriously, and you both break and laugh a moment later. It's a stupid, silly joke, but it's yours and his and you love it.
"Well," you say slowly, then distract yourself with chewing another bite of your sandwich before admitting, almost under you breath, "I think it's cute."
Xavier hears you, though, judging by how still he goes. When you dare a glance up at him, his eyes shift. He leans in, his voice lowering with his lashes, hardly missing a beat when he says, "I think you're cute."
You try to swallow down the squeak of surprise that almost escapes you at the sudden flirting. Even though you were getting more used to this, he still did it so out of the blue sometimes, so boldly that you couldn't help but react so strongly.
He watches you flounder around a little, pulling your glass closer to yourself only to loudly suck up nothing from your straw. He doesn't even hide his smile at the reaction he'd gotten from you. No, he seems to revel in it, chin propped up in his palm. Warm. Satisfied.
"Cute," he whispers again, more to himself than you, and you bite back another embarrassing noise.
You let out a sigh instead, the sound fluttering from you.
"Oh, stop," you mutter with no heat, shifting in your seat. You drop your face in your hands, mumbling into them. "You make me feel all flustered."
"Really?" Xavier hums, a glint of pride in his eyes. That same mischief that has your pulse skittering each time it appears. But it's…deeper.
Satisfied, you think again. Then you remember the text from earlier that week: Tell me more about how sweet I am.
"Wicked," you whisper again. There's that spark in his gaze again, darkening, and you laugh breathlessly, shaking your head. "Oh, you know you do."
He chuckles, inhales softly. But he doesn't push it.
It's a pattern you're starting to learn, a dance that he does. Getting close, closer, teasing and watching for your reaction. He waits for it, then he pulls back, just a little, but keeps you revolving around him.
Each time, you get closer.
Each time, it's not quite close enough.
But this time, his knee gently presses against yours under the table.
Unlike in the gym, he keeps it there, a constant point of contact that has heat licking up your spine. You meet his searching gaze, and when you smile at him, he puts his arms on the table, leaning closer, nails picking at some writing carved into the table.
"I like when you look at me like that," Xavier admits quietly, warmth coating his words, shining from his gaze.
You hold your breath, your voice barely a whisper, "Like what?"
His head tilts slightly. His eyes flicker all over your face, and settle back on your gaze. Fixated by it.
"Like no time has passed." His gaze trembles, drops down to your parted lips, then drags back up to your eyes. "Like I'm still what you want."
All you can think is, is he going to kiss you? Now? Here?
Xavier's lips twitch, a barely noticeable desire to smirk, but you're learning his tells. You see him realize what you're thinking, the glint in his eyes before he turns his face away.
He grabs the stem of his glass, drawing the milkshake between you. He plucks your straw from your finished glass into his.
"Help me finish this," he says casually, and you don't know if you want to strangle him, or hook your arms around his neck and pull him in right here, right now.
All you do know is that you're trying very hard not to stare across the short distance, at his plush lips as they wrap around his straw.
And you know that he isn't trying hard at all to hide how he stares at yours.
between a smug academic rival, a masked hero you cannot stop thinking about, and a symbiote threat getting closer by the day, your life is quickly becoming unmanageable. gojo satoru keeps ruining your peace, spiderman keeps stealing your heart, and neither of them seems willing to tell you the truth. as secrets pile up and the city tips further into danger, you begin to realise the person breaking your heart and the one trying to save it may not be two different people at all.
pairing: nerd!jo + spiderman!jo x reader
content: mdni, fluff + crack + angst + smut, academic rivals to lovers (a bit), college slop + coffee slop, a little miscommunication, secret identity reveal, friends with benefits kind of, satoru and reader are bad at feelings, satoru makes bad choices, foot job, p in v, cunnilingus, angst (?) with a happy ending !!, some action scenes 55k+
note: the old title was “the end of the world” or smth so take a shot everytime the world ending is mentioned in the fic! thank you for reading and i’ll see you at the end for more yap :3
Some people say the world ended December 12th, 2012 and that we’re all living in purgatory. The dead internet theory, Trisha Payta giving birth every time a significant member of society dies, that triangle in the middle of fuckass nowhere, there are pointers that this can’t be the reality we live in.
Not that you care because for all you know, the world ended for you on March 15th at 10:12am when you first met Gojo Satoru.
It was impossible to not know him beforehand, not when he’s friends with your friends. And that distinction matters, their friend rather than your friend because you don’t associate with him, not willingly. In fact, you would have been beyond overjoyed if he remained that unnamed face sitting back row of your neuropharmacology tutorial class, and not the persistent nuisance that he’s grown to be.
Because ever since the world has ended and you’ve matched the elusive name to face, Gojo has managed to worm his way into your life. He’s there, slinging his arm over Shoko’s shoulder as if you both aren’t glaring into the side of his head for it, dragging his friend Geto over too, the long haired boy at least having the decency to smile apologetically though not enough decency to leave.
Shoko never tells him off, which you originally assumed was her one and only tragic personality flaw until you eventually learned they’d been childhood best friends for almost twenty years. After that, it became easier to file her reactions away as a chronic, lifelong exasperation, the kind that slowly builds over decades until the only move left is to sigh and let the idiot sit down.
But did that idiot have to be Gojo?
Ever since he entered your orbit that horrible day in March, you can’t seem to ignore his existence. You see those irritating thick-framed glasses around every corner on campus, his messy white hair something tucked beneath the hood of his university jumper sometimes not, but always ruffled like he has just rolled out of bed. His laugh follows you around, a persistent soundtrack bleeding into every conversation you try to have with your actual friends. He’s always there, hands in pockets, bulky backpack slung over both shoulders, slippers padding lazily against the pavement like he’s just walked straight out of his apartment and into your line of sight.
“Relax.” Shoko tells you one afternoon as you aggressively wiped down a table, the cafe quieter now the day was slipping into that evening quiet. “You won’t have to see him ever again now that the semester is over. You can unclench.”
Her advice only makes you snort, giving the table one last swipe before straightening to look at her busied behind the counter. “Not true if you don’t stop inviting him to everything. What made you even think of bringing him with us to the club last Friday?”
Your best friend opens her mouth as if to defend him and that alone is enough for you to gag.
“Shoko, he showed up in a dress shirt. And a messenger bag. To the fucking club!”
“Not too much on him, he was coming straight from night classes.”
Like that helps his case. Like being top of the cohort, effortlessly breezing through the same exams that require endless all-nighters from you, isn’t enough to satiate his greedy appetite. Like the universe hasn’t already gift-wrapped him with endless talent, now he has to go above and beyond and take night classes too.
“Yeah, well. You need to separate your personal life from your work life. Work-life balance.”
“I don’t see how that makes sense,” Shoko retorts drily, speaking more to the sink than you as she washes up the last of the cups. “Clubbing and Gojo are both my personal life. If anything, you’re the one bringing him into our work life right now.”
“You’re the one that said being his friend is a full-time job.”
She sighs. “Minimal wage, too.”
You weave through the tables and duck behind the counter, tossing the rag into a discarded pile for the night staff to deal with, and squeeze Shoko’s shoulders as you pass behind her in the cramped space.
“Hey,” you start, voice sweet. “Let’s cut him off.”
She shoves you off good-mannerly, pushing you again in the direction of the apron rack to help you with the knot. “Cut him some slack, won’t you? Or don’t. Just forget about him. Like I said, now that the semester is over, you won’t have any reason to see him ever again.”
“That’s honestly up to you. Sure, I won’t see him in classes anymore but are you going to spontaneously invite him to lunch again? He’s not coming to our Saturday cheese tasting plans, is he? What about that aquarium we wanted to check out?”
Her hands pause before she loosens the knot and turns so you can untie her apron in return. “I’ll tell him no to both.”
“Oh, so he asked?”
“You have no idea.” As if sensing the rant already bubbling up your throat, Shoko quickly hands you your phone from under the counter. “By the way, your phone’s been buzzing the entire shift. You’re not still talking to that guy, are you?”
You take it, dragging the screen down to scroll through missed notifications. “Who?”
“The double texter.”
There’s the typical ones you’d expect, some Outlook emails about irrelevant study tips, some random Twitter notifications from the many inactive accounts you’ve abandoned but never bothered logging out of, and miscellaneous app alerts you swipe away without reading. Buried beneath them though, is the familiar little red icon from that forum app you absolutely should have deleted months ago, a fresh reply sitting under the thread that’s been irritating you all week.
Your mouth tightens and you swipe it away before you can be sucked away into the ragebait.
“Y/N?”
“Hm?” You look up, realising Shoko is still waiting for a response. “Oh, no. This is… a guy from Hinge.”
The hesitation isn’t lost on her but she gives you grace and doesn’t press for the truth. “Right. Just be careful, alright? I don’t know what is going on in this city anymore but there’s been way too many incidents on the news about people going missing. You know it’s bad when all the news channels are all suddenly interviewing men in tight spandex suits.”
You snort, tucking your phone away to finish clocking out of your shift. “‘Men’ like there’s multiple. You mean that one spider guy, right? His superhero name is uncreative as hell.”
“He shoots webs from his wrists and climbs walls, what else would he call himself?”
“Anything but the first thing a five year old could come up with. That’s like pointing to a man who can fly and calling him Flying Man.”
Shoko locks the cafe doors behind, the metal click satisfying after a long shift. She gives the handle two firm tugs just to be sure because the city is a mess apparently, then steps back so she can flip the sign to CLOSED, the glass catching a smear of gold from the streetlights outside.
“Superhero names are hardly creative these days.”
“We’re losing the ancient texts.”
By now, evening has settled in properly, the campus washed in that dusky blue-orange light that makes everything look prettier than it is. You stop to take a few photos of the sunset, then slip your phone away and breathe in the cool breeze as Shoko falls into step beside you, the two of you cutting across campus out toward the busier street.
“What ancient texts? There’s literally someone called Superman because he’s super.”
You roll your eyes. “That is so not helping your case.”
“It is helping my case because it proves people like straightforward names. Also, it helps with making merch.”
“How can you be so confident and be so wrong?”
Shoko bumps your shoulder lightly as you walk, enough to make you sway half a step before you right yourself and return the gesture.
Cars hiss past at the intersection ahead, headlights briefly washing over the footpath. Somewhere behind you, someone shouts a name across the road and is followed by a burst of noisy laughter. There’s a kind of peace at this twilight, a sense of calm that feels despairing.
“Are you sure you don’t want a lift?” Shoko asks as you both slow to a step, effectively dragging you out of a potential spiral. “I can’t imagine the bus being your favourite form of transport.”
You blink at her before shaking your head, reorganising your thoughts. “It’s fine. Besides, I know you have that thing with Utahime later.”
“It’s not a thing. We’re just going to a jazz bar.”
“Sure, okay. But just the two of you.”
“We did invite you,” Shoko reminds you with an unimpressed look. “You’re the one that declined.”
“I wasn’t going to third wheel again.”
“Utahime would kill you for saying that.”
“I’d be more worried that she’d kill herself if she found out you’re not labelling it as a date.”
Shoko kicks a loose rock on the pavement, avoiding your eyes. “That’s because it’s not a date. It’s a jazz bar outing.”
“Jazz is like, inherently romantic. Haven’t you heard ‘Careless Whispers’?”
“That’s the dumbest thing you’ve said all day. ‘Careless Whispers’ is about a man cheating,”
“Wait, are you serious?” You shake your head to dispel the song from playing in your mind, reining in the conversation before she can successfully deflect. “And I doubt that’s the dumbest thing I’ve said all day. I think I’ve had some better bangers.”
“True, the dumbest thing that left your mouth was probably Gojo. You know, for someone who claims to hate him, you sure do talk about Gojo a lot. Don’t groan at me, I’m just saying.”
“I’m complaining about him. That has to be different.”
Shoko tilts her head, studying you up and down as she considers your words. She ends her evaluation with a hum. “I don’t know, people usually don’t spend that much time thinking about someone they actually don’t care about.”
The implications are so frankly absurd the only thing you can do is wish her well. “I’m going to kill you.”
She raises her hands in surrender, already backing away in the direction of the parking lot.“Anyway! There’s no reason to complain about him anymore. Live a little!”
“Please,” you scoff. “Like I’d ever willingly think about Gojo ever again. You don’t need to tell me that.”
She laughs softly, catching the words just before they disappear with the wind. You watch her back for a few seconds longer before blinking out of your thoughts. For some reason, the sound follows you all the way to the bus stop.
Realistically, Shoko’s words have some truth to them. It is rather easy to forget all about Gojo and his crimes against humanity (you) when you don’t see him over the two-week break. Instead, you go to concerts with Utahime, visit art museums with Nanami and gossip and giggle over brunch with Shoko.
There's a peaceful monotony as days blend into each other, until one morning when your alarm rings at an hour once familiar to you and you get up to start another semester.
Checking your timetable one more time, you sigh at your misfortune. It was inevitable that your courses wouldn’t always align with the rest of your friends. In fact, it was a miracle that you even had classes with Shoko last semester considering she wasn’t even doing the same degree. You shouldn’t be too disappointed after all, when you posted a story asking if anyone else was taking this course, a few people you vaguely recognised had swiped up. They're mostly acquaintances, people you’ve met once from parties and events, but it’s miles better than being alone.
You double-check the lecture hall number one last time outside the building, hoping the extra second will magically give you the cure to the brewing headache at your temples, before you finally push open the door.
The buzz of conversation hits you immediately. Rows of students fill the lecture hall, voices overlapping as people reunite after the break, bags dropping onto chairs and laptops snapping open performatively. A few heads turn when you walk in, not unusual unfortunately, but you pretend not to notice, adjusting the strap of your tote as you scan the room.
You spot some familiar faces sitting toward the back, relief loosening the tight knot in your chest as you begin to climb the steps.
The smile on your face drops the moment your eyes drift—those traitorous things—to the front row.
Gojo slouches in his seat, the tiny fold-out table already pulled out in front of him, bag resting on top. He’s the only one sitting front row and centre, and considering how immersed he is with his phone, you doubt he has any plans to share the space with anyone else. He causally lifts his glasses with his finger in a way you thought perfectly suits his pretentious personality.
His hood is thrown over his head, feet stretching out in front of him. One of his hoodie strings is kept between his lips as he absentmindedly chews at it, so relaxed, so casual, so oblivious to the world ending around you.
You freeze.
Someone tries to enter the hall and almost bumps into you, and it’s this near collision that finally jolts you into motion. Your instincts kick in and you hastily duck your head, climbing up the stairs where your friends are waiting.
Nobara waves you closer, tucking her feet closer to her chest to let you into the row. “Hey, Y/N! It's been a while.”
“Hey,” you say, hoping it comes off casual and not dripped in fear. “Yeah, I didn’t think you were doing this course too. What a coincidence. Hey, can you give me a second?"
When you sink into your chair, you whip out your phone and frantically type away.
you: no fucking way
im going to kill myself
shoko: ik u have some crazy attachment issues but u’ll get over it i promise
utahime: aww i think its cute u miss us so much if not a little pathetic
you: i dont give a gaf about that anymore
u wouldnt believe who else is taking this course
shoko: we’re not the fucking akinator guy y/n
utahime: i could be if u gave me more hints
guy or girl?
are they a youtuber?
you: it’s gojo
utahime: wtf spoilers??
wait gojo oh my god LMAOO
shoko: oh ure definitely gonna tweak
Your eyes only tear away from Gojo when the lecturer enters the room and when the door closes behind him, you feel the sudden, irrational urge to bolt for the exit. Because was it just your imagination or was there a sense of finality to that door slam? Gojo was meant to be a nightmare for one semester, a pain in the ass for one chapter of your life and yet here he is, the back of his head just as infuriating as the front.
“Welcome to neuropharmacology3211.” When the lecturer begins the lesson, you watch as Gojo barely sits up to listen. “I’ll pass along the attendance sheet now. Just for everyone’s sanity I need to let you know that these lectures aren’t compulsory, however we do encourage you to attend.”
You panic. An attendance sheet. With your name on it. For all to see.
You watch in despair as it begins its slow journey across your side of the lecture hall. Mournfully, you tick off your name with Nobara’s pen and pass the paper along, trying not to imagine the inevitable moment it reaches the front row.
Around and around it goes until it stops at the last person, the only person sitting in the front row on the left side of the hall.
Gojo absentmindedly spins his pen, flipping the paper to the other side when he can’t find his name. He runs a finger down the list as the lecturer drones though you doubt either you or Gojo are actually paying attention.
From this distance you can’t make out his subtle movements but at one point, he stops spinning his pen and looks up, glancing briefly around the room.
You immediately duck down, finding something immensely interesting about your laptop. You don’t look up until Nobara elbows you gently and asks if you need any ibuprofen. You shake your head, daring to cautiously peek over the edge of your laptop.
Gojo continues to face the front and you let out a small sigh of relief, straightening just enough to give off your best impression of someone who has been paying attention the entire time.
It's the usual mandatory assessment outline, a rundown on everything that actually mattered in the course: midterms, finals, biweekly quizzes.You mindlessly add the dates to your calendar until the professor highlights the missing 20% of the final grade.
“And finally, there is a pair presentation due in week 7.” Your eyes twitch and you cast your gaze back to the front. “The details of the assessment will be explained during this week’s lab so ask your questions then.”
A group project. Even worse, in pairs. Your eyes slide instinctively toward Gojo and the dread in your stomach collapses in on itself, condensing into something dense and horrible.
“Your pair and topic will be emailed to you later today.” The professor continues and when groans echo across the room, they only chuckle, undeterred. “Diversity is good for group work. Your colleagues won’t always be your friend.”
You glance around the room. How many people were in this class? Many, so many. What are the chances you get paired with Gojo? Slim, at least you hope so.
The moment the lecture ends, you shove your laptop into your bag, and flash Nobara an apologetic smile as you book it for the door. You keep your head down, both hands clutching your tote as it digs into your shoulder while you weave through the crowd spilling into the aisle.
Freedom appears as a bright light before you, and you almost think you’re safe when—
“No way.”
Your pace stutters and against every instinct in your body screaming at you to keep walking, you freeze.
“Y/N?”
Someone knocks into your shoulder on the way out and before you can use the momentum to slip out with the rest of the crowd, a hand grabs your arm and pulls you to the side.
You glare up at Gojo’s stupid face. He peers down at you, all ego and cocky exterior, like he’s discovered something entertaining. He sniffles, rubs his nose and pushes up his glasses all in one making you grimace at his apparent lack of hygiene.
“God, why did it have to be you?” you grumble, more to yourself than him. You shake off his hold, pressing your arm to your side to prevent any further contact. “Don’t touch me.”
“I knew I saw your name on the attendance sheet.” He smirks down at you, taking in the familiar sight of your frown. “Come on, smile a little. You’re making it look like I'm extorting you.”
“Don't talk to me like we’re familiar, Gojo.”
“Aren’t we?”
“We aren't.”
“We talk though.”
“You talk, I try my best to ignore you.”
“We have mutual friends.” He points out next as if this hasn’t been the sole reason for your pain and suffering. God bless Shoko’s kind, patient heart for putting up with him, but if you had to see his face at another outing you might decide to wrap your fingers around your neck and squeeze instead of staying.
“Unfortunately.”
His lips only curl into that irritating and carefree smile, worse when you decide begrudgingly that it could also pass as charming. Any potential compliment dies immediately when he speaks again.
“What crawled up your ass and died?”
“Don’t talk about my ass.”
“Come on, are you still being a sore loser over finals? You had two whole weeks to get over that.”
That gets you. You exhale sharply, eyes narrowing dangerously as you lean forward to poke at his chest.
“First of all,” you begin, “I am not being a sore loser over finals. The one making a big deal of things is you so if you’re trying to get my attention, there are far less tedious ways.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “You think I'm trying to get your attention?”
“Is there another reason why you won’t leave me alone, Gojo?” You sigh like it’s the most obvious thing. “Look, you’re not my type and that’s okay. Not everyone can be. But seriously, sticking to me like an annoying bug isn’t going to fix that. If anything, it worsens your chances, not that you had any to begin with.”
He waits and when you only seethe, he prompts you, “And?”
You blink, temporarily off guard. “That’s it.”
“Then why did you start with‘first of all’?”
Your eyes narrow. “It’s like talking to a genie with some of you people.”
His grin is too easy, too casual as if you weren’t fighting for your life to restrain from murdering him, as if he isn’t standing between you and your only exit from this hell.
“Hey, I just wanted to clarify,” he says, raising his hands up in a gesture of surrender that only grinds your gears further. “No need to get so pissy. It’s not a good look on you.”
You grit your teeth. “No defense for the allegations though, I see.”
Gojo looks around with a hum, eyes doing a lazy sweep of the emptying lecture hall, hands lowering slightly. “You’d think after all this time, you’d finally get the hint.”
He casts his gaze back to you expectantly, failing to elaborate on his cryptic message and you take a moment to think.
There were many things he isn’t exactly subtle about:
flaunting his academic prowess
how much he seems to thrive off your annoyance
You pick the second. “What, that you get off to a pretty woman telling you to kill yourself?”
He presses his lips together, as if giving it serious thought. Your face immediately twists into something that can only be described as a grimace, and he laughs.
“Do you usually spend a lot of time thinking about what gets me off?”
“Do you always have to ask me stupid questions?”
“Only because you always find a way to make the answers fun.”
“I'm telling you this now, Gojo. You’ve outgrown the age where teasing the girl you like works,” you shoot back with a snarl, unable to hide your frustration.
For a moment, something in his expression shifts.
Gojo’s eyes drop and you feel his gaze burn down your neck and drag from your top to your shoes. You can’t help but shiver at the intensity of his stare and maybe he notices because he scoffs, looking away. “That hurts my reputation. You’re not my type.”
Your eye twitches. “Bat for the other team, do you?”
“How egotistical. You think just because a guy doesn’t like you he must be gay?”
“Well, there’s definitely a higher likelihood."
“You must have tested that with a small sample size because that doesn’t sound statistically significant.”
You roll your eyes, shifting your weight to edge closer to the door. “Of course you can’t help but be a fucking nerd about everything."
“Whining doesn’t exactly help your side of the argument."
“No, but it might stop me from reaching over and punting your head in.”
Gojo whistles low, the noise sharper now that most students have left. “Are you purposefully testing me? I thought we established that I liked girls who keep me on my toes.”
You wrinkle your nose. “There’s a difference between keeping someone on their toes and wanting to throttle them.”
“You better be careful because it's a thinner line than most for me.”
“You are disgusting.”
“That doesn’t explain why you keep talking to me, though.”
“Like I have a choice. You’re the one who grabbed my arm. If I miss my bus because of you doing whatever this is with me, I will put you in the ground.”
“You’re still here though.”
You sigh, exasperated. “Because you’re standing in the fucking doorway, you idiot.”
“Oh,” he says, but makes absolutely no move to step aside.
You inhale slowly through your nose, channeling a calm you most certainly do not feel. “Move.”
“Say please.”
Your smile turns dangerously sweet. “I said move.”
“Still not hearing the magic word.”
You give up, sensing you’ll only continue to lose. Before you can suck it up and brush past him, dreading even the brief contact of his shoulder against yours, he steps closer. His gaze flutters down for a moment, something foreign passing over his face as he clears his throat.
It makes your heart seize at how unfamiliar he looks, though that fades quickly when his eyes snap back up, that irritating grin firmly in place.
“Actually, I was thinking. Are you free this—” Before he can finish, a loud tune sounds from his pocket and he groans, abandoning his words to pull out his phone. The smile that had been on his face scrunches up, and he absentmindedly types a response with one hand before looking back up at you. “My bad. I was going say if you’re—”
But in the few seconds his attention is elsewhere, you’ve already bolted.
“Hey, wait!” His voice chases after you and you press on, echoing faintly against the tiled floors as you round the corner at a pace that’s just shy of running. “I’m going to count this as my win if you run away from me!”
You jam your airpods into your ears with unnecessary force, scrolling blindly until music floods your head and drowns him out completely.
If the world was going to convince you it wasn’t about to end, it better start looking up for you soon.
Unfortunately, the world really doesn’t give a shit about what you think because your karmic debt piles high.
Shoko had abandoned you in your time of need, leaving you to tackle the shift alone. You close the cafe door behind you, turning the key so that the handle doesn’t rattle under your palm, and sniff when the cold air immediately bites at your face. Your scarf comes up instinctively, burying your nose and mouth as a harsh wind cuts through the street now that you’re no longer protected by the warmth of the cafe.
What a long day.
You clutch your scarf as it flutters wildly until the wind settles, the evening air growing still enough that it stops stinging your cheeks.
Nothing particularly bad had even happened today.
It wasn’t overly busy though it was far from quiet. You even managed to pass the long hours when some old friends showed up, though the conversation had only lasted as long as it took to make their coffee.
But when it’s still or in the moments when you wait for a customer’s order, you feel something unpleasant settle in. The air feels too stale, time clicking by too slowly and the sensation of the ground moving beneath is unnerving. Your eyes refuse to move at times and you find yourself zoning out at nothing, hands moving in autopilot as you make drink after drink after drink, the repetition slowly pulling you apart one seam at a time.
Your feet find their way to the bus stop and you breathe out slowly, mist curling into the cold evening air as you look up to watch it dissipate.
How freeing would it be to be up there? The wind in your hair, biting cold against your nose and the tips of your ears, the rush of air in your lungs, and that terrifying exhilaration that comes from rising and falling and rising again. You imagine being weightless, being untouchable, being above it all and finally free.
You shake that nonsense thought away.
It’s just one of those bad days.
The bus pulls up, blowing exhaust and humid air, and you’ve only just placed a foot onto the bus when a loud crash sounds to your left.
You look over just as something flies past and slams into the bus stop, the metal denting under the immense weight. It’s not your finest moment but you duck, covering your head, and let out a scream as the loud noise deafens you.
The bus drives off in the chaos, certainly breaking several traffic laws, and you curse the driver when you realise you’ve been abandoned.
Peeking an eye open as the dust settles, you lower your arms and come face to face with the heavy object that had slammed against the stand.
Slowly, you ask, “...Spiderman?”
The blue and white figure coughs, hitting his chest with his fist. “You called?”
Spiderman looks up and freezes. It might be your imagination but he looks even more winded when his eyes lock on yours. Actually, you’re certain it’s your imagination because his mask completely obscures his facial expressions, save for the slight widening of the white parts indicating his eyes.
You crawl forward a little. “Shit, you went down hard. Do you have a concussion?”
The superhero runs a battered hand down his face, stopping only when it slides down to cover his mouth, and lets out a muffled groan. “You have got to be fucking kidding.”
You blink. “Excuse me?”
Before he can say anything else, a wet, splintering crack sounds from across the street.
You look over your shoulder as he tilts to look around you. A man staggers out of gate five beside the university-run pharmacy, though stagger might be too human a word for it. Something black and shining writhes over his body, swallowing him from the neck down like spilled tar, except tar doesn’t pulse. It stretches over his arms in twitching strands and thickens into jagged unnatural muscle, back hunching with a sickening pop as he lurches forward.
You rub your eyes and stare again.
“I know the feeling,” Spiderman says, pushing himself upright with a wince. “That’s my exact review too.”
The thing’s head jerks in your direction.
Spiderman notices before you do, wringing out his hands and doing some jumping jacks on the spot. “And that’s my cue to ask you very calmly to start running.”
When the thing charges at you, there’s no time to pretend to be composed. You let out a noise somewhere between a gasp and a shriek and fling yourself backward as the thing barrels forward. A web shoots from behind you and lands on the bus stop-frame, yanking Spiderman into its path just in time to take the hit instead.
He gets absolutely bodied.
“Jesus Christ,” you blurt as he falls back further down the road.
Spiderman slings to grab onto a nearby, and luckily deserted car, and slams it into the side of the villain, picking himself up in the few seconds he has to breathe when the figure crashes into a nearby building.
“I know,” he wheezes, dusting off his suit. “Everyone says that when they see me. I’m basically the second coming of that guy.”
“Are you okay? Do you need… backup?” You look around at the site. Cars have started swerving and backing away to avoid the scene and bystanders are ducked somewhere safe. You alone remain inside the heavily damaged bus stop a few metres from where the figure is now pulling itself onto his feet.
Realistically, you should do the smart thing and hide, too. But one feeble attempt to get on your feet tells you what you already know; that you’ve managed to fuck up your ankle in your panic.
Spiderman has his hands thrown up. “Why are you not running? I told you to run.”
“Why are you losing?”
“I’m not losing,” he snaps, affronted. “Are you always this difficult? Listen to the city’s superhero and get out of here.”
“If this is my superhero, then I’m already cooked.”
The creature roars and charges again, much alike a bull seeing red and you’re the unfortunate sole on the ground in its path.
Spiderman seems to have enough sense to conclude there’s something wrong with your body and not your head as he swears, shooting two webs in quick succession, one to a traffic light pole and the other to the creature’s arm, trying to stabilise himself to swing the heavy villain sideways. It works for maybe half a second before the pole lifts off the ground and Spiderman sighs before being the one flung away.
You watch as Spiderman hits the ground hard, again. Thankfully, it’s enough distraction for the figure to leave you alone but you can only grimace especially when he picks himself up.
Spiderman pushes up on one knee, clearly trying to buy time, and calls, “Hey, big guy, quick question before you maul me. Is this like, a skincare thing? Because I think whatever routine you’re on is clogging your pores. There’s a pharmacy right over there. Want me to get you some pimple patches?”
The figure ignores his provocation by charging forward again and it’s you that looks back over your shoulder at the pharmacy. Frankly put, your trust in the masked vigilante is at an all time low and if there’s any chance of living beyond this encounter, you need to do something.
Despite the throbbing pain in your ankle, you pull yourself up against the dented wall of the bus stop and edge closer to the campus. Then, you break into a valiant attempt at a sprint.
“That’s it, get out of here!” he calls out after you.
You grit your teeth both from the pain and general annoyance. “I’m not running!”
“What the hell are you doing then?”
“Something useful, unlike you!”
Spiderman finally looks up from wrangling with the figure. “Huh?”
You manage to limp to the pharmacy and wrench its fire extinguisher free from its bracket, using more effort than expected especially as you’re already winded and nearly fumble with the weight of it. You spin back around just as the creature grabs Spiderman by the throat and slams him into the side of the bus stop again. You hobble back to the scene with a sympathetic wince.
My God, the thing is already gone, leave it alone.
The figure looms over the fallen superhero, the goo oozing off solidifying into a slimy tendril that sharpens. It slides along Spiderman’s jaw and tilts his head up, cutting right through the fabric of his mask before stopping at his throat.
The figure opens its mouth as if to say something but is cut off when you yank the pin with shaking hands. For a moment, nothing happens and you’re all about ready to apologise and excuse yourself from the scene when the extinguisher goes off in a violent burst of white foam that manages to encapsulate the figure despite the distance.
The black mass recoils with a horrible screech, the sound sharp and inhuman, like nails scratching against metal. It peels back in frantic, rippling waves, twitching and writhing away from the spray. The man underneath the goo drops to one knee, gasping as his eyes roll back down from the back of his head, and shudders before collapsing on the ground.
What remains of the gunk ripples along the pavement before slithering down a gutter and leaving nothing behind, almost as if nothing had ever happened. If not for the battered bus stop and the hole in the wall.
You lower the extinguisher slowly, breathless. “Maybe I should give this superhero thing a shot.”
“Nah, I don’t think you have the guts for it.”
Before you can even turn properly to defend your case, strong arms hook around you and the ground disappears.
The sound that leaves you is less scream and more pure, humiliated terror as gravity tilts sideways. You catch a flash of white, the sharp snap of a web latching somewhere high above, and then he’s hauling you up with it, body lifting clean off the pavement.
“Wait—”
The city drops out beneath you in dizzying blurs of orange streetlights and rooftops, your stomach left somewhere back by the ruined bus stop. Spiderman carries you like you weigh nothing, one arm locked securely around your waist whilst the other shoots webs with impossible precision, each swing smooth despite the fact that he had been getting his ass kicked mere seconds ago. Wind tears at your scarf and shoves tears from your eyes.
You clutch at him with both hands “Hold on, we need to go back and help that guy!”
“I’m a superhero, not a paramedic!” Spiderman calls back, voice steady despite the speed. “He’ll be fine, help is already on the way. But there’s an unconscious guy on the ground, a destroyed bus stop, at least six insurance claims, and I’m pretty sure your bus abandoned you ages ago. You cannot stay there.”
“And that’s the reason why I’m up here?”
“Superhero, my ass,” he might have said but your attention is pulled in far too many directions to be sure.
You make the fatal mistake of looking down. The road below is a smear of headlights and moving colour, terrifyingly far away.
“Oh my God,” you gasp, squeezing your eyes shut again. “This is how I die. I’m going to become roadkill. I’m going to go splat.”
“That is so hurtful after I literally just rescued you.”
“I would still be grateful if you had left it there.”
His laugh is snatched by the wind, warm and infuriating and entirely too amused for someone who had looked so pathetic sprawled out on the ground. He adjusts his grip slightly when your fingers knot tighter in the front of his suit, and if he notices how hard you’re shaking, he has the decency to not make anymore comments, swinging you both up in a smooth arc.
“Okay,” he relents. “Deep breaths, I’m not actually going to drop you.”
You give your most valiant attempt of a snort. “Telling me to breathe deeply as I’m not already trying.”
“Would you prefer shallow, panicked ones then?”
“I would prefer to be on the ground!”
“Your wish is my command.”
After another swing and a sharp turn that nearly rips your soul from your body, Spiderman descends toward the quieter edge of campus and lands in a narrow pedestrian lane beside the university security office. It’s bright here, washed in fluorescent light, and close enough to the main road that you can already hear the traffic and voices navigating the post-chaos.
The second your shoes touch concrete, your knees threaten to fold. You grab his arm on instinct, digging your fingers in as you glance at him. “You do that every day?”
You can almost hear the smugness in his voice, and something else. “It’s basically my 9-5.”
It’s most definitely just your imagination but you feel as though his gaze softens, looking at you trembling like a newborn bird. He watches as you regain sensation in your legs though your hand remains on his arm. He doesn’t make any move to remove it.
A baffled laugh escapes you, more air than sound. “I can’t believe I’m still alive.”
“Do you need to sit down?”
You shake your head softly. “I’m fine… thank you for saving me, Spiderman.”
“I should be thanking you. I was getting my ass kicked out there.”
“I know, I saw.”
He tilts his head. “I thought you were thankful?”
“Both those things can be true at the same time.” Then, you go on your tippy toes and press a soft kiss to his cheek. “But I’m definitely very thankful.”
You feel the superhero stiffen under your touch and the white fabric of his mask widens before he jerks slightly backward, free hand flying up to hover over where you kissed. “Did you just—”
There’s something about the tone of his voice, pitched higher now in surprise, that has you blinking. “You sound…”
If you weren’t sure about his tension before, he most definitely freezes now, his hand pulling back down to rest over your hand on his arm and pull it off. “Oh, uh—you should head back, injured and stupid civilian. I know the people in the office. They should be able to get you home.”
“No wait, hold on.” You narrow your eyes, taking a step forward that he immediately responds to by stepping back. “Do I know you?”
He points at himself, backing away slowly. “Me? You might have seen me on the news or seen one of my promotional posters.”
“No, because you were weird the second you saw me.”
“I was bleeding out and on the verge of death,” he says. “Let’s not pathologise me.”
“You looked right at me and said something like, ‘you have got to be fucking kidding’.”
He tilts his head and takes another step back. “Did I say that? Hm, no, not ringing any bells. Your ankle is injured, maybe stop walking towards me. You’re freaking me out and I don’t do well with girls.”
You open your mouth to say more when he suddenly points at something over your shoulder. “Oh shit, is that a bird? A plane?”
You turn instinctively. There is no one there, of course, but it’s a realisation seconds too late. Because by the time you whip back around, he’s already two steps away, web fired high above, body coiled to launch.
“Oh, you asshole—”
“Get home safe!” he calls, voice cheerful in a way that irks you.
“Wait—”
He shoots upward before the word can properly leave your mouth. You hobble forward, outrage momentarily stronger than the pain in your ankle.
“You can’t just dump me here and leave!” you yell after him. “I’m literally injured! Jerk!”
“Ma’am, can we help you?”
You freeze and your shoulder slump even as you turn around. The staff inside the office have stepped out hearing all the commotion and you realised Spiderman can definitely leave an injured civilian here. Curse his fast thinking and kind heart.
You freeze and your shoulder slump even as you turn around. The staff inside the office have stepped out hearing all the commotion and you realised Spiderman can definitely leave an injured civilian here. Curse his fast thinking and kind heart.
It’s only when the sun has lowered into a splash of pink and orange in the sky that you finish tolerating the endless questioning from both the security office staff and the police. Thankfully, they’re kind enough to drive you back to your apartment though you’re slightly annoyed the rest of the day had been wasted on telling them ‘I don’t know’ over and over again.
The moment you step back into your room, your phone buzzes with multiple notifications. There’s an Outlook email from your neuropharmacology course and three texts from an unknown number.
unknown: looks like you lucked out and we’re partners
it’s gojo btw
lets meet tomorrow @ uni library
And because you genuinely cannot feel even worse than you already do, you turn your face to bury into your pillow and groan.
You don’t end up confirming Gojo’s plans until halfway through your morning tutorial the next day when he double texts.
DO NOT ANSWER: ?
don’t leave me on read
you can hate me all u want but the project is worth 20% yk!!!!!!
you: ok
time?
DO NOT ANSWER: ohhh so now u respond huh
id hate to think im forgettable
you: time
DO NOT ANSWER: (╥﹏╥)
i’ll get on campus at 12 ish so like in ten minutes
you: done
DO NOT ANSWER: >⩊<
You push the thought that as a grown man, he really shouldn’t be texting like that away, and flip your phone back down on the table just as the class ends.
“Want to check out this new bingsu place near the station?” Utahime chatters as she shoves her iPad into her tote and picks up her coffee, watching you follow behind albeit slower with dread. “They have this new Thai tea bingsu and it looks crazy good. Shoko swears by it but—and you can’t tell her I said this—it’s crazy that she went out for lunch without us. Does she not fuck with us anymore? Who did she even go with?”
You smile wistfully at her. “I wish I could, Utahime, but I already have plans after this.”
“What the fuck, et tu?” She processes your words with a frown. “Did you take on a shift today? I thought you only had this one class today.”
“No, it’s even worse. I need to lock in for my neuropharmacology assessment.”
She pauses, cup halfway to her mouth before her lips split into a wide grin. “Oh my God. With Gojo?”
You groan, zipping your bag with more force than necessary. You sling it over your shoulder and try to hurry away from her, but it’s too late and she follows quickly after.
“Don’t remind me.”
“You’re choosing to hang out with Gojo over me?” Her voice peaks at the end, and you hate how happy she looks at the thought of you ditching her.
“This isn’t a choice I want to make at all so don’t say it like that. And don’t look so happy, freak.”
“Oh, this is rich. You were bitching about him all of last semester and now you’re choosing him over me?” Utahime giggles, pulling out her phone with her free hand. “Shoko is going to love this.”
You raise an eyebrow, catching the opening. “I thought you were mad at her for getting lunch without you? You’re so fickle.”
She hums absentmindedly, already outing your situation to the group chat, no doubt. “Our friendship runs deeper than one betrayal.”
You grin as you approach the library stairs, looking back over your shoulder. “Friendship, huh?”
She whips her head up at you, eyes flickering down to her cup where the red words written across the side spells out a cute reminder to have a good day. A flush creeps up her face. “What? Don’t say that like it’s something to point out! We are friends!”
“I didn’t even say anything!”
“You’re giving me that look again. I’m not a blind masochist, Y/N. I can tell when you have something to say, and I’m not taking it lying down.”
“You’re just lucky I haven’t said a word to Shoko yet.”
Utahime grumbles, crossing her arms. “If you do, I’ll kill myself.”
You laugh, glad to get the last word. “I’ll see you later, Utahime. Go say hi to Shoko for me!”
“I will see Shoko, but only to tell her that.”
“Sure,” you say, and enter the building.
The library is busy, bustling with students as they lean over textbooks and clack away at their laptops. It’s not quite midterm season yet, so the fact that the library is so full should be concerning. With so many heads bent down, there is little chance you’ll find Gojo.
You swallow your pride and pull out your phone.
you: i’m here
where are you?
DO NOT ANSWER: not her eyet wa it
wait
smth came up
You frown. He’s the one who set the time and has the audacity to be late? Typical for someone as inconsiderate as him, you decide, and choose a table near the back of the library just so he can struggle to find you when he finally arrives.
You take out your laptop and start a new document, opening the tab for the marking rubric, the assessment notification, and some articles you found doing a quick search on PubMed. You even get around to dot-pointing one of them when someone dumps their bag on the table next to you.
You jump. “Fuck.”
“Did I scare you?”
The voice alone is enough to make you freeze though you quickly snap out of it to glare up at the culprit. Gojo stands beside you, panting slightly, running a hand through his messy hair like it’ll fix his disheveled appearance. The buttons of his shirt are mismatched and one side of his collar is tucked inward.
“Hey,” he greets with a lopsided smile.
“How are you late when you’re the one who said to meet at twelve?”
Gojo shrugs as if it isn’t a big deal and flops into the seat next to you. You had intended for him to sit across the table but you didn’t have the time to slip the words into the conversation before he starts talking.
“Didn’t I tell you? I had something to do. Did you read my texts with your eyes closed or something?”
“If you think I could have deciphered that from what you said, then you’re dumber than I thought. Did you run into an electric fence or something?”
He smiles at you like your words had been an inside joke. “I told you after that part.”
“Do you ever take anything seriously? This is worth twenty percent of our grade. You can’t just mess around and expect to still do well.”
“Can’t I? It’s always worked before.”
And because you don’t doubt that, it only serves to piss you off even more. He catches onto your scowl, smirk widening.
“Relax, you’ll pop a blood vessel. We still have weeks to get this done so who cares?”
You roll your eyes and force yourself to be satisfied with just that, turning back to to your laptop in an effort to calm down. “Me, obviously. Look, I’m only staying on campus until two, so let’s just get this done quickly so we can both leave. I’m sure you don’t want to be here either so let’s just be adults and get this over and done with.”
You take a deep breath and prepare yourself to look back at him and point out what you’ve already planned on the document but stop short when you find him already watching you.
You grimace and edge away slightly. “What?”
“Nothing.” He shifts to pull out his laptop and then a wired mouse.
You eye the chunky device with disbelief, wondering if perhaps his bag is bigger on the inside than the outside and then at its corded pet. It’s only when he pulls out yet another accessory, a mouse pad, that you blurt, “Do you seriously carry a whole gaming laptop setup with you every day for class?”
Gojo holds down the power button for a couple of seconds, the fans whirring to life and filling the library with insistent static.
“Yeah, I love this thing. It can handle all my programs and I can play League on it too so what’s not to like? It can run Sims 4 and all my CC’s without any lag, it’s literally my baby. It’s only right that I give it everything it needs in return.”
You scrunch your nose. “You play into the stereotype way too much.”
“What stereotype?”
“What else? The nerd stereotype.”
He huffs, apparently offended. “I’m not a nerd.”
“Aren’t you?” You eye him up and down. “You tick off all the boxes. The glasses, the smartass attitude, the gaming laptop—”
“You wear glasses.” He starts listing, holding out his hand to count.
“I wear contacts.”
“But you wear your glasses in the morning. For morning tutorials and lectures and stuff,” he continues, undeterred. “You carry yourself like you’re better than everyone else—”
“I do not—”
“Though you’re probably too broke to buy a gaming laptop so I guess it’s better to be a nerd than whatever you are.” He finishes with a smug grin that makes you want to curl your fingers into a fist and throw that right into his pretty face.
“I don’t carry myself like I’m better than anyone,” you decide to clear up.
He makes an unconvinced sound. “You do.”
“I don’t.” You press your lips together and sigh, breaking the eye contact though not without effort. “Stop trying to waste my time.”
“You found me out. “Through the whirring of his laptop, you can make out his slight chuckle. He leans onto the table with his elbows, voice almost a childish whine. “Let’s talk. Why do you hate me so much?”
Your fingers stutter on your keyboard. Sucking in a deep breath, you turn your head and face him on. “”I don’t hate you. Obviously.
“Obviously,” he repeats, the curl of his lips an obvious indicator that he doesn’t believe you. “But you’re always frowning when we talk.”
“We don’t talk,” you emphasise again and against your attempt at nonchalance, your brows pinch together. “And I don’t hate you.”
“Right? I haven’t even done anything to you.”
Your eye twitches at that. You rein it in, rein in that explosive feeling in your chest as if another word from his mouth will send you spiralling. You know it will, as inevitable as the crash-out you’ll be having to Shoko later at the cafe.
“Gojo,” you start calmly. “We have four weeks to do this assessment and frankly, I still have a life to live outside this so let’s just get this over and done with, okay?”
He looks at you a little longer and you would have asked what exactly he was searching for on your face, but something tells you that opening this can of worms will only confuse you more so you only stare back.
“Alright,” he says finally. “Add me to the document.”
You hit share and tilt your laptop towards him, watching as his long fingers dwarf your keyboard. He slides it back over and you nod, satisfied. “I already looked at some sources so you can just start off one of those.”
Gojo glances back at his gaming laptop, clicking on the document. You watch as a new anonymous user hops onto the page: Anonymous Snow Leopard. He’s already typing away and when you click on the animal to find his cursor, he’s finishing off a second sentence notably not under one of those articles you had found. You frown as you read.
“Hold on.”
He sighs, fingers pausing. “What now?”
You point to your screen at where he’s stopped typing. “You can’t just say things like this without a source.”
“I’ll cite it later.”
“That’s now how you research. You’re meant to find an article first and then write your own interpretation afterwards based on it.”
He waves his hand dismissively. “Potato, potahto.”
“Okay, no. We are not doing this.”
“See, this is where your pretentiousness kicks in.”
“What, because I know how to research properly?”
“Because you’re trying to control every little thing.”
“I’m not being controlling, This counts to my grade too so I have a say.”
“And where’s my say?”
“You’re thinking too far, maybe focus on actually saying something useful first.”
“See? Pretentious.”
“Pot calling the kettle black.”
“So you admit it?”
“Maybe, do you?”
He leans in, sneering. “I’ve gotten top marks doing it my way and I’m not going to change it now just because you have some inferiority complex over me.”
You flush, leaning back. “Well, I’ve gotten high marks doing it my way! And I don’t have an inferiority complex, much less to you.”
“Then you can use your method and I’ll use mine. We don’t have to collaborate any more than we need to.”
You hate to admit that he might be right. Outwardly however, you grit your teeth and summon an inner peace. “Gojo. Find an article before you start talking out of your ass.”
He groans as if deeply inconvenienced and though the sound makes you tense as if he might spit out another remark, he only turns back to his laptop and clicks open a new tab with exaggeration.
“Fine, fine. Geez. You’re really annoying, you know that?” he grumbles, slouching in his seat.
You’re about to drop another snarky response when something on his screen catches your eye, a tab peeking out in a red tab folder titled self indulgent. You lean forward slightly, catching the title when his cursor flicks by. It seems like an impossible task to read the words in the split second when the pop-up shows, if you hadn’t been stunlocked on that tab yourself earlier that week.
hoping there’s a modification of kumamon’s line, r/digimon.
“Wait,” you blurt, placing your hand on his arm.
He freezes under your touch, though you pay no attention to the sensation. “What?”
“Was that a Digimon Reddit thread?”
Gojo doesn’t say anything for a while, and you have to look over at him to check if he was paying attention. His shoulders seem visibly tense, eyes flickering to the tab and then over at you. “…No?”
You don’t wait for permission, sliding your own laptop to the side to take a hold of his. He makes a brief noise of protest, hands coming up as if to stop you, but they pause right before touching. The hesitation gives you the chance to click on the tab.
The screen that loads confirms your suspicions. Your eyes widen, taking in the familiar Digimon forum, open to the exact post you’ve spent the last week arguing in the comments. “You’re in the Digimon subreddit?”
“Don’t do this. You already give me enough shit about carrying a gaming laptop. Don’t ruin this nostalgia for me,” he mutters, looking away, and you finally realise that his tense shoulders might be because he’s bracing for an impact that isn’t coming. You find yourself, somewhat absently, marvelling at the sudden quietness of him. Maybe this is what people see when they talk about Gojo like he’s the second coming of Jesus.
You laugh in disbelief.
He only stiffens more until you exclaim, “Gojoverrated?”
“Look, I made that username when I was twelve and it just stuck, alright? I’m sure your usernames at twelve were much worse—”
“So it was you that wrote that stupid rant about Kumamon’s evolution! It was like, a thousand words!”
Gojo whips around to face you immediately. His eyes take you in, sweeping up and down your appearance as if trying to associate you with your words. “You pronounced Kumamon right. You know about the post? You read it?”
“Are you questioning my reading comprehension skills now?”
“No, I—” he stutters, actually tripping over his words in front of you which only makes your smile widen. He clears his throat and tries again. “I just meant—you read this?”
“Read it? I responded to it, smartass.”
There’s a long pause, and you wait for recognition to dawn. He straightens slowly, eyes opening wide. “There’s no way. You’re not—”
You beam. “I’m Digimonlvr3000!”“Surprise aside, you should not be saying that username with so much pride.” But then he stares at you like the ground beneath him has just fallen through. “But shut up, there’s no fucking way.”
“You seriously hate the transition from Grizzmon to GrapLeomon?” you start, elbows resting on the table as you lean in. The same banter falls from your lips, but you refuse to acknowledge how it lacks venom.
“You can’t just go from a bear cub to a bear, and then to some mechanical lion-man, and then a unicorn-panther-headed half-nude dude.” He blinks at you even as he talks, eyes still wide as he struggles to comprehend saying these words to someone other than Suguru, considering his best friend is the only person who would at least pretend to listen.
“I mean, this is Digimon, not Pokémon. You know, digital monsters? They’re allowed to be crazy.”
“Yeah? Well, I want bears.”
“Then Pokémon might be the franchise for you.”
Gojo flinches like you’ve insulted him personally, more than any of your actually hurtful insults have ever managed to make him flinch. “Don’t even joke, Y/N. It’s not a crime to like coherent evolution lines.”
You shrug. “The randomness makes it fun. It’s Digimon’s whole brand.”
“And yet, the most iconic Digimon evolution lines come from coherent ones. You know, ones that make sense and have a consistent visual theme from Rookie to Mega. There is nothing that ties Grizzmon to GrapLeomon.” His lips quiver as he talks, eyes still wide, shock lingering. He can’t help letting his gaze sweep over you again and again. He thinks then that maybe the person who said never to judge a book by its cover had actually been onto something.
You raise a finger, drawing him out of his daze. “Um, actually, there is, though. The whole theme of grappling and fist-fighting? Does that ring a bell?”
“That’s the same argument you used in your comments.”
“The same comment you have yet to respond to.” You pause, thinking. “Just like right now, actually.”
“Yeah?” he starts, and you know you’ve got him again. He presses on regardless. “Well, you’re the one who made that post about disliking Rhinokabuterimon more than Daipenmon.”
“And I stand by that.”
“Oh my god,” he says slowly, taking you in. “You’re worse in person.”
“Your Kumamon rant got locked by a mod,” you remind him. “Somehow that makes sense. You’re as annoying online as you are in person.”
“It was locked for too many off-topic replies, which is partially your fault.”
“I wasn’t going to let you have the last word.”
“Last word, huh. Great segue to—”
“No, don’t bring that up, stop—”
“—to your Digimon fanfiction account that you have linked in your bio.”
You groan, long and low, covering your face with your hands. Warmth creeps up your neck, burning against your cheeks when you hear him laugh at your expense. You try to gather your dignity, peeking between your fingers to accuse him as you say, “How would you know? Did you read them?”
“Of course I did,” he says without shame, and any thought of turning the tables back on him dissipates. He watches you suffer from embarrassment for only a second longer before resting his chin on his palm, leaning away as if to act casual. “So. Do you play the TCG?” he asks, despite the fact that he knows he’s seen your username floating around in the Digimon TCG subreddit.
You pull your hands away with a start. “Do I play? Is the sky blue?”
Gojo’s lips quiver upward. “Duel me.”
“Okay,” you say quickly, too quickly, and you clear your throat in an effort to reset yourself. He doesn’t seem to notice, already digging through his bag for something. “Oh, you meant right now.”
He pauses, looking up. “Yeah. Do you not have your deck?”
“I don’t carry it on me, no.” For some reason, the thought that he does brings a small smile to your face.
He visibly deflates, and a thought tries to enter your mind, though you’re not quite there just yet. Instead, you laugh softly. “Next time then,” you say, enjoying the way his smile returns to his face. “What colour do you play, anyway?”
“Purple, obviously.”
You roll your eyes. “Of course you’re a purple player. You saw the post about how purple wins just about every big event in EX7, didn’t you? Let me guess. Leviamon?”
“Actually, I play DexDorugoramon. You?”
You hum as if that makes complete sense. “I play yellow. Not for any particular reason, I just like the Digimon in the decks.”
“Yellow, huh? So you’re a feelscrafter.” He bites back a goofy smile, but it shows.
“Don’t say that word like it’s a slur.”
“Do you even play the meta?”
You scoff. “Of course I do. But playing good isn’t even fun anymore.”
Gojo laughs, and from behind him, you catch a few students looking over with narrowed eyes. He pays them no mind, leaning in. “See? Pretentious.”
You lean forward too, reply on the ready, the only thing missing is the exact wording you want to use to shoot him down, when his phone goes off. Is this the second time now? Just how popular is this guy?
His gaze falters before he pulls back to wrestle his phone out of his pocket. You’re left facing him, and you draw back too, clearing your throat as you turn to your laptop.
What the fuck was that?
Your fingers type gibberish into the document, then drag your finger across your trackpad to erase it only to type another string of incoherent letters and symbols. Your mind races through the conversation, noting the genuine joy in your voice, the amusement when Gojo responded just as enthusiastically. There’s a warmth in your stomach that’s hard to get rid of.
What the fuck.
You’re not eavesdropping. That’s simply not what you’re doing. Though it isn’t your fault if you happen to hear Gojo as he talks into his phone, his voice low out of respect for the library but not so low that you can’t make out the conversation.
“Alright, yeah, I got it. I’m not, so don’t even start. God, shut the fuck up, Suguru. I’ll be over, give me ten minutes. Ten minutes. Yeah, probably, but you’re pissing me off, so I’ll be there in ten. I’m already doing you a favour, man, so quit it before I change my mind.” You catch him rolling his eyes, his freakishly long eyelashes lifting and falling. “You owe me.”
Gojo hangs up and sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Hey, sorry about that. I have to go.”
You look up at him with a start. “Go? You just got here! We’ve only been working for…” You glance down at the bottom right of your laptop screen. “An hour and a half?”
He grins, though it’s small. “Time flies when you’re having fun.”
“Neuropharmacology is hardly fun.”
“No, but the company is,” he says, unplugging his mouse and rolling up his mouse pad. As he stuffs his enormous gaming laptop into whatever space remains in his bag, he continues, “I’ll text you when I’m free next.”
“We hardly got anything done today,” you find yourself saying. “No thanks to your distraction.”
“Mine? You continued it. If you really cared, you would have told me to shut up.”
“As if you ever listen.”
It’s far too easy to fall into a rhythm with him, you think begrudgingly. He’s grinning lazily, lifting his glasses with his knuckle and otherwise unmoving beside your table. You huff, turning back to your laptop.
This feeling, at least, is familiar and comforting. “Whatever, Gojo. I’ll do my part as long as you do yours.”
He watches you for a second longer before taking a step back. “I’ll text you.”
You give him a half-hearted wave. Only when you’re positive enough time has elapsed for him to have cleared the building and maybe half the courtyard do you exhale, slumping in your chair. Your eyes flick to the library doors. No sign of white hair.
You tell yourself you’re pissed, that that’s what is currently sitting in your chest and the reason for your sudden restlessness. I mean, really, who arrives late to a meeting they scheduled and then leaves early?
It’s a Friday afternoon, and he has you losing your mind over reports and Digimon, of all things. You should be at a bar. Or at home, in pajamas, catching up on backlog episodes of that new trash reality TV you’ve been binging, or having that bingsu Utahime mentioned earlier. What you should not find yourself doing is thinking about Gojo and how pretty his genuine smile is, especially when it’s directed at you.
You scoff at your screen, type out a line, and then delete it.
What a joke.
academic freak: jumping on !! let me know if u can work on our project now :3
you: sorry I'm out rn
i can hop on at eight tonight though if you’re still free then?
academic freak: no worries
let’s do a video call then >< (6:43pm)
You stare at his last text, have been staring at his last text ever since you left your friends, hovering your thumb over the screen, unsure. And now it was almost eight pm and you were still staring.
It's not like this is the first time you’ve ever video called someone, and it’s not like he matters, but something akin to nervousness settles in your stomach. He's just your annoyingly good-looking, annoyingly smart project partner. Shoko’s childhood best friend. The guy that embarrassed you last semester. Nothing more.
Still, you keep blinking at the message, at the double exclamation marks and all his stupid emoticons.
academic freak: can i call u now?
You flinch when the typing bubble pops up but you fail to swipe out before the message is sent, and the read receipt lights up immediately.
academic freak: ?
waiting for me?
You groan aloud, running a hand down your face. There’s no dignified way out of this, so with a sigh, you hit call. The screen rings once, twice, and you suddenly jump up, nerves—or whatever the hell you want to call it—causing you to sweat.
You should change, brush your hair maybe, fuck, you took out your contacts already. One time in third grade, someone said you looked different with glasses compared to without. What did that mean? Was the difference that extreme? Why couldn’t you see it? Would Gojo be able to tell?
Before you can answer any of those questions, your phone flickers to life.
“Hey,” Gojo says, grinning as his camera turns on. He’s a little too close at first, but after seeing your surprised face, he leans back and settles into view. His hair is slightly tousled, glasses perched low on his nose, the logo of the university peeking just into view on his jumper.
“Hi.” You clear your throat, adjusting your phone so it sits upright on your table. “I wasn’t waiting for your text, by the way. You just messaged me just as I was about to message you. That’s all.”
He raises an eyebrow, a knowing smile on his face. Thankfully, he doesn’t push. “Sorry for ditching you earlier, but I’m here now.”
You nod, opening your laptop on the table. As it hums to life, your eyes flick back over to your phone and trace what you can see inside his room. He has a lamp on, warm light washing over his face as he leans back into view, a lollipop in his hand, and there’s an assortment of plushies on his bed behind him. You narrow your eyes.
“Is that Agumon?”
Gojo glances back, then shrugs like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “He guards my bed.”
You stifle a laugh. “Still getting nightmares at your big age?”
“Don’t tell me you’re too cool for plushies.” He rolls his eyes, though his face quickly splits into a grin when you pull out your own plushie, placing it comfortably on your lap, its head peeking into frame. “There we go. That’s more like it.”
His praise does things to you that you don’t dare put into words. You squeeze your plushie tight.
You busy yourself with opening the document, taking extra long to fiddle around with opening and closing random tabs. It’s hard to focus on one thing, you see, not when Gojo is staring at you unabashedly, cheek smushed against his hand like he has nowhere else to be.
You don’t look up right away, clicking through your email, Spotify, the university site, waiting for him to get bored and finally free you from his gaze, but he doesn’t.
Clearing your throat, you finally drag your gaze up to his face. “We should—” you start, but cut yourself off. “What?”
“Hm?” He blinks when your eyes meet.
“Why’re you staring at me like that?”
Gojo lets the silence drag on for a little longer until he chuckles, dropping his head to look down at his own laptop screen. “Who said I was looking at you?”
You arch a brow, glancing over your shoulder, then around your room. “Is there someone else in the room with me now?”
“Ask that question again when we have a Ouija board.” He types something, and you watch the words pop up on your screen. “I was just thinking how different you are when you’re not on campus. You’re quieter, for one. Less teeth-baring.”
“If you want me to insult you, you only have to ask.”
He grins, eyes lazy with amusement. “See? Even that lacks any bite.”
“Says you. I’m surprised you haven’t made a comment on my glasses or something,” you say, unwilling to be outdone.
“And what, your messy desk?”
You shove your textbooks out of frame. “I knew it.”
He shrugs offhandedly, returning his attention to his laptop. You follow his lead, blinking in surprise when he doesn’t continue with another snarky comment. It’s silent again for a while.
“It suits you. You look nice with your hair tied back.”
Your hands fly to the back of your head and close around your claw clip, mouth hanging open as you stare at him. Gojo keeps typing like he didn’t just casually compliment you, as if he hadn’t just thrown a curveball into your carefully built defences. You swallow hard, blinking as heat creeps into your cheeks.
“I… you look nice too?”
You wince as soon as the words leave your mouth, though you can’t completely regret them, because they’re what finally cause him to look up at you, his hands frozen over his keyboard. Then he’s laughing, and you take back that last thought just as quickly.
“Alright, alright, let’s just work on our project,” you mumble, ducking your head. He’s still laughing, and you grit your teeth with effort. “If you keep laughing, I’m going to hang up on you.”
Gojo’s laughter lingers, soft and amused, as he savours the heat on your face for a second longer before nodding. “I’ll stop, I swear.” His fingers return to the keyboard, but you catch the flicker of something like warmth—or maybe surprise—in his eyes before he lowers his head too.
You take a breath and refocus on your document, with only the sounds of shuffling and keys clacking disturbing the space between the two of you. Every now and then, he asks a question about a point you’ve made, or corrects something you’ve written. His criticisms lack any heat, and you find yourself accepting his words without the usual spike in blood pressure.
Every now and then, his attention slips and he starts scrolling on Twitter in another tab, his snickering making you lift your head. Gojo immediately catches the movement and flips his laptop around to show you, letting you share a laugh with him.
He tells you about the Discord server he runs for hosting Digimon TCG games. You listen, asking for an invite when his voice quietens near the end, and the smile he beams at you makes your stomach flip.
You tell him about your hobbies, how you’ve had to let go of piano because of your academic pursuits. He tells you he wants to hear a piece, your favourite piece to play, and you think for a moment that you might want to pick it up again.
At one point, light floods across the screen and you watch as he grumbles, lifting an arm to block the sudden brightness. A voice sounds through your phone speaker distantly, and you recognise it as Geto. You hadn’t realised they were roommates.
“You free tonight, Satoru? Haibara’s having a get-together in a few hours. He asked me if you wanted to come along since you ditched halfway through the—oh.” Geto’s voice trails off, as if he’s only just noticed Gojo’s pinched expression. “You’re on the phone to someone. Who? Let me see.”
“It’s none of your business!” He throws you a frantic glance and you shrug. “And knock first!”
“You never knock.” You hear the shuffle of someone entering the room. “And you have three friends, and I’m one of them. Is it Nanami? Shoko?”
You hear Gojo’s protests as something hits the phone and it swirls, landing face-up toward his ceiling. You notice he has light-up neon stars stuck haphazardly across it. Your heart squeezes. Cute.
Then a hand covers the screen and it’s a blur of black and red.
“Back off, Suguru, I’m not going to Haibara’s party—”
“Is that a girl?”
“Hey!”
There’s a whirl, and then you blink, biting your cheeks at the face suddenly staring back at you. Hesitantly, you raise a hand. “Hey, Geto.”
Geto stares at you for a second before laughing, a low melody that has you shifting nervously in your seat. “Y/N? I didn’t know you and Satoru were so close. I always thought you two had this rivals thing going on—”
He doesn’t finish his sentence because Gojo snatches his phone back, and you watch a tilted view of the interaction.
“Tell Haibara I won’t be showing up.”
“Something more important to do, Satoru?”
The world shifts again as Gojo flops back onto his bed, placing you upright on his table once more. He glances sideways at his roommate, directing his words at him even as his hands work to steady his phone. “It’s not what you think. We’re working on our group project. It can’t just evolve past Rookie stage on its own.”
You watch as he shoots a quick glance at you, eyes searching as if to ask, Did you catch that?
You can’t help but grin a little, biting back a laugh.
“Sure, that’s all. I’ll go tell Haibara you’ll come to the next one.” The light dims slightly and you assume Geto is closing the door. “You owe me.”
When the light finally fades, Gojo turns back to you with an apologetic smile. You’re thrilled to see him glance at you, then away, his hands coming up to run through his hair, an uncharacteristic shyness that makes your heart squeeze again.
“Sorry about that.”
“No, it’s okay. You guys seem close.” You absentmindedly rub at your chest, wondering if this is a sign of cardiovascular disease. “You two dorm together?”
“We moved out together at the beginning of second year. He lived, like, three hours from campus and needed a roommate. He asked me and I said yes.”
You rest your cheek on your palm, watching him through the small screen of your phone. “I never knew you two had so much history. I guess that makes sense, considering I never see you two apart.”
“Hey, it’s not that bad.”
“Isn’t it? Gojo and Geto, Geto and Gojo. There’s even a name for you two. Goge, though I prefer Gego.”
He frowns, brows pulled together. “There’s a difference?”
“Yeah,” you say, and leave it at that, unwilling to explain the difference. Reading over his last few words, you highlight them with your cursor. “Gojo, this doesn’t make sense. The rebuttal team will definitely have something to say about this.”
Gojo huffs, and you watch as he backspaces the sentence. “You know, I almost miss the days when you were comfortably mediocre. Now it’s like I’m back to being ten years old and getting taught long division by my dad.”
You snort, reaching for something to snap back with. Instead, you feel that sticky ball of unease in your stomach. Clearing your throat, you settle for, “What a universal experience.”
He looks up at that. “What, not going to tell me to kill myself for comparing you to my dad?”
“Was that an insult? You’re losing your touch.”
“Says you. You don’t even seem mad.” He squints at you, and you wish your Wi-Fi would give out so he could count the pixels on his screen instead of the thoughts threatening to burst free. “You okay?”
You pause, bracing for the usual deflection to leap off your tongue. But there’s something about the way he’s looking at you, something about the warmth wrapping around your shoulders, something about the brief glimpse into his private world that has you fidgeting to say something else.
You let out a thin laugh, eyes fixed on the words on your laptop screen. “Guess I didn’t really care for grades back then.”
He snorts. “Seriously? And you still beat me on that quiz that one time? You make fun of me for being a prodigy, but I fear the call is coming from inside the house.”
You don’t move. “It was just luck.”
“And all your nineties since then? That all luck too?”
You shrug, but your mind screams the answer.
Gojo frowns, as if sensing that this goes deeper. “What is this really about, Y/N?”
For once, you’re thankful for his directness. When he says it like that, you find that you can’t as easily hide behind an excuse. A part of you aches to be seen, to tell someone else something that might otherwise follow you to the grave. “It’s nothing serious. I guess I’m just a little worried that I’m too late to be good at this for real.”
His head tilts on-screen. “Huh?”
Heat creeps up your neck. “You know, neuroscience. I never cared about my classes until last semester because I never cared for science. But then I realised how much I liked neuroanatomy and I started trying, and it paid off. But we’re in our last year. I feel like I’ve wasted too much time.”
When he doesn’t immediately say anything, you barrel on. “You’ve always been…” You gesture vaguely at him, still not meeting his eyes. “Good. Effortless. And I’m just now cramming to keep up. Like, what’s the point, you know? Maybe I’ll never catch up. Even if I do, it’s too late for it to matter. Maybe that’s why I was always annoyed at you. I wish I started caring like you did way back in first year or whenever it was that you decided you knew what to do.”
You try to laugh it off, but it comes out small and brittle.
Gojo doesn’t answer right away. His usual smirk is gone, replaced with something more thoughtful. Finally, he leans forward, chin resting on his palm.
“You don’t give yourself enough credit. You really think you’re behind me?”
“Well, aren’t I?”
He snorts softly, but there’s no bite to it. “You’re the one who wrote the outline to this report. You’re the one reading through and correcting everything. Half of this project looks as good as it does because of you.”
Your stomach flips. “You’re exaggerating—”
“I’m not.” His tone sharpens just enough to make you stop fidgeting and look up at him. His mouth is curved as if to soften the words, but his gaze is sincere, coaxing you to take in every one. “Look. Who cares when you started? You’re here now. And you’re good at it, like ridiculously good. Not because you lucked into it, but because you put in the effort. You work hard because you want this, and it shows. That’s more than most people ever figure out, even if they’ve been trying since day one.”
“You don’t know that for sure.”
“Don’t I?”
“It’s easy for you to say. You’ve got it all figured out.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “You’re serious about catching up to me?”
The heat creeps back up your neck, hot flushes spreading across your back. “Forget it. Just forget everything.”
“No, wait, I didn’t mean it like that.” He runs a hand through his hair, forcing the surprise back. “I thought you knew the feeling was mutual, that I’m making sure to catch up to you. If anything, you’ve been making me work harder than I ever have. If this is you ‘too late,’ then I’d say you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.”
Your stomach knots at that, a mix of disbelief and something warmer curling under your ribs. You force your gaze back to the words on your screen, blinking against the sting building at the corners of your eyes.
“…You’re ridiculous,” you murmur, more to your laptop than to him.
Across the screen, his grin slips back into place, lazy and self-assured, but not mocking. “Ridiculously right, you mean, since you know I always am.”
You shake your head, biting back the urge to argue—and to smile. This time, the silence stretches comfortably, neither of you rushing to fill it. Your cursor blinks steadily on the half-finished paragraph, but your focus is caught on the strange buoyancy in your chest, the faint echo of his words playing on repeat.
When Gojo finally speaks, it’s in his usual drawl. “So, am I supposed to fix the discussion section, or are you going to keep having an existential crisis about being secretly smart?”
You let out a shaky laugh, the tension finally breaking. “Shut up and start writing, Gojo.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, already clicking away, but the small smile tugging at his mouth lingers longer than his usual jokes.
You pretend not to notice how your chest feels lighter than it did a minute ago.
The weekend has slipped through your fingers quickly, leaving much to be desired, and before you know it, you’re waking before the ass crack of dawn to shuffle to the university café. The streets are empty this early out, with only the hush of the wind and the distant hiss of a bus pulling away filling the campus.
Not for the first time, you regret picking up the opening shifts, and you haven’t even clocked in yet.
When you look up to behold the café in all its glory, you freeze. There’s someone standing just outside, leaning against the brick wall and absentmindedly kicking a pebble along the footpath. At first, the figure is just a silhouette.
But then you walk close, and the picture clarifies.
Spiderman kicks another loose stone, both hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie that hides the bright blue and white design of his tight-fitted suit. He’s leaning against the wall of the cafe and you hope you’re not misunderstanding that he’s waiting for it to open.
“It’s you!” you exclaim, walking faster. “You jerk, you ditched me!”
Spiderman pushes off the wall in a heartbeat, body snapping upright with practised reflexes even before he lifts his head. He looks at you in silence and you take the chance to close the gap.
Before he can make the smart move and leave, you’re already grabbing his hand.
“You left me to talk to the police for hours after that day! Do you know how many questions I answered with ‘I don’t know’?”
“Oh, great,” he mumbles, voice low and muffled by his mask. “Just what I needed. What are you doing here?”
“That’s my question. I didn’t think our cafe was famous enough to be visited by a superhero. Are you checking out the student discount or something? Are you a student here too—”
He cuts you off. “Guessing my identity kind of defeats the purpose of the whole masked hero thing.”
You squint at him. “Can you even breathe in that?”
“I’m still standing here, aren’t I?”
You raise your hands in surrender. “So, what, you’re here to sightsee?”
“Do you think I have the luxury for that?” When you only raise your eyebrows pointedly and shrug, he continues. “I was supposed to meet someone here.”
There’s only one other person who works morning shifts.
“Shoko?”
Spiderman seems to pause. “The answer isn’t no.”
“Shoko’s doing closing shifts now so I’ll be taking over the morning shifts. Also, you know Shoko? And she didn’t tell me?”
“Secret identities will do that to you,” he groans. “I can’t believe you tortured that information out of me.”
“If anything, you confirmed it out of your own volition.”
He shrugs, taking a step forward as if to leave. You look over at the cafe door beside him.
“You’re here for a drink, right? Give me a couple minutes to open and I’ll get started on your order for you.”
He shifts, almost imperceptibly shrugging. “Forget it. You really shouldn’t be involving yourself with me.”
Before he can take another step, you reach out and grab his wrist. The movement is firm enough to make him pause, though if you thought he couldn’t pull away, you’d be sorely mistaken. “Don’t be shy. Come on, get in here. I’m not letting you leave that easily again.”
He lets out a small, embarrassed noise, half sigh and half grunt, as if caught somewhere between annoyance and resignation. You tug him gently towards the door again, though the look in your eyes is nothing if not fierce.
Finally, the steadiness of his stance gives way into a reluctant step and you’re able to pull him inside. The warmth of the cafe hits you immediately, a stark contrast to the brittle cold outside. Your breath stops leaving your lips as mist, the windows already dewy from the lack of ventilation inside, and the air smells like yesterday’s coffee grounds.
Spiderman hovers awkwardly by the door where you’ve abandoned him, rocking on his feet. You pretend not to notice how he’s poised to bolt the moment you turn your back and for that reason, you never do.
“You can sit, you know,” you say lightly, switching on the espresso machine. “You’re allowed to touch the furniture.”
“I’m good here,” he mutters.
“Where did all your spark go, Spiderman?”
He shifts at that, his weight rocking between his feet. “You make me sound like a rescue dog.”
“You’re acting like one,” you note with amusement. “You’re all twitchy and skittish. Should I put out a bowl of water? Or, better yet, you can tell me your order and I’ll get started on that for you.”
He pauses. “Iced matcha chai with vanilla cold foam and brown sugar syrup. And a caramel rim. That’s the best part.”
Your mouth hangs open, ink bleeding into the side of the cup as you try to process his words. “Are you kidding? That’s literally just pure sugar. Are you insane?”
“Someone has to protect the city, sweetheart.” As if emboldened by your surprise, Spiderman walks up to the counter and leans against it, watching you reluctantly write the shorthand for his order on the cup. “And whoever is doing it needs something to keep the sleep away.”
You shoot him a look as you cap the pen and get started. “When was the last time you slept?”
“Two nights ago. For, like, four hours.”
“You know, you should be sleeping seven to eight hours every night otherwise your brain isn’t able to clear proteins. When those accumulate they turn into the amyloid plaques and tau tangles they talk about in neurodegenerative disease.”
“Oh my God,” he groans, waving your clinical concern away. “Does this cafe only hire worrywarts? Shoko never shuts up about that.”
You look up sharply. “So you do know her.”
His hands come up in a placating gesture. “I thought you already came to that conclusion.”
“No, because you dodged it. How the fuck do you know Shoko? And why the hell has she never told me?” You let out a thoughtful hum as you create his disgusting drink. “Maybe she was embarrassed to know you.”
His hands come down slightly as if baffled. “I saved your life and the only thing leaving your mouth is criticism. The public loves the suit, I’ve gotten no complaints until now.”
You narrow your eyes as you reach for the syrup bottle. “So you are dodging.”
“I’m protecting the innocent. I hope you know that you also need to keep a tight lip about me.”
“Spare me, Spiderman. You’re really not all that.”
“You’ll be surprised.” He makes a show of stretching and flexing his muscles in the tight suit. “I’m irresistible.”
You bark a short laugh despite yourself, setting the cup down harder than necessary. “One of these days you’re going to look at yourself in the mirror and reconsider why exactly you chose tight spandex as the go to material for your suit. You know what people are doing on the streets these days? Catching print.”
“What’s that?”
You swirl whipped cream on the top of his drink and drizzle it in caramel before forcing a dome lid on top. Plucking a straw from the dispenser, you slide that and the drink over to him. He catches it easily enough, eyes not yet looking away from you.
“Here’s your drink. Next time, just get more hours of sleep instead of torturing your local barista.”
He lifts his mask just enough to sip, bunching it up under his nose, and you catch the barest flash of his grin before it’s covered again. His shoulders relax, like he’s settling in despite himself.
“Still good,” he murmurs, almost to himself. Then, louder: “At least you didn’t mess it up.”
“That’s the thanks I get?” You rest your elbows on the counter and lean in, your eyes narrowing at him.
“This is your job, isn’t it? Why should I thank you?”
“I thought since you did unpaid labour for the city, you’d know just how good a thanks feels.”
He chuckles, reaching into his pockets to pay. His fingers close around his phone before freezing, the faint weight of realisation settling in. He doesn’t carry cash, and he can’t pay contactless like he usually does with Shoko, because then you’d recognise his phone case.
You notice his hesitation. “Unpaid labour indeed.”
“Caught me,” Spider-Man admits easily, leaning against the counter. “So, what are the chances you put this on my tab?”
You laugh under your breath. “Just make sure to bring cash next time.”
There’s a beat of quiet before he tips his head, considering. “Next time, huh?”
You shrug, busying yourself with a rag on the counter. “Didn’t you say you needed that sugar bomb to stay awake?”
“Touché,” he says, lifting the cup to take another long sip.
The room falls into a quieter rhythm, the hum of the machines filling the silence. You watch as he lingers by the counter, fingers drumming against the cup as he enjoys his drink. It’s surreal seeing him so close, joking like he’s just any other person and not some masked figure who swings through the city on webs.
You speak up again when the silence drags on a little longer and you begin to worry that the moment might get interrupted by another customer. “You gonna stand there all day or actually do some superheroing?”
He makes a thoughtful noise. “Depends. Doesn’t seem like there are any damsels in distress right now.”
“Oh, really? Well, I still need some floors mopped and napkins restocked, so—hey!”
Before you can blink, he’s already tugging his hood back up and slipping towards the door, the same restless energy in his shoulders that he came in with. “And that’s my cue to leave.”
“Don’t forget,” you call after him. “Cash next time!”
He lifts a hand without turning, a half-wave, half-promise, before opening the door. He flicks his wrist towards the nearest streetlight and, with a tug, shoots forward with a burst of speed that leaves you blinking, impressed.
“Show-off,” you mumble fondly, a small smile tugging at your lips as the door swings closed behind him. His presence is quickly forced to the back of your mind as another customer walks in, and you fall back into the familiar rhythm of your work.
The opening shift quickly becomes the bane of your existence. The grumpy customers clicking in for their own early mornings, the rush of orders that arrives before you’ve even fully woken, the relentless beep of the espresso machine—it all feels like a punishment for having the audacity to leave your warm bed before the sun has even risen. And yet, despite the predictable chaos and your own bleary-eyed resentment, you can’t stop the small smile that tugs at your lips as you hop off the bus.
The front of the cafe is quiet when you step up and shove the keys in, though you know that calm won’t last long. A sudden movement behind you makes your stomach tighten, and a voice murmurs close to your ear.
“I thought the cafe opens at six.”
You turn to see Spiderman hanging upside down, both hands holding onto his web, feet pressed together to keep balance.
“It does,” you say in lieu of greeting.
“Really? So why did you only get here at 6:13am?”
You roll your eyes and turn back around to let you both in. The masked vigilante lets go of his web and smoothly drops down, sauntering in behind and catching the door when you let go.
“I could report you for tardiness, you know. And being mean to your customers.”
“I didn’t know you were a snitch,” you tease back.
“What can I say? I care about the university’s upkeep,” he says as he leans against the counter to watch you start up the shop.
Ignoring his gaze on your back, you begin to multitask, one hand grabbing a cup to get started on his drink while the other flicks on switches. The whir of grinders hum to life, filling the space between you.
“Another deathly sweet drink for you I’m assuming?”
“Someone has to keep this city up and running.”
There’s a brief silence as the espresso machine whirs and you do your job. You recall the first few times this unexpected customer had dropped by, the tension between the two of you neither friends nor strangers, and how his face had seemingly dropped when you slid his drink across the counter the moment he walked in.
“Oh,” Spiderman had started, the whites of his mask flicking from you to the cup. “You already made this for me?”
“Yeah. Unless you’re planning to grab something new today.”
His fingers had curled around the cup, mumbling something that sounded like, “No, that’s fine. This is fine.”
He had hesitated by the counter until you urged him to pay. He did, albeit slowly, and when he even stalled after the money had passed into your hands, you giggled.
“I’m not going to kick you out just because you have your drink now. You can stay. I like talking to you when I open.”
His face had immediately brightened, or at least you assume so from the way his head shot up and the grip on his cup tightened almost imperceptibly.
Since then, Spiderman has taken it upon himself to stay throughout the duration of making his drink, and thirty minutes after that too.
“You know,” he muses now, conversational and casual. “I feel like you know more about me than I know about you. You know how I like my drinks, my work, my name. Which is terrible because I’m the one with the secret hidden identity.”
You roll your eyes, lifting the steamer to pour into a cup with his superhero name on it, something he had insisted you do when you once poured his drink into an empty, unmarked cup, saying the true cafe experience included a named cup. So, in order to give him said full experience, you spell his name wrong every time. Today, it’s ‘Spy x Derman’.
“You also know where I work,” you say, topping his disgusting drink with cream and another drizzle of sweet sticky syrup. “And my name. But honestly, it’s your fault for being so naive and open.”
“I’m trying to say I want to know more about you.”
“And I’m trying to tastefully deflect the conversation elsewhere.”
He chuckles. “What harm is there if you tell me something? It doesn’t have to be anything crazy. This isn’t a first date.”
“Hey, that’s my line.” You stick a paper straw into the lid and slide his drink over the counter. He catches it with ease, not breaking eye contact to take a sip.
“Fine, I’ll bite. What do you want to know?
He shrugs, looking around the place. “Surprise me. I wouldn’t even know where to start.
“Well, first of all, I’m a normal person. Which means my coffee order isn’t diabetes in a cup.
“Tell me your order, then.”
You’re surprised to see him so interested in something so mundane and useless. “I guess I usually get a vanilla soy latte. Oh, but if they have matcha or something, I’d get that instead.”
He hums. “Personally, I usually get an iced matcha chai with vanilla cold foam and brown sugar syrup with a caramel rim.”
You laugh, wiping up the counter after yourself as you’ve been trained to do. “I never asked, and yes, Spiderman, I know. Trust me, it hurts my pure barista hands to make your drink every time.”
He chuckles softly with you, eyeing you, toying with the paper straw in his mouth. You know that in about ten minutes, if he stays that long, he’ll start complaining about how the paper has already begun to deteriorate in his mouth, and you will be his unwilling recipient for the venting. When he opens his mouth to speak next, you brace yourself for an onslaught of surprisingly childish whining.“So, any plans this week?” he asks, leaning over the counter. You wonder if it would be a workplace hazard to invite him to the other side.
You catch onto his words after a few blinks. “Not really? I guess I have an assessment due next week so I’ll be grinding for that.” You pause, assuming the silence that follows after is because he’s waiting for more. “You?”
“The usual. Saving cats from trees, escorting senior citizens across pedestrian crossing, the typical.”
“Does that actually happen? Cats getting stuck in trees?”
He shrugs. “Not really. If anything, it’s usually street poles they find themselves in. Anyway, so you’re otherwise free this week? Say, super random day that means absolutely nothing—Tuesday?”
You pause, taking in his faux innocence. He even makes a show of looking at his nails as if he could see them through the fabric of his white gloves. “I mean, I guess I am, for the most part. Why?”
He straightens a little, looking over at the dessert display. “No reason.”
You narrow your eyes at him, a little wary. “Are you sure? I feel like you wouldn’t ask that question unless there was something going on.”
“No, I’m just wondering what the average citizen’s schedule looks like.”
“Oh, really?” You clean off the steamer with an unimpressed look. “Verdict?”
“Boring!” He stretches out the word, loud in the acoustics of the near empty cafe. “Do you even know how to have fun?”
You scoff, wiping your hands on a nearby towel before leaning against the counter to talk to him. Somewhere along the way, the distance between the two of you has shrunk and you find yourself gravitating towards him. He stays on the other side, lifting up his mask as he usually does to take a sip.
“It’s not my fault the exam period is coming up,” you say, trying to subtly memorise the bottom of his face without seeming weird. “And I definitely do know how to have fun.
“Right, sure you do. What do you do for fun, then?”
You bite the inside of your cheeks. “You first.”
“Need time to think?”
“This is so unfair, you can literally fly! Obviously what I do for fun isn’t going to be as fun as leaping through the air and shooting webs from your wrists!”
“Not with that attitude you won’t. But come on, humour me a little. Tell me what you usually do in your free time.”
“Are we on a bad first date right now? What’s happening?”
“Deflect all you want but I’m immune to it by now. Come on, just tell me,” he coaxes you with a grin, straw between his teeth. “Do you, again super random and means nothing at all, go to anime related events?”
You narrow your eyes at him slightly. “I guess I do.”
“Okay.” He looks around as if inspecting the interior design. “Have you heard about that thing that’s happening at the main city library?”
You, in fact, have. “Sure. I saw the post on their Insta.”
“Was that something you wanted to check out?”
“With… you?”
Spiderman laughs like you’ve said something particularly funny. “You’re joking right? Obviously not with me. Spiderman doesn’t do outings, sweets.”
“Forgive me for assuming that when you literally asked me when I would be free mere minutes ago.”
“I told you, I’m just curious about what normal people get up to.”
You eye him, noting how relaxed he now seems and how there’s a silence that drags out after his last words. “Were there any more questions you wanted to ask, or just the one about when I’m free and if I wanted to check out the shounen showcase at the library?”
“No, that was it.”
You nod, slowly. “Right.”
The quiet stretches, just the hiss of the espresso machine and the soft drumming of his fingers against the counter as he muses over your previous words. You roll your eyes and straighten, turning to fiddle around and move forward with the transition of shooing him away.
Just as you’re about to tell him to go do his job or something, the doorbell chimes and you look up instinctively like an activated sleeper agent, plastering a smile on your face to greet the customer. It hasn’t been long since you started morning shifts but it was rare for anyone to show up within the ten minutes you open.
You spare Spiderman a glance as if to tell him to leave, but he’s not looking at you.
A man stumbles in, unsteady on his feet, eyes darting around like there’s someone watching him from the corners. At first, you assume he’s simply clumsy or perhaps nursing a killer hangover so you steel yourself for a tricky conversation.
“Good morning, what can I get started for you today?” you start, looking him up and down subtly to see if he’s a member of the university staff or a stranger who has somehow wandered onto campus.
The man slams his hand down on the counter and you jump, heart skipping. Up close, you can make out the sweat beading on his pale forehead and the way his lips move like he’s saying something, though no sound leaves his dry lips.
You try again. “Sir?”
“Coffee,” he rasps.
You force another polite smile because of course you want a coffee from a cafe, don’t waste my time, and reach for a cup. “Of course. Would that be a cappuccino or latte or something else?”
Instead of answering you, his head jerks to the side as if hearing a conversation you can’t. In doing so, his eyes meet Spiderman’s and they widen almost comically, his body jerking away.
Spiderman stiffens, shoulders tensing as he shoots the customer an incredulous look. “Woah, chill. It’s just me.”
The man staggers back another step, chest heaving, breath rattling like something is crawling up his throat.
You frown. “Sir, you’re looking a little pale. Maybe you should sit down and—”
His head snaps toward you so sharply you swear you hear the crack of his vertebrae. His eyes, wild and bloodshot, fix onto you with a sudden intensity that makes you pause. His lips peel back from his teeth into a nasty snarl, and you realise with a cold shiver that he is talking to himself. You quickly correct yourself. He wasn’t talking to himself, but to something else.
The man’s head jerks to the side again, harder this time. “Won’t stop… won’t stop talking…”
You swallow. “I mean, it’s kind of my job to ask you.”
His answer comes out distorted, two voices overlapping. “We said leave him alone!”
His hand suddenly shoots out, slamming into the counter so hard the marble cracks. A slick, black sheen ripples up his arm, coating his fingers like tar before forming claws.
His hand suddenly shoots out, slamming into the counter so hard the marble cracks. A slick, black sheen ripples up his arm, coating his fingers like tar before forming claws.
You stumble back, dropping the cup in your hands and making a sharp noise that has the man turning to you, eyes pitch-black.
“Um, Spiderman?” you whisper, hands clutching the side of the counter as you back away from the man. “Want to do your job or…?”
Before you can even process what’s happening, the man lunges across the counter at you, knocking over your carefully stacked paper cups. You make an embarrassing sound, half-surprise, half-protest as you instinctively attempt to back away though it’s not enough considering the feral determination the man has in reaching you.
In a blur, Spiderman leaps and lands on his hands and feet on the ceiling, flinging his arm toward you to latch a web around your torso. He yanks you to him, the world tilting for a fraction of a second as the web wraps around your arms and pins them to your side. The momentum spins you round and round until you finally settle, slowly rotating.
Blood rushes to your head and a nearby crash makes you jolt, eyes widening to pinpoint the danger.
Turns out, Spiderman has wrapped you in a cocoon of web and left to dangle like a pinata from the ceiling.
“Hey!” you protest, struggling against the web. The movement only causes you to spin around and you hastily jerk your body to the side to watch the scene. “Let me down!”
Spiderman drops to the floor, one hand splayed across the ground, the other tense and alert in the air. He momentarily breaks his focus to give you a double take. “What the—I’m keeping you safe. Stop wiggling!”
You can hear it then, the sound the man’s making. Not quite a growl, at least not a human one, but a low, guttural rasp that vibrates through his chest. Panic and fear only grow within you, and you struggle with a little more determination to get down and run for the hills, when the man emerges from behind the counter.
He lunges again, this time faster, propelled by a strength that is definitely not human. Black tendrils burst from his back, flinging chairs aside like toys. Spiderman dodges easily, flipping over a table and ducking behind it, firing a web that snaps against the man’s shoulder.
It doesn’t hold.
The black substance simply absorbs it, melting it away like cotton candy in a river.
“Okay,” Spiderman mutters, kicking the table into the man too and watching as he easily smacks it away. “That’s new.”
The creature lets out a distorted laugh. “Spiderman,” it sneers.
“That’s me. Have we met before?”
Spiderman doesn’t wait for an answer, slinging a web at the man’s wrist and yanking him hard into the counter. The espresso machine crumbles under the intense weight and puffs out a powerful blast of steam as it malfunctions. The figure avoids the steam with a sharp hiss, black tendrils catching from the bulk of the fall and throwing himself back up, grabbing onto the mini fridge display and hurling it back at the superhero.
You gasp when you rotate to face the chaos. “You’re wrecking my cafe!”
“Seriously? That’s what you’re focusing on right now?” Spiderman shoots back, ducking. “File an insurance claim or something!”
He swings a chair into the side of the figure and you watch mournfully.
“My chairs…”
“Again, there might be bigger things to worry about!”
A giant fist surges forward from the black gunk oozing down his chest and knocks Spiderman back.
The superhero lets out a punched-out gasp, slamming into the wall of the cafe and knocking down some purely-for-interior-design-aesthetic fake coffee bean bags. Spiderman tries to sling himself onto the arm and swing around, but the substance only consumes the webbing, swallowing it before it can take hold.
“Spiderman!”
You twist uselessly in your cocoon, the web binding your arms tight to your sides. Your brain scrambles for something, anything that could possibly help. Your eyes lock onto the man as its gooey limbs swell and stretch, pulsing with inhuman strength. Another fist forms, held back in the air as if winding up, clearly aimed at the gasping Spiderman on the cafe floor.
“Is this another tactic of yours? I think you fight better on both feet!”
Spiderman spits blood through the cuts of his mask.
“Yeah,” he wheezes, “That’s the plan.”
The fist hands there for one awful second, huge and glistening and very much about to redecorate the floor with Spiderman’s internal organs.
Your gaze snaps wildly around the cafe, desperate for anything useful beyond the humiliating fact that you are currently trussed up. You make a mental note of everything, the counter, syrup bottles, cups, broken glass, ruined pastries, the espresso machine wheezing its last breath in the corner, split open and spitting angry jets of steam every few seconds.
“Spiderman!” you blurt.
Spiderman, still flat on his back and one near-death experience away from becoming part of the floor plan, tilts his head weakly. “Can this wait? I’m in the middle of something.”
“The espresso machine!”
“What about it? Do you want a latte before I die?”
“The steam, you idiot!”
The creature finally slams its fist down, cracking the granite flooring and thankfully not squishing a spider. The superhero rolls onto his side with a pained hiss, flicking his wrist to wrap web around the nuzzle of the steamer.
“Okay,” he starts. “And how do I use this exactly?”
The man quickly regains its bearings and starts for Spiderman again as the superhero uselessly fiddles with the steam wand. You jerk in your cocoon.
“The knob! Turn the silver knob on the side!”
Spiderman slaps the wrong thing and a burst of frothy milk sprays across the counter and onto the floor. “Is that it?”
“The other one!”
He twists the correct knob just as the creature lunges. The machine screams as it blasts a vicious plume of steam straight forward. You watch as he yanks the steamer around at the last second, aiming it right into the thing’s chest and face.
The black mass recoils with a horrible, scraping cry that makes you wince, and begins to peel back from the man’s skin in a movement not unfamiliar to you. The tendrils make one last feral swish, slamming into shelves and sending coffee beans, ceramic mugs, and one very expensive grinder crashing to the ground.
Spiderman cranks the wand harder, and the machine gives one final screech before coughing out another blast of steam. The goo convulses, writhing up the man’s neck and shoulders almost as if hesitating. The man underneath drops to his knees gasping, his face finally visible beneath the slick black sheen.
Spiderman doesn’t hesitate and fires a web at the industrial kettle behind the counter, yanking it straight off the shelf and hurls it at the goo.
The kettle smashes into only the creature and bursts with boiling water, prompting the symbiote to let out another inhuman sound before tearing free and sliding away.
For a few seconds, all you hear is your own pulse in your ears.
Spiderman staggers to his feet, a faux-casualness to his posture that is betrayed entirely by the way his eyes never leave the man.
“Okay,” he pants. “Crisis averted.”
You glare down at him from your cocoon, still swaying gently. “Did you have to take out half the café to do so?”
“It was a necessary evil.” When the man doesn’t move, Spiderman finally relaxes and places his hands on his hips, letting out a slow exhale. “Jesus, that really sucked. The worst part is, even after all of that, the real enemy still managed to escape. But no casualties, no broken bones this time, and I saved a citizen. I’d call that a job well done.”
He grins up at you.
You pull your lips into a smile. “Great. I’m so happy for you. Can you please get me down now?”
Spiderman tilts his head thoughtfully. “True. This isn’t your best angle.”
“Spiderman.”
“Alright, alright.”
He fires a quick web and you drop. Before you can scream, he catches you in his arms and starts cutting through the web with a small knife.
“You okay?” he asks softly, his mouth ghosting the shell of your ear.
You nod, your heartbeat still racing from it all.
When he pulls away, the webs falling off you like they had never clung to you at all, the two of you survey the café. Distantly, you hear the cry of multiple sirens.
“What is that thing, seriously?” you whisper. If you had a penny for every time you had come face to face with an ooey, gooey monster, you’d have two pennies—which wasn’t a lot, but it was strange that this had happened twice. You turn to Spiderman for answers, but he looks just as blank.
“I think it’s something like a symbiote. Takes over a human host and all that, like a parasite.” Catching your frightened look, Spiderman straightens. “Hey, don’t look so glum. You handled that better than most.”
“I’d rather never be in the position to find that out in the first place.”
He reaches over and ruffles your hair playfully, ignoring both the involuntary wince that escapes him as he raises his arm and your feeble protests. “You did great. The steam idea saved us.”
“The steam… the espresso machine!” You hastily pull away to look around the café again, this time properly taking in the damage. “You broke everything!”
“I saved your life?” he offers, edging away subtly.
“My manager is going to have my head!” As if on cue, you feel a vibration against your thigh. Reaching down into your pocket for your phone, you read through the notifications with a growing sense of dread.
manager: ?? what’s going on
why am i seeing a news reporter outside my cafe
why am i seeing it on the news right now
why is the door off its hinges
is that a hole in my window?
y/n pick up
You wince. “Spiderman, mind explaining to my manager what happened—Spiderman?”
When you turn around, you’re met with nothing, just the sight of tables and chairs on their side and the glass of the window shattered. The sirens get closer and something like deja vu creeps in.
“You fucking jerk!”
you: hey!! so ik ure oh so busy
but i think we should meet up to rehearse our speech before we present
r u free 12pm today?
toru: woahhh u texted first ?!
you: and probably meet at the library
oh what the hell u replied so fast
toru: maybe i was waiting for ur text all day
you: wait why did i grimace
anyway are u down?
toru: sure i’ll try!
meet u at our usual table ><
You climb the stairs up to the library, chuckling softly at the memory of Gojo’s texts. Surprisingly, Gojo is already sitting in his seat when you arrive. He pauses his typing and pulls down one side of his headphones, looking over his shoulder at you. His eyes light up and you offer him a small wave, watching as he responds enthusiastically.
“You didn’t stand me up.”
You chuckle drily, pulling out your seat beside him and sitting down. “What is this, some bad first date?”
Gojo grins like you’ve said something particularly funny. “Is that your go-to line or something?”
“What?”
“Oh, uh. Nothing.” He looks away, swiping his finger across the trackpad.
When he doesn’t say anything else, you take it as your cue to take out your things, still eyeing him. “Didn’t bring your mouse today?”
“You remembered?”
You make a face at his sudden hopeful expression. “You’re being weird.”
He slumps back into his chair. “Yeah, I gave myself the ick. I’m just nervous.”
“About?”
He hums, looking away at the rest of the library. “Stuff.”
You let that sit for a moment, then try to steer things back toward the reason you’re both here. For a while, you make a decent attempt at studying. You open your laptop, pull up your notes, ask him a question about the assessment that he answers after a beat too long. But it quickly becomes obvious that whatever is making him weird hasn’t gone away. He keeps glancing down at his notes only to stare straight through them, then out the window, then back at his laptop. Every few seconds he finds a new way to fidget: tapping his pen, rubbing the back of his neck, shifting in his chair, bouncing his leg under the table.
By the time he starts clicking his pen open and shut, you give up pretending not to notice. You lean back slightly and raise an eyebrow at him. “Something else you’d rather be doing?”
He stills at once, like he’s been caught. “Maybe,” he admits after a second. “Kind of.”
You narrow your eyes. “Kind of?”
Gojo huffs out a breath and glances at you, then away again. “Okay, don’t laugh, but there’s this shounen manga pop-up showcase at the central library right now. And I thought—since we’ve talked about Digimon and all that stuff—maybe you’d want to go check it out with me.”
You blink. “Go together?”
He scratches the back of his head, suddenly finding the edge of his laptop intensely interesting. “I mean, yeah. Not like a date or anything. Just as friends. Or whatever. We’ve both been staring at the same five pages for the last twenty minutes, so I thought maybe we could take a break before coming back. I heard they’ve got themed pastries at the ground floor café too, and I’m pretty sure there’s a huge stand of that one character you like.”
You can’t help but laugh softly. “Friends, huh? Alright, sure. Sounds like fun.”
The relief that flashes across his face is immediate and almost embarrassingly obvious. He leans back in his chair, grinning so widely it’s hard not to laugh again. “Really? Alright, cool. Cool. Friends. Totally casual.”
He slams his lid close and starts shoving it into his case. You blink before mirroring his gesture with your own belongings.
“Oh, you meant right now?”
He looks up, already halfway done packing.“Is there any better time than the present?”
There probably is, considering you had both technically come here to study, but the fond exasperation that thought should bring never fully arrives. Instead, you find yourself closing your laptop too, slipping your charger back into your bag as he waits with barely restrained excitement.
If you told the version of yourself from a few months ago that you’d willingly abandon studying to follow Gojo somewhere, you would’ve laughed in your own face. But the walk turns out to be fun. More than fun, actually. He talks the whole way, hands moving animatedly as he jumps between topics and drags you along with him, and by the time the central library comes into view, you’re almost disappointed the walk was so short.
Gojo’s eyes are bright as the automatic doors slide open. He looks almost boyish like this, all open excitement and easy chatter, and you’re still watching him when that expression falters.
You follow his gaze around the corner and toward the signs for the display, your own smile quickly dropping.
It’s underwhelming, to put it lightly. A small corner of the library has been cordoned off, just a few tables with stacked manga, a sparse display of badges pinned to a board against the wall, and a few posters of famous shounen series plastered against the nearby walls.
Gojo slows, his shoulders slumping as the excitement drains from him. “Oh. Uh.” He takes in the scene though, it doesn’t take long due to the size of the exhibit. “It’s… smaller than I thought.”
“That’s what she said.” You glance at him, trying to mask your own surprise at the tiny setup. “Hey, it’s okay. Maybe there’s more elsewhere!”
He follows you like a lost puppy as you explore the nearby areas, though it quickly becomes clear there’s nothing more than the original display. Even the café at the entrance is lacking. It only has one themed dessert, and it’s a poorly designed cake pop of Happy from Fairy Tail, his tiny round chocolate eyes seemingly staring off to the side where a normal chocolate chip cookie sits. Gojo winces at the cake pop and you offer to buy it for him. He shakes his head, hesitant to separate it from the cookie since it seems like it wants it so badly.
When your feet circle back to the pathetic tables, even you struggle to stay upbeat.
He shakes his head, a small, defeated grin forming. “Man, that sucks. I guess I just imagined it being a little more… epic. You know, life-sized statues, endless merch, chaos everywhere, not”—he gestures to the badges—“badges.”
“Badges can be cool,” you try, tracing the edge of one.
“There are only badges of all the mainstream anime,” he mumbles, coming up to stand beside you. Due to the tiny display, you’re shoulder to shoulder, your arm brushing his. “God, this fucking sucks. My bad, Y/N. I was hoping we could look at all the manga together, but all I managed to do was waste your time. We can just go back to the library and continue studying.”
You frown at his dejected tone, and when you look over, he’s pouting.
His shoulders are slumped, his hands absentmindedly fidgeting with a badge, spinning it back and forth with no real interest, and his lips are jutted out in an almost cartoonish pout. When his eyes shift at your attention, you quickly look away and hope he didn’t catch the slight quiver of your lips.
Then, before you can think better of it, you grab a badge off the display and pin it to his chest. When he starts to look down, you lift his chin with your finger instead.
He blinks at you, owlish, and you can’t help but smile at the clueless look in his eyes.
“Ask me a yes-or-no question,” you say. “To try and guess what character’s badge I just pinned on you. C’mon, I bet you won’t get it.”
For a moment, you think your forced enthusiasm has put him off and that he won’t play along. But then he suddenly scoffs, his lips tugging up. “Are they a girl?”
“No.” It’s contagious and you find yourself smiling back.
He purses his lips, and you recognise the signature glint in his eyes when he’s concentrating. He hums, thinking a little more seriously. “Is the series he’s from released before 2020?”
“Yes.”
“Is he part of a trio?”
“Seriously? We’re talking about shounen right now. Almost every shounen series has a trio.” You giggle. “But no, he isn’t.”
He rolls his eyes. “Is the character the main character of the series?”
“No, but I’d say a lot more people like this character over the actual main character.”
“Is he from a sports anime?”
“No.”
“Could he be in a sports anime?”
That catches you off guard and you scrunch your face up in thought. “I honestly can’t imagine him doing any sport. He might be a perma-benched player that’s only there for strategy.”
“Is he, like, a mentor character?”
You pout a little at how on-the-nose his question is. “Yes.”
“Does he have powers?”
“Yes.”
He clicks his fingers. “Ah. Does he have a signature weapon?”
“Well, he uses a gun often, but his powers aren’t related to his weapon of choice.”
“So his powers aren’t offensive?”
“Exactly.”
He hums, a smile growing on his face. “Is the manga based in the modern era?”
“Yes.”
“Is he dead?”
“No, but there was a moment when everyone was freaking out because it almost seemed like he was dead.”
“Brown hair?”
“Yes.”
Gojo clicks his fingers in realisation. “Okay, I’ve got it. Is it Dazai?” He might as well have shouted eureka. His face brightens, hanging on your next words to confirm or deny his victory.
You giggle, nodding, and the smile he gives you is full of childlike wonder.
“Close your eyes. It’s your turn.”
You do so. “I bet I can guess it with fewer questions than you.”
He snorts. “You’re on.”
A few customers shoot you dirty looks when they walk past, clearly not appreciating your giggles as you and Gojo take turns playing your own chopped version of celebrity heads. Time seems to pass quickly over laughter and jokes until you finally reach up to unpin the latest badge to place it back. He stops you, hands covering yours.
“Let me buy that for you,” he says with a lingering smile.
You raise an eyebrow but let him take it off your hands. “Who said I even want this?”
“Come on, it’ll be like we’re matching.”
“They’re not even from the same series.”
“Not to anyone else,” he muses, thumb stroking the front of the badge like it’s something precious. “But we'll know they’re connected and that’s good enough to call them matching.”
You turn away, suddenly far too aware of the warmth rising to your face. Clearing your throat, you gesture toward the manga shelves down the aisle. “Let’s go see what else they’ve got. Sure, we came for the pop-up, but we’re still in a library.”
He follows after you, noticeably lighter on his feet than before, and you let out a small sigh of relief. Then, almost immediately, you berate yourself for the tiny flutter in your chest. Why does that even matter? you scold yourself, brushing the feeling aside.
Before you can dwell on it for too long, he pinches your sleeve and tugs you gently toward him when your pace slows.
“Have you read this?”
“Not yet,” you admit, though a small smile creeps onto your face at the sight of his enthusiasm.
Without missing a beat, he launches into an animated explanation of the series, waving his hands as he talks. Sometimes it feels like he’s speaking more with his fingers than with actual words, sketching out invisible diagrams in the air as he links characters and plot points together. His sentences tumble over each other as he rambles about character motivations, why one of them is a complete fraud, and why the plot veers dangerously close to deus ex machina territory, only cutting himself off with an apologetic smile right before he spoils something major.
“And I swear the author gave up halfway through the series. The manga finished in 2023, by the way, but I think by the end he’d already landed a deal for a spin-off and started putting all his effort into that instead. You know what I saw on Twitter recently? People were hyping up this one line like it was amazing foreshadowing, but it’s not even good foreshadowing because, come on, the final fight was so cheap. Like when—” He stops himself abruptly. “Oh, wait. You can’t know that yet.”
You nod along, trying to keep up with the flood of names, locations, and arc points that mean absolutely nothing to you, but the sheer energy in his voice is contagious. Somehow, it’s impossible to be annoyed or bored when he’s like this, completely in his element.
Eventually, you stop trying to follow every detail. Instead, your attention drifts to him. The way his hair keeps falling into his eyes, forcing him to run a hand through his bangs only for them to slip right back into place seconds later. The way his brows knit together when he rants, only to lift again the moment he gets to a part he genuinely loves. Despite the noise of the busy library, his voice rises above everything else, clear and captivating, demanding your attention without even trying.
It’s almost impressive how quickly his mouth keeps up with his thoughts. You squint slightly, watching the shape of his lips around each word just to confirm that yes, it really is him speaking that fast and not some video playing in the background.
You realise a second too late that he’s stopped talking.
You blink and look up at him.
His brows are furrowed, though not in the same way as before, and you hate that you now know the difference. “Uh, you still with me?”
You blink a few more times, then shake your head slightly as if to clear the haze. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.”
Gojo tilts his head, clearly amused. “Really? Because you look a little dazed.”
Heat rushes to your face and you quickly drop your gaze to the manga in his hands, as if that had always been the focus of your attention. “Yeah, of course I was listening. Something about deus ex machina, right?”
He snorts softly. “I finished talking about the ending minutes ago. You don’t have to pretend if you weren’t paying attention.”
You roll your eyes, hoping your embarrassment isn’t as obvious as it feels. “Fine. Maybe I got a little distracted.”
His grin widens at that, though it softens around the edges as he steps a little closer. “Distracted, huh? By what?”
You hesitate, heart doing something strange at the way he’s looking at you. “Nothing.”
“Really?”
“Really,” you shoot back.
“Alright then,” he concedes, though the glint in his eyes never fades. “I guess I’ll just have to step up my explanations next time so you don’t get distracted again.”
He slides the manga carefully back onto the shelf, nudging the surrounding volumes aside to make room and making sure none of the pages bend as he slots it into place. There has to be something wrong with you, because even that small gesture makes warmth bloom in your chest. You make a mental note to check the series out when you get home.
Gojo turns back to you and gestures for you to lead the way. “Your turn.”
He listens as you tell him about one of your favourite manga series, and the embarrassment of getting caught fades quickly as you explain exactly why it’s a masterpiece. When it’s his turn again, you make a conscious effort to pay attention and not drift off into another daydream. So when he asks if you were actually listening this time, you huff and answer every one of his questions with ease.
He grins at you like you’ve handed him the world.
Eventually, the two of you leave the library with less merch than you’d expected walking in, but with two badges that mean more than you’d ever dare admit. He doesn’t fasten his onto the front of his bag with the rest of his pins and accessories, mumbling something about wanting to keep it safe, so you keep yours in your pocket instead, your thumb brushing over its smooth surface as you walk.
You expect him to call it a day after that, maybe peel off with some excuse about having things to do, but instead he tugs lightly on your sleeve.
“C’mon.”
“Where?”
“Cafe run. My treat.”
You raise a brow. “Since when do you buy me coffee?”
“Since you saved this disaster of a day,” he says matter-of-factly, already steering you toward the street with a hand at your shoulder. “Besides, it’d be cruel not to feed you after I made you listen to my manga rants for hours.”
You snort, but you don’t fight him on it. The truth is, coffee does sound nice, even if you remain slightly mystified by the idea of going with Gojo of all people. You frown a little when the thought doesn’t leave you disgusted.
You’re still mulling over the drink options when Gojo steps up to the counter to order.
“Can I get an iced matcha latte—” He cuts himself off awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just an iced matcha latte, thanks. Oh, and a vanilla soy latte.”
You eye him as he thanks the cashier, pays, and nods toward the waiting area. Seeing no reason not to follow, you move to stand beside him again.
“Are you drinking two drinks?”
“Stupid.” He pokes your forehead in a way that, annoyingly, you can’t bring yourself to hate. “One of them is for you.”
“The… vanilla latte?”
“Yeah.”You dip your head, trying to catch his eye. “Why aren’t you looking at me all of a sudden?”
He shrugs, suddenly fascinated by the blank wall behind the counter. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
You study him for a second before letting out a small laugh. “Well, you got lucky. That’s kind of my go-to order. How did you know?”
“I guess you just look like you’d want something like that.”
You stare at him. “Oh yeah? I just have the look of someone who likes vanilla lattes?”
He only hums in response.
You frown a little as you take him in properly: the way he rocks back and forth on his feet, hands tucked into his pockets, trying very hard to look unaffected. All he needs is a whistle to sell the act. Thankfully, one of the cashiers calls out his number, and he eagerly slips away to collect the drinks.
When he comes back, he hands you the vanilla latte. You take it with a small thanks, then pause as something occurs to you.
“Oh. Send me your bank details. I’ll transfer you for the merch and the coffee,” you say, already reaching for your phone.
When he doesn’t mirror the gesture, you look up.
“It’s fine. I got it.”
“What? No way. I don’t want to owe you anything.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” he says. “I got it for you because I wanted to.”
Slowly, you take your hand back out of your bag. “You did? That doesn’t sound like you.”
“I would’ve thought you’d know me a little better after today,” Gojo says, finally looking at you with a smile. Then he gestures toward the door. “Come on. You’ll miss the bus back to the dorms.”
“You’re being very weird, you know.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says with the kind of smile that only proves your point. He brushes past you, not unkindly, and takes the lead toward the bus stop.
You stare at his back for a moment before letting out an amused huff and hurrying after him. “So you’re a matcha person, huh? How performative.”
“Please. I liked matcha before it was cool.”
“So you’re claiming to be an OG, then? Quick, name every matcha brand.”
“That would take forever. I can tell you where this one came from, though.” Gojo takes a sip of his drink and hums in exaggerated thought. “This matcha was ground from the soils of Shizuoka Prefecture. I can even give you the row and column of the specific tea leaves used to make this drink.”
You snort. “What is it then?”
“32C, 82G.”
“Are we playing Battleships?”
The two of you share a short laugh at the bit, and the thought hits you strangely hard: you never imagined one day you’d be joking around like this with Gojo of all people.
By the time you reach the station, the two of you stop beneath the shelter.
“What number are you catching?” you ask, pulling out your phone to check the bus times.
“Oh, I’m not catching the bus. I take the train.”
You look up at him, incredulous. “What? Then why are you here?”
He tilts his head, straw slipping from his mouth as he looks at you like you’ve said something ridiculous. “To make sure you get on the bus safe, obviously. It’s fine, I’m already here anyway. I’ll just wait with you until it comes.”
“That’s… actually really nice of you.”
Gojo shrugs. “I guess I just really care about the wellbeing of others.”
“Wow. Your compassion for helping citizens would go crazy on a superhero résumé.”
He laughs, though the sound comes out slightly off somehow, enough that you notice even if you can’t place why. “What? That’s insane. You think I’d make a good superhero? Me? That’s ridiculous. I’m a clutz and a nerd and hardly cut out for the whole saving-the-world thing.”
You think back to the cricket incident and giggle softly. “Don’t count yourself short. I think you’re a lot more capable than you give yourself credit for, Gojo.”
At that, he turns his head quickly and takes a sharp sip of his drink. “Satoru.”
“Hm?” You look up at him, wondering if the slight flush at the tips of his ears has anything to do with the late afternoon sun.
“Everyone calls me Satoru but you,” he says, still not looking at you. “You might as well just call me Satoru too. It’s weird if you don’t.”
It takes a few seconds for the words to fully sink in. By then, he only seems to shrink further into himself, taking long, noisy pulls from his straw. By the time you recover enough to smirk, his cup is almost entirely ice.
You lean in slightly, trying to catch his eye. “What a cheesy thing to say. Don’t tell me you’re—”
The rest dies on your tongue when he finally glances down at you. The same pink tint at his ears has spread across his cheeks.
He frowns despite it, brows drawing together. “Forget it. I knew you wouldn’t take me seriously.” He pulls the straw from his mouth and shakes the cup for more drink, only for the ice to rattle uselessly. With visible annoyance, he takes the shot and tosses the empty cup into the bin. “Sorry for dragging you all the way out here today. Your bus is probably coming soon, so I’ll head off—”
You gape at him. “Wait!”
He freezes and turns back slightly. “Going to tease me? Save it for tomorrow.”
“No,” you say quickly. “I was just surprised you wanted me to call you by your first name. I thought you hated me.”
“Me?” he scoffs, turning around fully now. “You have to be joking.”
“I’m serious,” you insist. “You were awful to me. I mean, you literally went out of your way to embarrass me when we barely knew each other.”
He runs a hand through his hair and exhales. “Yeah, I know. I was… bad at that. I never hated you, Y/N. I just didn’t know what to do with you.”
“The moment you start making sense, the world is going to end. I’m sure of it.”
He laughs quietly, then looks at you again. “I’m trying to say that when you showed up and started showing me up, beating me and everything, I got a little intimidated. And maybe you were right all along, but I wanted you to notice me the way I’d started noticing you. So yeah, maybe I did start tugging on your pigtails just to get your attention. You were just so—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “Never mind.”
“Hold on,” you say, stepping closer. “You can’t do that. Finish it.”
“Sorry. Free trial’s over. If you want me to keep going, that’ll be 200 diamonds—”
“Satoru.”
He closes his mouth immediately, eyes widening a fraction before he sighs. “Damn. I should’ve never asked you to say that.”
You tilt your head, catching his gaze. “Please?”
Something strained flashes across his face, like the word is lodged somewhere painful in his chest. “You were just so…” He exhales through his nose, defeated. “So bright that it was annoying. I couldn’t ignore you, even if I tried. Every time you laughed, my head would already be turning, and I hated it because you weren’t smiling at me.”
You laugh awkwardly. “We weren’t exactly friends.”
“No,” he says softly. “That was the issue. But even then, I wouldn’t have been satisfied.”
For a moment, neither of you says anything. The confession settles between you, large and impossible to ignore. You’ve given up trying to look at him because there’s a strange tightness in your chest making it hard to breathe, and Satoru looks like he’s doing everything in his power not to bolt.
“Does that bother you?” he asks.
Unable to speak, you shake your head.
“Okay.” He exhales slowly. “Then can I try something?”
You look up just as he reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His hand hovers there for a moment, giving you an out.
You don’t take it. Mostly because your feet feel rooted to the pavement beneath you.
“Satoru,” you whisper, and he seems to find whatever answer he was searching for in your eyes.
He leans in slowly, like he’s afraid the moment might shatter if he moves too quickly. Your breath mingles. He hesitates, and you give him the smallest encouragement by leaning in too. Your noses brush with a ticklish little bump, and the whole world narrows to the space between your mouths—
Then a sharp buzz cuts through the quiet.
It doesn’t register properly in your mind at first. You only know it sounds ugly against the stillness. But Satoru knows immediately.
He freezes. So do you.bThen comes the second vibration.
His shoulders sag. His forehead drops forward and bumps lightly into yours.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters.
“Everything okay?” you ask, though you already know the answer.
He pulls back just enough to take his phone out and glance at the screen. Whatever he sees drains all the softness from his face, replacing it with that familiar unreadable tension.
“Yeah,” he says, forcing a crooked smile. “I, uh, have to go. Family emergency. Again.”
You smile back. “I hope everyone’s okay.”
“Right. Yeah.”
“You should probably go.”
“Right.”
He lingers for another beat, phone held uselessly in his hand, before clearing his throat and stepping back. “I’ll call you tonight?”
“Yeah. Tonight.”
“Cool,” he says. “Cool, cool, cool, cool. Get home safe, yeah?”
“Yeah.” You keep smiling even as he starts to walk away. “Thanks for today.”
You watch him go for far longer than you should, long enough that his figure starts to blur into the movement of the street beyond the bus stop. Only when he disappears properly do you let your smile falter, your hand tightening slightly around the paper cup.
It hits you then, all at once and without mercy, how badly you are in trouble. You stare down at your coffee like it might offer guidance and find none.
Oh, you are so doomed.
Spiderman’s muscle strain against the cold sticky goo binding his wrists behind his back, the sharp bite of them digging into his skin as he knelt on the rough warehouse floor. His suit clings to him like a second skin, torn across his chest and down his thigh from the brutal fight. There’s a gash above his eyebrow that’s dripping blood into his eyes, but for some reason his vision is clear.
The amazing Spiderman makes it his purpose to never stay down for long. This time, however, he wonders if he even wants to get back up.
Venom looms over him with a maw of jagged teeth and eyes like void fixed down on him with predatory amusement. “Spiderman down on his knees. What a sight.”
Gojo smirks under his mask even as his knees ache and cold air brushes the exposed skin around his mouth.
“I hate to break it to you but I’m not into oversized ink blots,” he spits. “And don’t get so cocky too soon. Haven’t you played Darkest Dungeon? Overconfidence is a slow and insidious killer.”
“There’s always a response rearing to go from that tongue of yours, isn’t there?” Venom hisses. “Always so self-assured, always so prepared. I wonder how long that peace you know will last.”
“If I wanted my fortune read I would have gone to a tarot card reader.”
Venom laughs and the sound is suddenly so achingly familiar that Gojo freezes, something primal overturning into his stomach telling him to run. But there’s nowhere to run, not when his wrists are tied behind his back, not when he’s kneeled at the feet of his archnemesis, and especially not when the tendrils of the villain slowly pull back to reveal a humanoid form Satoru knows far too well.
The black mass ebbs back from Venom’s face, appendages retracting with a wet slurp, revealing—
Her. You.
The girl from the 5th floor of the campus library that he kept seeing that one finals season a whole year ago, the one he once told Geto about until he saw you again with his childhood friend and decided you were firmly off-limits. The same girl he suddenly couldn’t miss in the crowd when 5pm hits and the tired students pour out seeking night outs or cozy night ins, the same girl who when he finally had a class with, had quickly cut him down with a glare that sent a jolt right through his body. The face he thinks about when he’s alone in the dark of his room, one hand down his pants and the other holding his phone.
Your pretty lips now curl into a smirk as your piercing eyes that he just loves to pretend to hate, locks onto his, full of mocking triumph. The symbiote suit hugs your curves like liquid, accentuating every sway of your hips as you step even closer.
Wait, what the fuck?
Gojo opens his mouth to say something but his breath hitches and the quip dies on his tongue.
“What the—Y/N? What are you—” He cuts himself off when you laugh, soft and familiar, a sound far too beautiful for a grungy place like this.
“What’s wrong, Spidey?” you purr, voice lilting with mock innocence. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or maybe—”
He’s almost certain he stops breathing altogether as you roughly tilt his chin up with one long tendril, staring at your face because there’s nothing else to do.
“You see something you like?”
He splutters. “This is bullshit. You’re not Venom, you can’t be. This has to be some kind of symbiote mind-fuck trick.”
“What’s wrong? You’ve lost your composure all of a sudden.”
Gojo growls, a feral sound dragging up his throat. “Don’t fucking look into my mind. Stop looking like her!”
You coo, lips pretty and downturned. “Stop? How can I? Spiderman, I am her.”
Your words make him shudder and you press on.
“Ah, so it’s about that, is it? Poor, little Spiderman, torn in so many little directions. You can’t decide whether to be Satoru or this silly attempt at being a superhero.”
He flinches when his name slips from your lips, remembering how soft it had sounded when you first said it, cheeks pink and eyes fluttering down. Seeing you standing over him now, eyes harsh and unforgiving, he feels a stirring in his gut that only pushes him closer to the edge.
“No snarky response this time?”
“You can’t be her.”
“Why not? I could be anyone.” You lift a foot and press it against his thigh, pushing it outwards casually. “Why don’t we be truthful for once, hm? And stop hiding behind all these secrets? It’s not that I can’t be her, it’s that you don’t want me to be. You’ve always vented to Suguru about how nice it would be to have it both but this is the one thing you don’t want to share with Spiderman. Me. And yet, you go against yourself and seek me out as both. Why?”
Gojo grits his teeth. “I don’t have to explain anything to you. You know nothing about me.”
“Oh, but I promise you I don’t miss much.” Your foot trails higher, nudging now against his inner thigh and despite the situation, he flinches, that unfamiliar feeling spilling into something scarily recognisable.
“Hold on—”
“Looks like you’re still not being completely truthful, Satoru,” you purr and he hisses.
Your foot presses against the bulge straining his suit, the pressure firm and deliberate. Gojo’s hips jerk involuntarily, a sharp exhale escaping him as you drag your sole along his length.
“Get off me,” he growls, but it sounds more like a plea, his voice husky and ragged.
He tries to shift away, wrists twisting futilely in the bindings, but his body betrays him and he leans into the friction instead. Your boot works him slowly, the leather cool against the heat building under his suit.
“Make me,” you taunt, eyes gleaming with wicked amusement.
You don’t let up, your foot dragging slowly now, tracing the outline of his cock with teasing precision and his hips respond but bucking up involuntarily, pleasure sparking hot and fierce. He clamps his jaw, trying to stifle the sound, but it rumbles out anyway.
“This…” His eyes flutter as you press down particularly hard, forcing a smirk even as his breaths come out ragged. “This is your master plan? You’re more of a—ngh—pervert than I thought.”
You tilt your head, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Master plan? Do I need a reason to do any of this? Maybe I’ve finally decided to do something about all that eye-fucking you’ve been giving me in class. Thought I wouldn’t notice?”
Your boot grinds down harder, the ridged sole catching on the zipper of his suit, right over where his cock throbs insistently. He bites back a moan but it slips out anyway, loud and guttural, his thighs quivering under the pressure.
His face flushes deeper, those blue eyes narrowing in a mix of defiance and desperation. “You’re… not her. Can’t be. She'd never—” His words cut off as you twist your ankle, dragging the boot’s toe along his balls through the tight fabric, making them tighten and draw up.
“Never what? Touch you like this? Make you beg with just a foot?” You lean in closer, whispering in his ear so soft he almost can’t hear over his pounding heartbeat. “Admit it, web-head. You've jerked off thinking about me pinning you down, haven’t you? All those stolen glances in the hallway, pretending you didn’t pop a boner every time I called you out.”
Gojo’s breath hitches, his cock leaking pre-cum that soaks through the suit, darkening the material. He shakes his head but it’s weak, his hips rolling up to chase the friction despite himself.
“Shut up. Just—hah—fuck off.” The growl lacks bite, cracking into a whine when you lift your foot slightly, denying him the pressure for a torturous second before pressing back down, slower this time, stroking from base to tip with deliberate drags.
You chuckle. “Such a pretty liar. Look at you, kneeling there, dick pathetically hard. Bet you’ve never even been touched like this before, huh? Who knew Spiderman was all talk and no action.”
Your boot circles the head of his cock, smearing the wet spot wider.
He groans, loud and unrestrained now, his head tipping back as pleasure coils tight in his gut. “N-not… your business.”
But his body’s honest, thighs spreading wider on their own and inviting more. Sweat beads on his forehead, trickling down his temple, and he forces his eyes open to glare at you, trying for a smirk. "If this is your idea of a fight, you’re losing. I could…fuck, I could break out anytime.”
You grin, a tendril slashing his suit to free his cock. it springs free, hard and leaking, tip flushed and begging to be touched. Gojo’s eyes flutter again when you touch him bare, a soft whine escaping despite his efforts. He rolls them back slightly, fighting the wave crashing through him, but his hips roll forward, chasing the pressure.
“Admit it feels good. Or are you going to keep pretending you’re not leaking over my boot right now?"
He bites his lip hard. “Feels like…feels like nothing. Barely notice it.”
Total bullshit. Every drag sends sparks up his spine, his cock throbbing insistently, begging for more. He can't even seem to focus on what you’re saying anymore, not when you’re twisting your ankle like so, rubbing his sensitive tip and he can’t hold back a throaty moan, his body arching into it.
“Nothing? Your dick’s twitching like it’s got a mind of its own.”
“I could break these cuffs anytime,” he mumbles again as if convincing himself as if his hips aren’t thrusting up greedily, fucking into the rhythm.
“Break them then. Or don’t. We both know you won’t.”
The friction builds up relentlessly, up, down, the ball of your foot grinding against his mushroom head on every pass, sweat beading under his mask, eyes rolling back fully now as the coil winds tighter, pleasure bordering on overload.
“Oh, fuck—” Gojo rasps, voice a wrecked mess of gasps and moans.
“Too much? Gonna cum for me?”
He shakes his head frantically, but the denial crumbles into a choked sob when you drag your heel along the underside, pressing firmly over the vein that throbs with every heartbeat. His cock jumps, tip flaring red, and a spurt of pre-cum leaks out, coating your shoe in glossy trails.
“Come on, pretty boy. You're so close,” you coo.
“No… shit, I—fuck!” His words fracture as you speed up, pumping his length in firm, unyielding strokes, up to smear over the sensitive ridge, down to crush against his balls, rolling them gently before lifting to repeat.
His balls draw tight, heavy and full, aching for release, and he grinds his teeth in an effort to hold back but the pressure mounts, a white-hot knot twisting in his core.
You curl your fingers in his mask and yank it off, his white hair spilling down to reveal his wrecked expression, eyes rolling back and drool dripping from the corner of his lips. you grin, pure evil and glee before you tug his hair to make him look up at you.
“Come on, Satoru,” you purr. “Show me how much you hate this, how much you need it.”
The command shatters him. His entire body seizes, back arching off the cold floor as the orgasm rips through and his cock erupts in thick, forceful jets that splatter across your boot, your calf, even arcing up to hit his own abdomen. He cries out, voice breaking into a raw, uninhibited moan that echoes off the warehouse walls.
“Fuck, yes—oh God, Y/N!”
His hips jerk helplessly as you keep stroking him through it, dragging every last shudder from his body until he’s wrung completely dry. He’s whimpering by the end of it, oversensitive and trembling, head fallen back against the pillow, chest rising and falling in ragged pants. Cum spills down the front of his suit in sticky, obscene streaks, and still you don’t let him hide from it, your hand only slowing once he’s been pushed so far past pleasure it borders on cruelty.
“Not bad for a virgin,” you murmur, voice sweet in that way that makes humiliation burn twice as hot. “Bet you’ve never made yourself cum that hard, huh? All those lonely nights jerking off to thoughts of me, and this is the best you could do?”
Gojo’s face burns crimson, shame and bliss tangling together until he can’t tell one from the other. “Shut up,” he breathes, though it comes out broken and weak. “That didn’t mean anything.”
“Really?” you ask, and the smile you give him is devastating. “Then why are you hard again?
His gaze drops before he can stop it. Sure enough, his cock is already thickening back to life, flushed and twitching against his stomach as if his body has decided to betray him completely. When he looks up again, you’re licking your lips slowly, deliberately, and his mouth goes dry enough to hurt
“Want me to show you what you’ve been missing?” you ask. “Or are you still going to pretend?”
Gojo isn’t a weak man, he really isn’t. But with your foot still by his thigh, body so close and promises of warmth and softness beyond his filthies fantasies, and that look in your eyes like you already know exactly how this ends, he can feel himself caving. The word is already there, already rising up his throat, yes, yes, please—
And then his eyes snap open. The darkness of his room hits him like cold water.
For a second he can’t move. He just lies there, disoriented, heart hammering against his ribs hard enough to hurt, the last traces of the dream still clinging to him in flashes too vivid to shake. Your voice, your mouth, the heat of your body. The sight of you above him, cruel and beautiful and impossibly close.
Then reality settles in, humiliating in its clarity.
He’s alone.
Flat on his back in a bed that’s too warm now, sheets tangled around his legs, boxers sticking damply to his skin. His cock throbs untouched, leaking embarrassingly through the fabric, still hard enough that the loss of the dream feels almost physically painful. He drags in a breath and it catches somewhere in his chest, shaky and shallow.
He groans, burying his face in his pillow, cheeks burning even though no one is there to see it, and lies there in the aftermath of his own disgrace, hard and aching and still haunted by the sound of your voice.
Gojo is unfair.
He knows he’s unfair. It’s hard not to when the reminder comes as easily as catching his own reflection in the dark screen of his laptop, or running a hand through his hair in frustration and knowing that, at the very least, having silky, soft, gorgeous white hair isn’t on his list of worries. It’s as easy as checking his grades at the end of every semester, his eyes drifting from an episode of Frieren on his laptop to the screen of his phone. When his gaze skims over his marks and settles on his final grade, Gojo knows he’s unfair.
A crash in the street, someone yelling for help, and he’s already pulling on the blue-and-white mask and swinging out the window, because apparently good looks and a big brain weren’t enough. The universe had to make him Spiderman too.
He knows what he is: smart, strong, and kindhearted (that last one might be a sneak). That robbery he stopped two weeks ago before his cardiovascular final? Yeah, no biggie. Did he just save a hijacked bus the morning of this very neuropharmacology tutorial? Yeah, but no sweat, he’ll still pass top of his class like always—
“97%?”
He watches you freeze and immediately slam the lid of your laptop down. You whip around to face the culprit who aired out your grade, temporarily stunned when it’s someone you don’t recognise.
Gojo narrows his eyes. “How did someone like you get a 97?”
His words come out too harsh to be surprise and lacking any warmth to come off as a congratulations. Because you don’t look like the kind of person who’d flash their grades around or fish for praise. If anything, you look horrified to have been noticed at all, eyes wide and shoulders tense like you’d been caught doing something embarrassing rather than scoring nearly full marks on a quiz the class had been stressing over ten minutes before it began.
“What the fuck does that mean?” you hiss back. “Do you mind? Don’t look over my shoulder like a creep.”
He smirks warily but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s a 97. That’s something to gloat about. Didn’t think it would come from someone like you though.”
“So you’ve been saying. What does that even mean? I don’t look like the type of person to get a 97?”
“Yeah,” he says bluntly, an answer seemingly as obvious as asking if grass was green or if the sky was blue.
You press your lips together to avoid cussing him out in the chatty classroom. “Do I even know you?”
“It would be hard to miss me,” he shoots back. “I’m the one that's been topping these quizzes since the semester started.”
“Fell off, did you?”
“Please, this was a fluke, princess.”
You practically hum with irritation at the nickname. “And what did you get?”
He puts up a firewall immediately. “That's nunya.”
“What?”
“None of your business.” He grins.
You grimace at his evidently childish nature. “I don't think you can say that after shoving your ugly face into my business.”
You decide to take things into your own hands, standing up from your chair to reach back and snatch his laptop. He blinks at the sudden movement, momentarily distracted at your choice of words before it registers.
And Gojo is Spiderman. He could easily grab your wrist and stop you before you get too close but there's something making him hesitate. You smell nice, he notes faintly, like vanilla and something artificial but sweet. It's your perfume no doubt, he just can't wrap his head around why it smelt so good.
Your fingers successfully reach close around his laptop and lifts it off the table, placing it onto your thighs as your finger slides across the trackpad. You let out a victorious, “Hah!” which has him blinking out of his daze to follow your gesture and observe the damage, seconds too late from preventing it.
His mark stares back at him.
92%.
Gojo notices you then, which is embarrassing because he doesn’t even know your name. All he knows is that ever since the finals season began, you’ve taken his spot on the fifth floor of the library, head down, brows furrowed in that cute way indicating your immense concentration as you try to visualise what you’re learning by tracing words and formulas in the air. He doesn’t stay for long but the next day you’re still there in his spot, and then the next, and then the day after.
He stopped caring about getting his spot back on the fifth day.
He finds you everywhere else, chatting with friends on the lawn outside the north biological science building, giggling over brunch in the cafeteria, the smile you flash to your friends far kinder than the one you swung at him like a weapon that day in the tutorial room.
You’re unfair. Gorgeous, always put together, nails adorned with charms and chrome, the confident click of your heels against the pavement introducing your entrance into every building with no shame. His ears always tune him into your conversations, and on the day that he discovered you had a sense of humour—a good one too, God forbid—he only seemed to hate you more.
Because he is unfair, yes, he knows that. But there’s something restless in his chest and you’re unfair in a similar way, but finding a fault in you would be an impossible task.
And that doesn’t swing with him.
Because sometimes, Gojo feels like a stick adrift a river. Sometimes the currents are fierce and he sways here and there, a puppet to its frivolous nature, and sometimes the waters are calm though he is no less at its mercy than before. He’ll duck his head when people talk to him, do their part in the assessment because it’ll be as easy as opening his laptop and writing the first thing that comes to mind. He doesn’t care what anyone says about him, doesn’t care that they think he’s quiet when truthfully, his mind is always whirring to talk to someone.
He has his friends, he has Geto, he has Shoko. And recently, it seems he has you too.
Bright, sweet, funny. You're beautiful and you don’t even know it. He leans in to the sound of your laughter, wants to feel your palm against his cheek, feel your soft pink lips against his eyelids and on his cheeks. He wants to lose himself in your voice, whether it’s to scold him or praise him he doesn’t care, just wants to be close again.
“Satoru?”
Gojo flinches, jolting up right, his hand slipping from under his chin to push up his headphones and knocking them clean off his head. They're connected by wire so he catches it easily enough, but they fall down to knock against his hand awkwardly.
He looks up, meeting your bemused eyes as you stare down at him, the sun behind you, your hair tumbling down your shoulders.
“Hey,” he says, breathlessly. “Oh, uh, want to sit? I mean—what are you doing here? I thought you were going for lunch with… Shoko.”
His words trail off uselessly when you take him up on his offer, sliding a hand to smoothen your skirt as you sit, thighs brushing his.
“I’ve been trying to get Shoko and Utahime together for ages so I thought this might be a good time. Besides, I saw you from up there.” You point up at one of the taller buildings and he mentally cheers for remembering your timetable right, fist bumping his past self for picking this spot to sun bathe.
“Stalking me?” he teases softly, eyes searching your face.
You bump your shoulder against his. “As if. This is a chance meeting.”
He chuckles, unable to take his eyes off you. “So you're free for the rest of the day, then?”
“Should be.”
“Okay.”
You look up at him and he whips his gaze forward.
“Are you?”
“Sorry?”
“Are you free right now, Satoru?”
“Uh—yeah! Yes, I am. Free, that is. I’m free right now.” He clears his throat when his voice comes out a little gravelly, ears burning as his own words come back to him. “Sorry, I’m just…”
Thankfully, you laugh, eyes curving into cute little crescents and he thinks that even though you’re always pretty, this might be the best look on you.
“Just what?” you ask, tilting your head. There's something unbearably fond in your expression, so unlike the start of the semester when you’d barely give him the time of day.
“Nothing,” he lies instantly.
Your brows lift and he caves under the weight of that look almost at once.
“Not nothing. I mean—” He drags a hand down his face, groaning under his breath. “I’m sorry, I’m just being weird today.”
“Please, you’re always weird.”
He turns to you, scandalised. “You always say such nice things.”
You smile. “You know what I mean.”
He does, and that’s the problem. He knows what you mean when you call him weird, knows the exact shape of your affection when you look at him like this, all soft around the edges, voice gone warm enough to sink into. He’d call himself weird if he was in your position, perhaps crueler words, but you don’t say them even if he’s deserving. It makes his chest feel too full, like there’s something alive in there clawing to get out.
For a moment, neither of you say anything. the campus hums around you in the distance, voices drift past, the rustle of leaves overhead, the low grind of a bus somewhere beyond the gates. But here, tucked away on the bench half drowned in sunlight, it feels strangely private.
You glance down at his hands. “You okay? You’re fidgeting.”
He looks too. His fingers are indeed twisting the headphone wire around and around, enough that it’ll probably knot if he keeps going. He stills them immediately.
“Am not.”
You give him a look. “Nervous?”
He lets out a laugh at that, because it’s either that or admit the truth and simply die on the spot. “What would I be nervous for?”
Your shoulder brushes his again when you shift, and it is such a small thing, so accidental it may as well be nothing, and yet he stops breathing for a second anyway.
“I don’t know,” you murmur. “You tell me.”
Gojo stares at you.
There are moments in life, he thinks, that split everything into before and after. Like how there’s before he got bit and after he got bit, those grandiose moments that define his life. This might be one of them. Maybe there will always be the version of him that sat on this bench with his heart halfway up his throat, and the version after, whatever that may look like. He hopes that version of him is smiling by the end of it.
He swallows. “Actually, I've been trying to.”
Your expression changes, playfulness softening. “Trying to tell me something?”
“Yeah.” His voice comes out rougher than he means for it to. “Yeah, I—”
He stops. should he really start this off with ‘yeah’?
"I’ve kind of been meaning to say—no, that sounds equally as stupid.” He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. “Not stupid, just—I had this whole thing in my head, and it sounded way better in there, so now I’m trying to find it again and it’s just—”
You’re staring at him like he’s hung the moon which makes things infinitely worse. Maybe that’s your default look. You do always look so pretty.
You open your mouth to say something but he beats you to it.
“No, wait, I can do this.” He sits up a little straighter, like the posture alone will save him. "I just need one second because I know what I want to say, I do, it’s just every time I look at you, I forget how words work. Which is honestly humiliating and I probably shouldn’t have said that, so if you could stop being—stop looking at me like…”
“Like?”
You have to be messing with him at this point.
“Just—can I say something mean?”
You huff, pulling back a little. “What the fuck?”
“I just—I feel like I could fight with you for hours over stupid lab questions, and I always know exactly what to say then, but now—” He shakes his head, cheeks hot. “Now I can’t even get through one sentence. So maybe if I just say something mean like I always do, I'll—”
You place a hand on his arm. “Don't ruin this. I’m not rushing you. You can take your time.”
His body stiffens under your touch, fingers tightening around the wire in his lap. He loosens them forcefully only to tighten them again.
“I think,” he starts, then winces. “No, I know that when I’m with you, everything just feels different. Like, way better. I like being around you, I like hearing you talk even when you’re telling me I’m annoying, which you do a lot, by the way. I like when you laugh at me and when you give me that look on your face right before you say something mean because you look like you want to kill me and that’s—something I probably deserve.” His mouth twitches despite himself. "I like walking you home. and I like when you ask me things you could’ve easily googled just because you know I'll know the answer.”
There’s a small smile on your face as you lean in again, hanging off his every word.
“And I—” he stumbles over the word, heart pounding in his chest. "I th-think, maybe, what I’m trying to say is that I—”
He cuts himself off with a frustrated exhale, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Jesus Christ."
A laugh slips out of you and he blushes.
“Don't laugh,” he says, mortified.
“I’m not laughing at you.”
“You're definitely laughing at me.”
“Okay, but only a little.” You smile wide. “But didn’t you say you like that about me?”
He groans, covering his face with his hands. “That wasn’t originally in the script.”
“Satoru.”
There’s something in the way you say his name that makes him look up again at once. You’re close now, pretty face taking up his field of vision, and he hadn’t even realised you’d moved closer. Or maybe he’s the one who did, unable to resist your gravity.
Your gaze drops to his mouth and then lifts again, and the world seems to narrow until it is only this bench, this sunlit patch of afternoon, the space between you shrinking into something fragile and unbearable.
He tries once more, because he has to, because if he doesn’t say it now he never will.
"I want to kiss you,” he blurts, the words tumbling out, crooked and breathless. "I really, really want to kiss you, and i’ve been trying not to notice for a while now because I wasn’t sure if I can and I wasn’t sure if you—if you maybe—and I know this is probably not the smoothest way to say this but I just—”
Wait a minute, did he end up saying ‘I like you’ or did he just out that he’s been staring at your lips for the past five minutes now?
It doesn’t seem to matter because you lean forward and kiss him.
There's no great sweep of music, no fireworks, no impossible cinematic pan out encapsulating the sun. Just you, leaning in as if it is the most natural thing in the world, one hand coming up to cup the side of his face, your lips soft against his.
Gojo stops thinking immediately.
His whole body goes rigid for one stunned second before every thought in his buzzing head simply dissipates. Heat floods him all at once, sharp and dizzying, all the way up to the tips of his ears. He's only vaguely aware that he’s stopped breathing and that his eyes are open, and that he has absolutely no clue what to do with his hands.
When you pull back, only just, your thumb brushes over his cheekbone.
He stares at you.
You stare back, mouth curving into a shy smile that nearly kills him where he sits.
“Sure,” you say. “You can kiss me.”
He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His face must be bright red by now because your smile grows, softer and softer, and God, if he could bottle this moment and live inside it forever, he would.
“You kissed me,” he says at last, intelligent as always.
"I did.”
“On purpose?”
You laugh, and he thinks he might pass out. Oh yeah, he really does like it when you laugh at him. “No Satoru, by accident.”
He makes a strangled noise somewhere between disbelief and delight. He can feel the heat of his face, knows he probably looks ridiculous, but for once he cannot bring himself to care, not even a little. All he can do is look at you with his heart in his throat and try, with limited success, to remember how these things should go.
“Oh,” he says.
Your brows pinch together in a fond little crease. “Oh?”
“Sorry, I’m still stuck on the part where you kissed me.”
“Do you need me to do it again?” you offer, smiling. “Though first, I think there’s something you still need to tell me. Want to give it another try?”
Before he can answer, before he can even begin to think of an answer that wouldn’t make him sound completely insane, his phone vibrates sharply in his pocket.
The sound cuts through the moment like a blade. He freezes, recognising the sound from one of two phones he always carries with him. It continues to vibrate, and there’s only one thing he can think of as his stomach drops.
No.
Not now.
You glance down toward the noise. “You should probably get that. It sounds urgent.”
He nearly says no, nearly ignores it completely. But the device buzzes again, more insistently this time, and cold dread starts threading through the remains of his daze. He fumbles for it with clumsy fingers still not entirely his own, and glances down at the screen.
suguru: venom sighing @ west park
or one of his goons
get over there
All the colour drains and for one awful second, he just stares until the phone turns black and reflects his distraught expression back at him.
You’re watching him now, the softness in your expression touched through with concern. “Everything okay, Satoru?”
He forces a laugh that sounds thin even to his own ears. “Everything's fine, I just…” his mind scrambles wildly for something plausible, something ordinary, something that won’t make you look at him any closer than you already are and find the gaps in his lies. "It’s Suguru. He needs me.”
That at least is believable. Suguru has needed him for stupider reasons.
“Right now?”
Guilt crashes through him so hard it almost makes him dizzy. Because your lips are still pink from kissing him, because he hasn’t even had a chance to kiss you back properly, because this is the moment he’s wanted for so long and now it’s slipping through his fingers before he can hold onto it.
But people will get hurt if he doesn’t go.
“Yeah,” he says, quieter now. “I’m sorry.”
“Hey.” Your hand finds him again. “It’s okay.”
It is absolutely not okay. Still, he nods.
“I just—” He swallows. “Can I…can we…”
You smile, though he wonders if it’s truly genuine. “Yes, idiot. We can talk later. Only if you promise to call me tonight.”
“I will,” he’s quick to say. “I promise.”
He stands too quickly and nearly tangles himself in his own headphone wire. You hide your laugh behind your hand and he feels a fresh wave of heat climb up his neck.
“Smooth,” you quip.
“Be nice to me,” he mutters, trying and failing to sound offended.
You stand too, close enough that he can smell your perfume, can see the tiny details of your face that he’s spent far too much time pretending not to memorise. Now that he’s up, now that he’s about to leave, it feels close to impossible, almost absurd like every part of him is pulled to you.
“Go,” you say softly. “Before Suguru gets himself in a mess.”
He huffs out a breath. Then, because he’s greedy and because you’ve ruined him since a few minutes ago, he leans down and presses the quickest, clumsiest kiss to your cheek. It's barely there, gone almost as soon as it lands, but the look on your face after makes his heart stutter all over again.
“I’ll definitely call you tonight. Please wait for me.”
Gojo backs away before he can embarrass himself further or worse, before he changes his mind and decides the rest of the world can burn for ten more minutes. He wants to do something stupid like run back and kiss you properly this time like all the good movies do, but his phone feels heavy in his pocket, dragging him back to the version of himself you still don’t know.
But even as urgency takes over, even as the river current catches him by the ribs and yanks, there is one bright impossible thing lodged firmly in his chest.
You kissed him.
You kissed him.
And for the first time in a long time, Gojo thinks maybe he doesn’t mind being swept away at all.
Like a girl experiencing the lows of a situationship, your phone remains mercilessly silent the entire night. It’s the first thing you check the moment your eyes open to a new day, reaching over to check your notifications. Outlook emails, reddit notifications, and nothing from the only person you want to hear from.
That’s fine, maybe the issue with Geto ended up being more serious than you initially assumed. Maybe he got caught up with a family emergency and passed out the second he got home. Maybe his phone died, or maybe he’d been too busy to send anything more than a mental apology into the universe and hope it reached you by divine. That is to say, you hear nothing from him all night.
None of these excuses stop the ugly little feeling from settling in your chest.
Your hand closes over your phone, open to your messages with him and embarrassingly showcases or last text to him left on delivered. For a moment, you wonder if the situation is appropriate enough to double triple text considering he’s already ignored your other texts, but eventually settle on nothing because no, actually, he can make the first move for once in his life. He had been the one stammering through half a confession, the one looking at you like you all devote and in awe while you only stared back mildly concerned he was going to burst a blood vessel, the one to kiss your cheek and promised to call all sweet-like. If he wants to disappear after that, then he can deal with the consequences without your help.
The presentation goes just as well as you thought it would considering you’re running on an accumulated two hours of sleep and you’re missing a partner. Considering the assessment is a pair presentation, that seems pretty bad.
You do your section first, voice steadier than you feel, though when you reach the point where he’s supposed to take over, there is a split second where your whole mind goes blank. Humiliation flashes through you hot and clean because this was meant to be the two of you and everyone can see it is not. Because beneath the frustration and embarrassment, there is something much worse curling inside you now.
When you finish, the tutor thanks you with a sympathy that makes your skin crawl.
As you hurry out of the lab, every sensation is suddenly all too much. the feeling of your tote under your arm, the clacking of your shoes against the floor, the bustle of students all around and you groan when you see just how many other people are leaving the building. Your pace slows against your wishes as you attempt to weave the crowd.
He didn’t show up.
You bite your lip, hard.
He didn’t show up.
You glance down at your phone and swipe. No new notifications.
He didn’t show up.
All that talk had been nothing. He never took you seriously at all. Something akin to betrayal fills your chest and you wonder if you’re really going to start crying over a boy who has a digimon keychain on his bag. Said it gave him personality, said it was something like a photo of loved ones glanced at during a war. It's stupid, you’re stupid, you think, because how could you seriously think something new was budding there, that something was actually happening?
A hand catches your wrist in the crowd and tugs you hard to the side. You gasp as your shoulder brushes someone on the way past, the ground shifting under you before you’re pulled into the narrow strip of wall between two noticeboards and a vending machine.
“Wait!”
You wrench your arm back on instinct, breath already halfway to a sharp insult, only for it to die the second you look up.
Gojo stands in front of you, chest rising and falling too fast like he ran all the way here. His hair is a mess, his glasses slightly crooked, and there’s a stiffness to his movements. not that you care, not after this.
“Am I—”
“You’re late,” you blurt, all venom and wounded pride. “Actually, you’re absent because late implies you cared to show at all.”
His expression crumbles. “I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes,” he swallows, voice rough. “I know.”
“Then what are we doing here?”
People move around you on both sides, students flowing past in little groups, too absorbed in their own conversations to notice how your whole world has narrowed down to this one stupidly tall boy standing in front of you like he hasn’t just ripped out your heart and stomped all over it.
“Something came up,” he says. “I couldn’t help it.”
You laugh, ugly and tired. “That’s crazy because something came up for me too. Does the presentation ring any bells?”
His jaw tightens. “I’m serious, something did come up otherwise I would have been here. Look, I know how this looks but my phone broke.”
The excuse lands heavy in the silence that follows. You stare at him incredulously. Was he really giving you that excuse right now? You start to turn around from his bullshit, not trusting yourself to speak, but he reaches out and holds you there by the wrist.
“I know how it sounds, trust me, I wouldn’t believe you either If I were you—”
“You’re right, I don’t believe you.”
“That's not fair,” he says, desperate.
You take a step back, but the wall is there and the crowd is there and he is still there, looking at you with that same helpless expression from yesterday like he can plead his way back into your good graces. “You dropped your phone? What else did you drop, your common sense? Your sense of responsibility?”
“Come on, that’s not fair. You’re not even letting me apologise.”
“You don’t have a choice,” you snap back. You take a deep breath to reset your thoughts, exhaling out any emotion leaving your voice empty. “Look, I get it. We didn't start off on the same side and maybe you never really stopped feeling that way, even when I thought we were friends.
“Y/N—”
“Maybe it was my mistake for ever thinking that. So I’m sorry I’m so gullible.” Once you start, you find the words rushing out without much thought. Briefly, a small voice wonders if you’re really going to crash out like this in the middle of the busy science building, but oh well. There’s a twisted kind of satisfaction when you watch his face crumble. “I almost believed you really cared about whatever the fuck was happening between us, friendship or—whatever the hell it was. If this was revenge for everything that’s happened before, then you’re a real piece of shit, Satoru.”
“I said I was sorry.”
“And I’m supposed to do what with that exactly?”
“Believe me.”
You scoff. “Why should I?”
His eyes widen a fraction and you press on.
“Seriously, why? You say things and you disappear and every time something important is about to happen, you leave. You act like I matter and then the second I start to believe it, you’re gone again. So why should I believe you now?”
“Because I’m here now,” he says, sharper than before.
You laugh. “Now. You’re here now.”
“I came as fast as I could.”
“And I was supposed to know that how?”
His nostrils flare. “What do you want me to say?”
“Well, what am I supposed to think?” you demand. “Because right now it kind of looks like you freaked out after yesterday and decided avoiding me was easier. So it's fine. I see now that you don’t care about anything that was happening between us so, whatever. I don’t care either.”
“That's not true.” Gojo forces out through clenched teeth. his face tightens and for a second, he looks angry too, and the sight of it sends a mean little thrill through your chest because good. Good. Let him feel bad. “I do care.”
“But not enough to show up to the day of the presentation?” You make noise of disbelief. “Not showing up doesn’t even have anything to do with us, it’s just common sense if you care about your grades like I know you do!”
“Exactly, so do you really think I wanted to miss out? Obviously I didn’t want to miss out on 20% too!”
You can’t help it, you feel petty and latch onto his words. “Oh, so that’s your biggest concern after all, huh?”
“Don't twist my words, you brought it up first.” He runs his free hand through his hair. “What are we even… look, I didn’t want to make you present by yourself. Something just genuinely came up.”
You find a small part of yourself believing him. “What came up? a family emergency?”
He doesn't say anything. You laugh. Nothing about this is funny. You feel like you’re losing your mind. “Okay. Sure. Something came up. You definitely didn’t do this to piss me off.”
He groans. “Not everything is about you.”
The silence after is immediate and total. His eyes widen almost at once, horror flashing across his face like he can hear himself only after the words are already out in the world.
He takes half a step forward. “Wait—”
“Okay, great.”
“I didn’t mean to say that.”
“No?” Your laugh comes out thin and shaky. “Because it sounded pretty clear to me.”
“Y/N.”
“I’m not making this about me, Satoru. You made it about me the second you promised something and then disappeared.” Your voice catches, but you force it steady again. “All I did was believe you.”
He steps forward again, hand circling your wrist. You move to pull away but when you look up, you freeze.
He looks awful up close. Paler than usual, lips chapped, a faint shadow purpling the skin just above the collar of his shirt where fabric has shifted just enough to expose it. His hand on your wrist is warm, too warm, and his fingers are shaking.
A smarter, calmer version of you would ask why. This version however, only notices that he still won’t answer.
“What?” you ask, because your voice has to be empty or you will break. “What exactly do you want from me?”
He stares at you like the answer should be obvious.
“Time,” he says at last. “Just give me more time.”
For one beat, two, you can’t even process his words. Then something hot and sharp tears through your chest.
“You cannot be serious. more time?” you repeat disbelief making the words go thin. “You say you care, you say you were trying, and then when I ask for one actual answer you tell me to wait. Again. Gonna tell me you’ll tell me later again too?”
“Just listen to me for a second.”
“No.” You take a shaky breath and it does nothing to steady you. “No, I am so tired, Satoru. I am tired of feeling stupid around you, I always have. I’m tired of guessing and I’m tired of every conversation with you ending like this, with me standing here waiting for you to stop looking at me like there’s something you’re dying to say but you won’t say it.”
“That's not what this is.”
“Then tell me what it is!”
“I can’t!”
The outburst turns heads this time and people slow as they pass. He notices a second too late and drags a hand over his face, breathing hard. When he speaks again, his voice drops, but it is no less intense for it.
“I can’t,” he repeats. “Not here. Not like this.”
You press your lips together. “Then maybe whatever this is isn’t worth it.”
The words shatter the conversation. You don’t mean them and you know you don’t mean them the second they leave your mouth. But you’re too proud, too hurt, to take them back and Gojo has gone still.
You watch the moment it lands, watch him stop moving altogether, even to breathe. His mouth parts then closes, and he looks at you like he doesn’t recognise you for half a second, the sight making regret flash hot and immediate through your body.
“Satoru—”
A ringtone cuts through the air and you both freeze.
The sound of the ringtone is so familiar by now, a haunting melody that signals the end of almost every conversation you’ve had with him. Your eyes follow the sound to his pocket.
He told you his phone broke. Something in you just gives.
You scoff at first, then laughter quickly follows. His face falls and he knows he’s lost you even before you shake his hold off, stepping back and looking away.
His hand moves toward his pocket and stops. “Okay, I know this is really bad but please just wait.”“Enough, Satoru. I don’t know why you’re even making this that big of a deal,” you choke out, crossing your arms over your chest like it’ll succeed in placing something stronger than your self-restraint between the two of you. “The project is over whether you cared to show up or not.”
He flinches and you can practically see him split in two, body angled toward you while something else keeps him from moving. His jaw is tight, hand flexing uselessly at his side, eyes on yours like he’s trying to hold the moment together through sheer force.
“Listen to me—”
“I need to get home,” you say.
He steps forward. “I’ll walk you to the station.”
You actually laugh and when you speak, you hate how tired you sound, how flat. “Why would you do that? I said the project is over, Gojo. And so is any reason for us to talk.
Gojo stiffens, arm falling slack to his side.
For a second, you think he might stop you or say something more. Instead, he just stands there, the phone finally gone silent in his pocket, his face stricken and too pale beneath the fluorescent lights.
You make it out of the building with your hands clenched and your mouth pressed into a thin line. The walk to the bus stop feels unreal, like moving through water. By the time you get there, your phone buzzes once and your heart lurches so hard it hurts.
shoko: u okay???
That bastard probably texted her about the situation. Of course he did. Somehow he could make time for that, but not for you. Something bitter and awful curls in your stomach.
You type back: “of course!!!!!!” because lying is contagious apparently, and add enough exclamation marks to make it look convincing before shoving your phone into your bag and sitting down when the bus pulls up to the curb.
The doors fold close and still, stupidly, some part of you looks up expecting him to be there.
Gojo should have known the two of you wouldn’t talk after the argument.
There are no late-night calls anymore, no accidental lingering in the same space, no easy back-and-forth that used to slip so naturally between you, no watching you from the corner of his eye when he thinks you aren’t paying attention. The silence that settles in the space left behind is slow and heavy and Gojo feels like he’s drowning.
He tells himself it’s for the best. Maybe he flew too close to the sun and now he’s melting and falling and nothing, not his spider instincts nor his web, can catch him. You’re simply too radiant and too civilian for someone of his status quo.
But then if that was true, why does it get under his skin every time he sees you with Suguru, laughing together somewhere on campus? Why does something in him still ache whenever he comes across a tweet he knows would make you laugh, only to remember you’ve blocked him? And why can’t he stop thinking about how easy it used to be between you, back when you looked at him like he was someone worth knowing, before everything got so complicated?
And if he truly believed having you is as impossible as it seemed, then why was he following you back home?
Spiderman shakes his head, wishing he didn’t have this restrictive masks on so he could run a hand through his hair and shake out his thoughts. Because he doesn’t have any ulterior motives as he follows close behind, rooftop to rooftop, as you make your way back from campus, no matter how sinister it sounds. No, he’s simply making sure a kind, helpless civilian gets home safe now that the sun has set and night creeps in.
After all, you’re walking alone with your hands buried deep in your pockets and your shoulders curled in against the cold. He catches the slight shiver that runs through you, the quiet sneeze you try to stifle, the irritated little kick you give a loose rock after it nearly sent you stumbling. You look tired, closed off in a way he isn’t used to, and it hurts him to believe it might be his fault.
“This is stupid,” he reasons. “I look like a creep.”
Despite the truth of his words, he lingers above you anyway, haunted by the contrast of it all, the way you once smiled at him so easily, the way your face fell when he disappointed you, the softness of your voice when you left him. You look at Spiderman with a warmth and openness you no longer spare Gojo, and he hates how selfishly relieved he is to get even that much.
Fine. If you won’t have him as Gojo, he’ll take being Spiderman.
Spiderman drops down in front of you in one smooth motion, feet hitting the pavement with a soft thud. “Hey—”
You move instantly, lunging forward to grab the back of his neck, other hand on his tricep, and hook your leg behind one of his. He blinks, standing upright one moment, before you pull his leg out from under him and he’s flipped onto his back on the ground.
Your face softens as you look down at your perpetrator. “What the—Spiderman?”
You quickly let go and step back before realising you should at least help him up. He takes your hand, standing up and rubbing his shoulder.
Kind and helpless civilian, my ass.
“Are you okay?” you fuss, hands hovering uncertainly. “I mean, that was kind of your fault for scaring me though. But are you okay? Seriously, don’t do that ever again you could get hurt. But are you hurt?”
He winces, rolling his shoulder once more before chuckling. “There goes any worries I might have had about you.”
“What are you doing here? Don’t you have a city to save?”
Spiderman drops his hands to his side. “It’s strange because it sounds like you don’t want me to be here.”
“It took you this long to realise?” you tease with a smile.
“Actually,” he says, quieter now, “I wanted to thank you.”
That catches you off guard enough to still. “For what?”
“For all the help recently.” He lifts one shoulder in a careless half-shrug, but there’s something more deliberate under it, something oddly sincere. “I don’t usually do sidekicks. They steal all my thunder, and everybody knows the side characters end up more popular than the lead anyway. Bad for morale. But you came pretty close.”
“That was…” You blink. “Almost nice. Thanks?”
“Don’t get used to it. I have a reputation to maintain.”
“Is that what this is?” you ask. “A gratitude tour?”
“God, no. I do enough free labour as it is.” He watches you laugh for a moment, eyes softening behind his mask before he says, “So. Are you free right now?”
You narrow your eyes immediately. “Is this another deeply scientific survey on how normal civilians spend their evenings? Because your sample size is getting weirdly specific.”
He huffs a laugh and rocks back on his heels. “Not exactly. Although for the record, your data has been invaluable. Very compelling stuff. Lots of sarcasm. Mild threat level. Surprisingly strong upper body.”
“Flattery is not going to save you here.” You study him for a second. “What do you mean, then?”
He gestures vaguely down the street, then up at the skyline like he hasn’t fully committed to the idea himself. “I mean… you look like you’ve had a rough week, and I’ve had a rough week, and I thought maybe we could do something that doesn’t involve property damage or mutual yelling.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Geez, that narrows it down a little, doesn’t it?”
“I’m being serious.”
The joking edge in his voice softens into something a little more fragile and when you look at him more carefully, at the mask, at the battered suit, at the way he’s trying to sound casual about something he clearly thought through before showing up, you feel something warm blossom in your chest.
“And what,” you ask slowly, “does Spiderman do when he’s not concussed?”
He spreads his hands. “Tonight? He was hoping to take a very pretty girl on a low-budget date.”
You stare at him stunned before laughing softly, looking away before flickering your gaze back. “I bet you only say stuff like that behind the mask.”
“That was smooth, you can be honest.” He grins behind the mask, you can hear it in the shape of his voice. “But that complaint doesn’t exactly sound like a no.”
You look away again, toward the empty stretch of pavement ahead, the city washed in evening light and the first hints of neon waking up around you. You think of the hollow room waiting at the end of this street, your cold sheets and tear-stained pillow, and then of how light you suddenly feel standing here with him. It is not enough to erase everything, but it is enough to loosen something in your chest that has been wound painfully tight for days.
When you look back at him, you’re smiling despite yourself. “I’m free.”
“Great,” he says immediately, a little too fast, then reins himself back in. “Great. Cool. Cool, cool, cool. You said yes. That’s good, that’s great, even.”
You snort. “So where are we going?”
He steps closer, lowering his voice like he’s about to let you in on a secret. “That depends. Are you going to scream if I say I had something less walkable in mind?”
It takes a second for the meaning to land, and when it does you gesture sharply upward. “Please don’t tell me you’re slinging me up there again. That’s happened to me twice now and neither of those experiences were fun.”
“I wouldn’t sling you,” he says, offended. “That sounds so careless and crass. I’d hold you very, very securely. In my arms, even.”
“Can you even hold me? I just flipped you onto your back.”
He laughs, then offers you his hand, gloved palm open between you. “Come on, just one swing. I’ll take it slow this time.”
You eye his hand, then his mask, then back to his hand. “You didn’t take it slow last time.”
“In my defence, we were under attack by sentient goo both times. Be gentle with me.”
You hesitate before gently placing your hand in his. “Fine. But if I die, I’ll come back as a supervillain and haunt you specifically.”
His fingers curl around yours, warm even through the suit.
“No promises.”
Before you can second-guess yourself, he steps in, one arm sliding around your waist with practiced ease. The closeness knocks the breath from your lungs more effectively than the sudden lift when his feet leave the ground. You make a sharp noise and grab at his shoulders.
“There it is,” he says, voice bright with delight and close to your ear. “That’s the exact reaction I was hoping for. My masculinity is doing just great, by the way.”
“Do not make this about you,” you snap, though the words come out thinner than intended.
“Bit hard not to,” he says lightly. “You are, technically, in my arms.”
His web catches somewhere high above with a sharp thwip and you only have a moment to gasp out the beginnings of a final protest before the pavement drops away beneath you.
The city opens under you in one dizzying rush, all glowing traffic and dark rooftops and windows lit gold against the deepening blue of the evening. Your stomach lurches so violently you’re certain it gets left behind somewhere around the second floor of the nearest building, and your grip on his shoulders tightens with enough force to probably leave bruises through his suit.
“Oh my God,” you choke out, voice snatched by the wind. “Oh my God, I’m flying. Oh my God, this is how I die.”
He laughs, shameless and much too pleased with himself for someone who is holding your life in his hands. “That’s a little grim. If you’d only open your eyes, you’d see how beautiful it is.”
“Open my eyes?” you repeat, incredulously. “Spiderman, my eyes will dry out and roll out of my head!”
His hold shifts just slightly, firmer at your waist as he catches another web and swings you both into a smoother arc. “Trust me,” he says, quieter this time, the teasing still there but softened around the edges. “Just for a second. Look.”
You crack your eyes open in narrow slits, and for one disorienting beat all you can really see is him—mask blurred at the edges, the line of his jaw beneath it, the hood rippling back with the force of the wind. Then your gaze drifts past him, out and down and everywhere at once.
Below, the harbour stretches out, black-blue and endless, broken only by the ribbons of reflected light from the bridge and the waterfront. Boasts sit like small, blinking stars, bobbing in the gentle waves, and the skyline curves around the edge of the bay, glittering and frankly unreal.
“There,” he says, gentler now. “That’s better. I told you I’d take it easy this time.”
“You said a lot of things,” you mutter, though some of the panic has begun to leak out of your voice replaced by quiet awe. “Most of them were stupid.”
“Yeah, but were they charming stupid or just regular stupid?”
That manages to pull a short, unwilling laugh out of you, the gesture tipping your head back to look at the sky. The first stars are visible now, faint but there, and above them the clouds are smeared thin and silver. Then you look down at the water again, at how impossibly far below it is, and somehow that distance no longer terrifies you quite as much.
The water below catches the lights in broken gold, and he swings you through another perfect arc, close enough now that you can hear the faint slap of waves against the pylons. The city around you glitters as the sky deepens. His arm around your waist stays firm and sure, and with every swing your fear ebbs a little more, making room for something warm and foreign.
He must feel the change in you because after a moment, he turns his head just enough for his voice to reach you clearly.
“Okay,” he says. “Now that you trust me a little more, let me take you somewhere.”
You lift your head to look at him. “Somewhere? I thought this was the date.”
“This is the foreplay.”
You grimace, wishing you weren’t being held hostage miles above deep water to pull back. “And just like that, I’m dry.”
He laughs, the sound warm and easy. “But your complaining has finally stopped so I’d take that as a win. And for the record, I meant there’s more I still want to show you. I’m not blowing my entire budget on just one dramatic entrance.”
The next arc carries you around the edge of a low building, and then the shape of it begins to emerge properly. The amusement park stretches out in front of you, lights flickering on as dusk settles fully. The ferris wheel looms overhead, its metal frame catching the last of the sunset, and with most of the rides closed, the whole place feels strangely eerie in its emptiness. But then the water catches the light in soft ripples, the sky deepens into indigo, the first stars begin to blink into view, and it becomes something quietly beautiful.
Spiderman watches you from the side, the light from the nearest streetlights in your eyes. His body is uncharacteristically still, mask tilted toward you.
“Woah,” you breathe out at last.
His shoulders relax just a fraction.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Thought you might like it. And look, I reserved the entire place out for you. It’s all yours for the entire night.”
“That’s because it’s closed.”
He grins and holds out his hand. “Come on. I know a way for you to get a view of the city high up and without your eyeballs drying out on you. I’m trying to be accommodating now that I know you’re apparently very fragile about flying.”
“As any normal person would, I fear.”
You eye his outstretched hand and then at the pier around you. The place feels suspended in time, the shuttered stalls, the way the lights glow without the usual crowds to dull them.
“You’re very confident for someone who almost got flipped onto concrete five minutes ago,” you say, but take his hand anyway.
“What can I say?” he shrugs, fingers warm as he interlaces them. “I trust you not to do it again. We’re close like that, right? But seriously, can we stop bringing that up? It’s a sensitive topic for me.”
He leads you past a locked gate, showing off his lockpicking skills which prompts a raised brow and not the fawning he had initially expected, then to another gate to which you just had to look away from while he broke in. You walk beside him until he’s standing beneath the ferris wheel, metal bones creaking softly.
Spiderman glances up then looks back down at you, holding out his hand in a flourish.
“My lady,” he says, dipping his head. “Would you care to have a go?”
“Real original,” you say but don’t protest when he guides you into one of the empty carriages.
It sways slightly as you settle in, the door closing with a soft sound. Then the wheel jerks once, twice, then starts moving ever so slowly. Your breath catches as the ground drifts away, the pier shrinking beneath, lights blurring into a soft constellation of their own. There’s no rush like when you were swinging, just a gentle, steady climb lifting you above the city skyline.
You lean forward, hands gripping the edge of the carriage as the city opens up before you. It stretches out endlessly, lights scattered like spilled glitter, the dark water reflecting everything through a dreamy haze.
“Is this what you see everyday?” you ask.
Spiderman hums, relaxing into the seat opposite you “Maybe something close adjacent.”
“Well it’s gorgeous. I can’t believe I forgot how freeing it feels to go to amusement parks. There’s just something about being so high up, you know? But I guess I don’t need to be telling you that.”
“Enamoured already? We haven’t even reached the top yet.” He stares at you for a moment. “Okay, pop quiz. Which do you like better, the ferris wheel or the swinging?”
“Definitely the ferris wheel.”
“That hurts.”
You glance back at him over your shoulder to shoot him a cheeky grin. “Why are you sitting on the other side? Is the view better over there?”
He tilts his head and looks at you for a beat too long. “Yeah,” he says at last. “It’s pretty.”
He doesn’t pull his gaze away from you and it takes a second for the words to land properly, and another second for the warmth in your face to catch up with them. You laugh softly, more because you need somewhere to put the sudden nervousness than because it’s especially funny.
“You’re really pulling out all the stops today, aren’t you?” Your gaze flicker from the view back to him. “Is this something you do with all the civilians you save? I’d hate to embarrass myself by thinking I’m special.”
“Would you compliment me back if I said it was just you?”
“Maybe. Are you telling the truth?”
“Yes.” He turns his body slightly so he can rest his elbow on the back of the seat, unabashedly staring right at you. “It’s just you.”
The carriage creaks softly. The wheel keeps turning and somewhere below, music too faint to make out drifts from some unseen speaker, somewhat staticky and distant.
With nothing else to do, you laugh again, buying you some much needed time to figure out what to say next. “If you needed a boost to your ego, you could have just said so. You didn’t have to bring me to a half-abandoned amusement park and make me stare at the harbour to get it.”
“And the compliment?”
“I guess you’re not as annoying as I initially assumed you were.”
“My ego definitely does not need the help,” he says easily. “And what kind of compliment is that? Give me something a little more impersonal.”
“You’re humble,” you observe with a good mannered snort.
“It comes with the whole superhero thing.” He continues to watch you until he realises that this prolonged eye contact should come with some form of conversation.
Spiderman sits up a little, crossing one leg over the other. HIs ankle dangles and bumps into yours, a mere accident that makes you freeze so your body doesn’t move away.
“How have you been doing?” he asks, and the question comes out with an almost awkward plainness to it, stripped of the usual easy swagger. A second later he seems to hear himself and tries to recover, lifting one shoulder. “You seem a little quieter than usual. Not that I’ve been paying attention or anything. I just have, you know, a lot of care for the citizens of this city.”
The ferris wheel creaks as it carries you both a little higher, the lights of the pier shifting below in soft, sleepy colours. He watches you for a beat too long, and you know the joke gave him cover, but not much. The question is still sitting there between you, small and strangely careful.
You glance at him. “That was subtle. Really invisible work there.”
“Thank you,” he says. “I pride myself on my restraint. I could’ve been much creepier about it.”
“I’m sure that was difficult for you.”
“It was,” he says with a sigh. “You have no idea how hard I’m working right now to seem normal.”
You look back out over the water, the lights trembling across the surface. “I’ve been fine. That’s the official answer.”
“I think I’ve earned myself the unofficial answer,” he says quietly.
You fold your arms loosely over your middle. “It’s ridiculously stupid. Like, who hangs out with a superhero and starts ranting about their situationship?”
He makes a little choked sound which makes you look over in concern. He quickly covers his mouth and waves you on. “Situationship? I didn’t know it would have counted as a situationship.”
You frown because what exactly does he know about what ‘it’ is? “It’s 2026, everyone’s idea of love is warped. If it doesn’t have a label then people will just slap the word ‘situationship’ over it and pray for the best.”
“Right, right. Please continue.”
“Well, there was someone. Obviously.” You stop and let out a sigh, slumping. “Or maybe there wasn’t and I just made him into someone in my head. I can’t really tell anymore, it’s all just so messy. I thought maybe there was something there, I thought that was what everything was building up towards and then… we had this argument and it was honestly embarrassing looking back at it and now we don’t talk. So.”
“Did you want there to be something?”
Ignoring the fact that you’re having a love life talk with Spiderman, of all people, you answer honestly. “Of course. I wouldn’t be this annoyed if I didn’t.”
Spiderman lets his head knock against the window as he groans. “Okay. That makes sense. That makes a lot of sense. Of course you wanted something, of course.”
You glance sideways at him. “Why do you sound like that?”
“Second-hand sorrow.”
“I think they call that empathy.”
“I just think,” he says, his voice a little rougher now, “it would’ve been easier if you’d said no. I’m only saying that because I’m looking out for you, obviously. As a public servant.”
You snort despite yourself but the heaviness settles back in quickly enough. “It would have been easier if he just kept being an asshole like when it all started. If he’d just kept being a dick, then fine, whatever, I could have lived with that if I never found out the kind of guy he is. But he wasn't, he ended up being kind. And funny. And actually decent and that really pisses me off. He made me hopeful and I think that might be the worst part.”
Spiderman goes very still across from you, shoulders pulling tighter and chin dipping just slightly so he’s staring a hole through the floor of the carriage. When he finally speaks, his voice has gone quieter.
“Yeah,” he says. “That does sound pretty bad. Especially if he knew what he was doing.”
You frown. “I don’t even know if he did. I can’t tell if he was just oblivious, or if he really did mean something by it but then freaked himself over nothing.”
“That’s not better,” Spiderman retorts. “That makes him sound very pathetic.”
You look at him properly now, the dim lights from below catching on the higher points of his face. “You’re taking this really personally for someone who doesn’t know him.”
He lets out a short laugh. “Maybe I just have strong opinions about men disappointing women. Somebody has to, the bar is in hell.”
You exhale a laugh through your nose. “Exactly.”
The carriage gives a small creak as it keeps moving and for a few creaky moments, neither of you say anything. The quiet isn’t awkward, and he hasn’t said enough to put you in your thoughts, but it’s quiet anyway. Then Spiderman clears his throat and leans forward, elbow braced on his knees.
“Okay, I’m going to say one more thing about it and then I’m going to stop being so emotionally available. It feels a little off brand to what we have going on.”
You snort. “Sure, go for it.”
“I think,” he starts carefully, “that if someone made you feel seen and hopeful for more and then disappeared, you’re allowed to think he’s a jerk. You don’t have to make excuses just because he also had some good qualities. Because being kind in some moments doesn’t cancel out making you feel abandoned in others. But maybe…”
He takes a breath. “Don’t give up on him. Please.”
For some reason, the sincerity in his voice makes you pause.
Damn, so even superheroes experience situationships? Because he sounded really invested just then in a way that can only be explained as first-hand experience. You wonder what kind of person could break Spiderman’s heart like that.
“Thanks for the love advice, Spiderman.”
He nods solemnly. “No problem.”
And because the entire situation is simply too ridiculous to keep a straight face, you laugh. He smiles too, watching you for a moment before letting out his own laugh.
“There you are,” he says. “I was wondering what other crimes I’d have to commit tonight to fix the mood.”
“We’re going to have to circle back and talk about the lockpicking eventually.”
“As long as it isn’t today.”
The carriage gives a gentler, longer groan as it continues descending. You let your head tip back against the seat and, almost absentmindedly, your eyes drift out toward the skyline again. You frown.
“Oh.”
He looks out too. “That sounded like a bad oh. What kind of oh was that?”
You look past him, past the window, toward the stretch of harbour and the city beyond. “I think we missed the top.”
He blinks. “What?”
“The peak,” you say, sitting forward. “The very top of the ferris wheel? We were talking and I didn’t even notice we’d already gone over it.”
“Oh wow, that guy is the worst. He stole your ferris wheel climax too.”
“Is it also part of your superhero job description to ruin every moment with some sexual innuendo?”
He lifts both hands. “Okay, fair, I’m having a bad wording night. But this is hard on me okay? I arrange a beautiful nighttime ferris wheel, I listen supportively while you talk about another man, and still somehow I’m the bad guy.”
“Right? How do you do it?”
The carriage is nearly at the bottom now. Below, the pier glows in soft strings of light and you feel a strange sense of finality when it shudders to a stop. Before you can maneuver around a ‘thanks for tonight, see you first thing in the morning!’, Spiderman leans forward.
“Don’t look so ready to go just yet, there’s still the aftercare part.”
You sigh but don’t berate him. “There’s still more? Someone save me.”
The carriage door clicks open with a soft metallic sound. He stands first and offers you his hand again, less theatrical this time, and more sincere.
“Come on,” he says, voice soft in the wind. “Don’t go home yet. Stay with me a little longer, that’s all I’m asking. Let me be the part of tonight you remember better.”
You look at the hand he’s still holding half between you. Then, before you can overthink it, you slip your hand into his.
“But only because I’m curious what exactly counts as better.”
He turns his hand, catching yours properly, and something in your stomach flips at the gesture.
“Good,” he says, low and warm. “Because I’ve been trying very hard all night not to ask too obviously.”
You lied before. Swinging is leaps and bounds better than sitting stationary in a small carriage inching along at a snail’s pace. It’s exhilarating and freeing, and yes, your eyes still hurt when you open them too wide, but you’ve figured out the perfect amount of squinting to keep them from tearing up. Instead, you whoop and cheer as he swings you in high arcs and dramatic drops, skimming close enough to the ground that you might believe the end of your life is waiting there, if not for your growing trust that Spiderman will always pull you back up.
Half your screams are still terror, though.
Spiderman isn’t silent either. He laughs right into your ear when you cling to him tighter, praises you when you throw your head back and cheer, and points out his favourite places to sit and watch the sunrise. He complains that the city’s architecture doesn’t cater nearly enough to his swinging needs, as though that should have been a priority in urban planning. He carries you over a football stadium and you marvel at its size, the bright field below looking almost unreal from up here.
“Think you can handle a little more?” he murmurs against your ear.
High on adrenaline, you nod against his neck.
Then he drops you.
His arms slide out from under your knees and he quickly unwinds your hands from around his neck. One moment you are safe in his hold, and the next you are falling, a heavy body surrendered to gravity as the ground rushes up to meet you. Your scream could wake the whole city if it were not already awake.
You look up. The sky above is vast, endless, strewn with stars so beautiful they almost make you forget the terror roaring through you. The wind screams in your ears, your clothes snapping against your body, and somewhere inside the panic there is a strange, suspended calm that feels almost like freedom.
Just before the ground can meet your back, Spiderman swoops in from the side and catches you cleanly in his arms. The force of it steals another cry from you, but then he is already pulling you upward again, the momentum sweeping you into another great arc before gravity draws you back, over and over until the motion finally begins to slow.
For one suspended moment, the two of you dangle in the air, saved from certain death by nothing but the web shot from his wrists. Metres above the ground, your life held so easily in someone else’s hands, you find that you feel no fear at all.
In fact, you are laughing.
It starts as a breathless, disbelieving sound, then spills into something uncontrollable, and he chuckles at first before his own laughter joins yours. You laugh until your lungs ache, until your face hurts, until all you can feel is the warmth of his breath against your cheek and the solid certainty of his arms around your back.
He makes no move to set you down or sling you back to safety. Instead, he only keeps you there, held against his chest, his masked face angled down toward yours. You want to believe he is looking at you the way you are looking at him, full of wonder and something even softer than that, but it is hard to be certain when his face is hidden.
Your laughter dwindles into one last helpless giggle as you peer up at him. “Nice catch.”
Your gaze drops from the white of his eyes to the shape of the mask stretched over the bridge of his nose, the faint outline of his mouth beneath the fabric. There has not been a single moment in your strange, ridiculous friendship with Spiderman when you have been so curious about who he is under that mask.
“Thanks,” he says, his voice warm and low. “I kind of do this for a living.”
You laugh softly, and he shivers when your breath mists against the fabric over his lips.
“Do you remember when you first saved me?” you ask.
“Yes, I slammed into a bus stop and ruined it forever. I also remember telling you to never mention that again,” he says immediately.
You nod, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. “We were so different back then. I almost thought you were shy the amount of times you ran away.”
He is quiet for just long enough to make your chest tighten. Then, softly, “Pretty girls fluster me.”
You snort, but there’s no hiding the warmth that spreads across your face, and for once you make no move to cover it. Let him see it. Let him know the effect he has on you, just how fiercely this thing burns within you, this aching desire to hold him close, to whisper his name and feel him shiver beneath your touch.
Slowly, as if afraid to snap the fragile thread of tension between you, you pull your hand away from your chest and trail it up the side of his neck, your touch feather-light.
You hear his breath catch. Feel it, too.
Your fingers drift higher until your palm cups his cheek through the mask. “I want to know who you are,” you say softly.
He flinches. “You can’t.”
“Why not?” you ask, voice gentle. “You don’t trust me?”
“That’s not it.”
“Really?” Your thumb brushes the edge of his jaw. “Because I would’ve accepted that as an answer.”
He goes oddly still. “What?”
Spiderman’s stunned silence makes you smile, and a quiet laugh slips out of you at how easy he is to read despite the mask. “What’s wrong? I’ve read the comics. I’ve seen the movies. I know what happens when the superhero reveals his identity.” You tip your head, eyes never leaving him. “Something bad always follows. It’s like punishment for their hubris. The main companion dies, or the hero has to choose between their lover and the world. It always ends in tragedy.”
He recovers quickly enough, his arms tightening around your waist as if instinctively holding you closer. “You think I couldn’t save both you and the world?”
You ignore the implications of his words, biting back a smile. “And that would be the hubris part.”
He scoffs, though the sound comes out a touch too strained to be convincing. “That’s not why I can’t tell you my identity, princess.”
“Then tell me why.” Your voice drops lower, soft as breath. “Because right now it feels like you’re making up rules as you go.”
He hesitates. It is brief, but not brief enough.
“You wouldn’t…” He swallows. “You wouldn’t feel the same. It would change things. It would change whatever this is.”
You go quiet at that, mulling the words over. Then your hands drift from his neck to rest lightly against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath the suit.
Looking up at him, you hum. “Do I know you?”
Spiderman flinches again. “No.”
You laugh softly at how bad he is at lying. “Alright. Are we friends?”
He doesn’t react quite as strongly to that, which tells you enough to keep going.
“Do we not get along?”
“Hold on—”
You immediately compose a mental list of all those who had once wronged you in some way. Some were easy to recall, their offences more recent like the cyclist that had rode past you one morning and knocked your coffee out of your hands leaving you confused and uncaffeinated for class, or your neighbour who is always throwing parties. Maybe it’s someone closer to you than that, like Naoya, or Toji, or Mei Mei, or that old lady that always comes in at 8am on a Thursday and routinely complains about her coffee not being hot enough. You frown at that last thought and Spiderman catches it, opening his mouth to stop you.
“Are you a student, or—”
He hisses loud enough to cut you off. “Don’t guess. Don’t you dare. If you have to know, it’ll be because I told you, not because you stumbled into it by accident.” He pauses, then adds, more mutinously, “And I definitely don’t need to hear who you think I am. I’m sure you can imagine how terrible that might be for my ego.”
You tilt your head, amused. “I get that, but I was only going to ask if—”
“No.”
“But I—”
“I said no.”
“Spiderman.” Your tone sharpens just enough to shut him up. “I was going to ask if you’re that old lady who always demands her coffee be molten before I hand it over. You know, the one who acts like I personally invented workplace safety regulations.”
Spiderman doesn’t say anything for a long while. “What?”
You laugh under your breath. “I definitely told you about her before. Or—” you pause, smiling to yourself, “told you about you, maybe. The one who always comes through drive-thru.”
“Princess,” he says dryly, “I am not sixty years old.”
“Perfect,” you reply. “Then I’m sure I wouldn’t otherwise care who you are.”
And then he’s laughing. It bursts out of him bright and helpless, so sudden and genuine that it makes something in your chest go warm and dizzy. His head tips back, the white lenses of the mask curving with the shape of his smile, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep your own grin from widening too much. If he laughed in your face every day for the rest of your life, you think you might let him, if only to know that this—him, here, now—is real.
He’s talking again, you realise belatedly, his mask shifting with the movement of his mouth, but the words barely register. You’re too busy watching the fabric stretch and crease, too aware of how close he is, how little separates you now.
Your fingers trail back up the side of his neck, and that silences him instantly.
Despite all his earlier objections, he stills completely when your hand settles there. Your thumb grazes the seam where mask meets suit, and you stop, glancing up at him.
“Can I?”
“You can’t,” he whispers, just as softly, though he doesn’t move away. If anything, his hand only tightens on your waist.
“I won’t look, I promise.” Your thumb traces small circles against his neck, your gaze locked on his. “I just want to touch you.”
He shivers. You feel it run through him, sharp and involuntary.
He says your name in a low rumble, the sound almost enough to undo you on its own. “This is a bad idea.”
“If you tell me to stop, I will.” Looking down, you slip the tip of your finger beneath the narrow break between his bodysuit and the edge of his mask.
“My arm is going to cramp,” he mutters weakly, and the attempt at humour only makes your smile deepen.
You begin to peel the mask back. Just a little at first, just enough to reveal the bare line of his neck and feel the tense muscle there. Your fingertips glide over the exposed skin, and his breath catches again, but he still doesn’t stop you.
You wonder how far he’ll let you go.
You lift the mask higher, over the line of his jaw, and your eyes snag there before they can help it. Then over his mouth, where you pause for the briefest second, struck silent by the sight of him, before leaving the fabric gathered just beneath his nose.
He tries for a smirk and you watch it form. “Was that all you wanted to see?”
You lean in slowly, stopping just short of him to gauge his reaction. When he doesn’t move away, you close the distance until your nose brushes his.
“For now,” you whisper.
His eyes search yours through the mask, and whatever he finds there makes his mouth flatten into something almost pained.
“I’m not going to do anything you don’t want,” you murmur, and though you mean it, there is a terrible hollow ache opening in your chest now. Gojo’s face flashes uninvited through your mind and you shove it back, determined to bury it, though it’s clear enough from the way Spiderman goes tense that you haven’t done nearly as good a job as you’d hoped.
You don’t want to use him like this.
Over the past few months, Spiderman has become something steady in your life, a source of comfort in ways you never expected. Maybe it is because he has no face, no fixed place in your world, no history to complicate things. Maybe that’s why you have been able to tell him things you can’t even bring yourself to say to your friends.
And now you are asking him for something you cannot take back. Still, your fingers curl into the fabric of his suit.
“Please.”
He moves before you can prepare for it, leaning in so suddenly your breath catches, your startled yelp cut off by the harsh press of his lips against yours.
For one disorienting second, all thought disappears. Then he kisses you again, harder this time, and your hand flies up to hold him there, fingers tangling against his neck as though you can keep the moment from slipping away. His mouth is warm and real and a little clumsy with restraint, like he wants more and is trying very hard not to take it. The hand at your waist tightens, enough to make your pulse jump.
And then he groans into the kiss, fierce and guttural before pulling away. The break leaves you both panting.
You don’t speak at first but neither does he. You just stare at one another, lips swollen, breath unsteady, the last minute catching up all at once in a rush so overwhelming it feels almost unreal.You are already leaning in again before you fully register it, drawn by instinct more than thought, wanting to close the distance and do it all over—
When suddenly gravity shifts.
You let out a startled scream as the ground drops from under you and you pitch forward into him. His arms close around you automatically, holding you flush against his chest as the city begins to move beneath you.
“What are you—”
“I’m taking you back,” he says, voice rough.
“What?” You twist, trying to look up at him, but he keeps you tucked in tight against him. “Wait a minute!”
“I’m dropping you back at your dorm.”
“Hold on a second!”
“I can’t.” The words come out strained, almost frayed at the edges, and because his voice sounds like that—because the kiss is still there between you, lingering like heat—you let your protests falter.
The flight back is too quick. When he finally sets you down outside your dorm, your legs feel unsteady for more reasons than one. The second your feet hit the ground, your hands shoot to his arms, keeping hold so he can’t just disappear again.
“You didn’t want it?”
He doesn’t answer immediately, but with the mask still pushed halfway up, you see the way his jaw clenches.
The truth hits you all at once, sharp and humiliating and you find your lips, once pressed against him, now forming the sound of an apology. “I’m sorry it was bad.”
He makes a vague movement, like he wants to run a hand through his hair and has only just remembered the mask. “That’s not it.”
“Then what is it?” The desperation in your voice makes you cringe the moment you hear it, but it’s too late to take back.
He looks at you for a long, silent moment, and when he finally speaks, his voice is unbearably soft.
“You said it yourself, didn’t you? Revealing my identity would only hurt you.”
Your grip on his arms tightens. “I’m fine with that. I don’t need to know who you are. It doesn’t matter.” The words rush out now, tripping over each other. “The one I—” You falter, heart hammering. “The one I care about is you.”
Spiderman watches you wordlessly as you trip over your own tongue. Then, after a beat that feels much longer than it is, he says, “I never said it was your mistake.”
You inhale sharply and, before you can think better of it, lean in and steal a kiss from his lips. There isn’t enough time to consider what the hell you’re doing because he answers immediately.
Whatever hesitation he’d been clinging to burns away the second your mouth meets his, seared off by heat and want and the unmistakable fact that this is really happening. This kiss is nothing like the last. It is harder, hungrier, and when his hand catches your wrist to pull you closer, it still doesn’t feel like enough. A low groan tears from him into your mouth, impatient and wrecked, and then he’s biting lightly at your bottom lip as though restraint is already slipping through his fingers.
You gasp, and he takes the invitation immediately. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, coaxing every breathless sound from you until your whimpers are swallowed down by him. Still, it isn’t enough. How could it be? Not when he finally has you in his arms like this after wanting you for so long, after all the distance and hurt and wrong timing. His body urges you back a step, then another, until your shoulders brush the wall and he follows, crowding you there.
His hands slide up your waist and back down again, settling hard at your hips, while the other cups your jaw to hold you steady for the fierce, dizzying press of his mouth. You cling to him like he is the only solid thing in the world, and maybe right now he is. Your knees have gone weak enough that you don’t trust them to hold you without him.
A crash sounds somewhere in the alley below.
You jolt, teeth catching accidentally against his lip. He groans at the sting but pulls back, shooting the darkness beyond the window a withering glare like he could kill whatever interrupted him. You follow his line of sight, but nothing else happens. The alley settles back into stillness. After a second, he exhales and leans down until his forehead rests against yours.
“You should probably check that out,” you murmur, more to break the thick, dizzy silence than out of any real conviction.
He hums, the sound warm against your skin. “Then why aren’t you letting me go?”
Only then do you realise your fingers have curled tight into the front of his suit. They only tighten further, pathetic and needy in a way you’d usually hate, but his answering chuckle is filthy and starved enough to make warmth bloom through you.
“Stay,” you whisper.
“Okay,” he says softly. “I won’t go.”
You shake your head and lift it just enough to meet the white gaze of his mask, your own eyes dropping to his mouth for the briefest second. “No. Stay.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice.
His hand slips from your cheek and a second later a web shoots from his wrist and catches on the frame of your third-floor window. His other arm locks around you and suddenly he’s lifting you with him.
Getting through the window is clumsy and breathless and far less graceful than the way he moves through the city. One of your shoes catches on the ledge, his shoulder bumps the frame, and you have to slap a hand over your mouth to stop yourself from laughing too loudly. It feels absurdly scandalous, sneaking through your own window like this, and the absurdity only makes it worse.
He climbs in first, then turns immediately and offers you his hand. You take it with less hesitation than before, and he guides you through carefully, steadying you the moment your feet touch the floor, and for a second he doesn’t let go. He just keeps hold of you, standing close in the dimness of your room, eyes fixed on your face.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
You don’t hesitate. “I wouldn’t have kissed you if I wasn’t.”
Something in him softens at that, though his voice stays low. “I still can’t let you see me.”
You shake your head and close your eyes before your nerve can fail you. Your hands rise to the seam of his mask. “Trust me.”
And because he does, he lets you pull it away.
Truthfully, there’s a moment where temptation almost gets the better of you. He's right there, close enough to touch, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his skin and the shape of his mouth. You’re touching him, your tongue has been inside his mouth and now you know his taste intimately. All it would take is a moment of weakness and the opening of your eyes to finally know who has been under the mask this entire time. Just one peek, one action to end the curiosity. Still, you hold yourself back.
Don’t ruin the moment.
A soft chuckle brushes your lips, his bare breath warm against them now that the mask is out of the way. You steady your hands against his chest and feel the frantic pound of his heart beneath your palms. He shivers at the contact.
He tries to be patient, he really does. Tries to make this moment careful, almost reverent, like you deserve. But Gojo is greedy. He’s greedy for your attention, for the spark in your eyes to flare up the moment his eyes lock on yours, he’s greedy for your touch, the brushing of fingers when you pass him his coffee in the morning, for that smile that you only ever seem to give him when he’s Spiderman. He is greedy for this version of you, soft and wanting and close enough to ruin him.
His brow twitches, something cruel twisting in his stomach and he traces the seam of your lips with his tongue, pushing in even before you open your mouth to him.
His tongue finds yours again before he can stop himself, the kiss turning deeper, hungrier. He presses you back against the window, one hand bracing against the sill behind you so the edge doesn’t dig into your spine while the other settles hard at your waist. He devours you completely, nothing tentative about him now. He kisses you like he’s starving as all his late night fantasies, your name on his tongue and his hand wrapped around his cock, become finally realised when he tastes you.
You lightly tap his arm, and he pulls back to let you breathe but his lips don’t leave you for long.
“God, I've wanted you for so long.” he nuzzles your neck, inhaling your scent deeply. His hardness presses against your thigh, leaving you with no doubts about his words. "I can’t stop thinking about you, every time I close my eyes, you’re there. You're haunting me.” He continues to confess between heated kisses along your jawline.
The utter longing in his voice, the depraved desperation as he presses impossibly closer, hands wanting to trace up your side but to also push you up into him, the heat of his mouth against your pulse point, it’s all too much and you let out a whimper.
He groans softly against your skin, his restraint fraying even further at the noise.
“Stop teasing me,” you gasp, tilting your head to give him more room and hating how needy you sound.
His answer is rough and low. "I can’t help it.”
Deciding you’ve had enough of him making you melt where you stand, you push at him instead. He lets himself be moved, following your blind guidance as you walk him backwards toward where you think your bed is. When the backs of his legs hit the mattress, he sits, and his fingers curl around your wrist to tug you closer between his knees.
Your hands find his face again, fumbling slightly as they trace bare skin for the first time. The line of his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, the shape of a face you still refuse to see. He lets you explore him in silence, stilling beneath your touch in a way that feels almost unbearably intimate, pressing a kiss to your palm when your hand drifts closer to his mouth.
Your fingers linger on the warmth of his skin, tracing the soft curve of his lips before dipping lower, brushing against the sharp line of his jaw. He's so still under your touch, like he's afraid one wrong move will shatter this fragile moment, and it sends a thrill through you—the power you hold, even blinded. With your eyes closed, it blocks out everything but sensation, heightening every graze of your fingertips, every hitch in his breath. You can feel the rapid thump of his pulse beneath your palm, matching the frantic beat of your own heart.
He tilts his head slightly, nuzzling into your hand like a dog seeking affection, and the vulnerability in that small gesture makes your chest tighten. This masked hero, the one who swings through the city saving lives, is reduced to this—panting softly, body tense with barely contained need. It's intoxicating, knowing you can unravel him like this.
“You're killing me,” he murmurs, voice rough and low, laced with that desperate edge that makes your core clench. His hands slide up your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just below the hem of your skirt, not pushing further but holding you there, grounding himself. “Please don’t stop here, touch me more.”
Your finger grazes his boner through the tight fabric of his suit and he hisses, bowing inward.
“Shit!”
You pause. “A thought has occurred.”
He lets out a long suffering sigh. “Please don’t ruin the mood.”
You laugh softly, dragging your nails over his erection over and over, drinking in every flinch you feel from where you’re pressed against him. “I can’t help you if you’re still in this… spandex.”
Spiderman huffs again but you feel him pull back and unzip his suit, wherever that zipper might be. “I’m so glad you can’t see me right now. There was no way I could get out of this suit in a hot way.”
“Trust me, my imagination isn’t doing you any favours either.” You pause. “Do you have to wear a thong under your suit?”
“The mood was really good five seconds ago. Don't ruin it because you’re curious about what I’m wearing underneath.”
You giggle and your nerves evaporate. Sure, you’re about to have sex with the friendly neighbourhood Spiderman and that might forever change the trajectory of your relationship with him, but at least it’s still him. When he sits back on the bed and guides you forward, you follow him without a second thought and kneel between his legs.
“What are you—oh fuck.” He inhales sharply, hands never leaving you for long as they find purchase in your hair. “Fuck, you look so pretty.”
His thumb traces your bottom lip, feeling it give way under his touch. He curses again. “I need your mouth on me, pretty girl.”
You laugh at his eagerness and reward his honesty with your hands down his chest, breath quickening when he lets out a small sigh as your fingers graze his lower stomach. You allow yourself the time to trail a finger down his bare chest now that he is free from his spandex, marveling at the muscle you find tensing under your touch.
Eventually, you find the waistband of his boxers. “So you do wear boxers?”
“Y/N, please. The mood.”
You tug his boxers down, slightly upset you can’t see the way his cock swings up, finally free from its restraints. The sounds he makes compensates and you find it hard to stay disappointed as he groans, the hand in your hair closing around to tug you impatiently towards his dick.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, eyes heavy-lidded as he watches you. Despite his apology, he doesn’t make an effort to loosen his hold that much.
You drag your hands up his thighs to find where they converge. You wrap your fingers around him, feeling out his shape. If he asked in that narcissistic way of his, you’d tell him he’s average size. Truthfully, he’s thicker and longer than you’d dare to admit, the slight curve a feature that has you pressing your thighs together.
He bucks involuntarily, a whine escaping his lips that sounds so damn needy it makes you wetter.
“Take your time,” he manages to grit out though it’s breathless. “I’m not going anywhere.”
You wonder who he’s talking to because you’re sure as hell not going to take your time. Instead, you lean in closer, your breath ghosting his length and smell him—musky and hot after being trapped in that suit for so long.
“You’re shaking already,” you whisper. “Haven’t you ever had a girl on her knees for you?”
He doesn't answer, just lets out a shaky exhale, his hands fisting the sheets beside him. The silence is answer enough, and it makes you laugh, hard enough to be distracted by the pathetic twitch his cock gives at his own humiliation.
“No way? The amazing Spiderman gets no game? My god, I almost feel sorry for you,” you coo mockingly, tongue flicking out to lap at the bead of pre-cum on his tip. He jolts, a strangled gasp ripping from his throat, you smile against his flushed skin. “All that heroic web-slinging but no one’s ever taken care of this?”
Before he can respond, you take him into your mouth, lips sealing around the head as you suck gently. He tastes salty and slightly bitter, but the way he gasps all high and desperate makes you hum in approval, the vibration drawing another shiver from him. Your hands brace on his thighs, nails digging in as you bob your head, taking him deeper inch by inch. He’s not huge but he’s certainly responsive, hips twitching like he can’t help it, fucking shallowly into your mouth.
“Shit—oh God, your mouth!” His words dissolve into a groan, his hand tightening in your messy strands.
You hollow your cheeks, tongue swirling around the underside, tracing the vein that pulses against it. With your eyes closed, every sensation is amplified, the wet sounds of your sucking, the salty drip down your throat, the way his cock twitches on your tongue.
You pull back slightly, letting spit string from your lips to his tip, and pump him with your hand, remembering to twist a little at the top.
“There’s no way you’re going to cum already, are you?” Once again, you desperately wish to see him, to see him writhing under your touch, flushed with his eyes rolling back.
“Don’t stop,” he begs, voice cracking.
You oblige, leaning back down to swallow around him, nose brushing the coarse hair at his base. He smells like sweat and arousal, and you gag a little when he thrusts too eagerly, but you don't pull away. Instead, you moan, letting him feel how much you want this, how his desperation turns you on.
His free hand claws at the bed, knuckles white, and you can feel the tension coiling in his body, the way he's fighting not to come too soon. You speed up, slurping obscenely, one hand slipping down to cup his balls, rolling them gently. He cries out—actually cries out—head thrown back, and you feel powerful, desired, even as the mean streak in you wants to edge him until he breaks.
But you’re aching too, pussy throbbing with neglect and its slickness soaks your thighs. You pop off him with a wet sound to which he whines in protest, hips jerking forward seeking more.
“Not yet,” you say breathlessly and rise to your feet to push him back fully onto your bed.
He goes willingly, sprawling out with the audible sounds of his pants. You climb over him, straddling his waist, and grind your soaked panties against his thick length. The friction makes you both moan, his hands flying to your hips to hold you there.
“Please,” he pants. “Let me touch you. I need to—”
You cut him off with a kiss, letting him taste himself from where your mouth met his cock. It’s messy and you rock against him harder, chasing that pressure on your clit. But it’s not enough. You need more.
Pulling back, you guide one of his hands between your legs, pressing his fingers against your clothed pussy. “Feel how wet I am? It’s all for you. Now do something about it.”
His fingers tremble as they slip under the fabric and brush against your folds, making you hiss at the contact. He’s clumsy at first, virgin nerves showing in the hesitant circles he rubs over your clit, but the sensation burns with your eyes closed, turning every awkward stroke into fire. You grind down to guide his rhythm and he learns fast, thumb pressing firmer, two fingers finding your entrance.
“Like this?” he asks, voice small and eager, and you nod, biting your lip to stifle a moan as he pushes inside.
He’s not skilled, all bumping knuckles, but God does the stretch feel good. You clench around him, riding his hand, the wet squelch filling the room.
“Faster,” you demand, and he obeys, curling them experimentally, hitting that spot that makes your thighs quake. Sensory deprivation turns it overwhelming, leaving you drowning in the slide of his fingers, the heat of his palm grinding against your clit. You whimper as the pleasure builds and he drinks in every sound, pumping harder, thumb flicking relentlessly.
“You’re so tight,” he murmurs in awe, free hand roaming your body, squeezing your breast through your shirt, pinching the nipple until you arch. “So wet for me. Fuck, I could do this all night.”
But you can’t wait anymore. You shove his hand away, panting, and fumble with your clothes, stripping off your top and skirt, panties last. He helps, clumsy but enthusiastic, suit peeled down to his hips. Naked now, you feel exposed and vulnerable, but his hands are everywhere—stroking your sides, cupping your ass, pulling you down.
He positions himself between your legs, leaning down to kiss you deeply while his hands memorise your curves, gliding them over your soft skin. It’s not enough. You roll your hips against him, trying to press him in, seeking that friction you desperately need.
Spiderman lets out a low groan against your ear, his control slipping at your eager movements. He pulls back to watch, to drink in the sight of you writhing under him, at your hands fumbling desperately at his arms to draw him back in.
“Give me a second,” he mumbles. “I want to take my time with you.”
“Please don’t,” you whine. It’s infuriating, having him so close you can feel his heat against your skin and yet, it only emphasises the emptiness inside you. “Please just touch me.”
“I’ve got you, baby.” Unable to resist your needy sounds any longer, he finally gives in. He readjusts his position, guiding himself to your entrance. He thrusts up slightly, his dick gathering your slick at his tip, the both of you moaning at the friction. “Tell me what you want, Y/N. I need to hear how badly you need me.” He all but pleads, repeating the action over and over, eyes closed shut at every nudge against your clit.
You whimper, fingers finding purchase on his biceps. “I’m not going to beg you, jerk.”
He ruts up, the tip catching on your entrance and you almost believe it’s in until it slides right past. “Beg me,” he pleads again, mouth planting desperate kisses at your neck.
The teasing drags on, his cockhead slipping through your folds, bumping your clit with every shallow thrust, but never filling you. It's torture, the heat of him so close, the slick sounds obscene in the quiet room. You buck up, trying to impale yourself, but he holds your hips down, chuckling breathlessly against your throat.
“Come on,” he whispers, nipping at your earlobe. “Just say it. Tell me you want my cock inside you.”
Your pride wars with the ache until it’s finally too much. “Fine,” you gasp, nails raking his back. “Fuck me. Please, just—put it in. I need it.”
The words break him. With a guttural moan, he lines up and thrusts in, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth motion. You're stretched full, walls fluttering around his thickness, and you cry out, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper.
“Oh God, yes,” he groans, stilling for a moment to adjust, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re perfect. So fucking tight.”
You clench around him deliberately, and he whines, that puppy-like desperation surfacing again.
“Move,” you plead as you rock up, and he does, pulling out halfway before slamming back in. The pace starts slow, experimental as his inexperience shows in the uneven rhythm. But it builds, thrusts deepening, the bed creaking under you. Each snap of his hips grinds his pubic bone against your clit, and with your eyes closed, it’s all you can focus on: the slap of skin, the wet glide of his cock, the way he fills you completely.
He buries his face in your neck, kissing and sucking marks into your skin, hands gripping your thighs to spread you wider. “Feels so good,” he mumbles between thrusts. "Like you were made for me. Can’t believe—fuck—”
The tension coils tight in your belly, pleasure spiking with every plunge. He’s hitting deep now, tip kissing your cervix, and you arch sharply.
But he’s greedy, wanting more, always more. One hand slips between you to find your clit again, rubbing in tight circles that make stars burst behind your eyelids. “Cum for me,” he pleads, voice hoarse. “Wanna feel you squeeze my dick. Please, Y/N.”
The command, laced with desperation, tips you over. You shatter, pussy convulsing around him, milking his cock as waves crash through you. He follows seconds later, thrusting erratically before spilling inside, hot spurts painting your walls. He doesn’t even stop then, instead opting to slowly grind against your ass to push it all in. Finally, he collapses onto you as you both pant, bodies slick with sweat.
For a moment, there’s only the aftershocks and his softening cock still twitching inside you. Then he lifts his head and kisses you softly, reverently.
“That was incredible,” he whispers.
You smile lazily, fingers tracing his jaw once more. “Yeah?”
He doesn’t pull out right away, staying buried deep as his breathing evens out, like he can't bear to leave your warmth. His hands roam lazily now, no longer frantic but exploratory as he maps out the dip of your waist, the swell of your breasts. You must possess some kind of iron will because you keep your eyes closed even then such that you can feel every callus on his palms, every tremble in his touch. It’s intimate, this post-climax haze, and it stirs something softer in you despite the teasing edge you cling to.
“You're still hard,” you murmur, shifting your hips experimentally and feel him twitch inside you. He groans, low and needy, burying his face in your shoulder.
“Can’t help it,” he admits, voice muffled. “You feel too good. Like... I don’t want to stop. Ever.”
The confession hangs there, vulnerable and raw, and you can’t resist poking at it.
“Aw, puppy,” you coo, running your fingers through his hair.
He nips at your collarbone in retaliation, but there’s no bite to it. “You like it,” he says, confidence peeking through the desperation. “The way I beg. Admit it.”
You huff, but your body betrays you, clenching around him again. He takes it as an invitation and starts to rock slowly, shallow thrusts that keep him seated deep. It’s lazy and sensual and builds up friction without urgency.
“Maybe,” you concede breathlessly, hands guiding his head. “But don’t think it makes you special.”
“Liar.” He chuckles against your skin, the vibration sending tingles down your spine.
His pace picks up slightly, one hand sliding down to where you’re joined, thumb circling your oversensitive clit. You gasp, the pleasure sharp after your orgasm, but he doesn’t stop, drawing out whimpers you can’t suppress.
The room fills with the soft sounds of your shared breaths, the wet slide of him moving inside you, the occasional creak of the bed. He kisses up your neck, lips brushing the edge of the blindfold.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you whisper, turning your head to capture his mouth.
The kiss is slower this time as you focus on simply exploring and memorising his taste. He pulls back eventually to sit up and change the angle, hooking your legs over his shoulders. The stretch is deeper like this, his cock hitting new spots that make you moan.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he breathes. “I always thought you were but when you’re like this… fuck.”
The praise warms you and you reach for him blindly, fingers finding his chest. “Shut up and fuck me harder.”
He laughs, but obeys, snapping his hips with renewed vigor. The position lets him grind deep, balls slapping against your ass, and you feel another climax building. His hand returns to your clit, rubbing in time with his thrusts, and you shatter again, crying out, though not with his superhero name because that feels a little impersonal.
He follows and spills with a whine, collapsing beside you this time. Now, when the darkness creeps in from the edges, it’s not because you’re making the conscious decision to keep your eyes closed. The afterglow lures you to sleep and he holds you throughout it all.
But Spiderman—no, Gojo—lies there with his heart still refusing to slow, greed silent for only a moment but never truly gone. His fingers trace absent patterns over your back as if committing every inch of you to memory like the repetition might somehow make this enough. As if this version of the night, this version of you, can be folded up and hidden somewhere safe for later.
Because he knows, even now, that this is the only way he gets to have you.
Not in daylight, not with your eyes open and knowing. Not as the boy who sits two rows away and grins when he beats everyone to the answer. Not as Gojo, all sharp edges and arrogance and every stupid mistake he’s made with you piling up behind him like a wall.
He presses a kiss to your hair before he can stop himself.
It is a stupid thing to do, indulgent and dangerous, but there is no one here to catch him at it, no one but the sleeping girl in his arms who doesn’t know the shape of his face and trusts him anyway. That makes it worse, makes his heart hurt so badly he has to take in a shuddering gasp to calm it, if only slightly.
As Spiderman, you had pulled him inside your room by hand. As Spiderman, you had touched his face with your eyes closed and trusted what you found there. As Spiderman, you had kissed him like you meant it, let him close enough to hear the soft wrecked sounds you make when you say his name.
It should feel like a victory. Some ugly, secret part of him has wanted this for too long not to recognise the shape of triumph when it finally arrives. And yet it settles strangely in his chest, tangled up with something meaner and sadder.
He tips his head back against your pillow and stares up at the dark ceiling, one arm still curved protectively around you. Outside your window the city hums low and distant, all traffic and wind and sirens dulled by height and glass. Somewhere out there, the rest of his life is still moving along with deadlines, classes, the version of himself you will face tomorrow and maybe hate a little more than you did today.
His throat tightens.
You shift against him again, this time with a sleepy little sigh, and his eyes close at once. If he were better, he thinks, he would leave now before the night can twist this into something cruel, before staying turns this into something impossible to explain later. Before morning puts light on all the parts of him that he intentionally leaves in the shadows away from your gaze.
He tips his head back against your pillow and stares up at the dark ceiling, one arm still curved protectively around you. Outside your window the city hums low and distant, all traffic and wind and sirens dulled by height and glass. Somewhere out there, the rest of his life is still moving along with deadlines, classes, the version of himself you will face tomorrow and maybe hate a little more than you did today.
But Gojo is a weak man so he stays.
Long enough for your breathing to deepen fully and for your body to grow loose and heavy with sleep beside him. Long enough that he starts to imagine, against all reason, what it would be like if he didn’t have to move at all. If he could still be here when your eyes opened. if he could watch you wake and let himself be seen, just once, just enough to catch the flicker of emotion across your face. Would you be happy? Mad? Disappointed?
But the universe is rarely this forgiving and patient, and he eventually pulls himself up on his elbows.
You’re still asleep, face half-buried in the pillow now, hair spilled across the sheets, mouth parted slightly on a soft exhale. The sight of you unguarded in such a way makes something ache low and hopeless inside him. There’s a mark near your collarbone he has to drag his gaze away from before he becomes truly pathetic.
“Don't do this to me,” he whispers, though whether he means you or fate or himself, he isn’t sure.
Obviously, no one answers him.
It would be easier if you weren’t like this. If you were messy or careless or cruel in your sleep. If you took up too much space, kicked him in that old wound that still refuses to heal. If you snored. If you drooled on the pillow. If there were anything in the world that made leaving you here feel less like carving something out of himself with his own hands and leaving it on the pillow next to your head.
But there isn’t. So Gojo leans down and presses one last kiss to your temple.
Before he goes, he stands beside the bed for one suspended moment, looking down at you with all the wretched fondness he never manages to contain well enough.
“I'm sorry,” he whispers softly.
Then he’s gone, slipping back through the window into the thinning dark before dawn.
Morning comes gently.
You wake slowly, feeling the ache of too little sleep and something duller lower down, soothed by the warmth trapped under your blanket. It’s a gloomy day outside and faint grey light slips in through the curtains. For one sweet, stupid second, the memory of the night before reaches you before your eyes properly open, and your mouth almost curves with it.
You reach out to touch him and find nothing.
Your eyes snap open.
“Spiderman?”
The name sounds ridiculous in the morning quiet.
The space beside you is empty, no lingering body heat, no weight in the mattress, no messy shape of someone else, just rumpled sheets and a half-opened window blowing a chill into your room. It all looks so unbearably ordinary for a place where your life had felt, only hours ago, like it was tilting into something secret and miraculous.
Something strange moves through you then, too tangled to name cleanly. The first is an easy one to decipher, disappointment, sharp and immediate. Then embarrassment, because some soft foolish part of you had expected to wake up and find him still there. Perhaps not unmasked, maybe not staying forever, but at the very least there to share the same sense of sheepishness you feel. Enough to prove last night hadn’t been a beautiful, selfish thing borrowed from the dark.
You reach out and smooth your hand over the cold sheet once, as if you might find traces of your common sense there and regain some rational thought.
It doesn’t, to no surprise. All it does is confirm what you already know.
Your bed is empty.
Has the sun always felt so good on his skin?
Gojo swings through the city as he does every morning. It’s a habit that comes from the obligation, something Geto had said in passing about the responsibilities of being a superhero—or something. Satoru never really listens when Geto scolds him and he certainly doesn’t care enough now to pull those words to the surface.
His morning patrols are little more than a guilty pleasure anyway. To be above the city made everyone else seem like ants, feeble things that needed saving every minute of every day. But it’s fine.
Because speaking of guilt, that’s what he should be feeling right now. But he doesn’t. In fact, Satoru is having a rather fine and dandy day.
He high fives the police chief when they start scolding him on the mess of webs he left behind during the car chase. He tips the convenient store cashier when he pays for his energy drink, forgoing the whole ‘leave the store and then web cash to the worker’s chest’ bit that he always does. He smiles at the senior citizens when they eye him even though he knows the gesture won’t show through the mask.
He finger guns the kids as they ride by in scooters and bulky, too-big helmets. He graciously rescues a balloon from a tree. He pets a dog on the way to class.
His phone buzzes in the pocket of his jacket that he wears to keep away the winter chill, the new personal phone that he got, not his work phone, and that does a really good job of extinguishing his mood.
Gojo settles down on the ground and ducks into a thin alleyway, pulling out his phone to check.
It’s a calendar notification reminding him that today was the big outing, some aquarium outing he had to beg Shoko to be invited to. Once, he had looked forward to it but now, all he can think of is the hurt in your eyes, the way your mouth falls open in soft pleasure, the slight flutter in your eyes as you arch against his—
He shoves his phone back into his pocket and hurries back to his dorm.
Ignoring Geto's casual greetings, Gojo opts to instead ceremoniously flop into his top bunk the moment he slings in through the open window.
“How was patrol?”
“Don’t ask me stupid questions.”
“Okay.” Geto looks up from his book, turning in his chair to look up at the blue and white lump. “What’s wrong with you?”
Gojo tugs off his mask, ruffling his hair as it falls messy before faceplanting back into his unmade bed. “Nothing.”
“You left the dorm beaming like everyday is just sunshine and rainbows to you, and now you’re back sulking. I wouldn’t call that nothing.” He pauses when he receives no response, before sighing. “Just make sure to ditch the attitude before we meet up with Shoko. And don’t take it out on Y/N.”
Gojo can’t help it, he chokes on his own breath. Geto , of course, notices.
“What was that sound?”
“That’s just how I breathe.”
“You don’t always sound like a kicked puppy when you’re breathing.” His roommate stands to peek over the frame of the bunk bed, raising an eyebrow when he’s met with Gojo's devastated state. “Is this about your tragic loss to Venom? Look, he’ll come back and you’ll get another shot at being a good superhero, I promise.”
“It’s not that.”
“Is it Y/N then?”
Gojo lifts his head just enough to give him an incredulous look. “How did you…?”
“I saw what you were reposting on Tiktok.”
Gojo flops onto his back, hands over his face, feet kicking about in frustration. “God, even when she’s not around she drives me crazy!”
“Not that I’m not super sympathetic about your situation, but maybe it’s not the best idea to freak out about your normal civilian life when you’re Spiderman-ing. It’s better to keep those things separate, you know?”
Gojo grabs his pillow and shoves it over his face.
“Was that an agreement or an act of rebellion? Satoru, I’m serious. You can’t mix your personal life and your superhero activities together.”
He stays quiet, or maybe he’s suffocated himself. Gojo kind of hopes it’s the latter if it’ll save him from telling the truth.
Geto shakes his shoulder. “Dude, stop moping. We have that thing to go to and Shoko won’t be happy if you flake.”
Gojo remains limp and after a few more shakes, Geto frowns with the tiniest hint of worry.
“Okay, out with it. What did you do?”
At this, Gojo finally turns his head to look at his roommate mournfully. A slow, sinking sensation of dread drops in Geto's stomach as he searches this thin glimpse of his roommate’s face.
“Please tell me you didn’t.”
“I did.”
“How bad? Does she know?”
Gojo lets out a long, suffering sigh. “Worse.”
“You kissed her.”
“Worse.”
Geto's mouth drops open. “You fucked her? Satoru, what the fuck?”
“I don’t know, okay, it just happened!”
Geto pulled his hand back as if burnt. “Just happened? These things don’t just happen! Sex doesn’t just happen!”
Gojo groans into his pillow. “We were both consenting adults in this, Suguru, it’s not a big deal!”
“That’s not the issue! She doesn’t know who you are, Satoru!”
“I know that!”
“Do you? Because if you did I don’t think you would have done that!” He runs a hand through his hair. “How does she not know?”
“She kept her eyes closed,” Gojo says.
“You kinky bitch.”
“It was the only way she wouldn’t see!”
“Really? Because I can think of other ways. Have you considered the tactic of just not fucking her in the first place?”
Gojo frowns as if in genuine thought before shaking his head.
“Hell. This is my superhero. We’re all fucked.”
“Suguru, you have to help me.” Gojo sits up, head ducked slightly so as to not hit his head on the ceiling above. “I fucked up okay, I know I did. But it’s complicated, alright? Y/N and I aren’t… good right now. I thought we were and then I dropped my phone and then we fought and now she’s blocked me on everything. Even Linkedin. And Spotify!”
“Satoru, I help you with Spiderman stuff. I help you with last minute homework deadlines because you were too busy saving the world. I help you with lying to our friends about why you disappeared during a bathroom break for an hour that doesn’t involve emptying your guts into a toilet. I’m not helping you when you fumble a girl.”
“But what if I fumbled her because I’m Spiderman. I feel like that counts, right?”
Geto turns and drops himself into his chair, the seat turning slightly at the momentum until he plants his feet down. He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “You still haven’t told me what happened.”
“Y/N and I broke up.”
“You weren’t dating.”
“A friendship break up then. A situationship break up.”
“Fine, whatever you want to call it. What even happened? Because every time we talked about her before that it sounded like things were going well.”
“Things were going well. I almost kissed her like, five times. The sixth time would have definitely been the charm.”
Geto makes a face.”I feel like that’s an indication that things aren’t going well, but okay.”
“Anyway, remember when venom showed up a few days ago and I broke my phone?”
“And how you were knocked out for a night? I remember.”
“Right well,” Gojo takes in a deep breath that indicates he’s about to ramble, “because I broke my phone I wasn’t able to tell her something came up and I wouldn’t be able to make the presentation. I only woke up after we had to present, meaning she had to do it herself and now she hates me because she thinks I don’t take her seriously. and I can’t clarify that I do take her seriously because, again, she blocked me on everything. She also unadded me on every Google Doc she shared to me.”
“Damn, she’s serious.” For a moment, Geto seems genuinely apologetic. “That sucks man, I’m sorry you were cockblocked by Venom.”
“Well, it comes with the powers and responsibility and all that.” Gojo falls back onto his bed, starfished as far as his limbs can go before they hit the sides of his bunk bed. “You always have a solution to everything. Can’t you fix my love life too?”
“I can’t perform miracles, dumbass.”
“That's not your line. You’re meant to be sympathetic and helpful. Do you even care about me?”
“No,” Geto says mournfully. “Unfortunately you’re the only one saving our city these days so I kind of have to stick around to make sure you don’t mess that up.”
Gojo grabs his Agumon plushie and throws it down over the side of the railing. He doesn’t have to look over the edge to know it hit its target. “I’m serious, Suguru.”
Geto catches the plushie with ease and gives it a pat on its head, placing it gently on his lap. “I’m serious too. Maybe this is a good thing. I keep telling you that you have to keep your superhero life and your boring, normal person life separate. This just shows you what happens when you don’t do that.”
“Woah, thank you, Mr sunshine and rainbows.”
“Life isn’t sunshine and rainbows.”
“It is when you have the eyes to see it,” he sighs dramatically. “Is it too much to ask that I can just be Satoru and Spiderman without losing anything?”
There’s something in Gojo's voice that makes Geto pause. Maybe it’s the lack of that whiny tilt to his cadence, maybe it’s the fact that he’s shoved his face into another plushie on his bed, voice muffled and hiding the desperate sound.
Geto wants to tell him the truth, that if the world was good and just he could be every side of him, that he shouldn’t have to pick between being a weapon for the city’s safety and an actual person with hopes and dreams and wants. Geto wants to tell him that he shouldn’t have to pick being a superhero over being a person, but he can’t tell him that. Because as the world stands right now, Gojo simply can’t have both.
“There's still that outing,” Geto finds himself saying. “Look, it sounds like you really hurt Y/N but she’s not unreasonable, you know that. I’m sure if you talk to her you can clear things up. Or just apologise now that time has settled.”
Gojo shuffles a little and sits up to look down at his roommate. "Weren't you just telling me I shouldn’t mix personal and work life?”
“You see Spider-Man as work?”
“Answer my question, man.”
Geto sighs. “The part of me that just wants to make sure you’re not hurt doing this whole superhero thing wants to tell you that. But the part of me that’s your friend doesn’t. It sucks that in this world no one can be their genuine self. But I mean it when I say that I want to see you happy and if you’re happy with Y/N then I hope things work out between the both of you.”
No one says anything for a while. Geto looks up.
“Dude, what did you eat today to make you sprout all that feelings bullshit?” Gojo mimes throwing up.
Geto rolls his eyes, grabbing the plushie on his lap to throw it back up at him. Gojo catches it, his Spiderman instincts never letting him down, and when he puts it down on his bed, he’s smiling.
“So, any tips?”
“Just be yourself.”
“I was and look how everything turned out.”
Geto hums. “Then maybe let’s start with your wardrobe. If you’re going to win Y/N back, you can’t show up to the function wearing the same one shirt.”
The aquarium is a shitty place to take someone you’re no longer on speaking terms with.
It seems even the fish have figured out how to move around without touching. Silver fish turn as one body and never collide. Stingrays glide past each other like silk dragged through water. Even sharks know how to circle without making contact, all smooth instinct and measured distance, and that would be deeply meaningful if you weren’t currently trapped in a dark blue tunnel feeling like shit.
It is, Shoko had said in the groupchat three days ago, supposed to be a fun, normal outing. You should have known then that something demonic had possessed her.
The tunnel curves overhead in a long arc of glass, seawater casting wavering patterns of light over the floor and over the faces of people passing through. Children press their sticky palms to the glass, and a baby somewhere up ahead lets out a delighted shriek at the sight of some broad, ghostly thing drifting above. Couples walk slowly enough to be irritating, stopping every two steps to point things out to each other in soft voices.
The entire place is built for wonder and you are having a terrible time.
“Look,” you say from beside Shoko, pointing upward with none of the enthusiasm the gesture should probably contain, “a fish.”
“I think that’s obviously a shark,” Utahime says, squinting upward.
Geto hums, a telltale sign that he’s about to launch into his typical ragebaiting. “I’m pretty sure sharks are fish though, so what do you mean by that?”
“Oh come on, Geto. You know what I mean. There’s fish, and then there’s shark. If I say fish, no one is picturing that. They’re thinking of, like, a normal fish. Small, swimmy, not that giant thing above our heads.”
“So now we’re racially profiling fish and sharks?” Geto pauses as if in deep thought. “So then by your logic, is a stingray fish-looking fish or shark-looking fish.”
“A stingray is its own thing,” Utahime snaps. “Don’t piss me off in public.”
“Seems complicated. Not very obvious then, is it?”
On any other day, there’d be nothing more joyous than joining in and annoying Utahime. Today, however, you’re still figuring out how to move around without being touched.
“At least give yourself the chance to have a good time,” Shoko remarks from beside you, none too impressed with your sulky mood.
You know it isn’t fair to her but to say you’re in a bad mood is an understatement. Every voice only serves to grind your gears and the way people shove past you here and there makes you want to rip off your skin.
Maybe because you got approximately no sleep. Maybe because your body still feels the phantom touch of another, the roughness in his voice as he utters your name all deprived and pleading. Maybe because Gojo is still six inches to your left, all long limbs and damp shadows under his eyes, and every time the crowd bottlenecks in the tunnel, you catch the faint clean scent of his soap like he took a shower earlier this morning.
The tunnel narrows as it curves, forcing all of you into an untidy line. Shoko and Utahime end up leading, Geto just behind them, pointing out silly little things that pisses her Utahime and makes Shoko laugh. You had slowed down for all of three seconds to let a family with two children pass and made the tactical error of allowing Gojo to fall into step beside you. Now the two of you are trapped by the flow of bodies moving through the tunnel at exactly the kind of sluggish, reverent pace that grates against your frayed nerves.
Above, something glides over the glass. The baby up ahead screams again, only louder, such that it echoes down the winding tunnel.
“See, that wouldn't be a fish,” Geto is saying from up ahead.
You can hear utahime through the murmur of the crowd. “I figured.”
“Can’t be too sure.”
There's another shuffle of people from up ahead as if the presence of the stingray is a thing to fawn over, a stop-start of prams and schoolbags and a father trying to explain in a stage whisper why no, his child cannot touch the stingray, and the whole line compresses.
Gojo’s shoulder brushes yours.
You stiffen before you can even try to pretend it had no effect on you and he shifts back, creating what little space he can in a tunnel full of tourists and toddlers. You can feel his hesitation without even looking at him, that careful slouching in on himself he's been doing all day.
“Sorry,” he says quietly.
You don’t bother with a response, looking in the opposite direction as if you had suddenly gained a deep appreciation for marine life.
Shoko glances back over her shoulder to make sure she hasn’t lost either of you, and catches the way the two of you repel from each other. Her eyes flick from your face to Gojo’s, and narrow.
Great, so not only are you miserable, but now you’re probably going to get grilled.
“You two are weirdly quiet,” she cleverly deduces.
“We’re in an aquarium,” you reply. “The whole point is to be quiet and to look at the fish. Or the sharks or—whatever.”
“Are you at least having fun?” she tries again, though judging from her look, it’s clear she already has an answer in mind.
“Definitely,” you mumble at the same time Gojo says, “So much fun.”
You keep your mouth shut, refusing to look over at him. And Shoko, bless her patient heart, only tries again.
“We’re about to reach the actual shark section. You love sharks, don’t you, Y/N?”
“Partial at best.”
“Or we could divert to look at the rock pools and touch some starfish. Doesn’t that sound like fun, Gojo?”
“I guess.” He kicks at the ground, stubbornly glaring at the path.
Shoko rolls her eyes, dropping her gentle parenting act just as the tunnel begins to open up again. The two of you separate like magnets of the same charge when there’s space to move, only heightening her annoyance.
“You both are impossible! You’re acting like kids! Let’s age check real quick, how long are you two going to keep up this silent treatment act for?”
Gojo sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Can you just drop it, Shoko? It’s really none of your business.”
“Woah,” Shoko says. “Gojo’s arrived.”
“I’m serious.” He grits his teeth. “Leave it.”
Shoko looks over at you for your input but you keep quiet, hiding your own guilt by looking away. You’re acting like a kid, you know you are, but it’s hard not to when you have this man child walking beside you.
And because Gojo has never won an argument against with Shoko, never has in the many, many years they’ve known each other, she grabs your hand and his arm and pulls you both together, positive versus positive charge be damned. You visibly flinch when his skin brushes yours, but her hands keep you together.
“I don’t know what happened between you two,” she says, “but you’re going to sort it out right here right now, you hear me? The shark section is up ahead. I don’t care what happens in there, but when you walk out of it, you’re both going to get along. Understood?”
Gojo looks up from where he’s staring at the point of contact where your bodies touch.
“I said, understood?” Shoko presses, drawing you both closer.
You grimace and relent. “Fine, fine. Just let go, won’t you?”
She doesn’t, turning her fierce gaze to Gojo. “Your turn.”
“Shoko,” he starts, but his eyes are fixed over her shoulder. “Let go.”
“I won’t until you tell me the two of you are going to start behaving like adults again."
“Shoko, seriously—”
“Gojo, I’m not letting go until—”
You let out a frustrated exhale. “Just get it over with and say that you will.”
“That’s not it.”
His voice sharpens so suddenly that the three of you freeze. His hand closes around your arm, knocking Shoko’s grip off him in one abrupt movement, and you almost wince at how tight his fingers are.
“Duck!”
Considering you’re at an aquarium and not a zoo, his words confuse you. But the word barely leaves his mouth before the world ends, or at least the tunnel does.
One moment you’re upright and irritated, and the next you’re on the slick aquarium floor with Gojo half over you, his hand clamped around the back of your head as glass bursts somewhere overhead in a noise so violent it seems to deafen you. Water follows half a second later, a freezing, roaring wall of it that slams into your legs and floods the corridor in one breathless rush.
You gasp, inhaling panic with it. For one awful second, all you can see is dark water and something silver whipping past your face so quickly you can’t process whether it’s debris or fish or some secret third option. Gojo’s arms tighten around you just before the current hits full force, shielding you from the bulk of it.
When the initial wave passes, he pushes himself up first, still braced over you, blinking the water from his eyes. “Are you okay? Actually, don’t answer straight away because then you’re probably lying. Are you hurt?”
You stare at him for half a second with your chest heaving, before snapping back into your body. “I think so. Was that enough time to seem genuine?”
“Yeah,” he says, then grabs your hand and hauls you upright with startling efficiency.
A jagged hole has been torn through the glass overhead and water is still pouring through in punishing sheets, waves upon waves lapping at your feet. You ignore it all.
“Shoko!” you shout immediately. “Utahime? Guys?”
“We’re here!” Shoko’s voice comes from somewhere to your right, thin through the alarms and the water. “We’re all okay!”
Through the flashing red light and beyond a rush of water you can’t imagine brushing past, you spot them.
Shoko has one arm around Utahime’s waist and the other braced against the wall, her hair plastered to her face by spray. Utahime is upright, but only just, one hand pressed over her calf where blood is already mixing into the water in thin red ribbons. Suguru is beside them, shoving a fallen display sign out of the way so a knot of panicked visitors can force themselves toward the nearest exit.
“We’re fine!” Geto yells. “Utahime got cut by the glass, but she can walk. We’re heading for the side stairs.”
Shoko twists back, catches sight of you and Gojo still standing there, and immediately cups her hands around her mouth. “What are you two doing? Move! I paid money for this outing and frankly I’d like at least four of us to live!”
Before either of you can answer, something booms deeper in the aquarium hard enough to rattle the glass beneath your feet. All around you, people are still trying to push toward the exits in a mess of uncoordinated panic. One aquarium staff member is shouting for everyone to stay calm in a voice already fraying at the edges and there’s a child sobbing somewhere to your right. Another tank further down the hall has cracked into a spiderweb of fractures that spread wider with every violent thud from beyond.
Gojo tenses, sensing something you can’t before he turns to you, hands on your shoulders. “Get to the exit.”
“Right, okay,” you say automatically, already reaching for his hand to drag him with you. Your fingers slide around his wrist and tug. “Come on.”
He doesn’t move.
You look back at him. “What are you doing?”
“You go with them,” he says, already looking past you toward the ruined hall. “I’ll follow after you.”
You stare at him in disbelief. “Um, no?”
Your voice comes out louder than you mean it to, sharpened by the cold and the adrenaline and the immediate, furious certainty that no, absolutely not, you are not doing this with him again. Not here, not now, not when the floor is flooding and the walls are breaking and he still thinks he can look you in the face and say I’ll follow after like you were born yesterday.
“Do you have a death wish?” you demand. “Come on, the water is rising!”
“Look, I can handle myself.” His fingers tighten once against your shoulder, almost pleading. “I know what I’m doing so just wait outside. Don't worry about me and go.”
It is such a stupid thing to say that for a second you can only look at him.
Don’t worry about me.
As if that has ever worked. As if you haven’t spent weeks trying to ignore him and failing every single time. As if he hasn’t somehow made himself your problem since the moment he had called your grade out in the middle of that irrelevant tutorial room.
You glare at him, at his stupid fluffy white hair gone damp at the edges, at the thick-framed glasses he always pushes up his nose when he starts rambling about something ridiculous, at the stupid blue eyes that seem to shift colour with his mood and are now fixed on the corridor behind you instead of properly on you.
“I can’t,” you say.
His head snaps back to yours. “What?”
“I can’t just ignore you.” The words come out thinner than you want them to, but there’s no taking them back now. “I’ve tried and I just can’t.”
“This isn’t the time for that,” he says, brows furrowed in that way he gets when he’s annoyed.“Don’t be ridiculous, you could get hurt.”
“You could get hurt.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?” you scoff before looking back at him. “You know what your problem is?”
He rolls his eyes with a sigh. “Oh, here we go. Tell me, tell me what my problem is—”
“Oh, I will. I’ll tell you what your fucking problem is—”
“Oh yeah, you’ll tell me? Cause you know me better than I know myself?”
“Someone has to,” you snap, stepping toward him, daring him to take a step back. “Because clearly you’ve got no clue what you’re doing. Not with this, not with women, certainly not with me.”
He exhales. “Yeah? Well, you’re stuck up and impossible to control and you piss me off.”
“Are you a kid? You sound so dumb right now—”
A crash tears through the corridor hard enough to shake the ground beneath your feet and whatever insult you’ve both had gearing up immediately dies. You both look toward the corridor then to each other.
“Probably not the best time for this,” you say.
“Yeah,” he says. “Let’s shelf this for later.”
“I’m still not going to ditch you so get that through your thick skull and whatever vast air bubble hugs your brain.”
For one ridiculous second, despite the alarms and the flooding and the horrifying sounds of public infrastructure being turned inside out, Gojo actually looks like he wants to laugh.
“Did you just call me an air head?” he asks, the words breathless and almost fond. “You’re never going to make things easy for me, are you?”
You shoot him an incredulous look. “People are dying, Satoru. Lock in. What’s the plan?”
He shakes his head like a dog.
“Okay,” he says, back in motion now, words quick and sharp and all business because he clearly doesn’t trust himself to stay in the other mode any longer. “New plan. We get everyone we can to the exit, and then if you still want to tell me what my problem is, I’ll stand there and let you monologue. But don’t leave my sight and don’t try to be self-sacrificing.”
“You’re telling me?” You snort. “Says the guy who was just about to run off and do exactly that.”
You brush past him, heading towards the tunnel where the sound originated.
Despite every instinct telling him to grab you and pull you out, Gojo finds himself just standing there. He’s always been weak to you, this revelation is not one that comes with any surprise. All you’ve ever really had to do was look at him—properly look at him, with that sharp little glare that says he’s annoyed you again—and some pathetic part of him was already halfway to heel, tail practically wagging. It’s degrading almost, the Spiderman, reduced to nothing but a desperate man in love, but for some reason Gojo can’t find himself hating it completely. That was just how far he had fallen.
He drags a hand through his hair and exhales sharply through his nose as he catches up behind you. The mask in his pocket feels impossibly heavy, like it knows better than he does, like it’s already calling him toward the moment he’s been putting off for too long. But he doesn't yet, and settles instead for following behind, every muscle bracing for the second this goes wrong.
You are having much less sophisticated thoughts.
You wonder to yourself as you trudge through the ankle deep water, what the fuck are you doing?
Your shoes are full of cold, disgusting salt water and what is, realistically, probably fish shit, when the safe outside had been right there within reach moments ago. You could have left. You could have gone with Shoko and Utahime and Geto and let the staff and the police and whoever else handles aquarium disasters deal with the rest. Instead, you had willingly walked back into where disaster struck. And for what? A boy?
Well, you think. At least you have the experience of fighting off two villains now. One and a half. Okay, more like two halves. That made one. So you’ve had one (1) moment of experience. That was enough, right?
“Don’t worry,” you tell Gojo, noticing his uncharacteristic silence. “If anything happens, I’ll protect you.”
He opens his mouth to reply, but whatever smart thing he had lined up dies the second the tunnel widens into the main shark gallery.
A man in a torn aquarium polo staggers through the burst corridor with black slick crawling up one arm and along the side of his throat, jerking in wet, ugly pulses under the emergency lights. A member of staff, who looks maybe nineteen and one bad shift away from quitting forever, is trying to wave people toward the side exit while very obviously trying not to cry.
Gojo is already moving, ignoring the way the room shudders when the symbiote host slams his fist into a pillar.
“I’m going to distract it so the people have time to get out of here. Stay here or go help them but do not get in the way.”
He doesn’t check to see if you’ll agree before grabbing the nearest floating wet floor sign and hurling it at the man’s face with a pitcher’s accuracy. It smacks the figure’s shoulder and bounces away harmlessly, but it does the important thing.
The ex-aquarium staff turns toward him and subsequently, you.
“Okay,” you mutter, already moving. “Looks like you’ve got it from here!”
The host makes a low, distorted sound, half growl and half wet static, and barrels toward Gojo with one blackened arm swelling grotesquely around the elbow. Gojo ducks the first swing, grabs the edge of an overturned brochure stand, and yanks it into the path of the next. It shatters immediately, but the delay buys the nearest cluster of trapped visitors just enough time to break into motion.
You hurry to the sobbing staff member, a girl with her short black hair tied to one side, two hair clips holding her bangs away from her eyes. “Hey, hey, it’s okay! Just think of all the hazard pay you’ll get after this. For now, grab those two and head to the side exit.”
She blinks at you, tears still flowing freely down her cheeks, but eventually nods. “What about you?”
You jab a thumb behind you. “I’m kind of stuck here with this idiot. Now hurry.”
Behind you, there’s a huge crash followed by Gojo saying, “You know, this is why no one likes staff team building exercises. There’s always one guy who takes it too far.”
The villain seems to not enjoy Gojo’s commentary because it roars. You turn in time to see Gojo skid sideways through the floodwater, one hand catching the low railing to keep from going down entirely. The black slick lashes for him again and misses, carving a line of ugly cracks through the decorative panel behind him instead.
It’s not hard to tell that Gojo is losing and in fact, you’d be severely deluded if your nerd situationship sort-of close friend would win against a seemingly inhuman sentient black goo. At least he isn’t losing without dignity. He makes valiant attempts to shove the thing back a step, ducking under a swing only for the next to catch him high in the shoulder and throw him sideways into the viewing rail.
Your heart drops to your ass quick, watching as Gojo drives himself back upright with a wince and a desperate glare for you to stay there.
The symbiote host lurches toward him again, blackened arm distending with a wet, horrific ripple.
Your brain finally catches up.
Okay. Okay, think.
You have seen this stupid black goo twice before now, which feels like two times too many. The first time, you used a fire extinguisher. The second, the steam wand from the cafe had done enough to make the goo retreat. So this thing clearly does not enjoy pressure or heat.
You spin in place, eyes skittering wildly over the wrecked shark gallery.
There’s debris everywhere, broken signage, upside down benches and a cardboard cutout of some mascot shark swims past you in ankle deep water. There’s a staff-only closet near the back, more brochure stands, maps on the wall, when your eyes finally see it. There, near the entrance of the tunnel, is a thick industrial hose line feeding into one of the side filtration systems, its pressure valve mounted low on the wall, bright red against the blue gloom.
One of the sanitation steam lines that run along the upper maintenance track has ruptured where debris struck, hissing softly in the rumble of the crumbling aquarium. White vapour coughs out in fitful bursts, weak now but still there.
“Satoru!”
He glances your way at the exact second the host slams him in the chest, sending him skidding through the water on his back. You wince. “Oh, sorry. Whenever you have the time.”
“I’m fine,” he chokes out, rolling out of the way in time to avoid a second blow. “Thanks for asking.”
You splash toward the pressure valve, shoes slipping against the tiles. “Shut up and use the environment! There’s a pressurised line here and steam up there. You’re just going to have to trust me on this one but I think I have an idea!”
The host, as if sensing your plan, turns towards you. Gojo curses, any sarcasm vanishing in an instant.
“No! Don’t get closer!”
“Too late!” you yell back, already grabbing the valve wheel. “You’re getting your ass beat, Satoru, I’m not going to stand here and just let your ego handle it!”
He rises to his feet, running to you though in the water, it’s only a pathetic sloshing that almost gives you the ick. “My ego? And you think your pride will handle it any better?”
No.
“Yes!”
You wrench at the valve and, because your life has always been full of miracles and good fortune, nothing happens.
The host lunges in your direction again. Gojo catches him from the side, arm hooking around his neck for one desperate second before the black slick ripples up and flings him off. He crashes shoulder-first into the low barrier by the shark viewing glass.
He gasps and coughs, eyes blearily finding yours. “Get—get out of here. Now, Y/N.”
“I’m not giving up.” You brace one foot against the wall. “No pressure, literally.”
You yank at the wheel again but nothing still happens. There’s got to be a safety catch, a pin or latch or something. Your eyes dart over the assembly frantically even as the figure draws itself back on its legs.
“Y/N!” Gojo calls out again, water sloshing around his body as he tries to follow.
Your eyes skim frantically over the valve housing, over rusted bolts and warped metal and a tangle of pipes slick with spray, until they finally catch on a metal locking pin bent half-flat against the side.
Without another thought, you lunge for it and wrap both hands around the pin.
Behind you, there’s a sharp, ugly sound—Gojo sucking in a breath through his teeth—followed by the violent splash of him slamming back into the host. You risk a glance over your shoulder just in time to see him catch the thing by the arm, twist with the momentum, and drive a punch into its face hard enough to make black slick spray across the floodwater.
Pulse spiking, you put your whole weight into the pin. And finally, it gives all at once, slipping free so suddenly you nearly fall backward into the floorwater.
“Got you!” you hiss at the valve before throwing yourself against the wheel.
This time, it turns. The line shudders to life with a deep, violent thump and water pressure surges through the pipes hard enough to rattle the wall.
“Satoru!” you shout, looking up wildly. “To your left! Bring him here!”
He turns his head fast, sees the line, sees you, and somehow understands immediately despite looking one bad hit away from passing out. You suppose he isn’t a genius for nothing.
Gojo stands with more purpose, moving in a tight arc through the floodwater, letting the thing follow. His movements are messier than they should be, attributed to the wounds he’s sustained. You can see it every time he favours his right side, every time his mouth tightens with every dodge.
But he still keeps moving, still keeping the thin on him, keeping it away from you. Trusting your ridiculous plan that was concocted in under a minute.
“Come on,” he calls, breathless and taunting all at once. “Come on and get me, you big ugly thing. I’ve had worse nights.”
The host lunges under the broken steam line.
“Now!” you shout, a command for just yourself really, and crank the pressure line open fully.
A brutal blast of high-pressure water erupts across the gallery and catches the host broadside, slamming into its blackened shoulder and neck with enough force to wrench it half off its feet. At the same time, a fresh burst of steam hisses from overhead where the damaged line gives way under the renewed vibration. And just as you’d hoped, the black slick convulses.
It peels back in twitching bands from the host’s throat and shoulder, recoiling from the steam with an ugly, wet shiver. It starts to back away on unsteady feet.
“There!” you yell, voice cracking with triumph and panic all at once. “Again, use it again!”
Gojo doesn’t hesitate. He grabs the dangling steam pipe with both hands and yanks hard enough to shear the remaining bracket loose. The line drops lower, shrieking vapour across the host’s side.
The thing—not the man, but the thing—lets out a shrill cry, a sound so wrong it feels like it goes through your bones instead of your ears.
Gojo uses the opening immediately, slamming his shoulder into the host’s chest and driving him back into the support beam beside the shark viewing glass. The whole gallery shudders under the impact, but this time the host goes down hard, knees buckling under him as the black slick writhes and spasms under the steam.
You don’t realise you’ve moved until you’re already splashing toward him, relief making you stupid and light all at once. In your head, it should have been graceful, some dramatic run into his arms after shared survival and mutual competence. In reality, the water turns it into a pathetic, uneven waddle that Gojo, in an act of true mercy, only pretends not to notice.
“We did it!” you say, breathless and bright with adrenaline. “That was insane, but we did it. And I’m taking at least seventy percent of the credit, by the way, because without me you were just getting beaten up in a public aquarium—”
He smiles, just barely, and turns to look at you.
“Yeah,” he says, chest heaving. “I guess we—”
Something moves in the corner of his eye.
It isn’t the frantic, wild sort of movement from before, but something uglier for how deliberate it feels. A last-ditch effort. The host drags one arm free of the steam and the floodwater just enough for the black slick to surge violently down its length and gather into one long, brutal lash of muscle and tar.
It comes not for Gojo, but for you.
Gojo sucks in a sharp breath at the sight, his whole face changing before you can even register why. His mouth opens around the start of your name, warning already there, panic rising faster than the sound can leave him.
You are still a few crucial seconds behind.
By the time you catch the movement in your peripheral vision and start to turn, Gojo is already lunging forward. But the thing is too fast, the distance too wrong, and you can see the exact instant he realises he won’t make it to you in time as himself.
You turn just enough to see it.
Ah.
So this is how stupid people die.
Something white snaps through the air.
The strike jerks violently sideways before it can hit you, yanked off course so hard it slams into the side wall instead, cracking the tile with a wet, horrible impact. A scream tears from your throat, loud and sharp in the aftermath, but the thing barely registers to you now, not even when the goo gives one last shudder and forms something like a trembling fist aimed in your direction.
You don’t care about that anymore.
Instead, your eyes track the white line stretched taut across the gallery.
You follow it all the way back.
All the way to Gojo.
He stands there with his arm still half outstretched. His face is stricken with lingering panic, but there is something else there too, something like resignation, like he knows whatever happens next might end his world right here in a crumbling aquarium.
You look from his face to his wrist and then back again.
“What,” you say, finding no other words that fit the moment. “What the fuck.”
Gojo lowers his arm very slowly. Water drips from his sleeve, from his fingers, from the impossible thin connecting him to the wall beside you.
“This is not how I wanted to tell you,” he says, his voice suddenly rough in a way you recognise far too well.
The host roars, and it’s that sound that snaps both of you back into motion.
Gojo’s hand goes to his pocket and comes back with the mask—of course it’s the mask. Blue and white, worn at the edges, and, hell, maybe you’re hallucinating now, but is that still the little tear you left in the fabric that night?
He hesitates just before pulling it over his head, eyes darting back to you as he says, “Please wait for me. Just this once, please wait.”
There is no time to process the fact that his eyes look almost frightened. No time to process the fact that the voice you’ve heard in your ear and the voice that has said your name in two different ways now belong to the same infuriating man. There is really no time to process anything at all.
So, shockingly, you do the mature thing.
You nod.
“Okay,” you say, and your voice sounds strange to your own ears. “Okay. Go.”
You watch as Gojo stares at you, hopeless and pleading all at once, the mask slipping over his face. But now that you’ve seen him—seen him bare and vulnerable and desperately hoping—the blue and white can no longer hide it.
Spider-Man keeps looking at you even as he slings onto the adjacent wall, the sticky material catching with a faint smack.
“I’m going to explain everything,” he says. “I promise. Just—please. Please still be here when I come back.”
He doesn’t wait for your response, not properly. Maybe because he’s worried whatever words leave your gaping mouth will be a rejection. Maybe because if he waits another second, he’ll stay here looking at you until the whole room caves in around you.
Spiderman slings out onto the adjacent wall, the web catching with a faint, sticky smack, and for one absurd second all you can think is that even upside down and half-bleeding he’s still showy.
Then he launches and whatever restraint Gojo had been fighting with until now is gone.
The host lunges towards you but you don’t flinch. There’s simply no fight in your body anymore. Not that it matters because Spiderman meets him in the centre of the gallery.
What had looked clumsy and desperate when Gojo was still trying to pass for your average citizen becomes something else entirely now that he’s abandoned his facade. His body understands the room in ways you never could, every rail, every shattered edge, every unstable surface becomes a part of him when the web attaches to it, part of the fight. He lips under the host’s first strike and plants a hand against the flood tile, driving both feet into its chest hard enough to send it skidding backward through the water.
He flicks his wrists out before the host can recover, pinning one arm to a fractured support beam, another line catching its ankle.
The black slick surges and peels away from the first web, but it's too slow. Spiderman is already gone from where he was, slinging upward into the steam and dropping back down from above with enough force to slam the hose into the floor.
The black mass writhes and lashes and tries to reform over the host’s body, but now there is no hesitation in the man fighting it, no room left for restraint. Spiderman moves with frightening precision, using every opening, every recoil, every half-second where the thing peels back under heat and sound. He webs one wrist, then the throat, then the opposite shoulder, dragging the host back into the pressure line each time he tears free. The slick recoils violently, shrieking, trying and failing to hold together.
Was it just you but did it look like Gojo was taking his frustration out on this thing?
Your mind keeps trying and failing to fit the pieces together. It all comes together anyway, the way Gojo had always disappeared at the wrong times, the way Spiderman’s voice had felt familiar even when you told yourself that was ridiculous and known things about you he couldn’t have. The way he touched you, the way the other never quite did, not completely, as if afraid of what would happen if he started.
All of it was him. Every humiliating, infuriating, impossible piece of it.
The host tears free one last time, black goo surging over his chest in a final desperate wave. But by now, it should learn that doing something over and over again is a sign of insanity because Spiderman is already there.
A webline catches high overhead and with a yank, the hanging steam pipe drops lower. Another shot takes the alarm cable and rips it loose in a shower of sparks. He drives forward, one hand wrapped around his web, the other braced against the host’s chest, and hurls him back into the flooded floor beneath the full force of the steam.
The black mass writhes and shrieks then tears free all at once. It peels from the man’s body in one final, violent shudder and streaks away through the fractured wall paneling, vanishing into the dark beyond the gallery even as Spiderman attempts to stop it.
Then the host collapses, dead.
Then nothing. Of course, not complete silence as the alarms still ring and water still drips. But between the two of you, across the room now suddenly empty of the thing that had stood there, there is a different kind of stillness.
Spiderman straightens slowly. He stands in front of the steam and the ruin and the broken shark glass, chest heaving, mask still over the face you now know too well, and even from here you can see the way his body sags just slightly under the cost of what he’s just done.
You stare at each other, the gap between endlessly vast until you decide to close it.
Your shoes drag through the floodwater, sending up ugly little splashes with every step, and by the time you reach him, any dignity you might have salvaged from the reveal is long dead and buried beneath three inches of fish water. He stands there waiting, one hand hanging at his side while the other presses hard against his ribs.
Your hands fist the front of his hoodie and he lets you.
“You are the biggest liar I have ever met in my entire life,” you say, voice trembling with the weight of everything.
Spiderman—Gojo—lets out a weak laugh. “That sounds about right.”
You yank the mask up without another word.
It catches for half a second on his nose before sliding free, damp and warm in your hand, and there he is. Just Satoru now. He’s pale, soaked through, hair plastered to his forehead, lips parted around the hard pull of his breathing. There’s blood at the corner of his mouth and more blooming darkly beneath his hoodie where he’d been hit, but his eyes are on you and only you with that same awful, naked openness they had before he put the mask on.
“Satoru,” you say, and his name comes out rough, almost wounded.
His eyes lift to yours at once, terrified of what he might find there.
You slap him. And honestly, compared to everything he went through less than a minute ago, compared to what he deals with everyday, you’d call the slap a puny, pathetic hit. Still, the hand from his side flies up to cup his cheek, looking more startled than in pain.
“That,” you start,” is for lying to me.”
He gapes at you wordlessly.
Then all at once, the rest of it rises inside you—the fear, the relief, the horrible rush of seeing that black strike coming at you and knowing, with perfect clarity, that Gojo would throw it all away to save you, even if it meant revealing his identity.
You lift your hand again but this time not to strike. Instead, your fingers brush his jaw, trembling against the damp skin there, tracing the shape of him you thought you knew so well. You feel his pulse leap, hear his breath catch.
“This,” you whisper, steadier now that you know this is what you want, “is for saving me.”
You go up on your tippy toes, lean forward, and kiss him.
Gojo freezes, arms held out in the air as he pieces together the scene. You’re not mad, well maybe you’re mad, but you’re over that now because you’re kissing him. Wait, you’re kissing him? Then what is he doing just standing there?
A soft, startled sound escapes him, swallowed immediately by your mouth, before he’s drowning in it. The kiss turns desperate, all relief and fear and weeks of restrained feeling collapsing into one reckless, aching moment.
One wraps around your waist and the other catches at your back, hauling you flush against him with desperation. You feel the wound in his ribs in the way his body tightens, the way his breath catches sharply through his nose, but he ignores it completely, pressing you closer like he needs the proof of you there, solid and real and choosing him.
When you finally pull back, it’s only because breathing becomes a necessity again.
His forehead knocks against yours, his eyes fluttering close as he rests there, panting.
The alarms are still going off somewhere beyond the ruined gallery. Water still laps around your ankles, cold and foul and full of things you would rather not identify. Security is shouting in the distance, voices getting closer, but here, in this stupid little pocket of aftermath, the world has narrowed down to the heat of his hands on you and the shape of his breath fanning over your mouth.
When he finally opens his eyes again, he looks a little dazed. Not concussed, though probably that too.
“You kissed me,” he says, and his voice comes out low and rough and almost disbelieving. “After everything?”
You stare at him. “Do you want me to take it back?”
His hands tighten instinctively at your waist. “No!” The answer leaves him quickly before he swallows, eyes flickering over your face to gauge your response. “No, please don’t do that.”
“I’m still angry at you, you know.”
“I know.”
“You lied to me.”
“I know.”
“You kept lying to me.” You stop. “You also knew. This entire time you knew and you just played me twice over.”
He winces a little at that. “Yeah. That one’s harder to defend.”
His gaze drops to your mouth for half a second before climbing back to your eyes, slower this time, more careful.
“I kept thinking there’d be a better time to tell you,” he says. “A version of this where I could do it right. Then every time I almost said something, it got harder because the longer I waited, the worse it got, and I knew that. I knew I was making it worse, I just—I was scared. It was easier for me that way but I also know it was cowardly and I’m sorry.”
You nod once. “And?”
“And?” he repeats before he catches the disapproving look in your eyes and starts scrambling for more. “And… I’m sorry for—well. Actually I’m not sorry about that part.”
You hit him lightly on the arm. “Say you’re sorry for deceiving me.”
“Right, right. Sorry for deceiving you.”
“And that you won’t do it again.”
“And I won’t have sex with you in the Spiderman suit again.”
You hit him again but your mouth twitches before you can stop it, the familiarity of the banter easing the uncertainty. He catches it, of course, that tiny almost-smile, and his expression softens.
“I really am sorry,” he says again. “For all of it. The disappearing. The missed presentation. The lies. Being me, I guess.”
“Being you is, unfortunately, one of your biggest issues.” You pause, eyes flickering down to his lips. “But I think I’m willing to work around that one.”
You watch his eyes drop to your mouth in turn, watch the decision happen in him, quiet and unmistakable. He leans in first this time, just enough for his breath to warm your lips, just enough to make your pulse trip over itself—
“They’re in here somewhere!”
The shout tears through the gallery from the corridor behind you, followed immediately by the unmistakable chaos of multiple people splashing through floodwater at once.
“Please save them!”
“Utahime,” Suguru’s voice says, strained and much closer now, “if you scream at the police one more time, they’re going to leave us here—”
You jerk back so fast you nearly headbutt him and then his maybe concussion would have been a definite one.
Gojo blinks at you, dazed and breathing hard, his mouth still parted from the kiss you almost had before he too regains his senses and pulls back just enough to stop sharing the same air. Then, the both of you turn to that tunnel.
Utahime barrels into the gallery first, wild-eyed and soaked,hands cupping around her mouth as she calls your names, the wound on her leg now wrapped up. Shoko walks in right behind her with a tight expression that immediately crumbles at the scene. Geto is just behind them followed by two officers and what appears to be the entire remaining aquarium emergency staff.
You shove the mask still in your hand into your pocket, fingers fumbling once against the wet fabric, but don’t do much more to break away from the incriminating position. His hand is still on your waist, your own fingers are still hooked into the front of his hoodie, and your chest is pressed flush against his.
Shoko is the first to say something. “Well. I guess you guys did make up after all.”
“Did this happen before or after you took the crazy madman down?” Utahime says, deciding that is the most important detail to clarify.
“Are you two not done yet or should we come back in a bit?”
It’s Geto’s words that finally has you pulling apart, blushing madly and eyes looking frantically away from each other.
And when the police finally reach the two of you, shouting over one another and very tactfully ignoring your swollen lips, you feel something brush against your hand. Gojo’s fingers curl carefully around yours, warm and tentative despite everything, and, more importantly, despite the very audible snickering coming from your right where your friends have been herded aside to let the officers work, you lace your fingers through his without hesitation.
Because with Gojo’s thumb brushing against the side of your hand while an officer asks if either of you can walk unassisted, it’s hard to feel like the world is ending anymore. You had spent so long acting like meeting Gojo Satoru on March 15th at 10:12am was the beginning of your personal apocalypse. Granted, he is still infuriating and he is still a liar. But standing there in a flooded aquarium with his hand in yours and his blood on his shirt and a superhero mask hidden in your pocket, you can’t help thinking maybe you’d been a little dramatic.
Or maybe not. Maybe the world really had ended when you met Gojo Satoru. It’s just that, now that you’ve survived the aftermath, you’re starting to think the next one might be better.
a/n: PHEWW thank u for making it to the end! this has been the unwanted child in my drafts for three whole years and rewriting it was a pain considering how unfunny i was but if there’s one less lonely girl in the world then it’s worth it <3 this was a lot longer but i had to cut down for tumblr’s character limit ☹️ rip to all the shoko + utahime silly scenes and the injured spiderman scene and the lab satoru scene and the—[GUNSHOT] regardless !! shoutout to flatline as always and to all the national days we missed the deadlines to <3 see you guys on the 28th for national burger day on this fine burger month 🍔
synopsis ~ months of longing. a week at a beach house. one shared bed, too much tension and too little self control. suguru geto has spent far too long wanting his friend’s roommate. far too long trying not to ruin her. unfortunately for him, when she shows up to spring break looking at him like that, he fails spectacularly.
tags ~ 18+ mdni !!! idiots in fucking love, yearning yearning yearning, geto's a masterclass yearner, lowkey slowburn? friends to lovers-ish, mutual pining, praise kink, dirty talk, pet names, oral fixation, piv sex, creampie, marking, size difference, belly bulge, light possessiveness, aftercare, geto's just down bad and i love him and i love this
a/n ~ gosh this was toooo much fun to write. decided to make this one a long(er) oneshot compared to the multi parts i had for choso n gojo, bc it made more sense with the plot i had in mind! hopefully all of u lovelies enjoy ;) and sorry for the wait <3
w/c ~ 17.4 k (youch i got carried away)
access the frat verse here!
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.
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.”
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 charp 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!"
a/n ~ did u cry when they kissed? no? just me blubbering like a baby writing this? ...
summary ;; Running out of plots for The Morning Sunbeam Show, you let your friends dare you into texting a mysterious number written in pink glitter in the library restroom.
Next thing you know, you’re caught in a agonizing love triangle between your suspicious, grumpy new texter and your perpetually annoyed audio engineer, Megumi. Too bad your sociological imagination completely fails to realize that the "phantom" you're romanticizing on the air and the guy staring at you through the studio glass are the exact same person.
pairings ;; nerd!Megumi x reader
genre ;; romcom
w/c ;; 31k
warnings ;; reader is OBLIVIOUS, sunshine x grumpy dynamic, swearing, vape smoking, very easily flustered gumi, wrote it over 2-3 nights so if theres any typos im sorry im sleep deprived
a/n ;; tried to give this ff a 2000s teen movie vibe hope i got it rightt. i just love love megumi i wanna hug him awh. ion really got much to say about this ff only that im so funny i made myself chuckle at some point so i hope i can make you laugh too dear readers
as always, dont forget to subscribe, comment (your feedback is greatly appreciated), reblog and like or wtvr those youtubers say now xx
if you like reading with music on, give this playlist i made specifically for this fanfiction a try! maybe you'd like it
art creds @/thatsallitchief on X ; header @cursed-carmine
like what you see? read more! m.list
You thought university was going to be hard. Heck, even choosing a major had proven to be an agonizingly difficult task for you. High school had been a whirlwind of standard curriculum, but walking into the massive university orientation with a blank registration form had felt like standing at the edge of a cliff. You didn’t want to spend four years staring at lifeless spreadsheets, and you definitely didn't have the stomach for the grueling, clinical world of STEM.
In the end, you had looked to your left, seen the bright, familiar grin of Yuji Itadori, and made your choice.
Yuji had been your classmate all throughout high school—the loud, chaotic athlete who somehow always managed to make everyone smile, no matter how miserable the rainy mornings were. When you both miraculously ended up at the exact same university, it felt like a lifeline. He had scribbled down Sociology on his form because he "just really liked learning about how people tick," and you had immediately followed suit. It turned out to be the best decision you could have made. Studying human behavior, social dynamics, and the chaotic ways communities connected perfectly matched your natural, radiant energy.
Plus, it meant you got a built-in seat partner for every major lecture, someone to share notes with, and an instant connection to the campus social scene, which was exactly how you landed your gig as the bubbly host of the morning radio show at WKJS. And that was also how you met Megumi Fushiguro. The most painfully blunt, caffeine-deprived black hole of pragmatism on the entire campus, who looked at your bright-eyed optimism and decided his official club duty was to rain on your parade.
The heavy studio door muffled the rain outside, but inside the WKJS live room, the atmosphere was frantic. You were furiously sorting through your cue cards, a bright pink highlighter capped firmly between your teeth as you cross-referenced the morning’s messy sports updates with the student union announcements.
Across the soundproof glass, Megumi Fushiguro sat enveloped in the low, ambient glow of his dual monitors, his lip piercing glowing brightly under the digital light. He didn't say a word, but his long, pale fingers moved across the massive mixing board with effortless, clinical precision. He adjusted a slider, checked his digital clock, and held up three fingers through the glass. Three minutes to air.
Through your headphones, his voice crackled to life. A low, gravelly morning rasp that sounded entirely too exhausted for 7:00 AM. "Your mic levels are spiking because you're breathing like you just ran a marathon. Sit down, spit out the marker, and focus."
You pulled the highlighter from your teeth and grinned broadly through the glass window, leaning forward so he could see the sheer mischief in your expression. "Good morning to you too, Fushiguro! Did you sleep under the console again?"
"No," Megumi deadpanned, his eyes never leaving the green audio waveforms dancing across his screen. "I slept for a total of four hours because someone decided to DM me at midnight asking if a whale's heart is actually the size of a Volkswagen Beetle."
"It was a vital question for my morning fun-fact segment!"
"It’s an urban legend. It’s the size of a small car, not a vintage Beetle," he muttered, finally looking up to give you a strict, pointed look. "One minute. Cue the intro track."
You adjusted your headset, your posture straightening instantly as the digital countdown clock on the studio wall hit single digits. Megumi’s hand hovered above the master fader, his posture tense and professional despite his lack of sleep. He gave you a sharp nod, throwing a finger directly at you through the glass pane. You're live.
You smashed the flashing yellow button on your console, and the bubbly, upbeat theme music of The Morning Sunbeam Show flooded the campus airwaves.
"Good morning, Jujutsu University!" you chirped into the microphone, your voice bursting with a level of radiant energy that Megumi clearly found criminal at this hour. "It is a rainy, gray Thursday, but we are leaving the gloom at the door. I’m your host, Y/N and we have a packed hour for you today."
Behind the glass, Megumi rested his chin in his hand, keeping a careful eye on the volume bars as they bounced into the yellow zone. He looked utterly bored, but his fingers remained twitching on the sliders, perfectly balancing your voice against the loud backing track so the listeners wouldn't get deafened.
"First up on the campus radar," you continued, leaning closer to the pop filter on your mic, "the big rivalry rugby game is next Friday! Our Jujutsu Crows are going head-to-head with Kyoto Tech. Now, I’ve been told the team is practicing out on the quad in the pouring rain right now. Honestly, if I were them, I’d just forfeit and stay inside with hot cocoa. But hey, true dedication! Are we going to see a blowout? Personally, I think Yuji from the sociology department is going to carry the entire scrum on his back. Literally. The guy tackles like a literal freight train."
Through your headphones, you heard a faint, localized huff of static. Megumi had briefly flipped his talkback switch just to interject. "It’s a team sport. It takes eight people to form a proper scrum. It’s physically impossible for one person to carry it, even Yuji."
You completely ignored his logic, shooting him a smug look through the glass as you kept rolling. "Anyway! Speaking of heavy lifting, let’s talk about the library elevator. It’s been broken for three whole days. To whoever is in charge of campus maintenance: my calves are crying. I had to walk up four flights of stairs this morning carrying three iced lattes. It was a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions. It was... pore-ing rain outside, and I was pouring sweat inside."
Silence hung in the studio for exactly one agonizing second.
Then, Megumi calmly reached his hand across the soundboard. Without breaking eye contact with you through the glass, his thumb firmly pressed a gray auxiliary button on his sound pad.
Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.
The dry, synthetic acoustic sound effect of a single cricket echoed sharply through your headphones and directly onto the live campus broadcast.
You gasped, your hand flying to your chest in mock betrayal. "Fushiguro! Did you just cricket-sound me on live radio?!"
Megumi didn't even blink. He just tapped his headset, his face completely expressionless, though his eyes held a glimmer of dark amusement. "The WKJS audio logs require a high standard of humor. That joke was a broadcast violation."
"It was a pun! Puns are a literary art form!" You laughed heartily, leaning into the microphone to address your listeners before he could cut you off again. "Do you hear the absolute tyranny I deal with behind the scenes, guys? My audio engineer has a heart made of cold stone. But don't worry, I won't let him ruin the morning vibe. Let's move on to the real tragedy on campus: we need to talk about the mystery of why the campus cafe ran out of chocolate croissants by 6:30 AM. I watched three separate freshmen nearly dissolve into tears at the register. If you are the person buying them out in bulk for your 8:00 AM lectures, please consider this a formal public plea to share the wealth."
You leaned back, taking a brief breath as you transitioned to your next cue card. "And speaking of morning routines, we’ve got our weekly campus advice column segment up next. Today’s anonymous submission comes from a student who says, 'My roommate insists on playing Gregorian chants at 5:00 AM to 'align their academic aura' before studying. Do I move out, or do I start playing heavy metal back?' Personally, I say fight fire with fire. Go full thrash metal."
A click echoed in your ear. "Or they could just talk to their roommate like a normal person," Megumi muttered through the talkback. "Communication solves things. Passive-aggressive music wars don't."
"Boo, you're no fun, Fushiguro," you retorted smoothly into the mic, making sure the listeners heard your teasing tone. "Our resident audio expert votes for 'sensible conversation,' but what do you guys think? Drop your thoughts in our station request box. We're going to slide into a quick music break to get your blood pumping on this rainy morning. Here is 'Lovefool' to brighten up your Thursday!"
Megumi slammed the slider down, smoothly cutting your mic feed and raising the volume on the track.
The live room went dark-air silent. You pulled off your heavy headphones, a massive, unbothered grin on your face as you looked through the partition. Megumi finally let his rigid shoulders drop, a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk tugging at the absolute corner of his mouth before he quickly wiped it away, grabbing his coffee cup to hide it.
"You're ridiculous," his voice came through the booth monitors, sounding a little less guarded now that they were off the air. "The Gregorian chants segment was entirely uncalled for."
"Hey, it's quality content!" You chuckled, settling back into your chair. You didn't dare leave the studio yet, there were still mid-show announcements to organize, tracklists to cue up for the second half of the broadcast, and a whole hour of club activities ahead before you could finally pack up your things. "Now help me pick the next track, Mr. Music Critic. Do we go with indie pop or give the listeners a rainy-day jazz vibe?"
Megumi rolled his eyes through the glass, leaning back in his swivel chair. "Indie pop. If you play jazz at 7:30 AM on a rainy Thursday, half the campus will drive their cars into a ditch out of sheer melancholy. Keep them awake."
"Spoken like a man who views music purely as a tool for survival," you shot back, spinning your pen between your fingers. You leaned forward, resting your chin on your hands as you stared at him through the glass partition. "You know, Fushiguro, you have a really great radio voice. If you actually opened your mouth for more than ten seconds at a time, you could co-host. You shouldn’t close yourself away in that little tech cave. A little human connection wouldn't kill you."
"Human connection gives me a headache," Megumi replied deadpanned, his long fingers already queueing up the indie pop track. "I’m perfectly content with my waveforms. They don't make terrible puns or demand pastries at dawn."
"You're a fortress, Fushiguro. A cold, unyielding fortress wrapped in an oversized hoodie," you laughed. It was the absolute truth. You two were standard club colleagues, operating in two entirely different social galaxies. You were the campus social butterfly who shared sociology notes with Yuji; he was the reclusive biology nerd who only seemed to tolerate human speech if it came through a XLR microphone cable. But you still made it your personal mission to crack his outer shell at least once a shift.
The track faded out, and Megumi gave you the one-finger countdown cue. You slid your headphones back over your ears, your posture instantly snapping into professional radio-host mode.
"And we are back, Jujutsu University!" you chirped, leaning into the microphone. "If you're just tuning in, you missed a very intense debate about rugby and a tragic lack of chocolate croissants. But right now, it is time for my absolute favorite part of the week: our anonymous Love and Romance Column."
Through the headphones, you heard a faint, pained groan from the tech booth. You threw a bright, teasing wink through the glass at Megumi.
"Our first submission today is a classic," you said, opening a brightly colored envelope. "The listener writes: 'Dear Morning Sunbeam, I’ve had a massive crush on a guy in my macroeconomics lecture all semester. Last week, he asked to borrow my pencil, and when he gave it back, he had chewed on the eraser. Is this a display of animalistic dominance, or does he like me?'"
You burst out laughing, hitting the desk. "Okay, first of all, to our anonymous listener—that is not dominance, that is a severe lack of oral hygiene. Throw the pencil away. But secondly, can we please raise the bar for romance on this campus? Where is the effort? Where is the drama?"
You gestured dramatically with your free hand, completely into the performance. "Call me an absolute hopeless romantic, but I refuse to settle for 'pencil-chewing' as a love language. I want a Disney-worthy love story to tell my future children, okay? I want the dramatic airport chase. I want the accidental umbrella share in the pouring rain. I want to tell my kids, 'Your father stared into my soul and knew we were soulmates from the moment our eyes met across a crowded room.' I don’t want to tell them, 'Well, kids, your dad destroyed a number two Ticonderoga pencil and the rest was history.'"
A sharp click cut into your headphones.
"You're going to give your future kids unrealistic expectations," Megumi’s voice muttered through the talkback channel. "The airport chase is a federal offense, and the umbrella thing just leaves both people half-soaked. Real life isn't a cartoon."
"Do you hear this man?!" you gasped into the microphone, utterly delighted by his predictable cynicism. "My audio engineer, ladies and gentlemen, the ultimate romance killer. Fushiguro, have you ever even heard a fairytale?"
"Fairytales usually end with someone being eaten by a wolf or cursed by a spindle," Megumi countered smoothly, his face entirely expressionless through the glass as he monitored the audio levels. "I prefer statistics. The probability of an airport chase resulting in a successful relationship is under two percent."
"You are a black hole of pragmatism," you chuckled, shaking your head into the microphone. "Listeners, ignore the man behind the curtain. Keep dreaming big, keep your erasers un-chewed, and stay tuned for tomorrow’s Sunbeam Show. That is a wrap on our rainy Thursday morning broadcast!" you announced, sliding smoothly into your closing sign-off. "A huge shout-out to everyone heading out to support our Jujutsu Crows next Friday—wear your rain gear, bring your energy, and remember to protect your pencils from the macroeconomics department. I'm leaving you with 'Kingston' to keep the good vibes rolling into your morning lectures. Stay bright, campus!"
You cut your vocal track, sliding the master volume down as the music swelled. The bright red ON AIR sign above the door finally flickered out.
The studio went entirely silent. You tore the heavy headphones off your ears, shaking out your hair with a massive, exhausted sigh, and looked through the glass partition.
Megumi was already shutting down the secondary monitors, his long fingers methodically logging out of the station’s mainframe. He pulled off his own headset, letting it rest around his neck like a collar, and glanced up at you through the soundproof window.
"Forty-eight seconds over your scheduled time," he said, his voice coming through the desktop monitors as he flipped the studio to automation. "You're getting sloppy."
"It's called showmanship, Fushiguro. You can't rush true art," you joked, throwing your cue cards into your bag. You glanced down at the bottom corner of your laptop screen to check the time.
7:57 AM.
Your heart dropped directly into your stomach.
"Oh my god," you gasped, your eyes widening in pure horror. "Oh my god, no."
Through the glass, Megumi paused, his hand hovering over a cable. He raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"Research Methods in Sociology!" you shrieked, frantically jamming your pink highlighter, loose notebooks, and half-empty coffee cups into your overflowing tote bag. "Professor Kato is giving a pop quiz on data sampling at exactly 8:00 AM! He said if we’re even a second late, he’s locking the door and making us write a ten-page essay on structural functionalism!"
"Then you should probably stop talking and start running," Megumi deadpanned. He didn't look remotely panicked, in fact, there was a faint, deeply unhelpful glint of amusement in his green eyes as he watched you scramble. "The sociology wing is on the complete opposite side of the quad."
"I have three minutes to cross the entire campus in a monsoon!" You threw the strap of your bag over your shoulder, nearly knocking over the empty latte tray in the process. You sprinted to the heavy studio door, ripping it open, before throwing one last desperate look back at the tech booth. "If I die of cardio failure on the steps, Fushiguro, tell Yuji he can have my sociology textbook!"
"I'm not doing that," Megumi's flat voice echoed after you. "Move."
You burst out of the station's basement double-doors and into the hallway, your sneakers squeaking violently against the linoleum as you sprinted toward the stairs. You were officially, completely, and utterly fucked.
And you were, in fact, late.
You skidded to a halt outside the lecture hall at exactly 8:01 AM, lungs burning from the cross-campus sprint, only to find the heavy wooden doors firmly locked. You pulled on the handle. Locked. Solid. Through the narrow glass window, you could see Professor Kato holding up a stack of quiz papers, a deeply chaotic smirk on his face as he tapped his watch.
You were practically doomed. That ten-page essay on structural functionalism was officially out to bite your ass.
Though, to be fair, as you slouched against the hallway wall to catch your breath, you realized that a ten-page essay was probably going to be way easier to finish than a Kato pop quiz you hadn’t even studied for. Silver linings, right?
Still, the morning was officially a disaster. Your calves hurt, your hair was frizzy from the rain, and your emotional stability was hanging by a thread. Sliding down the wall until you were sitting flat on the linoleum floor, you pulled out your phone. It was time to summon the council.
You: miwaaaaa 😭😭😭 rip me literally delete my existence from the simulation rn
Miwa : omfg what happened ?? did fushiguro cricket-sound you again?? i was listening on my way to campus the macroeconomics shade was top tier line ngl
You: no i wish that was the worst part. i got locked out of research methods. kato locked the doors at exactly 8:00 like a menace. i’m cooked. absolutely roasted. i have to write a 10 page essay now i’m actually crying screaming throwing up
Miwa : NOOOO 💀💀 bro kato takes his lock-out rule too seriously it’s unhinged. sending thoughts and prayers fr 🙏
You: i don’t need thoughts and prayers miwa i need liquid serotonin. i am begging for a sweet little caffeine treat before my soul completely leaves my body. if i don’t get a matcha or a sweet latte in the next ten minutes i will dissolve into a puddle.
You: pls tell me u can escape to the campus cafe?? i’ll literally pay for yours too i’m desperate
Miwa : wait omg free coffee?? say less 👀 but wait i’m literally sitting with maki rn in the student union, she’s helping me study (read: yelling at me for formatting my bibliography wrong) can she pull up too??
You: OMFG YES PLS bring maki!! i need her big sister 'stop crying and fight god' energy right now or i won’t survive the rest of Thursday. tell her she can get whatever she wants on my tab 💥
Miwa : bet. maki said she’s down to watch you mourn your GPA. We’re in the library bathroom don’t die yet bestie!! 🏃♀️💨
Locking your phone, you let out a dramatic sigh and pushed yourself up from the floor. A date with your besties and a sugar-loaded coffee was exactly the coping mechanism you needed.
You stuffed your phone into your pocket and started heading toward the stairs.
The basement of the university library was where joy went to die. It was dark, smelled faintly of decades-old paper and damp concrete, and the fluorescent lights in the girl's restroom hummed with a low, buzzing vibration that felt like a localized migraine. But right now, it was your makeshift sanctuary.
You leaned heavily against the cold tile of the sink, your tote bag dumped unceremoniously on the floor, while Miwa and Maki stood on either side of you. True to your word, you had brought a massive, extra-sweet iced latte from the library’s mini cafe to act as your liquid serotonin, which you were currently inhaling like oxygen.
"I’m just saying," Miwa said, her voice bouncing echoing off the stall doors as she frantically adjusted her bangs in the mirror, "a ten-page essay is a hate crime. Like, legally, Professor Kato should be put on trial. Who even uses the word structural functionalism in real life? It’s giving medieval torture."
Maki leaned back against the brick wall, her arms crossed tightly over her leather jacket. She looked completely unfazed by the basement's depressing aura. "Kato’s an idiot who just likes watching people panic. But honestly? You ran across the quad for a 7:00 AM radio shift but couldn't make it to class on time. L. Skill issue."
"Maki, please, my calves are literally detached from my body right now," you groaned, taking a loud, desperate sip of your latte. "I was giving the people content. I was pouring my soul into the microphone. Fushiguro literally cricket-sounded me on live air because of a pun. I am a victim of the system."
"Fushiguro is a narc," Maki deadpanned, a sharp smirk cutting across her face. "Next time he does it, just unplug his master console. He’ll lose his mind. It’s hilarious."
Miwa giggled, turning around from the mirror, but as she reached for a paper towel, her eyes caught something on the side of the porcelain sink. She froze. Her jaw dropped slightly, and her eyes went wide with the kind of intense, dramatic focus she usually reserved for anime releases.
"Um... wait," Miwa whispered, pointing a trembling, manicured finger at the wall right next to the automatic soap dispenser. "Guys. Look at this."
You and Maki both leaned in.
There, scrawled aggressively onto the grout in a brilliant, aggressively reflective pink glittery marker, was a phone number. The handwriting was incredibly neat, but the choice of medium was pure chaos. Right above the digits, written in the same blindingly sparkly ink, was a caption that looked like it had been penned by a feral gremlin:
NEED A REALITY CHECK? TEXT THE MOST PESSIMISTIC MAN ON CAMPUS.
(555) 777-nopuh
(Warning: He hates fun. He will ruin your day. Proceed at your own risk.)
Two days ago, with her phone pressed firmly to her ear, pinned in place by her raised shoulder, Nobara Kugisaki rolled her eyes so hard she was fairly certain she could see her own brain. She stared into the library basement bathroom mirror, wielding a tube of clear, ultra-reflective lip gloss like a precision instrument. She applied a thick, uncompromising layer to her bottom lip, smacked her lips together with a sharp pop, and let out a furious, echoing huff that bounced off the drab tile walls.
"I am actually going to murder him, Yuji," Nobara hissed into the receiver, her voice bouncing violently off the cold restroom tiles. "No, scratch that. Murder is too clean. I am going to find his precious little noise-canceling headphones, submerge them in a hot vat of nacho cheese, and watch him cry biological tears."
On the other end of the line, the loud, muffled sound of a chip bag crinkling signaled that Yuji Itadori was, as usual, completely relaxed and probably sitting on his sofa in his sweatpants. "Whoa, calm down, Nobara! Who are we assassinating today? Did the cafeteria run out of the spicy ramen again?"
"No, you idiot! It's Fushiguro!" Nobara yelled, dipping the gloss wand back into the tube with venomous intent. "He ditched me! At the library! We have been planning this for a week. He was supposed to help me study for my biology midterm because my current grade is a literal cry for help, and what does he do? He sends me a text message at 6:45 AM—6:45 AM, Yuji!—that literally just says: 'Transmitter calibration error at the station. Can't make it. Read chapter twelve.' Read chapter twelve?! Chapter twelve is sixty pages of microscopic plant anatomy! I don't care about the emotional life of a fern, I need a passing grade!"
"To be fair, Nobara, Megumi said he had to calibrate the WKJS transmitter because of the rain. He told you he had a hard deadline at noon."
"I don't care about his deadlines! My GPA is currently on life support!" Nobara ranted, tossing her lip gloss into her bag and gripping the phone properly. "He sat there, looked me dead in the eye, and said, 'If you can't memorize basic plant anatomy, that's a personal failure.' A personal failure, Yuji! He has the emotional intelligence of a wet cardboard box! I need vengeance. Deep, psychological vengeance."
Yuji let out a loud, sympathetic groan through the speaker, though it was quickly followed by the sound of him loudly crunching on a chip. "Damn, that's cold. But to be fair, Megumi takes that radio station tech stuff like it's a life-or-death mission. If the campus radio goes down, who's gonna play the weird indie pop songs at dawn?"
"I don't care about the radio station, ugh! I care about my GPA!" Nobara snapped, pacing the short distance between the hand dryer and the trash can. "He completely ghosted me for a bunch of audio cables and an oversized mixing board. The absolute audacity of that jerk. He needs to be punished. He needs to suffer the way I am suffering right now looking at these flashcards."
Yuji let out a loud, booming laugh. "Bro, what are you gonna do, fight him? He’ll just hit you with a textbook. The guy practically lives in a cave. You can’t exactly take your revenge on someone who doesn't have a soul. Unless... oh, man, you should totally do what people in those old high school movies do. Go full petty mode. Write his number on a bathroom wall or something. 'For a good time, call Megumi.'"
Yuji burst into loud, wheezing laughter at his own joke, completely missing the dead silence that suddenly fell over the library restroom.
Nobara stopped pacing. Her hand froze on her hip. Slowly, her eyes drifted down to her open makeup bag sitting on the edge of the sink. Peeking out from beneath a pile of brushes was a brand-new, dual-tip, highly permanent pink glittery marker that she had bought yesterday purely because the packaging looked aesthetic.
Slowly, a wicked, absolutely feral grin stretched across her face.
"Yuji," Nobara whispered, her voice dropping into a dangerous, sweet register. "Sometimes, your single brain cell fires at maximum capacity."
"Wait, what? No, Nobara, I was joking! Do not do that, he will actually find out—"
"Shut up, I'm doing it," she interrupted, already digging frantically through her makeup pouch. She slammed her phone down on the porcelain ledge of the sink, putting it on speaker so she could keep Yuji on the line while she worked.
"Yuji, you are an absolute, certified genius," Nobara whispered, unscrewing the cap of the pink glittery marker with a satisfying click. The chemical scent of permanent ink wafted through the air, sparkling under the harsh fluorescent lights. "A 'good time' is too cliché. People will think it's a scam. No, Megumi needs something targeted. Something that will attract the absolute loud, chaotic energy he despises the most."
"Nobara, please, he’s gonna know it was you!" Yuji pleaded through the phone, sounding genuinely terrified for his own safety by association. "He’s gonna find out and he’s gonna lock us both out of the apartment!"
"Let him try," Nobara laughed wickedly. "This is what he gets for being a terrible friend," Nobara muttered, the tip of the pink glittery marker squeaking loudly against the tile as she began to write in her flawless, incredibly neat print. "Let’s see how his pristine, unbothered, academic aura handles a bunch of chaotic freshmen girls."
NEED A REALITY CHECK? TEXT THE MOST PESSIMISTIC MAN ON CAMPUS.
"Nobara, stop! I can literally hear the marker scratching the wall over the phone!" Yuji yelled, his voice cracking in a panic.
"Hold on, I'm customizing his bio," Nobara muttered, as she carefully penned down Megumi's exact ten-digit phone number from memory—because she had dialed it so many times this morning to yell at him. Beneath the numbers, she added a final touch of artistic flair:
(Warning: He hates fun. He will ruin your day. Proceed at your own risk.)
"Nobara, please tell me you aren't actually doing it," Yuji pleaded, though a snort of laughter escaped his nose. "If Megumi finds out, he's going to use his clinical biology knowledge to figure out exactly how to make our lives miserable. We live with the guy!"
"He won't find out because he never sets foot in the girls' bathroom," Nobara cackled, admiring her handiwork as the pink glitter caught the dim, buzzing fluorescent light of the basement. She capped the marker with a satisfying click and threw her head back. "And if he does get bombarded by random, chaotic texts from absolute strangers on this campus? Well, that’s just the universe balancing the scales for my anatomy midterm. Consider yourself marked, Fushiguro."
"You're a monster," Yuji whispered, though there was a hint of awe in his voice. "I’m deleting our call history. If Megumi asks, I was at the gym. I don't know you."
"Coward," Nobara smirked, tossing her bag over her shoulder and walking out of the restroom with her head held high. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go buy a coffee and find someone else to explain the Krebs cycle to me. Pray for Fushiguro’s inbox, Yuji. It’s about to get very, very bright."
"Oh my god," Miwa gasped, her hands flying to her cheeks. "The glitter. It’s artistic philosophy! It’s a literal sign from the universe! Y/N, this is exactly what you were talking about on your show!"
Maki squinted at the handwriting, her eyes narrowing behind her glasses. She let out a sharp, amused hum. "Hold on. I know that handwriting. That's definitely Kugisaki's marker. She bought a whole pack of those glittery abominations this week to ruin Fushiguro’s biology notes." Maki’s smirk widened into something devious.
"No way," Miwa squealed, hopping on her toes and gripping your arm. "A campus pessimist? The universe is literally handing you a script on a silver platter! Y/N, this is it. This is your destiny. I am officially challenging you right now. You have to text it. No, wait, even better. Call it. Call it right now on speaker."
"Are you insane?!" you hissed, trying to pull away from her grip, though you were laughing. "I am a respectable radio host, I am not harassing a random stranger because of bathroom graffiti! What if it’s a professor? What if it’s a serial killer?"
"Coward," Maki baited smoothly, checking her nails. "Where’s that big 'Disney-worthy romance' energy you were just shouting into the microphone twenty minutes ago? 'Oh, I want a dramatic story to tell my children!'" Maki mocked your radio voice perfectly, dropping her tone into a hilarious, airy caricature. "Well, here’s your story. 'Kids, your father was a mysterious basement dweller whose number I stole from a library restroom sink.'"
"Maki, don't encourage her!" you cried, though your hand was already drifting toward your pocket.
"I double-dog dare you," Miwa pleaded, joining her hands together like a shrine maiden. "If you do it, I will format your entire structural functionalism ten-page essay. I will do the APA citations, Y/N. Every single one of them."
You stopped. You stared at Miwa. APA formatting was a literal demon straight from hell. The thought of not having to type out forty different italicized journal titles and hanging indents was tempting enough to make you commit a misdemeanor.
"A text and a call?" you asked, your voice wavering.
"A text first, to bait him, and then a call to see if he answers," Miwa bargained, nodding fiercely. "Come on, it's for the plot! The morning show needs content!"
You looked at the pink glittery marker. You looked at Maki, who was nodding with a wicked grin, and then at Miwa, who was practically vibrating.
With a dramatic sigh, you pulled your phone out of your pocket. "Fine. But if this turns out to be a total creep and I get hacked, you guys are paying for my premium cyber-security software."
You opened your messaging app, typed in the digits exactly as they were written in pink glitter, and took a deep breath. Your thumbs flew across the keyboard, tapping into your inner chaotic energy.
You: good morning, Mr. Pessimist! i hope you have an absolutely terrible, rainy day! ☀️✨
"Sent," you whispered, holding the screen up so they could see the green bubble bubble away into the cellular void.
You stared at the screen. One minute passed. Then two.
"Nothing," you shrugged, a wave of relief washing over you. "No typing bubbles. No read receipts. The pessimist is sleeping in."
"Oh my god, no, call him! Call him before he has time to look at the message!" Miwa squeaked, nudging your shoulder. "Maybe he ignores texts from unknown numbers!"
Before your logical brain could stop you, your thumb hovered over the phone icon and smashed it. You instantly hit the speakerphone button, holding the device out between the three of you like it was a live grenade.
Ring...
The sound echoed sharply against the restroom tiles. You held your breath, your heart hammering against your ribs.
Ring...
"He's gonna reject it," Maki whispered, her eyes glued to the glowing screen. "Nobody answers unknown numbers at eight in the morning unless they're expecting a package."
Ring...
Ring...
“The mailbox belonging to (555) 777-nopuh is full and cannot accept new messages at this time. Goodbye.”
The mechanical automated voice cut through the speaker, followed by a sharp, monotone beep. The call disconnected automatically, dropping the bathroom right back into the low hum of the fluorescent lights.
Maki let out a loud, snorting laugh, leaning back against the wall. "Wow. A full voicemail box. That is peak antisocial behavior. He really is a pessimist."
"Aw, man!" Miwa pouted, her shoulders slumping. "Total radio silence? That’s so boring! I wanted high drama!"
"Hey, a dare is a dare," you said quickly, shoving your phone safely back into your tote bag before they could convince you to try again. You shot Miwa a triumphant, expectant grin. "I sent the text and I made the call. You still owe me those APA citations, Miwa."
"Fine, fine," Miwa grumbled, though she was already giggling again as she grabbed her coffee. "But if he ever texts you back, you have to read it live on air!"
"Deal," you laughed, completely relieved that the mystery number was a total dead end.
You bundled your things together and headed out of the restroom with your friends, totally unaware that across campus, a very specific, sleep-deprived audio engineer had his phone sitting face-down on a mixing console, entirely muted, with a single unread text notification glowing silently on the screen.
The heavy, soundproof door of the control booth didn't so much open as it despondently groaned, swinging wide to admit a thoroughly depleted Megumi Fushiguro. It was 4:15 in the afternoon. The campus was shrouded in a miserable, relentless drizzle, and Megumi had just survived a grueling, three-hour ecology seminar that had consisted entirely of analyzing spreadsheets on the reproductive cycles of local marsh ferns. His brain felt less like a functioning organ and more like a waterlogged sponge.
He slumped into his favorite squeaky swivel chair, dropping his thick leather binder onto the desk with a heavy, dead-air thud that caused a nearby stack of blank CDs to rattle. The afternoon automation track was currently broadcast-running a mindless, jangly indie-pop song (the exact kind of cheerful, mid-tempo garbage he actively despised before sundown) leaving him in a state of relative, uninterrupted isolation.
Pulling the hood of his oversized black sweatshirt lower over his face, Megumi sank down into his clothes, his dark, messy hair sticking out at chaotic angles. He rubbed his eyes and reached into his front pocket. His phone was practically vibrating with a backlog of unread notifications, almost entirely generated by a highly chaotic group chat containing Yuji and Nobara, a digital wasteland he had kept strictly on permanent mute since the second week of the semester.
However, sitting right at the very top of his lock screen, entirely separate from the group chat madness, was a solitary, glowing notification from an unsaved ten-digit number.
Megumi stared at it, his brow furrowing into a sharp, suspicious V. He unlocked the phone, his thumb tapping the message thread with a clinical sort of caution.
Unknown Number [8:16 AM]: good morning, Mr. Pessimist! i hope you have an absolutely terrible, rainy day! ☀️✨
Megumi froze. He blinked once. He blinked twice. His exhausted brain, still sluggishly processing the linguistic differences between varying species of freshwater moss, began to work through the data points of the text message with the meticulous precision of a forensic scientist.
Item one: "Mr. Pessimist." A highly specific, targeted insult.
Item two: The blinding, hyper-aggressive inclusion of a cartoon sunshine emoji.
Item three: The deliberate, cheerful wish for his morning to be a total disaster.
It took exactly three seconds for the pieces to slide into place. He didn’t even need to cross-reference the digital timestamp, but because he was a data-driven biology major, he checked it anyway. 8:16 AM. That was precisely nineteen minutes after his morning-show host, a girl who was practically a walking, talking sunbeam wrapped in a blur of pastel cardigans and unhinged energy, had bolted out of the studio door in a flurry of absolute panic. She had been shrieking at the top of her lungs about a Kato pop quiz, leaving behind a literal cloud of neon pink highlighter dust, dropped cue cards, and the faint scent of coconut perfume.
Then, his eyes drifted down to a separate missed alert from exactly two minutes after the text. A missed call. No voicemail left, mostly because he had intentionally let his inbox fill up to maximum capacity three semesters ago specifically so people would stop trying to leave him verbal messages.
"Unbelievable," Megumi muttered aloud to the empty, soundproofed room, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.
His silver lip piercing clicked sharply against his bottom teeth as he ran his tongue over the metal stud, a nervous, frustrating habit he only did when his brain was entirely overwhelmed by someone else's nonsense. Which was almost every single minute of the day.
He leaned his head back against the chair, staring at the ceiling tiles as a slow realization washed over him. He didn't need a detective license to map out the logistics of this crime. Nobara had clearly engineered this entire trap. And you—armed with an overwhelming amount of bubbly enthusiasm, a distinct lack of impulse control, and a loud, self-proclaimed yearning for a "Disney-worthy plotline"—had walked straight into the snare.
Megumi rolled his eyes, his tongue flicking out to trace the tiny silver hoop in his lip once more. His thumb automatically hovered over the block button. It was his standard operating procedure. Megumi’s phone was a strictly fortified ecosystem, reserved exclusively for family emergencies, delivery apps, and automated alerts from the biology department's greenhouse thermostat. He did not do anonymous banter. He did not engage with feral behavior.
But right as his thumb was about to press down and send the contact into the digital abyss, he paused.
He remembered the look on your face through the soundproof glass partition just eight hours ago when he had cut off your dramatic fairytale rant with a perfectly timed cricket sound effect. He remembered the absolute, theatrical shock in your eyes, the way you had gasped directly into the microphone, and how you had spent the next three minutes completely roasting his bad attitude to a live listening audience of four hundred bored students.
A tiny, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the very corner of his mouth, sending a sharp, familiar pull through his lip piercing.
Megumi swiped away from the block option, pulling his hands into the cuffs of his black hoodie. If you were genuinely going to sit in a library basement restroom, stealing numbers in a desperate bid to force some sunshine into a stranger's life, it would be a massive disservice to WKJS quality control standards not to give you exactly what you asked for.
He tapped the text field, his fingers flying across the digital keyboard with sharp, rhythmic, highly aggressive thuds. He didn't use lowercase letters for aesthetic purposes, and he certainly didn't use emojis. He wrote with the stiff, unyielding authority of a peer-reviewed scientific journal.
You: The rain is a vital component of the local ecosystem. Your forced optimism is a hazard to public safety. Do not text this number again.
He stared at the screen for a brief second, ensuring the tone was sufficiently chilling, and hit send.
The text bubble turned green, shooting off into the cellular void. Instantly, Megumi flipped his phone completely face-down on the cold, brushed-metal surface of the mixing soundboard. He reached for his lukewarm, bitter black coffee, took a slow sip, and leaned his head back against the headrest, a small, glint of pure amusement finally breaking through his exhaustion.
The violent, glass-shattering shriek that erupted from the lower bunk of Room 304 was a sound usually reserved for lottery wins, pop star sightings, or a surprise syllabus cancellation.
Yuki Tsukumo didn't even flinch. As a fifth-year senior who had survived three roommate changes, two academic probations, and a brief stint as the rugby club’s unofficial mascot, she had developed a terrifyingly high threshold for drama. She merely held her liquid eyeliner wand perfectly still, drawing a flawless, lethal wing across her eyelid while you rolled frantically across your duvet like a human burrito, clutching your glowing phone to your chest as if it were a live explosive device.
"He replied! Yuki, oh my god, the bathroom phantom actually replied!" you screamed into your pillow, kicking your legs in the air so violently that your pastel blue bedding threatened to swallow you whole. "I’m crying, I’m screaming, I’m literally throwing up. Look at this! Look at the sheer, unadulterated clinical malice dripping from these words!"
Yuki capped her eyeliner with a loud, satisfying click and turned around, leaning her hip against the edge of her cluttered desk. She was already halfway zipped into a dangerously short black leather skirt, her long blonde hair cascading over her shoulders in messy, effortless beach waves. She looked down at you with a mixture of seasoned amusement and maternal pity, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across her face.
"Alright, hand over the evidence, corporate radio," Yuki said, extending a manicured hand. "Let’s see what kind of basement-dwelling gremlin we're dealing with."
You scrambled up to a sitting position, your hair a chaotic, static-frizzy halo around your face, and thrust the phone into her face. "Read it out loud. Please. You need to capture the exact cadence of a man who clearly hasn't felt the warmth of the sun since Obama was in office."
Yuki squinted at the screen, clear green text bubble staring back at her. She cleared her throat, dropping her voice into a hilarious, stiff, monotone drone that sounded like a robotic text-to-speech narrator.
"The rain is a vital component of the local ecosystem. Your forced optimism is a hazard to public safety. Do not text this number again."
The room fell silent for a beat before Yuki let out a loud, bark of laughter, tossing your phone back onto the mattress. "Oh, wow. He gave you a peer-reviewed lecture on hydrology, babes. Who writes like this? Is your mysterious campus pessimist a literal Wikipedia article?"
"Right?!" you wailed, collapsing backward onto your giant stuffed frog. "It’s so intense! Look at the punctuation! He used a period at the end of every sentence, Yuki. A period! That is a digital death threat! Normal people use a keyboard smash or at least a passive-aggressive lowercase layout, but this guy? He wrote this text with his spine perfectly straight. I can feel the judgment radiating through the lithium battery."
You stared at the ceiling, suddenly struck by a wave of profound, existential panic. "But wait... what if he’s actually dangerous? What if he’s a deeply troubled biochemistry doctoral student who spends his weekends brewing neurotoxins in the basement labs? Or worse—what if he's just mean? Like, genuinely, aggressively miserable? I’m an agent of joy, Yuki! I wear glitter hair clips and listen to Lana Del Rey while romanticizing the campus bus schedule! If I engage with a man whose aura is a literal thunderstorm, our molecular structures might violently repel each other and cause a localized tear in the space-time continuum."
Yuki snorted, stepping into a pair of towering, platform ankle boots and stamping her feet down to settle her heels. She walked over to the mirror, grabbing a bottle of cherry-scented body spray and dousing herself in a cloud of artificial sweetness.
"First of all, you're doing that thing again where you talk like a dramatic theater major who just discovered coffee," Yuki said, checking her reflection from multiple angles. "Second of all, a localized tear in the space-time continuum is exactly what your tragic little love life needs. Have you seen the guys you usually talk to? Last month you cried over a finance major who thought the word 'facade' was pronounced 'fuh-kade.' The bar is in hell, sweetie."
"He had nice arms!" you defended weakly, burying your face in your hands.
"He thought Europe was a country, Y/N," Yuki countered smoothly, totally unfazed. She picked up a chunky silver chain necklace, fastening it around her neck with practiced ease. "Look at the facts. This bathroom guy didn't block you. If he was a true, clinical psycho who hated fun, he would have hit that little 'block report spam' button faster than you could say 'ecosystem.' But he didn't. He clicked the text box, typed out a three-sentence paragraph using his big-boy words, and hit send. That's not a rejection. That's engagement."
"It felt like a rejection," you mumbled through your fingers.
"It’s a challenge," Yuki corrected, pointing a lip gloss wand at you like a weapon. "He’s practically begging you to poke the bear. Think about the narrative arc! You’re the sunshine-infused morning-show host who treats the campus radio booth like a musical, and he’s the grumpy, rain-loving gargoyle sitting on a porcelain throne in the library basement. It’s peak cinema. It’s 2003 Hilary Duff gold."
She walked over to your bed, grabbing her tiny, uselessly small shoulder bag from the desk and checking for her ID and lip gloss. She looked down at you, her brown eyes sparkling with pure, unadulterated.
"Look, I’ve got a pre-game at the Sigma Iota house in ten minutes, and I fully intend to watch three different freshmen try to do a keg stand and fail miserably," Yuki said, throwing her arm around your shoulder and giving you a rough, affectionate squeeze. "I cannot sit here and watch you overthink a text from a guy who probably uses a multi-step skincare routine just to look that brooding. You have a two-hour radio shift tomorrow morning at the crack of dawn. What are you gonna talk about? The weather? The cafeteria's dry scrambled eggs?"
She patted your cheek sharply. "No. You are going to text him back something so wildly, unhinged-ly optimistic that his little brain short-circuits. Might as well get some plot for your morning show, babes. If he gets mad, read his texts live on air and let the freshman class roast him."
You blinked up at her, the gears in your brain suddenly shifting from terror to chaotic inspiration. If you played this right... the content would be legendary.
"You're a menace to society, Yuki," you whispered, a slow, dangerous smile finally breaking across your face.
"I'm a super senior," Yuki corrected cheerfully, blowing you a double-kiss as she unlocked the dorm door. "There’s a difference. Don't lock the top deadbolt, I'll probably be stumbling back around two. Happy hunting, Sunshine!"
The door clicked shut behind her, leaving you alone in the quiet dorm room. You looked down at your phone, the green text bubble practically daring you to strike back. You took a deep breath, cracked your knuckles, and let your thumbs fly across the screen, channeling the most hyperactive, unhinged energy you possessed.
You: wow, a biology lesson! 😍 standard rate for private tutoring is $20 an hour, but since you’re so passionate about moss, I’ll let it slide! happy rainy day, Mr. Plant Scientist! may your soil always be moist! 🌱🌧️✨🌈
You hit send with an aggressive snap of your thumb, threw the phone face-down on the bed, and let out a muffled, ecstatic shriek directly into your stuffed frog. The game was officially on.
Not even two minutes later, the lithium battery of your phone vibrated against your mattress with such sudden, aggressive force that it made your stuffed frog jump.
You lunged for it, nearly tumbling out of your lower bunk in the process, your eyes widening as you flipped the screen up. It had been exactly ninety seconds. Ninety seconds for a man who claimed to be "busy" to type out a response.
Mr. Pessimist: First of all, I am a Biology major, not a "plant scientist." Second of all, do not ever use the phrase "may your soil always be moist" in my inbox again. It is ecologically inaccurate and deeply uncomfortable.
You let out a loud, snorting cackle, burying your face in your duvet to stifle the noise so the girls in 305 wouldn't think you were having a medical emergency. He was taking the bait. He was taking the bait so hard he was practically swallowing the fishing rod. The absolute rigidity of his text—the fact that he actually listed points out as "first of all" and "second of all"—was the funniest thing you had ever witnessed in your nineteen years of life.
You cracked your knuckles and rubber your hands together like an evil fly, your thumbs practically vibrating with mischievous energy.
You: omg sorry Mr. Eco-Boy!! 🥺 mbb! i didn't mean to disrespect the dirt! but you didn't deny the private tutoring part... does this mean you're charging me or is the first lesson on marsh ferns free? asking for a friend (the friend is my sociology GPA) 📉🙏
You held the phone directly above your face, watching the screen like a hawk. The response was almost instantaneous. You could practically visualize his thumbs violently smashing into his screen.
Mr. Pessimist: I do not tutor. Especially not people who use declining graph emojis to describe their academic standing. Go to the university library. There is an entire building filled with books that do not require me to clear my notification center every two minutes. And I am entirely confused as to how a random sociology student obtained my personal number in the first place.
You: but the library basement smells like damp concrete and despair!! 😩 plus, some psycho wrote a phone number in pink glitter right next to the soap dispenser in the girls' bathroom. total safety hazard btw. I feel much safer getting my science facts via digital correspondence with a mysterious stranger. 🕵️♀️✨
Megumi stared at the screen, a cold sweat suddenly breaking out across the back of his neck.
The library basement. Girls' bathroom. Pink glitter marker.
His tongue violently flicked against his lip piercing. Kugisaki.
The pieces fell into place with agonizing clarity. This was her twisted, highly public retaliation because he had ditched her at the library a few days ago to fix a transmitter calibration error at the campus radio tower. She had literally texted him at 7 AM that morning threatening to stuff his body into a media lab printer, but he figured her rage would burn out after a few days. Instead, she had waited, bided her time, and turned a public restroom wall into a targeted assassination plot.
And of all the people to find her pink glittery handiwork, it had to be the most hyperactive, unhinged girl on the campus.
He let out a slow, irritated breath, shaking his head at his own tragic luck before furiously smashing his thumbs into the keyboard.
Mr. Pessimist: Whoever wrote that number is an illiterate criminal who clearly lacks the cognitive capacity to pass a basic general education requirement. Do not romanticize property damage. Delete this number.
You literally squealed, kicking your legs in the air. He was so mad! He was getting entirely, completely, beautifully worked up over a pink marker. You could practically hear the smoke coming out of his ears through the phone.
You: hey! don't talk about the pink glitter phantom like that! she’s an artist! a matchmaker! a visionary! thanks to her, I have a brand new pen pal to keep me company while my roommate is out doing keg stands at Sigma Iota. 💃🎉
You: anyway, Imma go watch euphoria and probably go to sleep so I don't look like a zombie for my 7:00 AM radio shift tomorrow. wouldn't want my "forced optimism" to ruin the morning airwaves! sweet dreams, Mr. Eco-Boy! don't let the marsh ferns bite! 🌿😴🌙
You waited, your heart fluttering with a weird, bubbly sense of victory. A moment later, the final text of the night popped up. It didn't have a single emoji, and the punctuation was, as expected, devastatingly formal.
Mr. Pessimist: I do not have sweet dreams. I sleep out of biological necessity. Go to sleep.
You smiled warmly, locking your phone and tucking it under your pillow. You couldn't wait to tell Maki and Miwa about your hilarious new text buddy tomorrow.
Meanwhile, back in the studio booth, Megumi slowly tossed his phone face-down on the cold metal surface of the console. He leaned his head back against the headrest, staring blankly at the soundproof glass partition that separated his dark cave from your colorful broadcast desk.
He knew your name. He knew your major. He knew exactly what time you were walking through that door tomorrow morning. And you had absolutely no idea that the "Mr. Eco-Boy" you were so happily ragebaiting was the exact same moody engineer who was going to be mixing your audio feed in less than twelve hours. Tomorrow morning's broadcast was going to be very, very interesting.
The heavy glass door of the WKJS broadcast studio didn't stand a chance against the sheer, caffeinated velocity of your entrance.
You burst into the hallway like a pastel-colored category five hurricane, your chunky platform sneakers squeaking loudly against the freshly buffed linoleum. In one hand, you were precariously balancing a tray holding a massive, extra-sweet iced strawberry matcha latte with a bright pink straw and a dangerously top-heavy cupcake wrapped in crinkling cellophane. In the other, you clutched an overstuffed tote bag bursting with neon sociology notebooks, stray highlighters, and a fuzzy hello kitty keychain that jangled with every single step you took. You were practically vibrating, completely impervious to the unholy, freezing morning drizzle that was currently making the rest of the campus look like a cinematic landscape of pure depression.
By contrast, the master control booth was a tomb.
The studio lights were dimmed to an almost subterranean low, leaving the room illuminated only by the sterile, colorful glow of the dual computer monitors and the green and red LED meters dancing rhythmically on the mixing console. Megumi Fushiguro sat dead center in his favorite squeaky swivel chair, looking like a dark, brooding gargoyle observing his kingdom. The hood of his oversized black sweatshirt was pulled completely up, throwing the top half of his face into shadow, save for the messy tufts of dark hair sticking out at defiant angles. He was wrapped in a dense aura of absolute, sleep-deprived silence, his long fingers wrapped around a single ceramic mug of black coffee that smelled strong enough to strip paint.
As the door clicked open, his silver lip piercing gave a sharp, metallic clink against his teeth. His tongue flicked out to trace the tiny metal hoop (a telltale sign that his internal radar had just detected an oncoming threat to his peace).
You were, by all measurable scientific metrics, a hazard to anyone running on less than eight hours of sleep.
And Megumi Fushiguro was running on exactly three and a half.
"Good morning, WKJS!" you chirped, slamming your massive neon green drink down onto the designated non-technical wooden side table with a loud, plastic clack. You threw yourself into the padded host chair across the glass partition, immediately spinning around in a full 360-degree circle just to shake the early morning chill from your bones. "Fushiguro! You are looking exceptionally gothic today. Is the dark hoodie an aesthetic choice, or are you just mourning the fact that the campus bookstore ran out of those clinical black ink pens you love so much?"
Megumi let out a low, gravelly rasp that sounded less like a human greeting and more like a car engine trying to turn over in a freezing blizzard. He reached out with a long, pale hand, his blunt fingers catching the master volume slider and aggressively shoving it down three decibels to drown out the upbeat indie-pop track currently running on the automation loop.
"Isn't the morning drizzle just absolutely exquisite today, Fushiguro? It’s giving peak independent cinema. It makes the entire campus look like a cinematic montage about a girl discovering her inner purpose while walking past the library."
"It’s seventy-four percent humidity," he muttered, his voice dropping into that smooth, clinical deadpan that always made you want to poke him with a stick just to see if his heart rate would go up. "It creates condensation on the transmitter cables and makes my job harder. There is no magic. Put your headphones on."
"Boo, come on, live a little!" You leaned forward, resting your elbows on the edge of the console, your eyes wide and sparkling with pure, unadulterated gossip energy. You tapped your fingernails against the foam casing of your microphone. "You need to align your chakras, Fushiguro. But honestly? Your terrible attitude actually reminds me exactly of something wild that happened last night. A literal cosmic alignment occurred in my life last night, and as my technical director, you are legally obligated to hear about it."
Megumi’s hand paused, his fingers hovering half an inch above the soundboard’s equalizer knobs. He kept his eyes locked on his computer screen, refusing to look at you through the soundproof glass. "If this is another story about Yuji trying to eat a frozen waffle without thawing it first, I’m cutting your mic before the intro track finishes."
"No! Way better," you gasped, throwing your hands up dramatically, the plastic bangles on your wrist clattering together. "Yesterday, after my horrific sociology lab, Maki, Miwa, and I were in the library restroom. You know, that restroom down by the old periodicals where it smells like damp concrete and academic failure? And someone—an actual genius, a visionary—wrote a phone number in bright pink glitter marker right next to the soap dispenser. A phone number, Fushiguro. And underneath it, the anonymous author had scribbled: 'Call for a terrible time. The most pessimistic man on campus.'"
Behind the glass, Megumi’s hand subtly tightened against the rubber casing of the volume slider. His eyelids fluttered, just for a fraction of a second, before his face reverted back to a perfectly blank, unreadable mask. He didn't look at his phone, which was currently sitting face-down on the metal desk next to his computer tower, but his jaw clenched tight enough that a small muscle ticked near his ear.
"Property damage," Megumi deadpanded through the intercom, his tone intentionally dropping into a flat, dismissive drone. "You texted a random number off a bathroom wall."
"I did! And Fushiguro, I swear to you, he is exactly like you. It’s uncanny," you squealed, leaning closer to the glass partition as if sharing a high-stakes secret. "I sent him a totally harmless, cheerful morning text, and he replied with this intense, three-sentence paragraph about how my optimism is a 'hazard to public safety' and told me to never text him again. He used proper punctuation, Fushiguro! In a text! He listed his complaints as 'first of all' and 'second of all'! I am not exaggerating, this man is an absolute icon of misery."
You leaned forward, your nose practically pressing against the soundproof glass partition as you grinned at him. "He sounds exactly like you!" you shrieked happily, letting out a loud, delighted laugh that bounced off the acoustic foam panels of the booth. "I swear, the second I read it, I gasped. I was like, oh my god, there are two of them. You two are twins separated at birth by a dark cloud. Honestly, if you met this guy, you'd get along so well. You could sit in a dark room together, wear matching black hoodies, drink bitter sludge, and complain about the sunshine. You'd be best friends!"
Megumi stared directly at you through the glass. For a long, agonizingly quiet five seconds, the only sound in the studio was the faint, muffled bass of the indie-pop automation track playing through the master monitors.
Slowly, Megumi's tongue flicked out again, tracing the tiny silver loop in his bottom lip. A very small, dark, and utterly wicked smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, hidden mostly by the shadow of his hood, but his green eyes gleamed with an absolute, terrifying sense of victory. You had no idea. You were sitting there, completely oblivious to the fact that the "bathroom ghost" was currently staring right back at you, controlling your microphone feed.
"Is that so?" Megumi murmured into the talkback mic, his voice dropping into a smooth, dangerously amused cadence. "You think we'd get along."
"Absolutely!" you cheered, reaching for your headphones. "I'm actually gonna talk about him on air today during the seven-fifteen Love and Romance block. Yuki told me I should make the most of the plot!"
Megumi smoothly reached up with both hands, gripping his large, professional studio headphones and sliding them over his ears. He adjusted his microphone levels on the digital screen, his long fingers executing a flawless cue sequence.
"The automation track is ending in thirty seconds," Megumi announced calmly, his finger hovering over the bright red button that would throw your mic line live to the entire campus. His smirk widened just a fraction. "Get your cue cards ready, Sunshine. Let's see how much 'plot' you can actually handle."
The bright red ON AIR light above the soundproof glass partition suddenly snapped to life, casting a stark, crimson glow across the mixing console. Megumi’s hand was steady on the master fader as he smoothly transitioned out of the morning's automation track. Through your headphones, a crisp, electronic chime signaled that the airwaves were officially yours.
You sat up straight, pulling your microphone a fraction of an inch closer to your lips, your face lighting up with that signature, thousand-watt morning-show energy.
"Good morning, campus! It is exactly 7:00 AM on a beautiful, misty Friday, and you are listening to WKJS, the heartbeat of the university," you introed, your voice floating effortlessly through the radio waves, bright enough to wake up even the most miserable students dragging themselves to early lectures. "I hope you’ve got your coffee ready, because we have a chaotic lineup for you today. But first—can we please talk about the absolute champions over at the athletic department? The Jujutsu Crows really rock!"
Behind the glass, Megumi didn't move, but his dark eyes slowly drifted up from his audio levels to look at you.
"Our boys absolutely crushed the regional qualifiers yesterday," you continued enthusiastically, throwing a triumphant fist into the air. "And with that defense line? The Crows are totally gonna win the big game next week. If you see Yuji Itadori on the quad today, make sure to high-five him, because he basically carried that fourth quarter on his back. You’re amazing, Crows!"
Through the glass, Megumi’s finger tapped rhythmically against his ceramic mug. He loved Yuji like a brother, but hearing his teammate's chaotic athletic exploits romanticized as poetry on the morning airwaves made his silver lip piercing click against his teeth in silent amusement.
"Alright, before we get to our main segment this morning, let’s clear out the anonymous university confession box," you said, shuffling a few printed sheets of paper on your desk. "I pulled three submissions from the digital locker this morning, and you guys are truly losing your minds as finals week approaches. Let's look at confession number one: 'To the guy who left a full container of garlic parm fries in the library study lounge on Tuesday... I ate them. I don't know who you are, but the stress of macroeconomics made me do it. I'm sorry.' Wow. Honestly? Valid. Macroeconomics will drive a person to commit petty theft, I support you."
A faint snort echoed faintly through your headphones. Megumi’s talkback mic was muted, but his sheer disbelief at your logic practically bled through the glass partition.
"Confession number two," you laughed, moving to the next slip. 'I accidentally joined a Zoom lecture for a senior-level advanced biochemistry class thinking it was my intro-to-theater elective. I stayed for forty-five minutes because I was too embarrassed to leave, and now I'm pretty sure I know how to synthesize a pesticide.' Please don't do that. We don't need a supervillain origin story on campus."
"And finally, confession number three: 'I have a massive crush on the girl who wears the giant frog backpack in the engineering building, but today I saw her aggressively fighting a vending machine because her Pop-Tarts got stuck. Should I still ask her out?' Um, absolutely yes! A girl who fights for her pastries is a girl with passion. Do it, anonymous listener!"
You set the papers down, taking a quick, ecstatic sip of your iced matcha latte before leaning back into the mic.
"Speaking of sweet treats, if you are walking across the quad right now, you need to stop what you are doing and head directly to the student union plaza. The cooking club has set up a free cupcake stand this morning! I stopped by on my way to the studio, and let me tell you, the strawberry shortcake one is to die for. It has real strawberry compote in the middle, guys. It is literal heaven in a paper cup. Go support them!"
You paused, leaning back to shuffle through your notes, your smile turning distinctly mischievous as you transitioned to the next official segment of your broadcast block.
"Alright, it's seventy-fifteen, which means it’s time to open up our weekly Love and Romance column," you announced, hitting the soundboard button to cue a soft, smooth R&B background track that Megumi immediately adjusted down so it didn't drown out your voice. "Usually, we read advice requests about unrequited campus crushes or bad Tinder dates. And today, we actually have a highly intriguing anonymous submission from a girl who found herself in a very... unconventional situationship."
You cleared your throat, lifting the paper. "Dear WKJS, I think I am developing feelings for a ghost. Long story short, my friends dared me to text a number we found written in the library basement bathroom. The graffiti promised 'the most pessimistic man on campus.' I expected a total dead end, or maybe a prank, but he actually replied. The problem is, he is the most stubborn, dry, and aggressively negative person I have ever encountered. He gets mad at everything I say, hates emojis, and talks like a living textbook. But for some reason, I can't stop thinking about him. He's totally mysterious, but part of me just wants to crack his shell and cheer him up. Am I crazy, or is there something romantic about a man who refuses to smile?"
Behind the glass, Megumi's hand froze mid-air. His posture went completely rigid.
His dark eyes snapped up, staring at the printed paper in your hands, and then slowly drifted up to lock onto your face.
An anonymous submission. You had written a fake advice letter about him, to your own radio show, entirely oblivious to the fact that he was the one running the audio tracking.
"Now, to our anonymous listener—who I totally don't know, but deeply resonate with," you said into the microphone, a huge, teasing grin breaking across your face as you looked directly at Megumi through the glass window, entirely unaware of the cosmic trap you had stepped into. "I don't think you're crazy at all! Honestly, I think the universe threw this bathroom ghost into your life for a reason. Some guys are just built like thunderstorms, you know? They stay cooped up in their dark little caves, hating the sun and complaining about the rain, but deep down, they just need an agent of total joy to disrupt their ecosystem."
Megumi slowly reached over, his long fingers hitting the master talkback button on his console so his low, gravelly voice cut directly into your headphones, overriding the smooth R&B background track.
"The library basement is a public facility, not a match-making service," Megumi deadpanned through the mic line, his tone dropping into a dangerous, quietly amused register. "And your anonymous listener sounds like an absolute menace who doesn't understand boundaries. If a man tells you his soil needs to be dry, you should leave his dirt alone."
You gasped on air, pointing a dramatic finger at him through the glass partition. "Listeners, my technical director is once again siding with the forces of darkness! Fushiguro, you're just projecting because you also hate fun. But I stand by my advice! To our lovely anonymous writer: do not give up on your pessimistic phantom. Keep sending him sunshine emojis. Keep poking the bear. He might act like he wants you to delete his number, but trust me, deep down underneath all that gloomy science logic, he is totally secretly enjoying the attention."
Through your headphones, you heard the distinct, sharp sound of Megumi's silver piercing clicking against his teeth over the open monitor. He leaned back in his swivel chair, a slow, wicked, and entirely private smirk pulling at his lips as he looked at your bright, completely clueless face.
"Alright, before we completely dive into the psychological analysis of our mysterious, rain-loving bathroom ghost," you said, leaning back into the microphone with a bright chuckle, "let’s look at the second letter in the Love and Romance inbox this morning. Because, campus, the drama is absolutely flowing in the Greek system this week. This one is titled: 'Help, I accidentally consumed the forbidden fruit.'"
Behind the glass, Megumi rolled his eyes, his long fingers resting loosely on the audio faders as he prepared himself for the inevitable onslaught of classic student union chaos.
You adjusted your headset, clearing your throat to give the letter the proper, dramatic reading it deserved.
"The anonymous writer writes: 'Dear WKJS, I am currently hiding under my duvet eating dry cereal because I am freaking out. Last night, I went to the Sigma Iota mixer. I was fully planning on just drinking lukewarm jungle juice and judging everyone's outfits, but then I got into a three-hour debate about the cinematic integrity of Shrek 2 with the Vice President of the fraternity. One thing led to another, we ended up on the balcony, and... we totally made out. Like, heavily. For twenty minutes.'"
You gasped directly into the microphone, adding a theatrical hand to your chest. "First of all, Shrek 2 is a cinematic masterpiece, so the tension is completely understandable. But let's continue. 'The problem is, he’s the Vice President of Sigma Iota. He is six-foot-three, has a literal mane of white hair, wears expensive sunglasses indoors at night, and his entire personality is based on the fact that he's a genius who doesn't have to study. I don't even know if I actually like him or if his sheer, blinding audacity just short-circuited my brain cells. Now he’s texting me asking if I want to grab expensive pastries and talk about 'our infinite vibe.' Am I legally required to change my name and transfer to a different university, or do I actually have to go on a date with a guy who unironically refers to himself as 'The Strongest'?'"
You burst out laughing, dropping the paper onto your desk and looking straight through the soundproof glass partition at Megumi, hoping to catch even a sliver of a reaction.
"Okay, anonymous writer," you giggled into the mic, "first of all, do not transfer schools yet. Pastries are a high-stakes environment, but wow. Making out with the VP of Sigma Iota over a DreamWorks sequel? That is a very specific type of campus crisis."
Behind the glass, Megumi’s his entire soul seemed to momentarily leave his body.
His hand clamped down on the edge of the mixing soundboard, his knuckles turning a stark, bloodless white. His head snapped up, his dark eyes wide with a mixture of profound horror, absolute disgust, and deep, existential exhaustion.
He knew that white hair.
It was Gojo Satoru. His absolute nightmare of an upperclassman, the chaotic president-adjacent menace who lived to make Megumi's life miserable.
Megumi aggressively slammed his hand down on the talkback button, his low, gravelly voice cutting into your headphones with the force of a tectonic shift. It was completely stripped of his usual clinical detachment. He sounded like a man who had just witnessed a crime against humanity.
"Tell her to run," Megumi commanded into your ears, his voice deadpan but vibrating with pure, unadulterated urgency. "Tell her to block the number, delete her social media, change her identity, and move to a different continent. Immediately."
"Fushiguro, stop being so dramatic!" you chastised him on air, throwing your hands up and giggling at his intense reaction. "He sounds gorgeous! A tall, white-haired fraternity VP who likes Shrek 2 and buys expensive sweets? That's literally a romance novel trope!"
"It's a psychological horror film," Megumi countered smoothly, his teeth practically grinding against his lip piercing as he forced his voice back into a flat, monotone drone. "My professional medical advice to the listener is to burn the clothes she wore to that mixer, file a restraining order for her own sanity, and stay at least five hundred feet away from anyone who unironically uses the word 'infinite' to describe a conversation about an ogre. He is an apex predator of pure, concentrated annoying energy."
"Do not listen to him, campus!" you shrieked happily, pointing a finger at the glass window, completely oblivious to his deep personal trauma. "He is a cynical robot who doesn't believe in the magic of a chaotic mistake! To our anonymous listener: go on the pastry date. Let him pay for a fifty-dollar croissant. If he tries to explain the physics of his 'infinite vibe,' then you can climb out of the bakery bathroom window and run for your life. Live a little! Embrace the plot!"
Through the monitors, you heard Megumi let out a long, defeated, deeply pained sigh. The auditory equivalent of a man watching his life flash before his eyes. He checked the master digital clock on his screen, his long fingers smoothly gripping the commercial break fader, eager to cut your mic before Gojo somehow heard the broadcast.
"We're cutting to a four-minute music block before I lose my mind," Megumi announced into your ears, his eyes locking onto yours through the partition with a look of pure, protective exhaustion. The silver stud in his lip caught the neon light, gleaming as he gave you one final, warning look. "Take a sip of your liquid sugar, Y/N. Your microphone is going cold."
The bright red ON AIR light finally died, plunging the studio back into the calm, muted blue glow of the digital monitors. Through your headphones, the upbeat opening chords of a Lana Del Rey track began to play, signaling that the campus was officially listening to the music block and your microphone was safely dead.
You immediately ripped the headphones off your ears, letting them drop around your neck, and practically vaulted over your broadcast desk. You lunged toward the double-paned soundproof glass, pressing your hands and your nose directly against the smooth pane like an overexcited golden retriever puppy watching a closed door.
"Fushiguro! Flip the intercom back on! Flip it on right now!" you demanded, your muffled voice vibrating through the glass until Megumi, with a slow, agonizingly deliberate sigh, reached over and tapped the talkback switch.
"I can hear you fine without you smudging the glass, Y/N," his gravelly voice echoed into the empty studio room. He was leaning back in his squeaky swivel chair, his large black hoodie swallowing most of his frame, his arms crossed over his chest.
"Did you hear her letter? Did you hear my analysis?" you giddily squealed, completely ignoring his grumpy posture. You bounced on the balls of your feet, your lavender knit sweater slipping further off your shoulder. "I am literally a romantic genius. I gave her the absolute best advice. If the bathroom phantom was listening right now—which, oh my god, what if he is? What if he has a 7:00 AM lab and he had WKJS playing in the background while he was dissecting a frog or whatever it is you science nerds do?!?—he is probably completely melting inside. He’s probably realizing his cold, clinical exterior is no match for me!"
Megumi stared at you through the glass. The sheer, blinding irony of the situation was almost enough to make him crack a smile, but he forced his features to remain completely flat, entirely unreadable. He reached into his front pocket, his long fingers wrapping around his phone, which was still sitting face-down. He didn't pick it up, but his thumb brushed the edge of the casing.
"First of all he isn't melting," Megumi deadpanned, his voice cutting through the intercom with a chilling, clinical certainty. " Second of all, nobody dissects frogs at seven in the morning, but if he is, he's listening to a low-frequency ambient drone track to keep his brain from bleeding, not your morning show. And he definitely isn't realizing anything other than the fact that you have an alarming amount of free time."
"Ugh, you are a literal black hole of joy!" you groaned, sliding dramatically down the glass until your chin was resting on the ledge. "You have no sense of whimsy. None! I bet you he was listening. And honestly? I hope he's shaking in his little boots. I want him to know that his forced pessimism is no match for me. I am going to break him, Megumi. By the end of this semester, I’m going to make that man text me a smiley face emoji if it’s the last thing I do." His jaw clenched, a tiny muscle feathering near his ear as he realized you were genuinely planning a secondary text message attack. He looked down at the mixing console, his fingers drumming a quiet, tense beat against the brushed metal.
"Don't text him," Megumi muttered, his tone dropping into a slightly sharper, more authoritative register. "You're on the clock. You need to focus on the next broadcast log, not harassing random engineering students."
"He's a Biology major, Fushiguro, get it right!" you corrected triumphantly, throwing your hands in the air. "And it's not harassment, it's destiny! I can feel it in my bones. By the end of this semester, I’m going to make that grumpy bathroom ghost smile. It is my official university mission."
Through the glass, Megumi let out a low, rough huff of air that was dangerously close to a laugh, though he successfully masked it by taking a slow, deep sip of his lukewarm black coffee. He looked up at you through the rim of his mug, his eyes gleaming with a wicked, deeply private amusement that you completely misread as pure annoyance.
"Good luck with that, Sunshine," Megumi murmured into the talkback mic, a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk finally tugging at his silver hoop. "The music track has two minutes left. Sit down and put your headphones back on before I lock you out of the feed."
The bright red ON AIR light flashed back to life, and the upbeat commercial jingle vanished from your headphones, replaced by the soft, ambient lo-fi track Megumi had cued up for the background.
You sat up straight, flashing a wide, bright grin at the empty studio room as if the entire campus could see you.
"And we are back, WKJS!" you cheered into the microphone, tossing a quick, triumphant look through the glass at Megumi. He was sitting back in his chair, his oversized black hoodie pulled low, his face completely masked in his usual brooding indifference. "You’re listening to the morning rush, and we are closing out our Love and Romance block with a prompt I put out a couple of weeks ago. I asked you guys to submit your absolute, undisputed, 100% ideal perfect date. And let me tell you, the student body is a wild mix of hopeless romantics and people who clearly need to touch grass."
You giggled, shuffling the printed slips of paper on your desk. Behind the glass, Megumi took a slow, casual sip of his coffee.
"Let's look at response number one," you read enthusiastically. "'My perfect date is getting a twenty-piece chicken nugget bucket, driving to the highest point of the campus parking garage at midnight, and screaming lyrics to Taylor Swift until the campus security guards chase us away.' Honestly? Iconic. A classic freshman bonding experience. Ten out of ten."
"Response number two," you moved to the next slip, grinning. "'An all-expense-paid trip to Paris where he proposes under the Eiffel Tower while a violinist plays in the background.' Okay, a bit cliché, but we love a traditionalist! Shoot your shots, guys."
Then, you pulled the final slip from the bottom of the pile. As your eyes scanned the stark, typed text, your voice suddenly faltered. You blinked, staring at the paper. The formatting was noticeably different from the others. There were no exclamation points. No slang. It was written with the absolute, unyielding structural rigidity of a legal document.
You pulled the mic a little closer, your tone shifting from hyperactive to completely captivated.
"Okay, wow. Listen to this one, campus," you murmured into the microphone. "'A perfect date doesn't require performance or forced social expectations. It would involve a quiet, overcast afternoon. A completely empty botanical conservatory or greenhouse during the off-hours, specifically during a light drizzle so the sound of rain hits the glass roof. No small talk. Just walking through the tropical fern exhibits in silence, followed by two black coffees from a local café that doesn't play acoustic pop music. Then, returning home to read separate books on opposite ends of the same couch without feeling the need to fill the silence.'"
The studio fell completely quiet for a beat, save for the soft lo-fi beat.
You gasped dramatically, your eyes flying wide as you slapped a hand over your heart. You bolted upright in your swivel chair, pointing a trembling, ecstatic finger directly at your microphone.
"Oh my god," you shrieked happily, your voice vibrating through the campus airwaves. "Campus! Are you hearing this?! Look at the data! Overcast afternoon? Botanical greenhouse? Tropical ferns?! Two black coffees?! It’s him! It is literally him! Whoever submitted this two weeks ago... OMG, he's the bathroom ghost!"
Behind the double-paned soundproof glass, Megumi Fushiguro violently choked on his black coffee.
A harsh, ragged cough erupted from his throat as he slammed his mug down onto the desk, spilling a dark puddle across the brushed-metal soundboard. His entire face went completely rigid with horror, a dark, furious blush instantly rushing up his neck and burning into the tips of his ears. His tongue frantically flicked out, his silver lip piercing clicking violently against his teeth as his brain completely short-circuited.
He had entirely forgotten about that. Three weeks ago, during a brutal, five-hour midnight automation shift where he was dying of pure boredom, he had pettily cleared out the station's digital inbox and filled out your stupid romance prompt under a burner IP address just to prove that "perfect dates" were scientifically inefficient.
And now, you were reading it live to four hundred students.
"I am not kidding, listeners!" you squealed into the mic, completely oblivious to the absolute medical emergency happening three feet away from you in the tech booth. "The syntax is identical! The sheer, unadulterated hostility toward acoustic pop music?! The obsession with ferns?! It’s a genetic match! The bathroom phantom actually submitted his soul to my inbox weeks before I even found his number! He’s a regular listener! He's a tsundere!"
Megumi aggressively slammed his hand down on the master intercom button, his low, gravelly voice cutting into your headphones like a razor blade, completely stripping away his usual calm demeanor.
"It's a generic submission," Megumi growled into your ears, his eyes wide and wild as he glared at you through the glass. "Greenhouses are common university facilities. Plenty of people drink black coffee. You are experiencing confirmation bias. Turn off your microphone."
"Never! The truth must be broadcasted!" you yelled back, turning your face directly to the glass, laughing so hard tears were pricking your eyes. "Look at my technical director, campus! He's absolutely furious on behalf of the ghost! Fushiguro, admit it! You know I'm right! My bathroom phantom is a secret romantic who wants to read books on a couch in total silence! It's the ultimate plot twist!"
Megumi didn't say another word. His teeth ground together so hard his jaw ached. With a sharp, decisive flick of his wrist, he grabbed the master fader and violently shoved it down to zero, cutting your microphone line completely dead in the middle of your triumphant rant.
He hit a button, throwing the station into an immediate, un-scheduled five-minute commercial block for a local textbook buyback program.
He ripped his heavy studio headphones off his ears, tossing them onto the console with a loud clack, and leaned his head back against his headrest, staring at the ceiling tiles as he tried to stop his face from burning. His hand drifted to his pocket, his fingers tightly clamping around his phone.
Through the glass, you were laughing hysterically, giving him a double-thumbs up and mouthing the words 'He's a romantic!'
Megumi closed his eyes, his tongue slowly tracing his silver piercing in pure, defeated ragebait. He was going to absolutely destroy Nobara for putting his number on the wall.
The heavy soundproof door to the tech booth creaked open with a soft, pneumatic hiss. You stepped into Megumi’s darkened sanctuary, the soft neon blues and greens of the audio meters casting long, colorful shadows across the cramped space. The air in here was different. Cooler, smelling faintly of heated electronics, his cologne, and the rich, bitter scent of his spilled dark roast.
Megumi was still slumped back in his high-backed swivel chair, his long legs stretched out under the desk, his hands shoved so deep into the front pocket of his charcoal hoodie that the fabric was pulled taut. His head was tilted back against the headrest, his dark, unruly spikes framing a face that was currently radiating enough heat to melt winter frost. The flush had spread from the tips of his ears all the way down to his collarbone, turning his usually pale skin a violent, brilliant shade of crimson.
You didn't say a word at first. You just walked over, your chunky lavender sweater swishing softly against your jeans, a small, incredibly tender smile playing on your lips.
Before he could even register your movement, you leaned over his chair. With a gentle, deliberate motion, you took your half-empty iced matcha latte—condensation dripping down the plastic cup like morning dew, and pressed the freezing-cold plastic directly against his left cheek.
Megumi flinched violently, a low, strangled gasp catching in his throat as his eyes flew wide. He looked up at you, his pupils dilated in pure, unadulterated panic.
"Wh—what are you—!?" he stammered, his voice cracking slightly on the first syllable. He tried to pull away, but the back of his chair blocked his escape, leaving him completely trapped between the cold plastic of your cup and the overwhelming, coconut-scented proximity of your smile.
"Shh, hold still," you murmured softly, your voice dropping its high-energy radio cadence for a tone that was sweet, quiet, and incredibly grounding. You adjusted the cup, letting the icy condensation soothe the burning heat of his skin. "Your face is literally smoking, Fushiguro. I'm performing emergency medical intervention. If your brain overheats, who's going to mix my audio feed for the eight o'clock block?"
"I—I am not overheating," he lied through his teeth, though the sheer velocity of his stutter betrayed him completely. He reached up, his long, pale fingers wrapping around your wrist to gently push the cup away, but his grip was entirely devoid of its usual firm authority. His hand was trembling, just a fraction, his warm skin contrasting sharply with your cold wrist. "It's just—the ventilation in here is terrible. The equipment generates too much thermal—thermal output. It’s a mechanical issue."
"Uh-huh. A mechanical issue," you teased gently, not pulling your hand away. Instead, you leaned a little closer, your eyes crinkling at the corners as you looked down at him. "Is that why your lip piercing is practically vibrating, Mr. Technical Director? You look like you just got caught stealing from the student union vault."
Megumi’s tongue darted out, a desperate, frantic reflex as it clicked sharply against the silver hoop in his bottom lip. He swallowed hard, his green eyes darting everywhere but your face—tracking the digital clock, the volume sliders, the smudge on the glass partition—absolutely anywhere to avoid the soft, affectionate gaze you were leveling at him.
"The—the submission," he began, his voice dropping into a hurried, defensive tumble of words. "The submission you read... it wasn't—I mean, it’s not what you think. It was three weeks ago. I was... it was a statistical analysis. I was bored. Yuji and Kugisaki wouldn't stop talking about some brainless reality dating show in the lounge, and I wanted to prove a point. I wanted to create a baseline for an objectively efficient, low-stimulation environment to demonstrate that modern romantic constructs are—are fundamentally flawed and over-marketed."
He took a sharp, shallow breath, his knuckles turning white where they still loosely held your wrist.
"It wasn't... I didn't write it because I was yearning or whatever unhinged word you’re going to use on the air. It was a joke. A scientific joke. The fact that your 'bathroom ghost' writes similarly is just a—a statistical anomaly. A coincidence. A highly irritating, statistically improbable coincidence."
You let out a soft, melodic laugh that seemed to echo beautifully in the cramped booth. Slowly, you set the matcha cup down on a clean corner of the desk, freeing your hand so you could gently pat his shoulder.
"Megumi," you said softly, using his first name for the first time all morning.
The sound of it made him freeze entirely. His head snapped toward you, his eyes wide and vulnerable, the defensive rambling instantly dying in his throat.
"It’s okay," you whispered, leaning in just enough that your oversized sleeve brushed against the fabric of his hoodie. "You don't have to explain it away. Honestly? It was the most beautiful thing I’ve read all week. Whoever wrote it—whether it’s some random guy or a grumpy, brilliant audio engineer who secretly likes quiet greenhouses—has a really lovely soul. There's nothing inefficient about wanting to read books on a couch with someone in total silence. It’s actually really sweet."
Megumi stared up at you, his breath hitching. The sheer, unshielded sincerity in your eyes was far more dangerous than any of your high-energy ragebait. The flush on his cheeks deepened, if that was even biologically possible, burning a furious dark pink as his defenses completely crumbled into dust. He looked entirely defenseless, sitting there under his dark hood, his lips parted slightly, utterly speechless.
"Now," you said, giving his shoulder one last, affectionate squeeze before straightening up and pointing toward the master console. "The textbook buyback commercial has exactly forty seconds left. Clean up your spilled coffee, Mr. Scientist. We have a show to finish."
You spun around and walked back through the soundproof door, your lavender sweater swirling around you as you slipped back into your broadcast chair and put your headphones back on.
Behind the glass, Megumi sat frozen for five full seconds. Slowly, he lifted a hand, his long fingers pressing against the cheek where your cold cup had just been, feeling the lingering coolness against his burning skin. He looked out at you, watching you arrange your notes with a bright, happy hum, totally unaware that youhad just completely conquered the most pessimistic man on campus without even trying.
Your free heaven. Your sanctuary. The only forty-eight hours of the week where you were legally, spiritually allowed to turn your brain into absolute mush, ignore your sociology reading, and completely forget about the giant workload currently sprinting after your ass for next week.
Was. A. Total. DISASTER.
At exactly 11:47 PM on Saturday night, you were happily tucked into your lower bunk, halfway through a bag of sour gummy worms and deep into a mindless TikTok scroll, when your phone violently vibrated against your mattress.
Miwa: Y/N I AM SO SORRY OH MY GOD PLEASE DONT HATE ME 😭😭😭😭😭
Miwa: my laptop just did the blue screen of death. full on Error 404. everything is gone. I couldn't finish ur ten-page sociology research essay. 📉💔
Miwa: I know the rough draft is due Monday morning at 8 AM. I am soooo sorry, I'll treat you to all-you-can-eat sushi next weekend when my allowance comes in I swear!!! 🍣🙏😭
You stared at the screen, a sour gummy worm dangling limply from your mouth. The universe hadn't just rained on your parade, it had flooded the entire stadium, struck the bleachers with lightning, and drowned the mascot. Ten pages. On a Saturday night. From scratch. Due in less than thirty-six hours.
Exactly twenty minutes later, you were trudging across the pitch-black campus quad like a literal zombie, wrapped in a giant blanket scarf that made you look like a disgruntled burrito, your laptop shoved into your tote bag, and your teeth chattering against the brisk 1:00 AM air. Your only saving grace was that the university library basement was technically open twenty-four hours for exam season.
You pushed through the heavy glass doors of the library, the sterile, blinding fluorescent lights stinging your sleep-deprived eyes. The main floors were dead quiet, but as you descended the concrete stairs into the notorious basement (the very same basement where the pink glitter graffiti lived) the smell of damp concrete, old microfiche, and academic despair hit you like a physical wall.
You scanned the cavernous room, looking for an empty cubicle with a working outlet. The place was practically a graveyard of exhausted students sleeping face-down on open textbooks. But then, your eyes locked onto a secluded table tucked away in the back corner, right beneath a humming ventilation shaft.
Sitting there, surrounded by a fortress of massive, leather-bound science textbooks and a stack of colorful cue cards, was Megumi Fushiguro.
He wasn't wearing his usual armor of a dark, oversized hoodie today. Instead, he was wearing a heavy, cable-knit navy blue sweater that fit him entirely too well, emphasizing the broad slope of his shoulders. But what truly made your fried brain halt mid-thought were his sleeves. He had them rolled up tightly to his elbows, exposing his forearms.
You stood frozen for a fraction of a second, your laptop bag heavy in your hand, as your eyes locked onto the sharp line of his wrists, the faint, prominent blueprint of veins tracing down his pale skin, and the lean, functional muscle moving under his skin as he wrote.
Holy hell, you thought, a sudden, traitorous spike of heat hitting your cheeks despite the freezing library air. Since when did the grumpy audio engineer have arms that were so.. hot?
He looked incredibly, devastatingly attractive, his long fingers furiously scribbling notes in a legal pad with a clinical black ink pen, his silver lip piercing clicking sharply against his teeth as he muttered something to himself. A tall, completely empty thermos of black coffee sat beside his laptop.
"Fushiguro?" you whispered loudly, stumbling over to his table like a ghost.
Megumi’s pen instantly froze mid-line. He didn't blink. For a second, he looked like he was praying to whatever deity ruled over the Biology department to make you a sleep-deprived hallucination. Slowly, his head turned, his green eyes locking onto your disheveled, blanket-wrapped form.
His tongue darted out, tracing the silver hoop in his bottom lip as a look of profound, exhausted disbelief washed over his face.
"It is one o'clock on a Sunday morning," Megumi deadpanded, his voice a low, gravelly whisper that perfectly matched the quiet of the basement. "Why are you here? Are you doing a midnight broadcast I wasn't informed about?"
"My life is over, Megumi," you whined softly, collapsing into the plastic chair right across from him and dumping your tote bag onto the desk with a heavy, metallic thud. You tried very hard to focus on his face and not on the flex of his forearm as he shifted his books to make room for you. "Miwa's laptop blew up. Error 404. My sociology draft—the one she offered to do if i comply to her bet, mind you—is completely gone into the digital void. I have to rewrite ten pages by Monday or my GPA is going to bury itself deeper than this basement."
Megumi stared at you, his eyes tracking the way you buried your face in your hands. A tiny, almost imperceptible twitch of amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth, though he quickly masked it by picking up a cue card.
"That is unfortunate," he murmured, his tone dropping back into his usual clinical, monotone drone. "But this is a quiet study zone. Some of us are actually trying to utilize our biological necessity for memory retention."
"What are you even doing here anyway?" you pouted, peeking through your fingers at his massive stack of notes, your eyes accidentally lingering on his rolled-up sleeves again. "It's the weekend! You're supposed to be sleeping out of biological necessity, remember? Not sitting under a vent looking like a..." You caught yourself before you said a model, clearing your throat quickly. "...like a nerd."
Megumi’s ears turned a very faint, sudden shade of pink, clearly a lingering reflex from your morning stunt on the air the other day, but he cleared his throat aggressively, tapping his pen against the desk.
"Professor Okamoto announced a surprise flash quiz for advanced plant taxonomy on Monday morning," he muttered, his fingers tightly spinning the pen. "The curriculum covers forty-two different species of local marsh ferns and their root structures. I am currently on species twenty-eight. I don't have time for your sociology crisis."
You froze. Your hands slowly dropped from your face.
Marsh ferns.
You stared at him, your brain, though completely fried by exhaustion, suddenly flashing back to the anonymous text message from 'Mr. Pessimist' currently sitting in your phone inbox. '...does this mean the first lesson on marsh ferns is free?'
A wild, dangerous spark of energy instantly reignited in your chest, completely overriding your sudden crush on his forearms. You leaned far across the table, your eyes narrowing as a massive, teasing, and intensely playful grin broke across your face.
"Marsh ferns, huh?" you whispered, your voice dripping with sudden, heavy suspicion. "Wow, Fushiguro. That is a very specific type of plant. You know... my bathroom ghost friend also happens to be a massive, text-peer-reviewing expert on marsh ferns. What a crazy, random, terrifyingly weird coincidence."
Behind the library table, Megumi went entirely, violently still.
The black ink pen slipped from his long fingers, landing with a loud clack against his legal pad and rolling directly into his empty coffee thermos. The rich crimson flush that had barely started in his ears suddenly exploded, rushing down his neck, coloring his throat, and burning straight into his cheeks.
"Co... coincidence," he stammered, his low, gravelly voice cracking on the first syllable. He aggressively reached for his textbook, violently flipping a page over to hide his face, though he was gripping the paper so hard he was nearly tearing the cellulose fibers. "It's a foundational botanical category. Anyone taking a general science elective knows about—about hydrophytic vegetation. It’s a completely standard—"
"Oh my god," you gasped, your voice cutting through his panicked rambling like a buzzsaw. You didn't just lean across the table, you practically crawled onto it, your blanket scarf trailing over his neatly stacked cue cards. Your eyes were wide, glittering with a mixture of absolute shock and pure, unadulterated comedic victory. "Fushiguro. Look at me. Look at my eyes."
Megumi stubbornly stared at a diagram of a Matteuccia struthiopteris as if it held the secrets to the universe, his forearms flexing tightly as he braced his hands against the table. "I am studying."
"You are blushing!" you shrieked in a manic whisper, pointing a triumphant finger at his bright red ears. "You're doing the exact same tomato-face routine you did in the studio on Friday morning! Fushiguro, do you... wait. Do you know who the bathroom ghost is?! Is it one of your sports friends? Is it Yuji? Did Yuji write his number in the girls' bathroom as a joke?!"
Megumi let out a sharp, strangled sound that was half-gasp, half-wheeze. He closed his eyes, his shoulders slumping in a mix of profound existential defeat and intense relief that you were still, somehow, completely missing the final piece of the puzzle. You thought he was hiding a friend's secret, not his own.
"No," Megumi choked out, his voice dropping into a tight, desperate whisper as he finally looked up at you. His face was still entirely flushed, a stark contrast to his dark navy sweater. "It’s not Itadori. He’s too dumb for that. And I am not a tomato, what are you, five? The ventilation shaft is blowing air directly onto my chair. Sit down before the librarian bans us from the basement."
"I am onto you, Fushiguro," you narrowed your eyes, finally sliding back into your plastic chair, though your face was still split by a massive, teasing grin. "You are protecting the identity of the Pessimistic Phantom. But that’s fine. I’ll just get the truth out of him myself."
You aggressively pulled your laptop out of your tote bag, slamming it onto the desk, and then fished your phone out of your sweater pocket. Your brain was entirely fried, your limbs felt like lead, and the looming terror of a ten-page sociology paper was finally starting to crash back down on your shoulders.
You unlocked your screen, entirely ignoring Megumi’s wide, panicked eyes tracking your every movement across the table.
You clicked open your text thread with Mr. Pessimist. You hadn't texted him since Thursday night, but right now, at 1:15 AM on a Sunday morning, you were desperate, sleep-deprived, and looking for any possible outlet to project your academic misery.
Underneath the table, hidden by the dark wooden ledge, Megumi’s hand flew to the pocket of his jeans. His fingers tightly clamped around his phone as he felt it give a sudden, sharp, rhythmic vibration against his thigh.
Across the table, your thumbs were flying across the keyboard, your bottom lip pouting out in a universal sign of absolute defeat.
You: MR. ECO-BOY 😭😭😭😭 PLS HELP ME THE UNIVERSE HATES ME!!! my friend's laptop pulled an Error 404 and blew up my entire ten-pagesociology essay. 📉💔 I am currently rotting in the library basement at 1 AM trying to rewrite it from scratch. It's so cold here and the concrete smells like tears. 😭 drop some fern wisdom on me to stop me from throwing my computer into a marsh lake pls and thx 🙏🌿⛈️
You hit send with a heavy, dramatic sigh, tossing your phone face-up next to your mousepad. "There. Let's see if the phantom has any sympathy for a dying sociology major."
Megumi slowly let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding since Friday. He kept his eyes locked firmly on your face, watching you open up a blank Word document with an expression of pure, tragic exhaustion.
Slowly, carefully, he slid his phone out of his pocket beneath the table, keeping it hidden in his lap. The screen glowed bright against his navy sweater, illuminating your wall of emojis.
A very small, entirely private, and devastatingly soft smirk finally broke through his embarrassed flush. He cleared his throat, his long fingers silently tapping out a response with clinical, rapid precision.
A second later, your phone buzzed on the table. You blinked, diving for it.
Mr. Pessimist: First of all, throwing electronics into a marsh lake is an environmental felony. Second of all, sociology is a logical discipline; stop treating it like a tragedy. Open your textbook, outline the primary structural-functionalist theories first, and stop using the crying emoji. It is inefficient.
You let out a loud, sudden snort-giggle, instantly burying your face in your blanket scarf to muffle the sound. "Oh my god, he replied already! He is so mean, I love him."
Megumi calmly slipped his phone back into his pocket, rolled his sleeves up a fraction higher, and picked up his black ink pen, his dark eyes gleaming with pure, hidden victory.
"I told you to stop romanticizing property damage," Megumi murmured dryly, leaning over his legal pad.
For the next two hours, the back corner of the library basement became a war zone of academic panic, rapid-fire typing, and utter psychological warfare.
You were in peak, unhinged, sleep-deprived yapping mode. You couldn't help it. Whenever the dense sociology theories started blurring into a chaotic mess of structural functionalism and class struggle, your brain automatically sought a dopamine release. And unfortunately for Megumi, he was the only physical target within a five-foot radius.
"Fushiguro," you whispered intensely, leaning so far across the table your nose was practically hovering over his taxonomy cue cards. "Hypothetically. In a utopian society, if the bourgeoisie controls the means of production, but the proletariat collectively decides to only produce those strawberry shortcake cupcakes from the cooking club... is that technically a Marxist revolution or is it just a vibe-based collective behavior?"
Megumi’s pen didn't stop, but the muscle in his jaw clenched so hard the silver loop of his lip piercing pulled completely taut.
"That is a fundamental misunderstanding of historical materialism, and it's called a fantasy," he deadpanded into his legal pad, his rolled-up sleeves flexing as he aggressively underlined the word Pteridophyte. "Please type your essay. You’ve been on page three for forty minutes."
"Ugh, you have no sociological imagination," you pouted, dropping heavily back into your plastic chair.
Naturally, your immediate reflex was to seek a second opinion. You snatched your phone, your thumbs flying across the screen to complain to your favorite digital sounding board.
You: Mr. Eco-Boy, riddle me this. if Marx was right about alienation, why can’t the working class just collectively organize a strike until the university subsidizes free pastry production?? my audio engineer friend says it's a fantasy but he has zero understanding of social solidarity. defend me.
Beneath the wooden table, Megumi felt his thigh vibrate for the fourteenth time since midnight. He let out a long, slow, suffering breath through his nose. Keeping his eyes strictly fixed on his textbook, his left hand slipped into his lap, his long fingers blindly but flawlessly navigating his keyboard with the memory of a man who spent too much time texting under desks.
Your phone buzzed instantly.
Mr. Pessimist: Your audio engineer is entirely correct and possesses a functional grasp of institutional stability. A pastry-based strike would collapse under the weight of its own structural inefficiency within forty-eight hours. Stop trying to weaponize conflict theory for baked goods and finish your draft.
You gasped out loud, a sharp, undignified squawk escaping your throat. "Oh my god! Fushiguro, listen to this! The bathroom ghost just read me to absolute filth. He used the phrase 'structural inefficiency of a pastry-based strike.' He is literally so attractive when he's being completely condescending. I think I’m growing a massive psychological dependency on his irritation."
Megumi violently choked on his own saliva. He coughed sharply into his fist, his face instantly re-igniting into that deep crimson.
"Don't... don't say things like that in a public library," he muttered hoarsely, his ears burning hot under his dark hair. He frantically grabbed his empty coffee thermos, pretending to drink from it just to hide the lower half of his face. "It's... it’s unhinged."
"It's not unhinged, it's a dynamic!" you defended, completely missing his panic as you stared at your blank Word document. "Okay, wait. Fushiguro. Serious sociology question. What is the actual difference between Émile Durkheim’s concept of anomie and Karl Marx’s theory of alienation? Explain it to me like I am a very small, very tired golden retriever."
Megumi set his thermos down with a controlled thud. He slowly looked up, his eyes fixed on your disheveled form. Despite his burning cheeks, his analytical brain took over. He leaned forward, his forearms resting on the desk, the rolled-up sleeves bunching slightly.
"Anomie is Durkheim's term for a state of normlessness: when society's collective consciousness breaks down and individuals lose their moral compass," he explained, his gravelly voice dropping into a low, surprisingly clear, and authoritative murmur. "Alienation is Marx's concept of being structurally separated from your humanity, your work, and your peers due to the exploitative nature of capitalism. One is a psychological disconnect caused by a lack of social regulation; the other is a material consequence of class division. Do you understand?"
You stared at him, completely dazed. Not because of the sociology, but because his low voice combined with the sharp, lean lines of his arms was doing high-voltage damage to your ability to think.
"Wow," you whispered, blinking slowly. "You're... really good at that. Are you secretly a social sciences minor?"
"No," Megumi muttered, his gaze instantly dropping back to his notes as a faint pink tint dusted his nose. "I just know how to read a textbook."
"Amazing," you cheered, already diving back for your phone. "Let's see if Mr. Textbook online can match your explanation."
You: hey phantom, explain anomie vs alienation right now. my audio guy just gave a shockingly hot explanation of Durkheim and I need to see if you can top his alpha-male biology energy.
Under the table, Megumi’s entire body went completely rigid.
Shockingly hot explanation? Alpha-male biology energy?!
His phone felt like it was melting a hole directly through his jeans. He stared at his legal pad, his eyes wide, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. His tongue darted out, his silver lip piercing clicking frantically against his teeth. He felt completely trapped in a matrix of his own design.
With trembling, highly agitated fingers, he furiously typed back a response beneath the ledge, his jaw clenched tight enough to break.
Your phone buzzed. You unlocked it, expecting his usual dry paragraphs, but this time, the text was dangerously short.
Mr. Pessimist: Delete the word 'hot' from your vocabulary immediately. Classical sociological theory is a rigid academic discipline, not a performance. If your audio engineer is distracting you from your academic obligations, tell him to put his hoodie back on and shut up.
You let out a loud, ecstatic burst of laughter, burying your face in your blanket scarf to keep from getting kicked out by the night janitor.
"Fushiguro! Oh my god!" you wheezed, shaking his shoulder with pure delight. "He's jealous! The bathroom ghost is literally jealous of your sociology explanation! He told me to tell you to put your hoodie back on and shut up!"
Megumi slowly pulled his shoulder away from your hand, slumping down into his chair until his chin practically touched his collar. He stared at his plant taxonomy cards, his face a complete, catastrophic masterpiece of pure embarrassment and hidden, desperate victory.
"He's literally so into me, it's actually getting historical," you whispered aggressively, holding your phone screen right in front of Megumi’s face. "Look at the punctuation, Fushiguro! Look at the lack of emojis! That is the digital equivalent of a man stomping his foot because another guy explained social solidarity better than him. He is totally, deeply, biologically in love with me."
Megumi, who had been trying to read a single line about the root systems of marsh ferns for the last four minutes, slowly closed his eyes.
The fabric of his sweater stretched tight across his shoulders as he leaned back into his plastic chair, his forearms resting flat on the table. The brilliant crimson color that had just started to fade from his neck came roaring back with a vengeance, turning his ears a violent, burning shade of pink that extended all the way to his jawline.
"You are completely, clinically delusional," he deadpanned, his gravelly voice dropping an octave as he tried to stabilize his breathing. He refused to look at the phone screen you were waving in his face. "You have spent the last two hours analyzing a ten-page sociology paper on a Sunday morning, and your brain is clearly experiencing a severe dopamine deficit. You are fabricating a romantic narrative out of standard, aggressive text syntax."
"I am a literal communications major, Fushiguro, I read between the lines for a living!" you protested, throwing your hands in the air and shaking your head. "A guy doesn't tell a girl to make another guy put his hoodie back on unless he's physically experiencing the green-eyed monster of jealousy. He wants to be the only one explaining Émile Durkheim to me in a basement! It's so obvious!"
Megumi let out a sharp, choked sound that was half-gasp, half-sigh, his knuckles turning entirely white against his desk blotter.
"H-He does not want to explain Durkheim to you," Megumi stammered, his usual cool, clinical composure entirely fracturing as his voice cracked on the final syllable. He violently grabbed his black ink pen, his fingers slipping against the plastic casing because his hands were suddenly entirely too warm. "The—the user on the other end of that number is simply trying to keep you on task. There is zero biological or psychological data supporting the theory that an anonymous person typing full sentences in a text thread is... is experiencing romantic longing."
"Oh, please! You’re just defending him because you’re both members of the No-Fun-Allowed Club," you teased, leaning your chin back onto your palms, your eyes twinkling as you watched him fumble with his cue cards. "Admit it, Megumi. If a girl texted you telling you that some other guy had 'alpha-male biology energy,' wouldn't you feel a little threatened?"
Megumi froze.
His dark eyes slowly drifted up from his taxonomy cards, locking onto yours through his messy black hair. The sheer, unadulterated panic in his expression was so intense it was almost comical, his lip piercing clicking three times in rapid succession as his brain desperately tried to process the fact that you were asking him how he felt about himself.
"I—I wouldn't care," he lied through his teeth, his voice a tight, strangled murmur as he looked away, his chest rising and falling in sharp, flustered breaths. "Because I... because the entire concept of 'alpha-male energy' is a pseudoscientific myth used by people who don't understand basic zoological dynamics. And you... you need to stop yapping and type page four before I manually shut your laptop screen."
"Fine, fine! Hater," you laughed happily, entirely satisfied with how easily you could rattle the school's most stoic technician. You picked up your phone to type one final, devastating blow to your phantom crush.
You: fine, I won't call him hot anymore since it hurts your feelings 🙄 but for the record, his navy sweater makes his arms look incredibly attractive and you're just mad you're cooped up in your little cave while I'm down here living a romance novel. suffer in silence, phantom! 💅✨
By 3 AM, the library basement had emptied out completely, leaving only the steady, low hum of the ventilation shaft and the frantic, rhythmic tapping of your fingers against your keyboard. You were officially on page eight of your sociology paper, but your eyelids felt like lead weights, and a deep, chilly exhaustion had settled into your bones.
The library's aggressive late-night AC was blasting directly over your head, making you shiver beneath your clothes.
Without entirely thinking through your sleep-deprived actions, you grabbed the trailing edge of your massive, oversized blanket scarf. With a loose, uncoordinated swing of your arm, you blindly draped half of the heavy wool fabric directly over Megumi’s right shoulder. Who, mind you, moved seats to be next to you almost an hour ago just to help you write the fifth page of your essay.
Megumi’s black ink pen hovered millimeters above his legal pad. His entire body went completely, violently rigid under the shared wool.
Slowly, his head turned, his eyes wide with a mixture of sheer panic and disbelief as he looked down at the soft fabric connecting the two of you. You didn't even notice his existential crisis. You just naturally slumped sideways, sliding half an inch closer until your shoulder was resting flush against his.
"Fushiguro, I'm freezing," you mumbled sleepily into your keyboard, your voice a faint, pathetic whine. "Don't move. You are legally a public utility right now. Your biological thermal energy belongs to the social sciences department."
Megumi let out a tight, strangled breath through his nose. His jaw clenched so hard his silver lip piercing pressed flat against his skin, but (to your absolute shock) he didn't pull away. He didn't drop the blanket. Instead, he let out a long, defeated sigh, his shoulder subtly dropping to match your height as his body heat began bleeding straight through his sweater and into your side.
He looked devastatingly attractive like this, completely swallowed by the cozy contrast of your scarf against his dark wool, his rolled-up sleeves taut as he forced his fingers to start writing again.
To keep yourself from completely passing out on your keyboard, you snatched your phone from the desk, hiding it beneath the ledge of the table. A manic, exhausted smirk broke across your face as you pulled up your thread with Mr. Pessimist.
You: hey phantom, update from the trenches 🫠 I am currently sharing a blanket with my audio guy because the library AC is trying to murder me. his shoulder is warm asf and he's letting me use him as a human space heater. you're seriously missing out on prime cuddling hours, Mr. Eco-Boy! 💅🔥🛌
Directly next to you, beneath the exact same shared blanket, you felt Megumi’s entire frame go absolutely, terrifyingly still.
His chest stopped moving. He stared blindly at his taxonomy notes, his heart hammering so violently against his ribs you were worried he was going to experience spontaneous cardiac arrest. The blush on his face went past tomato and straight into a catastrophic, full-body crimson.
Slowly, carefully, his left hand slipped into his lap beneath the wooden table ledge. His long fingers were practically trembling as he unlocked his screen, your text lighting up his face-down phone.
His teeth ground together. His tongue darted out, his silver piercing clicking twice in rapid succession against his teeth as he furiously typed out a response, his thumb slamming into the virtual keyboard with pure, flustered aggression.
A second later, your phone gave a violent rattle in your hand. You eagerly tapped the notification.
Mr. Pessimist: Focus on your structural functionalism and stop treating your technical assistant like an HVAC system. It is highly inappropriate, inefficient, and your sociology draft is still incomplete. Put your phone away before he throws you into the marsh lake himself.
You let out a loud, ecstatic burst of laughter, completely forgetting where you were as you buried your face directly into the heavy wool of Megumi’s shoulder to muffle the sound.
"Fushiguro! Oh my god, he's losing his mind!" you wheezed into his sleeve, your shoulders shaking with pure delight. "He just told me to stop treating you like an HVAC system! He is literally so pressed! I am breaking him, I swear to god I am breaking him!"
Megumi slowly closed his eyes, leaning his head back into the wooden divider of the cubicle as a helpless, deeply embarrassed, and completely captivated smile finally broke through his flush. He let his shoulder sink a little deeper into yours, keeping the blanket tucked securely around both of you.
"Just type page nine, Sunshine," he whispered hoarsely into the quiet basement, his gravelly voice vibrating beautifully right against your ear. "Before the phantom tracks your IP address and deletes your entire document."
You finished your essay in two hours. Well... "finished" was a heavy, highly generous word for the literary crime you had just committed.
You had only managed to drag your brain through eight agonizing pages of dense sociological jargon. By 3:15 AM, your cognitive functions had completely evaporated, leaving you staring blankly at a blinking cursor while your head violently nodded with sleep. The last two pages of that monstrous draft remained to be typed on your laptop by none other than Megumi himself. While you had completely passed out, snoring softly against the expensive wool of his right shoulder and leaving a tiny, embarrassing patch of condensation on his sleeve, his long, pale fingers had aggressively slammed out your entire conclusion paragraph and meticulously formatted your bibliography according to APA 7th edition guidelines.
Now, hours later, you were finally back in your own dorm. Under the heavy, beating warmth of the water droplets hitting your skin in the shower, you let out a massive, soul-cleansing sigh. The hot steam swirled around the tiny bathroom stall, melting away the residual chill of the library basement, the smell of concrete, and the lingering phantom panic of an overdue assignment.
You leaned your forehead against the wet tile wall, letting the water slick your hair back. Even through the hazy cloud of exhaustion, your mind kept drifting. Not to Karl Marx, and certainly not to Émile Durkheim. Instead, your thoughts were hopelessly trapped in a loop between two things: the surprisingly heavy, solid warmth of Megumi’s shoulder under that navy sweater, and the utter, hilarious absurdity of your anonymous text crush.
You stepped out of the stall, wrapping yourself in a plush towel and wiping a clear circle into the steamed-up bathroom mirror. Your brain still felt like a half-melted bowl of gelatin, but your body was finally restored to a normal, human temperature.
When you picked up your phone from the sink counter, you expected to see a string of frantic, caps-lock texts from Miwa to send her something so you dont lose your streaks on TikTok.
Instead, there was a single, solitary notification sitting on your lock screen. Sent exactly seven minutes ago.
Your heart did a ridiculous, sleep-deprived flip. Mr. Pessimist had texted you first.
Mr. Pessimist: Are you still alive, or did the structural functionalism finally claim your consciousness.
You burst out laughing, hopping on one foot as you frantically typed back a response while trying to balance your towel.
You: PHANTOM!!! OMG YOU CARE ABOUT ME 🥹😭❤️ yes, I survived! well, mostly. I passed out on page eight and my sweet, angelic, saint of an audio engineer literally typed the last two pages of my sociology essay for me while I snored on his shoulder like a gargoyle. I am officially a free woman! 🕊️✨
Deep in the quiet of his ownroom, Megumi was currently sitting on the edge of his bed, a fresh damp towel slung over his wet, spiky black hair. He was staring at his phone screen, his jaw clenching so hard the silver loop of his lip piercing pulled completely flat against his skin.
Sweet, angelic, saint.
His ears flared a violent, instant shade of crimson. He aggressively grabbed a pillow, shoving it against his face as he let out a muffled, embarrassed groan into the fabric. He had spent forty-five minutes fixing your margins while you drooled onto his favorite sweater.
He pulled the pillow away, his long, pale fingers flying across his keyboard with absolute, indignant fury.
Mr. Pessimist: He is not a saint. He is an enabler of chronic academic negligence. Allowing you to sleep while he performs your labor undermines the entire concept of personal accountability. Also, snoring on someone's shoulder is biologically unhygienic.
You snorted so loud you nearly dropped your phone into the sink. You hopped onto your bed, completely abandoning your hair-drying routine to lean against your pillows, your face split by a massive, teasing grin.
You: awww, is someone experiencing a little bit of class struggle over my social solidarity with the audio guy?? 😉 dynamically speaking, he chose to help me! It was a collective behavior based on mutual affection. plus, his shoulder was comfortable. don't be mad just because you weren't there to type my conclusion paragraph about Marx! 💅
Megumi stared at the words mutual affection.
His brain completely short-circuited. His tongue violently flicked out, his silver lip piercing clicking frantically against his bottom teeth as his heart began to drum a high-voltage rhythm against his ribs. He threw himself backward onto his mattress, staring at his ceiling tiles in pure torment.
He was losing his mind. He was actively arguing with a girl about himself, and he was somehow losing the debate to his own shadow identity.
With a sharp, flustered scowl, he typed back.
Mr. Pessimist: I assure you, no one is experiencing 'class struggle' over a campus radio technician. If he typed your conclusion about Marx, he likely did it out of a desperate desire for silence, not affection. Karl Marx would find your dependency on a human space heater deeply antithetical to the proletarian work ethic.
You: oh my god, did you just use historical materialism to roast my flirting style?? 😭😂 I am literally obsessed with you. you are so intensely dry, it’s a medical marvel. let me guess, your perfect date involves us sitting in total silence while you read me the terms and conditions of a software update?
Megumi froze on his bed.
His eyes went wide, his knuckles turning stark white against the casing of his phone. His mind instantly flashed back to his anonymous "perfect date" submission that you had read live on air—the one about a quiet, overcast greenhouse, two black coffees, and reading separate books on opposite ends of a couch in total silence.
You were so terrifyingly close to the truth it was giving him cardiac arrhythmia.
He forced his trembling fingers to reply, his jaw locked tight.
Mr. Pessimist: A software update manual provides structural clarity and logical consistency. It is infinitely more valuable than your current wave of sleep-deprived delusions. Go to sleep. Your communication skills are deteriorating.
You: never! I am fueled by hot shower steam and the knowledge that I have successfully rattled the most stubborn phantom on campus 😌 fine, I’ll sleep. but only if you admit that my audio guy's navy blue sweater is objectively high-tier fashion.
Megumi buried his burning face entirely in his hands, his chest rising and falling in sharp, defeated breaths. He looked down at his phone one last time, a helpless, devastatingly soft smile finally breaking through his intense flush.
Mr. Pessimist: The sweater is standard insulation. It possesses zero aesthetic value. Delete my number and close your eyes.
You stared at his last text, your thumbs hovering over the keyboard. The momentary silence of your room was suddenly too loud, and the absolute absurdity of your weekend—coupled with the looming horror of Monday's schedule—just completely burst the floodgates of your internal commentary.
You weren't necessarily sad. You were just in peak, unadulterated venting mode. You hopped onto your stomach, propping your chin up with a pillow as your fingers went into absolute overdrive, turning into a literal machine of digital yap.
You: lol i lied
You: no but like seriously, my brain is a smoothie right now i cant sleep. like, I LOVE the radio show, it’s literally my favorite part of the day and getting to play chaotic music and read ridiculous anonymous gossip is keeping me alive, but holy hell, the schedule is a hate crime against my sleep cycle!! 💀 then I look at my syllabus and it's like 'read 50 pages of French literature by Tuesday' and I'm like... do I even know French? is France even real? I’m just trying to make it to July so I can get a part-time job at Hot Topic and spend my entire paycheck on clothes and Miniso plushies.
When his phone vibrated with a paragraph long enough to require a scroll bar, he sat right back up, the damp towel slipping off his head completely. He read through your frantic stream of consciousness, a faint, genuinely amused twitch hitting the corner of his mouth at the sudden mention of a retail job at Hot Topic.
Mr. Pessimist: Hot Topic? You? The literal embodiment of a My Little Pony character, working in a dark, alternative clothing store? Yeah, funny.
You: EXCUSE ME?! I have range!! I can be edgy and emo! I can wear combat boots! I literally listen to Deftones, I told you this!
Mr. Pessimist: You wore a giant blanket scarf to the library and snored like a cartoon character on a technician's shoulder. If you walked into a retail floor playing industrial techno, you would pass out from the sensory overload within four minutes. Stick to the radio booth, Sunshine. The aesthetic contrast would break the corporate matrix.
You: wow. the absolute disrespect. I’m telling Fushiguro you bullied me. he actually supports my corporate retail dreams! (probably because he wants me out of his booth, but still).
Mr. Pessimist: First of all, France is unfortunately real, and ignoring your literature syllabus will only compound your data backlog by week twelve. Second of all, your schedule is chaotic because you refuse to compartmentalize. You treat the radio station like an amusement park instead of a structured shift. If you streamlined your prep time, you wouldn't be writing essays at 3 AM.
You rolled over onto your back, holding the phone above your face, letting out a dramatic groan.
You: ugh, there you go again with the 'logic' and the 'structure'!! 🙄 some of us run on vibes and aesthetic fulfillment, okay?! like, my dream life is literally just wandering through an empty botanical greenhouse in the rain, drinking black coffee, and listening to Portishead or Lana Del Rey on repeat while I pretend to be a tragic main character. I don't want to streamline! I want to look at tropical ferns and romanticize my exhaustion!
Megumi’s thumb froze completely over the screen.
His entire body went rigid. His eyes stared at the words botanical greenhouse, black coffee, and tropical ferns. You were literally quoting his own anonymous submission back to him, weaponizing his exact ideal scenario as your definition of "vibes," entirely unaware that he was the one who had written it.
He threw a hand over his face, letting out a ragged, flustered breath into his palm before he forced himself to type, desperate to deflect the conversation away from his own burning skin.
Mr. Pessimist: Romanticizing burnout is statistically inefficient. But... if you actually want a baseline for that specific environment, the university conservatory on the south quad is completely empty on Thursday afternoons during the internal maintenance shift. The automated misting systems simulate rain if you timing it correctly. Not that I look at that data for personal reasons. It’s just an ecological observation.
You blinked at the screen, your eyes widening in surprise.
You: wait... Mr. Eco-Boy, is that a hidden soft spot I spy?? 👀 do you secretly go to the greenhouse to hide from the world too? what does a certified pessimist even do to unwind? let me guess, you count the root structures of marsh ferns for fun?
Megumi stared at the text. He let out a slow, quiet breath, his shoulders finally relaxing as he leaned back against his headboard. In the dark security of his room, away from the glass booth and the glaring ON AIR light, a rare, incredibly soft vulnerability took over his fingers.
Mr. Pessimist: I don't count roots for fun. But... if the noise on campus gets too loud, I usually just put on heavy headphones, block out the audio frequencies, and read standard fiction. Specifically detective mysteries. There’s a predictable structure to them. A problem is presented, clues are gathered, and the chaos is eventually resolved by logic. It's quiet. And it doesn't require small talk.
You: wow, detective mysteries? that is actually so cute, oh my god. you’re like a grumpy old man trapped in a college student's phone. you know, you remind me SO much of my audio guy, Fushiguro. he’s also super clinical, hates small talk, wears dark colors, and has this exact same hyper-logical, protective-but-grumpy energy. It’s crazy, I swear you guys would either be best friends or you'd fight to the death.
Megumi slowly buried his face entirely in his left hand, his chest rising and falling in a sharp, completely defeated sigh. The sheer, unadulterated, astronomical level of your obliviousness was genuinely impressive. It was a biological miracle that you could read a campus radio script but completely fail to connect a line of direct descriptions.
He looked down at his screen one last time, a helpless, genuinely captivated smile breaking through his intense flush as his thumb tapped out his final line.
Mr. Pessimist: Your audio engineer sounds like he has an immense amount of patience. Go to sleep, Sunshine. Your observational data is compromised.
You giggled, tossing your phone onto the mattress and curling up under your blankets. "He really is a tsundere," you whispered happily to your pillow, completely convinced you had just made a great digital friend, entirely unaware that the "patient audio engineer" was currently staring at his ceiling three buildings away, wondering how on earth he was going to look you in the eye on Wednesday morning.
The first half of the following week passed by in a complete blur. You were so exhausted after the semi-all-nighter you pulled on Sunday that you ended up sleeping in and skipping half your courses on Monday. On Tuesday, you skipped your shift at WKJS and let Inumaki take your place instead. It was probably hilarious for the campus to hear, considering he had lost a bet to Yuji and was forced to speak exclusively in onigiri ingredients for the entire semester. Funnily enough, you had to skip the broadcast because you were stuck tutoring Yuji—a nearly impossible task, since he kept having actual laughing crashouts just from hearing "Tuna," "Mayo," and "Bonito Flakes" delivered in a monotone, angry voice instead of your usual cheerful tone.
But today was Wednesday, and you were finally back on your radio shift to host The Morning Sunbeam Show once again.
The familiar smell of stale, industrial coffee and heated electronics hit you the second you pushed open the heavy, soundproof door of the WKJS broadcast studio. It was 7:42 AM, and the pale morning sun was just starting to cut through the high windows of the media building. You felt a million times more human than you had on Sunday night, your hair freshly washed, your skin thriving, and a massive, extra-large neon pink drink clutched in your hand like a weapon of mass destruction.
You dropped your tote bag onto the spare plastic chair and stepped up to the massive glass partition that separated the main studio booth from the technical control room.
He didn't look up immediately when the door clicked shut, but you noticed his entire frame went instantly, subtly rigid the moment your shadow hit the glass. He was wearing an oversized charcoal gray hoodie today, the hood pulled up low over his messy black hair, effectively shielding his profile from view. But your eyes, naturally traitorous, immediately darted down to his arms. He had his sleeves pulled tightly back up to his elbows again, exposing the lean, functional muscle of his forearms as his fingers deftly flew across the soundboard dials, adjusting the master levels for the morning feed.
A sharp, lingering memory of sleeping face-down on that exact right shoulder (snoring like a pig against his heavy navy blue wool) hit your brain with a sudden, unexpected spike of heat.
"Fushiguro!" you beamed, stepping up to the glass and tapping your long fingernails against the pane. "The star of the social sciences department! The man, the myth, the absolute savior of my GPA!"
Megumi’s hand paused over a slider. He slowly raised his head, his green eyes locking onto yours through his messy fringe. The moment he met your gaze, a brilliant, aggressive crimson flush crawled rapidly up his throat, coloring his jawline and burning straight into the tips of his ears. His tongue darted out, his silver lip piercing clicking twice in rapid, frantic succession against his teeth as he reached over and hit the master intercom button.
"Don't call me that," his low, gravelly voice crackled over your studio headset, sounding entirely too deep and raspy for an early Wednesday morning. He deliberately looked down at his monitor, trying to hide the fact that his face was currently radiating enough heat to melt ice. "And don't tap on the glass."
"Oh, please, you love my dramatic entrances," you giggled, sliding into your swivel chair and pulling the heavy broadcast microphone toward your face. You adjusted your headset, taking a long, satisfied sip of your sweet drink. "Seriously though, thank you for Sunday night. Miwa told me yesterday that you formatting my bibliography in alphabetical order was a 'testament to true human devotion.' I didn't even realize I fell asleep until I woke up with my face stuck to your laptop spacebar."
Megumi closed his eyes, his knuckles turning stark white against the edge of the mixing board as he vividly recalled the forty-five minutes he spent frozen in his chair, trying not to breathe too loudly so he didn’t wake you up, while you drooled onto his sweater sleeve.
"You were snoring," he deadpanded over the line, his tone dropping back into his defense-mechanism clinical monotone. "It was completely disrupting my ability to memorize the vascular structures of local ferns. I only finished the last two pages of your paper so you would stop making that ungodly choking noise in a quiet study zone."
"Wow. Absolute lies and slander," you gasped, clutching your chest in mock offense. "I snore like a delicate princess, thank you very much. Anyway, guess what? I texted the bathroom ghost guy about you writing my conclusion paragraph while I slept."
Behind the glass, Megumi’s entire body went into sudden, catastrophic cardiac arrest. His pen literally slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly against the soundboard and rolling under a mass of patch cables. He scrambled to grab it, his face turning an even deeper, darker shade of scarlet as he frantically tried to keep his composure.
"You... you did what?" he choked out, his voice cracking slightly before he cleared his throat aggressively.
"Yeah! I told him you were a sweet, angelic saint," you laughed, leaning back in your chair and spinning around happily. "And oh my god, Megumi, he went completely feral. He was so incredibly jealous of you. He literally told me that your sweater possessed 'zero aesthetic value' and that you only helped me out of a desperate desire for silence. He's so transparently in love with me, it’s actually hilarious. He hates that another guy has alpha-male ecology energy."
Under the shadow of his dark gray hood, Megumi buried his burning face entirely in his left palm, his long fingers pressing hard against his temples as he let out a long, silent, suffering groan. He was actively listening to you describe his own frantic, late-night, under-the-blanket text messages, entirely unaware that the "jealous phantom" and the "angelic audio engineer" were the exact same person.
"He is... he is not jealous," Megumi muttered hoarsely into his palm, his voice straining as he forced his hand back down to the soundboard. "The individual on the other end of that number is simply stating objective reality. You are entirely, pathologically delusional. Your observational data is completely corrupted by sleep deprivation."
"Am not!" you shot back, sticking your tongue out at him through the glass. "He's totally obsessed. But hey, speaking of the phantom... he actually gave me some really good advice about my workload. He told me to stop looking at the whole semester and just focus on tomorrow. He’s surprisingly sweet beneath all that grumpy, cynical armor. It’s crazy how much he reminds me of you."
Megumi froze, his eyes widening in panic as he stared at you through the glass partition. For a split second, his heart stopped beating entirely. Did she know? Did she finally connect the dots?
"W-What do you mean by that?"
"Well, you both have that exact same hyper-logical, protective-but-grumpy energy," you explained cheerily, completely oblivious to the near-fatal stroke you were causing him. "Like, he told me he likes to hide away from the world with heavy headphones and read detective mysteries because they have a predictable structure. And I just thought, wow, that is the most Fushiguro thing I have ever heard in my life. It’s so cute. You guys should totally be roommates."
Megumi slowly let his forehead drop directly onto the hard, plastic edge of the soundboard with a muted thud. He just stayed there, his messy black hair sprawling over the audio dials, his shoulders shaking slightly in a mix of profound existential exhaustion and intense, agonizing embarrassment.
"Fushiguro? Are you okay?" you asked, leaning closer to the glass, your eyebrows knitting together in concern. "Did the marsh ferns finally take over your brain?"
Megumi slowly lifted his head, his face a total masterpiece of crimson flustered energy as he reached over and pointed a long, trembling finger at the digital clock on his monitor.
"It is exactly 7:59 AM," he whispered hoarsely over the line, his silver lip piercing clicking one final time against his teeth as he gripped the master audio fader. "Put your headphones on, Sunshine. Your intro cue is coming up in ten seconds. Shut up and do your job."
You grinned, sliding your headset into place just as the bright red ON AIR sign flared to life over the thick glass partition, instantly cutting the private feed between your headset and Megumi’s control console. You leaned into the heavy, foam-tipped broadcast microphone, your face automatically splitting into the bright, high-energy grin that had made your morning slot a campus staple.
"Good morning, Jujutsu University!" you chimed, your voice echoing crisply across the campus airwaves, flowing into crowded dorm rooms, commuter cars, and the headphones of sleep-deprived students dragging their feet across the quad. "Welcome back to The Morning Sunbeam Show on WKJS. I know, I know—your favorite chaotic communications major was totally missing in action on Tuesday morning. I apologize for abandoning you all to the wolves, but the academic sirens caught up to me, and I had to pull a severe, multi-hour sociology emergency."
Behind the glass, Megumi didn't move, but his eyes were wide, fixed entirely on his master audio levels as he braced himself for whatever unhinged commentary was about to fly out of your mouth.
"Now, I heard rumors that my replacement on Tuesday absolute crushed it," you continued, leaning back in your swivel chair and spinning slightly from side to side. "Shoutout to Toge Inumaki from the linguistics department for stepping into the booth on short notice! I haven’t had a chance to listen to the archived tape yet, but considering he’s still honoring that legendary, high-stakes bet he lost to Yuji Itadori, I can only assume the entire two-hour broadcast was delivered exclusively in onigiri ingredients. Honestly? I think the station manager should totally let me bring him back as a permanent co-host. Imagine the dynamic! I do eighty percent of the yapping, and Toge just hits the soundboard with a perfectly timed, highly aggressive 'Spicy Tuna' or 'Bonito Flakes'. It’s a flawless radio formula. It’s performance art, really."
Through the clear pane of the partition, you saw Megumi let out a long, slow, highly visible breath through his nose. He reached up and aggressively adjusted the hood of his dark charcoal sweatshirt, tugging it down even further over his brow to block out the sight of your cheerful, oblivious face.
"Speaking of surviving the week," you yapped smoothly, transitioning into your local campus news block, "if you are currently walking past the student union building and your eyes are practically glued shut from exhaustion, you need to detour directly to the campus café immediately. They just rolled out their new seasonal menu today, and oh my god, guys, it is an absolute game-changer. I am currently holding a drink that has single-handedly restored my legal right to exist. I would have never, ever known in my entire life how incredible strawberry syrup tastes when it's mixed directly into a classic Red Bull, but the barista looked me dead in the eye and told me to trust the vision. It sounds like a total cardiac event in a plastic cup, but it tastes like liquid lightning and childhood nostalgia. Go buy one right now. Tell them the Sunbeam sent you."
You paused to take a dramatic, loud sip of your drink through the straw, letting the wet, plastic crunch of the ice echo slightly over the high-frequency microphone. Megumi’s left eyebrow twitched violently behind his fringe. His finger hovered over the master compression slider, his silver lip piercing clicking twice against his teeth as he manually dialed down the audio spikes caused by your aggressive hydration.
"And finally, for our morning community announcement board," you said, dropping your voice into a conspiratorial, deeply intense whisper. "I have a very special, very urgent favor to ask on behalf of one of our campus legends. Shoko Ieiri—yes, the Shoko Ieiri, the brilliant pre-med major senior who basically runs the university health clinic like a military operation—personally cornered me in the science pavilion yesterday afternoon. She is currently looking for a brave, resilient soul to step up and volunteer for her upcoming Anatomy Practicum this Friday afternoon."
You leaned so close to the mic your lips were practically brushing the pop filter.
"Now, guys, please don’t be afraid," you cooed into the airwaves, throwing a dramatic, wide-eyed look toward the technical booth. "Shoko wanted me to explicitly remind everyone that she is totally gentle, highly professional, and she absolutely promise she won't actually cut you up. Well... mostly. She just needs a living, breathing canvas to demonstrate advanced skeletal alignment and nerve-pathway tracking. So, if you’re a freshman looking for extra credit, or if you just want to spend two hours being intensely studied by a very attractive senior who smells like menthol cigarettes and Love Spell, drop a line to the WKJS text board and I will personally hand-deliver your name to her clipboard."
Behind the glass, Megumi’s head snapped up so fast a stray lock of black hair fell directly into his eyes. His mind scrambled through the implications of what you had just broadcasted to the entire student body. Shoko Ieiri was notorious across the entire science department for her terrifyingly cold, clinical efficiency, and the fact that you were actively recruiting unsuspecting freshmen for her anatomical gauntlet was nothing short of a public safety hazard.
Megumi aggressively slammed his index finger onto the master intercom button, overriding the internal booth channel so his low, gravelly voice cut directly into your headset separate from the live transmission.
"Do not encourage people to sign up for Ieiri's practicum," he ordered in a tight, desperate whisper. "She spent three hours last week trying to convince me to let her map the reflex arc in my shoulder blades using an acoustic diagnostic hammer. She is a menace to the general student population. Stop using the university airwaves to facilitate medical experiments, Sunshine."
You didn't even break character. Without pausing your live broadcast, you simply turned your head toward the glass, flashing Megumi a brilliant, devastatingly playful wink that caused his voice to die instantly in his throat.
"Alright, Jujutsu U, it is exactly 8:15 AM, which means it’s time for your absolute favorite block of the morning," you cooed into the microphone, your voice dripping with dramatic flair. "Welcome back to The Echo Chamber, the only place on campus where you can drop your darkest confessions, your most chaotic roommate complaints, completely safe from the judgment of the student court. And wow, the text board has been absolutely cooking while I was away. Fushiguro, hit me with that soft, late-night acoustic background track, please. Let's set the mood."
Behind the glass, Megumi didn't even look up, but his long, pale fingers slid a master fader up with effortless precision. A low, moody, atmospheric indie track began to filter softly under your vocal track. You noticed, with a small smirk, that it sounded suspiciously like a slowed-down instrumental version of a Lana Del Rey song.
"Perfect. Our technician knows exactly how to cater to my main-character syndrome," you teased over the airwaves. You picked up the first printout from the digital text board dashboard.
"Alright, Submission Number One," you read, leaning into the mic. "'To the girl in my 9:00 AM macroeconomics lecture who wears the neon pink headphones and brings a literal head of iceberg lettuce to class to eat like an apple: I don’t know whether to report you to the culinary board or ask you to marry me. Please look my way. I’m the guy three rows down wearing the green tracksuit.' Okay, track-suit boy, first of all, that is a terrifying level of fiber intake for a Tuesday morning, but I respect the grind. Lettuce girl, if you're listening, he likes your crunch."
Through the glass, you saw Megumi’s right shoulder twitch. He was staring intensely at his monitor, but the faint, pink tint dusting the bridge of his nose told you he was paying absolute attention.
"Submission Number Two is a roommate grievance," you continued, sliding to the next page. "'If my roommate does not stop practicing his throat-singing at 2:00 AM in our tiny, unventilated quad dorm, I am going to report him to the domestic disturbance hotline. You are not a nomadic monk, Ryota. You are a business major from Jujutsu University. Stop vibrating the drywall.' Wow. Clear, concise, and full of structural conflict. Karl Marx would have a field day with the class tension in that room."
You let out a bright, melodic laugh, taking another massive sip of your strawberry-Red Bull concoction.
"Oh, this next one is a call-out post. Submission Number Three: 'Can whoever left a cursed image of an anime-styled Shrek printed in full color inside the physica 204 textbook in the library please come forward? I opened to the chapter on thermodynamics looking for the formula for entropy and was met with "Ogres have layers, and so does the cosmic decay of the universe." I had to leave the room.'"
You slapped your desk, the sound echoing lightly over the airwaves. "See?! Physics is a tragedy! I’ve been saying this for weeks! Shoutout to the Shrek anarchist, you are doing the lord's work."
"Submission Number Four: 'To the guy who dropped a fully loaded, extra-cheese burrito directly onto the stairs of the library basement on Monday morning and just stared at it for three minutes before whispering "systemic oppression" and walking away... are you okay? Do you need a hug or a new economic model?'"
Behind the glass, Megumi’s head subtly twitched. A faint, nearly imperceptible crack formed in his stoic expression, his jaw clenching as he tried to suppress a highly uncharacteristic snort.
"Honestly, burrito guy, I feel you," you laughed, shaking your head. "In a capitalist society, losing a five-layer burrito to gravity is the ultimate form of alienation from the product of your labor. I pass the sociological vibe check on that one."
Your eyes instinctively went to search for Megumi’s, but from the corner of your eye, all you could see was half of his face bathed in the digital glow of his phone.
"Wait, wait, wait. JU, hold the phone. Mr. Realist has just entered the chat again. Listen to this," you cooed, your voice dropping into that intensely low, teasing whisper. "Submission Number Five: 'To the Sunbeam host. If your "alpha-male ecology technician" actually possessed any survival instincts, he would have locked the booth door and muting your feed the moment you recommended mixing carbonated taurine with synthetic fruit syrup. Furthermore, Karl Marx did not write about burritos. Go to your 10:00 AM lecture. Signed, A Realist.'"
You threw your hands up in the air, spinning your swivel chair around a full 360 degrees before locking your eyes directly onto the control room pane.
"HE IS SO MAD!" you yelled into the live microphone, completely ecstatic. "JU, the bathroom ghost is literally tracking my academic schedule! He knows I have a 10:00 AM lecture! And did you hear how he dragged you, Fushiguro? He said you have no survival instincts! He is so threatened by the fact that you formatted my APA bibliography! He’s basically writing a whole manifesto against you at this point!"
Under the deep shadow of his charcoal hood, Megumi Fushiguro now looked like a man who was actively experiencing a full-system meltdown. He didn’t expect you’d read his submission so fast. He lunged forward, slamming his palm onto the intercom button to cut into your private headset feed, his gravelly voice coming through in a tight, flustered, and completely desperate hiss.
"I am—I am not threatened by a fictional phantom," he stammered, his usual cool composure entirely fracturing as his voice cracked on the word fictional. He glared at you through the glass, his eyes wide. "And the user is completely right. Your understanding of conflict theory is a disaster, your drink is a biological hazard, and you are going to be late for French literature. Shut up and play the music track before I manually pull the breaker to this entire wing of the building."
You just winked at him through the glass, blowing a dramatic kiss toward the control panel as you leaned back into the mic for a quick transition.
"You heard him, JU! The tech director is getting grumpy, which means it’s time to head into a brief commercial and music break to let him recalibrate his temper. Don't go anywhere, because right after this, we’re diving deep into the Love and Romance column! Here’s a little Lana Del Rey to feed your main-character cravings. See you on the flip side!"
You hit the master track cue on your console, and the smooth, heavy trip-hop beats finally flooded the campus airwaves, safely taking you off the live feed. You pulled your headphones down around your neck, letting out a satisfied breath, and reached for your strawberry Red Bull to take another blissful sip.
Beneath the ledger of the control board, Megumi’s hands were practically trembling as he furiously unlocked his screen, a brand new notification lighting up his interface. His teeth ground together so hard his silver piercing clicked twice against his incisors. He had a tight, flustered scowl carved into his features as his thumb flew across the virtual keyboard with absolute, aggressive speed, desperate to get the last word in before your mic went hot again.
A second later, the phone in your hand gave a violent, aggressive rattle. You eagerly tapped the screen, a massive smirk spreading across your face.
Mr. Pessimist: If you mention the bathroom ghost on air one more time, I am personally going to delete your entire Spotify automation playlist and replace it with standard static white noise for the rest of the broadcast. Drink water. This is your final warning.
The break was around ten minutes long. Ten minutes where Megumi was absolutely certain you would walk right up to the glass partition, tap on the pane like an annoying parakeet, and yap his ear off about your stupid little mysterious text crush.
But you didn't. You didn't even stand up.
Instead, you just sat there in your swivel chair, rocking back and forth to the trip-hop beat with your knees pulled up to your chest, your phone held inches from your face.
And then, his phone blew up.
It violently rattled against the plastic surface of the soundboard, a rapid-fire artillery strike of notifications that had the screen flashing like a strobe light in his face. Megumi froze, his long fingers hovering over the master track volume as he slowly lowered his gaze to the screen.
You: PHANTOM!!!!!!! 💥
You: OMG YOU’RE LISTENING TO ME FOR REAL?! like you actually have your ears tuned to my frequency right now?! 🥺
You: wait wait wait hold on... if you're listening to the live broadcast feed... does that mean you think my voice sounds cute over the radio waves? 🎤
You: be honest!!! do I sound like a delicate, comforting morning sunbeam or do I sound like a sleep-deprived gremlin who drank too much battery acid?
You: also I literally just successfully dragged the physics department live on air!! pls praise me!!! tell me I did a good job or I will order another strawberry Red Bull right now I swear to god I’ll do it 🍓🥤💀
Deep in the safety of the control booth, Megumi Fushiguro looked like a man who had just been hit by a flashbang. His jaw clenched so hard the silver loop of his lip piercing pulled completely flat, and his tongue flicked out, clicking frantic, uneven rhythms against his bottom teeth.
He was actively experiencing a full-blown psychological crisis. He raised his eyes, staring through the glass partition at you. You were grinning like a maniac, your thumbs hovering over your screen, waiting for his reply.
He violently grabbed his phone, his long, pale fingers flying across the keyboard with absolute, trembling, indignant fury.
Mr. Pessimist: Your voice does not sound 'cute.' It registers at a decibel level that is actively threatening the structural integrity of the studio’s condenser microphones. You sound like a hyperactive bird that has bypassed its natural survival instincts.
Mr. Pessimist: And I will absolutely not praise you for weaponizing a Shrek meme to defame the laws of thermodynamics. Entropy is the inevitable decay of the universe, not a punchline for your mid-morning comedy routine.
You snorted so loud you had to cover your mouth with both hands to keep from choking on your drink. You instantly started typing back, your eyes sparkling with pure, unadulterated mischief.
You: awww, look at you using big science words to hide the fact that you love me! 🥰 negative reinforcement is a classic sign of emotional deflection, Mr. Realist! but fine, if my voice isn't cute, then why does my audio guy Fushiguro always turn my headset volume up so high? checkmate, phantom. he clearly appreciates my acoustic aesthetic.
Megumi stared at the screen, his brain completely short-circuiting.
He was actively losing a debate against himself, and the sheer, astronomical level of your obliviousness was genuinely starting to feel like a targeted psychological experiment. His knuckles turned stark white against his phone case as he forced his trembling thumbs to reply.
Mr. Pessimist: Your audio engineer turns your volume up because your microphone technique is a disaster and you keep drifting away from the pop filter to drink your synthetic poison. It is a matter of technical calibration, not personal affection. If he could legally mute you for the entire hour, I assure you he would.
You: lies!! Fushiguro is a tsundere saint, he would never mute me! 😤 speaking of him, he’s currently staring at his phone looking like he’s trying to solve a complex math equation with his forehead. you guys are literally the exact same brand of grumpy.
Megumi slowly let his hand drop to his lap, letting out a long, shaky, completely defeated sigh. He looked through the glass, watching you happily take another sip of your red-tinted drink, totally content with the chaos you had just caused.
He looked at the digital clock on his monitor. 8:24 AM. The ten-minute break was officially over.
With a flustered scowl, he shoved his phone into his pocket, reached forward, and aggressively flicked the master intercom switch back on.
"Track ending in five seconds, Sunshine," his low, gravelly voice crackled into your headset, sounding incredibly raspy and heavy. He deliberately kept his eyes glued to the audio levels, refusing to look at you as his silver piercing clicked one final time. "Put your headphones back on and stop harassing anonymous users. Your mic is going hot."
The heavy, atmospheric beats of the Lana Del Rey track faded out right on cue, the transition seamless as Megumi’s long fingers glided over the control deck. Above the glass, the red ON AIR light pulsed with renewed intensity. You slid your headphones back over your ears, flashing one last victorious grin at the control booth before leaning smoothly into the microphone, your voice instantly dropping into a velvety, late-morning cadence.
"Welcome back, campus, you are listening to WKJS," you purred into the mic, leaning in close to activate the full, rich depth of the studio's proximity effect. "The music break is over, which means it’s time to dive straight into our Wednesday exclusive: The Love and Romance Column. This is the segment where we dissect the absolute battlefield that is the campus dating pool. And trust me, looking at the dashboard right now, some of you are fighting for your absolute lives out there."
"Let’s kick things off with a fresh anonymous submission that just slid into the queue," you said, your eyebrows shot up instantly. "Oh... oh, wow. This one is a tragedy in three acts. Listen to this, JU."
You leaned forward, your tone turning deeply theatrical as you began to read.
"'To the Sunbeam host, please read this so I can feel some semblance of closure. Last night, I finally went on a first date with my crush from the chemistry department. He suggested we go to that upscale, traditional ramen spot downtown. Everything was fine until he tried to show off by using the ultra-spicy black garlic chili oil. Within two minutes, his eyes started watering so badly he couldn't see. He tried to wipe his face, but he forgot he had chili oil on his fingers, so he accidentally maced himself at the table.'"
You paused, letting out a breathless, horrified gasp into the microphone. Behind the partition, you caught the exact moment Megumi’s right shoulder twitched. He was staring at his monitor, but his lips were pressed into a razor-thin line, his entire frame vibrating with the effort of holding back a massive, uncharacteristic laugh.
"But wait! It gets so much worse," you continued, your voice rising in comedic disbelief. "'He started panicking, stood up too fast, and blindly knocked a full bowl of hot tonkotsu broth directly into my lap. I screamed, the waiter slipped on the spilled oil, and the manager had to bring out the restaurant's first-aid kit to flush my date's eyes with whole milk while I sat there smelling like pork bones and defeat. We rode the subway back in total silence. He was crying from the chemical burns, and I was covered in dairy and noodle grease. Do I give him a second chance?'"
You slapped your palm against the desk, the sound echoing crisply over the airwaves.
"JU, I am begging you, do NOT give him a second chance!" you shrieked, laughing so hard you had to pull back from the pop filter. "Macing yourself with chili oil is one thing, but a tonkotsu bath on the first date? That is a fundamental breach of cosmic alignment. Your entire aura is compromised! You can't come back from a milk-flushing incident!"
You spun your swivel chair around, pointing your finger directly at the glass partition to pull your technician into the line of fire.
"Let’s get a male perspective on this. Fushiguro, I’m turning your mic on," you announced mischievously, flicking the master toggle to connect the control room line directly to the live broadcast. "Tell the campus: if a guy blindly dumps a bowl of soup on his date because he maced himself, is his romantic data permanently corrupted, or is there a path to redemption?"
Megumi’s head snapped up so fast his hood almost fell back completely. His dark eyes widened in pure ambush panic as the live feed connected to his desk mic. His tongue darted out, his silver lip piercing clicking three times in a frantic, rapid-fire rhythm against his teeth before he forced himself to lean into his microphone, his gravelly voice sounding incredibly tight and raspy over the airwaves.
"The technical data suggests a total system failure," Megumi muttered, his tone dropping back into its clinical, deadpan monotone as he tried to survive being put on the spot. "Showing off with high-scoville capsaicin oil indicates a severe lack of risk assessment. However... dropping the broth was an involuntary kinetic reaction to temporary blindness. It wasn't malicious intent; it was a structural accident. If he pays for the dry cleaning, the liability is technically cleared."
"Wow! Spoken like a true, cold-hearted biology major!" you cheered into the mic, completely delighted by his rigid response. "You heard it here first, JU! Our resident tech director says it’s a matter of financial liability, not emotional trauma! Personally, I think the guy needs to change his identity and transfer to a different university."
Through the clear pane, you could see the tips of Megumi’s ears flaring a violent, uncontrollable shade of crimson. He aggressively slammed his hand onto his console, manually overriding the station controls to cut his own live mic feed before you could torture him any further.
You chuckled, turning back to the glowing screen of the text board dashboard. "Alright, let's see what else we've got in the queue before we transition to our next music block. The submissions are rolling in fast now..."
You clicked on the latest entry, your eyes rapidly scanning the text. Mid-sentence, the words caught in your throat. Your voice completely dropped its professional radio modulation, shifting into a high-pitched, genuine squeak of sheer shock.
"Oh... wait a minute. Hold on. This next one is highly personal," you blurted out, leaning so close to the mic that the audio levels threatened to peak. "'To the Sunbeam host from a fellow night-owl in the library basement. I need the insider information for the sake of the campus rumor mill. Are you and your audio engineer secretly together? Because I definitely saw the two of you in the back study lounge at like 2:00 AM on Sunday morning, and you were completely passed out on his shoulder while he was literally typing on your laptop with one hand and using his other hand to carefully shield your face from the glare of the monitor. It was disgustingly domestic. Please confirm or deny, the public needs answers.'"
Static silence.
The air in the radio booth felt like it had suddenly been vacuum-sealed. For a second, the only sound over the airwaves was the soft, rhythmic looping of the lo-fi jazz track.
Behind the glass partition, Megumi turned into an actual, physical statue. His eyes were stretched incredibly wide, staring at the digital readout of the text board on his own monitor in catastrophic horror. The crimson flush that had been hovering on the tips of his ears violently exploded down his neck, coloring his entire throat a deep, burning shade of scarlet. His knuckles turned stark, skeletal white as he literally gripped the entire edge of the mixing console to keep his hands from shaking.
But as the initial, blinding panic began to recede, a strange, quiet shift occurred beneath the shadow of his charcoal hood.
Megumi looked away from the monitor and let his eyes drift over to you. Through the glass, he watched the flustered, bright pink tint warming up your own cheeks, the way your fingers nervously twirled the cord of your headset, and the small, breathless laugh escaping your lips. The words disgustingly domestic echoed in his head.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the rigid tension in his jaw began to melt. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, hidden away in the dark security of the control room. His heart, which had been hammering against his ribs in terror, suddenly shifted into a different, warmer rhythm. The thought of it—the actual, public reality of people looking at the two of them and seeing a couple, of the campus gossiping about him belonging to you and you belonging to him—didn't make him angry. In fact, it sent a strange, possessive thrill straight down his spine. He liked it. He liked the thought of the rumor spreading. He liked that someone had noticed how carefully he had shielded your eyes from the light.
"Oh my god," you laughed breathlessly into the microphone, shaking your head rapidly. "JU, the library basement has eyes! I am officially being perceived! But to answer the anonymous commenter—no, absolutely not! Fushiguro and I are definitely not together. He was literally just keeping me from failing sociology because my brain had evaporated into mush. It wasn't 'domestic' at all, you guys."
Megumi’s small smile lingered, his eyes softening as he waited for you to inevitably call him a grumpy space heater or a tsundere.
"Besides," you continued cheerily, leaning into the microphone with a dramatic, exaggerated sigh that made your voice sound incredibly dreamy over the airwaves. "I can't go breaking my audio guy's heart like that, but more importantly, my allegiance is already pledged elsewhere. I've already told you guys, I have a massive, catastrophic crush on the bathroom ghost text guy. He's moody, he's mysterious, he reads detective novels, and he actually understands my need to romanticize life in a rainy greenhouse. Fushiguro is great, but the phantom has my entire heart right now."
In an instant, the faint, warm smile on Megumi’s face completely faltered.
The color didn't leave his cheeks, but the warmth vanished, replaced by a sudden, heavy ache that settled deep into his chest. He sat entirely still behind the soundboard, his fingers dropping away from the volume sliders. He stared through the glass partition at your bright, animated face as you continued to laugh off the submission, entirely oblivious to the absolute wreckage you had just caused.
A cold, sharp realization washed over him, suffocating the brief spark of happiness he had felt just seconds prior.
The bathroom ghost.
You liked the phantom. You liked the anonymous, faceless, text-bubble entity who sent structured advice at 3:00 AM. You liked the stylized, filtered version of a guy who hid behind a screen name because he was too cowardly to be a man and actually tell you how he felt.
Megumi’s eyes darkened, a profound, quiet insecurity clawing at his throat. What if she only likes the thought of him? he thought bitterly, his chest tightening as he watched you take another sip of your strawberry drink. What if she only likes the romanticized, mysterious concept of the phantom, but doesn't actually like him as a whole?
If he came out from behind the glass right now—if he showed you his phone, if he confessed that the cynical, hyper-logical realist who monitored her sleep schedule was the exact same person sitting behind the mixing board—would you still look at him with that same starry-eyed affection? Or would the illusion break? Would you realize that the "mysterious, cute detective-novel reader" was just Megumi Fushiguro, the quiet, unapproachable science major who couldn't even hold a normal conversation with you without hiding behind a technical manual?
"Matter of fact, I'll call him right now! Let's uncover the truth together, JU!"
The words left your mouth like a live grenade dropped directly onto the studio console.
Behind the glass partition, his entire soul practically left his physical body. In a split second of absolute survival-instinct panic, he completely abandoned his cool, unbothered tech-director posture. He lunged forward in his swivel chair, crossing his forearms violently in front of his chest to form a giant, frantic X.
"No! No!" his lips moved aggressively, mouthing the words through the thick pane of glass, his face morphing into a desperate, pale mask of terror. He shook his head so hard his messy black fringe flew wildly across his eyes.
But you weren't even looking at him. You were already entirely lost in the absolute sauce of your own live-radio bit. Your thumb aggressively tapped the screen of your phone, bringing up the contact for Mr. Pessimist and hitting the call button, holding it directly up to the heavy broadcast microphone so the entire campus could hear the line ringing.
Ring...
Ring...
Megumi scrambled backward, his chair rolling violently against the plastic mat as his hand dived into the pocket of his dark charcoal hoodie. His fingers clamped around his device, desperately trying to find the silent switch, but his palms were sweating so badly he lost his grip.
And then, it happened.
From the other side of the glass partition, cutting right through the soft lo-fi background loop, a distinct, muffled sound began to echo. It wasn't just a generic vibration. It was a very specific, atmospheric, and highly recognizable bassline—the unmistakable, slowed-down intro of "West Coast" by Lana Del Rey. Your favorite song. The exact track you had requested for your thematic character playlist.
The muffled music was vibrating directly from inside Megumi's pocket.
Your brain short-circuited. Your hand froze, holding your phone against the microphone as your head slowly, stiffly turned toward the control room. Your eyes locked onto Megumi.
He was standing up now, his frame completely rigid beneath his oversized sweatshirt. The crimson flush on his face had vanished, replaced by a stark, breathless pallor. His green eyes stared back at you through the glass, wide and entirely trapped, like a deer caught in high-beam headlights.
Before you could even process the mathematical impossibility of what your ears were hearing, Megumi’s hand slammed down onto the master console.
Click.
With a single, violent motion, he threw the master kill-switch. The red ON AIR light above the glass instantly died, plunging the booth into an abrupt, dead silence. Your microphone cut out entirely, rendering the broadcast dead to the entire campus.
Without a single word. Without even looking back at you, Megumi spun on his heel. He yanked his phone out of his pocket to kill the ringing, shoved the heavy, soundproof door of the technical room open, and practically bolted out into the hallway. The heavy door slammed shut behind him with a muted, echoing thud, leaving you sitting entirely alone in the silent booth, your phone still pressed to your ear, your jaw practically resting on the desk as the pieces of the puzzle began to violently collide inside your head.
The dead silence of the soundproof booth finally snapped you out of your trance. The heavy, crackling static of West Coast had faded out minutes ago, but you had been sitting there, paralyzed, watching the audio levels flatline into a dull, green glow on the digital monitor.
The realization hit you like a physical blow. You ripped the heavy studio headphones off your ears, throwing them onto the mixing console with a loud, plastic clack that echoed in the empty studio. You grabbed your canvas tote bag from the floor, shoved your notebook inside, and snagged your half-empty, lukewarm strawberry Red Bull from the desk.
You threw the heavy, sound-insulated door open and bolted out of the station.
The media building was dead at this hour, illuminated only by the sterile hum of overhead fluorescent lights. You didn’t wait for the elevator. This was an important matter. You took the stairs, flying down the three flights of concrete and steel, your sneakers slamming violently against the scuffed linoleum steps. Every echo felt like a ticking clock.
You burst through the heavy glass doors of the campus conservatory, trading the crisp morning air for a completely different atmosphere. The air inside the biology department’s greenhouse was immediately thick, heavy with the humid warmth of a simulated rainforest and the rich, intoxicating scent of wet soil, peat moss, and blooming tropical flora.
After the frantic sprint across the quad, your breath came in uneven, shallow huffs. You slowed your pace, your sneakers making a soft, rhythmic squish-snap against the wet brick pathway that snaked through the greenery.
You began your search, moving deliberately through the dense foliage.
At first, it was just an endless wall of green. You walked past towering fiddle-leaf figs and massive Monstera deliciosa plants whose perforated leaves threw intricate, jagged shadows across the walkway. The light filtering through the high, condensation-fogged glass ceiling was soft and muted, casting a hazy, dreamlike glow over everything.
You kept your eyes peeled, scanning the narrow aisles. You checked the succulent section, where rows of terracotta pots held neat, geometric cacti, but found it empty. You walked past the hanging orchids, their vibrant pink and white petals brushing against your shoulder, but there was no sign of a spiky-haired audio engineer. The only sound was the steady, rhythmic drip... drip... drip of an automated misting system somewhere in the ceiling, and the distant, muffled patter of the morning rain outside.
But you knew his habits. You had a sociological imagination, and more importantly, you had the text logs.
You made a sharp turn toward the very back of the conservatory—the restricted biology research wing. As you neared the section labeled Pteridophytes, the air grew noticeably cooler and more shadowed. The vibrant tropical flowers gave way to dense, ancient-looking clusters of prehistoric ferns and damp rock walls covered in thick green moss.
And then, you spotted him.
Tucked away on a weathered wooden bench in the furthest, most shadowed corner of the aisle, sat Megumi. His wide frame was hunched over, his elbows resting heavily on his knees as he stared blankly at the brick floor. He had his oversized charcoal gray hoodie pulled entirely up, the fabric shadowing his face, but you could see the rigid, stressed line of his jaw from ten feet away.
He looked completely wrecked, his posture radiating a raw, frantic tension that completely contradicted his usual cool, unbothered demeanor.
As you took a quiet step closer, you noticed a faint, sweet cloud of blue-raspberry-scented vapor curling out from beneath his hood, dissipating slowly into the humid air of the greenhouse. Held tightly in his long, pale fingers was a sleek, royal blue vape. He took a short, sharp drag, his chest expanding under the fleece before he let out a long, shaky exhale, watching the smoke drift up toward the glass ceiling. His tongue darted out, his silver lip piercing clicking twice against his teeth, a frantic, anxious, metallic rhythm that echoed softly in the quiet conservatory.
You planted your feet firmly on the brick pathway, took a deep breath, and finally let it rip.
"Fushiguro!" you yelled, your voice exploding through the humid silence and echoing sharply off the high glass panels. "Megumi Fushiguro, you absolute coward!"
Megumi violently jumped a foot off the wooden bench, his dark eyes snapping to yours panic. Your sudden shout caught him right mid-inhale, and his entire system instantly short-circuited.
He hacked, chest heaving beneath his oversized charcoal fleece as he violently choked on the sweet smoke. He coughed rapidly into his elbow, his face instantly turning a catastrophic, high-voltage shade of crimson that had absolutely nothing to do with the lack of oxygen and everything to do with the fact that he had been thoroughly cornered.
"What—" he wheezed, his gravelly voice sounding incredibly raspy, strained, and completely stripped of his usual clinical composure. He frantically waved a long, pale hand through the air to disperse the sweet-smelling cloud, looking like a teenager caught smoking behind a cafeteria. "What are you doing here?! I told you—I texted you to go to your lecture!"
"Oh, shut up about my lecture schedule, ghost boy!" you marched right up the brick pathway, stopping a mere foot away from the bench and pointing your half-empty strawberry Red Bull directly at his face like a weapon. "The jig is up, Fushiguro! Or should I say... Mr. Pessimist? Mr. Realist? Mr. ECO-BOY?!"
Megumi froze, his hand tightly clamping around th blue vape as if he could somehow make it invisible. The crimson flush on his neck violently deepened, scorching all the way to the tips of his
ears.
"I don't... I don't know what you're talking about," he stammered, his eyes darting frantically to the surrounding ferns as if calculating whether he could structurally fit through a gap in the botany shelving to escape. "You're hallucinating. The synthetic fruit syrup and carbonated taurine have finally caused a localized neurological collapse in your brain."
"Oh, really?" you countered, leaning down into his personal space, your eyes sparkling with pure, unadulterated triumph. "So it’s just a massive, localized cosmic coincidence that when I called the anonymous text number, the exact, slowed-down intro of West Coast started blasting directly out of your hoodie pocket? A track I explicitly requested for a playlist? A track you literally looped on the studio monitors like half an houe ago?!"
Megumi looked like a man who was actively wishing for a stray meteor to breach the greenhouse’s glass roof and crush him on the spot.
"It's a... it's a very common alternative track," he muttered hoarsely, his jaw clenching so hard the silver loop of his piercing pulled completely flat. He shoved the blue vape deep into his pocket and pulled his charcoal hood even lower, desperately trying to hide his burning face from your intense scrutiny.
"You are a terrible liar for someone who reads so many detective novels!" you shrieked happily, letting out a loud, breathless laugh that echoed off the high glass panels. "You literally typed out the words 'basic sense of human decency' to me on air! You yelled at me through the intercom about the laws of thermodynamics! You've been monitoring my sleep schedule, formatting my APA bibliographies, and dragging the entire physics department just to cope with the fact that I praised Megumi Fushiguro live on the airwaves!"
You stepped even closer, a massive, teasing smirk carving its way onto your face. "You were jealous of yourself, Megumi! You were writing hate mail to your own audio engineering desk!"
"I was not jealous of myself!" he exploded, his voice cracking slightly on the word myself as his entire stoic defense mechanism completely shattered into a million pieces. He stared up at you from the bench, his eyes wide, completely defenseless, and radiating pure, agonizing embarrassment. "I was trying to prevent you from making a total fool of yourself on a public broadcast! And your APA formatting was an structural abomination, it was giving me a migraine just looking at the document!"
"Aaaaand there it is!" you cheered, clapping your hands together in total victory. "The phantom has officially spoken! Admission of guilt achieved! I mean, it all makes total sense now! I’m a literal genius. A sociological detective! I knew it all along, Megumi. I completely knew!"
Megumi let out a low, suffering groan, burying his burning face in his hands as he slouched further back onto the weathered wooden bench. "You did not know. You literally called me a tsundere saint on air three minutes before trying to dox a phantom."
"Details, details!" you waved your hand dismissively, your voice bouncing off the glass panes of the greenhouse as you began to pace the narrow brick walkway, fully entering peak yapping mode. "The point is, the narrative arc is flawless. Like, think about the subconscious cosmic signaling! My brain clearly recognized your specific brand of hyper-logical hostility through the screen. You're always sitting there behind the glass looking like a moody detective from a film noir, drinking your bitter black coffee and judging my life choices. I should’ve connected the dots weeks ago when you knew my exact class schedule! Wait, does this mean you actually think my radio voice is cute? You totally bypassed the question in your texts, Fushiguro! You dodged it! You’re basically my guardian angel, except instead of wings, you have a terrible attitude, a severe nicotine dependency, and a silver lip piercing that clicks every time you perceive an structural error in my life—"
"Sunshine, please—" Megumi muttered hoarsely, his knuckles turning white as he grabbed the edge of the bench, trying to cut through the absolute avalanche of words.
"—and the fact that you changed your ringtone to fucking Lana Del Rey?! Oh my god, you are so deeply, irrevocably down bad for me! You’ve been hiding behind a text board this entire time because you’re a giant, grumpy tsundere who couldn't handle me telling the university that you're boyfriend material! Like, you could have just told me you liked the strawberry Red Bulls, you didn't have to call them a biological hazard live on air, though I guess that's just your way of showing affection, which is honestly kind of adorable in a tragic, hyper-logical sort of way—"
"Shut up," he muttered, but you didn't even tap the brakes.
"—and if you think for one second that I'm going to let you live this down, you are deeply mistaken, ghost boy! I am going to bring this up during every single mid-morning broadcast from now until graduation. I'm going to dedicate an entire segment to how my boyfriend flirted with me by copy-pasting a Wikipedia article about rain just to see your ears turn red, and then I'm going to—"
Megumi reached his absolute, psychological breaking point.
Before another syllable could escape your lips, his hand shot out from his pocket, his long, pale fingers gently but firmly wrapping around the back of your neck to pull you down. He lunged upward off the wooden bench, his movement fluid and desperate, and effectively silenced you by pressing his lips squarely against yours.
Your entire brain experienced a catastrophic, total system blackout. Your eyes widened in pure shock before fluttering shut, your hands instinctively clutching at the thick, charcoal fleece of his hoodie.
The kiss was sharp, breathless, and incredibly intense, capturing your mouth right in the middle of a syllable. The metal loop of his silver lip piercing was cool against your lips, a sharp, electric contrast to the absolute, burning heat of his mouth that sent a dizzying jolt straight down your spine. It wasn’t a tentative, hesitant brush, but a firm, possessive, and thoroughly desperate override of your entire vocal system, tasting faintly of sweet blue raspberry and lingering Red Bull.
Your tote bag slipped from your shoulder, hitting the brick floor with a soft thud, and your fingers completely lost their grip on the strawberry energy drink, the plastic can clattering into the soil of a nearby fern pot. Your whole world narrowed down to the tight, heavy grip of his hand cupping your jaw and the frantic, hammering rhythm of his heart against his ribs. It was a kiss heavy with weeks of unsaid words, frantic midnight texts, and the quiet tension that had been building behind the studio glass. For a glorious, suspended moment, the entire biology wing faded away, leaving only the heat of him and the rhythmic, soft drip... drip... drip of the greenhouse misting system.
When he finally pulled back, it was only by a fraction of an inch. His breath came in short, ragged huffs against your lips, his chest rising and falling violently beneath his oversized charcoal fleece.
He didn't let go of your jaw. His green, intense eyes stared straight down into yours, completely wild and heavy with a mix of raw affection and total, agonizing embarrassment. The crimson flush on his neck had traveled all the way up his cheekbones, but his gaze didn't waver.
"You talk too much," Megumi muttered, his gravelly voice incredibly low, raspy, and completely breathless against your skin. He let his thumb stroke your cheekbone one last time before slowly dropping his hand, a faint, exhausted but fiercely genuine smirk finally tugging at the corner of his lips. "Shut up, Sunshine."
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Sylus/Xavier/Rafayel/Zayne/Caleb
Yeah*sigh*I'm ovulating again. Enjoy 😝
The blue light of your phone screen is the only thing cutting through the darkness of your bedroom. You really should have been asleep an hour ago, instead, you’re spiraling down a rabbit hole you didn't even know existed.
Size kink.
You’d never really thought about it before, not until you started dating Sylus and tonight you were just scrolling, looking for something to satisfy the empty ache Sylus left all week.
This video is something you had never seen before or even thought was possible. You watch, mesmerized by the way the woman’s stomach subtly shifts a visible bulge as he stretches her out.
Heat pools instantly between your thighs, making your breath hitch and a dizzying sensation of fullness hit your gut. He's always so careful with you, so agonizingly gentle, as if you’re something precious he might break if he breathes too hard. But looking at this... a dark part of your brain wonders what it would feel like if he didn't hold back.
"Holy shit..." you whisper to the empty room.
Your hand moves instinctively, fingers sliding down to find slick heat. The video is playing on a loop. Bulge. Stretch. Deep. Repeat. You watch it while your imagination runs wild, replacing the stranger on the screen with the man who owns your heart. You’re picturing his heavy weight pinning you down, his eyes blown wide, filling you until you can’t even scream.
You’re chasing a peak that feels miles away until, suddenly, it isn't. You hit your first orgasm with a stifled gasp, back arching off the mattress, only to find yourself immediately chasing the second one, body trembling and spent in the wake of the first.
By the time the second wave of pleasure ebbs away, you’re a puddle of limbs and heavy eyelids. You’re half conscious, drifting in that beautiful limbo between wakefulness and dreams. In a daze of post orgasmic euphoria, you squint at the screen, your thumb hovering over the comment section.
"How do I send him this without actually sending it to him 😳"
You tap 'send' with a clumsy thumb. You meant to just post it as a thought, a digital scream into the void. But as your eyes flutter shut, your hand twitches a final, involuntary spasm of exhausted muscle. Your thumb slips. It slides across the 'Share' icon, hovers over the very first contact at the top of your recent list, and taps.
Sent.
You don't hear the subtle whoosh of the outgoing message. Delivered directly to the man who at this very moment is probably staring at a security feed or sipping red wine.
Sylus.
You just fall into a deep, blissful sleep, completely unaware that you've just lit a fuse.
“Come on, sweetie, don’t give up on me now" Thrust. The impact is heavy, forcing a breathless gasp from your lungs. “You can take it, can’t you?”
He isn't being the gentle, careful man you know. Not today. His hand is hooked firmly behind your head, his fingers tangling in your hair, forcing you to watch the unmistakable, fat bulge stretching the skin of your lower abdomen, proof to just how deep he’s buried himself inside you.
“You wanted this, now you have to take it and you are going to watch.”
And there it is. The reality of it. It’s visceral. It’s exactly what you saw in that video, but it’s a thousand times more intense because it’s him. It’s real.
Your vision swima and just as the shock of it all starts to settle, he shifts. He changes the angle of his hips in a calculated move that hits your G spot dead on. An uninhibited scream tears from your throat, echoing through the room.
“I've been trying to behave,” he says, and the words come out rougher than he probably intended, an edge of frustration bleeding through his usual composure “But you make it so difficult... fuck... by sending me your filthy little thoughts.”
His hand settles against your belly, firm and heavy, and the second he presses down, your body reacts with a sharp inhale. You tense instinctively, muscles coiling around him, but you don't pull away. You can't.
“Can you feel me here?” he asks, breath coming in uneven bursts. He’s buried balls deep and for a split second, you see a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. You make a face, a strange, overwhelmed expression of fullness, and he looks like he might actually pull back to give you a moment to breathe. He thinks he’s pushing too hard.
He’s wrong.
Don't you dare.
Driven by a desperation you didn't know you possessed, you move your hips in a searching rhythm, pressing his hand down harder against your stomach. You want the pressure. You want to feel the exact point where he meets your skin from the inside.
He lets out a loud groan at the sensation. Your narrow walls clamp down on him, tighter than they've ever been. Every millimeter of space between you feels like it’s disappearing, leaving nothing but friction and heat.
You don't have the words to tell him that you never want him to stop, so your body does the talking. You cling to him, legs wrapping around his waist as he holds you there, keeping you exactly where you are until your breathing turns unsteady.
Until your body softens in momentary surrender and tightens again a second later, as if you're fighting a war with yourself, trying to decide whether to let go or to hold on tighter.
In the end, you don't choose. You do both.
The world dissolves into a hot haze of pleasure. It couldn't be called an orgasm because this feels like a total system failure. You’re sobbing his name or maybe you’re just gasping for air, you can’t tell anymore as waves of pleasure crash over you, violent and unrelenting. Your pussy seizes around him in long pulses, milking him, begging for the very thing that’s pushing you past your limit.
He follows you a few seconds later, burying himself soooo deep you feel the hot rush of him filling you.
Slowly, the fog begins to lift, leaving you in a state of blissful, heavy lethargy. The hand that was just pressing so ruthlessly into your belly softens, fingers tracing lazy circles over your skin.
"You really are a menace." he murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple.
The shame you expected to feel, the embarrassment of that accidental video is nowhere to be found. Instead, there is only a sense of immense satisfaction.
"Next time," he whispers into your hair "don't bother sending a link. Just tell me. I'll give you everything you desire. Every single time."
The problem with being in love with a man like Xavier is that your brain is constantly a minefield of "what ifs."
He’s incredible, truly, but you’ve noticed the way he pulls back sometimes. When he’s brooding or when that possessive jealousy starts to prickle at him, he becomes almost too careful. Like he’s afraid he might actually break you if he lets go of that restraint.
So, naturally, you’ve been doing a little "research" to keep the inspiration alive.
Now, you’re sitting on the edge of your bathtub, scrolling through your feed, a habit that’s becoming a bit of a vice, when a video catches your eye. A girl pinned to a mattress, her head pressed down by her partner as he fucks her from behind. Hard. The sound of her moans echoes in your ears through your headphones and suddenly the bathroom feels about ten degrees too hot.
God, yes.
You quickly save the link to your "later" folder, a digital stash of things you want him to eventually try, and then scribble a quick, thirsty comment on the video "This but with my boyfriend dressed as Lumiere 🤤 " and set your phone down.
Buzz. Buzz.
A notification lights up the screen. It’s him.
[Xavier]: Found a new hot pot place. Apparently, the broth is spicy enough to kill a Wanderer. Want to go tonight? Please say yes so I can stop thinking about food and start thinking about you.
A soft laugh escapes you. He’s so predictable, yet so devastatingly charming when he wants to be. Your answer is an immediate "sure" because you’d say yes to a lukewarm bowl of water if he was the one serving it.
But he always forgets to look at the menu and ends up ordering something way too spicy or something you're not in the mood for, so you look for the restaurant's menu.
You see the link. Tap it. Copy. Paste. Add "Look at the options! The spicy broth looks insane." Send.
Funny thing is, you don't actually copy the menu's URL, you just cut it. You don't even realize you just sent him the very un culinary link to the video you were just watching to fuel your own delusions.
Little typing bubbles appear. They dance for a long time. They disappear. They reappear.
He's so indecisive.
⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐
"Lumiere?" the name sounds like a curse "You wanted Lumiere to pin you down?"
Your face is pressed so firmly into the mattress that the fabric feels like a part of your own skin, the scent of laundry detergent mixing with the heat of the moment. Every time he thrusts into you, the world tilts, your vision blurring into white light and dark shadows. The Xavier who kisses your forehead and cuddles with you is buried somewhere deep inside the man currently fucking you breathless.
"Xavie..." you try to speak, but his name dies in your throat as he shifts his weight.
"Tell me," he demands, losing the battle with his own restraint. He hits you hard, a deep, soul shaking thrust that forces a broken moan from your lips. "Tell me you don't need a costume to feel this."
You try to answer, to tell him he's being ridiculous...
Smack!
The sting of his palm against your ass makes you gasp, your fingers clawing at the mattress for purchase.
"You sent it to me on purpose," he mutters as he leans down, his chest pressing hard against your back. "You wanted to see me like this, didn't you? You wanted to see if I could be as rough as him."
He doesn't want an answer. He doesn't wait for one. He just wants to hear you whimper his name when he hits that perfect spot.
His hand presses your face down even harder into the mattress, muffling your cries. It's everything you were craving when you were scrolling through your phone earlier, but the reality is a thousand times better.
You start to move, trying to meet him halfway, trying to grind back against him to find the friction that will push you over the edge.
"Faster..." you beg, trying to turn your head to tell him that there is no Lumiere, there is only him, but he just presses you back down, his thumb grazing your hip bone with trembling pressure.
"Shhhhhh, just a little bit more," he lets out a long groan, his forehead dropping to rest against the back of your neck for a fleeting second before he surges upward again. "You should see the way your pussy is taking my cock right now, so greedy. Just for me."
His hand shifts. It leaves the back of your head to find the column of your throat. His thumb and middle finger curl around your neck not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you that he is in total control.
He stills for a heartbeat, his middle finger softly tapping the pulsing vein in your neck. "Every beat belongs to me tonight"
You just nod, a jerky movement, because you are standing on the very edge of a precipice, and the fall is coming. The tension in your lower belly is wound so tight it’s almost painful.
"Say it," he breathes, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his words a warm, humid ghost of a sensation, his control fraying at the edges.
"Yours," you finally whisper, like secret you’ve been holding in your lungs for far too long, finally allowed to breathe.
The moment the word leaves your lips, he loses the last of his mercy.
He pulls back almost entirely, leaving you aching and empty for a fraction of a second only to drive back in, bottomless and bruising. It’s a cycle of withdrawal and overwhelming fullness that leaves you reeling.
"Give me what's mine" the command vibrates through your entire body.
The world dissolves into white light as your head falls forward, muscles spasming in the violent quake of your climax, but he catches your hair, tugging just enough to force your head up, his face inches from yours, his eyes dark and swirling with a hunger that could swallow the stars.
"Good girl," he whispers against your parted, trembling lips.
He thrusts one last time, deep and final, spilling molten heat as your name breaks from his lips, torn in half by bliss before he presses a kiss between your shoulder blades. For now, the jealousy is gone. There is only the quiet, heavy reality of being his.
The video catches your eye instantly. The lighting is a soft purple, casting a surreal glow over the two people on screen. A girl is on top, her movements slow and agonizingly deliberate as she drags her pussy over her partners cock, the rhythm of it making your cunt clench.
Tonight you are in a "no filter" mood. You need to share this. You need to tell Tara.
With a smirk, you tap the share icon, copy the link, and switch over to your messages. You find Tara’s profile pic or so you think and start typing with the kind of unhinged energy only a best friend can appreciate.
You and Tara have long since abandoned the concept of "boundaries" when it comes to your filthy late night chats.
“Omg Tara, look at this. Raf’s cock is so pretty, I swear if he’d just let me do this to him, I’d never leave the bedroom again 🥵💦”
You hit send with a satisfied whoosh and let out a long, dramatic sigh. Silence follows. For a few minutes you go back to scrolling, blissfully unaware that you have just dropped a digital bomb into the inbox of a man who is already struggling to maintain his composure.
Your phone vibrates.
It’s not a "LOL" or a "Damn" from Tara.
It’s a notification from Rafayel.
Rafayel: Is that so?
Your heart skips a beat. You frown, squinting at the name at the top of the chat.
Wait.
Your face goes from pale to a shade of red that would put a sunset to shame. You stare at the screen, wanting to physically crawl inside the phone and disappear forever. You want to delete it. You want to throw the phone out the window. You want to move to a different planet.
But then, the little typing bubbles appear again.
Rafayel: Don't just sit there blushing, cutie. I'm coming to your place and you are going to show me exactly what you want"
🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧
You’ve lost track of time. Your thighs are starting to ache, every muscle in your legs feels tight, strained from holding yourself upright, yet you keep moving. You have to. The friction is the only thing keeping you grounded.
You’re straddling him, your knees digging into the soft linens, focused on the way your cunt drags over his cock. Slippery. Hot. Wet.
Every time you slide down, the underside of him, that thick ridge presses ruthlessly against your clit. You can feel the vein running along his length pulse in perfect synch with your clit.
Thump thump. Thump thump.
"Slow down..." he groans, gripping your hips "You're going to... fuuuuck... you're going to kill me"
The friction is creating a heat of its own, a sliding friction that makes your head spin. You watch slightly delirious, as the light from the moon filters through the window, catching the sheen of sweat on his pale skin and the way his hair is plastered to his forehead. He looks wrecked. He looks beautiful. He looks like he belongs entirely to you.
But his hands are far from weak. They are heavy weights anchored to your hips, and he uses them to sabotage you. Just when you think you’ve found a rhythm that might actually save you, he tightens his grip, forcing your hips to slow, dragging the slide of your pussy out into a long, shallow glide.
It’s cruel. A sadistic kind of torture, making the night feel endless, as if the clock has stopped just to watch you suffer.
He wants to stretch this out. He wants to milk every drop of anticipation from your veins until your entire body begins to tremble, not from pleasure, but from the weight of the climax that refuses to arrive. He wants to push you to that edge where even your silence sounds filthy, where the quiet between your breaths is thick with the unspoken things you want to do to him.
Once he’s satisfied with the slow pace, his hands begin to wander. They trace the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine, the swell of your breasts, learning your body the way a sinner learns to pray. Like hunger learning the art of restraint just long enough to make the eventual feast mean something.
You slide back just a fraction, settling the heat of your pussy directly over his balls and then you reach down.
Your fingers wrap around the base of his cock, just like you saw in that video. You begin to stroke him while simultaneously rotating your hips in a circular grind over the heavy fullness of his balls.
The sound that tears from his throat is something unhuman, a vibration that feels like it's coming from the depths of the ocean.
Your name is caught between his teeth in a soft, sinful exhale. He sounds undone, completely unraveled by the sight of you taking exactly what you claimed you wanted in that accidental text.
He’s right there, on the edge of an unravelling collapse.
And because you are just like him, a creature of beautiful, chaotic impulse, you don't let him have it. Not yet.
You release his cock, hand slipping away just as the tension reaches its peak, and drag your soaked cunt back up the entire length of him in one loooong slide.
It feels like a collision of two fires.
In your desperation to feel everything you let your entire weight drop. The clench of your pussy as you cum wraps around the underside of his cock, squeezing him with a force that leaves him absolutely helpless.
He has no choice but to follow you into the fire.
Spurts of his cum paint the pale skin of his stomach, the liquid warmth spreading in thick, white streaks, pooling in his belly button.
For a few seconds, neither of you moves. There is only the sound of your breathing and the humid scent of your shared exhaustion.
“Was that pretty enough for you, cutie?” he teases, though his hand trembles slightly as he reaches up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His thumb lingers on your cheek, like he’s constantly checking to make sure you haven't vanished into the night. "Or do we need to do it again?"
It’s late, way past the time Zayne would usually be nudging you to sleep but he’s still tucked away in his office, probably buried under a mountain of medical charts or surgical reports.
Your eyes are glued to your phone screen, watching a VIDEO of a girl grinding against a man’s thigh, bodies pressed together, his hands steady even as she buries her face in the crook of his neck. The guy in the video is wearing pajamas that look disturbingly similar to the ones Zayne is wearing right now.
Suddenly, the empty space in your bed feels a little too vast, your mind drifting to the office down the hall, aching to be that girl, to climb onto his Zayne's lap while he’s buried in medical charts and just... fuck yourself stupid.
You want to reach down and touch yourself but you’re a loud sleeper and an even louder moaner. If you start now, there’s no way he won't hear you through the walls, and you aren't quite ready for that kind of intimacy yet. So, you settle for a bit of digital venting. With a flushed face, you type out a quick comment on the video: "God, I wish I could do this while he's working..."
You go to save the link to your "Filthy Things" folder for a proper session tomorrow morning, but just as your thumb hovers over the screen, your phone starts vibrating. It’s Simone. She’s calling, probably to gossip about something trivial. In your rush to swipe the call and answer her, your finger taps the wrong folder.
And because Zayne is a man who is always, always connected to his devices for work... he’s going to see the notification the exact second it pops up.
🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺
It didn't take long. After that little "digital accident," the silence between you two wasn't awkward so much as it was heavy. Charged. He didn't even tease you about the comment. He didn't even blush. He just looked at you with those piercing eyes, a tiny, knowing quirk at the corner of his mouth, and silently commanded you to come to him.
And now, here you are. Perched on his lap, doing the same thing you saw on that video. Your lower half is completely bare, your thighs hugging his muscular one as you press yourself flush against him.
The friction is driving you completely insane.
Zayne, however, is a man of terrifying discipline.
His left hand is braced on your lower back, while his right hand moves across his keyboard. He’s actually working. He’s reviewing files, typing out notes, behaving as if you aren't currently trying to melt into his lap. Every so often, he’ll pause, not to stop you, but to lean in. His breath, cool and smelling faintly of mint, brushes against the shell of your ear, sending a violent shiver down your spine.
"Ah... Zayne..." you whimper against his neck as you press yourself harder against him. The sound is loud, far too loud for his quiet office and you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks.
"Hush now," he doesn't even look away from the monitor, though you notice the slight tightening of his jaw. "I need to focus. These reports won't write themselves."
He’s being difficult. He’s being a tease. And you love him for it.
You try to be "good." You force yourself to still when he has to write something long on his computer. You sit there, trembling slightly, waiting for him to acknowledge the havoc you're wreaking on his concentration.
A moment passes. The only sound is the soft click clack of the keyboard. Then, you feel his hand slide from your hip to the small of your back, pulling you just a fraction of an inch closer, a subtle command for you to keep going.
"Good girl," he whispers, the words a warm caress against your ear.
His expression is completely professional, but the way his fingers linger on your skin tells a completely different story. He’s still working, yes but he’s also letting you feel exactly how much of a distraction you really are.
Every time your thighs tense up, every time you desperately bite your lower lip to stifle a moan that threatens to shatter the silence, the air thickens with indecency.
He’s struggling. You aren't blind. You can feel the insistent twitch of his cock beneath you, reacting to every open mouthed kiss you press against the pulse of his neck, the sharp line of his collarbone, and the smooth expanse of his Adam's apple. He’s trying to maintain that surgeon’s calm, but his body is betraying him with every shuddering breath you take.
You’re right on the edge. Your clit is catching perfectly against the fabric of his pajamas, the material already damp and clinging to you from the amount of arousal you're leaking.
"Look at me."
His voice cuts through the air, forcing your gaze up. He wants to see the exact moment your eyes glaze over, the moment your breath hitches and tells the truth that your lips are trying so hard to hide.
When his hand slides up to cup your jaw, it isn't the gentle, comforting touch you're used to during a quiet movie on the couch. It's different. It's possessive. It’s a disciplined kind of dominance, a reminder that while he is the composed Zayne in the daylight, there is a much darker man caged behind that professional composure and you are the only one who knows how to let him out.
"You are close, aren't you, love?" he whispers, his lips hovering so close to yours that you can feel the heat of his breath.
You can barely manage a nod, your lungs feeling too small for the air you're trying to pull in. You're breathing directly into his slightly parted mouth.
"Cum for me, then," he exhales, a rare flush creeping up his cheeks, betraying just how much this is affecting him too.
He shifts his thigh, bouncing it up and down in a rhythmic motion that catches your clit perfectly.
The world tilts. You feel your eyes lose focus and you can't tell if it's the shaking of your limbs or the pounding of your heart that's making you tremble so violently.
"Zaynie... Zayne..."
His name becomes your entire vocabulary, there are no words left, only the sound of his name on your lips and the crashing sensation of finally, finally letting go.
You are flicking through a never ending stream of mindless clips and memes. It’s supposed to be a quiet afternoon, just a bit of scrolling to kill the time until Caleb comes back, but then there...
A VIDEO pops up. It’s not your usual aesthetic travel vlog or a cooking hack.
You freeze, your heart doing a weird, little skip in your chest. You know you should probably swipe past it, but your eyes are glued to the screen. It’s a girl, her lace panties completely drenched. The guy in the video isn't even taking them off, he’s just sliding the tip of his cock against her through the wet lace.
A sudden warmth blooms deep in your belly, spreading down until it feels like you’re melting into the cushions. God, you’ve been craving that. The teasing, the slow, agonizing buildup. You’ve spent so much money on delicate, expensive little sets, thinking maybe Caleb would appreciate the way they look on you, but hes a fucking dog. He doesn't do "slow." He usually just rips them or tugs them off with impatience, going straight for the heat of you. You just want him to play with you like that. To linger.
Your inhibitions are a little frayed from the visual, and before your brain can catch up to your impulse, your thumbs are flying. You tap the comment section, the screen a mess of unhinged messages from strangers, and you add your own little confession: “I really need him to play with me like this, but he prefers to eat it raw from the start😢”
You hit send, a tiny, embarrassed flush creeping up your neck, and immediately swipe the video away, feeling a bit silly for being so vulnerable to a bunch of internet strangers.
You toss the phone onto the cushion next to you a second later, completely oblivious to one mortifying detail. He’d logged into his account on your phone earlier when his own battery died, and you hadn't bothered to switch back.
In his office, the most dangerous man in Skyhaven is about to watch, in explicit detail, how you want to be ruined.
🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷
It turns out your assessment of him was spot on. The man is a fucking dog.
He hasn't taken your underwear off. That’s the part that’s driving you absolutely insane. The delicate lace is currently soaked, clinging to your pussy like a second, translucent layer of skin. He’s been working his tongue against the fabric, licks so long and heavy they feel like they’re reaching deep inside you. You’ve already been hit by two earth shattering, toe curling orgasms, your vision blurring every time his mouth finds your clit through the damp cloth. He hasn't even slowed down. If anything, it's getting worse.
“This is the reason I usually take off those pretty panties you wear” he presses his face into you, his broad tongue sweeping up in one stroke against your entire slit. You let out a choked, broken sound, fingers tangling desperately in his dark hair, trying to push him away just to catch your breath.
“Your scent is so fucking addictive,” he groans against your skin, “Especially after wearing them all day... knowing you've been walking around, smelling like this, just waiting for me.”
Then, he says something that makes your heart skip a beat not out of fear, but out of pure shock.
“You have no idea, do you?” he pants, nose brushing against your clit. “Last two years of High School... I spent them stroking my cock raw just to the smell of your panties. Thinking about you. Wishing you were right there."
Your vision blurs. Your hips jerk upward involuntarily as a third wave of pleasure crashes over you. You cum hard, your entire body shaking as you spill yourself directly onto his tongue, voice breaking into a high, desperate sob of his name.
He doesn't pull away. He just drinks you in, a satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he tastes exactly what he's been craving.
The moment your legs stop trembling he hooks his fingers into the soaked gusset and drags it to the side, baring your swollen folds and your pulsing clit, sensitive from his relentless attention.
He doesn't thrust in. He doesn't go for the full stretch you’ve been silently praying for. Instead, he slides the drooling tip of his cock over your slit. He isn't even entering you yet, he's just... slapping it against your clit, teasing the very edge of your tolerance.
You wanted the lace, the play, the slow burn... but God, you also wanted him to fuck you until you couldn't remember your name. You wanted the stretch.
But Caleb is a man who listens. Or rather, he's a man who has spent a lifetime studying every detail of your desires and right now he is giving you exactly what you asked for.
He leans down, his eyes dark, watching the way your face contorts with pleasure and frustration. He doesn't give you the release of a full thrust, he just feeds you the tip. He slides just the head of his cock into your pussy, a teasing invasion that barely makes a dent.
The reaction is instantaneous. Your walls react to him like a living thing, clenching around him, desperately trying to suck him deeper, to pull the rest of him in. The sensation is so perfectly matched that a synchronized moan breaks from both of you.
He pulls out just a fraction and then he thrusts the tip back in. Over and over again.
“Please,” you whimper, the word sounding pathetic even to your own ears. “Baby, please...”
You’re trying to force him to go deeper. But he’s in total control. His left hand is working the length of his cock, pumping with a desperate rhythm, while his right hand finds your clit.
His eyes are pinned to yours, watching every flicker of emotion on your face as if he’s trying to memorize the way you fall apart.
And then, the teasing ends.
His mushroom tip, still nestled just inside your entrance, begins to pulse. Warm, thick spurts of cum hit your sensitive walls, flooding the tiny space he’s occupied.
Your pussy clenches around the tip of his cock, trying to suck every last drop out of him while his hand squeezes the rest of his length, forcing the remainder of his seed into you, filling you up until his cum starts to leak out.
He finally collapses against you, the weight of his body pressing you deep into the mattress.
"You're so loud when you're happy," he murmurs before pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your temple, then your cheek, before finally settling his lips against yours in a kiss that tastes of salt and everything you are to him.
He pulls back just a bit, his gaze dropping to where the soaked lace of your panties still clings to your thighs, then back up to your eyes. There’s a flicker of that obsessive intensity returning to his expression.
"There isn't a single thing in this world you could ask for that wouldn't make me crawl to you. So don't hold back, Pips."
❝ what's worse than one idiot in love? two idiots in love. this poor friend group has had to suffer through their inability to communicate enough, but maybe this summer retreat is the perfect opportunity to finally confess some not so secret feelings❞
pairing friend!choso x f!reader
wc 10.9k
content mdni, fluff, smut, friends to lovers, mutual pining, multiple characters (gojo, sukuna, geto, shoko, nobara, yuuji, megumi), choso is down bad and everyone knows it, idiots in love, summer fun, jealousy, hidden feelings (from a few people mm...), love confessions, dry humping, soft dom choso, body worship, fingering, praise kink, handjob, oral (m receiving), piv sex, cuming inside, pet names (baby), aftercare, alcohol, crushes, minor injuries, friend group dynamics, soft intimacy
a/n this is a rework of an oldddd fic of mine, updated in my current writing style <3 i hope you enjoy! the choso art is by @torucider
The salty summer breeze was the first thing you noticed when your eyes started to blink awake.
It wasn't like the smell of the city, no, it was fresh and gentle, filling up your lungs with the promise of heat, fun, and sun ahead of this much anticipated holiday. Your arms stretched far above your head, and a long sigh escaped your lips as you felt every muscle loosen up atop this unfamiliar bed.
Slowly. Everything moved slowly.
Considering your hectic city life, slow felt good. Maybe this getaway really was a good idea, and you made a mental note to express your gratitude to Shoko for suggesting it and practically forcing you into saying yes.
She was right – this was exactly what you needed. The trip had barely started but you were already sold. All you needed was some quality time away with your best friends.
Doctors really did know best.
But among the chirping birds and the distant crashing waves, another noise caught your attention. More… human this time. A laugh you'd recognise anywhere.
It seemed your peaceful morning wouldn't last very long.
You turned to look at your phone with a groan, the screen shining a bright "7am" right in your face.
It was way too early.
But when did that ever stop Satoru Gojo?
You tried to ignore the noise for as long as you could, but eventually your interest was peeked by the commotion. It's not like you could avoid the group you chose to come on this vacation with forever, after all.
So you opened your door, leading straight to the open patio of the villa you and your friends had rented for a quiet summer getaway. Maybe it was your fault for ever believing that was a real possibility.
You were promised cocktails by the pool, sunbathing on the grass, and wholesome bonfire nights. Knowing this group, you had expected a little bit of chaos, sure – but why the hell was Gojo grinning like a maniac, with a water gun pointed directly at a drenched, and, not at all amused Sukuna at 7 in the fucking morning?!
“You have 3 seconds...” the pink haired one murmured under his breath, his voice a promise of a million ways he could and would kill Satoru.
You wondered how long Gojo had even been planted outside the other man's door to perform this ambush, considering Sukuna had barely stepped outside of his room before being attacked. From Gojo's wide smile, he was clearly pleased with how the plan went.
"One…" he started counting, but Satoru didn't move. Considering even this far away Sukuna made your blood run cold, you did respect Satoru for standing his ground.
"Two…" Sukuna snarled, and, to his dismay, was met with another splash right on his already soaked face.
He wouldn't bother counting to three.
Your white haired best friend ran backwards as fast as he could, still facing Sukuna to continue his unrelenting water gun assault. A loud "Worth it!" escaped his lips, but the sound was cut off half way when Sukuna began his chase.
Unlucky for him, it seemed it was all a trap – Suguru was already joining in the fray, jumping in from behind one of the deck chairs.
Well… it was nice to know them.
“Can we not start the day with murder...” groaned a voice coming from the door next to yours, and your brain immediately forgot about the war raging on a few feet away.
Choso stood there. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, torso in full display with nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants hanging low from his hips. It was rude to stare, but… come on, it was impossible not to.
I mean, looking like that should be illegal.
Choso's muscles were curved in all the right places, perfectly toned from his shoulder's to his abs and everywhere in between. Damn the universe for making your crush be this ridiculously hot – at least if he wasn't you'd have some hope of getting over it.
You had had a crush on Choso ever since his little brother Yuuji introduced him to the friend group. It was love at first sight, or, well, lust at first sight. The love thing came later. Not that you'd ever admit it to yourself or anyone else, of course.
Even though you went to bed thinking of him most nights, and could barely stand in his proximity without feeling the heat pooling around your cheeks. You kept telling yourself he was just a man, just attractive, you had crushed before and everything turned out fine. It just took time, but you could get over it.
I mean, remember how you had a crush on Gojo when you had just met? Looking at the idiot being tackled by Sukuna now, you could barely remember what that even felt like.
It would be fine. There was still hope.
But then Choso turned to you – his posture immediately straightened, and you could have sworn you saw the tips of his ears turn pink.
“Oh...morning” he said, smiling softly at you.
Damn that stupid smile.
You opened your mouth to reply, but another mess of pink hair suddenly peeked out from over his shoulder, way too excited for this hour. “Water gun fight?!” Yuuji yelled, running back into the room to find his own weapon.
Choso stepped out of the way with a sigh, watching his little brother run into the grass to join in Gojo's and Geto's bullying of Sukuna. You half expected him to join in just to protect him, but… he didn't.
He just stayed right there, dark eyes shifting from your face, to the floor, then back to your face. He almost seemed nervous, or maybe you were reading too much into it.
“Did you sleep well? I hope they didn’t wake you” he asked finally, that deep voice that made your knees weak.
You just nodded and smiled gratefully, always struggling to find words around him. It was really sweet of him to ask. But it didn't mean anything, Choso was sweet, everyone knew that, it's not like you were special or anything. He looked back at you with those careful eyes you loved so much, his mouth opening up to say something when–
He immediately got splashed with water.
“They made me” said a very guilty Megumi, on the other end of a water gun that was still pointing at Choso.
You brought a hand to your mouth to stifle a laugh at Choso's surprised expression, trying to keep your eyes from the way the water dragged along his muscles and dripped on the floor.
“Come on bro!” yelled Yuuji, still running along the grass. “Revenge!”
Choso let out a small chuckle that definitely said it’s too damn early for this, but went inside to find his water gun anyway. Just like you expected – he'd always rush to his little brothers side.
You actually really liked that about him.
So you stood by your door, taking in the scene as it evolved in front of you.
Sukuna had now seized Gojo’s weapon and split it in half, turning his attention to Suguru, who was running to refill his ammo with the water from the pool. From the way Satoru looked pleased, you guessed he was definitely hiding a spare water gun somewhere.
Yuuji and Megumi were running circles around the pool and trying to splash each other, the dark haired one definitely more invested than he let on. You watched Choso run to his brother's defense, aiming perfectly at the other one's back, before Yuuji betrayed him and splashed his neat twintails.
But Choso didn't mind, laughing along with it.
It's just a crush, you repeated to yourself like a mantra. Be cool.
Finally, you spotted the girls. They watched the scene from the bean bags on the other side of the grass, Shoko smiling with a cigarette already dangling from her lips, and Nobara wildly waving in your direction.
You couldn't help your smile at the way the morning had unfolded.
The sun was shining bright above your perfect little circle of chaos, and you wouldn’t change it for the world.
“Idiots, all of them” Nobara groaned as you sat down on the bright green bean bag next to hers. She had a hat on to protect from the sun, and the most stylish pajama set you think you had ever seen.“Who has that much energy at this hour?!”
"It's better for them to let it out early" Shoko hummed, blowing smoke into the breeze.
"I haven't even had coffee yet" Nobara complained, throwing her had back and covering it with the hat.
"I think it's kinda cute" you said, watching as they all ran around.
"Yeah, yeah" Nobara mocked. "We all know who you think is cute"
"What are you–"
Before you could complete the question, a jet of water hit you square across the face, splashing everywhere from your chest to the girls sitting next to you.
“What the hell?!" you groaned, casting a very mean stare at the white haired menace in front of you. Of course it would be him.
“Oops” Gojo hummed, a litte guilty. As expected, a fresh water gun was already in hand. “I missed?”
“Who exactly were you trying to hit?” you growled at your best friend, motioned to the others still splashing each other on the other side of the patio. If this was his attempt at getting you to join in the fun, it wasn't working.
The girls stared at him too, soaked and annoyed, but suddenly Nobara's eyes widened and she passed you her hat, motioning to cover your chest with it. Only then had you noticed.
For fucks sake. You were wearing white.
“You pervert!” you yelled, throwing a sandal at your best friend, though he caught it with ease.
“Just a happy coincidence, princess!” Gojo retorted, ducking from the sandals Nobara and Shoko threw his way too. "Ow! I'm sorry! I'll give you my shirt, here, I'm not even looking–"
The commotion easily caught everyone else's attention.
“I swear to God, Satoru–” you growled, but as he promised, Satoru had already thrown his soaking shirt for you to shield yourself with, a chorus of apologies still leaving his lips. "I really didn't realise–"
“What’s going on?” Choso cut in. Water dripped from his dark strands, and his breathing was a little heavily from rushing over so fast. But he suddenly stopped, dark eyes immediately narrowing at Satoru's half naked body standing over your group, and his wet dark shirt clinging on to your body.
His eyebrow twitched slightly and his jaw clenched, but he still looked at you with kindness. “Are you ok?” he asked you directly, completely ignoring everything else.
Nobara pointed at Gojo, whose mouth fell open in a silent gasp. “Satoru was being a pervert” she deadpanned, as Shoko nodded solemnly.
“I said I’m sorry!” Satoru yelled, putting both his hands up in surrender. "We all make mistakes!"
“You’re an idiot” Choso rolled his eyes at his friend, holding out his hand to help you stand up.
“And you’re too obvious” Gojo retorted with a wink, running off before he could catch the way Choso snarled at his comment.
But whatever grimace Choso threw in Gojo's direction, it was all gone when you accepted his hand. Suddenly, his focus was completely locked on you.
"I'm ok" you smiled, the touch lingering for a little longer than necessary. “Needed to get changed anyway”
Physically, your body was going through your luggage, looking for something to change into, but your mind was gone – the butterflies still danced in your stomach, reminding you of how quickly Choso had come to your rescue just now. At the way his hand fit so perfectly around yours. And God he looked so good in those–
“Am I interrupting your spiral?” Nobara clapped her hands to get your attention. You had completely forgotten her and Shoko had come in after you. “Are you gonna answer the question or not?”
You pursed your lips, exploring your memories but coming out empty handed. “Sorry, what was the question?” you asked awkwardly.
"We lost her" Shoko sighed.
“I swear to God...” Nobara exhaled, standing up to join you by the suitcase. She looked over the mess with a hand on her hip and another under her chin, analyzing the options like this was extremely important. Finally, she seemed to have made her choice, raising a swimming costume up near your head.
"If you want impress him, this one”
You blinked up at her, opening your mouth to ask who, but everything about the way she glared at you screamed don't play dumb with me.
So you snapped the swimwear from her hands, throwing yourself on the bed next to Shoko. “What was your question?” you sighed, staring at the ceiling so your friends couldn't read the embarrassment in your face.
“I asked if you’ve fucked him yet” she declared, matter of fact.
“Nobara! No!” you sat up so fast the blood rushed to your head, putting your hands forward to motion her to be quiet. But the other two just stared at you, waiting. “He’s not like that" you completed with a surrendering exhale.
"You guys are not together?" Shoko raised an eyebrow.
You just shook your head side to side, biting the inside of your cheek. "We haven’t even kissed" you admitted.
The two gasped at this very unexpected new information.
“You’re joking” Nobara crossed her arms. “He looks at you like you’ve been married for decades already”
“Well, he hasn’t said anything to me and I...I don’t know!" you stood up, pacing across the room, finally able to get these feelings off your chest. "What if we’re wrong and he doesn’t even like me?"
“Don’t be an idiot. Everyone knows" Nobara huffed out.
"You’re the only one who’s questioning it” Shoko agreed.
That made you stop pacing.
“Everyone?” you asked.
“Everyone” Nobara repeated. “It’s disgusting”
That at least got a laugh out of you. “Thanks” you murmured, looking down at your hands. You didn't even know if this realisation made you feel happy or anxious – the stakes were just too high.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever” Nobara waved it off, walking towards the door. “But seriously, that one” she completed, pointing at the swimming costume in your hand.
It was a little more… bold than you would normally wear, but hey – maybe it was about time you took your friends advice. They were the ones witnessing you fall apart over this crush for years already anyway.
Maybe it was time to be a little more bold.
You stepped out of your room a few minutes later. Hair fixed with a pair of sunglasses on top, and the swimming costume Nobara had chosen expertly hugging your figure.
Every head snapped to you as you walked towards the group.
Nobara looked proud. Shoko nodded in encouragement. Satoru let out a wolf whistle, and Choso… looked very much not ok.
In fact, he looked like something had short circuited in his brain.
“She broke him” Gojo whispered, earning a laugh from Suguru next to him.
“Pathetic” Sukuna just rolled his eyes.
“Over here!” Nobara waved with a wicked smile of approval.
Most of the group seemed to be half asleep already, all sunbathing by the pool after a busy morning with all the running around and death threats. You could swear Yuuji was snoring softly, distracting Megumi from his book every few seconds, who looked over at him with an annoyed sigh every time.
"Nice of you to join us" Satoru grinned, moving over to the side to open up space for you.
Right next to Choso.
Had the girls been right about everyone knowing?
"You all look half asleep" you rolled your eyes, sitting next to the dark haired man, but trying to avoid eye contact at all costs. If they all knew…
Did Choso know too?
Did he think you were an idiot?
"We're recharging" Suguru nodded, that casual smile of his.
"Tch. Weak" Sukuna muttered from the side, resting his hand on two bent elbows as he relaxed on the grass.
"You were asleep ten minutes ago" Suguru retorted.
"I wasn't" he growled. He probably was. "The only one asleep is Itadori"
That seemed to wake him up like a spell. "I'm awake!" he said, standing up so fast Megumi almost dropped his book on the pool. "Is it time for another water gun fight?" he asked eagerly.
"I don't have any more guns left" Satoru pouted, while Sukuna opened an evil grin.
Yuuji started listing off different games you could all play, and little by little, everyone seemed to regain the energy. Gojo barely let the man speak, cutting in every half second to offer his own suggestions or agree excitedly with what he was already proposing.
Everyone was joining in the conversation, apart from… you and Choso. Who looked at you like he definitely wanted to say something, but wasn't quite sure on how.
"You look beautiful” he said finally, when your eyes happened to meet. You didn't even mean to, but it seemed neither of you could keep avoiding this dance for too long. “That’s a great colour on you” he completed, cheeks growing an adorable shade of red.
You hoped he couldn't see in your face the way your heart was leaping out of your chest.
“Thank you, Choso” you smiled, biting the inside of your cheek.
“So it’s settled!” Gojo snapped your attention back to the group, clapping his hands dramatically. “The first game is chicken fight – the winning team gets control over the speaker for a full 2 hours!”
Shoko and Suguru immediately exchanged a conspiratorial nod. Megumi let out an exasperated sigh, but didn't argue. Nobara rolled her eyes and asked if Gojo was thirteen. Yuuji fist bumped the air, excited like a golden retriever, and Sukuna seemed too enticed by the reward to object.
Choso, in a moment of courage, turned to you, swallowing hard. “Do you want to–”
“You’re with me, princess!” Gojo scooped you up before Choso could finish his sentence. “Let's talk strategy!”
The sun shone bright up above where the four teams met in the middle of the swimming pool, ready for the first brawl.
Nobara announced there was no way in hell she was getting on anyone’s shoulders, so she lunged in the shade as the self appointed referee. "Remember, no fowl play" she instructed. "Did you hear that, Sukuna?"
The pink haired man only rolled his eyes, the only indicator that he was listening.
Team number one was you and Gojo: Team The Honoured Ones. You sat tall on his shoulders, as Satoru held you down with firm hands on your thighs, pretending not to notice the way Choso looked murderously at him.
Team number two was Yuuji and Megumi – the latter looking like he'd rather be anyone else. Their team name was Black Flash, which Megumi only agreed to so Yuuji would stop talking.
Team number three was Shoko and Suguru, who looked far too ready for this. Shoko barely waved where she sat atop Suguru's shoulders, the two the very image of serene confidence. Their team name was Uzumaki, suggested by Suguru.
Team number four was Choso and Sukuna: The Cursed Duo. After a long argument, Choso relented and agreed to sit on Sukuna’s shoulders. He had a bit of a pout on his face, you suspected because Yuuji had gone straight to Megumi, but when he saw you – it changed into a smile.
You were halfway through waving at him before Satoru tapped your thigh incessantly. "Focus, princess" he complained. "You're on my team"
If only you weren't resting atop his shoulders, you would have noticed a little pout in Satoru's handsome face. It wasn't like him to be this possessive over you, but it's not like you weren't used to his taunting and teasing.
"I was just assessing the competition" you quickly recovered yourself. "Who are we going for first?"
Satoru hummed underneath you, pondering the question. "I doubt Choso will go against Yuuji, so I can only assume they'll come for us or Suguru" he started, like a professional tactician. "I say we go for Yuuji and Megumin to avoid Sukuna and your boyfriend"
"My wha–"
"I don't trust Suguru and Shoko, look at them" he immediately cut in, bringing your attention to the other two, still calmly waiting for the brawl too start, not even exchanging a word, like they could speak telepathically. "They're too calm" Satoru squinted, suspicion all over his voice.
"You're right" you hummed, started to feel a little nervous. "But what if they come for us?"
"True" Satoru sighed. "We should be ready for anything"
You nodded, swallowing thickly as you prepared mentally.
"Ready?" Nobara yelled from her reclining chair, laying back to enjoy the sun. "Go!"
The word had barely left her lips before Sukuna was lunging towards Satoru. Clearly someone still wanted to take revenge on the water gun attack from earlier.
And to your complete dismay, Team Uzumaki was quickly moving towards you too.
"Satoru!" you yelled, but his hands were strong where he held you down.
"Fight, princess!" he urged, and the sound of someone sinking was enough to snap your attention back to the game.
Team Black Flash hadn't survived the first charge, with Megumi collapsing from on top of Yuuji before they had barely moved an inch.
At least that left you with only two other teams to worry about. But Yuuji sinking had caught Choso's attention, distracting him.
This was a perfect opportunity.
But before you could extend your hands to try a shy push at Choso's shoulders, Suguru had already reached your team.
"You're getting slow, Satoru" he taunted, Shoko immediately grabbing you by the shoulder's with a non chalant "sorry".
You managed to interlock your hands with hers, the two of you laughing and not trying all that hard to push the other off. Suddenly, though, your body sank deeper, and Shoko's face twisted in surprise as she plummeted off Suguru.
"Fault!" Nobara yelled. "You're not supposed to kick the opposing teams, Satoru"
"That was never a rule!" he yelled, as Suguru and Shoko emerged, scowling at their white haired friend and his cheese eating grin.
Following a quick discussion where Sukuna agreed brute force from the base players should be allowed, Team The Honoured Ones were named the victors of the first round.
Naturally, Shoko and Suguru decided they'd rather have a smoke in the sun instead, and withdrew from the competition, calling fowl play.
"They're just bad losers" Satoru sighed, already helping you up on his shoulders again.
This meant there were only three teams standing this time.
Megumi and Yuuji had decided to switch positions, with Yuuji now standing proud on poor Megumi's shoulders. You and Gojo exchanged a glance, knowing very well what this meant – Sukuna and Choso were definitely coming towards you first.
"Ready!" Nobara called again. "Go!"
As expected, Sukuna and Choso rushed towards you – and Satoru rushed towards them.
“You’re going down!” Gojo yelled at the other team, wide smile all over his face.
“Try it” Sukuna retorted with an evil grin.
While you and Choso looked very much terrified on top of the other two.
Your hands snapped forwards, trying to reach for your crush even while your whole body felt as if electrocuted from the sheer anticipation of being that close to him.
The fact that Satoru kept waving you around frantically didn't help – every time you thought you had an opening, you were somehow swerved in the other direction.
What the hell were he and Sukuna doing down there?!
You finally managed to reach your hands towards Choso, but he blocked your attack with a loud "I'm sorry! Did I hurt you? I–"
“You have to push her” Sukuna growled from beneath him, clearly growing angrier and angrier at his teammates inability to harm you.
But just as he opened his mouth to complain again, his pink head disappeared into the water, taking your crush with him.
And thus, Team Cursed Duo was defeated.
"No complaining, Sukuna" Nobara clicked her tongue as the latter reemerged and immediately went for Gojo's throat. "You're the one who agreed to it"
The three teams regrouped for the third and final round.
The rules were clear this time: any attacks coming from the base players would result in immediate disqualification, and bluetooth speaker rights would be revoked for the time being. It seemed his defeat had changed Sukuna's mind fairly quickly.
"Don't worry, we got this" Satoru reassured from under you, and you offered another proud nod.
Your heart still beat fast from last brawl, and more so from how close you and Choso had been.
It was ridiculous, you felt ridiculous – but somehow, you thought you might not be the only one.
Because Choso himself seemed very preoccupied with looking anywhere else but at you, his gaze firmly fixed on the water and the sky and his brother like the whole world was far too interesting.
You tried to catch his gaze, give him a thumbs up that indicated he didn't hurt you, but every time you happened to catch his eyes he averted them straight away. And you could swear the tips of his ears were turning pink.
"Choso is acting weird" you said to Satoru, keeping your voice low.
You noticed the mess of white hair move from between your thighs, before he let out a low chuckle. "Someone's jealous" he hummed, amused.
"Jealous?" you questioned, tilting your head. It was true Choso didn't have his usual calm expression, and his arms were firmly crossed over his middle while Sukuna tried to argue some strategy. His jaw was locked tight, face turning into a tiny grimace.
It was adorable how he seemed to have no control over his facial expressions.
But…jealous?
"Of what?" you asked again, and you heard Satoru scoff.
"I'm pretty handsome, you know" you could feel him roll his eyes without even having to see it.
"Sure, but" you retorted. "Why would he be jealous of you? We're friends"
To your surprise, Satoru didn't argue again. You expected a tease, for him to say something along the lines of you're not my type anyway. But… it didn't come. If anything, you could have sworn you heard him sigh.
"Of course" he agreed, a few seconds too late. "Now focus, princess"
Nobara was already raising a hand, and motioning the beginning of the third brawl.
Team Black Flash were steadier this time, completely ignoring you and heading to Team Cursed Duo instead. "Come on bro, show me what you got!” Yuuji yelled, putting his hands up to reach for his brother.
Choso's hands locked with his as he tilted his body to the side. He was trying his hardest to not hurt Yuuji, of course, but the pressure was too much for poor Megumi to handle, and he ended up sinking after putting up a fair fight. Later, everyone agreed it was a honourable defeat.
"Yuuji? You ok?" while Choso was distracted by scanning the water for his brother, Team Honoured Ones attempted a sneak attack.
Satoru tried his best to be quiet, though that wasn't really his forte. Right as you were getting ready to push Choso, Sukuna turned around in the blink of an eye – and your hands ended up finding your opponent's chest instead of his broad shoulders.
Choso’s body jolted straight like the sudden contact had electrocuted him. He instinctively reached for your wrists, closing his large palms around them when you welcomed it with a laugh. Encouraged by your playful smile, he began trying to tip you over, but you were stronger than you looked.
Sukuna wasn't as amused, though. With a hinge of his hips, he tipped his weight forwards – and before you knew it, Choso was falling into you and you were falling backwards, losing all balance.
Gojo tried his best to hold on to your legs and stabilise you, but was quickly overpowered by the weight of both you and Choso falling fast, and soon he was submerged too.
The water filled your open mouth as you sunk slowly, your hands desperately reaching forwards, until it found his. Choso had already locked your hands together, his other hand finding your waist to pull you out of the water as fast as possible.
"I'm sorry" he panted, completely drenched himself, helping you hold on to the edge of the pool.
Despite the coughing from the sudden water you had inhaled, you still managed to laugh. "Don't worry about it" you waved it off.
“Team Cursed Duo wins” Sukuna announced, but Choso didn't seem that interested in celebrating.
Despite the enduring sunlight, night time eventually came, bringing with it a more forgiving breeze to squelch the heat.
Because of the changing rules during chicken fight, no one could decide who had the rights over the speaker. Sukuna and Satoru had spent a good thirty minutes complaining, all the while Suguru took control of the music.
Nobara and Shoko were busy making everyone cocktails, but after you had been the test subject to a few too many failed attempts, you decided to excuse yourself to the furthest bean bag, and just let the summer breeze tickle your skin before your friends could get you too drunk.
Right now, you were in a perfect state, somewhere between tipsy and just high on the day's excitement.
Choso had been gone for a while, along with Megumi and Yuuji. It was sweet how close he was to his brother and his brother's best friend, but you couldn't deny you found yourself just…looking for him.
Every time you heard a shuffle of feet or a noise far ahead, you wondered if it was him. Looking for his presence somewhere up in the clouds and also in the nearby voices, your mind conjuring up a million scenarios and things you could talk to him about, despite being too shy to just tell him how you feel.
Was this even normal?
Did everyone with a crush just forget to function when the object of their admiration was near?
You groaned a little, sinking deeper into the chair and just staring at the stars above. They were so bright over here. So much more so than in the city.
It was only the first day, but you already didn't want to ever leave.
“Can I sit here?” a voice finally came, and you had to blink your eyes repeatedly to make sure you weren't day dreaming again, lost in one of your wild scenarios that would never come true.
No, Choso was actually standing there. Handsome and tall against the moonlight, his distracting abs now concealed in a compression shirt that was too tight for your own good.
And he was smiling.
He always smiled around you.
"Sure" you nodded, and he took a seat in the beanbag in front of you. He was clearly too large for it, and you laughed a little at seeing him awkwardly try to fit, but his adorable pout only made you laugh more.
"These aren't very comfortable" he sighed, extending his legs to try and regain some balance. They were so close to yours they almost touched – almost.
"We can move to the chairs, if you like" you suggested, though that would mean going closer to the group.
You didn't want that, but part of you also wanted to know if he did.
As much as everyone teased, you were still not that convinced he had a crush on you too. It would simply be too good to be true.
When was reality ever that kind?
Choso turned around, looking for where the other chairs were scattered. "I'm alright here" he said, despite his clear discomfort. "…If you are?" he added then, bringing his dark eyes to you.
"I'm alright here, too" you smiled.
"Good" Choso nodded awkwardly, his gaze moving from his hands, to where your legs almost touched, and then back to your face. The silence between you was a little awkward, sure, but it was far from quiet – at least on your end, the sound of your heart was loud enough to fill the whole space.
"Are you enjoying the holiday?" you asked.
"Yes" he nodded. "I'm glad Yuuji convinced me to come"
So were you.
"How did he convince you?" you asked lightheartedly, but from Choso's reaction you would have thought you just asked him something deeply personal.
"He, uh–" his hand came to rub the back of his neck, the curve of his bicep immediately catching your attention. Was this a plan to distract you again?!
Surely not. Choso wasn't one to play games – all his endearing awkwardness was exactly who he was.
"He said you were coming" he finally admitted, with a sigh.
You felt your brows furrow close, mouth opening before you even knew what to say. "You came because of me?"
"Um…yeah, I did" he confirmed, staring at his hands.
"So you weren't excited to hang out with Sukuna and Gojo?" you tried to tease, and he finally looked at you with that grimace you loved.
"Definitely not" he said, and you both laughed.
It was a gorgeous sound.
On the other side of the patio, your friends were all lost in casual conversation. Megumi and Yuuji had now rejoined the group, playing some kind of card game on the grass with Nobara. Shoko and Sukuna were talking about something, or, Sukuna was talking about something, but she seemed happy enough to listen. Satoru and Suguru were the ones standing a little further away, talking about something that seemed serious, but who could guess with those two.
"Did you hurt your hand?"
Your head snapped back to Choso, and you noticed it was only you who was distracted looking at your friends. He was focused on your wrist, and how you rubbed it softly with your other hand, flexing your fingers open and close.
You hadn't even noticed you were doing it.
"Oh" you tried to wave it off. “I think I fell at a weird angle during chicken fight” you admitted with an awkward laugh.
Choso didn't laugh, though.
“Let me see” he squinted his eyes, opening his palm for you to take.
You placed your hand on top of his, holding in your breath as Choso inspected your skin. He closed both hands around yours, focused on looking for any sign of bruising or broken skin. It didn't even hurt that much, but you weren't saying no to an excuse to have him look at you like that.
And you watched him – how beautiful he looked with his hair down, falling all messy around his handsome face; still a bit wet from the pool and clinging on to his forehead. His skin felt soft and warm against yours, the perfect contrast to the cool night breeze.
Choso's eyes darted to yours quickly, shyly, but you didn't avert yours. And so he didn't either.
How odd that this was the most tender moment the two of you had exchanged so far, and yet you couldn't bring yourself to be fully present. It felt like a dream, like you were floating high above the clouds – if it was the alcohol's doing, or the adrenaline from the day, or simply the way Choso's eyes looked at yours, you weren't sure.
But everything about this felt… magical.
Slowly, carefully, Choso closed your hand, satisfied that you weren't actually hurt. But then, he brought it close to him, as you watched with wide open eyes – as he left the tiniest kiss on your knuckles.
His face went all red, finally breaking the eye contact, and you could swear you heard his heart beat just as loud as yours.
Maybe all your friends had been right, after all.
“If you do it again, I might forget it hurts" you teased, earning a warm smile from him.
“Good" Choso hummed. "Then I’ll keep going”
Your breathing hitched as Choso touched his lips against your knuckles again, firmer this time. You instinctively opened your palm, an invitation, and Choso interlaced your fingers together, looking at you under his dark eyelashes.
“Do you… want to go somewhere else?” he whispered, and you nodded yes.
You opened the door to your room, hoping no one else from the group had noticed the two of you sneaking away. If you had only looked back you might have noticed Shoko's approving smile and Nobara's whispered "finally", as well as Satoru's puzzling stare. But you weren't exactly paying attention to them right now.
Right now, it was just you and Choso.
"Sorry it's a bit messy" you said awkwardly, noticing you hadn't had the time to clear away all the clothes you had left on the bed, in your haste to find an appropriate swimming costume. You quickly shifted your attention to it, anything to get you away from how nervous you felt, and started putting everything away again.
Refusing to look at how Choso stood awkwardly in the middle of your room, unsure of what to do. "It's fine" he tried to say, though you were hard at work. "You should see Yuuji's room"
You smiled, finishing up and placing the suitcase back on the floor. Now you really had to turn back to him.
"Do you want to get some fresh air, maybe?" you asked, again trying to calm your beating heart. There was a little private balcony at the back, with a loveseat that would do just fine. Some air would definitely help your nerves.
"Yeah" Choso agreed, following you out into the night again.
As predicted, the breeze did help you breathe easier. You sat on the loveseat right by the back wall, shuffling your feet nervously on the ground; but Choso didn't join you.
"I've been meaning to talk to you" he said, putting his hands inside his pockets. Were his trembling like yours were?
"About what?" you asked, trying to sound as casual as possible, hoping he couldn't hear the anticipation in your voice.
"I just…" he started, clearly unsure of what he even wanted to say. "I've been meaning to say something, and I'm not sure if it's the best time, but–"
"You can tell me" you cut in, hands clasped together and sweating embarrassingly.
Choso's eyes narrowed at you, clearly having noticed how odd you were acting. But then he smiled. And then his smile turned into a chuckle that you joined into.
Two idiots, weren't you?
"Do you remember that one time we went to the movies?" Choso started, a little more confident than before. "The first time, maybe a couple weeks after Yuuji introduced me to your group?"
"I remember" you nodded, turning your head at the memory. You were surprised Choso even recalled it, considering how long ago it had been.
"It was some horror movie Yuuji picked" he laughed, shuffling a little. "He was so excited, but I… I could barely look at the screen. When he asked me about my favourite scene later I had to lie, and I felt terrible. I never lie to my brother"
You were a little confused, but listened to what he was telling you with a focused expression. "Why weren't you paying attention?" you asked.
Choso finally looked at you. Breathing in, and out. Taking his time.
"Because you were sitting next to me" he admitted finally. "And all I could think about was how pretty you looked"
Your mouth fell open in complete surprise, but Choso kept going.
“You... you’re incredible, you know” he exhaled. “I’ve always thought that. Every time. And the way you smiled today…"
He took a breath to steady himself, his eyes closing as if lost in memory, and the sweetest smile on his lips.
“Seeing how you smiled today made me wish I could be around to watch you smile like that every time” he continued. “It made me wish I could be the one making you smile that way”
Oh.
Oh.
You were sure your hands were still trembling, but you couldn't really feel them. It was like time itself… had just stopped.
“You are” you heard yourself say though your throat was squeezed tight, and then the dip of the loveseat as Choso settled next to you.
"Hey" he said softly, one hand finding yours where it rested nervously on your lap, the other cupping your cheek. "Don't cry" he begged you, using the pad of his thumb to dry the tears threatening to fall.
"I didn't realise I was" you laughed at yourself, leaning into his hand. "I think I'm just happy"
"Really?" Choso was the one whose voice sounded a little strained this time, but his face had a smile to match yours.
"Really" you nodded. "I didn't think you felt it too"
Choso's bottom lip pushed forward a little in a small pout hearing you say that. "How could I not?" he asked.
How could you not?
Right then, you weren't sure if you felt like an idiot for dismissing all your friends claims and waiting this long, or if the surprise just outweighed anything else.
Why did you automatically expect good things wouldn't happen to you?
Because right now, the best person you could have dreamed of was staring at you with stars in his eyes. And he wasn't pulling back.
Neither were you.
"I like you too" you finally admitted, the words you struggled with for so long finally leaving your lips. In your worse nightmares, Choso turned away or mocked you – but in reality, he didn't do any of that.
If anything, you didn't think you had ever seen him this happy.
"You do?" he repeated, like he just wanted to hear you say it a million more times.
"Yes, you idiot" you laughed at yourself. "Apparently everyone knows" you added, hoping to share some of the shame you felt.
"Yuuji said that too" he sighed, embarrassed. So that's why he had disappeared with his brother for so long.
Despite being mortified by the prospect, the two of you shared an easy laugh. One that was like a weight off your shoulders.
"I wasn't sure if I should do it here, I mean–" he started to say, interlacing your hands together. "I didn't want to make the trip awkward"
"I'm happy you did" you reassured. There was no way you would have survived this trip otherwise… not with Choso constantly half naked around you.
"You are?" he swallowed thickly, shocked at how this had gone better than expected. You wondered what his expectations were, if he also had nightmares as bad as yours.
Instead of answering, you shifted forwards a little forwards, resting your forehead on his as you let the tears flow as they needed to. Choso was right there to catch each one, with his lips this time – kissing every inch of your cheeks as the two of you breathed together like a question waiting for an answer.
When you opened your eyes and smiled at him again, Choso closed the gap.
His lips found yours tentatively at first, nothing but a soft brush as the two of you held your breath. It was when you finally exhaled deeply that he pressed against you more firmly, and your lips parted to invite him in.
You were finally doing this.
Not even your most wonderful dreams could have been better than this.
Choso explored your mouth like he was dying to learn the shape of you, your taste, every smooth curve of your lips. His hands stayed on your cheeks, enjoying how warm and soft you were, still dragging each tear away.
"Cho…" you whispered his name, pulling him into you, all the invitation he needed to deepen the kiss.
You wrapped both your hands around his neck, leaning so far back you almost fell from the loveseat, but Choso was right there to pull you back. His hands hovered, a little unsure before landing on your waist, steadying you, digging into your skin with sweet reverence and desire.
"You're so beautiful" he hummed again, like he couldn't believe the two of you were finally here. The kiss was a little messy, but between each awkward bump of your noses the two of you laughed, remembering the years of affection that had led to this moment.
You pulled back a little, bringing your hands to caress his cheeks instead. "I really like your tattoo" you laughed a little, brushing your thumb over the dark stripe right above his nose. "Is now a good time to tell you that?"
Choso laughed, leaning his forehead on yours. "You could have told me anytime" he said, rocking his head side to side and enjoying where it touched yours.
"I think I was embarrassed" you admitted, biting your lower lip.
"Why?" he asked, tilting your head up so he could look in your eyes again.
How were you supposed to think of anything else when he kept looking at you like that?
"I didn't think you felt the same" you admitted, nose scrunching at how silly it all felt now.
Choso's response was to press your lips together, firmly now, a promise. "I always did" he whispered against you, making all the hairs in the back of your neck stand up.
"Why didn't you tell me?" you taunted, playfully pushing his chest back, and enjoying how that only made him pull you in more.
"I thought you might be… with someone else" he admitted, digging his hands just a little further into your waist.
"It was always you" you confessed this time, a little shy.
Choso blinked at you like that was the last thing he expected you to say.
He kissed you again – deeper, more passionate. Before you knew it, he was on top of you, your two bodies far too big for the small two-seater, but he was very careful to not crush you with his weight.
"Is this ok?" he pulled back a little, giving you space to readjust underneath him.
You nodded with a smile, wrapping both legs around his waist and pulling him back into you. The poor man blushed from his neck to the tips of his ears, but he eagerly sank into you, rocking his hips against yours in a way you did not expect from sweet Choso.
Still, his touch was respectful, careful not to touch anywhere that could be too much too soon. His hands remained steady on your waist – but the growing bulge where his hips pressed pressed into you was getting harder and harder to ignore.
If he wanted you just as much as you wanted him… it was only right to be a little more forward, right?
So you bit his lip playfully, not enough to hurt but enough that his dark eyes snapped open in surprise. Your legs closed around his waist again and your hand moved down to where his was, still resting on your middle, gently encouraging it even further down.
His breathing completely stopped, but Choso allowed you to move it for him, slowly dragging his palm from your waist to your hips and, finally, settling on your thigh. Like a match had just been struck, Choso let out a guttural, deep grunt as he squeezed your flesh, lowering himself down to kiss you again.
His hips kept dragging into you with barely contained desire, all sense out the window now that you gave him permission to touch you in that way. You matched his rhythm, breath growing more and more shallow as you felt the heat pooling between your thighs.
"Fuck, Cho" you moaned, nails digging deep into his shoulders that you used to stabilize yourself. "Feels good"
"Y-yeah?" he moaned, almost a desperate whimper with how bad he wanted this.
You didn't bother responding – your body was already moving on its on, urged by this primal need you had for him. Your hands moved to remove his shirt, not caring at all that the little clothes you had on were askew, revealing far more of you than Choso thought he'd see this early on.
And you noticed the way Choso looked embarrassingly away, not wanting to make you uncomfortable by staring. You looked down at your swimming costume, then back up at him with a wicked smile.
“You can take it off if you want” you suggested, perching yourself up on your elbows.
Choso wasted no time – he swallowed hard, and with a hypnotized nod, moved to undo the swimming costume you still had on.
The fabric fell down, revealing your bare chest to him. Choso looked somewhere between drunk and completely awestruck, with the way he softly gasped at you, like it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
"Can I?" he asked, a small drop of sweat trickling from his temple.
You smiled, tangling your hand onto his dark strands to urge him forwards. Choso relinquished with no push back, sinking his face into your breasts and closing both hands on them.
"Cho…" you moaned out his name, encouraging him further, all restraint out the window.
The sound of his name from your lips drove Choso absolutely insane, his large hands roughly palming your mounds as his mouth tried to give similar attention to each side, sucking and licking every inch of you. "Fuck, baby…" he whimpered between them, making you moan at the affectionate nickname.
Your hand tightened on his head, pulling his hair slightly, though it only seemed to turn him on even more. Your back arched against the love seat and Choso took the opportunity to slide a forearm behind you, making you arch into him further.
He sucked on your already hard nipples, playing and rolling it with his tongue as his eyes moved to your face, so beautiful and needy for him.
Your thighs were still squeezing his hips, his rhythm against your clothed cunt never faltering. It felt good, really good, but you wanted more.
"Cho" you called, biting your lips at him.
"Yeah, pretty?" he asked, face all flushed and eyes dilated with pure desire. Even when addressing you, he refused to stop his worship of your body.
"You can take it off" you repeated your words from earlier, hoping he'd understand what you meant. "All of it" you completed, with a roll of your hips, making a point to press against his bulge.
Choso swallowed thickly, taking a deep breath in. "You…want me to?" he asked.
Maybe it wasn't the best idea – your friends were somewhere outside, probably too drunk to care, but surely someone would notice your absence soon enough.
At least, that's what your brain would have thought if you weren't in the exact position you had been dreaming about for years.
You wanted Choso. Needed him. For far longer than you cared to admit.
So you were ok with being greedy.
"I want you to" you rolled your hips again, and that was all Choso needed.
He nodded, immediately bringing his hands to finish removing your clothes. He was clearly nervous, but when he finally began to pull the fabric down, he did it so slow it felt like torture.
Was Choso also trying to seize the moment? The thought alone made you giggle. To want someone who wanted you just as bad… it was more than you ever thought you could get.
And there was no denying Choso wanted you bad.
“You’re going to kill me...” he sighed when he revealed all of you, laying beautifully onto the loveseat, eager for him. He pushed himself back on his knees, taking his time to admire you like a painting.
His defined abs glistened in the moonlight, distracting, stealing all your focus. Choso was built so beautifully, like he had been sculpted by the gods themselves.
And it seemed he thought the same of you.
"Fuck…" he muttered as one hand dragged from your cheek, to your collarbone, to your navel. Choso took his time exploring every inch of you, letting his warm touch ghost over your skin before he took things further, like he knew he was already addicted and wanted to savour each moment.
When his hand finally reached between your thighs, he found you dripping.
"You're–" his words cut out as his fingers played with your heat, coating himself in your slick, your legs parting eagerly. His head dripped forwards, bangs covering his eyes, trying as best as he could to control himself.
Until he couldn't anymore.
Carefully, he slid one thick digit inside of you. It found no resistance, sinking into you so eager and wet, earning a loud moan that had his head snapping back to yours.
“Like this, baby?” he asked so sweetly, despite how he was already adding another finger inside to stretch you further. His fingers moved slowly at first, but soon they pumped into you faster, and faster, and you had to bring your hands to his thick forearm to brace yourself.
“Mmmh yea” you moaned, squeezing the veins that protruded from his skin, his dark eyes completely locked on where your bodies met.
"You're taking it so well" he praised, groaning when it made you clench around him. "Fuck–You like that?"
You nodded, biting your lip as you felt his movements become rougher, faster. "So beautiful like this" he praised you again.
Your back arched off the seat, and Choso again used the opportunity to snake his other arm around you, pulling you close into him. In this position, you could feel his rock hard erection against your thigh, and you were desperate to know what it felt like inside of you.
One of your hands moved to his bulge, pressing into it as Choso curled his fingers just right inside you. Choso let out a surprised breath, but didn't pull back – instead, he shifted so you could feel all of him.
Your hand found its way past his swimming trunks, your mouth immediately hanging open in shock at the sheer size of him. You moved your hand up and down, exploring, noticing how he was just as long as he was thick, the thought of taking all of him already making you drool.
"Ah" he panted, head falling to your collarbone as you continued to stroke him. Despite his closed eyes and fucked out expression, Choso never stopped the motion of his fingers inside of you, completely focused on your pleasure.
You could feel yourself getting close from his fingers alone, but you didn't want it to stop there.
“I want you” you whispered into his ear, and instantly felt his whole body jolt on top of you.
The movement of his fingers stilled for just a second, before he resumed them like clockwork. "Are you sure?" he asked you, pulling back to look in your eyes again.
How could he be so handsome and sweet at the same time.
“I'm sure” you nodded, bringing one hand to cradle his beautiful face, while the other kept stroking his cock.
Choso pressed a kiss to your lips as he slowly removed himself from you. He stood up slowly as not to hurt you, and finally began to remove the rest of his clothes.
Just as you expected, Choso was beautiful. Every inch of him. And seeing him like that, naked and towering over you with affection in his eyes, only made you need him more.
You sat up fast, your mouth opening around his cock before Choso even realised what you were about to do. You held it with one hand, giving it a shy lick first, tasting the saltiness of his precum on your tongue.
"Baby…" he moaned, placing one hand on your head. He didn't push, just felt the movement with you; the way you started to open up around him, taking him in your mouth inch by inch. "You're–ngh, really good at that" he groaned.
Your mouth kept the back and forwards motion, struggling with his length as it started to hit the back of your throat. Choso moaned at how it constricted around him, seconds away from coming in your mouth if he didn't pull himself back.
"You're gonna make me–" his voice shook a little, his hips chasing you already.
"What?" you asked, knowing exactly what he meant, but unable to resist seeing his lustful face.
His adams apple bobbed up and down when you playfully licked him again, the hand on your hair pulling your strands just a little bit more. Choso was close to losing control, and you loved every bit of it.
"You want me to–ngh" he tried to speak, bringing his eyes to your beautiful face. "You want me to come down your throat?"
You nodded yes, eager, salty tears starting to streak down your face. You were desperate to make him feel good, to know what he tasted like, to keep hearing those delicious noises he kept making.
But then, he pulled away again. Fast, just at the last second when he really couldn't hold it in anymore, and moved to tower on top of you, laying you back down on the loveseat. "I want to feel you first" he panted, his tip already touching your entrance while you opened your legs wide for him.
"Please" you moaned, and Choso swallowed the end of the word with a kiss. His mouth sank into you, and his cock sank into your heat, stretching you fully as you whimpered into his mouth.
He was big. Too big. And Choso was aware of it.
“Slowly” he reassured you, brushing your hair away from your face. “I’ll be gentle” he said with a kiss to the top of your head, and you had no reason to believe otherwise.
You let yourself sink into him, closing your arms around his shoulders as you began to relax. To further help, his hand moved to circle your clit, gently massaging the bundle of nerves that made you clench around him.
"Does it feel good?" he asked, starting to move his hips into you, in and out, in and out.
"So good" you whimpered, chasing his lips for a kiss again. "You're so big, Cho"
He smiled at the compliment, but didn't let the praise distract him. His touch was careful and precise, helping you relax around him and take him inch by inch, until he finally bottomed out.
"You're doing so well, pretty" he kissed the top of your head, fully sheathed into you now.
Your body clenched as it tried to adjust, and Choso was already struggling to keep his composure. But when your nails dug into his back, and you bit your lips at him, Choso knew he was done for.
He let himself pick up the pace, stretching you so deliciously all else faded to the background. All you could think about was Choso Choso Choso, and how good he felt, how warm his hands were all over your body, how delicious his tongue tasted.
"You have to be more quiet, baby" he whispered against your mouth, muffling your moans with a rough kiss.
“Fuck, Cho, you-” you tried to say, but his hips angled just right and his pace grew even faster, all your words meshing together into a whimper of pleasure instead.
“You’re so beautiful” he groaned against your lips. “So fucking beautiful like this”
Your nails were drawing blood from his shoulders, but neither of you cared. It felt too good to stop. You had wanted this for too long to stop.
Despite his earlier words, Choso was also struggling to control his sounds. His moans of pleasure filled your ears like music as he panted on top of you, kissing every inch of your face and neck he could find.
"I'm close" he said, head falling forwards as his eyes shut tight, face contorting in pleasure.
You wanted to see him like this forever.
Completely drunk in you.
“Cho” you muttered, pulling him even deeper with your legs, nails leaving marks all over his body. “Cum inside of me” you asked.
He huffed out all the breath from his lungs, struggling to believe what you had just said.
“Fuck” he grunted, hips going faster and faster. “Are you sure, baby?” he checked again.
“Yeah” you moaned in pleasure, the sounds mixing in with his as you both approached your climax.
“Not before you” he said instead, taking your clit between his thumb and index, rolling the bud carefully, knowing exactly how to drive you insane.
Your body began to shake as the heat started pooling upwards, and just as you were about to tip over the edge, Choso closed your lips with his, drinking up all your moans.
Your body was shaking, pulling him in and milking him desperately, but it was the sounds you were making that made him reach his peak.
"Take it" he grunted, slamming his hips into you as his seed began to spill. You felt the heat filling you up, and your whole body begged for more, but the only words you could get out were his name.
"Choso…" you whispered once more, and he let himself relax on top of you.
His arms closed around your waist, pulling you into his chest as he readjusted to your side, slowly removing himself from you. It was a little awkward in the two-seater, but you wouldn't want to be anywhere else.
Being nestled into Choso's chest was everything you needed right now.
He slowly caressed your thigh, hand brushing the sweat away from your forehead and tucking your hair behind your ear. Even after all of this, he looked at you like something precious, something he needed to protect.
“Thank you” Choso whispered against your hair, leaving a kiss to your temple.
How the hell was he so sweet?
“…Thank you?” you echoed with a laugh, trying to tilt your head towards him, but Choso didn't let you – choosing to leave another kiss to your forehead, then another, and another, until you went back to resting on his chest.
“I guess...” he started, all shy. "For being you” he completed, dropping his head to the crook of your neck.
"You're really sweet" you murmured, unsure if you wanted to cry or laugh. All you knew is you just wanted to be right here.
Choso didn't reply to that, his face turning into a small pout, but he was too happy to pretend to be self conscious. "I'm sorry I took so long" he said instead.
"I'm sorry too" you nuzzled into him, hand finding his. “I’ve wanted this for a while, you know” you muttered, your face warm against his chest while Choso softly caressed your hair.
“Really?” he asked, enjoying how your words made him feel. "Me too" he admitted.
“Since when?” you asked, curious.
But Choso only let out a small chuckle. “I think I’ve been in love with you since the first time I saw you” he admitted, looking up at the sky instead of you, letting you in on a secret he had never dared utter out loud.
You followed his gaze, turning your head around to look up at the stars. It was a beautiful night. "Why today?” you asked again.
“I couldn’t hold it in anymore” he replied, resting his cheek against your head.
“Was it because I was on Gojo’s team for chicken fight?” you teased, remembering how your friend had said Choso was jealous earlier.
“No” Choso answered too quick, though his arms held you tighter. “But I can’t say I was a fan of that” he murmured shyly, earning a chuckle out of you.
"You're cute" you laughed, sinking into him.
"How's your wrist?" he asked, hand brushing over the skin that felt tender earlier.
"Doesn't hurt anymore" you noted. "Guess the kissing really did work"
Choso laughed, bringing your hand to his lips again. "As many as you need" he said against your knuckles.
"I might not ever want you to stop" you muttered, a little shy.
"I hope so" he exhaled, bringing you in closer.
You both stayed like that, holding each other in the hot summer night. You didn't speak much, but you didn't need to – so much of what you felt rested in the in between, in the space the two of you effortlessly shared. Choso just made you feel so incredibly comfortable, so perfectly safe.
You could hear some faint laughter coming from the other side of the villa, the signs of a party raging on without you, but neither of you rushed to join the group just yet.
Shoko really had been right, after all. You really needed this holiday.
You let the weight of the day wash over you, as Choso cradled your body close under the stars. All the fun and laughter and confessions, and the promises of much more to come.
And as you held each other close, you both knew – this would be a summer to remember.
i hope you enjoyed <3 this won the poll for my 1 year anniversary here on tumblr, thank you to everyone who voted and for all my readers too! hope you all have the most wonderful day/night. mwah!