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Whatever Etsy witch he paid to ruin your life would have been hunted during the Salem witch trials because you never find peace following the breakup. You find out he’d been cheating on you with a plethora of girls, you find out the lady living in the apartment next to yours is moving out, and worst of all, you find out the free elective course you enrolled in specifically to take it easy gives you an assignment on love.

ARTS505: Screen Media Practice Assessment 1: Observational Short Film — “Love” Weighting: 30% Due: Friday, 11:59 p.m. Length: 3–5 minutes For this assessment, students are required to produce a short observational film responding to the theme of love.

Go fuck yourself.

The day your neighbour next door moves out, you tear up at the news and let her believe it’s because you’ll miss her and not because you’re terrified her replacement won’t be nearly as forgiving.

Because she smiles when you run into her at the bottom of the staircase and gives you small containers of food, nagging you in the way old women do about eating healthy and sleeping early. To her sweet, unassuming face, you tell her you will though you won’t, and she’ll nod like she believes you and tells you she’ll try to keep it down, kindly avoiding the fact that she can hear you wail at atrocious hours in the night when you’ve assumed everyone has already fallen asleep.

She understood the highs and lows of being a newly single woman in this current social environment. But whoever moves in next? You’re not so sure will.

Okay, so maybe you do miss her.

Because you find out someone new has moved in from the heavy thumping of feet crossing the floor, the thuds of boxes dropped onto the floorboards, the vibrations seeping into your own floors. It seems Naoya’s Etsy witch still has their grip on you because your new neighbour is horrible. They play loud music in the morning, the afternoon, late at night, usually right when you have convinced yourself that this night you will finally get eight uninterrupted hours of blissful sleep. Thuds, banging, thumping, any onomatopoeia, your neighbour has done it.

Sometimes, they leave a pair of sneakers outside their door for two whole days, directly in your path to the stairs, so you have to step around them every morning. Their moving boxes sit in the hallway for so long they might as well be furniture, and you’ve started dumping your tote on the tower of them whenever you dig around for your keys. Packages get delivered to your door instead of theirs. They seem to always be ordering DoorDash, too, the scent of something sugary-sweet seeping under your door until you start craving DoorDash yourself. 

It’s even worse today. You’d come home with groceries instead of takeout, washed your bedsheets for the first time in a long while, lit a candle called Midnight Sunset, and sat down at your desk with the firm intention of brainstorming your film assignment.  Then, from the other side of your bedroom wall, your neighbour starts assembling what can only be a large, flat-packed piece of furniture. For forty minutes, there is nothing but the intermittent scrape of wood, the clattering of metal parts, occasional low murmured curses, and one very loud crash that caused the floorboards to tremble, along with all the tiny screws that rattled in an echo. By the time the banging finally stops, your candle has burned unevenly, your tea has long gone cold, and the only thing written under love film ideas is: ‘kill him’.

shoko: utahime and i are heading to the library to lock in we’re inviting you so you can’t say shit like there’s always a duo in a trio but don’t actually come we’re probably gonna js make out

you: ?

utahime: she’s joking we’re going to study

shoko: booo u whore you’re a cockblock y/n

you: i literally didn’t do anything if anything utahime is cockblocking you but i’ll come if ygs are actually studying i need a fucking break

shoko: we aren’t

utahime: we are shut the fuck up shoko oh my god

shoko: whats with u y/n u sound grouchy

you: im going to kill my new neighbour hes playing shit music through the wall like i miss the old lady so bad

shoko: you really gotta complain to the landlord or smth

you: hell no im not a snitch

utahime: ure weirdly compassionate abt the wrong things hows the assignment going?

shoko: teacher teacher! im snitching!

you: ? do u want me to snitch or not and its not going good at all how can i think about love when theres someone playing phonk in my ear at 6pm on a random tuesday afternoon?

shoko: have u even seen this person?? go up and give them a piece of ur mind or smth also come lib

you: give me a sec i might ive never seen them though theyre usually out at weird times and doesnt really sleep in their own room ?? but what if its a 40 yo gymrat and i get bodied

utahime: yeah thats actually scary write a note or something

shoko: and then come library

you: give me fifteen minutes

Perhaps Shoko’s insistence on going to the library is contagious because you’re suddenly eager to rip out a piece of paper to spill just how much you appreciate phonk in your ears to your neighbour. Or maybe you really just want to tell your neighbour to die.

It starts off innocently enough, the last of your patience allowing kinder words and a light reminder that your neighbour isn’t the only one living in this creaky, ancient building. But then it gets to you, the music, the thudding, the inability to remove laundry from the laundry machine appropriately, and you find you’re pressing the lead of your pencil deep into the paper until it almost leaves a mark on the table beneath.

You heave out a breath of pure catharsis and read it over, giving it an approving nod. This will certainly do.

Then, with your heart much lighter and a perk in your step, you sling your tote over your shoulder and head for the door. Instead of walking to the elevator after you’ve locked up, you make a small detour to your neighbours door and bend down to slide the letter under their door.

There, problem fixed.

With a smile, you turn and walk to the library, oddly lighter for it.

Shoko and Utahime thankfully do not make out the entire time you’re at the library. Unfortunately, they’re still Shoko and Utahime and the three of you waste time gossiping about the high school dead horse that just broke up again instead of doing anything productive. Your document for planning your films remains as empty as ever, only now it’s been shared to two email addresses so they can witness your writer’s block unfold in real time.

By the time you drag yourself back from the library, night has already settled in and you have to use your phone’s flashlight to illuminate the path to your building. The hallway is hushed in that apartment building kind of way, distant television laughter, pipes clinking somewhere behind the walls, the hum of someone’s microwave. You’re fishing for your keys when you notice it, a torn corner of lined paper stuck to your door with blutack.

You blink, too tired to make the connection straight away, brain still slogging through the haze of a caffeine crash. But then you peel it free, turn it over, and squint at the scrawny handwriting on the back.

are you twelve? what’s with the note passing come talk to me if you have an issue also i told the landlord btw lol have fun with that —4b

You crumple the note in your hand.

That fucking asshole.

The landlord does, in fact, show up at your door the next morning wearing a stern expression and with even sterner words. You apologise with a tight smile, offering up the half-truth that you’ve been under a lot of stress lately and didn’t mean it. And then, because two can play at that game, you finally snitch on 4B too, feeling a sharp jolt of triumph when the landlord sighs and assures you that’ll be having a word with the resident next door.

You incorrectly assume that’s the last of it. Because when you come home at the end of another long day of classes, there’s a sticky note taped to your door.

snitch

A disbelieving huff slips out of you as you let yourself into your apartment, your tote sliding off your shoulder with a dull thump, hands too busy flattening the wrinkled paper to catch it. Five minutes ago, all you wanted was to collapse face-first into bed and sleep through the rest of the day. Now, irritation blazes through you so quickly it feels like caffeine, sharp and immediate, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re fishing a pen from your bag and scrawling a reply across the back.

you literally snitched first asshole. maybe if you weren’t playing anime music at 7pm in the evening i wouldn’t have to snitch on u at all

You stick it to his door on your way back from taking out the trash, pressing your palm against the paper just to make sure it stays there. When you leave the next morning for your usual nine a.m., another note is waiting.

you literally told me to die im not a masochist i wasn’t gonna let that slide ps. ntm on the digimon opening theme that’s something special to me

You write a reply during class, sticking it to his door when you come home.

and u’ve been loud as fuck ever since u moved in here yk the apartment has thin walls right? also what the hell is digimon

It doesn’t take long this time. You’re still boiling water for a coffee when there’s a faint tap at your door. When you open it, there’s a new note stuck smack in the middle, scrawled in hurried letters. You glance up and down the hallway and see no one, and smile as you step back inside.

then just walk those five steps to my door and tell me next time? and ofc someone as unfun as u has never experienced the highs and lows of digimon in ur childhood it all makes sense now

You sip your coffee as you pen your reply.

i swear i’ve knocked in the morning and u didn’t open the door so r u gonna keep edging me or r u gonna tell me what digimon is

It’s only after you’ve already closed your door that you realise you didn’t respond to his second comment so you quickly take a pen and walk back to his door, pursing your lips in effort as you try to add another line against the door. Maybe you’re imagining it but you swear you hear footsteps pause on the other side of the door.

also i just searched it up and i can’t believe my next door neighbour is 12 years old watching cartoons

You quickly scurry back to your apartment just in time, hearing their door open after yours just as you closed yours. A couple seconds later, there’s a knock.

digimon is NOT just for kids

You stare at the note for a second, oddly thrown by the concession considering it had seemed too easy. You’d expected another argument, maybe some smug reply, maybe an insult in even messier handwriting. But instead, he had simply folded.

For some reason, it feels less like a victory and more like a sudden end to something you hadn’t realised you were enjoying. Your other neighbours probably didn’t feel the same considering they had to listen to you and 4B open and close your doors consecutively for the past few minutes.

Still, you tell yourself as you peel the note off the door, a win is a win.

The next morning, you check your door out of habit and is immediately rewarded by a piece of a4 paper stuck to the front.

hey 4a, first of all i want to say that i’ve been very good and very quiet recently which i hope pleases you. please acknowledge my growth — 4b

Because you’re lazy, you flip the paper over and write.

4b, sure ur growth has been noted (?) i feel like there’s more to this do u need something — 4a

You slide it under his door before you can overthink it. By the time you come home that afternoon, there is another note waiting.

4a, thank you for acknowledging my progress but i fear i have received your criticism and decided not to grow from it. maybe head out for the evening also important question do u own a screwdriver ?? thanks, 4b

You frown then write back:

why?

Five minutes later, his reply slides under your door and you watch as the paper slips through completely before standing and reaching for it.

i give u a yes or no question and u still manage to dodge do u own one or not? please. — 4b

The next time you tape a note to his door, you also leave a screwdriver on the ground beneath.

u better give this back

You’re halfway to backing your things for the library when his reply slides under your door. You pick it up while locking your apartment and read as you walk, catching the tail ends of some heavy thudding and hammering from the door beside yours.

people assume just because im a man i must have five screwdriver variants in my drawers or smth anyway im making furniture for my friend and its ikea :( wish me luck 

You snort despite yourself, tucking the note into your pocket as another dull bang sounds behind his door. 

“Good luck,” you think as you walk by, and then, less generously, “and good luck to all the other people living in this building.” 

The library turns out to be the right choice. You spend three hours pretending to work, two hours ranting to the group chat about Naoya’s latest monthly photo dump, and fifteen minutes with your fingers tapping away at your keyboard which is still fifteen minutes more of productivity that you wouldn’t have achieved at your apartment so you’d call that a success.

When you come home, you brace yourself before reaching your floor. 

Surprisingly, there’s a lack of any noise at all. No thudding, no  scrapping, no IKEA-related violence. Your screwdriver sits neatly outside your door, wrapped in a sticky note. 

returned in one piece like i promised! im hoping u took my advice and left the building otherwise can u write your complaint in five words or less? im sleepy zzz

You look at his door, a reluctant smile on your face. For the first time since he moved in, you wonder if maybe the problem was never that he was impossible to live beside. Maybe the walls were thin, and he was loud, and you were miserable, and neither of you had known how to be people around each other yet. 

Maybe, if you both communicated like normal neighbours, this could actually work. 

If you assumed life would look up following this revelation, then you’re sorely underestimating the evil forces (read: Naoya’s Etsy witch) conspiring against your happiness. 

Because the next morning, it isn’t some upbeat anime opening that wakes you up. Instead, it’s the mucus trapped in your airways and the pounding at your temples, dragging you from the dead only to make you feel worse for it. You throw your duvet over your head and pray that when you resurface, your cold will have miraculously disappeared. It doesn’t work, to no surprise, though that thought irritates you too. Then again, maybe that’s just the built up annoyance from having your nose blocked. Miserable and stuffy, you close your eyes and remind yourself to take in a deep breath through your nose when you’ve healed, just to not take it for granted. 

It’s times like this when you miss your good-for-nothing ex, times like this when you remember there used to be someone you could text without thinking, someone you could badger for some chicken noodle soup and maybe a hug and a kiss on your forehead. 

Your own weakness pisses you off.

With great effort, you drag yourself upright and shuffle into your kitchen, pawing through empty pantries. Any plans of heading to that early morning tutorial this morning immediately leaves your mind at your pathetic show of strength. 

You’re halfway through grabbing cereal, any other breakfast option simply too tedious, when a loud voice cuts through the haze. 

“Yeah, she just didn’t get it. And when you have to explain a joke, it’s already over. No dude, obviously it’s her fault for not being with it and not because I’m unfunny, don’t even kid.”

You frown slightly, munching on another chip, thumb scrolling past a video you’re not even sure you watched. Who the hell says ‘with it’?

“If you don’t fuck with with it, then you’re one of the people who aren’t with it. You’re without it.” He continues.

You make a small noise of consideration, vaguely thinking that you might get along with his friend as they seemingly voice your own thoughts.

Your neighbour continues, undeterred from his friend’s unenthusiastic responses. “There’s no chance I’m seeing her again. She did text me but I’m just going to leave her on delivered. Is it cruel or is it saving myself from someone who called my Agumon keychain the deformed twin Charmander consumed in the womb?”

You laugh, sound muffled when your neighbour’s voice peaks.

“He doesn’t, Charmander is from a completely different franchise! And I’ll have you know that keychain was from an artist at Anime Con so when you’re picking on my little guy, you’re making fun of a small business.”

A pause. You scrunch your nose.

“Yeah, I didn’t mean to call it my little guy. If it helps, I gave my dick she/her pronouns like how a truck guy calls his truck a real beauty so she’s not my little guy.”

You snort, crunching down on a chip. You wonder if that sweet salesman next door is as enthralled in 4B’s love life as you were.

“Don’t make such a disgusted sound, she’ll take offence.”

There’s shuffling from above as your neighbour supposedly shifts to a different position, now closer to you such that you could faintly make out the voice of his friend.

“Is liking Agumon such a big deal breaker for you?” his friend says, voice smoother than the whiny tilt in 4B’s.

“Honestly, no. Agumon is my favourite character and I’m not really comfortable sharing him with others because he means a lot to me. But then when I started talking about Digimon she asked me why I didn’t just get a Pikachu keychain instead since everyone at least knew Pikachu and it’ll save me from the questions. Pikachu. The mainstream corporate mouse.”

“Okay,” his friend sighs, “but to be fair, most people know more about Pokemon than Digimon. At least she was trying?”

“That’s the problem!” your neighbour fires back and the image of him in your head changes around his enthusiasm about digital monsters. “No one gives Digimon the respect that it deserves. People act like it’s Pokemon’s weird cousin when really it’s more like Pokemon’s smarter, cooler, better-dressed older sibling who went overseas to continue pursuing their education.”

“And did you tell her that?”

“Yeah, right there in the restaurant."

“You’re never getting a second date.”

He snorts, apparently offended. “Please, like I wanted one.”

Despite yourself you laugh though the silence that follows is enough to rid you of all your amusement. Awkwardly, you trail off by clearing your throat, feeling somewhat like a creep for letting your eavesdropping be known. All this talk about knowing to stay quiet and yet you catch yourself slipping.

You listen as 4B says a quick goodbye to his friend. There’s a rustle, a soft thud, and then his voice comes again, closer this time, like he’s leaned right up against the wall between your apartments.

“Hello? Is someone there?”

For one fleeting second, you think that if this were a horror movie, he would absolutely be the first to die. Not that you’d fare much better, considering you answer him.

“Hi.”

There’s a small pause, then, “No way. 4A? What the hell, I thought you already left for class.”

Your heart skips, thudding against your ribs. For a second, you consider staying quiet and let the walls swallow the moment whole. Pretend it wasn’t you, pretend like the two of you haven’t been trading insults like you were passing notes in class.

There had been a fragile understanding between the two of you to never reach out. And yet, in this moment, you can’t bring yourself to remember why.

You clear your throat, thick with the tail end of your cold. “Well it looks like you guessed wrong. Do I need to send you another death threat for you to keep it down?”

You hear him wince, a quiet sound muffled by the walls. “Maybe we should go back to writing notes to each other. I didn’t know you’d sound like a 40 year old smoker.”

“I’m sick, jackass.”

He hums, unconvinced. There’s a beat of silence as he thinks of what to say. Then, “So, you’re a girl?”

Your eyes roll to your ceiling as you sigh, whatever you were expecting immediately thrown away. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

He huffs out a small chuckle like he can hear the exasperation in your voice and finds it amusing. “I’m just surprised. I mean, you’re so mean to me. Girls usually love me, you know, I’m kind of a ladies’ man.”

That pulls a laugh out of you, rough on your sore throat but impossible to stop. “You? With that personality? Consider me the one surprised.”

“I’m serious. I’m kind of a campus celebrity. Girls flock to me.”

You hoist yourself up onto the kitchen counter, angling your back against the wall where his voice comes through clearest. “You don’t have to lie to impress me.”

There’s a pause and you wonder if your playful insults had gone a little too far in your sick state.

“Oh, I might be into this.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” There’s the faint sound of movement on the other side before your mysterious neighbour talks again. “I meant, what type of person do you think I am then?”

“Considering you fumbled a first date because of a cartoon, I think you have your answer,” you coo with faux sympathy. “You should be nicer to her since I’m sure your cooldown for the next date might take a while.”

“First of all,” he says, apparently offended. “It’s not a cartoon. Second, she fumbled the date on her end. It was a necessary culling for me.”

You snort. “You got dumped over Digimon, let’s settle down.”

“You didn’t even know what Digimon was until I put you on a few days ago.”

You shrug, despite the fact that he can’t see the gesture. “And now that I know it’s even more pathetic. Agumon is the weird orange dinosaur thing, right?”

His whine comes through the wall, only cementing the fact that whoever is on the other side might be the biggest nerd you know. You wonder if he lied about not being a masochist considering he’s taking your insults pretty well. “Hey, come on. He’s just a cute little guy.”

“Right,” you draw out, unimpressed. “Don’t glaze him when he might be the reason you’re a social shut in.”

“That’s a new one. I am now, am I?”

“Please,” you start, warming up to the idea as she speak it into existence. “If women are all over you like you claim they are, why haven’t I heard anyone come over? You and I both know just how thin the walls in this place is.”

“Exactly,” he shoots back. “So why would I bring them back here? Unless you want to be kept awake all night.”

That makes you laugh, the idea of this voice you’re hearing now having any experience at all extremely humourous, much less with the ability to go all night long. You can almost imagine the state of his room, littered with anime posters and plushies making sex feel like a group activity. If you looked up past his figure over you, you’d probably see neon light up stars on his ceilings.

“If you can talk so much about my love life,” he trails off, voice deceptively casual and airy, “do you have a boyfriend?”

That makes you freeze. Something hard and spiky settles in your stomach and you shift on the countertop, searching for a spot that’s comfortable because for some reason, it feels like you’ve lost it. “No.”

The voice doesn’t say anything for a while. “My bad. Touchy subject?”

You shrug despite the fact that he can’t see the gesture and pull your legs to your chest. “It’s fine. It’s been, like, half a year. He was a douche anyway.”

“Okay, six months, not bad.”

Hearing the slight mumble from the other side of the wall but unable to understand it coherently, you frown and press your ear closer. “What was that?”

4B clears his throat. “I’m just saying maybe don’t talk shit when I haven’t heard you bring anyone over either.”

You roll your eyes, forcing your shoulders to relax and somewhat grateful at his deflection. “At least I don’t claim to be a microcelebrity. I keep my circle small and that works.”

“Is there room for one more?”

A laugh escapes you, genuine and surprised. “Why? Asking for a friend or yourself?”

You can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “You diagnosed me as a social shut in, remember? I’m clearing asking for myself.”

“We’ll see, 4B,” you say, though you’re matching his tone with a smile. It doesn’t, however, stop your voice from sounding croakier than intended and you have to painfully make an awkward gargling sound to clear your throat a number of times.

4B winces sympathetically, and he lets you get the worst of it out before speaking again. “Sounds like you might need some water and then a nap.”

“Trust me, that was the plan.”

You start to wiggle down from your counter and grab something to drink, wrongly assuming the conversation ends here.

“Are we going to talk again?” he asks in a rush, and you huff as your feet touch the ground.

“We live next to each other, genius. I don’t think I could avoid you even if I tried.”

“And would you try?”

You sip from your glass, ignoring him.

“Okay, that’s fine. I’ll win you over, just wait.” There’s no doubt in your mind that he’s grinning, you can hear it in the peaks of his voice. “I’ll try to keep it down for you. And then maybe you’ll be less grouchy when you wake up?”

“Go fuck yourself, 4B.”

You roll your eyes, glad that there’s a wall between you to prevent him from seeing your smile. “Goodnight, 4A.”

Gojo Satoru isn’t a man who lacks. 

He’s got the grades (barely, but they’re there), the genes (obviously), the height (something even Suguru finds unfair), the charm (obnoxious), and a reputation on campus that both precedes and betrays him. He walks into a room and people notice. Professors sigh, girls nudge each other, guys scowl though it’ll be his friends that’ll roll their eyes at his presence first. 

He is used to winning. More importantly, he is used to having almost everything in a way that requires very little effort on his part. 

So what the hell is he doing, lying on his bedroom floor where the voice of a stranger still lingers, staring at his wall like it might crack open and offer him answers? She hadn’t even said much, not enough to leave this big of an impression. 

Maybe it was the shock that the person leaving at ungodly hours in the morning beneath him was a girl. He doesn’t know why he’d assumed otherwise. Maybe because the notes had always read so dry, so flat, so quick to snap back at him that somewhere along the way he’d started hearing them in Suguru’s voice. 

Except the voice through the wall had been unmistakably feminine, and now Gojo was having the deeply inconvenient realisation that he might, in fact, be into that. 

It wasn’t even what she said more so how she said it, offhanded and easy as if talking to him was nothing, like he was nothing. and curse his enormous ego, he was Gojo Satoru, for god’s sake. He’s got at least three people in his dms right now asking what he’s up to tonight and it would be as easy as typing back “nothing” to have any one of them. 

But none of them had left a note that told him to get his shit together. None of them made him laugh when ten seconds prior he was so ready to implode, none of them had him craning to his floor like some desperate victorian man listening to the ghostly whispers through the thin plaster. 

Gojo drags a hand down his face, then turns his head again to look at it.

The wall. Plain, off-white, slightly cracked near the skirting board, absolutely identical to every other wall in this terrible building and yet suddenly the most compelling thing in his apartment because now, you’re behind it. Separated from him by a few layers of plaster and paint and bad insulation, close enough that he can hear your laugh if the room is quiet, close enough that he can picture you leaning back against the other side without ever having seen it happen.

Gojo runs a hand through his hair, frowning. 

“This is bad,” he mutters for the second time that day as he explores the foreign feeling in his chest. 

The urge to hear from her again beats like a second heart in his chest, and the distinction between hear and see is important because now it feels less about appearances and more about something else, something he doesn’t have a smug enough name for yet.

Gojo reaches for his laptop, then drops it back onto the floor a second later when even pretending to do work feels stupid when he’s one bad decision away from knocking on the wall just to see if you answer.

Because Gojo doesn’t lack. 

Yet tonight, as he sits on his cold carpet, phone face-down beside him and no urge to answer any of his unread messages, he realises he might be wanting. 

The next time you wake, your fever has left you in an uncomfortable puddle of your own sweat, damp sheets sticking to your skin. A reluctant glance at your alarm clock confirms the worst: it’s 7 a.m. the next day, and you have a 9 a.m. lecture to attend. Somehow, you’d managed to sleep through a near-complete twenty-four-hour cycle, vaguely only remembering how you had stumbled out of bed for the bathroom or small bites of whatever you could find. 

When you open your door to make a hasty exit, jammed toast between your teeth and the delirious hope that you’ll run into a handsome guy around the corner of your block, you almost trip over something that ends your hopes (and almost your life). Thankfully, you catch yourself on your hands and glare down at the perpetrator. 

A sports drink looks back up at you, adorned with a yellow sticky note stuck to its side. After looking left and right down the empty corridor, you pick up the bottle and read the note. 

im not a fan of sick neighbour asmr —4b

You snort despite yourself, heading for the stairs. On the way, you flip the note around and pen a short reply, sticking it to 4B’s door before heading out. 

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Somehow, despite being sick, Shoko shows up to your tutorial later than you. You wave as she dumps her tote under the table and flops unceremoniously into the seat beside you. 

“Are you still sick?” she asks in lieu of a greeting. “You shouldn’t come to class if you’re not feeling well.” 

“What makes you think I’m still sick?” you ask in a voice that can only be attributed to years of smoking or recovering from sickness. 

She gives you a look. “Right. So the eyebags are just your usual go to?”

“It would be fucked up if i always looked like this and you just called me ugly.” You cover your face with your hands. “But it’s not that bad, is it? I still have a reputation I care about.” 

“I’m genuinely afraid of telling you the truth because it might push you over the edge. So yes, girl you look gorgeous.” 

You roll your eyes, slumping to rest your cheek against your arms, looking at her from the side. Her phone vibrates and you hear it loud with your ear pressed against the desk, flinching slightly until she picks it up. 

“What is it?” 

Shoko lets out an unamused huff and shows you the screen. 

gojo (DO NOT ANSWER): wanna hit me up with the pre lab questions? 

It would be a mission to go through university without hearing the name ‘Gojo Satoru’ whether in secretive whispers or muffled in laughter. For one, he’s sport captain for some sport you’ve never paid enough attention to remember. He’s stupidly charming in a way that makes people sigh even when they’re rolling their eyes with an accompanying begrudged smile. Half the girls in your course claim he’s flirted with them whilst the other half say they’d punch him given the chance, before pausing and muttering something like, “but he’s kind of funny, I guess.” 

The only other piece of information you know about him is that he’s loud, annoyingly so which places you in that category of girls that would more likely punch him in the stomach than kiss him. 

You wonder how on earth Shoko could be friends with someone her complete opposite. 

You look up and raise an eyebrow at her. “Well? Are you going to?”

“Do you read with your eyes closed? I clearly saved his contact as ‘do not answer’. If Gojo wants pre-lab questions that badly, he can go flirt them out of one of his fifty fans.”

You snort.“Glad to know you’re a bad friend to everyone and not just me.”

She shrugs. “He thinks I owe him a huge favour for something he did for me a while ago when that is not true at all. I’m sure there’s other people he can hit up for answers. You know how he is, there’s always someone trailing after him like a lost puppy.” 

“Considering I don’t know the guy, no not really,” you say, nudging your cheek more firmly into your folded arms, locking in for a storytime. “Tell me about him.”

Shoko narrows her eyes at you. “You want to know about him?”

“Girl,” you huff, “like gossip. I promise I’m not a groupie. I don’t think I’ve ever actually had a conversation with him so don’t look at me like that.”

“That makes sense. He’s usually only on lower campus so there’s little chance of him showing up randomly, anyway.” 

“Sounds like you don’t like him,” you say, intelligently. 

“I’ve been stuck with him and Geto since high school,” she starts and you actually feel bad for her. “God forbid I don’t want to see him in my formative years, too.” 

You laugh because misfortune is always better on others than yourself. “Now you have to tell me. What did he do to you?”

Shoko doesn’t seem amused. She looks you up and down, eyes narrowing at the smile on your face. “You know, I’m actually an incredible friend and as a friend who cares about you deeply, let me tell you this. You do not want to hook up with him.”

You splutter, lifting your head. “What the fuck? I just wanted to know about the guy! Can we start with being friends first, damn?”

“Let’s just say I know him,” your best friend continues, unfazed. “He wouldn’t be able to stay as just friends with someone like you.”

“Okay, and what the fuck does that even mean?”

“Look,” she says, and you open your mouth to cut her off because the telltale signs that she’s about to change the topic are there. “He’s also in Sig Kap.” The words hit like cold water. Whatever fragile lightness had been carrying you through the morning dims all at once. Shoko notices immediately, of course she does, and some of the bite leaves her expression.

“I just thought you should know.”

You slump back into your chair, crossing your arms and looking down at your table, contemplating if you should start banging your head against the hard surface and end your suffering. “What a mood killer. Did you really have to bring that up?”

“I’m just saying, if you start seeing Gojo around, the chances of also seeing your ex is very high. Sure, they’re not in the same frat but they’re both still in that same group of guys. You know, inter-fraternity relations.” 

“There’s a lot of assuming going on right now, like the fact that I would even see Gojo in the first place, but I’ll let it slide because I suddenly feel the urge to shoot myself in the head.” 

“I thought you were over your ex?”

You don’t say anything for a while, trying to muse out the complex ball of feelings in your gut. 

You had been falling out of love with Naoya for months before the breakup. Maybe even longer, if you’re being honest. It wasn’t like it happened all at once, and there wasn’t one dramatic collapse, no one, big, awful fight, just a slow and steady erosion. A hundred small disappointments, a hundred moments of realising he was more interested in having a girlfriend than being a boyfriend. He forgets the things you tell him, interrupts you to tell your own stories better, talks all pretty to your girl friends and then simultaneously talks shit to you about them when you ask him to stop requesting them on Instagram. 

So if you do miss him, then you might have a masochist streak in you. 

What you miss, maybe, is who you were before all of that. The version of you that believed romance was something soft and mutual and worth fighting for, instead of something performative that slowly hollows itself out while you stand there insisting it’s still alive.

“Y/N?”

You blink and realise Shoko is watching you. “Oh, uh. I am over him. I just wish I could have the pre-Naoya me back, that’s all.”

Shoko makes a disgusted sound on your behalf. “Do not say his name. I gagged.”

“Right?” You shake your head and dismiss whatever useless thoughts still linger, forcing yourself to relax back into something a little more light-hearted. “But it’s whatever. I’ve learnt my lesson now, frat boys are not to be trusted and dating one is like draining all the whimsy out of your body. I honestly don’t care about him anymore and I wouldn’t even think about him at all if I didn’t have that film to make.”

That makes your best friend giggle. “The one about love.”

“Is this funny to you?” you ask with a huff, but you’re grateful that she doesn't force you to say any more than you’re ready for.

“Extremely.” She nods, then dodges when you reach over to try and playfully hit her. “Look, I’m sure inspiration will hit you soon. Love always arrives when you least expect it, and all that.”

You give her a long look, face unmoving. “I don’t want the girl with the girlfriend of three years to say that. Get out of my face.”

Shoko laughs loudly, and you both trail off as the lecture starts. 

The rest of class passes in the usual blur of half-listening and half-heartedly playing minesweeper on the google chrome extension open on your laptop. By the time you make it back to the sketchy, wilted building you unfortunately call home, winter evening has settled in for real, the kind that turns everything blue-grey and has you squinting down the street every few minutes just to make sure the shape in the distance is a person and not a fire hydrant. You had to use your phone’s flashlight for this, and in the last few steps up to your apartment, it betrays you by dying. 

Thankfully, you still manage to make it to your place in one piece. 

You peel the note off your door on your way in, flick on the lights, and let your tote bag drop to the floor with a tired thud.

feeling better?

A soft smile tugs at your mouth before it fades just as quickly, replaced by a small furrow in your brow. Weird.

You’re halfway to the kitchen to find the stack of sticky notes you left on the island in a rush this morning when the world abruptly cuts out.

“The fuck—”

“Ow!” In the sudden darkness, you misjudge the turn around the counter and slam straight into the corner of it.

From the other side of the wall, 4B’s voice comes a little louder. “4A? You okay?”

You suck in a sharp breath, one hand nursing your hip as you try to steady yourself. “Yeah. Just walked straight into my counter corner. What the fuck happened?”

There’s the sound of faint footsteps, then the creak of something shifting as he leans against the wall in his kitchen. “I think this is what they call a power outage. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

“I know that, smartass,” you mutter, though not so quietly where he can’t hear. “But how did that happen? It’s not even storming or anything.”

“What’s wrong? Scared of the dark?”

You scoff, already dreading the upcoming conversation. Despite this, you fumble to where that familiar countertop sits against the connecting wall between your apartments and hoist yourself up easily, leaning back so his voice is clearer when he speaks. “No. We pay rent for this place, of course I want to know what’s happening when the lights all suddenly cut.”

“I can text the landlord. If it happened to both of us then it’s probably a building wide thing so it’ll be their responsibility. But all we can do is wait.”

You sigh, long and full of suffering. “This sucks. Couldn’t the power go off at midnight or something?”

“I’ll let the landlord know your availability.” 

You roll your eyes and make yourself comfortable, relenting to stay for however long it’ll take for there to be light again. You mourn the death of your phone then, holding the power button for some kind of miracle and get reminded that, once again, your life sucks and is only full of betrayal and tragedy. 

For a short moment, silence settles between you, and suddenly you’re struck by the irritating realisation that beyond his notes, his terrible taste in alarms, and his frankly irresponsible attachment to Digimon, you know almost nothing about the stranger on the other side of the wall.

“So,” you start.

“Yeah?”

“What were you up to? You know, before the power went out and everything.”

“Curious, hm?” your neighbour replies, that irritating teasing tilt in his tone. “I was just about to lock in for an assignment so I can focus on the midterms coming up in a week.” 

You hum. “What course are you doing?” 

“Physics. And I know what you’re going to say—”

You snort. “Nerd.” 

“You know, some people find intelligence attractive.”

“Do those people also happen to be the same imaginary campus-wide fanbase you keep bringing up?” 

He laughs and you immediately lock onto the pleasant sound, not because you particularly care, but when your vision is knocked out, everything you hear seems amplified. Including the pretty tilt in his tone, the richness in his laugh, and the fact that his voice sits somewhere deeper than you expected from his petulant notes.

“Well, what about you, then? If I’m the resident physics nerd, what are you?” 

You glance out into your dark apartment, the outline of your living room barely there in what little evening light still makes it through the windows. Your camera sits somewhere on the table, your laptop buried inside your tote, your assignment still waiting to be done. 

“Film,” you say at last. “Well, not film-film. I’m just doing one elective this semester to boost my grades but if I could go back in time I would have picked that social media class everyone else does as a GPA booster.”

Your neighbour makes a sound of recognition. “Oh, that! Yeah, I took that in my first year. Our midterm was to write a report on the significance of ‘get ready with me’s’. I’m so serious.” 

You groan, dropping your head onto your knees. “I know, my friend was telling me how she did that class too.”

“Who’s your friend? Wouldn’t it be so funny if your friend was actually in my class that year?”

You roll your eyes. Shoko would have definitely told you about someone like him. “I doubt it. We do the same course and none of our classes are ever near the physics buildings.” 

He hums. “You never know. I get around.” 

That makes you laugh. “Sure, 4B. Let’s stick to hypothetical equations instead of your hypothetical maladaptive daydreams, okay?” 

“You pick on me too much,” he whines. “Give me something to work with, I’m starting to really feel this power imbalance. What’s your film assignment about?”

You let out a long breath through your nose, already hearing his voice in your head and every possible jab he can make. “It’s a film on love.”

He snorts. “Right, because when I talk to you I’m just overwhelmed by the love seeping out of you.”

You sigh. “Kill yourself.”

“See, this is what I mean.”

“All you know about me is my voice,” you shoot back, not necessarily offended so much as annoyed. “I’ve been told that I’m a very benevolent and kind person.”

He hums. “Maybe not when you’re so grouchy then.”

“I’m not being grouchy.”

“At least try and make your point come across.”

“My point is that I’m a delight,” you say flatly. “A warm presence, a gentle soul. Campus-wide rumours actually say I’m beloved by all who meet me.”

“Now who has the imaginary campus-wide fanbase?” he laughs, and even though you roll your eyes, it’s harder to hold onto your irritation when he sounds that pleased with himself.

The dark presses in around your apartment, turning everything into vague shapes and corners, but his voice keeps coming through the wall like a little light you cannot see.

“Okay, then,” he says after his laughing fit. “Prove it.”

You frown, even though he can’t see you. “Prove what?”

“That you’re not grouchy. That you’re a person full of fun and whimsy. If your film is about love, then tell me one thing you love.”

You make a face. “That sounds like world’s worst icebreaker.”

“Someone’s getting defensive,” he sings, sounding far too amused. “Come on, 4A. one thing. It doesn’t have to be deep. Actually, please don’t make it deep, I’m not emotionally prepared for that. Just something stupid that makes you happy. That’s still love, you know?”

You open your mouth with another complaint ready, but nothing comes out. Which is annoying, because it should be easy. Before Naoya, before the breakup, before the awful assignment and the worse timing, you had liked plenty of things without needing to justify them. You liked when orange and pink bleeds across the sky on the walk back from a long day of classes, you liked smiling at dogs when they crossed your paths on the streets, you liked the warmth of a delicious heated drink in your hands on a cold, winter morning. You liked watching people reunite at train stations, you liked filming light moving across your bedroom wall because, at the time, it had seemed like something worth keeping.

Now, asked to name that something out loud, your mind offers you nothing but static.

“Jesus, okay,” he says after a beat. “The silence is very telling.”

There is a soft scrape on his side of the wall, like he is sliding down to sit more comfortably. “Okay, I’ll go first since clearly you need a role model. I love when vending machines actually drop the thing you paid for instead of holding it hostage behind the glass. I love when you think a package is coming next week and then it arrives today like a tiny miracle.”

Despite yourself, you huff. “Sounds like you just love consumerism.”

“I also love when a dog on the street looks like it has somewhere important to be. Like, where are you going? Do you have a meeting? Are you late? Should I call ahead?”

Fuck, that was on your list too. 

“Fine,” you say, shifting on the counter until your socked foot bumps against one of the cabinet handles. “I love when you’re walking past a bakery and they’re making bread, but you’re not hungry, so you just get to enjoy the smell without spending money.” 

“How very financially responsible of you. You’re like the opposite of me. Anti-consumerism.” You can hear the grin in his voice. “Okay, next. We’re making a list now. That’s how brainstorming works, right?” 

You sigh like this is a burden, like you are not already turning the question over in your hands. “I love when the train comes right as you get to the platform.” 

“Really? That sounds stressful.” 

“I love when someone in front of you in line is ordering something complicated and you get annoyed, but then they’re actually really nice to the worker, so you forgive them.” 

“Because is it ever that serious?” 

You roll your eyes, but your mouth betrays you by pulling into a smile. It feels strange on your face, like trying on an old jacket you had forgotten in the back of your closet, something that had once been yours. It’s not a terrible feeling, you decide, perhaps just a little unfamiliar. 

“Okay, my turn again,” 4B says. “I love when you see someone running for the bus and the bus driver waits for them.” 

“That’s rare, some people have that sadistic bone in their body that wants to only see others suffer.” 

“Which is why it makes those off chance moments better. Rarity increases market value.” 

“There’s that consumerism bleeding through again.” 

A thought arrives quietly, not quite the decision you were hoping for in the library, but it’s a small, familiar itch of wanting to keep something before it passes.

“I love when someone laughs so hard they make the other person start laughing even if they don’t know what’s funny,” he continues.

Your eyes have gone to the table again. There isn’t a clean, decisive moment to it, certainly no sudden burst of artistic purpose that you might call inspiration. You simply slide off the counter while he keeps talking, careful not to knock your hip into the corner again and feel your way through the dim apartment toward your camera.

“Also,” he continues, completely unaware. “I love finishing a book or movie and getting so into it that you look it up on Twitter for everyone else’s take.”

“Sounds like you just struggle to form an original thought on your own.”

“I’m superseding my opinion.”

“Oh, what a big word! Good job, 4B.”

You finally find your dust camera hidden by more important things, and take it back to the kitchen.

The room is too dark for the lens to catch anything properly. For a second, you nearly give up, but then your gaze lands on the candle sitting untouched on your dining table, the one you bought months ago because it smelled like vanilla and cedarwood and you had convinced yourself buying one candle would somehow turn your apartment into a Pinterest board’s dream. You’ve never lit it.

But for some reason, the desire to make a mark in the wax comes to front and you set it on the windowsill without any more thinking.

The lighter takes three tries to catch.

“What’s that clicking sound?”

“What clicking sound?” you mumble, brows burrowed as the fire dies again.

“Am I going crazy? Just warning you but I have crazy keen hearing. And now with my sight gone, I’m even more locked in. Sounds like… are you lighting a birthday cake? Is it your birthday?”

“That’s what you think of first when you hear a light?” You don’t know whether to laugh or coo at his innocence in your dorky neighbour. “I’m just lighting a candle because it’s dark.”

The candle flame shivers to life, small and uneven. Throwing a weak gold light over the window ledge and the lower half of the glass. It’s frankly a terrible light source, dim but somehow managing to catch the smudge of your fingerprints on the window and turns the kitchen sink into a dark, warped shape in the reflection. When you prop the camera up against your water jug, lifted by two stacked coasters, the frame tilts slightly to the left.

You hit record.

“Okay, your turn,” he says.

You blink at the red dot on the camera screen. “What?”

“It’s your turn again. Don’t think I didn’t notice you going quiet there. Just because I can’t see you doesn’t mean you can get away with not contributing your part to this list.”

“As if you’re keeping track of everything.” You settle back against the counter, close enough to the camera that your voice will catch. “Okay, here’s one. I love it when people apologise to furniture after walking into it. Oh, and, when someone saves you a seat.”

He hums, turning the thought over in his head. “That’s a good one. Could even be your thesis statement for your film, honestly. Something pretentious. Like how love is making room.”

You giggle. “Love is setting aside a space for someone.” 

“Love as chair politics,” he says smartly. 

“Love is an empty seat: an interdisciplinary exploration into effort-based decision-making.” 

“Okay, you made this not fun by actually sounding smart. What the hell is effort-based decision-making?” 

“Google is free.”

You hear the grin in his voice as he bounces off your words. “So is a tree, hang from it.” 

The laugh leaves you before you can stop it. It is sharp and ugly, startled out of you in a way that makes you clap a hand over your mouth too late. The sound echoes faintly in your dark kitchen, caught by the camera, your shadow probably distorted by the terrible angle and the water jug propping it upright. 

There is a beat of silence on the other side of the wall. Then, quietly, delightedly, “Oh, you thought that was funny. You think I’m funny?” 

“Please, it was a fluke.” 

“That was the healthiest you’ve sounded all day.”

You make an offended noise and reach blindly toward the counter until your hand lands on a tea towel. You throw it at the wall and it hits with a soft, deeply unsatisfying slap before flopping onto the floor. 

He gasps. “Did you just throw something at me?” 

“Consider it a formal complaint.” 

“I’m snitching to the landlord.” 

“Tell them to fix the power while you’re there.” 

“Fine. But I’m adding attempted murder on top of that previous violent note.” 

You shake your head to yourself, still smiling. If you were sane, you might take the time to wonder what the fuck you were doing, sitting on your kitchen counter, arguing with a man you’ve yet to seen, smiling like an idiot at your own wall. And yet, you hesitate to move. 

For a moment, neither of you say anything and a silence that isn’t quite awkward settles over you both. 

Then, with a sudden electric hum, the fridge kicks back on and the ceiling light blinks once, twice, and then floods the kitchen in a harsh yellow that makes you squint, and makes your neighbour curse in surprise. 

“Oh!” 

From the other side of the wall, he lets out a sigh. “Boo.” 

You laugh again, leaning over to check your camera. “Boo?”

“I was having fun,” he says, almost accusingly. “The dark was doing wonders for our dynamic. You were less mean when you couldn’t see.”

“You mean when I was visually impaired and vulnerable?”

“Exactly. It was bringing out your softer side. Or maybe it was all me.”

Looking at the camera, you see that the little red dot is glowing steadily on the screen, and only then remember what you were meant to be doing in the first place. Most of the clip is probably just your kitchen window, your voice too close to the mic and his voice muffled through the plaster, the two of you listing stupid things that barely count as anything. 

Still, your fingers hesitates over the stop button. 

On the other side of the wall, he shifts and the wall groans. “You alive over there? The light didn’t evaporate you when they turned back on, did they?” 

You press stop. “Now how does that make any sense?” 

You pick up the camera, thumb hovering over the saved clip. The thumbnail is dark and grainy, almost useless at first glance, but when you play the first second back, your own laugh cracks through the tiny speaker before you panic and mute it. 

Your face warms. 

Stupid. 

So, so stupid. But you don’t delete it. Instead, you set the camera carefully on the counter and blow out your candle still burning against the window. 

“Anyway, since the lights are back, I’m going to pretend to do my assignment now. Keyword pretend because I like to keep my goals realistic,” 4B says and the strange mood lifts and dissipates with the candle’s smoke. 

“Good luck with that.”

“Good luck with your love thing.”

You look down at the camera again.

“Yeah,” you say, picking it up before you can change your mind. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

You pause. Then you tuck the camera against your chest and head out of the kitchen. “Nothing.”

Behind the wall, 4B laughs like he does not believe you at all, and you leave before he can ask.

You don’t remember when but sometime along the semester, you begin to enjoy waking up. You hadn’t grown a newfound appreciation for your alarm, no that was still a work in progress, but something about opening your eyes to start a new day no longer evoked a groan. Your next door neighbour did that for you instead.

One morning you were waking up to a quiet early morning and the next, you hear an alarm ring parallel to yours.

You hear it again this morning as you rub the sleep from your eyes as some anime opening plays, muffled by the distance. When you step into your kitchen, it’s louder, and you hear the soft padding of feet against floorboards as 4B wakes.

“Morning,” he’ll mumble, voice rough from sleep, just as he did now.

“Good morning,” you’ll say back and hope he doesn’t hear the smile in your voice.

He’ll grunt in acknowledgement, heading for his bathroom which you’ve come to realise shares a wall with your bedroom. You’ll get started on packing a lunch to take to campus while he takes his sweet time getting ready. You wake far too early for him, after all.

You’ll pause on your way out, just as you did now, tilting your head slightly to listen. If he hears your door open, he’ll call out, “Good luck with your classes!” and if he doesn’t, water too loud or too immersed in something else, you’ll say, “See you later!”

It’s a routine you’ve come to love.

Sometimes when he hears you sigh coming back from campus, you’ll hear him close his fridge and fall into his couch. “Grey's Anatomy?” he’ll ask loudly and you’ll laugh softly, hand already reaching to grab your remote despite your drowsiness.

You tell yourself it isn’t a big deal. Plenty of people have neighbours and plenty of people talk to said neighbours. Plenty of people probably know the exact sound of their neighbour’s footsteps in the morning, the difference between their sleepy voice and their smug voice, the exact pause before they say something annoying just to get you to react. 

Probably. 

Still, the thought follows you out of your apartment and all the way to campus, sitting somewhere uncomfortable behind your ribs. It’s there when you catch yourself slowing down near the front steps because someone ahead of you laughs a little too loud and, for one stupid second, you think it might be him. It is there when you buy coffee and almost order an extra pastry because 4B once mentioned he loves sugary things first thing in the morning and frankly any other time of the day. 

It is there when you realise, with a kind of quiet horror, that you might actually like him. 

Recognising the telltale signs that you’re about to spiral, you decide to at least try and prevent it by taking a walk and touching grass. Unfortunately, you forget that there are evil forces against you because when you step into the main courtyard on campus on your way out, you immediately find yourself in hell. 

Like, actual hell. Like there’s a frat car wash happening in the middle of the campus kind of hell.

A row of cars lines the curb beside the courtyard, soapy water running down the pavement in bright, bubbly streams. Someone has set up a folding table with a cardboard sign that reads SIG KAP CHARITY CAR WASH in marker thick enough to be seen from across the street. A group of people have already crowded around the main attraction snapping away and laughing, the men scattered around yelling over each other as they try and organise the mess. There’s a JBL speaker playing Cbat and other such EDM trap that has you wondering if you’ve walked yourself into a rave. 

And standing in the middle of it all, shirtless and holding a sponge as flexes for his groupies, is Gojo Satoru. 

He’s hot. There’s really no polite way around it. His hair is damp from the spray of the hose, white strands pushed messily off his forehead and curling slightly at the ends. Water runs in thin lines down his throat, over the sharp cut of his collarbones, then lower and lower, disappearing along the hard planes of his stomach and tapering down into droplets that catch the sun on his abs. 

Your eyes follow a line of water that continues further down which is definitely a mistake. 

A deeply human mistake, but still a mistake nonetheless because it means you get an unwillingly thorough look at the narrow dip of his waist, the low-slung band of his shorts, the way his abdomen tightens when he twists the sponge out over the hood of a car. 

You shake your head, rattling any more indecent thoughts from your head. Sure, fine, he’s hot as fuck. But who is genuinely stupid enough to get seduced into donating money because some guy with abs and wet hair smiles at them whilst simultaneously wiping bird shit off a windscreen?

A group passes by the table and drops a note into the donation jar. 

You stare. Okay, nevermind. Apparently some people really will. Still, it has absolutely nothing to do with you. You don’t have a car, you don’t carry cash on you, and you don’t want to entertain a bunch of frat guys especially after all you’ve learnt this year. So, you adjust the strap of your tote higher on your shoulder and keep walking. 

“Hey, you in the band shirt!” 

Your foot catches slightly on the uneven pavement, and you make an embarrassing gesture getting back on two feet. Blind panic and something warmer, something more traitorous, jolts through you like a beam of lightning. 

No. 

No, because that voice—

You’ve barely rationalised anything before your head is whipping so fast over your shoulder you think you’ve given yourself a cramp. It’s instinctive more than anything, a kind of desperate hope for something indescribable, heart leaping up to your throat at the thought that a voice behind a wall has suddenly become attached to a body. 

And what a body. 

Gojo jogs toward you, shirtless and damp and unfairly attractive under the sun, towel bouncing against his neck with each step. There is soap clinging to his hands, water sliding down the firm line of his chest, one hand running through his hair as he shakes it of loose droplets. 

He comes to a stop in front of you, grin already loaded. You don’t even flinch when he flicks water onto your face accidentally. 

“Band shirt! Running away already?” he asks. “I didn’t even pitch you yet.” 

Gojo Satoru just spoke with 4B’s voice.

Your 4B. Except he’s no longer a faceless voice in the dark. He is Gojo Satoru. He is shirtless in front of you. He is looking at you like he’s waiting for an answer. 

“You cryin’? he asks, head tilting slightly as he glances at the droplets on your cheek. “Is the sun getting to you? We have buckets of water back there if you want to dunk yourself. Or maybe you want to dunk me and live vicariously through that? I noticed you staring.”

You force your mouth to move. “I don’t have a car.” 

Unfortunately, the voice that comes out is wrong. It’s too high like you’ve swallowed your own throat and replaced it with someone doing customer service over the phone. 

Gojo blinks. 

You clear your throat. “I mean, I don’t have a car,” you repeat, lower this time. 

Great, now you sound like you’re about to rob him. 

His smile twitches, one eyebrow raising slowly as he regards you. 

“Right,” he says, slowly. “No car. I think I got it the first time. What about a bike? We can wipe down the seat or something.”

You shake your head. 

“Scooter? Skateboard?” 

“No.”

“How do you get around?” 

“Feet.”

He looks down and you suddenly feel self-conscious of your shoe choice. 

“We don’t typically offer pedicures but I could make an exception for you,” Gojo says with a wide grin. “Or we could give your shoes a good scrub.”

“I don’t have anything for you to wash.” 

“What? Don’t tell me you’re attached to that layer of grime you have on them.” 

You’re so offended you temporarily blink of your stupor to splutter. “They’re not that dirty! They’re just well-loved!” 

“They’re clearly crying out for some divine intervention. Lucky for you, I might as well be the second coming of Jesus.” 

You scoff. “No way. Maybe I like them ugly, okay?” 

Gojo’s grin widens. “So you admit they’re ugly.”

You hate that he catches it so quickly. You hate even more that your heart picks up like a trapped hummingbird beneath your skin. 

Behind him, someone whistles. “Satoru, stop flirting and actually help!” 

“I’m not flirting,” he calls back without looking away from you. “I’m recruiting customers!”

He lowers his voice so it’s just for you. “You are planning on being a customer, aren’t you?”

You scoff. “Is this what the whole pitch is? Bullying people’s shoes until they donate?”

“No, that was just tailored marketing.” He leans slightly closer, lowering his voice like he’s about to reveal a conspiracy. “The real pitch is much more moving.”

“Okay,” you say, because apparently you’ve lost the will to survive. “Go on then.”

Gojo flashes you another smile, or maybe he hasn’t stopped smiling not even once throughout this entire encounter, and steps back, pressing one wet hand dramatically to his bare chest. He adopts a pitiful expression as he gazes at you. “Every year, hundreds of cars on this campus are forced to suffer through bird shit, pollen, and the mysterious sticky stuff that appears under trees for reasons science refuses to explain.”

You grimace.

He continues, undeterred. “For just five dollars, you can help one of these poor vehicles experience dignity again.”

“I don’t have five dollars.”

“For just three dollars—”

“No cash.”

“For one encouraging word—”

“Not happening.”

“—you can support a hardworking student athlete in his fight against grime,” he finishes calmly. 

“I think you just want to be shirtless,” you say what’s been on your mind the entire time, letting yourself steal another glimpse of his chest. Is it just your imagination but did he just flex his pecs at you?

He looks down at himself like he has only just remembered the state he is in. “This? It’s a uniform. Works wonders for pulling in interest.” He gestures vaguely over his shoulder where another person has just dropped money into the donation jar without taking her eyes off his back. “See? The system works.” 

“How are you so blatantly shameless?”

He shrugs. “Shame only slows you down.” 

Gojo steps slightly to the side when someone passes behind him with a bucket, and the movement brings him just close enough for you to catch the clean, cozy smell of soap and sunscreen underneath the damp heat of him. The towel around his neck drips onto his chest and a bead of water slips from his collarbone, trailing lower. 

Your eyes follow it again. Good lord. When you force your gaze back up, he’s watching you smugly. 

“So,” he says, voice dropping a little, “should I put you down as morally opposed to charity, or just immune to my charm?” 

“Those are the only options?” 

“Hey, I’m open to feedback. If you have a complaint, I’m all ears.” 

“Add a financially unavailable option.” 

“Okay.” He nods gravely. “Morally opposed, charm-resistant, and broke.” 

“I didn’t say broke.” You cut yourself off when you realise you’ve spent too long arguing with him when you had been so determined to walk away moments before. “Forget it, I’m walking away.” 

Gojo laughs and steps directly into your path, head tilting as he studies you like he’s trying to place a song from the first few seconds.

“You have quite the mouth on you,” he says, and something foreboding settles in your gut. “What’s your name, band shirt?”

Something about his voice tricks you into almost answering, perhaps because 4B has spent weeks training a response out of you. He says something stupid, you respond with something worse, and you fall into conversation that way. But while they sound the same you force yourself to remember this isn’t 4B through the wall. 

You have only one goal here: get out before he starts connecting ‘band shirt’ to ‘familiar voice’ that becomes ‘girl through the wall’ because then you’ll have to move apartments and potentially countries. So, you straighten your shoulders, lift your chin, and speak in the blandest tone you can manage. 

“No,” you say. “Short for none of your business.”

“That’s a terrible name,” Gojo says, nose scrunching up. “What did you do to your parents to deserve that? It’s going to look quite hurtful on the donation receipt.” 

“I’m not donating,” you say, already looking for the cleanest route around him. “So thankfully, your admin concerns are none of my concern. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” 

“You won’t donate, you won’t volunteer, and you won’t give me your name,” he says, still watching you too closely. “But you’ll stand here and argue with me.”

“That’s because you seem like the type who needs things explained slowly,” you quip back. “And besides, you’re in my way.”

His gaze flicks briefly to the open space beside him. You both look at it.

Then he looks back at you, smile unbearably smug. “Am I?”

You hate him because he is right, and because the longer you stand here, the more his voice settles into place with his face, and the more impossible it becomes to separate Gojo Satoru from 4B. You can feel it happening in real time, the two versions of him overlapping until the faceless boy through the wall starts becoming this shirtless jerk with wet hair and water dripping down his chest. 

“You’re very intense about names,” you say, forcing your voice into that same bland, too-flat register. “Maybe work on that before the next person you corner.” 

“Relax,” he says, voice dipping into something smoother. “I’m just saying, if a girl insults me this much, I feel like I should at least know what to call her.” 

“Band shirt is working fine for you. And if it’s not going on a donation receipt then I don’t see why you really need it.”

“Can I guess?” he asks instead, already leaning forward like the idea has thrilled him. 

“Absolutely not.” You take a step to the side, causing him to promptly mirror you. “Dude, quit it.” 

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, immediately stepping back with both hands raised to showcase his harmlessness though it’s ruined by his smile. “Got excited. You’re so nonchalant and mysterious it just draws me in, you know? Come on, I’ll leave you alone if you just give me a name, your real name.”

“No.” 

“Okay, not a real one,” he concedes far too quickly. “Just so I have something to call you in my head when you’re already running through it so much.” 

“I’m not giving you a fake name either.” 

“That’s so much worse,” he says, sounding wounded. “Now you’re not even trusting me with a lie? I’m shirtless for charity, band shirt, I’m vulnerable.”

“Vulnerably harassing a stranger for her name in the middle of campus?” 

“Stranger feels harsh.” His smile shifts a little, still playful yes, but the focus underneath it becomes visible. “You don’t exactly feel like a stranger.” 

You need to get out here right now. 

You tighten your hold on your tote bag and start walking, not caring where your dirty shoes led you, not caring if it even led you back to that God forsaken carwash. Gojo doesn’t give up, trailing after you and eating up the distance you try to place with his long legs, body facing yours even as you speed walk. 

“Do I know you?” 

“No,” you say. “We don’t know each other.”

“But it feels like we know each other.”

“We? There’s no we. Maybe you’ve seen me in passing but it’s not something to obsess over. Okay, bye.” 

“Possible,” he says, nodding solemnly. “I do have a wide reach. I’m trying to expand it, actually, which is why I need your name.”

You pass the front of the carwash table once more and someone at the front turns, practically jumping on the spot upon seeing Gojo. He ignores them, still drilling holes into the side of your face. 

“First initial?”

“N. For No.”

“Last initial?” 

“O.”

“Does it have an A in it?” 

“Do you know when to quit?” 

“Is that a yes?”

“No.”

“No, it doesn’t or no, you won’t tell me? Or secret third option, No as in No your name.” He clicks his tongue like you’re the one being difficult. “See, this is getting really confusing. You could solve this entire problem by telling me your real name.”

You keep walking for a few more steps but it’s getting harder to pretend you don’t have a golden retriever trailing after your every step, and word, especially when he’s shirtless and a microcelebrity on campus. 

“Look,” you say, stopping and turning to give him a piece of your mind. “I don’t know you, you don’t know me, so this has been deeply unnecessary. Let’s just leave it at that okay?”

His smile softens as he also stops, looking at you. “Then tell me your name and we can fix that.”

For one stupid, horrifying second, you almost do. His voice dips around his words, warm and familiar, and your brain gives you 4B through the wall saying morning, 4A, soft with sleep, and suddenly your name feels like something dangerously close to being handed over.

His hand lifts, reaching for your wrist at your hesitation but hovers short of actually touching, eyes holding yours for permission. 

Then someone calls, “Satoru!”

His face twists, mouth opening like he is ready to spit out another excuse, when a towel hits him square in the back of his head.

He jolts, hand leaving the space between you to grab at the towel before it falls. “What the fuck?” 

You both look over in the direction of the carwash. 

Sukuna stands by the donation table with another towel hanging from one hand, looking like he would rather be dragged behind one of the cars than be there voluntarily. He is also shirtless, because can you even see a guy with his shirt on in a fifty metre radius around you? Water drips from the ends of his pink hair, sliding down the hard line of his neck and over his chest, his skin still shining from whatever girl had convinced him to stand under the hose for a photo. 

“Oi,” Sukuna calls, lifting the towel like he might throw it again. “Are you done begging, or should we put a bowl out for you too?” 

Gojo’s expression immediately collapses into offence. “I’m not begging. I told you I was networking! You’re really cramping my style.” 

“Whatever you want to call it.” Sukuna jerks his chin toward the cars. “Get back here. Some girl paid ten dollars because you promised to write her name in soap on the windshield.” 

Gojo ruffles a hand through his hair and you catch a glimpse of his undercut before he groans, ducking his head. “Shit! I forgot I said that. Can’t you take one for the team, Sukuna?”

“She asked for you.”

The imaginary campus-wide fanbase turns out to be true, you think mournfully. 

A few people around the table laugh, and Gojo turns just enough to argue back, towel clutched in one hand, wet hair sticking messily to the back of his neck. You take the sight of his back muscles as a sign to leave. So before he can turn back around, you step away. 

Then another step. Then several more, fast enough that your tote bumps against your hip and your grimy shoes slap loudly against the wet pavement. It’s not running, because running would imply guilt, and you are innocent of everything except being cursed. 

“Band shirt,” Gojo calls behind you and because it’s not your name, you don’t turn around. 

You especially don’t turn around when Gojo’s half-groan, half-laugh follows you across the courtyard, short yet familiar enough to make your stomach twist. 

4B is Gojo Satoru.

Gojo Satoru is 4B.

Someone needs to take down the Etsy website.

You never do wear that band shirt again. 

Not that it mattered much because you also don’t really go outside for a week, not if you could help it. You want to call it locking in because the midterms are coming up but in the brief moments when you allow yourself the truth, you admit it’s because you’re preventing any chance of running into Gojo again. 

It’s difficult to do that when he’s your neighbour. Or, well, when 4B is your neighbour. 

That distinction becomes very important to you. Gojo Satoru is someone you saw shirtless in the middle of campus using charity as an excuse to flex obscenely at the general public moving through their day. Gojo Satoru has wet hair, a stupid grin, and is highly dangerous because he has a face and a body and a set of eyes that pins you down, 

4B is a voice through the wall. 4B is his alarm going off too loudly in the morning, all groans and curses as he heaves himself from the warmth of his bed. 4B is ranting about the latest anime he’s watched, whispering through plaster when it gets late, knocking twice against the wall when he wants your attention but isn’t sure if you’re in.

So you let yourself have it. You avoid Gojo, and you keep talking to 4B.

After a while, there aren’t many problems with having Gojo as your next door neighbour. Sure, he can get loud during phone calls with his friends but you quickly forgive him when he gives sheepish apologies and dials down his volume. And sure, his alarm is loud but after that initial morning when you grilled him on the cheerful tune, he had changed it to something more appropriate.

The way he laughs is loud, the way he sings as he cooks is loud, the way he says your unit number is loud, all bright like he’s been waiting to catch you the moment you step into your apartment.

It seems Gojo can’t help but be loud. In every aspect.

You wonder if you should bring it up.

It really was unfortunate that your bedroom and his bathroom shared a wall. Whoever constructed this building many, many years ago must not have planned it out too well and simply settled for fitting rooms of different apartments together like tetris. And because of this, his bathroom ends up right next to your head when you sleep. 

You also gather that his shower is pressed against the said wall that you share with him, if his groans are any indication. 

You should probably bring it up. 

But how does one even bring up such a conversation? Hey neighbour! Not that I’ve been listening but I can hear you jerk off in the shower. Could you stop? 

In his defence, you relent, rolling over and pressing your pillow against your ears, he was trying to be subtle about it. You appreciate that he wasn’t doing it in his room since that would certainly turn you off from whatever you’re eating in your kitchen next to him. But if he believes the rush of water is enough to muffle his moans, he’s sorely mistaken. 

You roll onto your other side, shuffling when even this position isn’t comfortable. Your thin sheets are tangled around your legs and you’re desperately trying to focus on the book you’re reading on your phone. But who are you kidding, your thumb has been frozen on the same paragraph for the past five minutes, mind a million miles away. 

There’s a thud of something being placed down on the tiled floor, a slight rustle. And then, a low, breathy groan—so faint you could almost convince yourself you imagined it. 

But you definitely did not. 

You breath catches as you place your phone down and stare at the ceiling as if that will make the sounds stop. It never works. You tell yourself to just roll over again, put in your airpods and drown it out. You’ve done it before, you can do it again. 

But your hand is already drifting down, sliding over your stomach, fingers brushing the waistband of your shorts. 

The first stroke is unintentional, a simple slow press through cotton just to feel something. But then you hear him again, a sharper exhale, a whispered word you can’t quite make out, and your hips shift, pressing your palm harder against your cunt. 

Fuck. 

You close your eyes and instead of the dark of your room, you see steam. A shower, his shower, the one right on the other side of this wall. 

You don’t want to think about Gojo like this so you settle instead on your 4B. All you know is the sound of his footsteps in the hallway, the messy scrawl of his handwriting, the sound of his door opening and closing, the low rumble of his laugh when he teases you. It’s deep and a little rough around the edges. You’ve built a version of him from the sound alone, and right now, that’s more than enough. 

Fingers tracing the outline of your clit through the fabric, circles so light they’re barely there, you let your mind wander. 

You imagine stepping into that shower. The air is thick and wet, fogging up the glass. He’s already under the spray, back to you, water streaming down his shoulders. You don;t want to see his face, but you can see the way his muscles shift as he turns his head ever so slightly, giving you the slightest glimpse of his side profile before the steam whisks it away. 

It would be foolish to hesitate. You slide your hands around his waist from behind, palms flat against his stomach, and he laughs, the vibrations meeting your chest. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice deeper, lower with him so close to you. “Look at you, giving me a helping hand, hm?”

“Shut up,” you’d probably mumble against his shoulder blade, fingers already trailing lower, through the thatch of hair at the base of his cock. “You’re always so loud.”

He’d be hard already, and you can feel the heat of him, the slight twitch as your fingertips brush the underside of his shaft. 

“No, I don’t think that’s right,” he says. “Because you’ve been listening, haven’t you? All those nights wrapped up all pretty in your blankets, thinking you can get away with using me to feel good, thinking you’re an angel for trying not to listen. But you know exactly what I sound like when I’m close, don’t you?”

Your breath hitches as you wrap your hand around him, and he groans, deep and guttural, exactly the sound that’s coming through the wall right now. Your hand moves in time with the fantasy, slow strokes, thumb pressing into the slick tip, and he leans back into you, letting his head fall against your shoulder. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble against your ear. “Such a good girl. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you to touch me. Wanted to feel your hand on my cock for so fucking long, angel.” 

“Since when?” 

You stroke him faster, twisting your wrist the way you imagine he does, and his breathing turns ragged. 

“Since the moment you opened that pretty mouth and told me off. Fuck—faster, angel. Just like that, don’t stop. Your hand feels so perfect.”

Your own fingers press harder against your clit through your shorts, and you let out a tiny whimper you hope he can’t hear through the wall. Maybe he can, maybe he really does know exactly what you’ve been doing. That thought makes you even wetter, a choked gasp escaping. 

In the fantasy, his body tenses. His hand comes up to cover yours, pressing your grip tighter around him. 

“I’m gonna cum,” he says, voice strained. “I’m gonna paint the tiles with it, and you’re gonna watch. You’re gonna listen to me fall apart because of you. And then—fuck—then I’m gonna fuck you.” 

His hips jerk forward, and you feel the hot pulse of his release against your hand, the way he shudders and moans your name (which he doesn’t know, but you give it to him anyway, a whispered invention). His cum slicks the inside of your fingers, and you keep stroking until he pushes your hand away with an overstimulated whimper that might be your own. 

He turns around. 

You still don’t see his face, just the broad outline of his chest you saw during the carwash incident, the water catching in the hollow of his collarbone. He pushes you back against the cool tile with one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding down your stomach, between your legs.

“My turn,” he purrs. “I’m gonna fuck you right here, in my shower, where you can hear every sound I make. And you’re gonna take it, aren’t you? Gonna be an angel for me and let me use this pussy like I’ve been dreaming about.”

You nod, mouth open, and he sinks two fingers into you without warning.

The gasp that escapes your lips is real. “Gojo—!”

“Nuh uh, pretty,” he coos in your ear. “Call me Satoru. C’mon, say my name, angel.” 

You shake your head against your pillow, back arching. “That’s—that would be weird.” 

He slows down, taking his time with you, dragging his fingers against your gummy walls before sliding over that spot that makes you see stars, chuckling when you gasp. “I’m making you feel this good and you’re still talking back? Gonna need to fuck that attitude out of you.” 

You bite your lip hard. “Satoru…”

He stills, before he presses down hard. “Hm? What was that?”

“Satoru!”

His voice is a rough, airy thing in your ear. “That’s it, pretty, you’re doing so good for me.”

Your own fingers mimic the motion, pushing inside yourself while your thumb circles your clit. You can hear him through the wall—a wet, rhythmic sound, faster now, and a string of words you catch in fragments. “Yeah… that’s it… take it…”

You imagine his cock,thick, already half-hard again from the feel of you, sliding between your thighs. He lifts your leg, hooks it over his arm, and presses the head against your entrance.

“Look at me,” he says, and you try, but his face is a blur of heat and water, just shadows and the gleam of wet skin. “Look at me while I fuck you. I want you to remember this.”

He pushes in slow, and you feel the stretch in your fantasy and in your own body as your fingers sink deeper. You bite your lip to keep from moaning out loud.

“Shit, you’re so tight,” he groans, his forehead pressing against yours. “You feel that? That’s my cock filling you up. That’s what you get for listening in, for touching yourself to the sound of me cumming.”

He sets a hard rhythm, the slapping of wet skin echoing off the shower walls. Your fantasy-self clings to him, nails digging into his back, and he keeps talking, his voice ragged and dirty, exactly what you need.

“That’s it, it feels so fucking good, huh? Bet you love this, love that you didn’t know what I looked like but you know the sound of my balls slapping against your ass. You’re such a fucking slut for it. Is it hotter now that you know who I am? Open your mouth and tell me, Y/N.”

You whimper, hand curling into the sheets. “I—I can’t. You’ll hear.”

“I know, I know, you’re trying so hard to be quiet for me,” he mumbles, so soft and understanding even as he drives into you. “But I’m going to need to hear you, okay? Need to hear how much you want this.” 

Your fingers move faster, matching the pace in your head. Your breathing is ragged now, little moans falling from your lips that you can’t hold back. You don’t care if he hears, and maybe if you’re slightly truthful, you hope he does. “Oh god, Satoru, it feels so good!”

In the fantasy, he’s close again. You can feel it in the way his thrusts lose rhythm, in the way his grip tightens on your hip.

“I’m gonna cum inside you,” he growls, and it’s a question and a statement all at once. “You want that? Want to feel my cum dripping down your thigh?”

“Yes,” you whisper out loud, into your empty room.

He buries himself deep, and the fantasy explodes in a rush of heat and words: “Fuckfuckfuck—take it—take my cum, you dirty little thing—gonna fill you up so full—”

You climax with a gasp, your back arching off the mattress, your fingers pressing hard against your clit as waves of pleasure roll through you. You hear yourself moan, a high, broken sound, and you don’t care.

The sounds from his side of the wall change.

There’s a final, shuddering groan and the squeak of a hand against tile. And then silence, broken only by the rush of water from a showerhead.

You lie there, panting, hand still between your legs, your skin flushed and damp. You can almost smell the steam, almost feel the ghost of his fantasy-body pressed against yours.

The shower turns off and you climb out of bed, running away to the living room. 

You’re not a freak. You can’t be. 

You’re a kind, virtuous person who knows no sin, who is gracious and angelic and trustworthy and not someone who listens in on her neighbour jerking it in his shower. That’s simply not who you are and not something you’d ever do. 

Despite this obvious fact, your brain tells you otherwise. And when you are at war with yourself, what else is there to do but consult your friends?

You find Shoko outside the campus cafe, sitting at one of the metal tables with an iced coffee and her laptop open, clacking away with a frown. The chair opposite her is empty though not welcomingly. It’s buried under her tote bag, a packet of cigarettes jutting out that would have her girlfriend at her throat if she saw. 

You walk over, tuck the box further into her bag and under her jumper, before putting her bag on the ground. “You’re smoking again?” 

“Hi,” Shoko says, looking up briefly before slumping down over her laptop. “Just to get the edge off. Midterms are coming around and I’m already feeling the effects.”

You nod, stealing her drink and taking a long sip. She looks at you again, squinting. 

“You don’t look as bad as I thought you would.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“Isn’t that film of yours due next Friday? Where’s the panic and stress? Also, that’s my coffee you whore.” 

You take one last long sip and slide it back over. “I have bigger fish to fry. But shit, Shoko, you look completely under it already. We can call off girls’ talk for another day, I promise it’s not that serious.”

“Not that serious?” Shoko scoffs, hitting enter before closing her laptop. “You triple-texted last night at 3 a.m. not making any sense at all. What happened? Did Naoya text you again? You didn’t unblock him, did you?” 

“What? No! It’s…” you groan, covering your face. “It’s worse. It’s so much worse. I think I’m at the edge of the abyss staring down. Like whatever I do here on out will either make or break me.”

“Okay,” she replies slowly, clearly not expecting your response. “And who is this about exactly?” 

You wonder if you can tell her the truth. Hey Shoko, you might decide to start with, I’ve been crushing on the voice of my neighbour for the last month who I just found out is Satoru, you know your friend? Also, I’ve been listening to him jerk it for a while now and I have an inkling that he knows.

Instead of any of this, you whisper, “Satoru.” 

She flinches as if you’ve slapped her. “What?”

Your finger comes up to point before you stop yourself, realising it was impolite to point, but your gaze is far too telling. She hesitates, taking in your horrified expression before looking over her shoulder to find Gojo stepping into sight, head turning about as if searching for something. 

You almost delude yourself into thinking that when his gaze stops at your table, his eyes light up because he’s looking at you. You almost delude yourself into thinking that he’s making his way to your table. You almost delude yourself into thinking the smile he wears is for you. 

Only one of these things is true because the moment you see him, you’ve pulled your hoodie up until it’s almost flopping back over your eyes, leaning back and tucking your chin in.

Gojo saunters up to your table and stops just beside Shoko. Your friend groans, dropping her head into her hands. 

“He’s right behind me, isn’t he?” 

Not wanting to speak, you only shrug uselessly. Gojo doesn’t even spare you a glance, whining as he tugs on her sleeve to grab her attention. 

“Come on, Shoko, I’ve been trying to text you for hours now. Ignoring me isn’t going to make me disappear, you know.” 

“I know now,” she mumbles before yanking her arm away from his touch. “Okay, out with it, Gojo. I refuse to be seen in public with you so let’s get this over with.” 

“I need your help with something.” When Shoko only stares, unimpressed and not surprised, he presses on. “It’ll be quick, I swear! And it isn’t about the pre lab questions this time, I promise. I’m cashing in that one favour you owe me from last year.” 

“What favour?”

“Me hosting a party that got you and Utahime together.”

Shoko shoots him a withering look. “That wasn’t a favour, we just happened to meet at your party. You didn’t even know her back then.”

Gojo grins, and for a moment, you get lost in it. It would be so easy to tell him now and have that smile directed at you with recognition instead of casual politeness. You don’t think he’s doing it on purpose, but you feel yourself getting smaller as he keeps talking to Shoko and only Shoko, sitting there silently as if being quiet and sipping at Shoko’s coffee might excuse your lack of presence. 

Shoko rolls her eyes, turning to look at you. “Sorry, Y/N. We’ll talk after I’m done dealing with this kid.”

You wave her off stiffly and she narrows her eyes at you, sensing something off when you don’t say anything. Gojo seems to notice you then, looking over at you briefly. He tilts his head at you before Shoko’s voice pulls him back. 

“So? What do you want?”

“I need help finding someone.” 

You choke on your drink, hastily wiping at your chin when they both turn to look at you, a range of concern across both their faces. You wave them off dismissively, making small sounds to clear your throat as they continue. 

“For revenge or…?”

He hums, seriously considering her quip. “Maybe the opposite?” 

She narrows her eyes at that. “I don’t know everyone on campus. How are you so confident you can come to me for this?” 

“Because you’re doing the same degree as her and you’re a girl and so is the person I’m trying to find.”

There's still liquid in your throat and it’s getting harder for Gojo to pretend like his friend’s friend isn’t slowly dying from across the table. He lifts his eyes to study you, taking in the way you’re clearing your throat, struggling to keep quiet, and he sighs. 

“Hey, breathe through your nose.” 

You finally look up at him, the hood obscuring most of your vision though you still try to shoot him a look as if to say, oh no, really? and he smirks at that.

“I'm serious, just breathe for a second. Through your nose, come on. It’ll get rid of that coughing fit.” 

You close your mouth with effort and take a deep, shaky breath in. It goes in smoothly though the urge to cough still persists and you have to concentrate to not relapse. 

Gojo pushes your iced coffee closer to you, wiping his wet hand on Shoko’s sleeve after despite her protest. You take it gratefully, taking in a few sips before clearing your throat. 

Realising you couldn’t get out of this without speaking at least once, you lower your voice as much as you can and mumble, “Thanks.”

Gojo hums, accepting it easily, but his eyes linger on you for half a second too long before he turns back to Shoko. “She's someone in your course doing cardiovascular physiology. She has a lab on Tuesday and morning tutorials on Friday." 

You don’t miss the way Shoko has been staring bullets into you though her eyes flicker over to Gojo every once in a while. “A lab on Tuesday, you say.” And there’s something in her tone that has you looking up frantically. 

Gojo doesn’t seem to notice, nodding instead. “She usually comes back late, at around 5:20? Which means her classes end around 5 p.m.”

“5 p.m,” she repeats, her eyes never straying. 

You try to shake your head as subtly as possible. 

“She has the prettiest voice you’ve ever heard and the softest laugh when she finds something amusing. But then when she finds something funny, like really funny, her laugh is super loud and bright and it’s honestly cool the way she doesn’t seem to care.”

You kick Shoko’s foot under the table and she barely winces, realisation or something similar dawning on her. 

“I don’t need to know any of that, that won’t help.” Her lips quirk upwards slightly. “And why are we looking for this girl, Gojo?” 

He pouts at her words. “I’m looking for my neighbour.”

Shoko makes a gesture as if to ask if he’s serious. “Just go knock on her door? You literally know where she lives. That’s probably more than I could ever tell you.” 

“You don’t get it,” he says, tutting, wagging his fingers even. “We have this thing going on and I don’t want to ruin her trust by camping outside her door, for example. So instead, I’ll just conveniently come across her on campus because somehow our timetables seem to line up.”

 Shoko stares at him blankly. “So stalking.”

“Don’t be so crude, Shoko. It’s not stalking if I’m being emotionally considerate about it.” He leans forward slightly, hands on the table, and for a moment his voice loses some of its usual shine. “I don’t want to scare her off, okay? I know where she lives, but that feels like cheating. If you know her, ask her first. Ask if she’s okay with me knowing, or if she wants me to stay clueless and suffer with dignity.” 

Shoko’s expression barely changes. “You don’t do anything with dignity.” 

“I could start for her,” he says, then seems to realise what he’s admitted because he looks away with a small, helpless laugh. “Look, I know it sounds stupid, but I like talking to her. I like not knowing too much. I like that she can hang up on me by walking away from the wall whenever she wants. If I just knock on her door, then I’ve taken that choice from her.” 

For once, Shoko doesn’t interrupt. 

Gojo rubs at the back of his neck, grin returning but weaker this time, more embarrassed than smug. “But also, I’m going a little crazy. Call me pathetic, but sometimes she says something and I forget what my own point was. She’s mean in this really specific way, and funny, and then every now and then she’ll be nice like she didn’t mean to, and it fully ruins me. So yeah, I want to know who she is. I just don’t want to find out in a way that makes her regret talking to me.” 

You kick her foot again. 

“And what happens if you do find her?” she asks, rubbing the toe of her shoe against the floor like you have injured her beyond repair. “You’re going to walk up and say, hi, I’ve been listening to you through the wall for weeks and I reverse-engineered your timetable?”

Gojo makes a face. “No, obviously not. I have charm. I’ll make her fall for me first.”

You stand with a start, slamming your hands on the table, knocking your empty cup over. You hastily pick it up, shooting Shoko as many SOS signals as it’ll take for her to follow your lead. She lets out a slight laugh, especially after seeing Gojo’s bewildered face, and stands, albeit slowly. 

“I think I have an idea of who you’re looking for.”

“You do?” Gojo says, eyes wide and smile hopeful. 

“I have a feeling.” Her eyes leave yours after a pause, moving to shove her laptop into her bag. “But I’m going to need to confirm it before I tell you. Wouldn’t want to drag an innocent into your life.” 

He nods quickly and you mournfully think that he looks like a puppy. You didn’t need that imagery, especially not right now. You tune out the rest of their conversation though it mainly consisted of Gojo demanding more details and Shoko shooting him down firmly. When you have your tote over your shoulder, Shoko tilts her head towards the door. 

You all but run out. Vaguely, you hear Gojo ask, “What’s up with her?”

“Boy problems,” Shoko says before she catches up to you and the two of you walk out. 

“Where are we going?” 

You look over your shoulder, heart only settling when you don’t catch any glimpse of white hair. “Away.”

“Oh, so now you feel like talking.”

“Please, Shoko. Please.”

She laughs, loose and unrestrained. “Want to tell me what that was all about? Gojo looking for some Cinderella and you looking like you’re about to choke to death?”

You spin around, hands coming up to hold her still by the shoulders. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s exactly that. Shoko, stop looking at me like that, I’m going to freak out.” 

“Okay, okay.” Her hands come up to wrap loosely around your wrists, not pushing you off, just holding you there. “Take a breath. He doesn’t know.” 

“He almost knows.”

“I’m pretty sure he only suspects something,” she corrects. “Those are two very different things. And if you really don’t want him to know then I’ll tell him that. He might seem a little clueless in areas such as personal space, but he’s not a complete jerk. He’ll respect that.”

You let go of her shoulders slowly, though your hands stay half-raised between you like you might need to grab her again if she starts looking too entertained. “He was describing me.”

“He was describing his neighbour,” Shoko says, softer now. “You are only panicking because you know that’s you.”

“That does not make me feel better.”

“It should a little.” She tilts her head, cigarette-less and serious in a way you rarely get from her before noon. “Look, if he wanted to corner you, he could’ve knocked on your door. He literally knows where you live. But he didn’t. He came to me because, in his own stupid Gojo way, he’s trying not to scare you.”

“That’s the complete issue,” you sigh, folding your arms tighter across your chest. “The issue is that he’s Gojo, the exact kind of guy I said I was done with. I know what these kinds of guys are like, hell, I dated the textbook example of one.”

Shoko’s expression softens and in the silence, something bubbles up. 

“4B wasn’t that,” you say, voice smaller than you mean for it to be. “4B was just mine.” 

The second it leaves your mouth, your face warms. Mercifully, Shoko doesn’t pounce on it and instead nods slowly, looking away from you. 

“I get that,” she says and when you glance at her, she repeats herself. “I do, you’re not crazy. But Gojo being in a frat doesn’t automatically make him Naoya variant 2.0.”

“I know that,” you grumble. 

“Do you?” Shoko bumps her shoulder against yours. “You don’t have to trust him just because he’s 4B. You also don’t have to punish him just because he looks like the kind of guy who would have ruined your life last semester.” 

“So what am I supposed to do?” you ask. 

“For now? Nothing. You don’t have to suddenly jump out and introduce yourself, but you also don’t have to shut up and ghost him forever. See for yourself what kind of guy Gojo really is now that you know both sides to him.”

Sometimes, Shoko’s rationality surprises you and you find yourself nodding along to her words, a small, dawning hope struggling out of its shell inside your heart. Just as you’re about to thank her profusely for her wise words, she opens her mouth and says, “You should come to Utahime’s this weekend.” 

“Uh.” You blink. “What?”

“It’s a small party, like actually small,” she says before you can look horrified. “Not a frat thing. It’ll just be a few of Utahime’s close friends, some drinks and food, you know. I haven’t seen you come out of your apartment for an entire week, Y/N, it’s setting off alarm bells. You’re hot. Funny. Maybe you’ll meet someone there that doesn’t remind you of Gojo or Naoya.” 

“Oh my God,” you say slowly, disgusted. “Why are those two people my only options right now? You’re right, I need to go out.” 

“I’m sure you didn’t mean it,” Shoko says with sympathy before groaning. “Can I say ‘I told you so’ yet or are you still spiralling? Because I told you so, I told you to stay away from Gojo but lookie here, who’s scouring the campus for even a whiff of you?” 

You glare at her. “Not helping, Shoko.” 

Shoko bumps her shoulder against yours. “You can tell him when you’re ready. Or let him figure it out slowly if you want to be annoying about it.”

You shove her shoulder back in return, and she laughs, and for a few steps, it almost feels like a normal afternoon. Like you are just two girls walking across campus, talking about weekend plans, not one girl trying to outrun the consequences of accidentally falling for her neighbour through a wall. 

Then Shoko tilts her head toward the bus stop. “So. Do you want to go back to your apartment or not?” 

You think of the wall, of 4B’s—Gojo’s—voice slipping through it, probably asking why you were so quiet this morning, probably making some stupid comment about your sleep schedule, probably having no idea that your whole life has just rearranged itself around his face. 

You sigh. 

“Unfortuntely,” you say. “I live there.”

Gojo wonders if he has an addictive personality. 

Or maybe it’s just you. 

But when it’s just him alone in his mind, hands running through his hair to try and catch every last runaway thought about you, he allows himself the truth. It’s probably just you. 

And the kicker is that he was only 90% certain you even existed. Suguru was the one who planted the idea in his head, that the physics had finally fucked him over and he was hallucinating the voice of a sweet, snarky girl, If he hadn’t collected your sticky notes over the last few months, that statistic might have even fallen to a good 38% and even then he wouldn’t be too sure if it was the twisted humour of his friends or if he genuinely had his own Wattpad neighbours-to-lovers arc. 

He sighs and leans back into his chair, feeling it give way under the motion with a creak. He wonders, as he so often does these days, if you heard it. His body stills and he waits for an indication that you might be home, a soft chuckle, an exasperated sigh, or his favourite, that soft way you say his name (read: unit number). 

When it doesn’t come, he slumps. 

Fuck, he was so far gone. 

It’s not like this is new to him, the wanting. Gojo wants things all the time. He wants the last pudding cup from the convenience store, wants Suguru to stop pretending he’s above gossip when he’s the nosiest person alive, wants Shoko to stop stealing his lighters despite the fact that he doesn’t smoke because he needs them to light up his birthday candles. He wants good grades with minimal effort and attention when he enters a room and for his hair to sit right without having to do anything about it. 

He also wants you. 

Gojo’s phone buzzes against his desk and he only looks at it because he’s desperate from his own thoughts. Though he immediately regrets this when Utahime’s name lights up on his screen. 

utahime: party this weekend

show up or dont 

idc

He snorts. 

gojo: woww dont get too excited inviting me im basically suffocating in ur enthusiasm 

its chill though if u dont want me there

i wont go ive got plans anyway 

Another notification drops down after he hits send. 

shoko: do NOT come to utahime’s this weekend 

that was a mistake 

DO NOT COME 

Gojo freezes, eyes blinking at the message. He taps it, opening up his chat history with her that consists of many, many time stamps and read receipts, and very slowly, something that critical thinking sparks behind his blue eyes. 

Do not come, said so blunt and immediate and so suspiciously timed right after Utahime’s invitation as if Shoko had decided his presence would cause a problem. 

A problem for who? 

Gojo’s mouth parts. Then, slowly, his grin spreads. His thumb quickly swipes out to re enter the chat with Utahime and glides across the keyboard. 

gojo: actually ykw 

wouldn’t miss it for the world <3

utahime: wait im uninviting u 

gojo? 

i said u cant come

dont leave me on read you dick 

Gojo laughs, turning off his phone. 

He turns his head toward the wall, still grinning like an idiot, thriving off the single crumb he’s been graciously fed after days of searching for you. 

“You going to Utahime’s this weekend, 4A?” he asks softly, knowing you are not there to answer.

The wall says nothing but Gojo’s grin doesn’t fade.

“That’s okay,” he murmurs, phone warm in his hand. “I’ll find out.”

There are two possible explanations for your current situation. Either Shoko is a liar (completely and utterly plausible) or her girlfriend has around 50 close friends. You don’t put it past Utahime either but at least Utahime did you a favour and made sure not to invite anyone from TDP so you settle for shooting Shoko a withering glare.

Music thrums through the floorboards, bass rattling the soles of your shoes as you tap your feet subconsciously against the beat. It’s loud, too loud for talking unless you enjoy shouting directly into someone’s ear, though no one seems to mind. Certainly not Shoko as she leans close to Utahime, mouth brushing against her ear, eyes half lidded as she practically has her on her lap.

You roll your eyes, feeling slightly sour.

Shoko notices your bitter look and acknowledges it with a slight chuckle, taking your cup of orange juice and switching it with hers. “Loosen up!” She yells over the music.

Without many other options, you take the drink and cup your hand around your ear as if you can’t hear her, just to piss her off.

Utahime snickers when your friend swats you away, her hand comfortably wrapped around Shoko’s. The sight of a happy couple sickens you and when Shoko yells for you to “go find someone to make out with!” you do decide to stand up and leave, though not because of her words, obviously. 

You’re just getting air, maybe a refill. And maybe putting at least one wall between yourself and Shoko’s terrible, smug, in-love face. 

The rest of the apartment is no better. Utahime’s place is bigger than yours, of course, because some people get exposed brick and large windows while others get mysterious ceiling stains and a neighbour loud enough to seep into your own personal life. 

Bodies crowd every available inch of space. Someone is sitting on the arm of the couch with a drink in one hand and someone else sprawled across their lap, fingers pushed into their hair. A group by the kitchen is screaming the lyrics to the song currently playing and there’s two girls taking photos in the hallway mirror, swaying together, cheek to cheek. 

You’re halfway through to the kitchen when you see him. For a second, your brain doesn’t even attach a name to the sight. It only registers white hair, too tall, black shirt, one hand loose around a red cup as he leans against the wall near the hallway. 

Then your stomach drops. 

Gojo. 

The thought arrives with immediate, unreasonable betrayal. 

What the fuck? Didn’t Utahime promise you she wouldn’t invite any frat guys? 

Not that you care. You absolutely do not. Gojo Satoru could attend every party in the city and you would remain unaffected, obviously. It is just the principle of the thing. You had been promised a Gojo-free environment, and there he is, laughing at something one of the girls around him says, head tilted down so he can hear her better over the music.

There are three that you see, maybe four. It’s hard to count when they keep shifting, hair shining under the cheap coloured lights, shoulders angled toward him like flowers reaching for the sun. 

It would be easier to be angry, to roll your eyes and hate him in the clean, uncomplicated way you usually do. Instead, something dull and familiar settles under your ribs. 

You turn away before he can look your way. 

The drink in your hand is half-empty and you make it fully empty in one long swallow, grimacing only after it burns the way down and cursing Shoko’s name in your head. Someone near the kitchen cheers for no reason and you suddenly decide that if the universe wants to be annoying, if that stupid Etsy witch wants to fuck with you that bad, you might as well ruin yourself first. 

By the time Shoko finds you again, you have acquired another drink. And then another, and then even more. She squints at you with the vague concern of someone who knows your limits better than you do but you’re already being dragged toward the cleared space in the living room by one of Utahime’s pretty friends, and the music there is cathartic. 

So you stop thinking. For the first time all night, you let yourself move without checking who is watching. Your drink is gone, your cheeks are warm, and the room is soft and bright, all coloured light and laughing mouths and hands in the air. There is no assignment, no terrible apartment, no faceless neighbour slipping into your life through the poor insulation, no Gojo leaning against a wall with half the party orbiting him. The houseparty is bumping, the ladies look good, the alcohol is flowing. There is much pain in the world, but not in this room. 

Then an arm slides around your waist. It’s muscled, warm, steady in the way it wraps around you, the scent of something masculine and fresh entering your peripherals. 

For one stupid, glittering second, you let yourself hope. It’s only the alcohol, probably. The music, even, the heat of the room or the betrayal of coloured lights making everyone look better than they are. 

But the arm is firm around you, and the body behind you is tall, and when he leans in, his breath skims close to your ear. 

Maybe. 

The thought is so sweet it makes you dizzy and you almost lean into the hope. 

“Having fun?” 

Your stomach drops so fast the whole room seems to go with it. You turn, and Naoya’s ugly face is looking down at you. What the fuck is he doing here? Oh, you are so having a word with Utahime about this. 

And okay, Naoya isn’t actually ugly, not in a way that has anything to do with his features. What’s really ugly is his expression, the entitlement in his smile and the slow drag of his eyes over you like he’s appraising something he believes is his. 

His mouth curls and all at once, the music goes thin and static-y. 

You shove him away and stumble a few steps at your own strength. “Don’t touch me.” 

Naoya lets his hand fall, but not before making a show of it, palms lifting like you are the unreasonable one. “Relax. I was just saying hi.” 

“Okay, well you’ve said your hi. Now leave.” 

He laughs, eyes dropping to your mouth, then back up again. “You’re still so dramatic. I forgot how much effort it takes to talk to you when you’re like this.” 

You step back, but the floor tilts slightly beneath you. Fuck, too much alcohol, too much heat. There’s too many bodies pressing around the living room, none of them paying enough attention as you try to place distance between you and your ex. Your shoulder knocks against someone behind you and you mumble a sorry without taking your eyes off Naoya. 

He notices the stumble and his grin sharpens. “You’re drunk. Haven’t learnt how to control yourself in this kind of places yet, have you? It’s cute.” 

He leans closer, voice lowering as if the two of you are sharing something intimate. “Did you dress up for someone tonight?” 

Your face twists. “As if it’s any of your fucking business anymore, Zenin.” 

“No, I’m serious.” HIs eyes flick over you again, slower this time, and your skin crawls. “Don’t tell me you’re still pissed about being blacklisted. Sometimes things happen to teach you a lesson, you know? Looks like you’ve learnt to finally put more effort into what you’re wearing again. You should be thanking me.”

“I am not doing this with you.” You try to sound confident but you both hear the pathetic slur to your words. 

“You’re not doing much of anything,” he says. “You’re just dancing around hoping some desperate fucker takes pity on you and notices.” 

“Fuck off, Naoya.”

His expression hardens, that little thread of irritation pulling tight because you did not blush, did not smile, did not give him even a crumb of the reaction he came looking for. “You know, this is exactly why people get so tired of you. You make everything so fucking difficult. I’m trying to be nice, and you’re acting like I cornered you in a damn alleyway.” 

“You put your hands on me!” 

“An arm, Y/N. I put my arm around you,” he corrects, like you’re the one being embarrassing. “Don’t make it sound so ugly.” 

“Well, it felt ugly.” 

For a moment, you think he might finally drop the act. But then his mouth curves again, albeit thinner and meaner at the edges. 

“Come on,” he says, taking a step closer and the crowd seems to bunch in to prevent you from leaving. “Don’t be like that. We know each other, don’t we? You don’t have to do the whole untouchable thing with me.” 

The alcohol is making everything lag a second behind. The music, the lights, the heat under your skin now sickening, the disgust rising sharp and sour in your throat. You know what he’s doing, you know it so clearly it almost sobers you. That glint in his eyes as he shamelessly trails his gaze down your face and between your tits, the way his hand is already lifting to grope you, how his voice has softened to be more convincing. 

You take another step back. 

“I said leave.” 

Naoya laughs. “You’re seriously going to act like you weren’t leaning back into me a second ago?”

“I thought you were someone else.” The words are out before you can catch them and shove them back down. 

His expression drops in a way that’s almost satisfying, if not for the fact that it twists into something worryingly familiar seconds later. You hate that your stomach sinks. You hate that, even now, some stupid trained part of you expects the punishment that comes after disappointing him. 

Naoya leans in again, close enough that you can smell the alcohol on his breath under whatever expensive cologne he sprayed on himself. “So what was the plan? Get drunk enough that you could pretend it was an accident when you went home with someone?” 

Your fingers curl into a fist by your sides. “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”

“Like what?” he asks, eyes wide with fake innocence. “I’m just saying, you’re the one dancing around like you want attention looking like that. You can’t get mad when someone gives it to you.”

“Move,” you hiss. 

He doesn’t. Instead, he says, “You always do shit like this. You act so above everything it’s a surprise you haven’t been humbled yet. Is that going to have to be my job now too?” 

“You don’t know anything about me anymore.” 

“Don’t get such a big head,” he sneers. “You’re still so easy to read. Still so fucking pathetic. Still need to feel someone’s attention on you, need to feel wanted, just so damn needy all the time.”

Your hand comes up so fast that you know the weight in which it’ll strike across Naoya’s face will give you the nicest, most satisfying crack. 

But before you can bring it down against his stupid fucking face, someone grabs your wrist and gently redirects it.  It takes you a moment to register what just happened. Someone had cut cleanly into the space Naoya had taken from you, still holding your wrist behind his back, and you blink at the grey shirt until you look up and see white hair. 

“Is there a problem?” Gojo’s voice is light enough that, for a strange second, it almost sounds like he’s walked into the wrong conversation. 

Something imperceptible flashes across Naoya’s face, something easily missed if you didn’t know his every tell. 

“Not your business, Gojo.” 

“Oh,” Gojo says, “don’t be like that. It looked fun over here. What were you guys talking about?” 

You don’t care for this passive aggressive approach of his. You yank at your arm. “I was about to slap him.”

Gojo glances back at you. 

You’re too drunk and too angry and too humiliated to care that his face is suddenly closer than expected, all pale hair and blue eyes and a mouth pressed into a thin line. You tug again, uselessly. 

“I’m serious,” you insist. “Let me slap him.” 

Naoya scoffs and takes a step back like he has other things on his agenda than to be publicly embarrassed. “This is insane. You’re both insane. Whatever, I’m done here anyway, what a fucking turn off.”

He turns to walk away, one hand running through his piss-coloured hair. 

Gojo’s other hand snaps out so fast you barely catch the motion. One second, Naoya is tilted to walk forward and the next, Gojo has his wrist caught in one hand, fingers locked around him with an ease that makes Naoya’s whole body jerk to a stop. 

Naoya suddenly hisses. There’s a thin red line where one of Gojo’s rings has bitten too hard into the skin. Despite this, Gojo does not give him the time of day. Instead, he looks at you. 

“Hm,” he says, tone casual, as if you have asked him whether he wants another drink. “I hear you, band shirt, but there’s an issue. If you slap him, you might get into trouble.” 

“I don’t care.” 

“He’s the president of—”

You squeeze his arm holding yours. “I don’t care. He’s never been slapped before in his life and it’s obvious. He needs to be slapped, Satoru, he deserves this.” 

Gojo pauses. Then, very seriously, he starts to nod slowly,  “I suppose that does make a lot of sense.”

Naoya jerks against his grip. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Gojo’s hand only tightens, short nails digging into the skin, though he still doesn’t look away from you, not even when you whip your gaze over to your ex, wishing that looks could indeed kill. 

How did you ever date a guy like him? You stare at Naoya, at his ugly, furious, blotchy-red face, at the way he keeps looking around like there should be someone here to save him from the consequences of his own mouth. He keeps tugging and pulling but Gojo effortlessly keeps him there. 

“But it looks like you just got your nails done,” Gojo ponders. “And you could hurt yourself.” 

“It has to be me, Satoru.”

Gojo’s eyes soften at that and he finally smiles, voice going lower. “I know.” 

Then he shifts, letting go of your wrist. For a second, you think he’s going to tell you not to do it after all, that he is going to be sensible in ways that severely go against his reputation. Instead, he lifts his free hand between you, palm up. 

“Okay,” he says. “Then don’t hurt yourself doing it.” 

You blink. “What?” 

“If you’re going to do it, then do it properly,” he says, still speaking to you like Naoya is not standing there trying to pull free. “No weird wrist thing, And don’t throw your whole body into it just to put more force behind it. It’ll just make you fall over because you’re a little drunk and unsteady. You’ve gotta plant your feet.” 

Naoya laughs, no humour behind it. “Gojo, are you serious?” 

Gojo ignores him. “Also,” he adds, glancing at his own hand, “now that I think about it, rings might help.”

He holds your gaze for a little longer before offering you a kind smile and lowering his hand to you, fingers pointing towards you. 

“Are you sure?” you ask, gaze flickering up to his face then to his rings. “They might get bloody.”

“It’s okay, just take your pick. I can always clean them. This chance might not come again for you,” he tells you in a similarly soft tone. 

You reach out and take the one from his pinky finger because any other ring might be a size too big, and slide it onto your middle finger. 

Naoya’s face pales. 

“Don’t be fucking stupid,” he snaps, trying again to wrench his wrist free. “You’re going to let her hit me?” 

Gojo finally looks at him. The smile he gives Naoya is bright enough to be mistaken for friendly. “Hey, man, it’s none of my business.” 

The ring is still a little too loose, the metal heavy and cold against your skin, and your hand trembles once before you curl it into a fist and open it again. 

Gojo notices and his attention is back on you. His voice drops just enough for only you to catch it again. “You sure?” 

You look at him, then past him, at Naoya’s pale, furious face. “Yes.” 

Gojo studies you for half a second longer, something soft passing through his expression before it disappears beneath a bright, almost cheerful smile. 

“Okay!” he says. “Then first, plant those feet and let your shoulders relax a little. If you hit him like that, it’ll go through your wrist, and then you’ll be mad tomorrow because he got your hand and your mood.” 

You nod and adjust. 

Naoya jerks in grip. “No, wait—”

Gojo doesn’t look at him. “You don’t need a big wind-up. It’ll be painful even if you don’t hit hard so no pressure.” 

“Hey,” Naoya snaps, voice pitching higher. “Someone get him off me.” 

“But I want to hurt him,” you say to Gojo. 

“You will,” Gojo says, very simply. “But you don’t have to hurt yourself to do it. You’re doing this for you, remember? To get it off your chest.” 

Naoya tries to laugh. It comes out wrong. “Come on, man. I said I’m sorry. Tell her to stop being dramatic.” 

Gojo tilts his head at you, as if listening to a distant appliance hum. “Do you hear something?”

You stare at him, cocking your head in a mirror of his own gesture. “The music?”

“No.” He waves his question away. “Something annoying. Anyway. Hand open, shoulders down and feet on the ground. You’ve got this.” 

You do as he says and then turn to look at Naoya. 

For months, he had made you feel like every reaction you had was too much, too loud or too needy, too embarrassing, too difficult to love. He had taught you how to swallow anger until it sat heavy in your stomach and called that maturity. He had always walked away with his shoulders up because you were always the one trying not to make a scene. 

And now, you’re finally going to leave a mark on him. 

You slap him. 

The sound cracks across the room, sharp enough to split cleanly through the music. Naoya’s head snaps to the side at the force of it, mouth open, but finally, finally, nothing leaves it. 

Your palm burns immediately, a bright sting rushing up your arm and the ring presses back into your finger, cold against the heat of your skin. It hurts a little. But it hurts so good. 

Gojo lets go of Naoya at once. Your ex stumbles back, one hand flying to his cheek, eyes wide with shock. “You fucking—”

“Holy shit!” Gojo says loudly. “Is that Naoya from TDP? Dude, what are you doing here, do you even know Utahime?”

Naoya’s face drops slightly in confusion. “What?” 

Gojo’s voice carries easily over the music now. “No, seriously. Aren’t you the guy that one post was made about in the group chat? I wouldn’t have come to a party when you haven’t even said anything about the allegations.” 

The crowd surrounding you instantly starts murmuring amongst themselves, shooting Naoya dirty looks. 

Naoya grits his teeth, anger flooding his face all over again. “I didn’t—”

“It’s weird, I really don’t think Utahime would have invited you.”

“I was invited.”

“By who?”

Naoya opens his mouth but nothing comes out fast enough.

A girl by the couch scoffs. “Utahime would never invite him.”

“Yeah, didn’t she literally say not to let him in?”

“How did he get inside?”

Someone near you nods along to his words, and a girl wraps her arms around you, running her hand up and down your side. It could have so easily gone wrong, Naoya yelling something about being hurt and suddenly you became the problem. The drunk girl, the angry ex seeking vengeance. The one who slapped someone in the middle of the party. 

But now everyone is looking at him. And Naoya seems to realise this too because his eyes dart around the room, searching for sympathy and finding none. 

“Creep,” someone mutters.

“Get him out,” another voice says.

Naoya points toward Gojo, furious and scared in a way you have never seen before. “He’s lying. She’s drunk and she’s always been—” 

“Ugh, spare me, I know you were creeping around me too!” 

Gojo doesn’t stick around for the aftermath and you don’t either, his hand closing around your other hand to gently tug you through the growing crowd, his broad back guiding the way. 

It’s nice, you realise, which is a stupid thing to immediately think of next after slapping your ex-boyfriend in the middle of a party. Still, it is. 

The way he moves through the room without dragging you behind him, the way people part for him easily, but he keeps glancing back anyway, like he’s making sure you’re still there  and not swallowed by the music and body and the roaring awareness of what you’ve just done. His hand is warm around yours, loose enough that you could pull away if you wanted to, firm enough that you don’t have to think too hard about where you’re going. 

You let yourself follow. Past the kitchen, past the hallway mirror, past two girls whispering near the wall,  both of them looking over your shoulder toward where Naoya had disappeared, their expression twisted with disgust. 

The noise dulls a little near the back of the house. The music still reaches here, bass-heavy and insistent, but the air feels cooler, less packed with breath and perfume. Just before the back door, Gojo stops. 

You nearly bump into him and he chuckles, turning around.

“Careful.” He looks you up and down not unpleasantly. “How’s the hand?” 

“It’s fine,” you say automatically. Then you pause, looking down. 

His ring is still sitting crooked on your middle finger, too loose and faintly warm now from your skin. Your palm is red and your fingers tingle but the slap keeps replaying in your head in satisfying flashes: the crack of it, Naoya’s face turning, and any regret you might have felt dissipates. 

“Okay, it might sting a little.” 

Gojo’s expression softens. “Let me see it.” 

You lift your other hand not in his, and he reaches out to take it, a sharp thrill running up your arm when he makes contact. He turns your hand over carefully, fingers light and ticklish against your palm as he inspects it. For a moment, you wonder about this gentleness that he shows you, how sharply it contrasts with the way he had held Naoya hard enough to draw blood. His fingers move over your palm with careful attention, thumb brushing beneath the base of your fingers, moving down to the sensitive skin of your wrist and making you shiver. The hallway is too warm and too cold at once, music pulsing behind you in dull waves, but all you can really feel is the shape of his hand around yours and the ridiculous, traitorous flutter under your ribs. 

“You’ll live,” he says eventually, fingers splaying over your wrist and forearm before dropping. “And you’re staring.” 

You blink when you process that he’s looking right into your eyes, his lips quirked into a small smile as he watches you.  “Thanks for helping me slap my ex.”  He shrugs. “It’s no problem, band shirt. I think my ring did the bulk of everything.”  You look down at your hand and notice that he’s right. The silver sits crooked on your finger, too loose and too pretty, catching the hallway light like it has any right to look innocent after drawing blood across Naoya’s cheek. Thank you, pretty silver ring, for your service. May your efforts haunt him for at least a few business days. Gojo lowers his hand under yours again and for a second, you think that he’s going to ask for it back. Instead, he lifts your hand slowly such that you have the chance to pull away. His eyes stay on yours until the last moment, before he lowers his mouth and presses a soft kiss to the ring.  Technically, it’s his ring and not your hand he kissed. Still, the warmth of his breath brushes your skin, and something bright and winged breaks loose in your stomach. Your fingers twitch once in his hold as your breath catches. His lashes lower into the kiss, before he opens his eyes again and looks up at you through them.  He smiles at you cheekily.   “Can’t run away from me now, can you?” he asks, lowering your hand just enough to comfortably interlace his own fingers with yours. “I never did give you my name that one time before but it’s Gojo Satoru, though it looks like you already know. Come sit with me.” 

‘Me’ ends up being him, and also his friends. Which is not as awkward as you thought it would be, mostly because the second Gojo opens the back door, Utahime and Shoko both sit up from where they’ve been lounging together on an outdoor chair like two cats disturbed mid-nap. Their fingers point at you at the exact same time.  “You!” “With him?”  “Hi guys.” You drop your hand from his under the piercing gaze of your friends. “How’s the party?” Gojo doesn’t say anything, only stepping around you with that easy, unbothered smile of his, and joining a conversation with some guys standing around the bonfire. 

Utahime’s backyard has been transformed into something of a cozy hangout spot. Cheap fairylights hang crooked from the overhead roof, blinking out of sink, and a few mismatched outdoor chairs and beanbags sit in a loose circle around a low table cluttered with cups, jackets, and a neat stack of cards. There’s a small lit fire further out, but you drag your eyes away from its company to focus on the people you do know.  Shoko shuffles closer to her girlfriend, patting the space next to her which you gratefully take. “Hold on, so did you find someone to make out with after all? And was it…?”  You quickly look back at Gojo who is now talking quietly with someone you don’t know, the long-haired boy nodding in serious thought at whatever is leaving his mouth. His eyes slide to you and when they meet yours, you flinch, looking away. “No! That’s not—God, my head is killing me. I didn’t make out with anyone, okay? I’m not here to find someone to hook up with.”  “Why are you here then?”  “You threatened me to come.” You point out.  “Well, you weren’t going to not come, that’s not in the cards.” Shoko presses you another cup into your hands and, because you have yet to learn your lesson from earlier, you take a trusting sip.  You almost choke out the battery acid when it hits your tongue, covering your mouth with your arm as you glare at your friends. “Oh, ew, Shoko. Seriously? Can’t you make something good for once? Your jungle juice is always so ass.”  “That’s how you know it works. Tongue loosened up yet? Why did you just walk out with Gojo? What’s going on between you two? Does he know now?”  You lean back into the seat at Shoko’s interrogation, and take another deep chug of Shoko’s disgusting drink. “Before you grill me, I have to grill you. Want to tell me what Naoya is doing at your party, Utahime?”  Utahime blinks. “Naoya is at my party?” 

“Was,” you correct yourself. “I think he got the message after I slapped him that he shouldn’t be here.”  “You slapped him?” Utahime sits up with a bright smile. “Oh my God, tell me you got that on video! To clear my name though, I definitely did not invite him. He must have snuck in or something.”  “Well, basically everyone saw so I’m sure there’s a video on someone’s story by now.” You look back at Gojo now standing with just one other guy. “Satoru just happened to be there at the right place and time to help. That’s it.”  When your friends don’t immediately press for more questions, you turn back and find them whispering and giggling to each other. When they feel your suspicious gaze, Shoko looks up. “Sorry, yes, right. Gojo saved you.”

Utahime clears her throat suddenly. “Wait, shut up. Three o’clock.”  You stiffen when a weight presses against you, someone’s body dropping into the narrow gap between you and the armrest. 

You instinctively shuffle closer to Shoko to make room, though there is not enough room to make. Your thigh presses ages his, shoulder brushing against yours, and his arm slides along the back of the chair, not quite touching your neck, but close enough that your skin tingles.  Shoko mutters, “This chair is clearly only meant for three.”  “I’d hate to think you don’t want me here,” Gojo says cheerfully. “What are we talking about? Me?”  “Your head is so far up your ass you only ever think of yourself,” Utahime grumbles.  You freeze, unsure where your limbs should go when you’re pressed up to the person behind the faceless voice in your walls. Admittedly, this realisation comes a little late. You should have armed your walled defenses the moment Gojo had grabbed your wrist and pulled you behind him, should have simply walked away after slapping Naoya (that was a non-negotiable, canon event) instead of letting him drag you back where you’re now trapped. Because he doesn’t know you’re her. And right now when you’re drunk and unsteady on your feet and thoughts? This might be the worst possible time for him to find out.  “That over there is Suguru,” Gojo suddenly leans in to say, breath ghosting the shell of your ear. His voice sends shivers down your neck and along your spine, every sensation suddenly all too much. The fabric that isn’t your own grazing high on your thigh, his hair tickling your cheek, his feet nudging yours slightly so you can move over just a little bit more for him.  “That’s Kento, with the frown and beside him is Yuu, without the frown. And those, on the table, are my Digimon cards. Who the fuck brought them out here?”  Haibara laughs. “Geto did! We were playing truth or dare with them!”

“You’re lucky that’s my dupe deck or I’d end this friendship right here and now,” Gojo says, an easy grin on his face as if he wasn’t pressing up against you, his chest warm and hard against your side, your elbow awkwardly jutting into him.  Your hand flexes around the cup, and the ring shifts slightly on your finger. Gojo’s gaze drops to it for half a second, a private little smile cutting across his mouth before he looks back at the table.  “We heard about what happened inside,” Geto says. “Are you okay?”  Would it be too late to suddenly go mute? If you’re able to recognise Gojo by his voice, then the chances of him putting name to face with the girl next door and you is also very high. Though, considering the way he isn’t immediately pulling you aside to ask if you are indeed the voice in his walls, you want to believe that he has yet to figure out your identity.  So no, it isn’t too late to go mute.  You nod in response to Geto’s question and flash him a smile, hoping none of it comes off as rude.  Gojo hums beside you, the vibration travelling through your bodies. He leans down to speak into your ear, a conversation just for you. “Not much for words? What happened to all the snark earlier?” You stall for time by taking a long sip of Shoko’s concoction, the sting temporarily skyrocketing to the top of your concerns. This may or may not be a bad idea because now that you’re seated, all the previous drinks sloshing around in your stomach and this adding sip burning down your throat, you feel the world tip a little. You probably can’t deflect this question, not when he asks like this, so you settle for something else.  Clearing your throat, you try for a lower octave than usual. “I only talk to the people that deserve it,” you say, then let out a small huff at how ridiculous you sound.  The grin he shoots you is all confidence and self-assurance, leaning in a fraction closer. “How would you know if you’ve never given me a chance?”  “It’s pointless, I already know what you’re like.” Maybe it’s the bonfire or the drink in your hand but you are getting really warm. You take another long sip. 

“We talked for ten minutes max the other day, I highly doubt that,” he cocks his head at you. “Do I know you from somewhere else?”  You hum. “Maybe.” 

“I think I would remember someone like you.”  That causes you to raise an eyebrow, letting his casual flirt roll off you.  “Flattery,” you start, poking his chest. You let him catch your hand in his, holding it there against his heart, “won’t get you anywhere especially when it’s empty.” “Who said it was empty? Besides, I know I wouldn’t forget such a pretty girl.” “Oh, you would. You are.” You laugh again, finding the inside joke hilarious. “Try a little harder to remember, hm Satoru?”  The challenge makes his eyes glow just like you knew they would, always have known from the moment when a wall still separated the two of you and he had laughed at your provoking, all dark and not humourous at all.  “Maybe if you gave me a name.” You’re not quite ready to hear his name from your lips just yet so you only shake your head, wagging your finger at him playfully. “Where’s the fun in that?” “I’m usually a patient man and I’m all for the chase,” he starts, fingers inching closer, brushing hair from the back of your neck as he leans in, “but you’ve left me high and dry for so long.” His words go in one ear and out the other, your breath hitching at the slightest touch. Despite yourself, you gulp and taste the bitter alcohol in your mouth. You feel it too, warmth pooling in your gut and making your head spin.  “I’m not an easy person,” you whisper, eyes flickering down to his lips and you bite your own, the rush of all your fantasies suddenly overwhelming you. In all other them, you’ve never once imagined his lips on yours, not until now. And you don’t doubt that after this, you'll be thinking of them often.  “Trust me,” he chuckles. “You’re not easy, you’re stubborn as hell and you always give me a hard time.” As if sensing your temptation, Gojo’s eyes trace the way your teeth dig into your lip, watching the pull before you release it, red and slightly jutted out. It makes him want to sink his teeth into your bottom lip and lick the marks it leaves behind. 

Your breath hitches. He leans in slightly, looking up to search your face and wait to see if you’ll pull back. When you don’t, when he accepts whatever look is in eyes, he leans forward more. The anticipation builds and morphs into budding frustration when he continues to play this game of chicken, giving you countless moments to pull away if needed even when you’ve shown no sign of stopping.  Shoko clears her throat and you jump, accidentally crushing your solo cup. The liquid bursts up and flows down your wrist and into your lap.  “Shit!” you curse, immediately jumping up and pulling the fabric away from your skin.  Gojo quickly follows, one hand hovering on your lower back in case you tip back.  “Oh, fuck,” Shoko says. “You okay?”  “Yeah, it’s just super sticky.” You wince, accepting the tissues Nanami hands you though they do little good. “Ew, it’s, like, sticking to my skin.”  Utahime speaks up, watching you from over the rim of her cup. “There’s a bathroom down the corridor. Gojo knows where it is, he can show you.” “And maybe the two of you can make out there instead of right in front of us,” Geto says offhandedly, though his cup can’t completely hide his grin. The people around the table giggle at his words, Shoko probably the loudest.  You blush, immediately going to deny his accusations but Gojo beats you to it. “Shoko and Utahime are one second away from eating each other’s faces off but no one says anything about that!”

“That’s because this is my party, Gojo.”  “Yeah, well it was my party that got you two together,” Gojo shoots back childishly.  Everyone laughs again, chattering as they descend into the topic of other inside jokes, playing word association as they leap from memory to memory. There’s a sense of belonging that oozes from everyone as they lean into one another and talk and gossip. You might have appreciated this moment more, enjoyed the fact that they’re allowing you into this intimate moment, if not for the sudden blossoming warmth inside you. Before you can really think about it, you tug on Gojo’s shirt.  He immediately leans down, angling his ear to you. “Hm?” 

“Take me to the bathroom?”  Gojo stiffens, eyes flickering to your face then down your body. He bites his lip hard to focus, ignoring the temptation to let his mind wander at your innocent words. They had to be innocent, right? You, who was now looking up at him through your lashes with a pout playing on your lips, one hand tugging on the hem of his shirt, thumb rolling over the fabric slowly. You who was fidgeting ever so slightly, thighs rubbing together due to the cold. “Yeah,” he says suddenly, all humour gone. “Let’s go.”  Someone cheers behind you as Gojo helps you up and opens the back door for you, though neither of you seem to care. He doesn’t bother with answering greetings, only smiling shortly as you pass familiar people, something more impatient when he guides you than before.  He leads you down a corridor and into a dark room, closing the door behind you. Your heart leaps to your throat until he turns on the light, and you wince at the brightness.  “Sorry, pretty. Should’ve warned you,” Gojo says, only looking vaguely apologetic as he leans against the closed door, one hand still on the knob like he’s giving you a chance to back out.  He watches you carefully, tracing the line of your jaw, the slightest twitch of your brow and then, his favourite part, the flush climbing your cheeks. “The bathroom should be safer than a spare room. Who knows who is in there doing what.” You hesitate. “You didn’t have to follow me in.” 

“No?” He tilts his head, eyes roaming over you before settling smugly on your face. “You’re still holding onto my shirt. Maybe let go if you want to sound convincing.”  You shiver, letting go immediately and stepping back closer to the sink. You open your mouth to say something, a stupid excuse perhaps, but he beats you to it.  “You cold?”  “What?” “Earlier.” His eyes fall to your legs. “You were fidgeting. Thought maybe you were cold. Call me a desperate guy if you want, but don’t ask a guy to take you somewhere private while looking at me like that.”  “Like what?”  Gojo pushes off the door and you take a step back instinctively. “Like you wanted me to misunderstand you.”  You hesitate, looking around the bathroom. He seems to notice, and stops immediately, eyes softening. “Hey, I’m not going to do anything you don’t want. Just shove me away and I’ll go, I promise.”  “It’s not that,” you bite your lip.  “Then what is it, pretty?”  “You talk too much. You’re too loud,” you manage to say, warm despite the chill of the drink on you. “Always have been.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Yeah?”  “Yes.”  “Good.” He takes one step closer. “Then make me shut up.”  Your back meets the sink before you realise you have moved, the contrast of cold porcelain against your overheated skin making you gasp. He’s on you in an instant, hands roaming down your side until they’re gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.  “You’re so tense,” he murmurs against your neck. “You have no idea I’ve been watching you all night, do you? That little skirt? This tiny little top?”  He slaps your tits and you jolt, looking up at him in surprise to which he only grins down at you. You can’t seem to form a coherent thought, not when there’s alcohol swimming in your veins and turning your limbs to jelly, mind to fog. Still, you manage to say, “Did you just slap my boob?” “Don’t act like you didn’t like it. If I shove my hand down your skirt, am I going to find you wet, pretty?”  His knee nudges between your thighs, spreading them open as he steps closer.  “You are so gross—” you start, but he cuts you off with his mouth on yours.  The kiss is brutal and demanding all at once. His tongue slides against yours, tasting of expensive liquor and something sweet, or maybe that’s just your taste and he’s shoving it back against your mouth. One hand leaves your hip to fist in your hair, tilting your head back. 

He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips down your throat, sucking hard at the pulse point. “Don’t lie to me. I know you’ve wanted this since the first time I heard you. You have quite the perverted streak to you, don’t you?” Your breath hitches. His hand slides down, palm flat against your stomach, then lower. He doesn't bother with the fabric of your panties, just pushes them aside and drags his fingers through your slick folds. “Fuck,” he hisses. “You’re soaked. And you're gonna tell me you weren't dreaming about this? Getting yourself off to the thought of me touching you like this?”  His middle finger sinks into you without warning. You cry out, a sound that would be embarrassing if you had any sense left. But all you can feel is the stretch, the fullness, the way your body clenches around him desperately. “That's it,” he coos, tone shifting to something truly mocking. “You’re really feeling it now, aren’t you?”  He adds a second finger, fucking them into you with a rhythm that has your knees buckling. His thumb circles your clit in lazy, torturous circles. You're already so close, the buildup of tension from hours of dancing, of drinking, of watching him across the room, it all crashes toward a peak. “Please,” you whimper. “Please what? Use your words, pretty.” “Please fuck me,” you manage to gasp, fantasy and reality crashing together in a dizzying mess.  He pulls his fingers out abruptly, and you groan at the loss. But then you hear the sound of his belt unbuckling, the zipper of his pants, and your mouth waters. He takes himself in hand, strokes once, twice, and then the blunt head of his cock presses against your entrance. “Look at me,” he commands.

You force your eyes open. His are dark, pupils blown wide, a little furrow between his brows. 

“Are you with me?” he asks, brushing your hair out of your eyes.  You nod, rutting forward pathetically.  “Come on, pretty, I need to hear you say it.” “I’m here!” you choke out, gasping. “Please, I want this, I promise I—I want you. Satoru, please.” He groans, the tip of his cock pressing forward beyond that little ring of resistance, swearing at the involuntary thrust. “Okay, okay, I’ve got you.”  He noses into your temple, inhaling deeply, one thumb holding you open as he presses in and groans, filthy and depraved.  “Fuck—you’re so tight,” he gasps, cock stuttering through until he’s buried deep.  The sensation of being stretched wide open on his cock makes you tense, before a ragged, grateful cry escapes your swollen lips. You can barely breathe through your nose, head spinning with pleasure.  “Oh god, oh my god!” you cry out, head thrown back. 

“Shh,” he hisses against your ear, his breath hot and sweet. His cock rams into you—a thick, punishing rhythm he picks up easily—and every thrust pushes your back against the sink. “You gotta stay quiet, angel. We don't want anyone hearin’ how much of a slut you are, do we?” But of course, all good things have to come to an end because through the hazy pleasure, you hear a grating voice.  “Hey! Y/N! I know you're in there!” You can recognise Naoya’s voice anywhere even, it seems, when you’re being fucked for every inch of your life.  Gojo’s hand closes around your mouth as he looks at you, grunting softly with every thrust. He pulls out briefly and you whine until he turns you around and presses you up against the cold tiles, driving up into you like he never left. His rhythm doesn’t falter, if anything, he pounds harder.  “Mm-mm,” you try to say, shaking your head, panic rising. He doesn't stop. He slams into you and your body jolts, your forehead knocking against the tile. “I said I know you're in there!” Naoya's voice is slurred, angry. He kicks the door. “Open the fuck up! We need to talk!” Gojo’s hand slides off your mouth though not enough to leave completely. It’s just his palm moving, his fingers hooking into the corner of your lips, prying your mouth open. Two of them slip inside, salty with your own slick, and he pushes them back until you're gagging.

“Answer him,” Gojo whispers, his lips brushing your ear. “Go on. Tell him you’re busy.”

You can’t. His fingers are deep in your throat. You gag, tears springing to your eyes, and he just laughs, low and dark. “Oh, right. You can't talk with my fingers in your mouth, can you?” He pulls them out, slick and wet, and wraps them around your jaw, tilting your face toward the door. “Try again. Use your words.” “Naoya,” you choke out, your voice wrecked, breathless. “I’m—I’m fine. Just—” “Just what?” Gojo thrusts, hard, and your sentence crumbles into a gasp. His cock sinks so deep you feel it in your stomach. “Just getting fucked stupid? Tell him the truth.” There’s a beat of silence. You can picture Naoya on the other side of the door, his fists clenched, his jaw tight. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, certainly enraged. “You’re lying. I can hear you breathing. Open the fucking door.” Gojo’s hips slow. He pulls almost all the way out, leaving just the tip, and then drives forward in one smooth, devastating motion. You cry out, quickly muffled by your own hand. “Don't make me break this door down,” Naoya warns. Gojo chuckles, right in your ear. “He sounds mad. Poor guy. You really do know how to pick ‘em, don’t you?” He leans closer, his chest pressing against your back, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “But you’re not his anymore, are you? You're mine. For tonight, anyway.” He fucks you slow now, deep and deliberate, his cock dragging along every inch of your walls. You feel every ridge, every vein and your legs tremble in the delicious drag.

“Tell him,” Gojo whispers, “that you’re busy. That you don’t have time for him anymore. ‘Cause he’s nothing to you now, right? Tell me he’s nothing to you.”  You swallow, wanting nothing more than to open your mouth and babble about how incredible it is to get railed in a bathroom, how brainless Gojo’s cock is making you but you have to be good, he’s waiting for you. So instead, you manage to say, “Naoya, leave me—ngh—alone!” Naoya growls at the closed door before him, even going so far as to stomp his feet like a petulant kid. “Fine! Fucking fine, Y/N! But I promise you, you’ll regret this! I’ll make sure you do!”

Sure, you think, eyes rolling back, as if your Etsy witch can touch me anymore when Gojo is fucking me. You slump forward, relief flooding you when you hear his footsteps retreating, but Gojo doesn’t let you rest. He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back, and resumes his brutal pace. “Good girl,” he purrs. His voice is different now, softer, honeyed and  almost affectionate. “Such a good fucking girl. You did so well. You listened. You obeyed.” He kisses your shoulder, open-mouthed, wet. “See? I knew you could be good for me.” The whiplash is dizzying and it only makes you arch more, something inevitable and delicious approaching in the far distance.  “That's right,” he murmurs, still fucking you deep and slow. “You took that so well. Pretended you weren’t getting your tight little cunt stuffed while your ex was right outside. That takes skill, pretty. You’re so fucking perfect for me.” His hand snakes around your front, fingers finding your clit. He rubs slow, tight circles, and your hips buck. “Bet you've been practicing, haven't you?” His voice is a low, knowing drawl. “All those nights you thought nobody was listening. Thought nobody could hear you moaning. But weren’t you the one to tell me? The walls are thin as shit, angel.” He’s ramming into you now, fast and rough again, his words spilling out between each thrust and all you can do is be a ragdoll in his hold.  “You'd lie in bed, late at night, fingers in your pussy, listening to me stroke my cock. I’d hear you. The wet sounds. The little ‘oh, yes’s. And I’d think... fuck, I need to have that. I need to feel that cunt clench around me.” You're dizzy, overwhelmed. His hand on your clit, his cock in your cunt, his words in your brain, it’s all too much. “Did you think I didn’t recognize you at the party tonight? The girl with the needy little moans?” He bites your earlobe, hard enough to sting. “I’ve been waiting for an excuse to corner you. And then you showed up drunk and sad, with that asshole on your heels, and I knew tonight was the night.” He’s watching you in the mirror and you catch his reflection. His eyes are dark, lips parted, face flushed. He’s absolutely beautiful.

“I'm gonna fill you up,” he growls. “Gonna pump my cum so deep inside you it leaks out for days. And when you walk past my door tomorrow, you're gonna know. You’re gonna remember this. You’re gonna touch yourself to the memory, and I’ll be right there, on the other side of the wall, stroking myself to the sound of you coming undone.” His hips slam into you. Once, twice, three times. You feel the pressure building, the coil in your belly tightening to the point of pain. “Satoru—” you gasp, hands fumbling for purchase on the wall.  “I know, angel, I know. Cum for me,” he demands. “Wanna finally feel you cum on my cock—fuck.” You shatter. Your orgasm crashes through you like a wave, your cunt clenching around him, your body shaking. You cry out his name—Satoru—and he follows a second later, buried to the hilt, his cum hot and thick inside you. He holds you there, both of you breathing hard, sweat-slick and sticky. Then he pulls out slowly, watching his cum drip down your thigh. “Good girl,” he says again, his voice a warm, approving caress. He turns you around, cups your face in his hands, and kisses you, soft, tender, unhurried. “You did so well, pretty. So, so good for me.” Your knees are weak and he notices, turning you and pressing you to his chest to keep you upright. He continues to whisper in your ear as your senses return to you, and when you finally lift a hand to gently push at his chest, he lets you, eyes immediately flickering down to your eyes.  “Still with me?”  You nod, before you fall forward into his arms. 

When your body breaks down alcohol, it converts the ethanol into acetate, a process that produces a lot of NADH from NAD⁺. The imbalance of the NADH⁺ ratio leads to the feelings of weakness and grogginess that come from a horrible night out.  You wake now, approximately ninety percent NADH and ten percent regret.  For a while, you refuse to move. You only stare at your ceiling, blinking slowly at the familiar crack in the paint above your head, the soft grey light pressing through the curtains, the horrible cotton-dry feeling your tongue against the top of your mouth.  How the fuck did you get home? Your own bed, in most cases, the preferred place to wake up after all. It’s safe, it’s familiar, and most importantly, it’s yours. But the last thing you remember is not collapsing into the warmth and security of your own bed. The last thing you recall comes in fragments: Utahime’s party, Gojo’s hands on your body, the bathroom light flickering too bright overhead, the sink cold behind you and his voice low in your ear.  And then nothing. You suppose there are brief pieces after that, blurry and soft around the edges. Glimpses of a car window, someone cursing under their breath, the sound of your keys jingling and the vague sensation of being carried. That one must have been a drunken hallucination because it’s humiliating and therefore cannot be the truth.  You fumble for your phone which is not beside your pillow where you usually place it after your nightly doomscroll before bed, but placed neatly on your bedside table. There’s a few texts from friends on your lock screen, but there’s only one person you want to text. 

shoko: alive?

actually don’t answer if you’re dead

if you’re alive though please drink some water and let me know that you’re ok 

You laugh softly. Why did you jump to conclusions so quick? Of course it was Shoko that took you home! Who knew her upper body strength was so good that she managed to carry you into your own bed after a night of drinking. 

you: im alive!!

thank u so much for taking me home btw 

i owe u :3

She quickly reacts to your message with a heart before the typing indicator appears. 

shoko: i didn’t take u home (?) 

gojo did obv

he WHAT? is probably what you’re thinking but please remember to breathe and drink some water before you crash out 

You are, in fact, thinking he what?And because Shoko accurately called you out on that, you decide to follow through on the rest of her advice. You turn your head and stop a sticky note stuck to the glass of water beside your head, bright yellow and neat as a warning label. 

water is important when you’re recovering from a hangover! — satoru

Then, a little to the left, attached to a packet of painkillers, 

because i know your head probably feels like shit rn — still me 

“Oh my god,” you whisper, unsure whether to laugh or to run away. 

You do neither because your head really does hurt like a motherfucker, and take the painkillers along with a generous gulping or two of water. The cool liquid does little against the parched nature of your throat, but when you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, you feel alive enough to venture out of your bed.  There’s a sticky note on the ground next to a pair of slippers you swore you had separated, one in the kitchen one somewhere in the living room. 

the ground is cold! wear slippers! — forever urs :3

“Forever yours?” you repeat aloud, voice wrecked with sleep and dehydration even as you shove your toes in. 

There’s another note on the back of your bedroom door. 

no matter what u see in the mirror remember you’re beautiful! — shrek to ur fiona?

You open your bedroom door and make your slow, regretful way to the bathroom where you lay your tired eyes on your puffy face. You have definitely seen better days. There’s another note stuck to your mirror. 

face wash is on the left toothbrush is on the right if you use the face wash as toothpaste, that’s between you and god — not your doctor 

Huffing out a sound that might be amusement, you pick up your toothbrush and ensure you squeeze toothpaste onto its bristles. The toothpaste is minty and makes your eyes water slightly, but by the time you rinse your mouth, you feel one step closer to not feeling like the undead. 

There’s another note stuck to the towel rack. 

if ur eyes are puffy, put a cold compress over them! — still not a doctor

From the bathroom back to your room for a change of clothes and even on your way to the kitchen, you’re guided by a series of sticky notes. 

clean clothes! i didn’t look through your drawers dw — feminist 

welcome to the kitchen! huge milestone for you — ur biggest fan 

water already boiled in here so when you wake up to reboil it it’ll take less time — the kettle knower 

drink real water first before the coffee !! seriously don’t put coffee in me just yet — mug 

soup inside on the second shelf :3 not homemade so don’t get too excited i’m handsome, not magical i couldn’t have it both ways — :(

in the microwave for two minutes with lid half on! take it out when it’s boiling — the soup sipper 

You finally feel alive enough to laugh, embarrassingly loud in the quiet of your kitchen. You stand there in your slippers, teeth brushed, face washed, and dressed in clothes when any other time you might have still been under the covers. 

The apartment feels full of him. A note when you open your utensil drawer for a spoon, a note sitting on top of a coffee pod conveniently placed on your counter, a note against the body of a vase you’ve placed on your dining table to feel more homey. 

eat slowly, you get hiccups when you rush! 

The notes take you away from your drying rack when you’ve finished the store-bought soup and washed your spoon, taking you to your living room. Your camera sits on your coffee table, a sticky stuck on the surface that reads: “turn me on ><” You roll your eyes but do so, lifting it up and framing the sorry state of your living room before hitting the record button. The first shot captures just how many sticky notes litter the surface of almost every object, the words telling you a funny joke or reminding you to put something back. You take your time walking through all of them, his handwriting everywhere, his name everywhere (except when he decides to write down a silly nickname). 

Satoru.

Satoru.

Satoru.

Then, you find the last one on your front door. 

if you’re overwhelmed, you don’t have to open this today. if you’re angry at me, just yell at me through the wall :( if you’re okay, i’d like to see you — satoru

And then, before you can think it through, you reach forward and open your door.  Gojo stands in the hallway, a bouquet of flowers clutched in both hands like he’s praying. His eyes light up when you open your door and he moves forward instinctively. He’s so close that the toe of one sock is nearly edging over the threshold of your apartment.  You let out a short scream.  He startles just as badly, eyes going wide as he reaches forward on instinct to steady you, and your camera slips from your hand. “Oh—”  It hits the floor before either of you can grab it, bouncing once, then sliding sideways across the carpet until it knocks gently against the leg of your couch. The camera keeps recording from there, tilted on its side. It catches the lower half of your open door, Gojo’s socked feet in the hallway, your bare feet on the carpet, and the hem of your sweater falling over your shorts. “Are you okay?” he asks in a rush. 

“What are you doing standing right in front of my door, you creep?” you shoot back, one hand pressed to your chest. “Were you standing there the entire time?” 

“I was trying to be romantic.” He shoves the bouquet toward you, panic making his voice crack at the edges. “I literally got you flowers!”  You take them automatically, bewildered by the weight of roses in your hands. “Thank you? Is that why you’ve littered all over my apartment?”  His face falls. “Was that not cute?” 

You blink. “Cute?”  “Did you not think it was cute?” he asks, suddenly horrified. “Because I thought it was cute. I mean, not in a weird way. Well, maybe a little weird. But intentional weird. Charming weird.” 

“The sticky notes?” He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Look, I’ve never done anything like this before, okay? This whole romance thing is seriously above me, I have no idea how I’m meant to ask you this without scaring you away.”  You stare at him for a long while before laughing. The sound pulls from your throat loud and bright that it almost hurts with an incoming headache, but it’s so funny you just can’t stop. “I knew you had no experience with women. I called it all along, didn’t I?” “Please, this and that are completely unrelated.” His shoulders seem to relax at your laugh, and he finally cracks a smile, running a hand through his hair. “You never were going to make it easy for me, were you?” 

“Easy? When you’ve just left forty sticky notes in my apartment and then lurked outside my door?” His smile trembles, trying to stay bright, but the nerves are still there beneath it. You can see them now that you know to look. The way his fingers flex at his side, the way his eyes keep flickering from your face to the threshold like he is measuring the exact line he is not allowed to cross.  “I wasn’t lurking,” he says, quieter. “I was waiting.”  Your fingers tighten around the bouquet.  Gojo looks down at it, then back at you. “I wanted to knock earlier, but I thought if you woke up and saw me before you were ready, you’d panic.” “Please, I wouldn’t have panicked.”  “You literally panicked ten seconds ago.” “Touche.” You look at him for a short while before glancing down at your slippered-feet. “I’m still scared, honestly. I think I’ve been cursed in every possible aspect of love. That’s why when I heard your voice all the way back during that carwash event, I didn’t want you to know it was me. It would break what we had going on through the wall and I liked that. It felt like something I could just keep to myself. And then I found out you were Satoru and it was obvious you weren’t just mine anymore.”  Gojo lets you talk, lets you call him Gojo again without saying a single word until you finish. Then he says, “Were you disappointed?”  “No,” you say immediately. “It wasn’t like that.” 

He smiles then, head tilting to the side. “Then I can be just Satoru. Just your Satoru, if that helps.”  It’s so stupidly cheesy that you have to scoff, even as your cheeks warm.  “I’m serious,” he chuckles along with you, stepping a little closer. “I liked being 4B. I liked that you knew me when I was just some guy through the wall that you liked talking to. I liked talking to you through blackouts and through shitty phone calls. I liked what we had too. Have, if you’ll let me.” “Are you asking me out?” He huffs, a weary smirk on his face. “Isn’t it obvious?”  Instead of answering him, you shove the bouquet of flowers back into his chest, watching as his brows furrow in confusion, before you’re reaching forward to cup his face and kiss him. In one suspended second, Gojo simply stands there doing absolutely nothing. He freezes so completely beneath your hands that, if you risked opening your eyes, you might find his bright blue ones staring back at you. His lips are still against yours, the rest of him gone rigid, roses crushed between his chest and yours, fingers locked around the stems not quite sure what else to do.  You almost pull back. 

But then, in a rush of movement, the bouquet is gone.  He throws it blindly into your apartment with a kind of urgent, graceless force that makes several roses scatter across your carpet. Before you can laugh, his arms are around you.  One arm wraps around your waist, pulling you close enough you half tread on his feet, other hand coming up to cradle the side of your face, warm and shaking just slightly. Nothing in the world has ever felt so right.  There’s too much smiling in the kiss, and your noses are pressed awkwardly for the kiss to be smooth but then he tilts his head and gets it right.  You kiss him until your lungs begin to object and then slowly, you pull away. Gojo follows you for half a second before he catches himself, eyes opening slowly. His pupils are blown wide, hair a mess, and his mouth is parted without anything clever coming out of it.  “So,” he licks his lips, eyes flickering down for a moment. “Is that a yes?”  From the floor, your camera continues recording from its crooked angle. It captures none of it neatly, not your face and not his, not the way his thumb brushes your cheek. It catches the fall of the roses, the way your bodies draw the other in in a rush, the stumbling as he walks you back into your apartment and you both disappear from the frame in a fit of giggles and whispered words.  “Yes, Satoru,” you laugh, letting him guide you further into your apartment. “It’s a yes.”  Later, when you edit the film, you leave the shot in. It isn’t as graceful as it could be nor will it win an Oscar in cinematography, but for your love assignment, you decide that this will do. 

Emperor! Gojo takes a bath with all his women, when you decide to join the bathhouse after quite a long time without one, your mind drifting to the boy you loved when you were forced to leave your home. You remember your kisses, your promises, and the moment you got sent away here, with a man who's currently being fed grapes in the clear bath waters by many women. They're giggling, touching him, and you barely see him as your attendant helps you undress.

Emperor! Gojo has brilliant blue eyes that catch you across the enormous, steamy bathhouse then - he's pausing as he sees you, just wearing a thin white slip of material, curious just who you are. You take some of the soap you've brought, and your attendant washes your hair while he can't take his eyes off you, your curves in that thin material, the way the smooth skin of your thighs is lit up but the lanterns above. You're so beautiful he must know who you are.

Emperor! Gojo feels his mouth go dry when you step into those waters now, standing a bit so that he sees the full outline of your breasts, making his cock twitch under the water, he can't focus on anything but how those droplets of water fall from your skin as you methodically wash yourself. You peer at him just a bit, before lowering your lashes, when he can't help but look at one of his favorite girls, asking - 'who is she?'

Emperor! Gojo doesn't get an answer, no one knows what you look like yet, so he assumes you must be one of the new girls in a position to become a concubine. and fuck if he wouldn't love that opportunity, imagining fucking a baby into you ruins him then. One of his major duties is to have as many babies as he can, to strengthen the empire of course. Yet he tends to be a little apprehensive, he dares to admit he doesn't cum in any of the concubines yet, he doesn't know if he wants children right away. He's young, but of course the pressure is there, and he knows it will be soon, especially with him having to marry. He shoves that annoying thought away.

Emperor! Gojo was supposed to meet his wife today, should he feel bad? maybe. Does he? no, he does not. He steps away and walks across the water, giving you a good look at him then, his chiseled body, narrow torso, pale skin glimmering under the warmth of the room. The stream rises as you look slowly up his body, carved like a statue, then finally make it to his face, truly beautiful. He does look like his mother, those white locks with just a hint of lavender, the beautiful blue eyes even more intense than hers, his body glistening as he walks closer, plump vermilion lips curved in a smile as he murmurs a - 'hello, there, are you new here?'

Emperor! Gojo has a reputation of being kind and fair, though on the battlefield he was ruthless, tales of him were regaled worldwide, and you knew of his military prowess of course. You tremble just a bit as he gets closer, his eyes slipping down your body like a caress. 'I am new here, your majesty' he smiles now. 'No need to be so formal,' the emperor brushes a hand across your hair, marveling in the silkiness now. 'Are you here to be a concubine? I assure you, I have a position opening very soon' he acts as if that's a compliment, as if you should be thrilled your husband to be is willing to fuck a stranger while he ignores your meeting. But you smile, shaking your head. 'ah, you're mysterious, hmm?'

Emperor! Gojo is enamored when he touches you under the water, big hand on the small of your back, taking it over as he steps closer, so tall and imposing in the water. Your breasts brush against his abdomen, as your breaths quicken, a mix of irritation and something more you don't want to admit. 'You know who I am?' you nod a bit, biting your lip when he leans down, pressing you along the warmth of the hard wall behind you. one of his long thighs presses against your heat, and you hate how your body reacts, it feels like such a betrayal of the one you loved, and for a man who doesn't want to even know you? You bite back a sigh when he leans down, an arm on either side of you.

Emperor! Gojo murmurs the words - 'so fucking pretty, god,' and earns your blush, he chuckles as he sees it, flushed color on your cheeks, when his lips hover over yours. 'Can you at least tell me your name, mysterious girl?' when you say it he immediately recognizes it, faltering and stepping back, eyes wide. You smile, meanly then, batting your lashes. 'was such a shame you couldn't meet me for tea, hmm? I see you were otherwise occupied' you eye the girls behind his shoulders, whispering to each other wildly, when you push him back, hands on his chest. 'It's rude not to even meet me after I got dragged on a five day journey on ship, you know.'

Emperor! Gojo sputters, eyeing your hands on his chest that he now pins there for a moment. 'You're my... you can't be... you...' a sigh escapes your lips, as you tug your hands back. 'Yes, I'm your betrothed, I suppose this is our first meeting. I'll leave you to your pretty concubines, I'm afraid I don't intend on becoming one,' you turn and climb up those steps, the slip forming to you like a goddess, as you turn him down. No one has ever turned Emperor Gojo down!? yet here you are, turning and giving him a little smile as your attendant hands you a towel. 'Perhaps you'll make it to the wedding, your majesty'

Emperor! Gojo is wracked with confusion, part of him doesn't even believe you, concubines were known for their beauty and assets, but wives were much different. They were always from some long line of weak women, usually only there for their duty, his own mother was quite an exception, but her and his father never loved each other. He hoped himself to never have to marry, but now he feels just the smallest twinge of guilt for not meeting you. Even for him it was quite the talk, he could hear the rumors of how he doesn't have interest in his bride to be as he walks through the corridors of his opulent estates.

Emperor! Gojo sees glimpses of you here and there that week, but you bow and say no words to him, avoiding him until it is your wedding day. And to say you were beautiful before, now it leaves him speechless, throat dry as you were those beautiful sky blue ceremonial juunihitoe, layers of blue and white, embossed with silver flowers just flowing from your body. He's wearing his thick dark blue sokutai, the robes altered to reveal far too much of his muscled chest, as Satoru liked to do. His heart hammers as you clutch your hands together, feeling the stoic eyes of so many on you. You focus on the tall, handsome man that clearly doesn't want this any more than you do, stepping closer and closer, until you're in front of him.

Emperor! Gojo is still reeling when you both sip on each of the three cups of sake, he places his lips on one end of the little dish, then hands it to you, eyeing the red painted on your lips. Your makeup has been done clearly, there's color under your eyes, blush along your precious cheeks. Precious, why did he think that? the thought irritates him, when you two continue the ceremony. Soon, it's night time, and he's prepared in just a thin Kimono, loosely tied, walking over to your chambers now and entering them, seeing you sitting in front of the vanity, your attendant brushing out your hair. 'You may go,' he orders her, the doors shutting with a loud echo as he inhales the sweetness of your scent, mixing with the incense you've lit.

Emperor! Gojo has a husky tone as he says your name, and you stand up now, wearing just a thin blue robe, he can see your breasts rising and falling with your breath, as the two of you stand across the room. 'The sooner I have a baby, the less you'll have to see me, or do this,' you say then, shocking him. His mouth opens, then closes as he smirks at you. 'And you think that you know how that's done?' you tilt your head just a bit, letting your robes fall then, covered in nothing, completely bare for his eyes. His breaths come far too quickly, heat rising on his cheeks. He's been with countless women, but nothing prepared him for this, for you, when you step up to him slowly, a hand on his chest. 'Should I prepare you, your majesty?'

Emperor! Gojo is furiously blushing now, annoyed you have whatever odd effect this is, he tries to save face, trembling as your fingers dance across the silk of his robe. 'you think you're adequate at it?' he says then, you smile just a bit. 'I've had instruction on how to please my future husband, there are many books that show it,' he laughs, trying to play it off, when he undoes his tie, and he's just in a fundoshi, showing his cock straining while his robes land on the floor. 'Let's see it, then,' he gasps when you're on your knees, glaring as he thinks that maybe you've done this before, and why should that bother him!?

Emperor! Gojo has his cock free then, slapping his stomach as it does, thick and already hard from just seeing you, you bite your lip as the cool stone floor hurts your knees, stroking him slowly, from the base where he has tufts of white hair, to his pink tip leaking milky drops. 'I thought I'd have to get you in this state? the books didn't mention it being ready...' he glares now, you're insulting him without even knowing it, calling out his desperation. He entangles a hand in your hair then, pulling it as you lap at his tip, almost making him cum from that. 'Let's see what you've learned, hmm?' you're stroking him then, little hand up and down in gentle twists, as you suck him into your mouth, deeper and deeper, his eyes roll back in his head as he fucks your hot mouth then.

Emperor! Gojo has never felt anything better even from the most practiced girls, your suction, the way your tongue swirls, as he fucks your throat deeper and deeper, moaning. But mostly, those eyes looking up at him. He's whispering filthy things - 'slutty fucking throat' - then sweet things - 'doing s'good, sweetheart...' a conundrum of a man. You feel your tummy clenching, something you didn't expect, snowy lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, while you taste him, hands pressing on his muscled thighs. He pulls you off him then, saliva dripping from your mouth. 'Was I not adequate?' he laughs without humor, standing you up now. 'Not adequate?' he is lifting you and slamming his lips on yours, tasting himself, before carrying you on your enormous bed, decorated in more blues, the color of the Gojo clan, the colors of his eyes.

Emperor! Gojo has elegant long fingers, they slip down your body as he feels it tremble, fingers touching your slick cunt then. You gasp as he kisses down one of your breasts, sucking a nipple in his mouth, moaning and rutting his cock on the silk blankets as you cry out. 'Your majesty, you don't need to do all of that, just... get it done,' your words make him pause, looking up and seeing you then, lips swollen from his kisses. He pauses and looks down your body, dying to be inside you, but your words fuck him then. All of the concubines wanted Satoru, and you were just 'doing your duty'. He pulls back then, raising a brow at you. 'Do I need to suck you more?' he shakes his head, clearing his throat then - 'tonight, we will not consummate the marriage' - the words hurt you deeply. 'did I displease you?'

Emperor! Gojo doesn't know what it is, but the thought of a woman not wanting him, especially you, infuriates him. He shoves you up the bed then, making you blink in confusion, when he kisses down your tummy, watching it tense as he dreams of making it bulge with his cock. 'Are you untouched?' he asks, you blush then. 'I have not lain with a man, no, but I'm not untouched.' Satoru's furious anyone saw your pretty body, but he makes no comment, he surely hates tradition and wouldn't care if you were or were not a virgin. In fact he prefers experience, but when he sees your pretty pussy, glistening and soaked, he moans softly, the prettiest one he's seen. 'Your majesty, that's not... in the books!? ah!'

Emperor! Gojo has his tongue slipping up your slit then, smirking against your cunt as your mouth is wide. 'Not everything is in your books, sweetheart,' he laps up your slit again, and you whine out, gripping his shoulders, your nails pressing in. 'I'll have you cum on my face tonight,' his words are now muffled as he buries his face in your sweetness, letting the juices drown him, moaning as he works your body. He feels you tense, feels your cunt pulsing around his tongue when he fucks into your tiny hole, holding your thighs apart. You're lost in how good it feels, you've cum before but never have you done this, felt this, so intense, so much pressure. You're screaming out, hips arching as he makes filthy sounds with your squelching cunt.

Emperor! Gojo almost cums from just this, he's never enjoyed this so much, he can't help but pay attention to every little thing. You yank on his hair, as if to tug him off, he clamps down then, sucking your twitchy little clit into his mouth. 'ah! y-your majesty!' he wants you to call him Satoru, he can't say it though, for now he just devours your pussy, until you shatter. There are no words, just filthy, messy sounds, slurping and squishing echoing in your brand new chambers, while you cum all over your new husband's face. You're shaking as you come down, as the orgasm leaves aftershocks, pulsing around nothing, pleasure making you dizzy, blinded. Satoru presses one more kiss on your pretty cunt, smirking down at you now, pressing a kiss to your lips, when you taste yourself you're a blushing mess. 'a lot of talk, I don't think you're ready f'me yet, sweetheart'

Emperor! Gojo is getting up then, as you catch your breath, sitting up and looking at the man you barely know, his eyes linger across your body as he swipes his chin, embarrassingly coated with your slick. 'And where will you go, your concubines to cum?' he chuckles then, leaning low, tilting your chin up as you look at him. 'would that bother you, sweetheart?' you shake your head, it can't bother you, it shouldn't, this will be your life now. 'Ah, you're not the best liar, that won't help you play the court, you know,' he turns and walks away then, leaving you alone, to contemplate it all.

Just who was Emperor! Gojo!?

hehe I hope ya'll enjoy I can't wait to finish up a couple stories and get to this (or be chaotic and do it anyway lmaoo)

Only people full of shit, you thought. Nodding to yourself, she’s right. Naoya and his family are full of shit and everyone agrees.

Suguru and his friends had gone on their little Japan tour a few days ago. And you were left without any other work, he told you, “Rest day”. For the past week, he had you making flyers here and there for the tour, and you were glad to do it with the income that he promised you; no joke, he called you late at night for a request, even if he does sound apologetic, you still did it because you had no hard feelings for him. In fact, you were glad to even be doing this in the first place.

Also, he did promise to bring something back for you as an apology, extra income in a form of . . . probably food or a keychain. But, hey, a keychain from Sendai doesn’t sound too bad. Or a cheesecake from Hokkaido doesn’t sound too shabby at all.

“Ieiri, can I ask you something?” You pucker your lips slightly, the straw from your “half-full” cup, or as Satoru said “half-empty”. Ieiri stared at you, the streets are bustling and people passed by the sidewalk right by where you and Shoko sat outside the cafe, “It’s about Satoru and Suguru.”

“You’re gonna ask what happened between them,” she guessed. And she guessed right.

“Yeah.”

The corner of her lip tugged upwards slightly, “Don’t think it’s my place to tell that to you, you should ask Satoru about it. Or Suguru now since you’re working for him,” internally, you groaned at her very helpful inquiry, but still, the curiosity wedged in your heart.

Satoru had been extra busy lately, meet ups were rescheduled. Now that he had landed an act as a tree, he was needed during practices and . . . quote unquote, needed for prop making because he was apparently the strongest amongst his peers. It was a stroke to his ego, and Satoru wouldn’t stop telling you about how he helped carry things around the school during this time of the day. And it was bound to happen again.

Though, you don’t mind it at all — in fact, this was much better than the constant flex of social statuses, money, and fame.

“Did they fallout?” You asked, hoping for more enlightment from Shoko who is blissfully smoking her second cigarette of the day, “I just need something. Anything.”

“They fell out, reason? You’d have to ask the both of them,” she shrugs.

Today was one of the days Shoko could have a day off, and she had decided to call you up early in the morning for a little coffee and breakfast. Well, it’s noon now and the both of you were still together, not that you were complaining about it. Times with her are rare, and you’d salvage this moment with her. Her eyes were blankly staring at the people passing by, making sure that every puff of her smoke is directed away from people passing, “I didn’t know they fell out until Suguru came up to talk to me that he was going to move to start a band, actually. It was pretty upsetting, and for a while, I kinda hated them.”

Your eyes softened at her words, “Why?”

“I was there too, wasn’t I?” Her voice died to a soft whisper of solemn, she pressed the burning edge of her cig into the ashtray, pressing on it lightly to kill the fire, “then again, things happen. And it’s really not my place to say anything on their behalves because I’m completely clueless of what actually happened.”

Your thumbs fiddled with each other, Shoko clapped her hands together, “But, I’m completely chill about it now. That was a long time ago, and we’re all good . . . I’m good with the both of them. But them with each other?” She asks herself before shrugging nonchalantly, “Wanna grab dinner together later?”

“You seem to be getting close to Satoru,” Shoko replied, a tinge of slyness in her voice, “I take it everything’s going well then.”

“What? The whole fake dating stuff?” You were nonchalant in answering her, failing to notice the deadpan on her face, “it’s fine. I mean, we’re starting to get to know each other, we went out to see a movie, and stuff. Naoya’s still trying to fuck me up, I swear, he’s everywhere, Ieiri.”

Shoko sighs, “Yeah, that’s what he do. He thinks you can’t get better than him,” there are so many men better than him in every aspect, you rolled your eyes in annoyance, “he won’t stop at nothing to make sure you come back. Which is why Satoru is the perfect choice for this. He’s a total heartstopper.”

You nodded in agreement, “Yeah, I agree.”

“Out of curiosity,” Shoko answers again, sipping on her Americano, “what do you really think of him?”

You got lost in thought. Truthfully, you haven’t known Satoru Gojo for a long time at all, and if you were to be honest; you (shamefully) confess that you barely know him at all. Maybe the surface stuff about him, but if we were talking about what we think of a certain someone. You part your lips, “What do I think of him?” Shoko hums softly, waiting for an answer.

“Well, one,” your thoughts went back to the moments where Satoru drove you home, walked you through the alley, and made sure to wait until you get inside before leaving. Not to mention, the way he pays and teaches you instead of berating you like how Naoya would, “he’s very nice. He walks me home — actually, he drives me there . . . and walks me through the alleyway to my apartment, waits for me to get inside before he leaves. And he tecahes me stuff I don’t understand, and he says nice things to me. Unlike that dickhead, Naoya.”

“What else?”

You groaned, “I’ve known him for what? Going two months maybe, and I don’t know how he really is,” Shoko raised her arms up in mock surrender, finally making sense of it all, “ask me again in a year.”

Shoko grimaced, “I could bet you right now that in a year, you and Satoru are going to be in a loving relationshi—”

You cut her off immediately, “No, I’m saying that I don’t think I’ll be dating anyone soon and that includes Satoru. Despite him being nice,” and why are you talking like he likes you anyways? You shook your head, “and he probably doesn’t see me that way too. We need to stop twisting a completely platonic relationship into something romantic. Yeah?”

“Touche.”

Another thought striked you, “Also,” Shoko already swiveled her face away, “what is with that reaction?”

Shoko blew out a loud and dramatic sigh, “I just know that you’re gonna ask me something about Satoru’s life.”

True, “It’s just pure curiosity. How did he and his ex . . . You know, get together and broke up?” Shoko raises a brow in amusement, “Just curious.”

Shoko’s eyes glinted in a cheshire way, “Glad you asked, I actually just got the full information for that not too long ago. I’m taking full responsibility for what he’s going to say when you tell him that you know about it,” she straightened herself up, “they started dating two years ago. I actually know the girl, which is shocking to me when he told me about it because Suguru and I do not like her at all.”

“Apparently, since college years they had been talking behind our backs. Getting close and all. He confessed that after we graduated, he and his ex-girlfriend apparently started going out a few months after — and mind you, he kept it all a secret until . . .” She points at you and herself, “until all three of us met up so I could match the both of you up. I just knew, and pushed him to tell me about it; also, he got cheated on.”

“Why do you hate the girl?” You questioned.

Shoko hummed, “I wouldn’t say hate. My mistake, I strongly dislike her because we were partnered up a couple of times for a group project and she couldn’t contribute to anything. And by anything, I mean anything. Not even printing costs, transportations, I had to work on everything myself — I did rat her out to my professor and she didn’t pass the class. It’s a mutual thing.”

“Why did she chea—”

Shoko stares deep into your eyes, “All I know is that she never really thought that he was worthy of anything. She just thought he was easy,” you look down at the coffee — the dark brown liquid turning a bit lighter from the melted ice, “we might not see each other much. But, the one thing I can say about Satoru is that when he loves, he loves. And you don’t find that often. So, I guess finding out about this the hard way was very saddening for him.”

You bobbed your head, understanding the situation. “And you know what’s funny?”

Shoko toyed with her straw, “She cheated on him with another mutual good friend of ours,” you bit your lip.

“That sucks.”

“Totally. For someone who just got cheated on, he seems pretty okay — which is also one of his habit, you should take notes. He’s a lonely kid, doesn’t live with his parents anymore. I don’t even think he lives with them back when he was a kid at all. Hard for him to make friends, and he doesn’t talk much if you don’t talk first. So, I guess he felt the comfort with you. That’s good. He loves going outside if he has someone to go with, besides that? He locks himself in and plays games.”

The information opened a new vision and you nod your head, “Okay. Okay. Thank you . . .”

“Thanks for driving me.”

Shoko pokes her head out, “Hey, the alleyway’s pretty dark. Sure you can walk alone? I don’t mind risking a shif—”

“No, your shift is to save lives, gosh. I’ll be okay,” you waved your hand slowly, ushering her away, “it’s fine. Thanks for driving me home, Ieiri. Safe trips home,” Shoko smiles at you, rolling her windows up. You hear her honk three times before taking off into the streets.

The messages end right then and there, and you look around; night breeze caressing your skin gently — walking towards the wall right by the mouth of the alley, you plant your back to it. Shifting left and right, bored. Hands shoved right inside the pockets of your pants to warm them from the crispy air, shoulders rolling in a shiver. You had no idea why you were waiting for him too, maybe a part of you wanted him to walk you inside after all.

No longer than 10 minutes later, his familiar Sedan parked right by the sidewalk in front of you. A small smile tinged on your face at the sight of white mop of hair, instinctively you walked closer to him. The streaks of dark green paint and red ones on his cheek were apparent, and a shy smile displayed on his face.

“Sorry, did you wait long?” He brushed his hands against his white shirt —no, not white anymore. Barely even white actually, it had paint all over it now, and you were sure it was a result of his tree and prop making— Satoru looks down at you, “It’s chilly. You didn’t bring a jacket?”

Your head shook lightly, “No. I didn’t think it was gonna be this cold,” truthfully, it wasn’t actually that cold. You just couldn’t help but to agree at his statement, in fact the words came out before you could process it, “you came all the way here just to walk me inside here,” your hand gestured towards the mouth of the entrance.

Satoru took off his glasses, shouldering the sweat on his nosebridge, “Yeah. If you haven’t noticed, it’s creepy in there. Instead of you getting scared alone, we should be scared together,” he was scared all this time? Now the guilt pooled on the bottom of your stomach, swirling at his words.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

His fingers slid the glasses back into place, and the alluring cerulean glinted happily, “I actually wanted to, and I’m more than happy to do it. It’s my decision, no?” Smart, you bobbed your head in agreement, not being able to deny that, “Let’s get you home then.”

He walks first, guiding you into the alleyway. Satoru was tall enough to hide your view in front, all you could see is the outline of his back, and it made you feel safe. Satoru pops out of the other side with a smile, the streaks of paint crinkling under the strain of his skin, “How was your day?”

“Good,” you answered him slowly, “yours?”

Is he about to flex about his strength again? Satoru parts his lips, “Better now. It was tiring, but at least we got to meet. Ice cream tomorrow then? We can agree on that, right?” You grinned at him.

“Yes. Ice cream.”

“I’ll pick you up then,” he states, not asked.

“Is that absolute?”

Satoru nods his head, “Mhm.”

“Alright, pick me up then.”

The sunlight reached its peak, reflecting off Satoru’s bright white hair. Geto was bored and taking a ‘rest’ day and Shoko… well, she threw a water bottle at home when he even approached her room. That left you, he needed someone to hang out with, something to do because all of this hanging around was going to drive him even nuts than he already was. He text Shoko, asking where you were since you two were joined at the hip usually and you weren’t answering your phone. She replied telling him you’d been sent on a mission alone that morning – some abandoned orphanage down by the Shinjuku district. The next line nearly made the man’s eyes pop out of his head – a semi-grade one? Alone? You were only in second grade and the same age as him. Only a 1st year. Sure, you could hold your own in a fight but – this seemed like a reckless match.

Pulling on his sneakers and bomber jacket (not wearing his uniform felt weird) he Googles Shinjuku Abandoned Orphanage and finds an article about one being shut down 3 years ago due to the children speaking of ‘witnessing paranormal activity’, it had been closed due to the terrible publicity surrounding it. He rang for a driver and pointed him in the right direction.

A 20-minute ride was filled with Satoru thinking about how he should have been sent on this mission – not you, he was the strongest sorcerer alive after all. He kept telling himself the gnawing feeling in his gut was excitement for a fight – not worry, he wasn’t worrying about you. No, not. Why would he?

He could hear Suguru’s voice in his head from their last mission together.

“Bro, you love her. Just accept it, my guy. It’s clear she’s into you too.”

The car pulls up and Satoru unfolds himself from the back seat and waves the driver off. The building in front of him is surrounded by barbed wire fences, it’s been vacant for a long time if the boarded-up windows set in the building’s imposing front are anything to go by. He could sense a strong cursed energy, definitely a semi-grade one – along with something else, something stronger. Something far more ancient and far more powerful. It was familiar but different.

He had to find you.

He pinpointed the location where both energies were – third story, east wing, 5 doors down the corridor. He raced his way down thinking about how he’d love to practice his techniques warping abilities so he could quit all this running around. Maybe someday in the future, he’ll be able to just *poof* into a room. He was surely gonna do that to annoy Shoko.

He slowed down, nearing the room as he heard a familiar laugh coming from the room.

He knew that laugh, it always made his heart skip a beat – but why were you laughing now?

You were meant to be in danger. Not that he was hoping to be your knight in shining armour so he could see that shiny look of adoration in your eyes – no, that’s ludicrous.

The door was hanging off its hinges and nothing could have prepared him for what he saw inside the room.

You.

Y/N.

But – different.

You stood, your stature still miniature in comparison to his lanky, boyish frame but you seemed so much larger now, your presence was pulsating through the room – overwhelming to anyone but him.

Your feet were bare on the concrete floor and you seemed to almost hop around your prey, your tiny little hands, nails usually painted a pretty pale green – we’re still pale green but not your nails, no – claws were protruding out of your dainty little hands. He could see from here they were as sharp as any cursed knife. Your hair, seemed longer and wait, were those… vines? Vines and leaves seemed to grow from your head as naturally as the hair itself, mingling with the pretty cascade of your hair down your spine. Your eyes he so often couldn’t take his own off were alight and you were talking, and when you opened those pretty lips that he flirted with you about how much he’d like to taste your lip gloss – leaving you to tell him to save his flirts for someone he was into (both of you were so oblivious to the obvious feelings that you held for each other that Shoko and Suguru might cry if it went on any longer), he saw two sharp as needle fangs, pearly white on your pillowy lips.

You were completely and utterly ethereal.

What shocked him – was the mess in the middle of the room. A grotesque mess of a curse – horrifyingly long, spindly limbs attached to a body that was just stretched mottled skin over bones – the whole body covered in beady eyes, almost insect-like. The creature had no discernible head, just those torturous limbs. He’d seen worse things before.

He had seen your techniques, you could do things like to make a wall of thorns to deflect curses - he’d seen you summon whips of vines to lash at and bind a curse, he’d even seen you seemingly have a chat with a ladybug one day. And of course, your marksmanship with your cursed longbow was unrivalled, sniping shots that seemed impossible. He knew you were a very capable sorcerer, the most intelligent he knew in the school (even beyond Nanami). Your love for books helped that too.

What shocked him was what you had done. It looked like the very earth was cooperating with your every whim, grasses and vines and tree branches had broken their way through the floor and were caging the fighting curses limbs as they grew weaker and weaker against your onslaught. There was a beam coming through the ceiling, moonlight? At 2 pm? It seemed to sear and burn the curse in licking flames as it shot down onto it before returning to the shape of a small, silvery orb and absorbing itself into your palm.

“You lay here, waiting each day for night to fall, didn’t you? To prey on these children, to torture their little minds with fears and terrors – to be the monster under their bed. The children who were already scarred and frightened – but you knew that, and you loved it, didn’t you? Oh, you loved the feeling of drinking up the screams of those innocent children – and do you know what that makes you? It makes you a monster. Funnily enough, my family were taught and raised for one destiny, but me especially, I was born with ancient rage, and I was born with the strength for one thing – to kill monsters, just like you.”

And with that, you notched an arrow into your bow and muttered something under your breath.

“You won’t harm anyone anymore. Sleep well.” And with a smile, the arrow tip glowed a soft gold and flew threw the air into the restricted body of the curse who was quickly engulfed in a golden light as it screamed and fell, returning to the ground as nothing but dust.

“Nurture the earth now, do some good for the world.” You whisper, low enough that Satoru could barely hear. How you still manage to keep your heart so soft will always amaze him.

Satoru’s phone dropped from his hand, and you spin, notching another arrow into your bow and aiming directly at his head.

You gasp when you realise who’s here.

“Gojo, what are you doing here? How long have you been there?” You ask, lowering your weapon.

“Y/N. What the fuck. YOU HAVE CLAWS.” His jaw was hanging open, hardly believable image of what he’d seen.

That ancient energy wasn’t another curse, you hadn’t been in danger – you had been the danger.

You sigh. Gojo would have found out sooner or later, guess it was sooner. A part of you was worried about what he’d seen, would he think it ugly? Would he think you cursed? This boy – you had accepted your feelings but even though you thought (idiot) he’d never love you back, you didn’t want him to think any less of you.

Well, no escaping this conversation now.

“Wanna grab boba? I’m done here so, we can grab some on the way back to school. I’m guessing you have some questions.”

Uncharacteristically quiet, he just nods.

You walk ahead, slinging your bow on your back and taking out your phone. He sees you dial Yaga’s number.

“Hey, yeah it’s all done. Just as we thought.” You say, and he hears the deep rumble of his sensei’s voice through the speaker.

“Yeah thing is, I’ve had an unexpected visitor. Seems someone thought I might not be able to do it alone so showed up at the end. Yeah, I have it handled. Yup, exactly who you think. Yaga! Stop! I’ll see you later.”

You hang up the phone, just as you reach your favourite boba shop.

“Drinks are on you, Satoru – you gatecrashed my mission.” You smirk.

“Hardly gatecrashed if I turned up and feared for the safety of my pretty face!” The shock had worn off now and he was just in awe and desperate to hear what the fuck he witnessed.

He ordered you both your usual orders and sat across from you at a secluded table outside. You notice the dewy drop of sugary tea on his lip, his skin glistening under the golden sun. God. How can someone be that beautiful, surely it’s illegal?

“So sugar - you’ve been hiding something from your dearest darling best friends, haven’t you?” He looks at you with eyebrows raised.

“Not my choice. It’s a complicated situation. Yaga thought it best to keep it under wraps until I’m 18.”

“I hear ya – but the question still stands: keep what under wraps? Here was me coming to my princess’s rescue,” your cheeks flushed at his (what you thought) casual flirting.

“It’s a long story – you sure you’ve got nothing better to be doing, Mr Honoured One, no ladies to dazzle with those pretty eyes of yours?” You laugh, slurping up a brown sugar Pearl.

“Oh I’ll always have enough time for you, sugar, plus – am I not dazzling a pretty girl now?” You both giggle it off, unaware that he’s being serious and that you were dazzled by him long before today.

There’s a beat of silence.

“My family’s inherited technique. The elders think it’s long extinct but I was born with it. Legend says my family is descended from dryads, forest spirits, you’ve known that nature is the root, no pun intended, of my technique since the start but – it goes a bit deeper. I’m listed as grade two, but only because the elders don’t know the truth. I’m meant to hide everything until I’m 18, so only 5 months left to go anyway. The elders will throw a bitch fit when they find out. Your ancestor La and mine worked together, and when I was born my mother and grandmother chose to keep the technique hidden until I was legally an adult and could make my own informed choices about whether or not I wanted to stay part of the jujutsu world. The elders… don’t take kindly to my family. We’re kind of considered outcasts, like the Inumaki clan.” You say, taking a breather to sip your drink.

“Why? Your mom is so nice” He adds in.

“Ah well, my family, we’re very much a matriarchal family. The women have typically done everything in their power to fight the elders on their idiocy. Given that they’re old, sexist men – this didn’t go down well. So we’ve typically been hounded by them. Then, I was born. Not only the heir to my clan but a woman which ancient cursed abilities. Our family has always scared them, but I’m their worst nightmare trifecta. I made a deal with my family, I’d keep it secret until I’m 18, then I’m free to do as I wish..” You added, smiling, because in truth – being the bane of the elders’ lives was a source of pride.

“So they hid it until you can make your own choices, and take the helm of the clan leader at 18?” He asks.

“Yeah, my mom just wants a quiet life. She’s travelling the world writing of jujutsu sorcery and my grandma is holding the fort. We’re not quite the Gojo’s, Zen’in’s or Kamo’s – but we’re a very old sorcery family, so we’ve influence enough.”

“Y/N. You know you’re not grade two, right?” He asks, dead serious.

“I know, Gojo. I’m special grade. Yaga is a friend of my uncle’s so he agreed to keep it all quiet.” You finish up your drink.

“Gojo – what I’ve told you, only Yaga knows. This stays between us, okay?” He nods and crosses his heart.

“And don’t worry, you’re still the strongest. I’m just good backup.” He giggle, swinging your bag over your shoulder and motioning for him to follow.

“You say that part of your technique is ancient? And thought extinct? Which part? Now you’ve told me I wanna see everything.”

You look back and forth between the streets, and you find an empty alley.

You stop.

He stops.

“Snow leopards are your favourite animal, right?” You ask and he wonders why his heart skips a beat at you remember such a silly detail.

He cocks an eyebrow and agrees.

“I’d tell you to close your eyes, but it won’t do much good.” And with that, a flash a golden light encompasses you and instead of the oh so pretty girl he loves seeing in front of him is a snowy white, fluffy, golden eyed leopard.

And in a flash, you’re back in front of him.

“I can’t do it for long. It’s still really taxing to do and zaps my cursed energy.” You say, gripping his elbow and making your way back to the main road.

“Y/N. I hope you know. That might have been the coolest thing ever. Oh! Can you do like a little mouse so I can just hide you and carry you around in my pocket all day and give you cheese and –” his enthusiasm is cut off by your loud laughter.

“Maybe when I’m stronger Satoru, then I’ll stay with you all the time and you won’t have to follow me to my missions when you’re bored.” You’d text the driver to pick you both up.

“Hey! I was worried! I didn’t know you were some freaky nature fairy when I left did I? !” He grins, and god he looks so handsome in the late afternoon light.

You swat his arm.

“You’re one to talk Mr. I have nearly the same number of eyes as a spider.” And with that he tosses your much smaller form over his shoulder.

“Hey – you might be cool but I’m still the strongest and right now, it’s time for me to demonstrate that.” You half heartedly thump at his back as you laugh at him to put you down.

The car pulls up, a curious gaze from the driver who is thoroughly confused by why you’re over Gojo’s shoulder.

He tosses you into the backseat of the car.

“That’s for keeping secrets from your bestest friends ever.” He flicks your forehead, buckling your belt.

You just roll your eyes.

The drive back home is filled with idle chatter, but Gojo can’t stop thinking about how goddamn fucking perfect you are. You’ve always been strong, kind, beautiful, sexy, funny but god the feral determination he saw in you today shook him to his very core. You say your goodbyes as you head to shower and sleep, but your phone buzzes that night – with a terribly photoshopped picture of your face on a mouse, captioned – ‘btw- ur technique, it’s really beautiful Y/N, I’m really hpy I saw you like that, and thx for telling me, u nd ur secret r safe w me ’. You can’t fight the smile on your face, a weight lifted off your shoulder now that the boy you love knows everything about you – well, except that one secret. The one that you’re hopelessly in love with him.

Maybe some day.

TAGLIST: @vesta-ro @lilithlunas @mialexandruh @sassy-cat-in-town @madam-ri @cjm-cookiethief

He reaches for your hand, tugging you down into his lap with a dramatic groan. “You bought it because it reminded you of me, didn’t you?”

Your cheeks flush a little, and your lips twitch. “...Maybe.”

“Oh my god.” He cradles his chest. “You missed me while you were out and bought a tiny emotional support version of me to keep you company.”

You bury your face against his shoulder. “It was cute!”

“I’m cute.” He kisses the top of your head. “Admit it.”

You laugh into his shirt. “Fine. You’re my emotionally chaotic sky-dog boyfriend.”

He grins, smug and warm. “Put me on your keys next.”

You’re still curled up in his lap when he lifts the little Cinnamoroll keychain and holds it eye-level with absurd seriousness.

“We have to name him.”

You blink. “Satoru. It already has a name. It’s Cinnamoroll.”

“No,” he says, deadly serious. “That’s its government name. I mean a personal name. For our keychain Satoru.”

“Our keychain Satoru?”

He grins. “Yes. Because he’s emotionally attached to you and slightly smug. It’s canon now.”

You sigh, lips twitching. “Fine. What’s the name?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Tinytoru.”

You snort so hard it turns into a full laugh. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Too late. He’s got a whole backstory now. He’s your guardian charm. You rub his ears for luck.”

“Okay, now you’re projecting.”

He lifts Tinytoru dramatically into the air. “Long live Tinytoru!”

Later that week…

You hear the front door click open and his voice sing out: “I brought us something!”

You turn the corner and freeze when you see what he’s holding.

A giant My Melody plush. Pastel pink ears, huge eyes, a soft little flower tucked on one side.

You blink. “You bought… My Melody?”

He shrugs. “Felt like the right match. Chaos but kind. Slightly gremlin. Deep emotional attachment issues. It’s you.”

You stare.

Then: “So now we both have Sanrio soulmates?”

“We do.” He plops the plush down beside the couch, patting her head. “Meet Tiny You. Her name is—”

“Don’t say it—”

“Melome.”

You drop your face into your hands. “Satoru.”

He’s grinning like a menace. “Now we’re even. Tinytoru and Melome. Partners in crime.”

You shake your head, laughing as he walks over to kiss your cheek. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you love it.”

You’re already tucked into bed when he pads in from the bathroom, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting just enough light to see the two plushies he’s lined up on your nightstand.

Tinytoru stands proud, slightly crooked thanks to the keychain loop. Melome slouches dramatically next to him, her ears flopped like she’s seen too much.

Satoru climbs into bed beside you, sliding an arm around your waist. “Alright,” he says, in a tone far too serious for someone about to speak utter nonsense. “Previously on Melome’s Heartache…”

You snort. “I can’t believe you made it a series.”

He ignores you, shifting to his best narrator voice. “After Tinytoru came home late from Cursed Energy Pilates, Melome was devastated. She waited by the door for three hours.”

You laugh into the pillow. “Pilates?”

“He’s got a tight core,” Satoru says with a wink. “Anyway. He came home and she was like, ‘Where were you?!’ And he was like, ‘I was manifesting stability, babe!’ But she wasn’t having it.”

You’re giggling helplessly now, tears forming at the corners of your eyes.

“And then,” he continues, lowering his voice for dramatic effect, “Melome packed her little plush suitcase and threatened to move to the living room.”

“She’s too dramatic,” you murmur, still laughing.

“She’s you,” he reminds you smugly. “And Tinytoru begged. Got on his tiny little knees. Said, ‘Don’t leave me, Mello. You’re the only one who understands my duality.’”

“His what?”

Satoru kisses your forehead, utterly pleased with himself. “His duality. You know strong but soft. Goofy but profound. Small, yet emotionally overwhelming.”

You bury your face in his chest, breathless with laughter.

“And then,” he finishes, pulling you closer, “they snuggled on their tiny couch and agreed to be weird and codependent together forever. The end.”

You hum, warm and happy. “That’s a good ending.”

He presses a soft kiss to your temple. “I like ours better.”

The laughter fades into soft hums, your head tucked under his chin, your bodies tangled in that perfect way you only find after years of knowing where the other belongs. His fingers stroke slow lines along your arm, down your side, soothing and easy.

You shift slightly, nose brushing against his collarbone and then you bite him. Just a little.

Not hard. Just enough to make him jolt and suck in a breath.

“Hey!” he yelps, clearly not expecting it. “Did you just bite me?”

You smile against his skin, entirely unapologetic. “Maybe.”

He stares down at you, faux betrayed. “You animal. You’re lucky I’m into that.”

“You like when I get feisty.”

He narrows his eyes. “You’re lucky I’m already half asleep or this would’ve turned into a full-on revenge arc.”

“Empty threats,” you murmur, snuggling closer.

“Empty arms, more like.” He wraps both arms around you tighter, holding you like you’re the last thing keeping him grounded. “I should file a report. Bitten in my own bed.”

You yawn against him. “File it with Melome. She’ll take your side. She’s soft.”

He huffs a laugh. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

You tilt your face up just enough to kiss his jaw. “You’re lucky I love you.”

His expression softens instantly, and his voice drops, so low it’s barely a whisper:

“I know. I really, really know.”

Then he kisses your forehead, slow and lingering, lovingly like he’s sealing every ounce of the moment right into your skin.

And finally, in the hush that follows, he murmurs:

“Sleep, baby. I’ve got you.”

And you do, in his arms where you've always belonged.

The first light of dawn filters through the curtains, painting the room in soft gold. You stir slowly, nestled in the curve of Satoru’s chest, the steady rise and fall of his breath a quiet lullaby.

Your fingers trace lazy patterns along his collarbone, and he sighs contentedly, tightening his hold without waking fully.

“Morning,” he murmurs, voice still thick with sleep.

You smile against his skin. “Morning.”

He nuzzles your hair, then his eyes flutter open, locking with yours. “You know,” he says, voice playful despite the dawn haze, “Tinytoru tried to sneak out this morning.”

You lift your head, intrigued. “Oh? How?”

“He said he was going to ‘manifest some energy’ to protect you while you slept, but all he did was get tangled in the charger cord and caused a minor blackout.”

You laugh quietly. “Typical.”

“Right? Then Melome staged a rescue mission — armed with a hair tie and a tiny plush first-aid kit.”

You nudge him playfully. “She’s really prepared.”

“Melome’s always prepared. She’s the brains of the operation. Tinytoru’s just... well, emotional chaos wrapped in fluff.”

You close your eyes and sigh happily, feeling perfectly at home. “I like their partnership.”

Satoru kisses your temple softly. “Just like us.”

You curl closer, his arms a fortress around you. “Ready for another adventure today?”

He grins, eyes sparkling. “Always.”

The sun climbs a little higher, warming the room with gentle light. You stay nestled against Satoru, your breath mingling with his, your fingers tracing idle circles on his chest.

He hums softly, a contented sound that vibrates through his body and settles in your bones. You lift your head just enough to catch his eye, and he smiles, a lazy, half-awake smile that feels like home.

“Think we should get up soon?” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep and affection.

You shake your head, settling back into his arms. “Not yet. Let’s just... stay here a little longer.”

He nods, pressing his lips to your forehead. “Best plan I’ve heard all day.”

Minutes stretch, filled with soft touches and quiet breaths. Your legs tangle together, your hands find his, fingers lacing naturally.

In this slow, perfect moment, the world feels distant, and all that matters is the steady warmth of him holding you close.

You stretch slowly against him, the sheets slipping a little lower on your back. Satoru’s hand's resting just above your hip, his grip tightens slightly, thumb stroking absentminded circles against your bare skin.

You murmur, eyes still closed, “We should probably get up.”

He hums, low and lazy. “Probably.”

Neither of you moves.

A beat passes, and he shifts, pulling you a little closer, his nose brushing the side of your neck. “But I’m so comfortable,” he mumbles. “Trapped. By this very soft, very warm, very irresistible person.”

You smile into the pillow. “You’re using me as an excuse.”

“Obviously,” he says, lips ghosting over your skin. “I’m incredibly weak-willed in the morning.”

His hand skims lower, fingers grazing just beneath the sheet now, tracing the dip of your spine. You shiver, barely breathing.

“You’re not playing fair,” you whisper.

He laughs softly. “Never claimed to.”

Then his voice dips, rougher now, right at your ear. “Still sore from yesterday?”

You nod against him, cheeks flushing.

“Good,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your jaw, his hand settling at your waist, just hovering there. “Because I’m about to make that worse.”

You tilt your head back, breath catching, as his lips trail lower slowly, teasing kisses down your throat, his voice a sinful promise against your skin.

“Who needs breakfast,” he murmurs, “when you’re already in my mouth?”

His lips trail lower, warm and deliberate, as the sheets fall away, exposing the softness of your thighs still warm from sleep. Satoru shifts, dragging his mouth along the curve of your hip with reverence, hands anchoring you gently in place.

But then, his movement halts.

“...They’re watching us.”

You blink, breath caught. “What?”

He lifts his head, trying to keep a straight face. “Them.” He tilts his chin toward the nightstand. “Tinytoru and Melome. Tiny plush perverts.”

Sure enough, they sit exactly where they were last night — slouched upright, positioned almost too perfectly. Watching.

You groan, grabbing a pillow and chucking it in their general direction. “Out. No Foursomes in this house unless they contribute to rent.”

Satoru howls with laughter. “Melome’s scandalized. Tinytoru’s taking notes.”

“Throw em' out,” you insist, tugging the covers up again, but not enough to hide your flushed smile.

He scoops them both up dramatically. “Sorry, guys. You’re being evicted from the horny zone.” He tosses them into the hallway like exiled royalty, then shuts the door with a mock bow.

Then his eyes return to you, glinting with a different heat now. “Now, where were we…”

You don’t get a chance to answer.

Because in the next breath, he’s guiding you gently upward, his hands sliding around your thighs, coaxing you to straddle his face, his breath stirs against your folds as he presses a reverent kiss to your inner thigh. “God, you’re perfect like this,” he murmurs, voice rough, hands steady on your hips. “All soft and wet for me already…”

You shiver, bracing yourself against the headboard, heart thudding as his mouth finds you, it's slow and languid, so much worship in the way his tongue traces every inch of you.

He groans against your skin when you grind just slightly, hips twitching forward, and his hands flex, keeping you close.

“Let me take my time,” he breathes. “I want to taste everything.”

And he does.

Satoru settles back against the pillows, eyes gleaming as he gently tugs you upward, guiding your knees to either side of his head. The soft drag of bed-warmed skin against his chest sends a ripple of anticipation through both of you.

“You sure?” you murmur, a little breathless already, you're still laughing from the plushie interruption, still flushed from his teasing.

His hands squeeze your thighs, grounding you. “Always,” he says, voice low, reverent. “Now sit, baby. I want to feel how good you taste.”

And let him.

Your legs tremble slightly as you lower yourself onto him, his mouth is hot and eager beneath you, tongue sliding up to meet your folds with a slow, deliberate lick that makes your whole body jolt. He groans at the first taste like it’s been days, like he’s been starving for this.

“Satoru—” you gasp, hands gripping the headboard as his tongue flicks up again, swirling just around your clit before dipping down to lap at your entrance. His nose nudges against you with each motion, and he keeps you low, pressing you to him like you’re something sacred.

You're wet, still warm from sleep, slick and swollen and aching — and he’s devouring you like he wants to memorize every second.

The drag of his tongue turns firmer, more purposeful, and when he locks his lips around your clit and sucks slowly and deep, your hips jerk forward instinctively.

He groans again, like your reaction feeds him, like he wants you messier and louder and more undone.

You start to move, your hips rolling gently in rhythm with his mouth. He lets you, hands staying on your thighs but loose now, only anchoring you when your rhythm falters. You ride him slow, grinding against his mouth, every pass of his tongue sending a spark racing down your spine.

“Satoru— fuck, you feel so good—”

He pulls back just long enough to whisper, lips swollen, voice husky, “You’re soaked, baby. All for me, huh?”

And then he dives back in, tongue teasing, tasting, exploring like he can’t get enough. The wet sounds between your thighs, the quiet moans he hums into you, the helpless gasps you give — it’s all wrapped in the soft morning light and the scent of clean skin, floral detergent, and the faint sweetness of your lotion.

Your thighs start to tremble, your whole body tightening, and his hands slide up, fingertips digging into your hips to hold you there, keep you close, as his mouth works you harder.

And when you finally break, hips bucking, thighs shaking, breath shattered, he groans like he’s the one unravelling. You ride the aftershocks with your forehead pressed to the headboard, body twitching and flushed, while he keeps kissing you, licking up every drop, slower now, like he’s soothing you.

“Good girl,” he whispers against you, voice hoarse. “You’re so fucking good for me.”

You collapse forward into the pillows, legs still trembling, and he pulls you gently down onto his chest, arms wrapping around your waist. His lips trail up your thigh, then your hip, then to your ribs, murmuring praise between every kiss.

And then—

From the hallway: a soft thump.

You both freeze. Then you groan. “Don’t tell me you didn’t close the door.”

Satoru bites back a grin. “Maybe they rolled back.”

You swat his chest, breathless. “Tinytoru’s relentless.”

He laughs, kissing the top of your head. “He’s just proud.”

You slump onto his chest with a breathless sigh, your thighs still trembling and your skin flushed with heat. The world feels hazy and golden, like you’ve been pulled out of time, suspended in that perfect place between bliss and breath.

Satoru holds you close, one arm looping snugly around your waist, the other lazily brushing fingers up and down your spine. “Still alive?” he murmurs, voice deep and a little smug.

You give a weak, dazed laugh. “Barely.”

He grins, shifting so he can kiss your temple, then the soft space just beneath your jaw. “You’re welcome.”

You hum, not quite able to glare at him with your face pressed into his chest. “So cocky.”

“Confident,” he corrects, tilting your chin up so he can kiss you again — slow and deep, his tongue brushing against yours with lazy affection. You melt into it, your fingers curling into his hair, your body still humming from everything he gave you.

And then, without warning, he shifts downward.

“Satoru—” you protest, squirming as he starts kissing along your stomach, toward your hips. “I’m sensitive.”

“I know,” he says, wicked and fond, mouthing at the crease of your thigh. “That’s why it’s fun.”

You yelp as he kisses the inside of your thigh — too gently, too teasing — lips dragging across skin still throbbing with aftershocks. “You’re such a menace.”

He kisses higher. “But you love it.”

Another kiss, this time paired with a playful bite that makes you squeal and twist in his arms. “Stop!”

He pulls back just enough to grin up at you. “Never. You’re adorable when you’re squirmy.”

And then, another kiss. This one slower. Sweeter. Right where your thigh meets your hip, right over the part of you he just worshipped.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he murmurs, lips brushing warm against your skin. “All soft and messy and mine.”

You breathe in shakily, caught between a laugh and a sigh. “You gonna let me recover, or are you trying to kill me?”

“I’m reviving you with affection,” he says solemnly, kissing your thigh again. “It’s a healing technique.”

You giggle helplessly now, dragging a hand over your face as he curls back up beside you, grinning like a smug cat.

“You’re the worst,” you mumble.

He kisses your shoulder. “I’m the best.”

And when he tucks you under the covers again, pressing your back to his chest and wrapping his arms around you like you’re the only thing that matters and he doesn’t need to say it again.

You know.

You stay wrapped in his arms for a while, tucked into the comfort of the bed and his body. His fingers trace soft shapes over your stomach, his breathing steady against the back of your neck.

It’s peaceful.

Too peaceful.

Because soon enough, the ache begins to return — not the soreness, not the afterglow, but that low pull of want. The way your thighs still feel sticky, the way your body still remembers the way he tasted you, the way he looked up at you like you were everything.

You press your thighs together with a subtle shift, but Satoru notices immediately.

“Oh?” he murmurs, voice low and knowing. “What’s this little wiggle?”

You bury your face in the pillow. “Nothing.”

He kisses the back of your shoulder, then again, slower. “You sure?”

You turn your face toward him, cheeks flushed, breath catching. “I… I want you again.”

His hand stills on your stomach.

Then, slowly, he lifts his head to look at you. “Yeah?”

You nod, shy but honest. “I can’t stop thinking about it. The way you made me feel. The way you kissed me. I just—” You exhale, voice small but certain. “I need you again, Satoru.”

His eyes darken, that sleepy smile twisting into something deeper, hungrier. “Fuck.”

You press your palm against his thigh, trailing upward, eyes flicking toward him as your fingers brush along the front of his briefs. “Are you hard?”

He breathes out a laugh, low and ragged. “I am now.”

You bite your lip, shifting to press closer, your thigh brushing against the growing heat between his legs. He groans as your hand curls around him, even through the fabric, already thick and twitching against your palm.

“You’re so easy,” you tease softly, pressing a kiss to his jaw.

His voice drops, rough and reverent. “I’m easy for you.”

And when he rolls you gently onto your back, kissing you deep, hand sliding between your thighs to feel how soaked you already are again and you know exactly what’s coming.

Just as he shifts over you, his weight warm, his mouth already descending toward your neck and you press your palm to his chest.

He pauses instantly, eyes searching your face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you whisper, voice low and sure. “I just… I want to take care of you this time.”

He blinks, surprised. “Yeah?”

You nod, biting your lip as your fingers slide down his chest, over his stomach, tracing the lines of muscle still faintly damp with heat. “You always do so much. I want to go slow. Make you feel good.”

His expression melts, that playful edge softening into something wide-eyed and aching. “Shit,” he breathes, already halfway gone. “Okay, baby. I’m all yours.”

You guide him back with gentle insistence, pushing him to lean against the pillows. His hair’s a mess, his lips kiss-bitten, and there’s the faintest flush on his cheeks as he watches you crawl down between his legs.

You hook your fingers in the waistband of his briefs and slide them down slow. He lifts his hips to help, already half-hard and thick, twitching at the first brush of air.

“God, you’re pretty,” you murmur, kneeling between his thighs now, hands stroking over them slowly. “I never get tired of looking at you.”

He groans softly and wrecked even before you touch him, head tipping back against the pillow. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You hum, trailing kisses along the inside of his thigh, lips dragging over sensitive skin as your hand wraps around the base of his cock— already hardening fully under your touch. You stroke him slowly, reverently, watching the way he twitches, the way his hips shift just slightly toward your hand.

“So big,” you murmur, eyes locked on him. “So beautiful.”

He swears, low and shaky, as you drag your tongue up the length of him, slow and teasing, just a taste before your lips close around the head. He hisses through his teeth, hand flying to your hair, not to guide — just to hold, like he needs the anchor.

You take your time.

Each stroke of your tongue is deliberate, slow and sensual, curling along the underside, circling the tip, humming when you feel him throb. Your hand moves in tandem with your mouth, wet and steady, and every now and then you look up through your lashes, his expression utterly ruined already, lips parted, jaw slack, eyes half-lidded and dark with hunger.

“Fuck, you’re good,” he pants, hips twitching again. “So fucking good at this.”

You smile, taking him deeper, savoring the way his breath catches, then pulling back just enough to speak, your voice warm and low against his flushed skin.

“I love your cock,” you whisper. “Love the way you taste. Love how hard you get for me.”

He groans loudly, head tipping back again, one arm flung over his face as his other hand tightens in your hair. “You’re gonna ruin me, baby.”

“That’s the plan,” you breathe, before taking him deeper again, slow and full, your lips stretching around him as he groans helplessly beneath you.

He’s gasping now.

Gone is the teasing, cocky Satoru who always has a snarky quip on his lips and what’s left is just him, undone and trembling under your touch, hand still fisted in your hair like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

Your tongue drags in slow circles around the head of his cock, then glides down the thick vein beneath, savoring the heat, the pulse, the way he twitches helplessly against your tongue. You hum around him again, just enough to make his thighs jump.

“F-fuck,” he stammers, his voice wrecked. “You’re— baby— you’re too good.”

You ease off with a wet pop, stroking him slowly with one hand while you kiss along his length. “You like that?”

He makes a desperate sound, somewhere between a groan and a prayer. “I love it. I love you.” His head drops back again, eyes squeezed shut, chest heaving. “You’re gonna make me come if you keep going like that.”

You smile, brushing your lips over the tip, letting your tongue tease at the sensitive slit. “Maybe I want to.”

He shudders and his grip in your hair tightens just a little, but he still doesn’t try to control you. He just watches you, his expression so soft and wrecked, like he can barely believe it’s real.

“I want to come in your mouth,” he breathes, almost reverently. “Please.”

That word 'please' leaves his mouth so quietly, so earnestly, that it shoots straight through you. There’s no demand, no teasing, just need.

“Yeah?” you murmur, looking up at him as you take him into your mouth again, slow and deep.

He gasps, his hand clenching, his back arching just slightly. “Fuck, yes— please. Let me— let me, baby, I’m so close—”

You hum again, suck a little harder, and feel him tremble. He’s holding on by a thread now, his voice falling to broken whispers:

“So warm… so good… you feel so fucking good, baby, I’m gonna— please, let me—”

You don’t stop. You just hold him there, taking every inch he gives you, one hand steady at the base, the other pressed to his thigh as it twitches beneath your palm. And when he comes hard, low and moaning your name like a confession, you take every drop of it, swallowing slowly, never looking away.

He’s panting by the end, flushed and dazed, fingers brushing gently through your hair now.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he murmurs, pulling you up and into his arms like he never wants to let go. “You’re unreal.”

You curl against his chest, smug and soft all at once, and he kisses your forehead like a man in love with everything you are.

You’re curled against him now, his chest still rising and falling a little fast, his fingers lazily stroking your back. He’s smiling like he’s floating, half out of breath, half in love.

And then your gaze drops, just for a second.

There, at the very tip of him, still flushed and twitching faintly, just a small bit left. A silvery sheen he must have missed in the haze.

You press a kiss to his cheek, then sit up slightly, your voice warm and sweet in his ear. “Hang on,” you murmur. “Missed a spot.”

He blinks, already flushed, already trying to recover and then he watches as you ease back down between his legs again.

“Wait, you don’t have t—” he starts, breath catching.

But your mouth is already there, tongue flicking gently over the slit, just the lightest, slowest sweep. His entire body jolts, breath leaving him in a startled groan.

You hum softly, savoring him, and then press a lingering kiss to the very tip.

“Perfect,” you whisper against him, lips warm and tender. “Didn’t want to waste any of you.”

He covers his face with his hands, like he can’t handle it, like he’s already half-hard again just from that. “You’re too much,” he moans, laughing breathlessly. “I’m gonna die.”

You nuzzle his hip, smiling smug and soft. “Worth it?”

He peeks through his fingers, eyes blown and dazed. “Absolutely worth it.”

And when you crawl back up into his arms, he kisses you like he’s still tasting himself on your tongue, slow and sweet, hand cupping your cheek.

“You spoil me,” he murmurs.

You just smile. “Only you.”

He’s still dazed, arms loose around your waist as you settle on top of him again, cheek resting against his shoulder. His heart’s finally started to calm until he tilts his head to look at you and grins that crooked, post-bliss grin.

“You really went back for one last lick?” he teases, voice still hoarse, still wrecked. “You that obsessed with me, huh?”

You hum, fingers idly tracing lines across his chest. “Mm. Maybe.”

He raises a brow. “Maybe? That was dangerously thorough, sweetheart. Starting to think you’re addicted.”

You lift your head and meet his eyes. No smile, no smirk, just soft honesty that knocks the breath right out of him.

“I just… love all of you,” you say quietly.

It silences him.

Just like that, the cocky grin falters, and something deep and real flickers in his expression. His mouth parts slightly, but no words come right away.

You go on, voice tender. “Every part. Even the messy ones. Even the stupid, smug, ridiculous ones.”

His throat works around a swallow. “Shit,” he breathes. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?” you ask, brushing a thumb over his cheek.

“Like you mean it,” he says, almost a whisper. “Like you’re gonna break me in half with kindness.”

You smile now, leaning in until your noses bump. “Better that than the other way around.”

He pulls you closer, burying his face in your neck, voice muffled but warm. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“You’d die happy.”

He laughs quietly, breathless, full of love. “Yeah. I really would.”

His hands wander restlessly and familiar. One traces along your spine, the other slipping down to your hip as he shifts beneath you with a low groan, starting to lean in again.

“Your turn,” he murmurs, breath warm against your neck. “I’ve got enough in me. Let me make you feel good now.”

But you press your hand gently to his chest, just like earlier, the same soft insistence, same steady eyes.

“Not right now,” you whisper.

He blinks. “What do you mean? You sure?”

You nod. “I just want to be here. With you. For you.”

He’s quiet, watching you.

You push a few strands of silver hair from his face, fingers threading through them with delicate care. “You’re always taking care of me,” you murmur. “Always strong, always focused on everyone else. This morning… I don’t want anything from you. I just want to admire you.”

His brows twitch upward, like the tenderness surprises him, stuns him, maybe. His lips part again, but no clever remark comes out.

“I mean it,” you add softly, brushing your fingertips down the slope of his neck, over the line of his collarbone. “You’re beautiful when you’re soft like this. I want to hold you. Kiss you. Touch your hair and see you breathe. That’s all.”

His heart stutters under your palm.

And then he exhales, like he’s finally letting himself melt. Like something in him gives permission to rest. “You’re not real,” he murmurs, eyes fluttering closed as your fingers stroke through his hair again. “Nobody’s this gentle.”

“You are,” you say, kissing his temple. “And you deserve the same.”

You stay like that, curled together in tangled sheets and golden morning light, your hand in his hair, your lips against his skin. His muscles relax, his breathing slows, and for once, he lets himself be loved without needing to give anything back.

Not yet.

Just this.

His breathing is slow beneath you now, one arm looped loosely around your waist, the other tucked under his head. The light outside has turned honey-warm, casting soft shadows across the sheets, across the edges of his face.

Your fingertips move slowly over his chest, mapping out the faint scars, the curve of muscle, the shape you’ve grown to know as intimately as your own. He stays quiet, just watching you, lips parted, eyes half-lidded like he’s halfway between dozing and dreaming.

You let your fingers wander to a mark near his ribs. “How’d you get this one?” you ask softly.

He glances down without moving. “Cursed spirit. I was fifteen. Didn’t listen to someone wiser than me.”

You smile a little, still tracing. “And now you’re the wiser one?”

“I try,” he murmurs. “Still reckless, though.”

You hum in response, then shift slightly to prop yourself up on your elbow, your hand smoothing over his shoulder, his collarbone. “I used to trace clouds when I couldn’t sleep,” you say, voice quiet and far away. “On my ceiling. I’d pretend they were soft places to land. I think I still do that sometimes.”

He looks at you... really looks, a faint crease between his brows. “I didn’t know that.”

You shrug lightly. “Never came up. But… I think that’s why I like touching you like this. You’re… steady. You feel like somewhere to land.”

His jaw flexes, and for a moment he can’t find any words at all.

You keep talking, not expecting an answer, your fingers moving over his sternum. “I used to think I had to be useful. That if I wasn’t strong, I wasn’t anything. And now you look at me like I’m enough just as I am. I don’t always know what to do with that.”

“You are enough,” he says, firm but quiet. “More than.”

You glance at him, his voice broke just a little at the end there. “I know,” you whisper. “I’m trying to believe it like you do.”

He exhales slowly, then lifts a hand to brush your hair behind your ear, eyes gentle and open. “Then I’ll keep showing you. Every day. Every way I know how.”

You smile softly and press a kiss to the center of his chest, right where his heart beats beneath your mouth.

“And I’ll keep landing here,” you murmur. “If that’s okay.”

His arms tighten around you, breath catching like you’ve undone him all over again.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Always.”

Your cheek rests against his chest again, one hand still tracing thoughtless patterns along his skin. The silence between you is warm, comfortable, but you feel something shift beneath your fingers. Not tension exactly, just… weight. Thought.

His hand smooths up your back. Then, after a pause:

“I used to fake sleep when I was little,” he says, voice rough and low. “When the elders talked about me. I’d listen through the walls.”

You blink, lifting your head slightly to glance at him. “What did they say?”

He’s staring at the ceiling now, face unreadable. “That I was too much. Too strong. That I was dangerous. A problem they’d have to manage, not a kid they could raise.”

Your heart pulls tight.

“And I was strong,” he says, mouth twisting like he’s trying not to smile bitterly. “But I didn’t know what to do with it. I just wanted to be normal. I wanted to be good.”

You press your fingers to his chest again, grounding him. He looks at you, eyes clearer than you expected, no shields.

“But then I met Suguru,” he continues quietly. “And for a while, I didn’t feel like a freak. I felt like… a person. Someone with purpose.”

Your breath catches.

He swallows hard. “And when that was gone— when he was gone — I just started pretending again. Not like when I was a kid. Not fake-sleeping. Just…” He trails off, brow furrowing. “Faking like I was okay. Like I was confident. Like none of it touched me.”

You shift closer, hand finding his cheek this time. “But it did.”

He nods, barely. “Still does.”

The silence hums again, soft but heavy. You lean in, pressing your forehead to his, your hand brushing back through his hair.

“I see you,” you whisper. “Not the strongest. Not the six eyes. You.”

He closes his eyes, lashes trembling faintly.

“I love you,” you add, voice barely a breath. “Not because you’re powerful. Not in spite of it, either. Just… all of you.”

His arms come around you again, tighter this time. Fierce, but trembling. And when he kisses you, it’s not lust or even comfort. It’s gratitude. It’s reverence.

You kiss him once more, softly, slowly and feel the quiet shift between you. Not a spark catching, but a low ember glowing warmer. His fingers spread along your spine like he’s relearning the shape of you, like he wants to memorize it again just to be sure it’s real.

And when he kisses you this time, it’s deeper. No urgency, just a slow, aching pour of everything he couldn’t say.

You shift over him, thighs bracketing his hips, and his hands come to settle gently at your waist. He looks up at you with something raw in his gaze, like he’s still that boy hearing himself called dangerous through the walls, unsure he’s worthy of love this quiet.

You lean down, pressing your forehead to his again.

“I’ve got you,” you whisper.

His hands slide up, one cradling the back of your head, the other brushing reverently down your back. “I know,” he says, like it’s still a miracle.

You rock your hips forward, the softest brush of connection sparking a shared breath between you. His eyes flutter, his mouth parts, but he doesn’t speak. He just watches you like you’re something holy.

You take your time.

Your hands on his chest, his waist, his cheek. Your lips across his throat, his jaw, the corner of his mouth. You move with care, with purpose. Not worshiping his power just worshiping him. His sighs. His softness. His need.

When you sink down onto him at last, it’s a slow alignment, like slipping into something that was always waiting to be filled. He gasps, fingers tightening on your hips, and you still him with a touch, a kiss to his temple.

“Let me,” you murmur. “Let me take care of you.”

And he does.

He lets you guide the rhythm, slow and rolling. Lets you kiss every sharp breath from his mouth. Lets you murmur little nothings, soft praise and quiet love while you ride him with aching sweetness.

He looks at you like he might break from it. From being seen. From being wanted like this.

And when he cums, it’s with your name on his lips, his hands tangled in yours, his eyes open and shining.

You don’t move right away.

Neither of you does.

You’re still straddling him, tucked close, your cheek resting against his shoulder, your fingers drawing idle circles over the sweat-slick line of his collarbone. His arms stay around you like instinct, like if he lets go, even for a second, you might vanish.

He’s warm beneath you. Still inside you. Still breathing a little unevenly.

You tilt your head slightly, pressing a soft kiss to his neck. “You okay?”

He hums, voice hoarse. “More than.”

You shift to look at him, nudging his hair back from his forehead. “You looked like you were gonna cry for a second.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, just a breath, almost embarrassed. “That obvious?”

You nod, smiling gently. “A little.”

He turns his head, nuzzling into your wrist as it rests against his cheek. “I don’t know what the hell you’re doing to me.”

“Loving you,” you murmur.

He shuts his eyes, lets out a slow breath, and you feel his whole body soften again beneath you.

You trace along his jaw with your thumb, watching him. “Did it feel different?” you ask after a moment.

He nods faintly. “Yeah. You didn’t… just want me. You saw me. The parts I don’t even like.”

You lean in and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I do want you. All of you. Even the messy parts. Especially the messy parts.”

He opens his eyes again, just enough to meet yours. “You’re the first person I’ve ever believed when they said that.”

That makes your chest ache, in the best, most tender way.

You settle in closer, cheek against his chest again. “I’m staying right here,” you whisper. “If you want me.”

“I do,” he says, immediately. “Always.”

You let the quiet take over again for a while its just warmth and breath and lazy fingers drifting across skin. He shifts only to kiss the crown of your head, murmuring something you don’t quite catch. But the way he holds you tighter afterward tells you it doesn’t need to be repeated.

He’s here. You’re here.

Still tangled up, still safe.

And neither of you are going anywhere.

He’d beg to have you again, but he knows he can’t – he knows he needs to stay distant, to be your friend. One night where he let down his guard and whimpered an “I love you” was enough – you both were tipsy, and you were cummin’ too hard to hear it, the little confession.

The next day you were back to normal, but he’d felt you quiver around him, he’d watched you drool as he drilled his cock mean into your hole – tip bruising that cute cervix. Pulling out was a tragedy – but he was happy that fucking condom snapped, sadistic as it was for sweet, nerdy Satoru Gojo.

He wished he could have filled you with all those creampies.

“I made everything weird, yeah? That night-”

“No! No, no, it’s not that. I just…” You trail off, and he feels his heart hammering, pulse racing with nerves. “I need to tell you something.”

“Is anything wrong!?”

“No, yes – well…” You sigh again. “I’m coming over if that’s okay.”

“Of course.”

“Maybe um, smoke some weed first? Have a drink?”

Satoru pauses. “How bad is the news?”

“Just get… relaxed first.”

*****

“You’re… pregnant?” He manages to ask, eyes locked onto you as you pace back and forth in his living room. “You’re sure?”

“I need an official test, but yes,” you keep pacing now, shaking your head, sighing. “I was ovulating, I should have known better. Ugh! And now… Toru, you don’t have to help if I keep it, okay? I don’t want you thinking I like did this to get something, like because you’re rich or-”

“Excuse me?” He stands now, walking to you, gripping your shoulders gently, turning you to face him. “When would I ever think that about you?”

“But so many women would fucking do that to you,” you whisper, eyes full of tears. “And I know you’re scared of that. I know it’s why you’re cautious with dating anyone.”

That’s part of it.

The other part is he compares them all to you.

“I know it’s an accident, fuck I’m just as responsible, I was more than happy to fuck you without one,” you flush then, and he clears his throat. “Sorry, I know we aren’t supposed to bring it up.”

“Hard not to, now,” you sigh, letting him cup your face. “I’m so sorry. Really, I know you have so much on your plate, and-”

“Stop apologizing.”

“You’re taking this way better than I thought,” you admit softly, letting him hug you, sinking against his warmth. “I thought you’d panic, or worse… hate me.”

“I’d never hate you,” he whispers, his mind rushing a million miles a minute – of course it’s scary, and of course he has no clue about kids at all. He doesn’t even know what you’ll wanna do, but fuck if he won’t support his best friend – the girl he’s been pining for secretly for years.

He sure couldn’t bring any of that up now, not when you need support, when you need him to just be there.

“We need to make a doctor’s appointment, yeah?”

“I already did,” you sniffle, and he swipes your tears. “Do you wanna come with me?”

“Of course I do,” his brows draw together. “You’ve known me since we were babies almost, you really think I’d let you do this alone?”

“I knew you wouldn’t, but to resent me,” you trail off now, emotions burning in your throat. “I really always wanted one. Not now, but, I did.”

“Yeah, me too,” you blink a bit. “Didn’t know that?”

“You never talked about it to me,” you sniffle again, nausea suddenly hitting you, making you sway a bit. “Fuck.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m gonna…” you rush off then to one of his bathrooms, not one of your finer moments, and as a best friend always does, he holds your hair while you’re sick – it’s not like he hasn’t done it at high school keg parties, or the beginning of college for you – but it’s been a while since you’ve needed it. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, please,” he sighs now, standing. “I’ll get you something for your tummy, you have a toothbrush you can use under the sink, okay?”

“Thank you, Toru,” you hang your head as he walks out, soon you’re on his couch with your legs over his thighs, you all frequently sit like that – but now everything is different. He’s got you nibbling on saltines, and a ginger ale – he’d door dashed them so fast you were surprised.

Then you found out it wasn’t doordash – it was just Ijichi.

Poor Ijichi, really, but you suppose he’s paid well to be at Gojo’s beck and call all the time.

“Eat it,” Satoru commands quietly, studying you. “It’ll help.”

“I’ll throw it up again.” You nibble, little teeth marks on the cracker as you try to chew it a bit. “I keep getting sick.”

“How will you grow a baby if you don’t eat, hmm?” His words hit hard, the sweetness in them, the way he’s looking right at you. “Chew.”

“Yes sir,” you mumble, chewing again.

“Swallow.”

“Don’t say that!?” You’re choking almost on that cracker now as he snorts, smirking just a bit and leaning close.

“Oh, why not? Mind somewhere?” He teases, as if it’s just another day, and watches you get all flustered, playfully shoving him. “Perv.”

“Me!? You got me pregnant!”

“Well, you told me to keep going.”

“You little shit,” he shoves the ginger ale can in your hand again, narrowing those baby blues.

“Drink.”

“Just don’t say swallow, god,” he snorts and rolls his eyes a bit, leaning back on the couch, you see it’s getting dark outside now. “I need to head back soon.”

“Just stay,” it was normal to stay, before that night, before you knew how good his lips felt on your shoulders, his teeth sinking into the nape of your neck, cock railing your cunt from behind.

It was not normal anymore.

You look at his lips, wondering what it would be like to press yours on them, they were soft on your skin, but things were so hasty you both didn’t do that. Probably for the best, they were too plump and glossy, unfairly pretty like all of Satoru Gojo was, really, best you don’t even think of it.

“I should go,” you finally manage to say, and Satoru frowns. “I really have a lot to do tomorrow with work.”

Work.

He forgets you have your summer job, concern hitting his features then. “In your condition?”

“I’m barely pregnant, silly,” you playfully push him again, standing now. “I will see you at the appointment?”

“Of course,” he hugs you a little too long at the door, he can tell you’re fucking terrified as you hug him back, but…

Satoru’s not upset, at all actually.

Instead, he orders anything and everything a baby could need, and a million baby books, studying everything there was to know, picturing it all.

No, he was…

Excited.

Terrified but fucking excited to think of it – of the one girl he’s always loved carrying his baby, but he tries to rein it all in, the last thing he needs to do is pressure you either way with any decision. So instead, when you text him the details and a little good night with a heart, he simply writes back –

See you then. Night, sweetheart 

Before studying again like a little psycho all night – by the time your visit comes, Satoru Gojo is an entire fucking expert on everything pregnancy related, in fact. What else was a best friend for, really, if not to support you with everything?

And if in the next week he jerks it hopelessly to the thought of fucking you and cumming in you, well…

He can’t really help that.

*****

The next week

The gel is cold against your skin as the doctor spreads it across your stomach with the little wand, your shirt slid up to your chest, showing a tummy still mostly flat.. Gojo sits beside you, his hand clenched in yours, his face paler than usual despite how supportive he is being.

You've both been quiet since arriving at the doctor, even in the back of his car as his driver brought you, there was not much said. He tried to lighten the mood by showing you videos of dumb things, but when it didn’t work, and he knew you needed the quiet? He gave you it, just keeping a hand touching your thigh the entire ride.

Comforting, he was comforting you – as the reality of this situation was sinking deeper with each passing moment.

A baby.

Would you have it? Would you keep it? Part of you has always loved kids, but you never expected to be a mother yet, especially not being married or at least with someone. Not your best friend – and was he still going to be that? Would he resent you for your decision, would-

"Alright, let's see what we can find," the doctor says, moving the wand across your belly and thankfully cutting off your thoughts. “Hmm… let’s try here.”

You stare at the screen as he delves lower, pressing a bit on your pelvis – your heart is pounding so quickly you can hear the blood rushing in your ears. There's just static for some time, and you feel yourself getting sick as Satoru watches with you, seeing the shape of your uterus right on the screen.

Fuck - what if something’s wrong!? What if…

“Hey,” Satoru smiles at you, feeling your panic – he’s always known you so fucking well, and now is no different. He runs his thumb across your knuckles softly. “Hear that?”

“No I…” There it is.

A flicker. A tiny, rapid fluttering on the screen, and the sounds, little whooshes quickly echoing in the room, it’s so fast, you can’t take what it does to you in that moment, feeling tears in your eyes. “See?”

“A heartbeat…” You whisper, he grins all big, his teeth white and bright, that smile fucking ruining you.

Another pregnancy symptom?

Apparently being too fucking horny – and being around Gojo made everything a million times worse. Did he have to be so attractive? Did he have to smell so damn good? Did he have to hold your hand like this with his pretty blue eyes glittering, like he’s got it all together when you don’t?

How were you ever just his friend before, you always had something for him, sure. High school crush, college crush, puppy love – but through it all you always knew that friendship was the most important thing. Yet now you know what it’s like for him to grip your hips, to hold you, to bend you over and break you apart on him. To have his body on top of you.

How could you forget it when you’ll be seeing him constantly for years?

"That's the heartbeat," the doctor says with a smile, shaking you out of your heated thoughts. "Strong and healthy. Looks like you're about ten weeks along."

Tears spring to your eyes as you turn to look at Satoru, seeing his own are affixed now to the screen, his lips slightly parted. He looks from the screen to your stomach, then back again, his expression one of pure awe.

"Is that… that’s the baby?”

“Yes, it’s hard to see this early,” the doctor takes a few pictures, it’s a tiny, moving little thing, so small it’s hard to tell.

“That's our baby,” you whisper, then curse softly. “I mean…”

“Shh,” Satoru murmurs, his own heart hammering so fast he almost feels faint. He was of course nervous, but seeing it and seeing you – the girl he’s loved as long as he can remember? He can’t help his dopey fucking grin. “It is.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, all pretty, flushed cheeks, blushing when Satoru offers to clean the gel off your tummy and you sit up, it squishes just a bit, making you curse. “Ugh, already.”

“You look perfect,” he says it before he can stop himself, his hand moving gently to wipe your skin clean, you look down, thighs pressing together, as his eyes flick to yours. “You’ll be pretty, all pregnant.”

“No way, my mom got huge and I will too!”

“So? It’s part of that,” you frown again. “Hey.”

“Yeah?” He tilts your chin as you slide your shirt down.

“What’s going on in your mind right now?”

“That I’m selfish, self centered to think of my body,” you pout a bit. “Stretch marks, titties getting so big, tummy huge. God, my ankles will too! My friends have all been so miserable, ugh. And I should worry less about that, and more about how I’ll raise this damn baby. Am I…”

“Shh,” he kisses your temple now, and you lean against him, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re in your early twenties, pretty normal to be worried about your body changing, I don’t think that’s selfish. Okay?”

“You always make me feel better,” you snuggle against him, loving this too fucking much, inhaling his scent, feeling his warmth.

“What are friends for? Besides… getting you pregnant I mean.”

“Satoru!”

“Well…” You snort and shove at him, shaking your head. “When’s the next appointment?”

“Two weeks for a physical type check… do you…”

“I’ll be there.”

*****

The next physical went great, and Satoru’s been reading even more baby books – you’d decided to keep it and had let him know it was his choice, of course, if he wanted to be involved. Because this was both your choices.

Of course Satoru did.

There was no world he’d ever let you do this alone and not support you – though he doesn’t tell you exactly how excited he really is, he is so nervous in these moments, especially knowing how scared you still are. So he tries to be comforting, reassuring, there for you.

He was right there on time, taking you there, and fuck he looked good. He had on this sweater that was so soft you wanted to snuggle against it, that cologne in your senses, almost making you salivate.

Fuck.

As if you didn’t want him before, at three months pregnant it was worse than ovulation, it was like you needed to cum constantly. You’d played with your pussy every day to avoid this, to hope that you could act normal with him, but when he’d brushed this tiny stretch mark on your skin and smiled?

When he’d murmured cute.

When he held the door open for you, sliding in and talking about everything he’s researched on babies? Well, that’s when it’s almost fucking impossible to control, thighs pressed together with your hands between them, as if you can keep yourself from touching him somehow on the drive back.

You're impossibly quiet in the back seat of his sleek black car, Ijichi drives Gojo everywhere, you’re not even sure Satoru can drive – there’s no point really though. You don’t blame him one bit, but it was always pretty fucking cool in school to get those rides home with him – memories twist and blur just a bit as he brushes a lock of your hair back, smiling at you.

You shift uncomfortably, trying to discreetly press your thighs together even more, to not just straight up whine out from the friction, but it's no use. You're so  horny it hurts, your panties soaked to all hell, your clit pulsing with need, literally twitching from his proximity.

What sort of pregnancy thing was this? This wasn’t in a book.

"You okay, sweetheart?” Satoru asks softly now, glancing over at you. "You've been squirming, are you uncomfy? I think cramps can still happen – and your back can hurt from it. I can rub it?"

“No! I mean!? No!? I mean…” You curse, shaking your head. "I'm fine is all I meant!”

“Fine?” You nod quickly, making him sigh. “Am I being too touchy with you? Offering to-”

“No, no. God I appreciate you so much, never,” you mumble, shaking your head. “It’s not that at all.”

“Okay…” He exhales now.

“You thought that?”

“You’re so tense around me,” he brushes his hand against your thigh softly. “Like you’re clenched up, I worried I…”

“No… I’m just… not okay.”

"What's wrong?" he asks, brows furrowing just a bit. "Are you in any pain or anything? I need to know if you are."

"Not exactly," you admit, your cheeks flushing, burning fucking hot, god is this car just hot!? Is his skin burning!? "It's just... I'm really... uncomfortable."

"Uncomfortable how? I can turn up the AC, and you can lean on me?”

You hesitate a bit, he’s being so fucking sweet, and you feel like a deviant right now. Your brain is on nothing but how long his fingers are, how good they’d feel inside you, fuck when you’d been together you’re not sure he touched you much. He had slipped them in for a moment but you were so needy you had begged him to put it in.

Oh and that stretch.

But they’re long, and they’re thick, thumb brushing your thigh. You sigh, shutting your eyes again.

“You know you can tell me anything, yeah? Known you since the fucking fifth grade, now is not time to get shy.”

“Right…” You take a shaky breath. “It’s embarrassing."

“Okay, how?”

"I'm horny," you blurt it out, watching his own blush, cursing a bit. "Like, painfully horny. I feel like I will jump you, straddle you, fuck your hands are so big and… Satoru, were they always this big!?”

“Were they…” He laughs nervously. “What?

“Were they always this big – and why do you smell like that?” He blushes brighter as you lean forward, your hand covering his. “I’m going to lose it, I can’t act like this, but it’s like I’m going to die if I don’t cum. I’m wet from nothing.”

Oh fuck.

He can’t take that, looking at you as you lean forward, your tits are right in his view, that sleeve falling off your off shoulder sweater, showing too much of your pretty skin. He swallows nervously, it takes everything not to just drag you on his lap and pump you full of cum.

God, what would your nipples look like dripping milk? How big and full would your tits get? He feels like he’s the pervert, and you’re over here worrying, he can see it as you pull back just a bit.

"Oh. That's... that's a thing? With pregnancy?” He tries to act calm, cock throbbing.

"Apparently," you mutter, shifting again. "And it's fucking awful right now, I am not trying to be… distant, okay? I…”

The car hits a bump and you whine out.

“Ugh!” You cover your face, Satoru is quiet for a moment, then clears his throat, taking your hands down slowly, making you look at him. “This is embarrassing!"

“Nah, it’s… just…” He swallows a bit, nervous as his fingers wrap around your delicate wrists. "I could... I mean, if it would help... I could help you out. As a friend if you um… want? As… a baby daddy… friend or-"

You blink then. "What?"

"Just... to take the edge off I could help you feel better," he murmurs, his cheeks still slightly flushed, eyes dark. "I helped you get in this state, I could at least help you with this, to make you cum, hmm?”

“Make me cum?” You’re trembling a bit at that. “Like and… it’s fine with you?”

“Is it fine with me,” he laughs a bit, shaking his head, tilting your chin up. “You askin’ if I have a problem making you cum for me?”

“I just,” you bury your face against his chest, his hand slipping up your thigh achingly slow. “Make me cum how?”

“You keep staring at my hands, do you want my fingers inside you?” You suck in a breath, burying your face again, feeling his thumb brushing your skin. “What else is your best friend for, hmm?"

“Satoru,” you laugh softly, biting down on your lip, peeking over at the partition. “Would he hear?”

“You were loud,” you gasp and playfully shove at him. “I’m kidding… kind of. You really were.”

“I’ll be a little quiet,” you whisper. “You were loud too.”

“Brat, tch,” you giggle, and it feels perfect.

Satoru is your best friend.

Satoru got you pregnant.

Now Satoru Gojo’s fingers are sliding up your thighs, his fingertips tugging at the waistband of those leggings, you love wearing them lately, with your body already changing just a bit. “Are you sure you want me to?”

“Yes,” you whisper, a hand slipping up his chest, shaky just a bit as his fingertips slip lower. “Helping me as my friend.”

“Best friend.”

“Best ever,” you whisper – delusional – nodding so he has the okay, his fingers are just a bit hesitant at first, gently tracing the edge of your panties before slipping underneath, finding you. “Mnh!”

You gasp as his fingers brush against your folds, already slick with arousal, embarrassingly so in fact – so wet the squelch is loud as he darts it up your slit, Satoru moans softly, looking into your eyes and slipping lower. His fingertip dips in, and even more slick drips out, your panties already sticky, he lets out a little hum, running them up, studying you.

"Fuck," he murmurs, voice breathy. "You weren't kidding, you’re soaked, sweetheart, hmm?”

You shake your head in response, spreading your thighs wide for his fingers to explore you, he finds your clit easily, circling it gently and all teasing, making you whine out in frustration before applying more pressure, drawing patterns like he had that night months ago.

“Satoru!” You whisper it, trying to keep quiet as you arch against his hand, a desperate whine escaping your lips again, hands gripping at his sweater too tightly.

"Like that?" he asks, his voice soft, god does he have to sound like that? You’re trying to keep it together, but the faster his fingers rub your twitchy lil clit, the worse.

"Yes, y-yes like that I…. mhm!”

He knows your body, he has no problem sliding two in deep, curving up and letting the heel of his palm graze your needy clit, squishing noises even louder as he watches you, waiting for you to fall apart for him.

“So wet,” he murmurs, moving faster. “You’re close, hmm?”

You nod quickly, letting him lean forward – as if he may kiss you, just hovering a centimeter away as he works your cunt, lifting his chin and looking down at you, eyes hungry and bright blue.

“Then cum, let go,” he whispers, and you do it like on command, earning his soft, murmured praise, orgasm rushing through you until you’re high from it, resting your face against his neck.

“Toru,” you breathe out, eyes shutting, the orgasm so much better than what you can do yourself.

"Better?" he asks softly, pulling his fingers back just a bit, eyeing that slick and moaning. “Fuck…”

"Much better,” you mumble, seeing that amount of slickness and panicking. “Oh god sorry…”

“For what? Being soaked?” He smirks a bit. “No need.”

“I um…” He sucks your cunt off his fingers, making your lips part at the filthy little act, something you’ve never seen with any other partner.

He just tasted your cunt, his cheeks hollowing.

“I um… you uh…” Words. Use words. “I… th-thhank you?"

"Anytime," he says with a small smile, chuckling a bit as your flavor hits his tastebuds. “What sort of friend would I be if I let you hurt like that?”

“Right, you’re winning the best friend – baby daddy award,” he snorts, and the two of you act fine, act as if this was just that.

You’re both too fucking scared to admit what it really is.

*****

A month later

You're staying over at Gojo's place again – it's become more frequent since the pregnancy was confirmed. The two of you spend a lot of time together, preparing a bit or just enjoying each other’s company. You had to tell your families, which was not an easy conversation, especially with Satoru’s parents.

They’d been appalled quite frankly, Satoru was supposed to marry who they wanted him to, they were anything if not distant and terrible as long as you knew him. You’d held his hand that night during that dinner, and asked if he wanted you to stay over again, quiet as you both drove home.

“You don’t have to,” he murmured softly, shaking his head. “I’ll be fine, I expected much worse.”

“I still want to,” you had said, kissing his cheek, your eyes fluttering shut, his hand had instinctively touched your tummy, getting rounder now, something so intimate and sweet it almost broke you.

You hated going home alone.

There were plenty of rooms – but tonight you couldn’t just sleep in one, tossing and turning until you got up in the middle of the night, peeking to see Satoru asleep, sprawled across his bed with his lankly limbs – the sheets tangled around his waist. You watch him for a moment, you’ve seen him asleep countless times, but everything lately has felt so different.

“Toru?”

“Hmm?” He opens his eye and turns, peeking at you. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

His voice is all raspy with sleep, making your heart flutter. God he’s even cuter, leaning up in the dark, brushing a hand through his hair with a sleepy smile. “Could I sleep in your bed?”

“You want the comfiest one, hmm?” He teases, holding up the blanket for you to crawl in beside him. “Come closer.”

“You sure?” He nods, tugging you against him and sighing, burying his face in your neck. “Will it be too much?”

“No, not at all,” he feels so good, he’s so warm, his body against yours. “Get some sleep.”

But sleep still eludes you, you instead can’t stop thinking of how badly you crave not any kind of food or drink like a normal pregnant girl.

You’re craving Satoru.

God, thinking of that hardness pressing against you in your mouth, to taste him for once, feel him harden on your tongue and pulse. Swallow him down, suck him till he’s whimpering, cumming over and over?

“Whatcha thinkin’ about, hmm?” He teases you again. “I feel your brain whirling over there.

“I’m having an odd craving,” you mumble, turning over to him now, he raises a brow at you, yawning.

“I’ll order whatever, what is it?”

“You can’t order it,” you bite your lip now, and he laughs.

“You want me to make you cum again?”

“No.”

“No?” You slide down the bed, gently pulling back the sheets a bit, and his breath catches in his throat. He's only wearing boxers, and you can already see the outline of his cock, thick and growing, a little dark spot where pre is slipping. “Oh you… you’re craving…”

“I really want your cock in my mouth.”

Is Satoru fucking dreaming!?

He wonders as he blinks rapidly at you, your fingertips trailing his abdomen, making them tense. “You want my cock in your mouth?”

“Yeah, that sounds insane. I want…” You sigh. “Cum.”

“Cum!? Is that even safe!?”

“I don’t know, that’s not in a book!” You pull back now, sighing. “God I’m so sorry.”

“No, no, don’t go,” he catches your wrist quickly, tugging you against him. “I would never turn down your mouth, you fuckin’ kidding?”

“You sure?”

“Am I sure,” he shuts his eyes, trying not to act as eager as he really is, and completely failing. “In what world does anyone turn that down? Especially from you.”

“You want it then?” You whisper, reaching out to trace the length of him through the soft fabric, he whimpers just a bit, the sound making you ache.

“You really wanna suck me till I cum? You don’t want like… ice cream with pickles or something?” You laugh softly, shaking your head, and he tugs you more, your hair falling against his skin, brushing his thigh. “Yeah, go ahead then, sweetheart. You can suck me any time you need.”

“Oh can I?” His hand brushes your hair back reverently as he tugs his cock out, he’s close to telling you he’s in love just when you kiss his flushed tip, tongue lapping to grab a little bit of white.

“Anytime,”he murmurs again instead, watching as you gently take the tip of him into your mouth, hot and wet. “Fuck…”

“Mnh,” you’re aching as you eye him, and his hand entangles gently into your hair, easing your head down so you can taste him – clean and slightly salty with the white coating your tastebuds. You moan softly as you take more of him in, your tongue swirling around to hit his frenum, making his hips buck up.

“God… so this is really your pregnancy craving?"

You hum around him in response, which makes him groan, thickening in your mouth as you move up and down, reaching for your pussy and touching it, letting him fuck into your throat, pausing then.

“Is it too much?”

You pull back with a messy pop, shaking your head. “I want it.”

“Fuck you’re pretty like this,” he whispers, his hand gentle but firm on the back of your head as you work him with your mouth, taking him deeper with each pass until he's hitting the back of your throat, and you’re gagging on him. “Takin’ me like that? So fucking good, doin’ s’good I…”

He’s mumbling, stuttering as he fucks your throat – just like you were dying for, making you suck harder, aching to taste all of him. Him whispering your name as you drool down his balls, his tip gliding past your uvula, while your fingers fuck in and out of your needy cunt.

“You’re touching her?” He asks softly, you hum in response, he’s lost at how good your throat feels, how tight with every little gasp. “Sucking me has you that needy, hmm?”

“Mhm,” you suck even harder, and he fears he won’t last long, not when you’re cumming, shaking and your throat is contracting, his thick length stretching it so good.

“Want all of that cum in your throat?” He whispers hoarsely, you moan again, eyes looking up under your lashes as he holds your hair in a ponytail. “I’ll give you all of it, then, sweetheart.”

He is not quiet when he cums, no, Satoru Gojo moans – husky and fucking loutd as his hips buck up, and he’s busting his creamy release. It’s spilling down your throat, and you greedily swallow every drop, slurping it all as he gently fucks your throat a few more times, whining out, sensitive.

You take your fingers of your cunt, slick and messy, sucking him up and down, still semi hard, eyes locked on his.

You just sucked Satoru Gojo’s cock.

Your friend since fifth grade.

You pull off, a thick string of saliva and cum dissolving from your licks, as your little pink tongue then gently licks him clean.

“You’re so perfect I…” He trails off, swallowing nervously and then tugging you up. “C’mere.”

You gasp as you land on his chest, and he wraps an arm around you, kissing your lips, tasting his own cum right off you.

You haven’t even kissed Satoru yet.

That’s what’s insane, you’ve gotten pregnant, you’ve fucked him, came on his fingers, but it was as if you both knew the kiss would ruin you, and it does, desperate, needy and sweet. How his hand tangles in your hair, and his lips move, plump and soft against yours.

That’s when the inevitable fact hits your heart – you didn’t just crave cum in your mouth, you wanted to make him feel good, wanted him to fall apart for you, his tongue glides on yours and you can’t help but sigh into his mouth. You lean up a bit, hands on his chest, a smile so big and goofy on his face you melt.

“So, was that just a craving?”

“Were your fingers just helping a friend out?” You ask, he laughs and shakes his head, cupping your face.

“What do you think?” You bury your face nervously, letting him hold you against his body, your heart racing.

“I think everything is insane. And scary and… I don’t ever, ever want to lose you, Satoru.”

“You won’t,” he whispers, kissing gently across your cheek, to your temple, but the words still don’t make it from his lips.

I love you.

It’s like they’re stuck, until you’re fast asleep, and he murmurs them like he did that night you conceived your baby.

*****

It goes on like that, sucking Satoru for your oral fixation, and fuck he’s not complaining, but soon it’s not enough, neither is you letting him finger you when you’re aching. You’re so sexy with your tummy swelling, and your tits so full, your face is glowing and your goddamn eyes are glittering.

You are sinking to your knees after work at your place when he halts you, shaking his head, making you pause.

“Oh um, not today?”

“You stand here,” he says instead, kneeling and making you blush, looking up at you under his snowy lashes. “I want to taste you this time.”

“Toru, you c-can’t… I’m getting big already and-”

“You’re perfect,” you melt when he gently slides up your dress, groaning when he sees your slick, pretty pussy. “Call it my pregnancy craving.”

“You got ‘em too, hmm?” he laughs softly, tickling your skin.

“Why don’t you sit down and spread your thighs,” you obey him – how can you not – sitting at the edge of the bed, eyeing the reflection of you both in your mirror for just a moment, the sight as filthy as it is sweet, worshipping you when he kisses up your inner thigh. “Good girl.”

“You can’t just say that, Toru,” he doesn’t know what it does until this very moment, when he spreads your plump lips, watching the slick pool down, so fucking pretty. His hand brushes up the curve of your tummy, tongue gathering that mess and drinking it with a greedy bob of his Adam's apple. “Mnh!”

“Fuck,” Satoru’s lost now – hand adjusting his straining erection, his other slipping higher, squishing a tit, feeling the weight of it in his palm as he looks up at your body, your face, head falling back.

You’re too pretty pregnant.

All he can think is how he’s almost glad you are right now, he knows it was an ‘accident’ but he’s so fucking happy, having you with him all the time, having your touch, your nearness. Seeing all the changes and knowing in this way the two of you are connected, a toxic little thought nagging at him that he’d love to do it again, next time on purpose.

Maybe he’s very happy pulling out didn’t work, and that the condom broke, when his fingers press into your thighs, and he’s greedily slurping at your cunt now. All gentleness lost as your flavors hit, ones he’s had little hints of at best, watching you suck him was amazing, but Satoru thinks he loves this just as much if not more, drinking your cunt up as you tremble, as you fall apart.

“I’m c-close, fuck I’m…” You’re pressing your thighs on either side, he pulls back, your wetness making his face glisten.

“Hold ‘em open,” he murmurs softly, you prop your feet up on the bed as he sinks further onto the plush of your rug. “Just like that.”

“I’m spread wide though…”

“And you were when I got you this way,” he grins as you blush. “You wouldn’t let me touch you, it was just – in me.”

“Well I wanna say it again,” you admit softly. “But also…”

You tug his hair, bringing his face against you, his moans vibrating on your messy, sensitive clit. Satoru slides two fingers in and fucks them in your hole, slick and drooling onto the carpet with every thrust, his mouth sucking your little clit inside it. A few more flicks and hums, and you’re shattering, cumming so hard you squirt all over him, soaking his shirt.

“Fuck…” He looks at you in wonder, you gasp, covering your face.

“Oh god!? I’ve never…”

“Good,” he is possessive then, as he stands up, sliding your dress until it’s off you completely, leaning forward and kissing your lips. “I’m glad if I made you first.”

“Are you getting possessive of your ‘friend’?” You tease – you both know the word is nonsense at this point, but you’re also scared to say more.

That you’re in love with him.

“Maybe I am…” He admits, his voice breathy and sensual, as you taste yourself, the sweetness from his mouth mixing with your own flavor, addictive. “Maybe I wanna pump you full of me, hmm? Maybe I’ve been wanting to.”

“Then do it,” you whisper, eagerly tugging down his zipper, seeing just how hard and thick he is. “Cum in me.”

“Fuck, seriously!?” You giggle a bit at that, nodding. “What position though? Can you… be on your back? Can you…”

“You didn’t read that part, hmm?” You tease him then, laying back and seeing how his eyes darken, his pretty tip leaking. “I can, but no weight on the tummy at this point so…”

“Got it,” he whispers, hands on your hips, standing between you as you lay there, thighs wide, your mess dripping in rivulets still from your thighs, when his tip hits your slit you both take a breath.

“Ah!” You’re so sensitive during this stage of pregnancy, you almost cum from a rub, embarrassing as it was to squirt on his damn face, you can still see where you soaked his shirt as he leans down, careful not to put weight on you. “Sensitive…”

“Yeah, are you, baby?” You nod quickly, he keeps rubbing it, like to torture you, kissing you while holding himself up and standing, achingly sweet even as his fat cockhead is going faster between your folds. “Yeah you are – gonna cum like this, hmm? Like that night?”

“You r-remember?” You mumble, losing control of your senses, clinging to his biceps, nails pressing over his shirt, Satoru sighs, kissing you again, as you feel your body tense up.

“Of course I remember,” your eyes meet, and you can’t help but shatter with another glide of his tip against your slit, impossibly more squirt spraying him. “God you’re wetter than before. Is that even possible?”

“In me, fuck… stop teasin’ me…” You are already cockdrunk from his tip, and he knows it – smirk on his handsome face. “Toru!”

“Lemme take my time, know how long I’ve waited?” You can’t answer, not when he glides his cock in, careful when in three thrusts he bottoms out, waiting for you to adjust. “Feel so fuckin’ good… you’re soaked…”

“Mhm,” your thighs tremble, he is easing back, his hands trailing down your changing body in a way that should make you nervous.

But you just want more.

“Beautiful…” He whispers, easing back and looking at the mess with every slow stroke, how your puffy lips are moving around his thickness, coated his raised veins till they’re glittery. “Look at you, sweetheart. These tits, so full, I can’t wait till there’s milk dripping.”

You whine out then, eyes rolling back as he begins to move, standing and lifting you just slightly, angling your hips so his cock can rub right on your sweet spot, hitting the little sponginess of it over and over in sweet little kisses. You shatter again, and again, cumming so much you get dizzy, your ears ringing, his cock filling you and stretching you more than you thought you could take.

He’s whispering your name in a way that’s nothing like ‘a friend’ or even a baby daddy, the way he says your name as he rests a hand on your ribcage, the other on your hip, fucking into you? It’s filthy, it’s loving, it’s everything and anything but how he’s said it your whole life, and yet…

It’s still the way he said it the day he met you.

When he first learned your name, the two of you became friends, and he shared his lunch with you because you forgot to make your own. The way when he took you home after school, and when he’d hold open that umbrella, the two Satoru Gojos meld – that one, and this one, a man fucking you up, holding you, his shirt half slid up from your hands.

“Off, off,” you tug impatiently and he laughs, doing just that, letting you touch his abdomen, his chest, gripping his obliques when he starts to move faster. “Ah!”

“Y-you okay, sweetheart?” He manages, pausing then. “Am I too…”

“Love it,” you mumble instead, shaking now. “Love it, please… more…”

“I’ll give you anything when you ask so sweet,” he eases out and you gasp, scowling at him. “I’m just going to make you more comfy, don’t you glare at me.”

“I said more and you… oh…” He’s gently putting a little pillow underneath your hips now, and you sigh, lashes fluttering. “That is better.”

“Mhm, impatient girl,” he glides back in, hitting your spot even better, every drag of his tip having you closer and closer. “You sure you want my cum? You wanna be so full of me it drips out all day?”

“Yes,” it’s automatic, your answer, Satoru whines out then, his cheeks all flushed, his eyes lidded and heavy – you feel him pulsing inside, he’s so big in your slick, messy walls. “Please… cum inside I… mnh!”

“Fuck,” Satoru gives you just that – all his milky cum, coating your walls in white, trembling as you milk him for every drop.

Oh, and when he sees that mess pouring from your pretty cunt? Well he can’t help but fuck it back inside, but this time with you on your knees, your head resting on the bed as he holds your body up. Watching the thick coating of his own white release slipping down his cock, his balls heavy again.

He gives you more of it – more of him, desperately whimpering in your ear, cum getting fucked back inside, whispering those treacherous words that you didn’t hear last time. But this time you do, you turn your head, drool spilling, eyes all fucked out – Satoru swipes your drool as he busts his load deep in you again, three now just getting fucked deeper, slipping from the mess you both are.

“You l-love me?” You mumble, brows drawn together. “Is that like… just talk during it or…”

“I love you,” he whispers again, a little louder, seeing your eyes glimmer. “Not just because I’m buried inside you and pussy drunk, no. I do love you. God I do.”

“I love you too, Toru,” you whisper, letting him kiss you, drinking his sighs and moans in as he gently rocks his still hard cock inside, in the stuffed full, creamy mess he’s made of you. “I love you too.”

It’s whispered over and over, when he’s showering you, helping you shave, being so gentle and sweet – like he wasn’t just railing your pussy, like he wasn’t fingering his cum back in. No, it’s perfect, the way you can finally not call Satoru Gojo just your friend anymore.

*****

You had a baby with your best friend by accident – but it’s anything but a mistake, in fact when you’re holding her in your arms and smiling at her, seeing the same blue eyes you’ve loved your whole life? When Satoru’s making a bottle downstairs and you’re rocking in the chair in the nursery he had made?

When she’s all milk drunk later in your arms and Satoru is laughing at her little face, brushing her cheek with his thumb? You know it was all for some reason, even if it’s a little too soon, and even if you’re not fully ready yet – you know it’s perfect here, having him kiss your head, sighing and looking at her.

“She’s so cute like this,” he says softly, brushing some of her downy hair that’s forming, you ease the bottle and she is still sucking. “She needs a binky?”

“Mhm,” he hands you one, and you slip it in her mouth, grinning all big up at Satoru now. “She looks so much like you. I’m not sure my genetics tried.”

“Well, I do have Gojo genes,” he’s all puffing his chest, you can’t help but giggle, before wincing a bit at the pain. “You okay, sweetheart?”

“Still sore,” you admit, he gently takes her and places her in the pretty little bassinet, swaddling her up tightly before coming to you, helping you up. “Thank you… Toru, thank you for everything. I was scared at first, but…”

“I was too,” he admits, peeking down at you – still so beautiful, but the strain of having her has taken it’s toll. You’ve got dark circles, and your color isn’t all back yet, he picks you up before you can stop him.

“Toru!”

“You’re taking a nap.”

“I can walk!”

“I know,” he holds you anyway, you yawn and bury your face against his neck, lashes tickling his skin. “I love her so much.”

“I do too,” you admit, giggling. “So much I almost want another.”

“Another, hmm?’

“Not any time soon!” He just grins as he lays you down. “You deviant, don’t even think about it for at least two years!”

“Sure, I wasn't thinking about it at all,” he sighs as he sees your nipples dripping though, thumb brushing over one, tasting it. “Oh it’s sweet.”

“You little freak,” you tease, but you let him have just a taste, a little flick of his tongue before he tugs up your top. “Take a nap with me.”

“All right,” he is tired too, just trying to keep wide awake for you, but when he cuddles you to him, and feels you against him, he can’t stop his grin.

He got his best friend pregnant by accident – but the next time will absolutely be on purpose.

patreon <3 comms

To what, exactly? Well…

“Zuzu?”

He stills, immediately recognizing that nasally little voice. Not to mention there’s only one person that would call him by that name.

Azula. She practically goes on to nag him, after randomly catching him at some food stall at the night market. 

“You dethroned me just so you could prance around town in a cape?”

Funny enough, she would’ve matched with her brother if she’d just worn her hood. It might be a little risky, but most people wouldn’t know what she looked like, anyway. She could get away with showing her face for the most part. 

Despite the initial whiplash from running into his sister, who’s been missing for well over a decade and is still at the top of the nation’s Most Wanted list, he’s quick to defend himself. 

“I’m not prancing around town,” he grimaces. “And what do you mean dethroned? You were never even crowned.”

“Yeah, because you interrupted my coronation!”

Their sudden quarrel catches the eyes of a few people walking by, along with the old vendor that was just trying to hand him his chicken skewers. Thankfully, everyone’s quick to mind their own in the Silk District. Fights were common enough— just keep walking and you’re sure to be safe once the brawl starts.

It’s as if they were children again, arguing over absolute nonsense. At first it was a dispute over her brief stint as the nation’s first Fire Lady. Now, they’re just throwing accusations at each other.

“Please don’t tell me you’re working in a brothel now,” Zuko grumbles, fully prepared to give her some money so she wouldn't have to be indebted to one. 

“I am not!” she scoffs. “And what are you doing here?! Last I heard, you have nearly twice the amount of concubines Father had kept.”

His eyes widened. Now was not the time to ask what he was up to. It’s not like he can tell her he’s been trying to scope you out all night, so he’s left scrambling. 

“Most of them were gifted to me,” he barely explains, more so stuck on where she heard that from. Azula made it sound like he hoarded them.

She continued to press him. “You never answered why you’re walking around town with a hooded cape.”

“I wanted some normalcy,” he throws his arms out, hoping that’d be enough for her.

Azula raises a brow. “So you go to the sex capital of the world?”

“I’m not here for the fucking brothels,” he suddenly snaps at her, but quickly collects himself as it only made him look guilty. “Sorry. I’m here for work. We’re in the middle of opening a rehabilitation facility.”

“Right,” she blandly says, crossing her arms and taking a moment to stare him down, lost on what else to say. At least she believes him. She would’ve continued to interrogate him, had she not.  

Zuko just looks at her as well. Not meaning to participate in a staring competition as he tried to figure out what about her had changed. Something felt off. 

Then her brows pinch together.

It’s the eyes. 

She thinks she’s glaring at him right now, but they’ve softened. And there’s actually a trace of light behind her golden eyes, rather than the dull orbs demonically possessed individuals often have. The only feature she shared with their father was that sadistic look he’d get on his face whenever someone angered him, yet there was no trace of Ozai in all her visible annoyance. 

All he sees is their mother. 

“So, how’s father?” she asks casually, figuring she might as well ask about the old bastard since he’s here. 

Zuko lets out a disappointed sigh, not bothering to hide how peeved the thought of their father made him. “He spends his days drawing flowers and demanding he be given dignity.” 

She sighs as well, because he just sounds pathetic at this point. “You don’t give into his demands… right?” 

“Oh, no, never,” he says with a reassuring tone. “He’s tolerable for the most part, but there’s periods where he needs more… help.”

His fathers fall from grace needs to be studied at this point. He will scream, cry, break his little board games that he hardly deserved to begin with, and demand new ones. Ozai drew a portrait of him once when he was 21. He was without a scar. It was touching, sort of. Really fucking odd, though. He didn’t exactly listen to his father when he explained the sentiment behind it, but he understood why there would be one. 

Zuko hung around until the servant brought his father dinner that night. Guess what happened when he didn’t allow the servant to give his father a slice of cake with his dinner? 

His father took the portrait down and drew a scar on both his eyes. 

The concept of self-regulation was completely foreign to his father—antagonizing him may as well have been a form of psychological warfare. Which is why Zuko started eating that same slice of cake as he watched his father have the meltdown of a century. 

“Yeah, Father is… Father.”

There was no need to elaborate, Azula completely understood what he meant by that. “Do they still whip prisoners?” 

Zuko pauses and looks at her as if she’s gone mad. “No….. that’s illegal.” 

She shrugs. “Some people only respond to physical discipline.” 

He hums tentatively, “Father usually behaves after a day or two of being put on a liquid diet.”

She finds herself coughing out a laugh, surprised he’d even do such a thing. She remembers the day Zuko visited her and Ozai in prison. He could’ve easily tortured the information he needed out of them, but instead he walked in with a tray of tea as he spoke of wanting to treat them with dignity— he used that word less than a handful of times, but his father continues to cling to it for his life. 

She couldn’t wrap her head around how someone could be so gullible, it disgusted her. 

Even when he cut her a deal, allowing her to walk freely as they looked for their mother, he disgusted her. He was weak for offering her tea, weak for allowing her to accompany him unrestrained, weak for letting her attack him during the trip. She was his tormentor and still, he forgave her, over and over again. 

She wonders if she’ll ever grow the strength to thank him for being the only one to show her forgiveness. 

“And mother?” she asks, struggling to hide her cautious tone. 

“She’s good. Still in Hira’a.” Zuko pauses, eyes filled with both relief and a little sorrow. He has a good bond with his mother and had always believed Azula deserved the same. He’d love nothing more than to reunite the two. “She never fails to bring you up whenever I see her.”

How sweet. 

And mildly triggering, given all the years she spent missing a woman who had forgotten her. She quickly catches herself from slipping into her thoughts any further—there was no need to punish herself like that, she had already suffered enough. 

It’s been over ten years since they’ve seen each other, and she still wasn’t ready. But, even in all her resentment, she still found herself wishing she could tell that she often thought of her, too. 

Rather than giving him a definitive no, she just rolled her eyes.  

Perhaps she has grown softer throughout the years. The last time she randomly appeared, she promised to make it her life’s mission to drive her brother to the brink of insanity in hopes to make him more like their father. Granted, she was fucking losing it at that time, having unresolved trauma and what not. Being locked in a cage like a fucking animal only made her worse. The final blow was when she was released to help find their mother, only to find out she chose to have the memory of them completely wiped.

Oh, that fucked her up. 

Azula refused to admit it at the time, but she’s closer to admitting it now after years of solitude. A changed woman, she was. Zuko should consider himself lucky to get away with just an argument today. Had their reunion been a few years sooner, that argument would’ve ended with the entire market burning down in flames. 

But, she was his little sister at the end of the day, and there’s no doubt she'd still be annoyed at the sight of him again the next time they inevitably run into each other. 

Azula closes her eyes and sighs, then lightly nods her head, “Well, I’m off. It was nice seeing you, Zuzu.” 

It didn’t sound like it. “Wh— hold on, where are you going?”

“A temple,” she vaguely says, not stupid enough to tell him exactly which one. Zuko probably would’ve let her be, but one couldn’t be too safe. “Have fun in the brothels!”

“I already told you I wasn’t here for the brothels— Azula, wait,” he calls after her, more confused than anything. “Do you need money or anything?”

His sister stops to consider it. She may have some at the moment, but prior to passing by, she was pretty low on silver. The only reason why she came here was to pick-pocket a few people. 

And by pick pocket, she means breaking into the homes of local lords and raiding their safes. Easy money. Can’t feel too bad about it either since they’re notoriously known for their corruption at a local level. She may be a criminal, but she was ethical.

“How much?” she asks, reluctant to jump right into accepting it.

He casually reaches into his pockets and pulls out a pouch of gold coins, lazily sifting through them before realizing he never had a number in his head. 

“Wow look at the Fire Lord giving a fugitive money,” she murmurs, earning herself a disappointed look from Zuko. “What?” 

“Don’t say that.”

She shrugs. “It’s the truth.” 

“Just take the fucking pouch,” he sighs, shoving the bag into her hands. “And please make it last.” 

“Aww, are you saying that because you don’t know when you’ll see me next? Are you gonna be sad after this?” she continues to poke at him. 

Suddenly, he feels a headache starting to blossom against the right side of his skull. “I don’t think I will,” he blandly says, rubbing his temple as she begins to laugh at him. “Will you do me a favor though since I gave you money?”

The question wipes the smile off her face, she hates being indebted to others. 

“The next time I see you, I want it to be with Mother.” She opens her mouth, probably to say something along the lines of not telling her what to do, but he doesn’t give her a chance to say it. “It can be five years from now or even twenty. Just go to mom whenever you’re ready and I’ll meet you two there.” 

She blinks. “Wait, does that mean I’m not an enemy of the state anymore?” 

“Oh no, you still are,” he lets out a laugh. “But if you have an emergency and really, really need help, send a letter to Mom.” 

She doesn’t say much at first. She was actually moved for once and it showed. 

“Thank you,” she says with a barely contained smile. 

It was natural for him to give her a weird look, it was the first time she’s ever expressed genuine appreciation. Not quite grasping how much weight those two words held. Maybe she’ll tell him one day, but for now, it wasn’t her problem. 

“You can thank me by going to mom’s one day.” 

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” Azula doesn't sound very serious when she turns to leave, but she really was and already had a date in mind. It would be sooner than five years, but enough to work on those flashbacks.

He watches her run off, scoffing out a laugh once she disappears into the crowd of people, leaving as fast as she appeared. 

Alone, again. 

Well, he’s not alone. He has his uncle. 

It’s time like this when he really remembers just how different his life has turned out. It wasn’t bad. Bittersweet, yes. But not bad. After years of being subjected to his Father’s cruelty and abuse, everyone’s moved on with their own lives

Even Azula.

Then it dawned on him that he had just committed treason. He wasn’t supposed to let a criminal like her continue to roam the earth without consequence. Yet he did. He gave her money, too— way too much of it. Had one of the imperial guards caught her, she would’ve been behind bars, just like their father.

But at that moment, he wasn’t the one who held the throne. He was simply someone’s brother. Their father may have played favorites, but he recognized long ago that he has scarred them both and that she, too, deserved freedom. 

—

Running around with Cyra has made you realize just how much you missed the crude humor and self-indulgent ways of the Silk District. 

Those who served the imperial court were the complete opposite. So proper and uptight. The amount of self-importance some had without contributing anything remarkable to the world was exhausting. You don’t think you would’ve lasted as long as you have had it not been for who you served. 

Although, he’s been a little too lenient with you during this trip. He hasn’t told you to come back to work once, which is why you’ve consistently gotten back to the hotel as late as 2:00 AM. You very well may be pushing your luck, but he never set a curfew for you and neither has Chamberlain. 

You were a bit nervous to see the Lord’s reaction after your first night. Being met with nothing but indifference only made it worse, making you question what his true intentions were. The worries lingered in the back of your mind until a couple nights later. 

There was nothing more anti-climatic than catching a glimpse of a cloaked man from the corner of your eye. 

Wearing a cloak here wasn’t an unusual sight, citizens covered themselves for all different reasons. Some, such as yourself in the past, did it purely for the look. Some did it to conceal their identities. It was the latter for the Fire Lord, who was apparently spying on you. 

Zuko rules over an entire nation, yet has the ability to shrink his presence down to that of a disregarded and overlooked vagrant. He's quiet when he wants to be, taking up such little space he may as well vanish into thin air. It’s quite the talent, allowing him to slip away into normalcy for an hour or two whenever the grandiosity of the palace became too much. 

Unfortunately for Zuko, you can spot him in a crowd. Easily. 

Maybe it’s from all the time you’ve spent with him—hours spent locked away in an office, days spent traveling, weeks spent visiting in foreign lands. 

Or maybe it’s something more. The possibility was not a thought you liked to entertain. It’s not because the thought itself wasn’t ridiculous—it absolutely was ridiculous. It’s as if the God’s decided to make a mockery out of your life when they had decided on your reality. 

You can just imagine them all brainstorming your fate in some heavenly council room.

“Let’s give her someone she can’t have,” one says. “Perhaps Azulon’s second grandson?”

“I love it. Put her in the least liked clan,” says another. “The boy will bring an era of peace and let their union create unrest within the other clans.”

“Brilliant. Make their connection devastatingly magnetic, as well,” the God of Misfortune excitedly says, followed by the room erupting in evil laughter. 

And devastating it was.

Zuko was well over a hundred feet away, just another body swallowed by a sea of people. Many walked past him, some even stared in his direction as their minds drifted off, but no one truly noticed. He was insignificant. Invisible. 

The gods continued to laugh, because you had noticed him, anyway. 

It was beyond just the odd, occasional pull. It was as if you were connected by a stubborn invisible string that enjoyed tugging at you, constantly reminding you of the person at the end of it. 

You disappeared shortly after noticing him, but quickly decided to have a little fun. You had brought Cyra along—weaving in and out of shops and alleyways. 

“You’re going to drive him mad,” she had said. 

“He already is,” you giggled at the thought of him losing sight of you once more. 

“I’m sure he just wanted to see if you were okay. You look like you’ve forgotten all about your duties! He’s doing no less than a hired guard would. It’s quite flattering, actually.” 

“He is a lunatic that’s doing it for free.” 

Cyra was more perceptive than that, but kept her own conclusions to herself, knowing the troubles it’d bring. It was a matter you chose to be blind to, and she believed you were better for it.

That was last night. 

Tonight, a local lord was throwing a banquet in honor of the Fire Lord’s visit. 

Back being the most important man in the room, he went. He’d be lying if he said he’d been looking forward to attending, but at least this one wasn’t as formal compared to most of the banquet’s he’s attended in the past. 

Zuko tried to enjoy it. He drank with those that wanted to share a drink with him, laughed as he listened to the stories the locals shared and said just enough to keep a conversation alive. It wasn’t enough, though— these are people that have thrived in a culture that rewards ambition and resilience. They were more interested in getting to know him as a person, and while appreciates being seen as one, he will not be contributing to a conversation about personal hardships. 

He hates conversations that lead to praise or pity. He’s never wanted to leave a place more. But that would be seen as rude, so he’s stuck having to redirect conversations, all while trying not to pay too much attention to you. 

To say you’re gone the entire day is not an exaggeration—neither him nor Chamberlain have gotten the chance to catch up with you. But he had a feeling you’d pop up. When you did, he realized he underestimated just how well connected you were. 

He’s never seen you this comfortable at an event before. Nor has he ever seen you in such a tight dress. He is thankful for the robe you paired with it for the evening. It did a wonderful job at keeping the inappropriate thoughts he would’ve had at bay. 

Lucky for him, Saiyo chose not to come tonight, crossing off whatever worries he would’ve had if he’d gotten caught for looking at you too much. 

“I couldn’t imagine the pressure of having all of those concubines.” 

Zuko genuinely laughs this time, Lord Joji was quite the empath. “They’re terrifying. You’d think having their own secluded area would bring them some peace and serenity, yet they spend their days brawling with each other.” 

The words slipped right out once it was just him and the host. He would’ve never shared that at any other event. 

Joji’s clearly enjoying it, laughing at the image in his head. “Perhaps it’s time to bring in some fake eunuchs,” he sips his sake. “Declutter the court, so to speak.” 

“Wait, what?” 

He tenses at the sudden drop in Zuko’s tone. He couldn’t tell if he was offended or not, but he grew anxious as the silence went on. “I was just kidding, by the way,” he forces out a laugh. “It’s uh— typical humor around here. I always forget how crass we can be at times. Haha… I’m sure we look like a bunch of heathens to the rest of the world.” 

“Huh?” The sudden self-depreciation pulled Zuko out of his thoughts. “Oh no, the humor here is wonderful. The eunuch idea is fucking genius.” 

Joji pauses and looks at him for a moment, stuck on how he called it an idea. “It worked well for my grand uncle,” he says, testing the waters. “He was able to bring the house back down to a comfortable number in no time.”

“Is that so?” There’s a bit of skepticism in his tone. “Probably didn’t have that many to begin with.”

“It may take some time. But once they’ve finished their jobs, you can catch one of them in the final act and he’ll confess to everything during interrogation.” 

“Getting more than one would be smart, wouldn’t it?” he muses to himself, then takes a sip from his glass. “You could probably just get a servant to catch them—avoid all the tears and pleading.” 

Joji nods, “You’d be surprised how many attendants are willing to spy for you in exchange for a small bonus.”

Zuko suddenly huffs out a defeated laugh. “They’d only just send more.” 

“Would you like my grand uncle’s information? Wait, never mind, I forgot you were—“

Zuko waves a hand. Even he forgot who he was for a moment there— he was bound to more than just the practice of keeping concubines. “I wouldn’t want to waste someone else’s time.”

“It wouldn’t be a waste at all,” he reassures him. “If you ever do change your mind though, I’d be more than happy to introduce you to him.”

“Thank you,” Zuko hums as something else catches his attention. “Could you remind me where the washroom is, again?” 

—

The moon casted a faint light over the host’s backyard, revealing stone paths that allowed you to walk through a lush garden filled with delicate flowers and soft shrubs. The path took you past several wooden arches, long overtaken by nature as vines wrap up and cascade over the structures, gently rustling with each breeze.

You had hid behind one when you first heard footsteps, and then waited. You weren’t actually avoiding him, you had already expected he’d follow you out here, and just wanted to creep up on him once he got closer. 

It’s not until he fully walks past you when you decide to make your presence known, magically appear a few feet behind him.

“Are you spying on me?” 

“No.” You failed to startle him, but did manage to make him feel wrongfully accused. “I was just– I knew you were out here and I thought I’d get some fresh air, too.“

He braces himself. He didn't need to see the glass in your hand to know that you’ve been drinking. You had given it away when you casually stepped out of the shadows to greet him. 

“Getting fresh air,” you muse to yourself as you walk up to him. “Like last night?”

The light drains from his eyes. He looks absolutely mortified, and doesn’t even try to deny it. “Why didn’t you say anything?” 

“I figured it’d be fun setting you off on a wild goose chase. I’m sure you have a perfectly normal explanation, though.”

“I wanted to see if you were okay,” he doesn’t sound very certain of it. “I was already planning on touring the place.”

“You know I’m just fine.” It’s not like he’d be much help if trouble were to arise, you were more than capable of defending yourself. “Does keeping me away from Ryuko make you feel better?”

Knowing that you weren’t mad should’ve made him feel better, but being spoken to like a child was so much worse. You look like you’re about to giggle at his response, regardless of what it was. 

“Actually no, I have a better question. Are you going to do this every time someone shows interest in me? Even when you already have Sai and all the other concubines?”

That’s not a question he wants to answer. He hasn’t even touched Sai at all during the trip, not that it’d make a difference since that was his job. “If you’re happy, then no.” How he still manages to be stubborn, you have no clue. 

Your lips twitch into a smile. “You don’t think I’d be happy with him?”

There’s a spark of annoyance in his eyes, realizing he’s going to have to come clean about something you most likely already know about. 

“You told him you liked your life and then he went on to tell you everything that was wrong with it— I think you’d be miserable with him.” He grows irritated by the words he was having to repeat. “And then he insulted your position by saying there was no future in it. You’ve done nothing but work towards bettering it!” 

You had a feeling he overheard that conversation and once again, your intuition hasn’t failed you. “Are you sure it’s not because he tried to say that you think you own me?” 

“Yeah. He studied me for an entire hour, yet I’ve never looked at you and thought of insulting you the way he did. He spoke over you that entire time and when he couldn’t sway you, he decided to hurt your feelings. And he still thought he deserved to be given a chance.”

He’s pretty much ranting at this point and it’s taking everything in him not to go off track and say something rude. 

“He deserves to have his fucking tongue cut out.” 

Whoops.

“…I think that might be too harsh of a punishment.” You said it more to lighten, trying to process how pissed off he’s been this entire time. 

“Whether you find it harsh or not makes no difference to me. You shouldn’t have been spoken to that way,” he muttered, waving away whatever dignity he had left. “I never want to see anything like that happen again.” 

You thought this would be more of a silly exchange where you’d make fun of him for being—well, pathetic. It would’ve been easier had he just felt threatened by Ryuko, but his reason for hating him is reasonable enough and you can’t find it yourself to tell him that he was wrong.

He waits for you to say the usual spiel about how he needs to stop making everything so difficult and to just have an heir already.

There was a bit of defeat in your tone when you spoke. “I wish you knew how tiring it is watching you do whatever you want, when I’ve done nothing but try to do the right thing.” 

You sigh and reach forward, fingers gently brushing over the apple of his cheek, and with Zuko being dwindled down to a man who takes whatever he can get, he gravitates towards your touch. 

“Maybe it’s time to give up,” he feebly suggests.

“If only the people knew how much of a fool they have for a ruler, too,” you softly say. 

And like the fool he is, he places his hand over yours and just holds it there— making it one of the very few times he’s ever allowed someone to touch the scar on his face. “And what if I was just a fool?” 

Now he’s just speaking nonsense. You know more than anyone how much he’d hate being a normal person. He liked having power—that was alright, he was one of the rare few who knew how to wield it properly.

“I wouldn’t allow that.” You continue to rub your thumb over his cheek, using a tone that’s far too tender for the answer you come up with. “I’d stage a coup d'état and put you right back where you belong.” 

His lips slowly curve in a smile. “You’re making it very hard for me to be angry with our circumstances right now.”

“I know, at least you have me as a loyalist,” you hum, slightly tilting your head as you get a better look at him. “I’m starting to grow a little homesick, honestly— even if it is boring there.” 

“You can go home early, if you want,” he offers with a second thought. 

“I’ll be fine. It’s only 3 more days.”

“I hope you’re nicer to me by then. I’m a little homesick, too.”

How charming. “That’s if I don’t drink my memories away after tonight— this isn’t exactly a conversation I want to remember,” you sadly admit.

Zuko’s eyes soften, wishing you’d drink more around him often—you’re quite endearing in the state you’re in. “And why is that?”

“Because I’d prefer not to be overcome with embarrassment when I wake up tomorrow morning.” 

His mind goes back to the morning after he first kissed you and chuckles. “It’s not that bad.“

You laugh blandly in return. “Not everyone’s as shameless as you.”

But perhaps it was time to even things out between you for once. He did complain about being the only one drunk that night, after all. 

So in the moment of silence you shared with him, you leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss against his cheekbone, allowing yourself to be selfish for once.

He’s never been so still in his life. You’ve yelled at him, rejected him, pushed him on to other women so many times that he’s lost count. Yet there was no denying that you felt something so incredibly deep for him. There was no need to spell it out— he saw it, felt it, heard it.

“What happened to never touching you again?” Zuko wasn’t complaining, but he was absolutely going to tease you. 

“I’m afraid that only applies to you,” you say, feigning sympathy. “Unless you’d like to order me to stop touching you, as well.” 

“I would never do such a thing,” he fights off a smile. “Though I would like to know what my punishment would be if I defied your orders.”

There was a sudden look of disbelief on your face, a little disappointment as well. “That is the sluttiest question I’ve ever heard, you know that?”

“I think the courtesans may have just corrupted your mind with all their crude little jokes.” 

“Perhaps. They told me I’d make a fine courtesan the other day.” You run the backs of fingers across his jaw, ignoring the sudden twitch in his eye. “Could you imagine such a simple comment planting a seed in my mind?”

Fortunately, you’ve had enough drinks in you to be able to dismiss the sinister laugh that comes out of him. “No. I don’t want to imagine that, at all, actually.” 

“Uh-oh,” you smile and take a sip. “Does the idea make you jealous, My Lord?” 

“Jealous? Yes.” He plucks the glass from your hand and takes a sip of your sake. “A little angry, as well.” 

“A little?”

His eyes narrow and speaks as if you had just challenged him. “I would buy you out before you got the chance to take customers.”

You throw out another idea. “What if I took a customer while waiting for you to finish the paperwork?” 

“I’d turn him into a eunuch.” He watches as your smile slowly fades away. 

“That’s a little much for a man that hoards concubines, no?” 

He thinks to defend himself against hoarding accusations, but forces himself to let it go. “Does it matter if you’re planning on drinking your memories away tonight?” 

You stare at him as you recall the last ten minutes or so. “I probably should.” 

“Were you not going to?”

“I was on the fence about it,” you give a contemplative hum. “Eh—better safe than sorry.”

You turn to leave, but Zuko grabs your wrists before you take a step. “You’re not going back to ignoring me tomorrow, are you?”

“Depends on my mood tomorrow,” you smile and snatch your wrist away. “Bye!” 

“Fuck—Wait! What kind of an answer is that?”

—

The last days of your visit were fairly normal.

You had ended up taking the rest of the time off. Everyone figured you needed the break anyways and you had zero objections to that. 

It was the last day when everything went south. 

Of course you just so happened to be there, after deciding to stay at the hotel for some extra rest before traveling back home. 

The Madame at Cyra’s brothel would’ve had no issues letting you take a nap there. Had you actually done so, you would’ve been sleeping peacefully right about now— rather than awkwardly sitting in a silent room full of people who are too nervous to speak.

After thirty minutes of being tortured by discomfort, Lord Zuko and the Chamberlain finally walk through the door. The tears started almost immediately.

You guess the guard who had to go fetch them didn’t say what the emergency was. They didn’t look very mad. Chamberlain looked more worried. Zuko just stood there while Concubine Saiyo and one of the guards got on their hands and knees to beg for forgiveness. 

“Lord Z-Zuko, I’m— I’m s-so so-sorry!”

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty! Please spare my life. I beg you! Please!”

It takes a moment to click for Zuko and only you notice the glimmer of joy in his eyes when he finally realizes what has happened. 

You were hoping he’d send you back to your room, but ended up having to kneel a few feet away from the two adulterers as they had to recall their stories in full. You’re not sure why that was still protocol. Even Zuko looked miserable as he had to listen to them, but the Chancellor was known to be a stickler. 

The older man regretted it soon enough. Hearing the events of the sexual encounter quickly became a unique torture he was forced to endure. 

Saiyo began to beg again in the end, and you felt a little bad. She was a nice girl.

“Please—please!! I’ll do anything!”

Zuko offers a sympathetic hum, only to remind her of the law. “I have no other choice but to remove you from the court. What kind of a message would that send to the others if I let you stay?” He was full of shit.

“My f-family will kill me!” she continued to cry. 

He looks to the guard next to her, who’s staring out into space, tears all dried out. Zuko tries to ask him a question but struggles with the wording at first. Eventually he grows impatient and bluntly asks, “Did you enjoy fucking her?”

The guard grows pale, terrified of what the punishment for that would be. 

“I’m not executing you. Not whipping you, either. Or whatever physical punishment they have for these kinds of things,” Zuko lets him know.

The guard sighs in relief, then bows. “I— Yes, I did.” 

Chamberlain scoffs and looks at the guard in disgust. How the youth could willingly engage in such devious acts was beyond him. 

“Sai, do y—“ Zuko tries to get the concubines' attention, but she's too busy dry heaving to notice. “Saiyo. Sa—my fucking gods—Sai!”

She throws her head back and wails. “I’m s-so sorry, my Lord!!” 

“Do you want t—Sai, please,“ cut off once more, he slams his fist on the table next to him, startling everyone in the room. “STOP.”

She takes in a sharp breath, whimpering another apology as Zuko glared at her, daring her to sniffle again.

Zuko finally speaks and points to the guard. “If you don’t want to go home, I can gift you to him. You can be his wife.”

“W-wait— really?” 

Zuko notices her bottom lip quiver. “Don’t. Just answer the question.”

“O-okay, yes. Please. I can’t go home.”

“Great.” He takes a sip of water. “You all can leave now— except for you.” 

You don’t do a very good job of hiding your dismay, but you stay in place and wait for everyone to leave. 

Zuko opens his mouth. 

Saiyo pops in and whines, “Lord Zuko, do you hate me?!” 

He rests his head in his hand and sighs. “No, I don’t hate you.”

“But—I cheated!“

“That’s okay. We found you a place to live and you are safe,” he says, trying to maintain his patience to the best of his ability. “I need to speak with Ms.—“

“But will you be fine?” she whimpers.

Her question actually manages to make Zuko smile a little, but it’s for reasons he can’t exactly share. “I will be just fine,” he hums. 

The concubine needs some extra reassurance, so it wasn’t until a few minutes later when you two finally had the room to yourselves. 

“Don’t you think you’re sitting a little too far?” he asks.

You are. Without a word, you bring the floor cushion upfront, ignoring the pleased look on his face because he knows exactly what he’s doing.

There’s a bit of a stare off until you finally break the silence. “You’re not punishing me for this.”

“There’s nothing to punish you for,” he chuckles. “Not that I’d ever have the heart to, anyway.” 

“Then why am I here?”

“Just wanted to talk.” 

“I’m kneeling in front of you,” you mutter, stating the obvious. “This doesn’t feel very casual.” 

“Would you like to sit on my lap instead?” 

“No,” you answer rather fast. 

“Shame,” he relaxes, leaning on the armrest. “I must say I am having a very good day right now.”

You nearly roll your eyes, it’s not often you make mistakes, this one being punishable by death had it been made during the rule of the two previous Fire Lords. “I’m sure you are.”

“Feels very meaningful, as well.”

“Yeah?” You try to sound interested, but you have a feeling he’s going to eventually say something inappropriate. “How so?”

“You know,” he gestures at the door. “You brought them here because you wanted more space between us— I didn’t want space, I also don’t like my concubines. Then you ended up solving both of my problems and even showered me with some of your affection. I feel as if we’ve come full circle here.” 

That wipes the smile off your face, you were counting on him to be kind enough to pretend like it didn’t happen.

You force out a laugh. “What are you talking about?” 

He lets out an actual laugh, light and filled to the brim with content. “I’m talking about the banquet we attended a few days ago.” 

“Yeah, but I didn’t—“

“Yes, you did,” he says, looking at you with amusement. “All drunk and sweaty, throwing yourself at me and begging me to f—“

“That did not happen!” you slam both hands on the ground and yelp. 

“Oh, so you do know?”

“I do, now stop—please,” you beg him. 

“Alright, fine,” he laughs. “Anyways, I just wanted to thank you, that's all.”

“Don’t thank me for any of that,” you murmur, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath. “Ugh—If I’d known I’d be bringing two freaks together, I would’ve never brought guards. You should probably expect an apology letter from my father. Though I’m sure it’ll mostly be him begging you to allow him to torture the guard.” 

Knowing your father, the news will probably have a chill running down his spine and sickened with worry. A mistake like this could very well result in you being taken in as a concubine in place of Saiyo, since you and your father would be the reason why he had one less concubine.  

Zuko’s too busy thinking about how your father would be probably go into full, graphic detail on the proposed torture, leaving him mildy disturbed. 

“I should probably write him a letter—let it be how he finds out about the incident and let him know neither of you are at fault.” 

“If you could, that’d be wonderful,” you nod in content.

The weary look on his face never fades as his eyes trail past you and look off into the distance. Your father being the cause of it was hard to believe. There’s something he’s not telling you.

“I know I’m still on a break, but I’m on a fixed salary,” you say to lighten the mood, despite growing concerned over the sudden mood switch. “If you want my professional opinion.” 

He gives an apathetic hum, letting the silence drag on some more as he takes your offer into consideration. 

“I ran into my sister the other day.” 

Your eyes widened and he confirmed it with a subtle nod, then continued to give you a breakdown of their brief reunion. It sounded like something that would’ve been more heartwarming, but in the end you understood why he didn’t look very moved.  “I considered pardoning her, but that only lasted about an hour.”

“Probably for the best. She sounds like she’s found peace, and you got to avoid all the pushback and scrutiny a pardoning would’ve received.” You were sugar coating it, the council would’ve been up in flames. The only reason why you’re staying calm over him committing literal treason is because he seemed to need a friend right now.

“I’ll help her if she needs it, but she’s not coming back to the capital after everything I’ve had to do for this fucking place over the years. I gave my soul away in exchange for everyone’s peace,” he admits in defeat. “Fuck, sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” you murmur, not having much advice for him on the matter. 

It has gotten a lot better over the years, but the beginning years of his reign have left lasting effects on him, though he’d never admit it. 

He says it’s all been rewarding, but those years were thankless. No one took him seriously. He had multiple attempts on his life. He was terrified of being anything like his father, so his own people constantly took advantage of him for being too nice. When the word spread, people protested because they thought he was too weak. 

Things finally started to pick up once he began to ally with different clans and create factions, which allowed him to get even more done since people were more willing to help and support him.

He’s loved by the majority now, but you’ve come to realize that the damage had been done. You felt sorry for him. His main goal of helping others has never changed, but he has no interest in getting to know people. 

“Don’t give me that look,” he grumbles, rising from his seat. 

“I wasn’t looking at you at all.” 

He watches as you stand and walk to the other end of the room, putting the floor cushion in its rightful place. His gaze may have drifted lower than it should’ve, but it rose back up once you turned around. 

He looks like he’s about to say something stupid, so you shoot him a glare. “What?”

“Nothing,” he shrugs, pointing at the cushion you had just put away, “just reminded me of the empty bed I’ll have tonight.” Everyone was leaving tomorrow morning, except for the new couple, who were to leave right away. 

“Don’t complain as if you didn’t try to thank me for it,” you sigh. 

“I’m not. I might have another way to thank you, though,” he steps in front of you just before you pass him and leans forward. 

“Miss Advisor!” 

Concubine Saiyo was still turning the corner when she cried out for you. Zuko quickly spins around and you take several steps away from him. Saiyo comes trotting in shortly afterwards, tears streaming from her cheeks.

“I’m leaving now. I will miss seeing you!” her voice trembles. 

“I will miss you, too! I wish you the best of luck.”

Zuko had to stop himself from rolling his eyes, but then found himself fighting back a smile as he watched you two wrap your arms around each other. If this was going to be the standard for farewells, he should just start bringing Concubines to trips, along with a fake eunuch. He’d be a free man soon enough!

“And because I like you, if you ever get sent to the west wing as a concubine, don’t listen to what any of them say because they are looking to set you up for failure,” Sai tightly grabs on to your shoulders, “the easiest way to win over the Lord’s affection is to relax your throat. It’s fine if you gag, if anything he’d rather you would—“

“SAIYO!” The name practically rips through both the Fire Lord’s and Chamberlain's vocal chords.

She glances at them, then hurries to tell you the rest. “The messier the better, honestly. Practice Yoga as well! He—“

“THAT IS ENOUGH.”

‼️ TAG LIST IS CLOSED ‼️

It wasn’t immediate, of course. He gave it an hour before he proceeded to antagonize the man until he had a better reason to punch him in the face, because being a jealous loser wasn’t one of them. You wouldn’t have been surprised if he was already in a mood when he showed up, though, given how you turned him down when he asked if you wanted to go together. You don’t even know why he bothered asking, it was at the very last minute and had been days since you heard from him.

That incident left you annoyed. A little embarrassed, too. Worst of all, it left you with some hope during a time you questioned whether to cut ties with him or not. It was hard not to, you had hardly seen or spoken to him the weeks leading up to it. He had you convinced he didn’t even see a future with you, let alone want one.

But, as problematic as it may sound, his sudden burst of jealousy revived the feelings you’ve unfortunately grown to have for him. It was inevitable. Satoru has always had the ability to captivate just about anyone he spoke to. One could only imagine how easy it is to fall for someone like him. And for someone as stubborn as you, it was just about impossible not to once he started showing you the sides he usually kept hidden from the world.

So after a week of giving him the silent treatment and receiving multiple flowers and an accidental dick pic in return, you found yourself right back in his arms, as horny and confused as ever.

Jimin was shy. He considered himself a really shy person when he was out of stage and not performing in front of people in any way. He didn’t like the attention too much but he always had a way to get it anyway. People always looked at him, sometimes more than they should. And he knew that, he knew he had that effect on people. He knew he could just break a smile or say something and the other person would be dancing around his little finger.

He always tried not to draw that attention to him. The last couple of years he had become aware that he had grown into this man that knew what he wanted and loved his work. Jimin was a man now. He didn’t feel the need to pretend he had a very manly masculinity nor act to seek for attention and validation. He wasn’t a teenage boy anymore. He was a grown man with friends, with people he cherish and that cherish him back. He didn’t feel that he had to steal the attention of someone to feel important anymore…

Except there was one problem.

Jimin wouldn’t consider you his friend. He could actually said he didn’t like you one bit. You were just his best friend’s girlfriend. Hoseok’s girlfriend. A girl who appeared a year ago hand to hand with his friend, who was quickly the type of woman Jimin knew his friend would go for. You were the definition of Hoseok’s wild fantasy of perfect woman.

You were stupidly smart, sarcastic, easygoing, very extroverted and, incredibly and ridiculously, sexy. It wasn’t just your figure or face that was sexy, but your personality. The way you talked, the way you moved. It always seemed that you were flirting even when you weren’t. You always seemed one step to fuck or slap anyone and no one really knew which one was accurate. But God, you were just so annoyingly perfect.

Of course it didn’t take you more than a month before everyone was eating from the palm of your hand. Usually the partners of his friends were just that, partners who were friendly, girlfriends who were just nice to have around in the group. But you broke the rule. Everyone didn’t see you anymore as Hobi’s girlfriend but as an addition to the group. Even when Hobi couldn’t make it they would just invite you. Everyone loved you. Everyone loved having you around.

And, fucking Christ, Jimin hated it.

He hated the way you were always ready for a smart comment. The way you smiled when someone said something nice about you. The way you were always walking with so much security. He hated the way you always threw your hair back and the way your clavicle would show. Jimin hated the way you licked your lips after eating something, the way you always wore those short skirts, the way Hoseok always had you in his lap. He hated the way you smelled. The way you always were too close to him, the way you always were watching him like you knew.

Like you knew what he was thinking.

And the worst thing was: you probably knew.

Jimin wasn’t a hypocrite, but he was shy. He didn’t like making a person a problem. He didn’t like confrontation when it was avoidable. He knew he didn’t actually have a reason to hate you. What could really be? — I just think you’re too much… yourself. I don’t like you? — That wouldn’t really work… and it wasn’t really true. So he stayed quiet, not really dealing with it, not really thinking about it either.

He was polite, polite enough to smile at you, polite enough to laugh at your jokes, polite enough to talk with you about trivial stuff, polite enough to look the other way when you bend down, polite enough to pretend he wasn’t aware the way Hobi kissed your cheeks or whisper dirty thing in your ear. polite enough to pretend he… liked you. Polite enough to pretend he wasn’t aware of you.

Jimin was shy.

But, oh, how a couple of drinks could just fucked him up.

It was Friday night. Jimin found himself at Jungkook’s house with a couple of friends and a lot of drinks. There was almost fifteen people, everyone had been drinking and the music was a little too loud to be a small gathering. But he didn’t mind. Not when he was having a great conversation and drinking his way into not thinking the two people that was missing the first hours.

Of course, you showed up with Hoseok two hours later than agreed. His best friend was quickly to greet everyone before settling down into a small group to talk with them. Jimin thought it was weird how he didn’t pull you over to him like always. You greeted everyone before falling next to Jungkook’s side, touching his new piercing without any shame. If there was one thing about you: you weren’t shy. At least not by any means he knew. You were just as social as Hobi, he knew that’s why you would never say no to a drink, a game or a conversation.

He looked away, not really trying to find anything. He just continue drinking with his friends as so did you.

Two hours later everyone was drunk.

Jimin was trying to hold it together. He didn’t want to look so drunk, even if he knew everyone was already fucked up. But it was fun. His thoughts stopped for a moment, everything was really quiet, he didn’t feel like throwing up yet which was a good sign. It was just perfect state of drunkenness. The one you felt like everything was so good.

Hong, a long friend of the group, stood up on a tiny living-room table before calling everyone’s attention. He was definitely drunk too. He always had that convincing smile that would fool everyone. Hong was always that type of friend that always proposed a stupid game. It always went in two ways: everyone agreed, everyone booed. It was always fun which one would be the result of it. When Jimin looked around, he knew everyone was more likely to agreed.

He found you sitting with a group of friends, with a bottle of soju in your hands.

“Let’s play hide and seek.”

Everyone cheered.

Ah, shit.

Twenty minutes later and with a bad roulette website, the game started. Hoseok and other two were the seekers, the rest would hide. The rules were simple, because they couldn’t leave the house the seekers would just have to use a garment around their eyes so the game could last a little more. No one should move from their place if the seeker was close.

The game started.

Jungkook’s house was big. But it wasn’t really very easy to hide, specially since he didn’t have many things around. Luckily for Jimin, he found the perfect spot: a small closet in his guest room— inside the actual big room closet—, that it seemed it was to save shoes or even a couple of jackets, Jungkook just had a couple of winter clothes in there and a lot of boxes on the right side so it was perfect for Jimin to just lay in the left side behind all the clothes. It was a good spot, specially since it was dark as hell. He really barely had space to move around and one of the small doors of the closet wasn’t able to open.

Perfect.

It was almost five minutes of him just standing there without being able to watch anything— too drunk to even understand how much time had passed— when he heard a noise. It was soft. Then another one, this one harder.

“Fucking shit,” he heard a small complain before the closet’s left door opened.

Fucking shit indeed; Jmin thought.

Jungkook’s house was annoyingly dark, even worse because everything was damn black, so getting a sight of you by the little brightness of his phone and the smell of your perfume was how he recognized you.

“What are you doing?” he whispered to you.

You couldn’t hide there with him. No, hell no.

“They almost found me,” you said before looking at your leg. “I almost tripped too. It really hurt…”

“You can’t—”

There was a rumble.

You were quick to push him inside, closing the wood door behind you.

It was dark. You couldn’t see each other, barely even able to see around. But Jimin could feel you. He could feel your body pressed to him. He could feel your naked tights almost too close to his. He could feel your chest almost touching his. He could feel your breath hitting his jaw. He could feel your hand still touching his right shoulder after shoving him inside. He didn’t like it…

No, he didn’t.

He didn’t like the way the closet felt smaller than it was. He didn’t like that he couldn’t see you right. He didn’t like that his back was pressed hard against wall of the closet, the way the jackets were bothering the side of his arm or the way you were too close to him. He didn’t like the way he could only focus on your breathing and your perfume. He didn’t like the way your hands were sliding into his arms.

And he didn’t like the way you pushed yourself closer to him. The way your body felt pressed against his.

“Sorry, I don’t really have space to move and this damn wood is killing my lower back.” You whispered to him.

Jimin swallowed hard. Your other hands found his other arm to keep you steady. You were drunk too. He could see the way you were trying to hold it together in those high heels boots you were wearing. He hated your heels too, making your legs look longer, prettier… sexier.

“This space is really small,” Jimin said, voice low. His hands and body still as rock. He could still feel his brain a little fucked, dizziness in between.

“I know.”

Silence.

He sighed. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to make you leave, it would be rude. But you both were too close and he didn’t really like that. He didn’t like that he could feel your breath hitting his face, he didn’t like the way your warm body was touching his, the way your breast were brushing his chest, he didn’t like that the only thing apart was your clothes. He didn’t like the way he couldn’t see you at all, but he could definitely feel you.

You moved. Your hands trying to look for something in your boots, in that small space before finding it. Your phone.

“Do you think if I turned the light it will show outside?” you asked him in a whisper.

“I don’t think so,” he denied. “Anyway they’re blindfolded.”

“Right.”

Click.

Your phone felt to the floor. Jimin didn’t know why he was so quick to wrapped his arm around your waist, pushing you closer to him. The palm of his other hand immediately covering your mouth.

The light from the floor was next to you both. He could see your eyes now, he could see your face better. Your dark drunk eyes looking at him while he was trying to not be heard by whoever entered the room. There was a stomp, then another one. A curse. The right door of the closet shook but it didn’t open. Your nails squeezed Jimin’s arms, like you were afraid of being caught even if it was a game. He looked at the door. Another stomp. Stomp. Jimin looked around, trying to catch a sound.

And then silence.

Jimin looked at you. Now you were pressed completely against him. He was in a short-sleeved shirt, your thin oversized sweater wasn’t doing much covering your warm body. He breathed out. He could feel your cold hands still on his arms, holding yourself while looking at him. Still watching him like you were waiting his next move, still very much fucked up. He hated the way he could feel your lips under his palm. He hated the way he could feel you weren’t wearing a bra. And he hated the way your breasts were squeezed against his chest.

Shit, he was getting hard.

“Sorry,” he lied, slowly moving his hand out of your mouth. “Reflex.”

“It’s fine.”

“Should we— should we just leave?” he suggested, trying to not stutter.

By the low light he saw you frowned slightly. “And lose?”

“We’re probably going to stay here a long time.”

“I found this place quickly. They’re probably going to found it soon too.” You shrugged.

“Right, yeah. I guess you’re right.”

Your expression didn’t change but your voice did. A little lower, a little slower.

“Why? Does it bother you spending time with me?”

You were looking at him in the eyes. His arm was still holding you. And he hated it because he didn’t want to move it. His eyes draw your face, your nose, your pink lips, your narrowed eyes, your blushed cheeks. He clenched his jaw, hard. He just… he just couldn’t stand you. You were so… frustrating.

“Why would you think that?.” he asked, pretending to be confused.

Your expression didn’t move. You didn’t even glanced like you knew. But he swore he could see it anyway. A spark or something similar, like you actually knew the reason why he despised you. Maybe he was too drunk, maybe the guilt was catching up with his realization.

“I was just asking.”

“It’s just a very… small place.” He tried to explain.

“And we’re too close?”

“It’s just—”

“Proximity scares you?” You chuckled at him before leaning slightly. “I noticed your hair is blonde again.” Your hands found his hair, he was startled for a second. It wasn’t a weird action, you were just pointing out the obvious. Jimin didn’t like how you didn’t even ask for permission like his other friends would. You weren’t shy with him. You probably didn’t know what he was thinking about you. “It suits you.”

Jimin felt your fingers sinking in his hair, feeling them move with a softness. He almost groan at the sensation, your fingers making a mess of his hair but he didn’t care. His eyes narrowed, he looked at you. Your expression still unbothered, like you weren’t doing something out of place. As if you weren’t touching your best friend boyfriend’s hair while he hold you against him like a damn blanket wrapped around his body.

“If anyone opens that door,” he whispered. He found himself hearing his voice lower, deeper. His heart started beating faster. “They’re going to take it the wrong way.”

You looked at him. He wanted to touch your chest, feel if your heart was beating the same way his was. His ears were ringing, there was something growing, a tension he had been trying to hide, that he had been trying to keep buried. But he could feel it crashing into him slowly.

“Then you have to let go.”

Jimin felt his cheeks getting warmer, the arm around your waist fell to his side and he cleared his throat. “Sorry, I should—”

“Should I move to the side?” you questioned, ignoring him. “There are boxes and the door doesn’t open but… Shit, it’s too small. Move with me so I can put the jackets there.”

Jimin didn’t know what the fuck you or him were doing. But you were moving the jackets to his side and trying to get closer to the boxes that were blocking half of the right door that couldn’t be open. It really was just half a step but you tried to move and Jimin was shoved to the wall again, this time with the jackets on his right and the boxes to his left. You sighed frustrated, still very close to him.

“I don’t think this is working,” he said.

“Let me—” You pushed him closer to the wall while trying to turning around. He complained a little at the harsh action. “— Is this better?”

It wasn’t.

It wasn’t at all.

Nop.

Jimin ran his hands over his face, trying to stop his nasty thoughts. He hated that your phone was still on the floor, that the light was giving him the perfect sight of your back hitting his chest, your ass in that short skirt brushing his pants. He hated it. He hated it so much. He hated you.

“Maybe we should—”

“Found you!”

Your back hit his body hard. He moaned at the motion, immediately grabbing your hips at the sudden action. Your hands went to your mouth to maintain silence. Jimin pressed his lips, throwing his head back to the wall and looking at the ceiling, trying to look another thing that wasn’t your body.

He heard the voice echoed outside. Someone had been found in the bedroom.

There was a couple of noises, mumbles that you both couldn’t understand. Jimin could feel his head going in circles, his thoughts overlapping each other. He hated it what was happening.

He hated feeling you like that. He hated how the alcohol was hitting him in the way that shame or his shyness weren’t anywhere to be found. He hated the way you had found that space, the way your body was pressed against him. He hated the way your ass was pressing against his growing erection and the way it fit perfectly. He hated the way he couldn’t stop thinking about the way your legs looked that night in that short skirt and high heel boots. He hated the way your eyes always narrowed when you talked to him, so tentative, so sexy.

He hated the way you always looked so fucking hot. He hated the way you turned him on, because you shouldn’t.

He shouldn’t feel about that way about you. He shouldn’t want to kiss you every time you talked. He shouldn’t want to sink his fingers in your hair and guide you to his mouth. He shouldn’t be thinking about pulling your hair and kissing your neck. He shouldn’t be thinking about the way his hands would feel touching your skin, your legs, your waist. He shouldn’t be thinking about what color of panties you were wearing or if you even were wearing any.

He shouldn’t be thinking the way he would push your legs open, the way he would put your panties aside after making a mess of them. He shouldn’t be thinking about the way you taste or the way you would feel around his fingers and around his cock, he shouldn’t fantasize about making you kneel and take his cock in your mouth. He shouldn’t be thinking about any of that. And he sure as hell shouldn’t be thinking how lucky was his best friend for having you that way every. fucking. day.

But he did.

And he was doing it right now.

Because he was drunk. Because you were pushing your back into his chest. Because he was touching your waist, because your ass was against his crotch pushing it so deliciously. Because he could smell your perfume, because he could see the skin in your neck untouched, unmarked. Because he could feel your breathing. And because he wanted to fuck you.

He wanted to fuck you so fucking bad.

“Do you think they left?” you whispered before looking over your shoulder again. Your voice dropped an octave, almost raspy. “Jimin?”

And he lost it.

His breath hitched. His right arm wrapped around your waist to hold you in place. His other hand fell flat into the door, the one that wouldn’t open, to hold himself in place. He trusted his hips against yours from behind, holding you steady in place. He heard you gasped.

“What are you doing?” you questioned.

Jimin couldn’t really figure out what you were feeling. If you were upset, glad or anything. But, God, he didn’t want to stop.

“I’m sorry,” it was the first thing he said. His forehead falling on your shoulder. “I-I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

He didn’t know what to say, his hips were pushing against you. His hard clothed cock feeling so good against your ass, against that tiny skirt you were wearing. He was slow, he wanted you to stopped him, maybe even screamed at him for being a pervert or a damn evil friend. But his head was too dizzy and cloudy. He couldn’t think straight. His ears ringing louder.

He just loved the way you felt against him. The way his hard cock was too sensitive against his jeans, the way your back arched slightly at the movement he was doing. The way it felt so good having you this close. He loved the way you were warm, he loved the way your body was the perfect height, the perfect form to mold into him. He loved the way you sighed and the way his arm felt around your waist. He loved how he was holding you in place. He loved the way he could smell you better now, the way your ass felt against him.

And he loved the way you couldn’t do absolutely nothing but just take it.

Jimin started humping you from behind a little faster. God, he loved it. He loved it so so much.

He closed his eyes. You were perfect, you felt perfect. He didn’t want to moan, he felt too sensitive. He swore he had never been that hard before. Maybe he was too drunk? Maybe you were just too much for him.

“Jimin,” you called him. He didn’t put much attention to it. Your voice sounded so far away even if you were so damn close now. He was sure you had been calling him for some time now. Your hands went behind your back and you pushed him in the tummy. “Jimin, stop.”

His back hit the wall. You had pushed him with strength. Your voice wasn’t really soft or nice anymore. He didn’t know what was going through your mind and he did want to hear it but fuck it was so hard. so hard. The closet was too small and even if you had pushed him, you were still against him. He was still holding your waist, his other arm falling to his sides. But you were still so close. His harden was still between your ass cheeks.

“I’m sorry…”

“I thought you didn’t like me.”

Silence.

Jimin’s heart was beating fast. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to answer. Because minutes ago he was trying to convince himself he did so too. And he didn’t know what you were thinking. Why were you asking him that? To continue? To stop and then slap him? To tell Hoseok latter?.

God, he had crossed a line. No, he has crossed the line.

Well…

The good thing about it was that now he could just keep going right?. If he was going to screw it, then he would do it right.

“I did,” Jimin sighed, breathing hard. “I didn’t. I just… I just— I hate that I can’t have you.”

There was another beat of silence.

His breathing was faster than usual, he could hear himself. He could hear you too. There was so much silence. He felt aware of everything and nothing. But he didn’t actually put too much thought to it, not when you were still so close, not when he was still holding you like that.

“But you’re trying to have me now,” you replied.

“I know,” he muttered. He closed his eyes, his head falling against your shoulder again. He started thrusting into you again, this time slower and softer. Like he didn’t want to scare but couldn’t stop either. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. If Hobi finds out… I know you— I know you love him and I know Hobi…”

“Let’s not talk about him,” you cut him off.

There was a dead silence again.

And Jimin felt the tension. But this time the uncomfortable one. The one that was coming from you. The tension he had felt when you two walk into the house.

He opened his eyes, looking at himself growing even harder against your skirt. “What happened?”

“I said I don’t want to talk about him,” you said, firmer this time.

And then you pushed your ass into him. You did it.

Jimin groaned, holding you in place between his arms, his fingers scratched your waist. Fucking hell. You were trying something. He immediately knew you and Hobi weren’t in good terms right now. Not if you were doing that. He didn’t know if it was revenge what you were looking for or a distraction. And, God forbid him, he was going to take anything you could give him.

But of course, he didn’t want to play your game at all.

“What do you want then?” Jimin whispered in your ear, your head moved slightly to the side. His eyes found your exposed neck.

Shit.

Jimin brushed his lips against your skin, ready to kiss your neck. But you didn’t let it happen so fast. You moved your head back, making him step back. You looked over your shoulder. Over that dim light on the ground he could see you slightly. Your eyes dark and your gaze so provocative. Your eyes narrowed at him, giving him that look. That look that was so fucking hot to him.

“Do you want me?”

Jimin cursed you in his head. In the closet, his finger grabbed your jaw to hold you in place before kissing you. Hard and messy.

He moaned in your mouth. Your lips were soft and plump. He didn’t waste any time before sliding his tongue inside your mouth, tasting you. He wanted to remember everything about it, even if he was wasted, even if it felt like a dream, even if it was just one time. He wanted to engraved you into his mind, every taste, every inch of you, every sound. He was going to feel every part of you now or he was going to die right there.

He bit your lower lip, his left hand fingers sliding into your hair to push you into his mouth and give you slow pecks all over your mouth. His right hand started moving to your thighs.

Jimin hated how he couldn’t take you outside to push you into the mattress and sink his face between your legs. He wanted to taste you so bad, he wanted you to come on his tongue, he wanted you to tell him and beg him to stop, crying of overstimulation. But he knew he couldn’t right now. Not with all your friends in that house, not with your boyfriend looking for you both.

So if the only place he could have you right now was in that damn closet… Jimin was going to take it.

His fingers found your underwear quickly. He moved his feet between yours to push them apart, giving him more access to your core.

Holy shit; he thought. He was going to touch you.

He could feel his heart beating faster than possible. He could finally admit how much he wanted it. It felt like his soul was about to jump out of his body from excitement. The blood running through his veins was boiling. He swore he might have passed out. And he didn’t know if it was the alcohol or what but he felt like reaching for the starts.

Jimin pulled apart from your face, his fingers left your hair and he wrapped his arm around your tummy to keep you in place so you wouldn’t run away. Not that you seemed to want to anyway.

“Do I want you?” Jimin whispered in your mouth before pushing your jaw with his nose, making you move your head so he could start kissing behind your ear to your neck. “Who wouldn’t want you?”

You huffed a laugh, humourless. Like if what he said made you remember something, someone.

Jimin let it slide for a second, because he knew you needed to be needier to answer. His fingers brushed your underwear, and he felt it. The wetness sticking to it. Shit, Holy shit. Jimin bit your neck, trying not to moan at the sensation, trying not to move his fingers to his mouth and look so desperate. You made a small noise at the action and he felt like coming in his pants.

“Fuck. Really?” Jimin licked your skin softly. His arms pushed you against him harder. He could feel his tip leaking pre cum already. “Are you actually this wet for me just humping you?”

“Shut up,” you muttered. “Don’t be cocky, you were acting like a bitch in heat.”

Jimin chuckled. His finger moved your underwear to the side before he started touching you correctly. Two fingers moved in circles overs your cunt, the wetness spreading quickly over it. You were warm, you were so warm. He couldn’t wait to fuck you dumb. He couldn’t wait to make you cry.

“Do you like this?” Jimin whispered in your ear.

His fingers pressed against you, right over your puffy clit, the small move more than enough to make you moan for the first time. “Yes.”

Jimin inhaled it. That sound. That tiny sound escaping from your lips. He couldn’t wait for you to make more, to moan his name. Fuck. He wanted it so bad. He wanted you to scream his name, to moan louder for him. He knew you shouldn’t, he knew you two shouldn’t be making noises— Actually, you two shouldn’t even be doing this. You were dating his fucking best friend.

That didn’t stop him from shoving his middle finger inside you.

You sighed so sweetly he wanted to kiss you. He wanted to devour you, engrave you in his mind forever. He didn’t give a fuck anymore to be caught. For all he care, Hobi could open that damn door and Jimin would hold you in place and make him watch how he was touching you… because there must be something going on between you and Hobi if you were letting another man touch you like this. If you were letting him touch you like that.

Jimin could feel your warm, your gummy walls squeezing his finger like it was big enough to occupied that much space. He couldn’t wait to feel you around his cock. You were fucking burning, and he was desperate to light himself on fire.

He inserted his index finger, fucking you slowly while his thumb brushed your puffy clit. Your head fell back into his shoulder and he grinned. He had you. You were loosing yourself in the pleasure.

“Does he touch you like this?,” he whispered in your ear, biting your earlobe slightly.

“Hum?” You blinked, unaware of his words for a second.

“Does he make you feel good?”

You pulled your head away from his shoulder, your eyebrows frowning. Jimin started rubbing your clit a little faster. “I don’t— don’t talk about him.”

“Why?”

“Just don’t.”

Jimin shoved his finger into you faster, harder. You moaned a little louder than you should. He felt his cock twitch in his pants. You squirmed. Your body was so responsive, so sensitive. He loved it. He couldn’t wait too much longer. His hand around your waist rubbed your tummy.

“Tell me,” he murmured.

“What?” you legs twitched.

“Tell me what happened with him,” he insisted.

“Jimin, I swear—”

He pinched your clit and you whined, immediately slapping your palm against your mouth and your other hand grabbing his wrist. Your eyes sparkled with tears at the new sensation. Your clit pulsating hard, deliciously painful. He stopped, pushing his fingers out of your cunt. You whined again, this time complaining.

“Do you wanna come?” you nodded immediately, he rolled his hips into your ass. “Then tell me.”

“Jimin,” you whimpered.

Jimin exhaled, throwing his head back at the sound you had made, the way you said his name, so sweetly, so eager. You probably wanted him as much as he wanted you and that made him so hard, so damn hard. The way your walls were squeezing his finger. The way your legs were shaking. The way your chest was moving up and down so fast, your breathing uneven. He couldn’t wait to touch again between your legs but he needed to know. He wanted to know.

“Tell me,” his voice was firmer, demanding.

“We fought, he asked for a break.”

There was a second of silence. Jimin felt like God himself had gave him permission to continue. Like he had just decided fucking you was for the best. A very good action that needed to happen.

“And why would he do that?” he asked, his voice more softer than before. His fingers found his way into you again, he started pumping his fingers into you.

“Uhm,” you hummed so good to feel him again.

He fucked his fingers into you slowly, taking his time to build your high. Almost gently so your mind would started losing slowly into the feeling. It was working perfectly. He circled his thumb against your clit again, this time slower and harder.

“Why?”

“Because…”

“Because what?” He pinched your clit again, you wailed. Your nails sinking into the skin of his arm.

“Because I was too needy.”

Jimin frowned slightly, a little confused. “What do you mean?”

“I’m clingy,” you said. “Hobi’s too. I guess we got even more clingy in our honeymoon phase. Now he’s working more than ever and it seems my needs don’t align with his schedule.”

Your voice went lower now, you weren’t whining anymore. Jimin pushed his fingers out, moving them to rubbed your clit slowly, just to touch you while he heard you talk. Your cream was dripping to his knuckles. You were making a mess on his hand.

“So he broke up with you because you’re too clingy?”

“He asked for a break because I wanted to break up with him,” you admitted.

“What?.”

“We had a fight. In the heat of it he told me I was too needy. I told him to fuck off and to find another bitch who wasn’t. He apologized, I told him to fuck off again. He told me he had been stressed and whatever other excuses.” You hesitated for a second before adding: “I told him we should break up if he really thinks he can’t handle how I am. He told me if we could just take some time. He wants time to think how to fix things and work on himself or whatever the hell that means.”

Jimin stopped moving for a second.

Jesus Christ.

He actually couldn’t phantom the idea of Hobi asking you for a break. His friend was a clingy one, always touchy, always ready to do things. With you, always ready to touch you, always ready to talk about you. He seemed like the perfect clingy guy for you. Not really overwhelming, he knew his boundaries and all. And you really didn’t really seemed too clingy, the normal amount of a girlfriend who loved her boyfriend. Sometimes a lot of pda but it was mostly you and Hobi being touchy and yourselves.

Now, Jimin couldn’t really see it. You didn’t seem the needy type. But maybe you weren’t. Maybe you just wanted the right attention and Hobi couldn’t give it to you. Maybe Hobi was going through a hard time or wasn’t thinking straight. Maybe you were just being dramatic or maybe… maybe you were too needy. Maybe you were. Maybe you just asked for too much and needed too much…

But maybe you just needed someone who could keep up with you on that.

And Jimin could definitely play that part very well. He wouldn’t get tired of it. He wouldn’t let you think you were too needy. He would touch you every time you wanted, he would give you whatever you needed, anytime. He could do that for you. Is that why you were letting him touch you? Did you know he was the one? The one who could actually give you what you needed?.

“And you gave it to him?” Jimin chuckled, humourless. He pushed you away from him. “God, you’re really needy.”

You frowned, mad. “Don’t— shut up.”

Jimin smirked, for the first time you didn’t have a quick remark.

Good.

He slide down his pants and underwear to the middle of his thighs, enough for his cock to jumped and hit his lower abs. His tip was shining with pre cum, dripping slightly over his skin, and it was red and swollen. It twitched, eager to be touched, eager to be played with. Jimin didn’t waste a second, his fingers gripped around his cock before he started stroking it slow. His thighs tensed, he needed that. He needed a release so badly.

The thought of pushing himself between your legs made his cock twitched again.

“It’s okay, baby.” He whispered in your ear. “It’s not your fault.”

“It’s not like that…”

Jimin grabbed your skirt to pushed it up to your hips. He almost moaned at the sight of your ass inches from his cock. He grabbed your underwear to slide it down slightly. He watched your arousal drip into your thighs and slowly dragged the tip of his cock against your wet folds which caused you to yelp at the surprise.

But you didn’t push him away. No, you kept your legs open for him.

He rolled his eyes, his head falling back for a second. You were so warm, so wet. So ready for him.

“Hobi is an idiot,” Jimin continued, moving slowly into you, you were coating his cock with your juices. “He should be giving you what you want anytime you want.”

“He’s not—”

“He is. He’s such a fucking idiot.” Jimin kissed your neck, sucking slightly at one spot that made you close your eyes. “He already lost you…”

“No, I—”

“He couldn’t fuck you one day and you’re already opening your legs for anyone.”

“It’s not like that.”

“It is,” he said. “But that’s okay, baby. I wouldn’t that to you.” His cock hit your clit so sweetly it made you let out a breathy moan. “I wouldn’t be a fucking idiot and let you go around like a whore in need.”

He could feel you dripping on his cock, your flesh covering his fat cock, not leaving an inch outside. His tip was hitting your puffy clit so delicious every time he pushed his hips into yours from behind. It was so, so good. You were perfect like this. Quiet and with your legs open for him.

“I would be with you every time you needed me. Every time you want someone to touch you, every time you need someone to make you feel good.” He grabbed the gem of your sweater, slowly sliding it up. “Open your mouth.”

He made you bite the material, his hand found your tits, he squeezed them, slowly, taking his time to feel them in his hand. He moved his hips so his tip would tease your entrance.

“That’s what you need. Right, baby?. Someone to keep you full everyday.”

“Jimin—”

“That’s what you need. Someone to keep you stuffed.”

His slammed his hips into yours.

Jimin groaned, dropping his head to your shoulder. He cursed, pushing himself deeper into you if it was possible. Your cunt throbbed, struggling to accommodate him as he sank all the way in. The stretch was uncomfortable, but at the same time so good you were on the verge of trembling.

You moaned, loud. He was sure someone had to heard you in that quiet house while everyone was playing hike and seek. You let the material of your sweater fall from your mouth, Jimin’s palm replaced it. His other hand wrapped your waist to keep you in place.

“Fucking shit,” he cursed again. “Yeah, that’s— that’s what you need.” Jimin bottomed out with his entire body tensing up, not giving you much time to prepare before he snapped his hips back and slowly started fucking himself into you. You whined and he pressed his palm harder into your mouth, fingers griping your cheeks. “Sh, sh. I don’t want anything else in the world to hear you moan, baby. But unless you want your stupid boyfriend to find out, you better shut up.”

You nodded slightly, your eyes filling up with tears. He was stretching you so good. Jimin loved the way he was finally able to have you shutting up, breaking apart in his arms.

Fuck, he loved it.

He loved the way your hair was sticking into your sweaty skin. The way your lips felt against his palm, the way your hole was squeezing him so tight, the way you were so warm, so wet for him. So eager to have a dick, his dick, inside.

Holy shit, Hobi was a fucking idiot.

Jimin wanted to thank him so bad. Jimin was sure he would bow to Hobi a thousand times after this. Your pussy wasn’t made for anyone else than him. Now he knew why he didn’t like you, why he wasn’t able to stand you the last couple months… because you weren’t with him. Because you weren’t his. Because he didn’t have you stuffed like this.

Stuffed of him, Jimin was sure you felt so fucking stuffed, your puffy lips were dragging along his length with every push and pull, no room left in your guts every time he forced himself inside you. But that’s what you were meant to. You were meant to be stuffed of him. You were meant to take him and take it. Take anything he gave you.

“Exactly what you need, baby. Hobi doesn’t know what to do with this hungry and needy cunt of yours.” Jimin slammed his hips harder into you, your head felt back into his shoulder. “H-he doesn’t know what to do with you, so fucking needy. This is exactly what you need— Ngh, shit.” He bit your shoulder, teeth marking your skin. “You need to be fucked good. You need— You need to be stuffed like this, full.”

His words were coming out hot and breathy, bumping against each other on his suddenly clumsy tongue. He grunted, pounding into you harder. His balls were tightening, so ready to release all down your tight hole, but he needed to hold on just a little longer. Just until you creamed all over him first.

“That’s it. You’re doing so good.” Jimin sucked the skin in your neck, ready to leave a mark. “He should’ve been marking you all up, making sure everyone knows who gets to have you like this.” You clenched around him. Jimin stuttered, his lips parting open in pleasure at the tightness. “Fuck, yes. You like that?” he hummed. “Don’t worry, I’ll do it. I’ll make sure everyone knows now who is fulfilling your needs. Not that fucking loser who doesn’t know how to satisfy you, fucking idiot doesn’t know how to keep you pretty and good.”

He felt you tensed around him, unable to deny the rush his words sent through you, making your pussy flutter around his cock in excitement.

“Shit, baby.” He groaned, his fingers found your clit again, circling it faster. Your legs twitched. “Yeah, I’m gonna fill you up, okay?.” He whispered in your ear. You tensed, shoulder tightened. You tried to push him away but he didn’t let you. “I know you want it. You need it. Need— Ah, you need someone to fill you up. Y-you need someone to keep you like this, dripping in cum so you don’t go open your legs for anyone else.”

Your right hand slipped behind you, fingers sinking into his hair. Your back arched slightly, ass pressing against his thighs. Jimin felt on cloud nine. He was sure that after today, nothing else would come close to the amazing feeling of fucking you like that.

“Jimin,” you groaned. His hand on your mouth moved to your jaw, forcing you to move your head so he could give you a quick hard peck before putting his hand flat against the door to steady you both. “Don’t—”

“Shh shh,” he brushed his lips against yours. “Don’t make a noise. Don’t want your boyfriend to hear ya’. Right?.”

Slick was drooling down your thighs, making every thrust a wet squish of flesh on flesh. The small closet smelled like sex, like sweat and sex. Your sex. Jimin weakness to inhaled every part like a drug. He wanted to devour you. His mind was running wild. He was engraving all in his mind. Your sounds, your skin, your taste. Shit, it wasn’t enough. He needed more. He wanted you more. He needed you closer even if it wasn’t possible. He wanted you to be in very part of his skin.

Jimin groaned, fucking you faster, meaner, punishing you with all the strength he had. You'd be bruised tomorrow, but the way you chanted his name clouded his mind, the way you were moaning and the way you we’re squeezing him so hard made his cock throb inside you.

“Gonna come inside you. You’re gonna go home with him but my cum will be dripping from your cunt.” His fingers rubbed your clit furiously. “Gonna show him you’re fucking mine now. Gonna make you go home with my cum inside you.”

You clenched around him again. Jimin hissed, satisfaction washing over him when your back arched more, words spilling out of your pretty mouth brokenly. He didn’t catch it but he loved the sound. He didn’t care anymore. Consequences be dammed. Hobi could walked inside right now and Jimin would make you come around his cock and fill you up with his. He didn’t give a fuck.

He actually wished he did.

Hoseok was his best fiend. He was his brother.

And still part of him wished he would open that damn closet to find you being fucked by him. To show him how he was supposed to be spending his time, having you wrapped around his cock, not letting you think of any other man that wasn’t him. Keeping you stuffed and sore. Keeping you safe, not needy. But Hobi didn’t know. He didn’t know how to do the job. And Jimin couldn’t blame him, maybe he just couldn’t keep up with you. Maybe you just needed someone better, someone who was able to keep your needs fulfilled.

Jimin could. He definitely could. He would never get tired of it. Of your cunt squeezing him like that, of your smell filling up the air, of your pouty mouth, your teary eyes. Shit, he would never. He would never get tired of it.

“Squeezing me so good. This tight needy litte cunt, holy shit— come around my cock, baby.” Jimin whispered in your ear. “Wanna feel you come.”

You came hard and fast, the pleasure was blinding that you almost slumped down, knees almost dropping and thighs trembling. You pulled his hair with strength, making him hiss. Your cunt getting even tighter around his cock. He continue slamming into you, biting his lower lip and rolling his eyes. You cried out, sobbing at the intensity of it all, tears pricking at your lashes. Jimin followed after you. His fingers dug into your waist, your back tensing as he released rope after rope of cum right deep inside your. His breathy moans mingled with yours, quickly overshadowed by the filth words spilling out of his mouth he couldn’t even understand.

His cock was twitching and making a mess as he fucked his cum deep into you. He made sure to engrave himself into your body the same way he was engraving every part of you in his brain. And you felt full, full of him.

Jimin felt in heaven. His vision blurry for a second. It felt like he was high, not drunk anymore but in fucking drugs.

It took you both a minute to come back from the high. You both were breathing hard, trying to stabilize. Your legs were still trembling a little, your hands gripping by the door closet to keep you somehow in place. Jimin had you around his arms, after you almost fell into the floor. His head against to the wall while he was trying to come back to reality.

He was still inside you. Your juices dripping down your tights and his cum from your greedy hole. His hips twitched into yours and you let out a breathy moan, squeezing him.

Fuck, he could go again.

“Sorry, muscle twitched.” he whispered, his voice deeper than before, raspy, tired.

You only were able to nod weakly.

He pushed himself out of you, making you two moan again. You were both sticky and dirty. It was fucking disgusting but you both needed to get dressed and find the nearest bathroom to clean yourselves.

Jimin was quick to put his cock inside his pants before helping you put your underwear and skirt into place. He knew his cum was dripping into your panties and thighs, and in some twisted way that just made his chest fill with pride.

Your body pushed him slightly against the wall while you turned around to face him. Your back hit the right door and he looked at you. There was just a couple of inches apart from you two, your feet still tangles but your bodies were able to not touch for the first time. Jimin wanted to laugh about how you could actually avoid all the mess if you both just stood that far apart from each other since the start.

Or maybe not.

Maybe it was just meant to happen. He wanted it to happen anyway.

Your gaze found his. Jimin licked his lips looking at you. He wanted to eat you whole. You just looked so cute. Your hair was a mess, your lips swollen and your cheeks blush. You looked fucked. Well fucked. Like you were meant to be. By him. And you looked so fucked up, so teary eyes and so pouty. He could only feel prouder and more satisfied knowing that you had him dripping down your legs too. You were full of him. You didn’t need to be needy anymore, he was there now…

“We should—”

You started talking, but he didn’t let you finish. Instead, he kissed you.

This time slower, like he wanted to engraved a sweet memory now. His mouth was softer against yours, his lips more plump than ever. As much as he wanted to kiss you dumb, he kissed you deep and slow. His mouth kissing and licking every corner of yours, tasting you, memorizing you.

He could still feel you all around him. In his fingers, in his mouth, in his tongue, in his arms, in his pants, in his cock. In every inch of his body. And he was hoping you were too.

His fingers found your waist again, but before he could press you harder against him, you pushed him to the wall again. Not hard nor mean, but softly, just to get him away from you and look at him.

“Jimin, we should’ve never—”

“No,” he cut you off. “We did it. It’s done.” he said firmly. “And next time—”

“There won’t be next time.” You shook your head.

Jimin smirked, slowly. It felt like a challenge that he wanted to take so bad.

He leaned in, closer to you. His hands moving to touch your face. “Next time—”

Click.

The door of the closet opened very suddenly. A hard noise that made you and Jimin jumped apart to look at the person who opened it, both with a frightened look. You two got caught.

“Found you!… Oh.”

Shit.

If you had to guess, the end of each break between semesters was her favorite time of year. 

Well, that and her birthday—because your father had made a habit of buying her a new handbag each season, and if there was anything she loved more than a mansion to herself, it was a mansion to herself full of designer purses.

“The car is waiting for you,” she said simply, her tone lacking the warmth of a mother wishing her daughter farewell. 

You hardly noticed its absence. You hadn’t felt it in years, anyway. You’d be lucky—or unlucky, you weren’t quite sure—if she hugged you goodbye.

Just as you opened your mouth to reply, you noticed the furrow in her brow. Wordlessly, she pressed her hand between your shoulder blades to correct your posture. “How is it that you’ve somehow managed to develop a slouch? Your father and I didn’t pay for you to go to charm school for nothing to come of it.”

Your jaw tightened, the familiar urge to shrug her hand away flared, but you didn’t let it show in your voice. “And where is he? He couldn’t take an early lunch to come home and see me off?”

She released a breath that sounded more like a laugh than a scoff. “Why would he? You’re going to be back in two months for dinner with the Ryomen family. He’ll see you then.”

This time, your bitterness did reach your voice. “Oh. Right. That.”

Your suitcase was plucked from your side by the family driver and you watched as he loaded it into the trunk.

“Yes. That.” Your mother tugged at your skirt, as if that would make it any longer. 

She looked at you sharply. Her message was clear, even though it remained wordless: don’t show up wearing something like this the next time we see you.

After all, appearances were important. You had learned that from an early age.

By the time you were ten, your eyebrows were already being plucked biweekly. Sometimes, thrice in one month, should your mother notice a hair out of place. At eleven, you learned what pore strips were, why they were used, and what people would say about you if you didn’t. Once you were fourteen, styling your hair came as easily as walking on two feet.

But the Ryomen family didn’t care about that as much as your mother did. 

What they truly cared about was securing a fortune that would create generational wealth. They cared about fostering a bond with your parents that would lead to a prosperous business relationship. They only cared about you because you were the business—an investment that they expected to mature on schedule. Well, you and Sukuna, their son, whom you have practically been betrothed to since you were six years old.

Graduation was approaching, and you would bet your life that this dinner was a gimmick—one for both sets of parents to nudge you two closer together. Not that they cared whether you truly got along. Aligning the Ryomen fortune with your family name would make your combined estate as good as gold. They likely just wanted to ensure that the eventual marriage (business deal) would be lifelong.

Which is to say, they wanted to drill it into your head that filing for divorce was not an option once everything was said and done. How sweet of them.

You couldn’t worry about that now, though. You were already running late, and you needed to get back to campus and unpack. Classes start tomorrow morning, and you would hate to be seen with bags under your eyes—and your mother would certainly hate to hear about it from the monumental amount of staff at Mikage Academy, who seemed intent on notifying her of nearly every step you took over the past few years.

“Well, I should be going,” you muttered—more to yourself than to her—because you weren’t even confident she was listening anymore.

Your suspicions were confirmed when she muttered a final ‘don’t forget about the dinner’ before shutting the door behind you. She didn’t follow you out. Didn’t hug you goodbye either.

Once you were inside the vehicle—headphones on, with music blaring loud enough to drown out any chance at forming a coherent thought—you relaxed your shoulders and slouched, because there was no one here to pester you about it.

At least that was something you could be thankful for.

☆

The student council election was rapidly approaching, and that was just about all you were allowed to think about.

You knelt on the ground with a paintbrush in your hand, carefully mapping out the words Vote Y/N for Student Council President! :) on the posterboard.

The headphones in your ears were turned up a bit too high, because you hadn’t even noticed that your best friend, Utahime, had entered the empty workroom until she accidentally kicked over the can of red paint you had been using. You gasped as it splattered all over the poster, leaning back on the heels of your feet to ensure, at the very least, that it didn’t get on your clothes.

“Utahime!”

“I’m sorry!” she said quickly, tilting the can upright again. 

The damage had already been done, though. She knelt beside you and carefully folded up the poster, tossing it into a nearby bin. Wiping her hands against each other, her eyes landed on you. 

“Let the record show that I didn’t mean to do that and am guilty of all crimes regardless,” she paused, then smiled at you. “You know, you don’t really need to campaign. No one has run against you in, what— three years?”

You frowned as you wiped your thumb over the dot of paint on your skirt. It was small enough that an untrained eye wouldn’t notice. “I know that, but you can never be too sure.”

“Actually, you can be,” she retorted, but retrieved a fresh posterboard for you anyway. “The only way you lose this election is if a meteor penetrates Earth’s orbit and targets Mikage specifically, and in that case, we would all be dead anyway.”

You raised a brow as you dipped a fresh paintbrush into the can. “In that case, I should campaign to make sure that everyone died with an intent to vote for me.”

Utahime laughed with a shake of her head but didn’t push it any further. “I should run a smear campaign against you in the school’s newspaper. Maybe then, your effort won’t be for naught.” She paused. “Speaking of— have you read the newspaper lately?”

You were stopped dead in your tracks. If Utahime had managed to read the entirety of the university’s boring-to-death newspaper and felt it was important enough to bring up to you, you couldn’t help but feel uneasy. “Yeah? Not this week’s issue, though. Why?”

“Of course you read it regularly,” she mumbled with a smile before fishing her phone out of her backpack. “There’s a new column for blind items. About the students. Can you believe that this shit actually made the final cut? It’s awesome.”

You invaded her personal space to look at her phone screen. “No way. What are they saying?”

Utahime laughed. “Just read it for yourself. I had to change my outfit because I read them this morning while brushing my teeth and laughed so hard, I toothpaste-bombed my own shirt.”

Reading the blind items to yourself, you can’t help but stifle your laugh that comes before the unease settles in. Someone had written these based on what they had observed, and despite how harmless they seemed now, the concept of that person walking among you was something that left a pit in your stomach.

A certain basketball player was seen coming back to his dorm room around 4 a.m. with multiple shades of lipstick on his neck.

A male who lives on floor three in the Newbrooke dormitory has been shitting in the showers for two weeks straight.

A sorority girl tossed the entirety of her roommate’s makeup collection out the window and blamed it on someone else, resulting in their expulsion from the sorority.

A notorious rich boy blew his semester’s allowance on a new sports car.

You skimmed the rest and ensured that none of them could be about you before you handed Utahime her phone back. “I’m sure we all know who number four is about.”

She shrugged but nodded anyway. “Right? I mean, Gojo revs his engine like it’s nobody’s business all the time.” She looked down at her phone. “I wonder who’s shitting in the showers, though.”

“Maybe that one’s about Gojo, too,” you quipped, too quickly to hide the bite in your voice.

You regretted how much you sounded like your mother then, and how easily it had come out. 

Your family’s disdain for the Gojo family stemmed long before you were born. Hell, before your parents were even born. The details of it all were up for interpretation at this point—nobody talked about it, and you never dared to ask—but to your understanding, Gojo’s great-great-great-grandfather had screwed over yours—somehow, some way—and this was what had come of it. You would be reluctant to believe it. After all, there were quite a few tools in your own family, and you liked to believe you were nothing like them.

But the asshat that was Satoru Gojo lived up to his reputation, as far as you’d learned. That was enough for you to write him off. 

Not to mention, he was the only student here at Mikage who posed a threat to you. He was academically gifted and never let you forget it; most things came easier to him than they did you, and you hated him for it. 

Well, that and the time he spilled beer all over your shoes at a frat party freshman year. He probably didn’t even remember it had happened, but you did, because some other dipshit had been recording the entire ordeal and posted it online.

The earful you’d gotten from your parents that day was enough for you to stay away from him entirely.

All the while, Utahime raised her eyebrow with a grin. “Oh, wow. You’d better hope he didn’t hear that, or else you just lost a vote.”

☆

All things considered, you were having a good day.

Even though your hair is still slightly damp from the rain and the perfume you put on only two hours ago has nearly worn off, you’re pretty confident that you’ve just aced your first Anatomy & Physiology test. 

Every other person in the lecture hall is already relaxed, scrolling on their phones while they wait for your professor to hand back the graded exams—because all things considered, it’s only worth three percent of your total grade after all calculations. And yes, you have done the calculations (twice!), because heaven forbid you be uninformed about anything relating to your academics.

You glance at your watch nervously. You hope this class is released on time, because attending it was only the second thing you’ve checked off your mile-long to-do list for the day. 

You have a student council meeting at 2 p.m., a meeting with Professor Yaga at 3:15 p.m. about an upcoming scholarship opportunity, and a study date with Sukuna at 4 p.m.—where he doesn’t do much of anything at all aside from scrolling through red pill looksmaxxer Instagram reels for two hours.

A test is lazily tossed back onto your desk, and you pick it up immediately.

It’s a 98%. An A.

You smile to yourself, but it doesn’t last very long. It falters the moment you feel a presence looming over your shoulder—one that carries the scent of expensive cologne. It’s light and masculine, and reminds you of summer, for whatever reason. You may have complimented it if the presence hadn’t beaten you to speaking.

“Only a ninety-eight? Poor thing. Didn’t sleep well or something?”

Suddenly, your compliment dries up, because you’d know that voice anywhere. Satoru fucking Gojo.

You snap your head around so fast it nearly spins off your spine. “Stay away from me and get a life,” you say through gritted teeth, but snatch his test from his hands despite yourself.

And there, in the top corner, written in pen, is a 100%. From what you can tell from all the talking he’s doing right now—which you aren’t listening to a lick—he’s pretty intent on rubbing it in your face.

He clicks his tongue and places his hand on the back of your seat, using it for leverage as he leans over you a bit more. “See? You got number thirteen wrong. You said the fluid inside body cells is extracellular fluid. Ouch.” He pats the back of your seat, as if it’s any consolation. “You know, I’m free Thursday afternoons. I could tutor you, and once the exam comes around, that frown will be turned right-side up—”

You stand abruptly and hand his test back to him, your wrist so rigid it may as well cut through ice. “Oh, I’m so good off that. I’d rather gouge my eyes out with an ice pick.”

Satoru tilts his head, his grin so smug it makes you sick. “Well, suit yourself. Speaking of—pretty sure ice picks are usually on clearance this time of year. Y’know, with it being spring and all.”

A single glance around the room tells you nearly everyone else has already left, and that it’s painfully obvious you and Satoru are the only ones who stayed behind to talk. You’d rather not be spotted with him again. You don’t bother hiding your eye roll as you zip up your backpack and walk away, crumpled test in tow.

“Hey, where are you going? What about our riveting conversation?” he calls after you, and you can practically hear his grin when he speaks. “It was a funny joke!”

The door slams shut behind you.

☆

You can’t stand Sukuna—no matter how hard you try.

“Can you at least turn that down?”

Sukuna grumbled under his breath before slumping even lower into the seat he dwarfed in size, but he lowered the volume of his Instagram reels just enough to pacify you. “What’s it matter, anyway? There’s nobody here.”

You huffed and tried not to take it personally, as the single person currently sitting beside him. “It matters to me because, unlike some people, I actually care about my grades. Very shocking, I know.”

It might be shocking to most—which you’d understand, because it even shocks you on most days—but Sukuna is one of the few people in your life who understands you.

Not when it comes to the things that make you who you are as an independent person. He couldn’t recite your full name if he tried, nor could he remember your birthday, favorite color, or go-to drink order at your favorite café.

Because at the end of the day, Sukuna doesn’t see you. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t have to. But after everything, he knows you better than most. He knows about the things you don’t say out loud. He knows how much you hate going home, because he hates it just as much. He knows that none of this truly matters, because your parents have had your futures lined up for over a decade, and none of your hard work plays a factor in that.

Where the two of you differ is this: you still seem to be under the assumption that hard work might relieve you of your fate, but Sukuna has long since adopted a different worldview. He thinks that if everything is going to work out in the end—a nice house, a somewhat decent spouse, a few kids in the far future—then what’s the point in trying in the meantime?

“Jeez, woman. I was just asking. It that time of the month or somethin’?”

You scoffed, but didn’t dignify him with a reply.

You don’t know what this is exactly—whatever you and Sukuna are. You aren’t dating. You have kissed a few times—experimental and primarily drunk kisses shared at parties that never amounted to anything, because, well… you just don’t like each other. You aren’t sure if you’re even friends, or if you’d want to be.

At most, you’re familial acquaintances, which is the polite way of saying that he is supposed to be your husband one day, if your parents have anything to say about it.

“I just need to focus. Yaga said I have a good chance at landing the internship, but that doesn’t mean I should start slacking off now.”

“What internship?”

You blinked.

“The internship I applied for three months ago?”

Sukuna blinked.

“The one I passed three rounds of interviews for?”

You scoffed. “For fuck’s sake, Sukuna, it’s just about the only thing I’ve been talking about for months!”

He held his hands up in a placating gesture. “Okay, okay, okay. Jeez. The only thing I’m noticing right now is that I’m not the only one being loud in the library anymore.”

A swarm of harsh replies flooded your mind, but you tamped them down—because you were 99% percent sure Sukuna was far too dim-witted to grasp whatever insult you could chuck his way anyway.

“Whatever. I need to get going.” You packed up your belongings and stood, taking a step in the opposite direction before he caught your arm. You glared back at him. “What?”

“Are you mad at me or somethin’? What’d I say?”

Once again, you didn’t give him a reply and walked away.

Sukuna leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest with a shake of his head. “Women.”

Once in the hallway, you approached the vending machine. You could use a pick-me-up, even if it were in the form of junk food. Just as you were within a few feet of it, an infuriating man with white hair slid in front of you. Satoru was quick to slide a dollar into the machine and punch in whatever he wanted.

“Oh—sorry, did you want something?” he asked over his shoulder, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips.

You were fed up with men today. No, scratch that. You were more than fed up with men today. You rolled your eyes and began to walk away, and maybe Satoru had a change of heart, or maybe he realized that your fallen expression didn’t just have to do with running into him.

“Hey, no— come back, I’m serious,” he called after you. He reached into his pocket and slid another dollar into the machine. “What do you want?”

You turned around, eyeing him closely. “I don’t need your dollar, Gojo.”

Unfazed by your tone, he laughed. It was boyish and carefree in a way that surprised you. “I know you don’t,” he said simply. “Way to make me feel nice about my good deed, though. I didn’t know a single dollar could move you so much.” You narrowed your eyes at him, and he tilted his head toward the machine in response. “C’mon. Pick something.”

And because you just couldn’t catch a break today, your stomach chose that moment to growl. Loudly. You placed a hand over your abdomen immediately, your face nearly losing its color.

“…Gummy bears,” you finally managed to choke out. “Please.”

Satoru smiled and punched in the corresponding code for a bag of Haribo Gummy Bears. “Decent choice for a starving woman. Not sweet enough for my taste, but decent.”

You huffed out a breath, watching him retrieve both of your chosen snacks. “Sour Patch Kids? Really?”

He handed you the gummy bears before nodding once. “Yup. Really.” He paused, a smile tugging at the corner of his lip. “I thought you’d like them. I mean, you’d definitely fit in with them.”

“Fit in with who?”

Satoru tore the bag open and popped one into his mouth. “The Sour Patch Kids. Y’know—with this whole mean-girl-who-hates-me getup you’ve got going on. Really sour of you.”

Your eyebrows pinched together. “That’s so stupid.”

“Yeah, but you almost smiled. Saw it with my own eyes,” he chirped back, chewing on the candy. You smoothed your expression, and he shook his head. “No, no, no— don’t hide it now. That’s just unfair. I paid a dollar for that smile.”

Your face tightened, because now you really were fighting the urge to smile, damn it. “Whatever,” you snapped as you started to walk away—then stopped, your expression tightening even more. “I mean… thank you. For the gummy bears.” You said one last thing before turning your back on him. “And don’t think this means I like you now, because I don’t.”

Satoru just smiled. “Yeah, of course, wouldn’t dream of it.”

☆

Your phone vibrated late into the night.

If it were any other day, you would’ve been fast asleep by now. You’d been strict about your sleep schedule ever since you accidentally discovered—at twelve years old, six hours into a late-night 3 a.m. deep dive—that not sleeping enough can result in the brain eating itself. 

But even the fear of having a peanut-sized brain by the time you were forty hadn’t been enough to lull you to sleep tonight, which was how you found yourself watching ASMR cat spa day videos at 1 a.m.

You groaned when you glanced at the top of your screen and saw who dared to interrupt your doomscrolling.

sukuna: hey

sukuna: i can see u reading my texts.

sukuna: stop being mad at me and listen

sukuna: theres a party tomorrow night and i think you should come

sukuna: and before u get all “i need to focus and stay in and be boring all the time” on me just listen

sukuna: u should take time away from your hw and relax

You nearly smiled. This might’ve been the nicest thing Sukuna had ever said to you.

sukuna: plus i wanna go and it looks bad if we arent there together. people talk.

Never mind.

you: i’ll think about it

sukuna: cool. be ready by 9

you: i never said i was going???

☆

Spoiler alert: you wound up coming to the party.

The air is stale and smells of vape smoke and alcohol. The frat house is far too crowded, and from where you’re standing in the kitchen, everyone looks like a pack of sardines wiggling around to a 2010s pop song that no one has quite caught the rhythm for yet. And yet, for all of your complaining, you’re still here—looking your best, at that.

You weren’t as much of a bore as Sukuna made you out to be, but you could admit that you didn’t party nearly as much as you had when you first started at Mikage. The passing of time makes you more responsible, or whatever the poets say—you can’t remember, and you’re honestly a little tipsy already, truth be told.

Suddenly, Shoko nudges your side with her elbow. “Hey, party girl. You gonna stand in here all night, or do you plan on joining us at some point?”

“I didn’t even see you there,” you say through a laugh, waving a hand through the air to dissipate some of the vape smoke Toji blows only a few feet away. “Yeah, I’m coming.”

You follow her through the crowd, only managing to bump into a few people along the way while clutching your Solo cup tight to your chest. It’s warmer now that you’re enveloped in this sea of bodies; your cheeks feel hot, but you pay no mind to it. You’re not sure how long it takes before you and Shoko reunite with Utahime and Nobara, the four of you forming a little circle for yourselves—something that looks conspiratorial from the outside, but feels like a haven on the inside.

“Took you long enough,” Nobara says by way of greeting. She glances down at your cup. “What’d you find in the kitchen?”

“I don’t even know what the hell this is. I just grabbed whatever was unopened and poured it into a cup with ice. I’m hoping it’ll water down,” you reply with a shrug.

Nobara scoffs. “Toji never stocks shit for these parties—deadass, this is the worst frat. I don’t even know why we come here.”

Shoko laughs, though you can barely hear it over the music. “We come here because girls get in free at the door. I mean, if I’m gonna get shitfaced and regret my decisions tomorrow morning, I sure as hell don’t wanna pay for it.”

Utahime taps Shoko’s cup. “Yeah, speaking of getting shitfaced—you’re drinking water once you finish that. I can’t carry you back to your dorm. The last time I tried, I basically dragged you there.”

Shoko groans but doesn’t fight it. All of a sudden, the three of them lock eyes on something directly behind you, and their expressions fall.

Utahime’s face goes white as she places her hands on your shoulders. “Girl, don’t turn around. I’m so serious.”

“What are you talking about?” Your brows knit together, even as you’re already turning.

And when you see it, your eyes widen.

Sukuna is making out with some girl in the center of the room, and while the sight doesn’t make you sick, it does make you nervous. In the span of three seconds, a million thoughts rush through your mind.

You’re granted a glimpse into your future: a future where you marry a man who invites you to a party just to make out with another girl right in front of you. A future where you never feel secure enough to let your guard down, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. A future where you die even more miserable than you feel right now.

Not because you’re jealous. No, you couldn’t care less what the hell he does. It’s the principle that bothers you.

If you were expected to keep up appearances and make time to “bond” with him out of your already packed schedule, why was he allowed to do whatever he pleased?

You hope no one else is paying as much attention to him as you are, because the last thing you need is both of your parents finding out and breathing down your neck, trying to put Sukuna on a leash.

“Just classless,” Shoko hums.

You turn back around, laughing. “He’s a mess. I don’t know what the hell my parents are thinking.”

Nobara sighs. “You should run away and join the circus or something. They’ll never find you.”

“Super helpful, Nobara. Thank you,” Utahime says flatly.

You laugh to yourself, knowing they’re only trying to make you feel better. But the impending doom of your upcoming graduation feels worse than ever now. You feel suffocated—like the air is too warm to breathe—so you mumble out a half-assed excuse before slipping through the crowd and out onto the balcony.

It’s cold outside. Refreshing against your skin.

The party has spilled out onto the front lawn, and the sight is so ridiculous it brings you an odd sense of comfort. Choso wobbles on two unsteady legs with Nanami perched on his shoulders, currently trying—and failing—to fish toilet paper out of a tree. Two seconds later, they go tumbling over together, face-planting into the grass.

“That’s gotta hurt.”

You gasp, wrenching away from the edge of the balcony to look behind you.

And there he stood.

Satoru fucking Gojo.

Only now, he looks different. More casual. Relaxed, right down to the smoothed wrinkle between his eyebrows and the clothes he’s wearing now. You’ve never seen him in anything but collared dress shirts and black slacks, courtesy of Mikage Academy’s suffocating dress code.

He takes a step closer. Then another. Soon he’s beside you, forearms resting on the railing. His shirt stretches across his frame, and your eyes traitorously trace the curve of his bicep. The sharp line of his jaw. The slope of his nose.

You tear your gaze away before it gets embarrassing. Has he always looked like that?

Clearing your throat, you mirror his posture. “Hi.”

“Hey,” he replies easily. He glances at you, then back out at the lawn. “Nice party. Solid DJ choice.”

You huff. “Small talk? Really?”

Satoru shrugs. “I figured I should ease into it. You don’t exactly look like you’re in the mood for my usual charm.”

“You mean being insufferable?”

“Wow,” he says. “I was more so going for memorable.”

Your eyes meet. You’re the first to look away.

“Sorry,” you mutter. “I don’t really know how to talk to you when I’m not irritated with you and your stupid gloating.” You pause, then lift a finger. “And before you say anything—I aced the quiz yesterday. So if you came out here to rub it in, save it.”

“Oh no,” Satoru deadpans. “My entire plan— ruined right before my eyes.”

You glance at him. He’s smiling, but it’s softer than usual. 

“No,” he continues, dropping his head slightly. “That’s not why I came out here.”

Your brows pinch together. “No?”

“Nope. I needed air. And maybe a tetanus shot after sitting on that couch, ‘cause that thing’s disgusting.”

You laugh despite yourself.

“And,” he adds casually, “I saw you come out here.”

You turn toward him. Somehow, his eyes look brighter at night. “Is that your official reason?”

“Mostly,” he says. “What can I say? I’m curious.”

“About?”

“About why you look like you’d rather be anywhere else than at a party like this.”

You hesitate. “It’s… complicated, I guess.”

“Ah,” Satoru nods. 

You scoff, easily reading between the lines. “It has nothing to do with Sukuna. Well— okay, maybe a little. But not like that.”

He tilts his head. “You sure? Because from where I’m standing, it kinda looked like your boyfriend might have a lot to do with it.”

“Ew. No,” you say quickly. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

Something shifts in Satoru’s expression. “Good to know.”

You blink. “Why?”

He shrugs. “Just is.”

You roll your eyes, but continue anyway, words spilling easier now. “If my parents have their way, he’ll probably be more than my boyfriend someday.” You grimace. “Which is terrifying, because he’s about as smart as a box of rocks, and I can’t be around him for more than ten minutes without wanting to bang my head against the wall.”

Satoru lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Here I thought I was harsh.”

Panic flickers through you when he doesn’t say anything else right away.

“I know it sounds stupid,” you rush on. “There are people who’d kill to have something lined up like that, and here I am complaining. My mom married my dad for business reasons and they’re… fine. I think.” You run a hand over your hair. “But I don’t want that. I don’t want to be married right after graduation. I don’t even know if I want to get married at all.”

Satoru doesn’t interrupt, but when he does speak, his voice is quieter. “That doesn’t sound stupid. In a place like this,” he gestures toward campus, “everything’s a transaction. Degrees, connections, last names.” He scoffs lightly. “My parents won’t shut up about networking. Meanwhile, the best relationship I’ve built here is with the lady who gives me extra french toast in the dining hall.”

You laugh, clearly surprised. Not only because the french toast sucks, but because you wouldn’t expect something like that from him. It should make you feel less impressed with him, but for some reason, it doesn’t.

“I’m serious,” he adds. “Peace isn’t exactly encouraged around here. If anything, you’re expected to trade for it.”

“And you?” you ask before you can stop yourself. “You don’t seem all that worried about it, for someone who comes from a family like yours.”

Satoru shrugs again, but this time it’s different. Less flippant. “Guess I just decided a while ago that I’d rather disappoint my parents than disappoint myself.”

The quiet that follows is heavier than the music inside. You can hear the hollers and shuffling feet just inside, but it fades away just as quickly as it came.

“You make it sound easy,” you say.

He smiles. “Hey, I never said it was. It’s just easier than the alternative, is all.”

You nod because it feels appropriate, and you aren’t sure what else you should do. Talking with him is surprisingly easy, but that doesn’t mean you’re supposed to be doing it. That you should be doing it. Even now, you wish you could resonate with Satoru’s ideology, because all you can think about is how much your parents would hate this.

“My parents would hate this,” you blurt out, accidentally saying your thoughts aloud.

You look at him, embarrassed and doing your best to hide it. It feels strange, knowing just how much you’re supposed to hate talking to him yourself, but don’t.

He rubs the back of his neck. “This conversation?”

You try not to stare at his bicep, flexing right in your face.

“Yeah,” you admit. “My parents hate your family. Always have.”

“Mine aren’t exactly fans of yours either.” Satoru laughs, tilting his head slightly. The feeling was mutual—he couldn’t take much offense at it. Still, he asks, “Do you feel that way too?”

“What do you mean?”

He turns to look at you, his expression almost serious. “Do you hate me?”

You huff. “I don’t even understand the reasoning all that much. I just know that the animosity exists, and that I’m expected to respect it— and I guess I have, for the most part.”

“That isn’t what I asked,” he replies simply. “Do you hate me? On your own terms?” He pauses then, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he looked a tad nervous. “I’m sure I’ve given you enough of a reason to. More than one, I’d bet.” He glances away. “The first time we ever spoke, I spilled beer all over your shoes. I shouldn’t have been holding it anyway— I hate beer.”

“I knew you remembered!” you yell, pointing a finger at him. “I’ve been holding that grudge against you for years now.”

“What? Of course I remember. I apologized immediately,” he says quickly. “Pretty sure I almost got on my knees and everything.”

You click your tongue and shake your head. “The damage was already done.”

The conversation stills for a moment, and you choke over your words before managing a more serious reply. 

“For as obnoxious as you are, I don’t hate you. No. I don’t even know you well enough to hate you if I wanted to.”

“Alright, I’ll take it.” Satoru smiles to himself. “I think you’d form a better opinion of me if you let me get to know you. You’re a tough nut to crack, you know— been tryin’ for years.”

You stare at him, and he doesn’t cower in response. Not that he typically would, but you half-expected him to.

“I’m serious,” he says instead. “We should be friends.”

Your laugh comes out sharp. “Absolutely not. My parents would be livid. Beyond livid, actually—they’d probably murder me. And I mean, a true crime podcaster’s wet dream type of murder. No joke.”

“Well, if that’s the case, I think we should definitely be friends,” he says through his laughter. “I’ve always wanted to be in a documentary. Confessionals and all. A face like this is made for the cameras.”

“You’re such a jerk,” you scoff, nudging his side, barely able to fight off your smile.

“Mm-hmm. A big jerk that you’re still talking to,” he replies. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you wanted to be my friend too.”

You don’t reply, which might have just been an answer in and of itself.

For the first time throughout this entire conversation, Satoru turns his body to face you properly. His head tilts down enough to accommodate the height difference between you.

“I think this might be the first argument you’ve ever let me win,” he grins.

You narrow your eyes. “This isn’t a win. It’s more like… a draw. A tie.”

“Sure. A draw, a tie. Potato, potahto. Whatever.” He extends his hand toward you. “So. Friends?”

You take it and shake it. “Yes. Friends.”

He smiles. “See? Easy peasy lemon squeezy.”

When your hands fall apart, Satoru’s hand stills at his side—fingers flexing—before he grasps the railing. You straighten, stepping back from it yourself. The night air suddenly feels too thin, as if there isn’t enough of it for the two of you to breathe anymore. More anxiety than anything else.

“I should probably go,” you murmur. “It’s late.”

And you’ve been talking for quite some time now, which only means it’s a matter of time before someone notices and writes a blind item in that stupid newspaper column.

“Right,” he replies. “Need someone to walk you home?”

You shake your head. “I think I’ll manage.”

Satoru nods, his smile slow as it turns up at the corners. “Alright. Sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

“Night,” you reply weakly before reemerging into the party.

You reunite with your friends, who seem even more over the night than you are. The four of you walk back to your dormitory together.

☆

You royally fucked up this time.

To no surprise, you won the student council election with flying colors. No one had the balls—or…clit? You don’t discriminate—to run against you throughout the election cycle.

With some surprise, however, you decided to celebrate your victory with the other board members, taking way too many shots from a bottle that was emptied far too quickly.

On a fucking Tuesday.

You mentally kicked yourself—and you would’ve done the same physically if you weren’t on the verge of blacking out.

Vision splotchy, you glanced around the dorm, only to find that everyone was already passed out cold. You couldn’t stay here—you had a meeting bright and early!

And so, with some difficulty, you finally managed to find your purse—the one you had hidden while sober, back when your only concern was someone stealing the $60 in cash from your wallet.

Widening your eyes, the bright screen was a blur of letters and colors, but you managed to open your contacts app. Typing in an ‘S,’ you clicked Shoko’s contact, praying she was awake and able to come pick you up from the off-campus housing.

The line rang twice before someone answered.

You sigh in relief. “Girl, red alert! Get your sexy ass up and come pick me up!…please.”

“Woah, Prez. I had no idea you thought about me this way. Tell me more.”

Your heart dropped straight to your ass.

“Satoru…?” you whine, more than ask.

“Yeah, it’s me. I’m startin’ to think you meant to call someone else. Bit of a blow to my ego, but I can handle it.”

Slumping against the couch, you huff. “Meant to call Shoko. Need a ride.”

Silence filled the line for a moment, then an insufferably attractive laugh broke it. “Are you drunk right now?”

You sniffled. “A little. I mean—a lottle. I-I mean, a lot. Very drunk. Drunk and stranded.”

You heard rustling on the other end, the faint jangle of keys. Your eyes fell shut. You were so damn tired.

“Okay, I just left my apartment. Where are you?”

In any other situation, you would’ve refused Satoru Gojo’s help. You were a strong, independent woman. You didn’t need a man to come to your rescue.

But the longer you sat on this couch, the more you wanted to ditch your mandatory meeting in the A.M. and pass out right here.

Even in this state, you were smart enough to know staying wasn’t an option.

“I’m at off-campus housing down the street. Please hurry. And bring water. And snacks. And a blanket. And—”

“Yes, boss, I’ve already got all of that—along with a partridge in a pear tree. Jeez, you’re needy.” He laughed, and it made you pout. “I’m only a few minutes away. Hang tight.”

⭑

“Watch your head, watch your head!”

Thunk.

“Oww,” you whine, rubbing the top of your head while Satoru busied himself fastening your seatbelt.

Rounding the front of his sports car, he slips into the driver’s seat. The engine roared to life a few seconds later, but the car stayed in park. Instead, he reaches for the ice-cold water bottle in the cup holder, twisting off the cap before handing it to you.

“How much did you have to drink?” he asks, sounding almost agonized. “Don’t know if you know this, but it’s Tuesday night.”

It took you about ten seconds, a long drink of water, and a deep sigh of relief before you answered. 

“I won the presidency,” you finally say, as if that answered everything.

“Ah.” He reaches for a nearby pack of gummy bears. “This good? That’s all I could find on the way.”

“Yes,” you barely cared, tearing the package open. “Y’know, Gojo…you’re kinda nice.”

He huffs, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, really? What gave you that idea?”

Chewing thoughtfully, you started listing things your sober self would’ve never admitted.

“You came to get me even though I’m such a bitch to you. And you brought me water, and my favorite candy, and—hic!”

Satoru hums, clearly entertained. “Uh-huh. Keep going.”

“And you tease me all the time, but you aren’t that mean when it comes down to it…” You sniffle. “I honestly wish you were. It’d be easier to hate you.”

He laughs, shaking his head as he finally shifts the car into drive. “Aw, sorry about that. I can be mean to you if you want?”

The drive was quiet, mostly because it was so short—the streets were empty at this ungodly hour. When Satoru parked and killed the engine, he turned to look at you and froze.

You were chewing on gummy bears with tears streaming down your cheeks.

“Are you a sad drunk?” he asks, even though he already knew. “Aw, you are, aren’t you?”

You sniffle. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

He shifts toward you, more careful now, lifting the water bottle back to your lips. “‘Cause we’re friends now. I’m nice to my friends. C’mere.”

To his surprise, you let him tip the bottle, drinking without protest.

Swallowing, you frowned. “No, you aren’t.” Sniffle. “You’re mean to Suguru. And Nanami. And Toji…”

Satoru’s smile is lopsided. “You have a point. Guess I’m just nice to you then.”

“But why?” you press, not even realizing it. “You have no reason to be.”

Satoru was the type of man who had never needed to wish on stars to get what he wanted.

All it took was a swipe of one of his many credit cards or the mention of his family name. It worked without fail.

For everything except one thing, and she was sitting right beside him.

Oblivious to the fact that since freshman year, she’d made his heart race every time she was near. From the moment he met her in biology—cut down by her sharp tongue—he’d felt motivated instead of defeated.

He’d gone home that night thinking about her. Stayed up, even, planning ways to talk to you the next day. Ways to make you look at him. Talk to him. Give him the time of day.

You had no idea what you did to him, and right now, he had no place to tell you.

He leans back with a quiet hum. “For someone so smart, you can be a little dense sometimes.”

Your sniffle cut him off. His head snaps toward you, and his chest nearly caved in at the sight of fresh tears welling up.

“No, no, no, no— hey, I was joking! I didn’t mean it, I swear.”

Satoru cupped your cheeks, thumbs brushing away your tears. His eyes searched yours, softening despite himself. He tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

“You’re kinda cute when you’re drunk,” he says.

What the fuck?

Why would he say that out loud? Right now? Of all times?

“You’re kinda cute all the time,” you replied easily, fingers fumbling with the pendant on his necklace. “You smell really nice, too.”

Satoru’s heartbeat doubled, but he forced himself not to read into it. Not now. Not when you’re in this state.

He cleared his throat, pulling his hands away. “Let’s get you inside, okay?”

He stepped out first, then opened your door. Your eyes met his as he reached in to unbuckle you. “Easy,” he murmured.

Getting you out of the car was about ninety-five percent Satoru’s effort; you leaned into him the majority of the way, the two of you making your way toward the side entrance. It felt like it took hours to climb the stairs—but in reality, Satoru carried most of your weight without breaking a sweat.

By the time you reached your room, he helped you onto your bed, carefully slipping off your heels. His hand lingered at your ankle, thumb brushing over the faint mark the strap had left behind. He leaned over you slightly, hand smoothing over your hair.

“Get some sleep, okay?”

You didn’t notice when he set a bottle of aspirin and fresh water on your nightstand. You just curled under your blankets on instinct, heavy with exhaustion. Your eyes cracked open just enough to catch your on-call-Uber-driver-slash-friend retreating toward the door.

“Satoru?” you called.

He paused, one foot already out. “Mm?”

“I like it when you’re nice to me.” You shook your head. “No—I mean… I like being your friend.”

Satoru smiled faintly. “Me too.”

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

☆

You despise how much you enjoy being friends with Satoru Gojo.

You despise how attentive he is. How he silently hands you a pencil a beat after you realize you’ve come without one. How he holds the seat down for you so you can sit more easily in the lecture hall. How he gives you one of his AirPods whenever you’re in the library together, looking for your own books respectively, yet highly aware of how far you are from him when the music begins to chop up.

You despise how much he’s gotten you to let your guard down. How he makes you laugh whenever one of your student council meetings goes awry, because the high of being reelected as council president only lasts until the first meeting. How he assures you that you can get through whatever issue you’re working through with your boardmates, because, according to him, if you were able to snag his vote, then you can just about do anything. How he references Digimon or whatever video game he’s played last into just about every other conversation, to the point where it borders on endearing and annoying—but the expression he wears when he talks about it makes you easily decide on the former.

You despise how he makes you feel. How a simple nudge to your side whenever you reply with a smartass comment makes your face feel warm. How the scent of his cologne lingers after he leaves, and how you feel disappointed when it finally dissipates. How you’ve now become acutely aware of the length of his eyelashes, the vibrance of his eyes, the smile lines that look more handsome on him than you’d ever like to admit.

But more than anything, you despise that you just can’t find anything to hate about him—no matter how hard you try.

It had only been a little over a month, and yet it’s difficult to remember what it was like when the two of you weren’t friends, or what faulty reason you had to hate him in the first place.

You doodle a bit rougher in your notebook as you wait for instruction to begin, trying to get your mind off it. Off him.

Like clockwork, he plops down into the seat beside you, lazily extending his legs before placing a small white box on your desk.

“What’s this?” you ask, setting your pen down. When you open it, you find your favorite pastry sitting inside, untouched. Your brows knit together. “How’d you know this was my favorite?”

When you look at him, he’s already chewing a bite of the muffin he bought for himself.

“We’ve been to the café twice together and you got the same thing both times. How could I not know by now?”

You take a bite of your own, chewing thoughtfully. You’ve been to the café with Sukuna more times than you can count on both hands, and not once has he remembered what your go-to order is. It shouldn’t mean so much—in the grand scheme of things, it’s just a four dollar pastry—but it does. It feels good to be known, even in the simplest way.

“Well… thank you. I appreciate it.”

“Yeah, no prob,” he replies, setting his muffin down. “Your stomach growls when you don’t eat in the morning—I could hear it from three aisles back.”

You shove his shoulder, eyes wide. “Shut up. No, you couldn’t.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” he relents with a grin, glancing your way. “It was four aisles back.”

You roll your eyes, face warm. You glance down at his muffin, and he clutches it closer to himself.

“No looksies,” Satoru says firmly. “Daddy doesn’t like to share.”

You grimace. “Ew. Gross. Don’t call yourself that.”

“Mommy doesn’t like to share?” 

“Even worse.”

Satoru sighs in playful defeat, and just in time—before he can try again—your professor addresses the class and starts the lecture.

And no more than five minutes later, he doesn’t even complain when you ask for a bite of his muffin.

☆

You’re nervous about your upcoming Anatomy & Physiology exam.

The air outside is brisk, the cold biting at your cheeks as you speedwalk toward your dormitory. Even though this is nowhere near your first rodeo with the freezing-to-pleasant transition between winter and spring, it never gets easier to manage. Especially not now, with your arms full of flash cards, two folders, an oversupply of fresh scratch paper, and blank scantrons that are just about begging to be practiced on—which means you don’t have a free hand to grab a hot chocolate from the on-campus café. What a great start to your study session this is.

Your steps are quick, and from afar, you probably look like you’re lightly jogging, which isn’t the best look considering you’re wearing a thick, furry winter coat and a pair of fuzzy pajama pants. It isn’t ideal, but you planned for this venture outside your dorm room to be quick.

That is, until you trip on a shift in the sidewalk and tumble forward.

You catch yourself on your hands, which only makes you realize that your supplies are now blowing away. You manage to pick up a few things on your own and reach for a folder—only to realize someone else has already picked it up.

“Nearly gone with the wind,” Satoru sighs. “Good thing I was here to save the day. No need for thanks— it’s all in a day’s work.”

You straighten once you’ve gathered the rest of your things. “You and your gloating. Don’t you ever get tired?”

“Nope.” He shakes his head, then glances down. “Cute slippers.”

Your eyes follow his gaze to the fuzzy slippers you only ever dare to wear out when your feet are freezing. You shift your feet and nudge his chest. “Shut up. They’re warm!”

“And fashionable,” he lilts, and gestures to the armful in your hands. “What’s all this for?”

“Studying,” you answer, because it’s obvious. “I’m gonna make flashcards for the A&P exam and probably take a few practice tests.” You reach for the folder still in his grasp. “So, if you’ll excuse me—”

“Hey, hey, hey. Slow down a sec.” Satoru lifts the folder out of reach. “Let me help you out, yeah?”

You narrow your eyes. “Why? Don’t you want to score better than me anyway?”

“Oh no,” Satoru says flatly, face blank. “You’ve exposed my master plan once again. Whatever will I do?” Then he grins. “How could you think so little of me? I’ll score better than you without sabotage, you know that.”

“As if,” you retort, averting his gaze.

Satoru raises an eyebrow. “If you’re so confident, prove me wrong.”

You tuck your lips into your mouth, weighing his offer. On one hand, you’re hesitant to let him into your room—afraid that you might not dislike it. That you might even like being alone with him. On the other, you’ve never been one to back down from a challenge like this.

Your pride settles it for you.

“Fine,” you say. “I will. Follow me.”

☆

Rumor has it that this was where it all truly began.

Your bedroom.

It was all rather easy at first. You’d spent about an hour making flashcards, a time primarily spent in silence—save for his voice making noise pollution every so often. Mostly moans and groans about how bored and hungry he is, which fall on deaf ears.

By the time you finish the deck, Satoru’s jacket is hanging on the back of your desk chair, and he’s lazily sprawled across your bed. He’d offered to take the chair, but you insisted that sitting made you focus better. Which it does, but you’re also too nervous to sit beside him on the bed right now.

He tosses a stress ball toward the ceiling, catching it with one hand. “Done yet? I’m dying here. The fun part is supposed to be me quizzing you.”

You straighten the cards before tossing them his way, the deck landing on his stomach. “Yes, now hurry up. I don’t have all day.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he chirps, propping himself up against your pillows as he gathers the cards. He clears his throat, glances once at you, then back down. “What are the two primary functions of the skeletal system?”

It doesn’t take you more than a second. “Support the body and protect softer body parts.”

He hums and flicks to the next card. “What three things does the muscular system allow the body to do?”

You hum, rubbing your chin. “Movement, support, and… heat production.”

Another flick. “What about the nervous system?”

“It controls immediate responses to stimuli,” you answer easily.

Satoru huffs, flipping through card after card as you breeze through half the deck. Soon you’re naming the primary functions of individual muscles—temporalis, masseter, sternocleidomastoid, extensor digitorum—you’ve lost count of how many you’ve answered correctly. You’re zoned in, until he looks up at you with a raised eyebrow.

“These are too easy for you,” he declares. “You need something more challenging.”

You squint and lean back in your chair. “What? These are plenty challenging.”

He hums, clearly unconvinced. “Nope. You need more independent practice. Stuff you can’t predict.”

“Like what?” you ask. “Since you’re so smart, I’m assuming you have an alternative method. Put up or shut up.”

Satoru exhales through his nose, meeting your gaze without missing a beat. He’s long since learned your tone, your bite. He grins and sits up straighter, lifting an arm and pointing to his own. “What does the tricep do?”

You blink. “Straightens the arm at the elbow? Duh. I thought this was supposed to be hard.”

“Shh, be patient. A master is at work.” He pauses, then asks, “What about the orbicularis oris?”

Your posture straightens against your will, gaze dropping to his mouth. Your eyes trace the curve of his lips—where that muscle would be—and you watch as the corners of his mouth tug upward. Five seconds pass—longer than any question has taken you so far.

“It allows for movement in the lips,” you finally say.

“Mm,” he sighs. “Only half credit. That’s a little vague. Name three specific functions and I might reconsider.”

The room feels warmer. You clear your throat. “Speech, whistling, and… kissing.” Your eyes flick away to your desk as you fuss with loose papers, trying to come off as busy or distracted. You add quickly, “It’s informally known as the kissing muscle. Everyone knows that.”

A low whistle leaves him as he rises from the bed, stretching his arms over his head before stalking toward your desk. He stops behind your chair, flashcards still in hand.

“What’re you doing?” you ask, still facing forward.

He sets the cards down in front of you and places one hand on the desk, leaning just slightly over you. He isn’t touching you, but he’s close enough that you feel the heat of him at your back, and certainly close enough to make your thoughts scatter.

“Told you,” he murmurs. “I’m helping you study.”

You swallow. “How, exactly?”

He exhales, breath brushing your neck. “Have you practiced for the muscle identification portion yet?”

Shit. You’d nearly forgotten about that. From what you remembered your professor saying, there would be anatomy models stationed around the classroom, highlighted with nothing more than a single muscle on each one. It would be your responsibility to name the muscle and its function on the spot.

“Not really,” you admit, shrugging. Your back brushes his chest, and you clear your throat quickly. “How do you plan on helping with that?”

Satoru brushes your hair off your shoulder, knuckles barely grazing the back of your neck before his thumb presses gently into a muscle along your upper back. “For starters: what muscle just helped you shrug your shoulders?”

You swallow thickly. Your breath leaves you shaky, and you hope he doesn’t notice the goosebumps rising on your skin when his thumb traces again, slow and deliberate. Meant to tease you, you’d imagine.

“Upper trapezius,” you say, breathy despite yourself.

“Good.” You can hear the smile in his voice. His hand moves, thumb sliding to the back of your neck. “Your neck’s tense.”

“Well,” you say, forcing a shaky exhale, “it’s not every day I become a study tool. First day on the job.”

He laughs, and there’s something charged beneath it. “You saying you don’t like my method?”

“No, I’m not saying that at all,” you blurt. You glance up and freeze at how close his face is. “...I’ve liked others less. That’s all.”

A lopsided smile. “So you want to continue?”

Your answer is immediate. “Yes.”

His thumb presses more firmly at your neck. “What muscle is tensed up here?”

“Trick question,” you mutter, “still the upper trapezius.”

“Good.” His hand flattens, gliding down your back, following the natural arch of your spine as your breath catches in your throat. “Now tell me—”

Your heart is pounding.

“—what muscle is making your back arch like that?”

You scoff, trying to straighten. “You’re ridiculous.”

“That’s not an answer,” he tuts. “Don’t know it, huh?”

“Of course I do,” you stammer.

“Then tell me, smart girl.”

Your stomach twists with nerves and something far more dangerous. He shouldn’t excite you. He should make you pull away, push him out, undo whatever this is. And yet, your mind wanders to what it would be like if you didn’t. If you invited him to stay instead.

You shake your head, grounding yourself. “Erector spinae.”

He hums. “See? Not so hard.”

“It was plenty hard,” you murmur, stealing a glance up at him.

He tilts his head, just enough to meet your eyes. Your lashes flutter as you switch between each of his eyes. His nose is nearly brushing yours, and it terrifies you just as much as it intrigues you. No, actually—what you’re feeling now goes beyond simple intrigue. It’s excitement. Bordering on longing.

“What are you doing?” you ask, words tumbling out of your mouth.

“Just lookin’ at you,” he replies easily. “You’re pretty.”

“Wha–? Sh-Shut up.”

He grins. “You’re cute when you’re shy, too.” 

From the beginning, Satoru was supposed to be nothing more than a thorn in your side. Someone sharp and irritating. Something to endure. But when given the chance to poke where you were weakest, he’d held you instead. 

His hand slides to your waist, fingertips slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. He still hasn’t pulled away, and you pray that he doesn’t. You don’t want him to. 

You lick your bottom lip without thinking. His eyes drop instantly, tracking the movement—and he doesn’t bother hiding it, even after he’s sure you’ve noticed.

And when he’s least expecting it, at least as far as you can tell, you rock up onto your toes, hands fisted into his shirt, and press your lips to his.

Your lips slot into his like two puzzle pieces fitting together. His hands tighten their hold on your waist, and when you force yourself to pull away, to face the music of your decision made on a whim, you find a blushing Satoru staring back at you.

A soft, nervous laugh leaves his lips, breath warm against yours.

“Well, if you thought studying was hard…”

…Oh? 

Your gaze dips.

Oh.

He’s hard.

From a single peck.

His sweatpants hang low on his hips, giving you a slight glimpse of the light trail of hair that leads toward the prominent bulge in the fabric. The sight alone makes your mouth water, enough for you to, within the span of a second, wonder what it’d be like to feel it. From sight alone, it looks big. Heavy.

Every warning system inside your head blares all at once, telling you that this is a bad, bad, bad, horrible, horrible, horrible decision. And yet, you lean into him again.

You kiss him once more, hands clutching onto his shirt as you tug him down to meet your mouth, which he does with no hesitation. His lips are softer than you imagined, gentle on yours.

“And which muscle is responsible for that?” you ask against his mouth.

He smiles, you can feel it. “Ischiocavernosus.”

Satoru’s large hands smooth over the backs of your thighs, lifting you like you weighed nothing at all. You’re lying on your bed before you realize it, and he is hovering atop in between your parted legs.

His lips tear away from yours, kisses mapping out a trail of heat along your jaw. Your hand slips into his hair, tugging when his mouth finds the sweet spot just beneath your ear.

Your back arches off the bed as a signifier.

“Found it,” he rumbles against your skin, smiling against it.

His mouth is searing, kissing down your clothed chest until he pushes your shirt up just enough to expose your belly. Open-mouthed kisses mark his exploration of your skin, hot and wet as he traces the curve of your side.

Your stomach flutters when his mouth kisses down your belly, strong hands holding your waist in place while his tongue darts out to get a taste of your skin.

Satoru’s movements, you realize, seem automatic. Like he’s thought about this before, planned for it, even—he was just waiting for you to give him the chance.

Hands suddenly paw at his shoulders, your hips squirming slightly. “Stop teasing me, Satoru.”

Satoru laughs, fingers tugging your fuzzy pajama pants down just enough to kiss your hip bone. “Fine, fine. Under one condition.”

Your heart pounds. “What is it?”

His hands smooth over your thighs as he shifts a bit lower. “Let me taste you.”

You blink a few times, clearly surprised. You’ve never been with a guy whose first move is to go down on you. “Okay… I mean, if you want to—ah!”

His hands are skilled in the way that they pull the hem of your pants down, leaning back just enough to peel them down your legs and toss them aimlessly onto the floor. 

Satoru’s eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen, focused on the apex of your thighs as he flattens to his stomach. His hands move your legs to rest on his shoulders, his lips already on your inner thigh.

“Fuck, thank you,” he whispers against your skin, wet kisses inching closer to your core. 

And when his mouth finds the wet patch on the gusset of your panties, Satoru knows he’s a goner.

His grip tightens on your thighs, pulling you closer to his mouth. Eyes fluttering shut, he flattens his tongue over the fabric. That only lasts a few seconds before his fingers tug the flimsy material down your legs, and his lips are latching onto the true source.

A groan escapes him the moment his tongue laps at your essence. “Tastes so sweet.”

Your fingers slip into his hair, tugging at the root when his lips close around your clit. Your hips would’ve bucked into his mouth if his iron grip wasn’t keeping you in place.

Even with his face buried in your pussy, he manages to speak. 

“Mmh— tastes like candy, baby. Thought about this s’many times.”

The confirmation only makes you twitch, which he seems to notice if the firm press of his tongue to your clit is any confirmation.

“Ah— shit, Satoru. Right there.”

Satoru thinks that he could do this forever. Could live and die a happy man, cheeks warmed by your thighs pressing in on them and the taste of you on his tongue.

His nose bumps against your clit, tongue slipping lower to gather more of you on his taste buds. His hips begin to rut into the mattress like a dog in heat, a whimper leaving his throat when you tug particularly hard on his hair. 

“S-Sorry,” you manage, fingers releasing the strands of his white hair.

Blue eyes meet yours, and he forces himself to pull his tongue off you just long enough to speak. “Baby, I don’t care. Tug on it even harder if you wanna. Your pleasure feels good to me.”

“Masochist,” you say through a breathy laugh.

His mouth is back on you. “Only for you.”

You’re like sugar on his tongue, the type of ambrosia that men should go to war for. Satoru knows he would in a heartbeat.

The feeling of his tongue kitten licking your clit has your hands shooting down, one sliding back into his hair and the other scratching at the back of his hand on your thigh.

Satoru gives it to you without a second thought, your fingers lacing with his as you press his hand down on your stomach. 

His eyes crack open to watch your face, twisted in a pleasure that he’s proud to have given you. He sucks your clit into his mouth before releasing it with a slick pop.

Only, your hand in his hair presses his face back into your pussy, and Satoru is nothing if not willing to please you. 

The groan that leaves him travels up your spine, and your hips begin to twitch, thighs closing in on his head. A mewl leaves your lips, clutching his hand before you cry out, the first wave of your orgasm wracking through you.

Satoru flattens his tongue, licking up every drop of your syrupy release, hellbent on committing the taste of you to memory. 

His voice is deep and scratchy when he speaks. “You’re beautiful when you cum.”

Your eyes snap open, a newfound heat finding your cheeks. “Shut up.”

He’s crawling up to meet your lips with a smile, shaking his head. “Nuh-uh. Just telling the truth.” He kisses your lips, and you taste yourself on them. “Sweetest pussy. I’d go for seconds if you let me.”

You’re tempted by the offer.

Only, something else tempts you more than it should.

Satoru hisses the moment your palm presses against the bulge in his sweatpants, forehead knocking into yours. His hips twitch against your hand, and when he closes his eyes, you can tell he’s doing his best not to grind into your hand.

A quiet laugh leaves your mouth. “I think I’d rather do something else.”

His hands fist into the bedsheets in an act of restraint. “Like what?” he asks, voice strained.

You huff, free hand taking hold of his chin, forcing him to look at you. “I think you’re smart enough to figure it out.”

“I don’t wanna assume. It’s ungentlemanly, y’know?” His lips press against yours, pulling back before you have the chance to deepen the kiss. “Ah-ah-ah, can’t do anything more ‘til the lady asks.”

He’s so fucking annoying. 

The pout on your lips is too cute to handle. Satoru debates kissing it away. Only, your next words stop him in his tracks.

They come out more demanding than you intended, trying to hide how needy you really are. “Stop wasting my time. I want you to fuck me, Satoru.”

His cock twitches against your hand. Maybe bossiness works best with him.

“That’s so hot,” he says, panting. 

Satoru immediately reaches for the hem of his sweatpants and boxers, pushing them down his legs in a hurried, uncoordinated manner. He nearly topples over once or twice in his haste.

Soon, though, his erection springs free, slapping against his stomach. It’s somehow even bigger than you initially imagined…lengthy, and flushed a pretty shade of pink at the tip.