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you haven’t had any before now. apartment 512’s been empty since you moved in six months ago—no footsteps, no chatter, no sound of life above your own. for a while it felt like your space floated on its own little island between concrete and silence.

now it vibrates with energy that doesn’t belong to you.

you listen without meaning to.

more movement. the scrape of something heavy being dragged. a soft thump. then another. maybe furniture. you shift on the couch, the remote slipping off your blanket and thudding softly onto the rug.

a young dad, you think. probably moved in with his two little girls. you picture him: tall maybe, shoulders broad from carrying groceries and toddlers. dark hair, soft eyes, tired smile. there’s a tenderness in his voice—even muffled—that suggests he’s used to wiping away tears and tying shoes with quick, practiced fingers.

your lips twitch into the faintest smile.

you’ve never met him, but he sounds like a good father.

the sound of running resumes. then a shriek—this time louder—and a muffled, exaggerated “nooo!” from the guy. something slams onto the floor (a pillow, hopefully) and one of the girls lets out the kind of giggle that makes your heart do a small, involuntary flip.

you close your eyes for a second.

but it’s too loud to nap.

so instead you drag yourself up from the couch with a groan, arms stretching over your head as you shuffle toward the bathroom. the floors are cool under your feet, and there’s a thin layer of tension still lingering in your spine, coiled from a long day and now from all the upstairs ruckus.

you twist the faucet. the pipes gurgle—reluctant—but warm water flows, steam already beginning to kiss the mirror. your fingers test the heat before pulling your shirt over your head.

they’re still moving around up there.

something thuds in the hallway above. a laugh chases after it, followed by the slam of a door. he yells something—“watch your toes!” maybe—and the girls erupt into more laughter.

you shake your head, lips curving despite yourself.

they seem… happy.

the steam curls around your bare shoulders like a fog rolling in over your thoughts. as you step into the water, the heat bites at your skin before settling into something comforting, melting the day off your muscles one inch at a time.

the ceiling creaks again. you close your eyes under the stream.

it’s fine, you tell yourself.

you don’t mind loud kids.

you don’t mind young dads.

you don’t mind apartment 512.

not yet, anyway.

𐔌՞꜆.  ̫.꜀՞𐦯

the days begin to blur, and with them, the gentle hum of a life above you.

your alarm buzzes at 7:15 most mornings, but you’re always half-awake by then—stirred not by the sun, but by the thudding footsteps overhead. they’ve become your unofficial wake-up call. light, clumsy steps—too chaotic to be anything but children—racing back and forth like tiny storms brewing on hardwood.

some mornings it’s music. not loud, just low enough to be a background pulse. you don’t recognize the songs. one had soft piano keys. another had a beat you found yourself tapping your toothbrush to.

and always—always—his voice.

not constant, not invasive. just… there.

a thread between floorboards, weaving into your daily routine. you hear him call out to the girls like clockwork—“tie your shoes,” “where’s your backpack?” “no, we don’t eat gum we find in our pockets.” things like that.

you start to notice how patient he is. no raised voice. just this warm, even tone. a rare kind of softness. it seeps through your ceiling and wraps around you when you least expect it.

you still haven’t seen him.

not once.

not in the elevator, not in the stairwell, not in the mailroom. it’s strange. a whole family above you and not a single face to pair with the voices. it starts to feel almost ghostlike—like you’re living beneath a story that plays only in echoes and shadows.

you learn their schedule without meaning to.

8:00 a.m. – they leave.

6:15 p.m. – they return.

the ceiling groans softly when he walks across the living room. he’s heavier than the girls, obviously, but still quiet. thoughtful with his steps. you imagine socks instead of shoes. a mug in hand. maybe he’s the type to light candles in the evening.

sometimes, they watch movies. the muffled sound of animated voices filters through when the night’s especially still. one of the girls cries during sad scenes—you’ve heard it. soft sniffles, a hiccup, and then his voice, close and comforting. a lullaby in low tones.

you keep the volume on your TV lower now. you don’t want to interrupt.

friday nights are loud. there’s laughter, more music, the occasional crash of something toppling over followed by a dramatic “you okay?” and an immediate “i’m fine!!” that makes you grin into your wine glass.

saturday mornings are quieter. sometimes eerily so. you wonder if they sleep in. or maybe they go out for breakfast. your ceiling is silent until around noon, when one of the girls seems to burst into song. she’s always slightly off-key, but she belts it anyway, bold and free.

you’ve grown used to it.

used to the lives living above you.

it’s funny how they’re strangers, and yet you know the older girl hates brushing her hair. you know the younger one calls pancakes “panny-cakes” and once cried for ten full minutes because she dropped her favorite fork. you know one of them sneezes like a kitten, and the other laughs like she’s bouncing on a trampoline.

and him… you still don’t know his name.

but you know his voice.

his rhythm.

the calm he brings with him.

you don’t realize how much you’ve come to rely on it until one night—late, well past midnight—the apartment above you is quiet.

no footsteps. no hums. no soft voice telling someone to go brush their teeth.

just stillness.

and you lay there, staring at your ceiling, listening to nothing.

you hate how empty it feels.

you hate how much you notice.

it’s just past midnight when you hear it.

the creak of footsteps—small ones—darting across the ceiling like a mouse in socks. you blink at the ceiling through the dim blur of sleep, half-expecting the sounds to vanish. but instead, you hear a soft voice. a child’s.

“but i can’t sleep!”

your brows lift, and before you can register what you’re doing, you’re slipping out from under your sheets, feet brushing against the cool floor. you tug your hoodie over your head, not bothering with the zipper, and pad softly toward your balcony door.

the night is quiet. the air smells like the city trying to rest—concrete and moonlight and a hint of rain that never came. you slide the door open and step onto the small space, lit only by the halo of a streetlamp two buildings away.

and then you hear her again.

little feet scuffle just above you, the creak of the railing shifting slightly as weight leans against it. she must’ve snuck out onto her own balcony, one floor above.

you glance up and call softly, “can’t sleep either?”

a tiny gasp.

then: “who said that?”

you smile. lean forward just enough so your face can be seen from the balcony above.

“from below. i’m in 412.”

she peeks down, eyes wide and round, hair messy with sleep. the moonlight catches on her cheek as she peers at you like a curious cat.

“you live under us?”

you nod. “yup. i hear your little stampedes in the morning.”

a giggle. it tumbles out of her like wind through chimes. “that’s me and my sister. but she’s asleep. i’m mana mitsuya.”

“hi, mana,” you say, voice gentle. “i’m y/n.”

“y/n,” she repeats, like she’s testing the syllables for sweetness. “that’s pretty. do you always stay up this late?”

“only when the ceiling talks,” you tease, and she giggles again.

a short silence settles between you. she leans her chin on the railing, eyes still bright despite the hour.

“what do you do when you can’t sleep?” she asks.

you think about it. “sometimes i drink tea. sometimes i write. sometimes… i sing.”

her ears perk up. “what do you sing?”

you pause, then smile softly. “would you like to hear?”

mana nods furiously, already turning to run back inside. “wait right here! i’ll get my stuff!”

and she does—she really does. you hear her shuffling, hear drawers open and close, hear the enthusiastic thumps of her small feet. two minutes later she returns, arms full of soft things: a polka-dot blanket, two pillows, and an army of stuffed animals, including what looks like a slightly-worn rabbit and a pink unicorn with a lopsided horn.

she piles them up against the railing and flops down dramatically. “okay, i’m ready.”

you chuckle, resting your arms on the edge of your own balcony, looking up through the lavender shadows of the night.

and then you begin.

soft, slow.

“hold me close and hold me fast, the magic spell you castc this is la vie en rose…”

your voice floats upward, delicate as a ribbon caught in the breeze. mana goes still. even the breeze seems to hush for a while, like the whole building is listening. her eyes flutter halfway shut, a faint smile blooming across her cheeks.

“when you kiss me, heaven sighs and though i close my eyes, i see la vie en rose…”

you keep going. your voice is a lullaby. not perfect—slightly husky from sleep, warm from quiet—but it’s enough. the kind of voice meant for night songs and safe spaces. when you glance up near the end, mana’s head is tucked into her bunny, her blanket curled up to her chin, eyes heavy.

“give your heart and soul to me and life will always be, la vie en rose…”

the last note lingers like a whisper. and then—

“y/n?” mana mumbles sleepily.

“yeah?”

she snuggles deeper into her pillows. “you sing like a fairy.”

you smile, heart soft and full. “thanks, mana. now get some sleep, yeah?”

”‘kay…” she yawns. “goodnight… neighbor…”

the lights from above fade out, one by one. you stay out on the balcony a few moments longer, gazing at the stars you can barely see, listening to the quiet. and for the first time since moving in, you don’t feel so alone in the city.

not with mana takashi above you.

not with laughter in your ceiling.

not with the echo of la vie en rose hanging in the night air.

𐔌՞꜆.  ̫.꜀՞𐦯

he finds her curled up like a misplaced dream—half under her blanket, face smushed into the crook of a unicorn plush.

mana.

asleep. on the balcony.

mitsuya blinks, squints against the sunlight bleeding through the sliding glass door, and slides it open with a sigh that’s more amused than anything else.

“mana?”

she stirs, nose scrunching up. one sock has fallen halfway off her foot, and there’s a trail of stuffed animals leading from the living room to where she now lies, as if she migrated in her sleep like some kind of tiny, determined hiker.

he crouches beside her, brushing a bit of hair from her forehead.

“mana, c’mon. you can’t sleep out here. it’s cold.”

her eyes open in slow blinks. she smiles lazily up at him.

“i was waiting for her…”

he raises an eyebrow. “her?”

“the fairy,” she mumbles like it’s obvious.

mitsuya blinks. “…fairy?”

mana nods sleepily, rolling onto her back and pointing downward. “from downstairs. she talked to me. she sang to me. last night.”

his first instinct is to chuckle—but he reins it in. not because he believes her, of course. but because she looks so sincere. wide-eyed, cheeks warm with the kind of belief that only kids can conjure.

“you made a new friend in your dreams, huh?”

“no! she was real!” mana sits up with sudden energy. her hair’s sticking up in every direction, her unicorn’s ear is in her mouth, and her face is full of morning indignation. “she lives below us. her name is y/n.”

mitsuya pauses.

the name does tug at something faint. familiar. maybe from a name on the mailboxes.

but—

“mana, sweetheart, if there was someone on their balcony last night, i would’ve seen them. you probably imagined it.”

mana frowns. crosses her arms. “did not.”

he stands and stretches, glancing down at the balcony below. empty.

no blankets. no girl.

just potted plants and windchimes.

“mana, no one’s out there.”

“she’s probably asleep,” mana tries.

“or maybe,” he says gently, “she’s not real.”

“she is!”

another voice cuts in.

“who’s not real?”

luna.

barefoot and frowning, her hoodie sleeves dragging over her hands as she steps onto the balcony with a sleepy pout. she eyes mana with suspicion.

“mana thinks she met a fairy.”

“i did!”

“fairies aren’t real, stupid.”

“don’t call me stupid!”

“you said a fairy sang to you like a lullaby CD. that’s not even—”

“her name is y/n and she lives right there!” mana jabs her finger at the balcony below. luna peeks over the railing. no one’s there. her expression shifts immediately into something victorious.

“see? empty. it was your weird baby dream.”

mana gasps like she’s been insulted on a personal, spiritual level. “take it back!”

“no.”

“you’re just mad she didn’t sing to you!”

“am not.”

“are too!”

mitsuya sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. the day hasn’t even started and they’re already two minutes into a heated sibling summit.

“girls.”

they both snap to look at him.

“go brush your teeth. put on socks. argue later. if you’re not ready in fifteen, i’m leaving without you.”

“you wouldn’t,” luna challenges, arms crossed.

mitsuya raises one brow.

mana gasps. “he would.”

“he would,” he says, walking back inside. “and i’ll buy chocolate milk for myself on the way back.”

a chorus of outraged footsteps follows behind him.

but just before he closes the balcony door, he looks down one more time.

empty.

still…

there’s something oddly specific about the name. y/n.

and… wasn’t that a soft humming he’d heard last night, just before drifting off?

his eyes linger a second longer.

then he shuts the door.

𐔌՞꜆.  ̫.꜀՞𐦯

it’s exactly 8:03 p.m. when your keys slip into the lock and the weight of the day finally melts off your shoulders.

the sun’s nearly gone now—just a smear of tangerine and lavender on the edge of the skyline. you’ve got groceries in both hands, a slightly crumpled receipt in your pocket, and the hum of an old love song still lingering in your mind from the radio on the walk home.

you step inside, flick the lights on low, and toe your shoes off—

“FAIRY??!”

the scream nearly makes you drop the milk.

your eyes dart upward, heart skipping, but you already know exactly who it is. you don’t even have to look.

mana.

you set the bags down carefully, a little smile tugging at your lips as you walk toward the balcony and slide the door open.

she’s already there—peeking over the railing of 512, arms waving frantically, hair fluffed out in every direction like she hasn’t brushed it since morning.

“mana,” you call softly, stepping out into the golden light, “what’s wrong?”

she gasps in relief, like you’re a lost treasure she almost imagined. “don’t move! stay right there!”

you blink. “uh. okay?”

she disappears.

just like that. gone from view. a tiny stampede follows—footsteps and the screech of the balcony door above slamming shut.

you stand there in your hoodie, confused, the city humming below your feet.

then:

“luna!!! she’s real! come outside, hurry!!”

a new voice joins the chaos. quieter. a little more skeptical.

“wait, what is??”

more footsteps. then a second pair of eyes—bigger, rounder, more guarded—peek over the edge of the balcony. this one has neater hair, a hoodie with glittery stars, and a look like she’s halfway between wonder and disbelief.

mana is bouncing in place beside her.

“this is her!! this is my fairy!! she talks and she sings and her name is y/n and she’s real and you didn’t believe me but now you have to!”

luna stares at you like she’s analyzing a myth.

you give her a small wave. “hi. um. i’m y/n.”

mana gasps. “see?! she even says it the same way!!”

luna narrows her eyes slightly. “…you don’t have wings.”

“well,” you tease, “they’re invisible.”

mana lets out a delighted squeal. luna’s jaw drops slightly.

mana turns to her sister triumphantly. “told you.”

luna, clearly offended at being proven wrong, immediately redirects. “we have to show nii-chan.”

your head tilts. “older brother?”

mana nods so hard her unicorn hairclip falls sideways. “mhm! he’s the best big brother ever. he does our hair and makes pancake bears. he’s out right now but he’ll be home soon!”

luna crosses her arms. “not until ten. he’s at work.”

“so we need you to keep us busy.” mana says this like it’s a royal decree.

you blink.

“…busy?”

“until ten,” mana clarifies, very serious now. “you can do magic stuff or sing again or tell us about your fairy job—wait! are you on duty right now??”

your laughter bubbles up before you can stop it.

the wind picks up a little, tugging at your sleeves, as both girls lean over their railing like you’re a bedtime story in the flesh.

you glance back at your apartment—groceries still on the floor, lights soft and warm, kettle waiting.

then you look back up at them.

“alright,” you say, “but only if you let me bring snacks. fairies can’t work on an empty stomach.”

mana gasps like you just revealed a secret of the universe.

luna looks like she’s still not totally convinced—but she nods, one brow raised. “fine. but no raisins.”

“deal.”

they vanish again—another stampede across the ceiling—and you smile to yourself as you go back inside to grab something sweet and fairy-worthy.

you don’t know their older brother yet.

but if he’s anything like the little chaos he’s raising…

you think you’ll be meeting him very, very soon.

it’s 10:30 p.m. when the balcony lights flicker on upstairs.

you’re back inside, finishing the last of your tea, half-dozing on the couch with your window cracked open and the balcony door still ajar. the city hum is quieter now, distant sirens and wind brushing leaves across the sidewalk. you hear them before you see them—mana’s giggle, luna’s shushed warning, the faint clink of snack wrappers rustling in tiny hands.

then another sound.

a key in the door above.

the soft creak of tired footsteps.

a voice.

low. familiar somehow, even though you’ve never heard it directly before.

“mana? luna?”

no answer.

“what are you doing out here?”

the balcony door slides open upstairs.

“you’re still awake? it’s past bedtime.”

mana’s voice comes quick, excited. “nii-chan!! the fairy came back! she brought cookies and told us stories and—”

“mana.” his tone is firmer now, still calm but edged with parental exhaustion. “enough with the fairy thing. and snacks this late? seriously?”

you sit up, guilt blooming in your chest.

before you can stop yourself, you're back outside and you call out softly, “sorry—that’s my fault.”

a pause.

a long one.

above you, the balcony floor creaks.

“…what?” he says, blinking down through the rails like the moon just spoke.

you step outside slowly, hands tucked into your sleeves, looking up toward where his voice came from.

“i didn’t mean to keep them up. they caught me coming home and… well. i guess i got enchanted.”

another pause.

you hear mana whisper, “see?”

luna mutters, “told you.”

he sighs, the kind of sigh that says of course this is real, and then says out loud, more to himself than anyone:

“you’re the balcony fairy?”

you grin. “apparently.”

he finally leans over the edge—and there he is.

hair tousled from the wind, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, expression caught between suspicion and something else. softer. curiosity maybe. or disbelief.

his eyes meet yours and stay there a moment longer than you expect.

then he blinks, shakes himself out of it.

“girls,” he calls over his shoulder, “bath. now.”

groans. protests. giggles.

“no buts. or i’m canceling pancakes for breakfast.”

you hear them scramble away with a chorus of “okay okay okay!” and the slide of the glass door closing behind them.

the balcony falls quiet again.

he exhales.

leans his arms onto the railing.

“sorry about them,” he says eventually. “they’ve got wild imaginations.”

you smile. “don’t apologize. they’re wonderful. you’ve got a good team up there.”

he huffs out a small laugh, tired but warm. “team, huh?”

you nod. “captain mitsuya?”

his eyes squint like he’s trying not to laugh. “you know my last name?”

“mana introduced herself. full name, very official.”

he looks away briefly, like he’s hiding the way that makes something in his chest shift.

then looks back at you.

“and you’re… y/n?”

you nod.

the breeze picks up a little, brushing your hair behind your ear. his eyes follow the motion before flicking back up toward the stars. he’s quiet for a beat, then:

“you really sang her to sleep?”

you nod again. “she asked nicely.”

he exhales a laugh, almost disbelieving. “you’re kind. that’s rare around here.”

you shrug. “i just don’t like hearing little girls cry through my ceiling.”

that gets a real smile from him.

brief. crooked.

but real.

he nods slowly, eyes back on yours.

“well…” he says, voice dropping just a little, softer than before, “thanks for looking after them.”

you smile.

“anytime, captain.”

𐔌՞꜆.  ̫.꜀՞𐦯

you’re still awake.

not out of restlessness—more like… reluctance. like your body hasn’t quite given the day permission to end.

your lights are off now, but the balcony door’s open again. the night air slips in through the screen, cool against your skin. the city’s fallen into that strange hush that only exists at 1 a.m.—no horns, no voices, just the occasional rustle of wind and the hum of faraway traffic.

your tea’s gone cold. your fingers rest loosely around the mug anyway, tucked against your chest as you sit curled on your little balcony, knees pulled up, cheek leaning against the chair back.

you almost don’t hear the soft click above you.

but then: the quiet squeak of old metal.

the upstairs balcony door.

your eyes flick up.

he steps out like someone who doesn’t expect to be seen—hoodie on again, hair damp, probably from a quick shower. you catch a glimpse of him rubbing at his neck with a towel, slow and tired, before he finally looks down.

his eyes widen slightly when they land on you.

you offer a small wave.

he hesitates—then lifts his hand in return.

neither of you speak right away.

you sip from your empty mug. he leans onto the railing, arms crossed. the silence stretches—not awkward, just… unspoken. shared. the kind that needs no explanation.

then:

“you’re still up.”

his voice is quieter now. softer than before.

you nod. “could say the same to you.”

he exhales through his nose. “i guess i’m on post-fairy-duty watch.”

you grin. “are you implying i’m a flight risk?”

“you showed up with cookies and vanished into the night. yeah. i’d say you’re suspicious.”

you laugh. it echoes faintly into the open air. his mouth twitches, but he doesn’t quite smile this time.

you tilt your head.

“what’s keeping you up?”

he looks down at his hands, fingers curling slightly against the railing.

“…just thinking.”

you wait. give him room.

eventually, he speaks again.

“they’ve been through a lot. mana and luna.”

your eyes soften. “they seem happy.”

he nods, almost absently. “they are. now. i just…” he sighs. “i want to keep it that way.”

you don’t ask for details. you don’t press.

instead, you say: “they’re lucky to have you.”

he looks down at you. really looks.

the weight of it is surprising—like he’s seeing you in full for the first time. not the blurry outline through balcony bars. not the voice in the dark.

you.

his mouth opens slightly. maybe to say thank you. maybe to disagree.

but instead, he says:

“you didn’t have to do all that.”

you glance down at your mug, smile faintly. “i know.”

a pause.

then—

“why did you?”

you let the silence fill up for a moment. let it settle into your chest.

then you lift your eyes back to him and say, simply,

“because i heard her say she couldn’t sleep.”

he watches you like he’s trying to memorize that.

and maybe he is.

you both fall quiet again.

the wind carries a small leaf across the edge of your railing. it trembles slightly before tumbling off.

he leans forward, resting his chin on his arms.

“you really sang her to sleep.”

you smile. “i told you.”

his lips finally curve—genuine now.

“would it be weird,” he asks, “if i asked you to sing me to sleep too?”

you laugh, surprised.

“yes.”

he shrugs. “figured.”

another beat.

then he says your name.

not as a question.

just… as if he wanted to feel the sound of it.

you meet his gaze. you feel it settle somewhere deep.

he straightens a little, rubs the back of his neck.

“maybe next time you come up, you won’t be a fairy,” he says.

“no?”

he smiles. slower this time.

“maybe just… a neighbor.”

you look up at him. let the night press in around you.

let the warmth in his voice linger.

“i think i could live with that.”

you don’t realize how late it’s gotten.

not until your voice catches mid-laugh and you glance down at your phone resting on the balcony table beside you—face-up, glowing faintly in the dark.

3:04 a.m.

you blink at it like it must be wrong.

but no, the sky above you is nearly ink-black now, the stars sharper, colder. the warmth in the air has softened, turned more into a hush than a blanket.

above you, he’s still there. arms crossed on the railing, hoodie loose on his frame, silver glinting faintly in one ear. his hair’s a little messy still from the towel, but he stopped caring about that around 2 a.m.—sometime between his second story about his sisters and the first real smile you gave him.

you lean your chin against your knee, curled up in your chair again.

“so… let me get this straight.” your voice is soft, almost drowsy. “you’re in a gang.”

he winces, but only slightly. “yeah. i am. not like… what you’re probably imagining. we’re more like a… well. kind of a family. sometimes dumb. sometimes violent. but loyal.”

you hum. “and this gang’s name is…”

“toman,” he says, watching your reaction.

you blink. “sounds like ramen.”

he laughs—soft, warm, unguarded. “not quite as comforting, but yeah. close.”

“is it like, leather jackets and switchblades?”

“try oversized uniforms, matching logos, too many haircuts that should be illegal.”

you snort into your sleeve. “do you still have to wear the uniform?”

“maybe.”

“and you design clothes ?”

he nods. “i’ve always loved it. sewing, especially. i used to make things for my sisters—costumes, blankets, little bags for their toys.”

your heart aches at the thought.

he shifts, his elbow resting against the edge of the railing. “i like creating something from nothing. it feels like magic. not the kind with wings,” he teases, “but close.”

you roll your eyes playfully. “fairy jokes? really?”

“you handed that one to me on a silver platter.”

you smile at him, eyes soft in the dim light. he holds your gaze for a little longer than before.

there’s something quiet about him. something that hums low—not shy, not hesitant. just… steady. like he listens closely to everything, even the things you don’t say.

“you’re not what i expected,” you say finally.

he tilts his head. “what did you expect?”

“the guy upstairs with the loud kids and the mystery voice? honestly, i thought you were some tired single dad trying to survive.”

he grins. “do i give off ‘divorced with two toddlers’ energy?”

you nod solemnly. “strongly.”

he lets out a soft groan. “i’m only sixteen. that’s brutal.”

“you’re sixteen?” you blink. “wait—me too.”

he raises a brow. “guess we’re in the same tax bracket and age bracket.”

you smirk. “careful, that sounds dangerously like bonding.”

he leans on his arms again, eyes sharp even in the dark.

“oh no,” he says quietly. “is the fairy getting attached?”

your cheeks warm.

you throw a pillow up toward his balcony. it flutters and drops back onto yours.

he laughs.

the silence that follows is thick with something different now—something golden and slow.

“you’re not what i expected either,” he murmurs.

you blink at him. “and what did you expect?”

he shrugs. “someone quiet. maybe nosy. maybe mean.”

“mean?”

“you heard mana through the ceiling and didn’t ignore her. you brought snacks. you stayed until she fell asleep. i figured you’d be tired. annoyed. normal people don’t do that.”

you tilt your head. “and what kind of people do?”

he looks at you like it’s obvious.

“fairies.”

your breath catches.

he watches the way your expression softens.

the city’s heartbeat slows around you. the wind dips. the stars blink lazily above the two of you.

“we should sleep,” you say, even though you don’t want to.

he nods. “we should.”

neither of you move.

“goodnight, y/n.”

your name sounds softer from him now. like it’s not just something he’s heard, but something he’s decided to remember.

“goodnight, mitsuya.”

his eyes flicker.

a heartbeat passes.

“you remembered?”

“i’m not a forgetful fairy.”

he smiles. wide. surprised.

“it’s takashi.”

you repeat his name. and then—

“sweet dreams, neighbor.”

you linger out there a few seconds after he disappears inside, hand resting on the cool railing, the echo of his voice wrapped around you like a blanket.

and this time, when you fall asleep…

you dream of balconies.

and boys with kind eyes.

and the quiet, golden glow of something new beginning.

𐔌՞꜆.  ̫.꜀՞𐦯

you’re halfway through a quiet morning stretch when you hear it—

“pssst!! fairy!!”

you freeze, arms mid-air, sweater sleeves bunched at your elbows. slowly, you step out onto your balcony, the soft morning sun washing everything in amber.

mana is already there—perched at the edge of her own balcony, chin over the railing, cheeks puffed like she’s trying to hold in the most important news of the year.

“come up here!!” she whisper-yells. “we’re making breakfast! i saved you a seat!!”

you blink. “…does your brother know?”

“no!” she grins like that’s the best part.

“mana—”

“pleaseee! just sneak through the hallway! no one will know! you have to come!! mikey’s already trying to steal the syrup and luna said she’ll take your glass if you don’t show up in five minutes!”

you sigh. but your smile’s already giving you away.

“fine. but if i get arrested for balcony trespassing, it’s on you.”

“DEAL!!”

and just like that, you’re climbing the stairs in your oversized sweater and sleep-wrinkled shorts, heart thudding against your ribs like it’s more than just pancakes waiting for you at the top.

when you knock gently on the door of 512, it’s not mana who answers.

it’s a tall guy with a long blond braid and a face that says don’t waste my time, but not unkindly. there’s a dishtowel tossed over his shoulder and something cinnamon-sweet hanging in the air behind him.

he raises a brow. “…you lost?”

“um.” you glance past him into the apartment. “i was invited?”

before he can reply, a voice behind him calls out:

“is she looking for mitsuya?”

your gaze flicks over—this time to a much smaller blond boy, sitting cross-legged on the counter, sipping from a juice box like he lives there.

you open your mouth to answer—

“SHE’S HERE!!” comes a triumphant screech.

mana blasts into view like a firecracker, shoving the tall blond (who barely moves) out of the way and latching onto your hand. “hurry hurry hurry!! nii-chan’s already cooking and mikey’s eating your chair!!”

you blink. “…mikey?”

the smaller blond waves from the counter.

you don’t have time to process that.

you’re being dragged now—mana tugging you down the hall, past hanging fabrics, half-folded laundry, the hum of morning chatter—and straight into the dining room.

and then—

you see him.

mitsuya’s mid-sentence, standing at the end of the table with a spatula in one hand and a plate in the other, turning to say something just as mana barrels in behind you like a herald of chaos.

“FAIRY’S HERE!!”

he turns.

freezes.

chokes.

literally.

“oh my god,” you mutter, stepping forward, “are you okay?”

he coughs once, hard, sets the plate down like he forgot how his hands work. his eyes are wide, like you’re a ghost—or worse, a crush in real-time.

his gaze drags over you: soft sleepwear, messy hair, bare legs, pink-tinted cheeks from the climb. you raise a hand in a small wave.

“hi.”

mana beams. “she came through the balcony!”

mitsuya turns slowly toward her, voice flat. “…you invited her through the balcony.”

“she said yes!”

he drags a hand down his face.

you try not to laugh. “should i go?”

“no!” mana shouts. “sit next to nii-chan! it’s the only seat left!”

you glance at him. he’s still pink in the ears. still not speaking.

you slide into the empty chair beside him.

he finally exhales. then, under his breath:

“did she really invite you?”

you raise a brow. “you already know the answer.”

he groans softly into his hands.

across the table, mikey’s sipping your milk. luna’s glaring at him. the tall blond appears again with another stack of pancakes and mutters, “this house isn’t real.”

you nudge mitsuya gently.

“takashi. you blushed again.”

“shut up.”

but when he slides your plate over, your fingers brush again—

and this time,

he doesn’t pull away.

mana’s already halfway through her first pancake by the time you finish unfolding your napkin.

the table is packed — stacked plates, small mismatched bowls of fruit, a lonely bottle of strawberry milk that everyone seems to be keeping tabs on, and at least three different conversations happening at once. you barely adjust into your seat before mikey reaches over and steals your fork.

“you don’t need this, right?” he says with the blankest expression on earth.

you blink at him. “i—literally, yes?”

“too late.” he starts cutting into your pancake.

you look at mitsuya like is this allowed, and he just sighs and grabs another fork from the drawer without a word. his hand brushes yours again as he sets it down, and you think: maybe that was on purpose.

mana’s chewing loud enough to shake the table. luna is frowning into her cup like someone gave her skim milk on purpose.

the tall blond — draken, you think someone called him — is making eggs in a pan and threatening to turn the stove off if mikey doesn’t sit like a human being.

mikey is now lying down across three chairs.

and mitsuya — beside you, close enough that your elbows keep brushing — is the only one not actively complaining. or eating.

he’s watching.

he doesn’t realize you’ve noticed, but his eyes flick to you again and again, always fast, always like he’s trying not to.

you take a small bite of pancake and whisper under your breath, “are you okay?”

he blinks. “…me?”

you nod, hiding your smile behind your fork.

he clears his throat. “fine. totally fine.”

you nudge his leg under the table. “you look like you’re in shock.”

“i’m just…” he glances at you, blush returning in full force. “…not used to this.”

“what, breakfast?”

“no. you.”

you blink at him.

and it’s quiet. just for a second.

the rest of the room blurs out, all sharp edges and background noise. you stare at him, startled by the softness in his voice.

but before either of you can say anything else, mana is climbing onto her chair.

“nii-chan, can fairies live here? like in real life?”

he coughs, looking back down at his plate.

“i think they have… apartment leases like the rest of us.”

“what’s a lease?”

“it’s when the fairy agrees to never leave.” mikey mutters, still chewing.

draken side-eyes him. “are you high on syrup right now?”

mana gasps. “so y/n’s gonna stay forever! because she said she likes us!”

you glance at mitsuya — and he’s staring at his plate like it personally offended him.

“mana,” he says gently, “you can’t trap people with pancakes.”

she folds her arms. “then why’d she stay?”

you lean forward, smiling. “because mana invited me.”

mana throws her arms up in victory.

luna quietly slides the strawberry milk toward you, as if conceding your place at the table. you take it with a small nod. she nods back, seriously.

mitsuya watches the exchange, quietly amused. and then, in a voice only you can hear:

“you really meant it, huh?”

you look at him. “what?”

he doesn’t look away this time.

“you didn’t have to say yes to her. but you did.”

you shrug, slow and honest. “i wanted to.”

he smiles at that — a real one, the kind that melts the stiffness out of his shoulders.

and then mana, somehow holding a fork in each hand, says:

“you should come for dinner too.”

you open your mouth to respond, but mitsuya speaks first:

“mana.”

“what?”

“stop inviting her to everything.”

“she’s our fairy.”

you meet his eyes. they’re full of quiet laughter and a question he’s not brave enough to ask yet.

you answer it anyway, softly:

“i’d like that.”

𐔌՞꜆.  ̫.꜀՞𐦯

you’re sipping the last of your milk when it happens.

the table has calmed, mostly. luna is peeling the stickers off her orange juice box. mana is drawing something (possibly you, possibly a magical pancake god) on the back of a napkin. draken is finishing his third cup of coffee and quietly regretting waking up today.

mitsuya, finally, is starting to look like he might survive this morning without spontaneously combusting.

until—

“so, when are you two gonna kiss?”

you choke.

literally.

a cough breaks from your throat mid-sip, and you cover your mouth with your sleeve while mitsuya goes rigid beside you like someone just poured ice water down his back.

you whip your head around.

mikey is still sitting on the kitchen counter, legs swinging, face deadpan.

“what?” he says through a mouthful of rice. “you’re both being gross. just get it over with.”

draken doesn’t even look up. “mikey, shut up.”

“what?”

“you’re being annoying.”

“i’m just pointing out the vibe!” mikey turns to you, completely unfazed. “right? you feel it too, don’t you?”

mitsuya stands.

very quickly.

his chair scrapes back. his face is bright red.

“i’m walking her back,” he says, like it’s an emergency. “mana, stop putting syrup on the table. mikey, don’t touch my stove. draken—actually, you’re fine. y/n, let’s go.”

your eyes are wide, your face still warm. you glance around the room, offer a soft wave, and follow him down the hallway like a very stunned, very amused guest being escorted out of a sitcom.

mana yells behind you: “don’t forget dinner!!!”

“i’ll remember!” you shout back.

the front door closes behind you.

the apartment quiets in its absence.

the walk to your floor is short, but quiet.

not in a bad way.

mitsuya’s hands are in the front pocket of his hoodie, his hair still a little messy from earlier, his gaze fixed ahead.

you glance up at him as you reach your door.

he exhales slowly. then looks at you.

“…sorry about that.”

you grin. “you’re not denying it though.”

his eyes flicker—just a little.

“you’re not either.”

you lean against your doorframe, arms folded. “hm. i guess i’m not.”

he bites down a smile. barely.

“…mana wasn’t supposed to invite you, you know.”

“but you’re not mad.”

“i didn’t say that.”

you tilt your head. “are you?”

his voice is quiet.

“no.”

he leans a little closer, just enough to feel the weight of it settle between you—something softer, something new.

“i’m glad you came,” he says.

you blink. the warmth from earlier rushes back in.

“i am too.”

he steps back then, only slightly.

“enjoy the rest of your day, y/n.”

you smile at the sound of your name in his voice. “you too, takashi”

he turns, takes one step, and then—

“hey.”

you look up.

he’s facing you again, one foot still on the stair.

“don’t forget,” he says, a little quieter now. “you’re invited to dinner.”

your smile spreads, real and wide.

“i won’t.”

and when he disappears up the stairwell again—quiet hoodie, soft steps, silver earring catching the light—you realize your heart’s still beating a little too fast for this to be nothing.

this is definitely something.

𐔌՞꜆.  ̫.꜀՞𐦯

“mana! luna! i swear—if you answer the door in pajamas, i’m canceling dinner.”

the sound of mitsuya’s voice echoes through the apartment, sharp and commanding in a way that says he’s said it at least twice already.

you hear a thud. possibly a slipper being thrown. then luna’s voice, deadpan:

“it’s not a date, nii-chan.”

a beat.

mana’s louder: “unless he wants it to beee—”

“MANA.”

you press your knuckles to your mouth to keep from laughing as you stand outside the door, your hand still lifted from knocking.

you’d arrived right on time — hair brushed, sweater tucked into your nicest jeans, a tiny bit of gloss on your lips that you’re already starting to regret — only to walk straight into the middle of domestic chaos.

bang.

a door slams down the hall.

“you said this shirt was cool!”

“it is cool!!”

“you said that last time and then you made me change—”

mitsuya’s voice cuts back in, sharper now: “five seconds, or i’m eating without you!”

you grin.

then knock, three times, soft but firm.

immediate silence.

a second later, the door swings open.

and there he is.

mitsuya, in a deep navy long-sleeve pushed up to the elbows, faint wrinkles still on the front like he pulled it out of the dryer five minutes ago. his hair’s freshly combed, earrings in. he looks calm.

until he sees you.

and then his mouth opens just slightly, like he forgot what he was about to say.

“…hey.”

his voice is quieter this time. like he used up all the shouting on the kids and now you’ve reset the volume.

you smile. “hey.”

his eyes scan you quickly — not in a way that feels invasive, but like he’s taking inventory of everything. your soft perfume. the little ring on your hand. the gloss on your lip you knew you should’ve wiped off.

“…you look nice.” he steps aside, ears already pink. “come in.”

you brush past him and glance toward the kitchen where the smell of curry hangs warm in the air. from deeper in the apartment, you hear scrambling feet and whispered chaos.

“was that a threat about pajamas?” you murmur.

he shuts the door behind you. “you weren’t supposed to hear that.”

“i heard all of it.”

“god.”

you try not to laugh as you step out of your shoes. he leads you toward the dining room again, but something feels different this time — like the table’s been set on purpose. placemats. napkins. little cups of fruit with tiny spoons.

and there’s an empty seat beside his.

again.

you turn to him. “this seems familiar.”

he runs a hand through his hair. “they assigned you that one.”

“mhmm.”

“not my fault.”

“sure.”

before he can defend himself, mana explodes into the room wearing a pink dress with one mismatched sock and a sparkly headband that’s definitely from a halloween costume.

“YOU’RE HERE!”

she launches at you. again. you catch her mid-hug.

“you said six!” she yells. “you’re on time! you’re so cool!”

luna appears behind her, more subdued in a sweater and leggings, arms folded. she gives you a small, silent nod.

“hi, luna.”

“hi.”

you turn to mitsuya. “do i pass the dress code?”

he’s watching you with something unreadable on his face. soft, a little caught.

“you more than pass.”

mana tugs you to your seat, practically vibrating.

“she sits here! i told you! i told you she’d come back!”

mitsuya’s voice is low, but full of something warm.

“i didn’t doubt it.”

and as you settle in, the laughter of his sisters bouncing around the room, the clinking of plates and the soft shuffle of slippers over hardwood — you realize:

this feels nothing like a first dinner.

this feels like home you didn’t know you’d been missing.

the table’s become a little louder than earlier.

not that it’s a bad thing.

mana’s halfway through a story that you can’t quite follow, luna’s gently correcting her every few sentences, and mitsuya’s trying to pass a bowl of rice across the table without knocking over the fruit cups.

it’s warm.

not just the food — which is incredible, by the way. the curry’s perfect. comforting. made with care. and the soft little bowl of pickled veggies he sets beside you like an afterthought?

deliberate.

everything feels like that.

deliberate.

the folded napkins. the fact that there’s a tiny pink plate for mana and a slightly bigger one for luna and matching ones for you and mitsuya. the second spoon already laid beside your bowl, just in case you needed it.

the seat next to his.

luna reaches over and plucks a carrot slice from your plate without asking. mana gasps like she’s committed treason.

“luna! you can’t steal from the fairy!”

you grin. “it’s okay. i’ll get her back later.”

mitsuya hides a smile behind his chopsticks. “you shouldn’t have said that.”

“why?”

“they take revenge very seriously.”

luna, deadpan: “i have a list.”

mana, immediately: “add this to it.”

she dumps three tiny red pickled radishes onto luna’s plate. luna glares at her like a war crime has been committed.

mitsuya sighs. “don’t start.”

you’re laughing into your bowl when you feel it.

his knee.

barely brushing yours beneath the table.

at first you think it’s an accident — but it doesn’t move. it stays there, warm and solid, just enough contact to send a ripple up your spine.

you glance at him.

he’s not looking at you.

his face is calm, like he’s focused on refilling his sisters’ bowls.

but his ear is pink.

you nudge your knee back, just slightly.

he pauses. then presses back.

you don’t even realize you’re smiling.

𐔌՞꜆.  ̫.꜀՞𐦯

a few minutes later, mikey drifts into the room like a cat with no sense of timing.

“yo. is there food left?”

mitsuya doesn’t even flinch. “if you touch that pot, i’ll break your hands.”

“sharing is caring.”

“go away.”

mikey leans over your chair. “fairy, back me up.”

you blink. “you weren’t even invited.”

“ouch.”

mana giggles so hard she drops her spoon. luna kicks mikey in the shin. draken appears out of nowhere to drag him out again like this is a nightly routine.

as soon as the door swings closed, mitsuya mutters:

“god. finally.”

you turn to him.

he looks relaxed now. or maybe just resigned.

his hand moves under the table — brushing yours this time.

this time, you let him.

𐔌՞꜆.  ̫.꜀՞𐦯

somewhere between the second helping of rice and mana asking you if fairies eat dessert, mitsuya leans in, just enough for only you to hear.

“thanks for staying.”

you turn to him, fork still in your hand. “you say that like i’d rather be anywhere else.”

he looks at you for a second longer than he probably should.

“i’m hoping that’s true.”

and the way your stomach flips?

yeah.

that’s not just the curry.

𐔌՞꜆.  ̫.꜀՞𐦯

the apartment feels quieter now.

not empty — just… softened.

the plates are drying on the rack, the stovetop is wiped clean, and mana’s soft little snores are echoing faintly down the hallway. luna’s door shut with a soft click not long after. and now, it’s just the two of you.

still at the table. still side by side.

but the room feels different without the noise.

mitsuya glances toward the hallway one last time — checking, confirming. then pushes his chair back with that familiar, effortless calm.

“stay there.”

you blink. “what—”

but he’s already moving — crossing into the kitchen, bending to the lower cabinet beneath the sink like he’s unlocking a vault.

you watch him curiously.

and then:

a bottle.

dark. slender. clearly unopened.

he turns around with it in hand, an eyebrow slightly raised.

“…wine?”

you blink. “what?”

he lifts it slightly. “red. not the sweet kind. decent year.”

you pause.

then smile. “are you allowed to offer that to your upstairs fairy?”

“only after dinner.”

he pours carefully — two mismatched glasses that don’t belong together, but somehow make sense here. he walks one back to you and sets it down before taking his seat again, this time just a little closer than earlier.

you pick it up, eyes flicking to him over the rim.

“how’d you even get this?”

he takes a sip first, lips brushing the glass, and shrugs.

“i have my ways.”

“is that a gang thing?”

he chokes.

just slightly.

then laughs — actually laughs, low and caught off guard, hand coming up to cover his mouth.

“jesus, y/n.”

you sip. it’s warm and dry and stronger than you expected.

you shrug. “i’m just saying. i have seen you boss people around with a dishtowel in one hand and a spoon in the other.”

“that’s not a gang thing.”

“you sure?”

he leans back in his chair, swirling the wine in his glass like he’s trying not to grin.

“…maybe it’s both.”

your knee brushes his again. neither of you move this time.

the silence that follows is different. softer. less like you’re filling space and more like you’re both just… in it.

“do you always do this?” you ask, voice quiet. “cook dinner, herd kids, hand out wine?”

he hums, takes another sip. “not always with wine. but yeah. this is kind of it.”

“the grown-up life?”

he glances at you.

his gaze lingers.

“only parts of it.”

you set your glass down slowly. “what parts are you missing?”

he leans forward a little. not enough to crowd you. just enough to let you feel it.

“the quiet parts.”

“this seems pretty quiet.”

he nods. “it is. but it’s better with company.”

your heart does a funny little twist at that.

you tilt your head. “is this your way of saying you’re glad i stayed?”

he doesn’t look away.

“i thought that was obvious.”

and you don’t answer — not out loud.

just reach for your glass again, sip slow, and hold his gaze like a secret shared.

the wine warms your chest.

his voice warms the rest.

the second glass of wine was warm.

the third? a little dangerous.

not in a dizzy way. not even in a tipsy way. just enough to make you looser. softer. a little more brave.

the apartment’s quiet now — really quiet. the clock’s ticking. the laundry machine somewhere down the hall gives a distant sigh. the dim kitchen light flickers slightly above you both, golden and soft, casting long shadows against the tiled walls and the curve of his jaw.

your feet are curled beneath you on the bench, and mitsuya is still beside you — knee pressed to yours, body turned in your direction, wine glass now mostly forgotten on the table behind him.

you’re laughing — about something dumb. a story he told from when he was fifteen and ended up sewing himself into his jacket sleeve. his grin is wide, toothy, rare. he’s loose in a way you haven’t seen before.

but then the laughter slows.

not because it fades — but because something else grows in its place.

a pause.

a breath.

his voice, quieter now:

“you do that a lot.”

you blink, still smiling. “do what?”

“look at me like that.”

“…how am i looking at you?”

he doesn’t answer.

but his eyes drop to your mouth.

your breath catches — because suddenly he’s closer. inches. centimeters. your noses almost brush. his hand is braced behind you on the bench, caging you in without trapping you. your shoulder brushes his chest every time you inhale, and you can feel his breath — warm, soft, and shallow — when he says:

“like i’m something you’re trying not to want.”

you don’t deny it.

your fingers curl gently into the fabric of his sleeve. your lips part — just slightly. barely.

his hand slides up to your cheek, knuckles soft, calloused fingertips grazing the curve of your jaw. his eyes search yours like a question. like he’s asking for a yes without needing to hear it.

and you give it to him.

not in words.

just in the way you lean in.

his lips find yours like a promise delayed — slow at first, then not slow at all. the kiss deepens quickly, hands finding hips, fingers sliding over fabric. your hands move to his shoulders, then the back of his neck, tugging him in with an urgency you didn’t know you were holding back.

he breathes your name against your lips like a confession, and it hits you somewhere you can’t place.

his hands move lower — grip firmer — and in a single fluid motion, you’re lifted, your thighs instinctively wrapping around his hips as he sets you down on the nearest countertop with a soft thud. the marble is cool beneath you, but his body is warm and close, pressing into the cradle of your knees, hands firm against your lower back as his mouth meets yours again, deeper, slower this time. like he’s trying to memorize you.

it’s quiet.

your breathing is loud.

the silence wraps around you both like a blanket pulled tight — the kind of heat and hush that only happens when the world slips away and it’s just you and him and the impossibly small distance between.

until—

a creeaak.

a door. somewhere down the hall.

you both freeze.

you don’t move — just slowly turn your heads toward the sound of socked feet padding across the hardwood.

mana.

rubbing her eyes, messy hair haloed around her face, her tiny silhouette wobbling past the kitchen like a sleepy ghost.

“fairy…” she mumbles, eyes half-closed. “i know she’s still here…”

she shuffles past the kitchen entrance.

mitsuya’s arms are still around you, your hands still tangled in his shirt. you both hold your breath.

mana disappears into the bathroom.

the door shuts.

silence again.

you glance at him. he’s already looking at you.

and then—

you both burst into quiet laughter. muffled giggles spill into the space between your chests, your foreheads knocking softly together as you try to stay quiet and fail miserably.

you lean back just enough to see his face.

he’s grinning.

rosy. breathless. soft in the eyes.

and then, in a voice low and warm and so full of meaning it almost feels unfair, he says:

“you should come over for dinner more often.”

you smile.

“i just might.”

copyright © t4kalcvr 2025 all rights reserved

💬, help this song has been stuck in my head so i just couldnt help but to make a fanfiction based on it 😝 AND OBVIOUSLY ABOUT MITSUYA YUMMY BOY, ANYWAY ENJOYYYYY (lwk might keep doing this)

ko-fi 🎧

look here for your next read 📚!

“Can’t believe the sewing club made you stay that late.” you say, stretching your arms above your head.

He laughs softly “You stayed too. Don’t act like you didn’t want to fix that design.”

“Yeah, but my back hurts now.” you groan dramatically.

Mitsuya gives you that calm, a little teasing, and way too kind smile of his “If you sit like a shrimp again, I’ll tape a ruler to your spine.”

You laugh “You’d really do that, huh?”

He hums “Maybe. If it helps.”

The two of you keep walking. Street lights flicker on, one by one. You talk about school, his little sisters, the next sewing project. Everything feels so normal that it’s easy to forget how fragile moments like this are.

When you reach the corner where you usually split ways, you stop.

“Hey, Mitsuya…” you say “Thanks for walking with me again.”

He looks surprised for a second “You don’t need to thank me. I like walking with you.”

The words are simple, but your chest feels warm.

You’re about to say something when your phone starts buzzing.

You glance at the screen, frown “Wait… I have to take this.”

Mitsuya nods, shoving his hands into his pockets while you step a few feet away. He doesn’t mean to listen, but your voice drops low, tense.

Then your face changes… the smile gone, eyes wide, color fading from your cheeks.

“Okay,” you whisper “I understand. I’ll come.”

He straightens “Hey, Y/N? You okay?”

You turn back, forcing a small smile “Yeah. Sorry, Mitsuya. Something came up. I have to go fast.”

“Wait, what happened?”

“Nothing big! Really.” You wave your hand, already backing away “I’ll text you later, promise!”

He frowns “You sure—?”

But you’re already running.

He stands there for a long time, watching the spot where you disappeared.

The street feels colder now.

Morning light hits his desk, and Mitsuya checks his phone again.

Still no message.

He scrolls up the chat, your last texts are full of laughing emojis, random photos, and voice notes that always made him smile.

He rereads them all before sighing and locking the screen.

“She probably just forgot.” he mumbles to himself.

But you never forget.

You always send a “good morning” before class, or a “look at this cat” during lunch. It’s weird not seeing your name light up his phone.

At school, no one seems to know where you are. Some classmates assume you’re sick, others say maybe you overslept.

He doesn’t ask much. He just nods, pretending not to care much.

But every time someone walks into the classroom late, his head turns hoping it’s you.

When the final bell rings, he packs slowly. He’s supposed to meet Toman later, but his mind isn’t there.

He goes to one of your close friends, the girl who always hangs out with you at lunch.

“Hey,” he says, trying to sound casual “Do you know where Y/N lives?”

She blinks “Her house? Yeah, why?”

“I wanted to drop off something she left at the sewing club.” he lies easily.

“Oh, okay. It’s near the train station, the white house with the blue gate.”

He thanks her and heads there.

The walk feels longer than it should. His chest is tight, like he’s holding his breath the whole way.

When he reaches the blue gate, he stops for a second. He’s never been here before.

He knocks on the door. After a moment, a woman opens, your mom.

She looks surprised “Oh, hello?”

Mitsuya bows politely “Good afternoon, ma’am. I’m Mitsuya Takashi, a classmate of Y/N.”

Her eyes soften a little “Ah, one of her friends! That’s nice.”

“Yes, ma’am. Is she home?”

Your mom tilts her head “Home? No, not yet. After school she usually meets with a friend. Why? Did she forget something?”

Something cold runs through him.

You didn’t go to school and she doesn’t know.

He keeps his face calm, though his heart starts racing “Oh, I see. I must have missed her then,” he says quickly, voice steady but soft “I needed some help with a costume for a school project, but maybe she’s still at the club. Sorry for disturbing you.”

Your mom smiles politely “Not at all. I’ll tell her you stopped by.”

He bows again “Thank you, ma’am.”

When the door closes, Mitsuya stands there for a moment, staring at the blue gate.

The air feels heavy. His hand grips his phone tightly.

You didn’t text. You didn’t go to school.

And now, even your mom doesn’t know where you are.

He exhales slowly, looking up at the sky.

“…Y/N,” he whispers “Where are you?”

He turns away, walking toward the Toman meeting with a knot in his chest he can’t untie.

The place is loud, engines rumbling, voices echoing, someone laughing too loud at something stupid.

But Mitsuya isn’t really listening.

He stands a little apart, hands in his pockets, eyes unfocused. The others notice.

“Yo, Mitsuya,” Smiley calls “You good, man? You look like you didn’t sleep.”

“I’m fine.” he answers, too fast.

Draken glances at him “You sure? You’ve been quiet since you got here.”

“I said I’m fine.” Mitsuya repeats, sharper this time.

Everyone goes silent for a second, he never talks like that.

Even Mikey looks up from his bike, studying him “You sure, Takashi?”

Mitsuya exhales, forcing a small smile “Yeah, sorry. Just tired. Been working too much.”

No one believes him, but they let it go.

The meeting goes on with plans, fights, updates, but he barely hears a word. His mind keeps drifting back to your house.

Your mom’s voice. The way she didn’t know.

He bites the inside of his cheek. “She’s fine” he tells himself “She has to be”.

But the silence on his phone says otherwise.

That evening you push open your front door as quietly as possible.

The sky outside is dark now, and you feel heavier than before, like you’re dragging the day behind you.

“Welcome back!” your mom calls from the kitchen.

You force a small smile she can’t see “Yeah, I’m home.”

You kick off your shoes and head straight for the stairs.

If you move fast, maybe she won’t ask questions.

But halfway up, her voice stops you “Oh, by the way, did Mitsuya find you then?”

You freeze “…What?”

She peeks out from the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands “That boy from your class. Mitsuya, right? He came by earlier to tell you about some school project.”

You blink. Your heart jumps “I—uh… Mitsuya?” you repeat slowly.

“Mm-hm. Short, light lilac hair, very polite. Said he must’ve missed you at the club.” Your mom smiles softly, then goes back into the kitchen “He seemed nice.”

You just stand there, staring at nothing.

He came here? How did he even find my house? Did someone tell him? Why would he…

Your thoughts start spinning too fast to catch.

You grab the railing tight, then walk quickly to your room, shutting the door behind you.

The quiet hits hard.

You drop your bag and lean against the door, heart racing.

He was worried. Of course he was.

And now you feel guilty for vanishing, for not texting, for dragging him into whatever mess you’re stuck in.

You cover your face with your hands “I’m sorry, Mitsuya…” you whisper into the empty room.

Outside, the city hums softly, unaware of how two hearts are quietly breaking for each other.

Three days. Three long, quiet days.

He scrolls through his phone again, your name at the top of the chat, still no new messages.

He’s sent a few:

“Hey, you okay?”

“You didn’t come to school again.”

“Call me when you can, yeah?”

But there’s nothing back.

He leans back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The silence is driving him crazy.

At school, people have stopped asking where you are. Life keeps moving.

But for Mitsuya, everything feels stuck, like the world is spinning and he’s standing still.

After classes, he walks toward your street again. He knows it’s stupid, but his feet just go there on their own.

When he reaches the blue gate, he hesitates. He doesn’t want to bother your mom again, but he needs to know.

He takes a deep breath, pulls out his phone, and calls you.

One ring. Two. Three. Then voicemail.

He tries again. And again. Each time, the same.

He exhales sharply, rubbing his forehead.

“What the hell are you doing, Y/N…” he whispers.

He stands there for a long time, waiting for maybe a curtain of the window to move, or your silhouette to appear.

Nothing.

When he finally walks away, there’s anger mixing with worry in his chest, a feeling he hates but can’t stop.

Your phone buzz again.

You sit on your bed, knees pulled up, staring at the blinking screen on your desk. Mitsuya’s name lights up, then fades again.

It hurts. He’s trying. And you’re doing the one thing you never wanted to do, shut him out.

Your mom knocks softly “Sweetie? Your friend was here again. Should I tell him you’re busy?”

You swallow hard “Yeah… please do.”

You wait until she walks away, then finally grab your phone.

There are ten missed calls. Three unread messages.

His last text says:

“You don’t have to talk. Just tell me you’re okay.”

Your hands shake.

You type: I’m okay, don’t worry.

Then you stare at the words for a long time before deleting them.

Because it’s a lie. You’re not okay. And if he finds out what’s really going on, who’s been waiting for you after school, who’s been threatening you, he’ll get dragged into it too.

You can’t let that happen.

You turn your phone face-down, bury your face in your hands, and whisper, “I’m sorry, Mitsuya.”

Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, Mitsuya’s phone stays quiet. No text. No call. Just silence and a growing storm inside him.

Days pass.

You still don’t text.

Mitsuya tries to distract himself with sewing, with school, with Toman business, but it doesn’t help. His hands move, but his thoughts never stop.

What if she’s hurt?

What if she’s avoiding me on purpose?

What did I do wrong?

He doesn’t sleep much.

Dark circles start showing under his eyes. His smiles are shorter, sharper, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes anymore.

At the next Toman meet-up, everyone feels it.

“Mitsuya’s acting weird again…” Smiley whispers to Angry.

“I heard he almost punched a guy at school yesterday.” Angry replies quietly.

Draken crosses his arms “That doesn’t sound like him.”

Mikey watches Mitsuya from a distance, the way he stands apart, jaw tight, eyes cold.

He’s usually calm, balanced, the one keeping everyone steady. But now… it’s like he’s barely there.

“Oi, Takashi,” Draken calls “You good?”

“I’m fine.” Mitsuya says again, voice flat.

“You’ve been saying that for a week,” Mikey adds softly “You don’t look fine.”

“I said I’m fine.” Mitsuya snaps. His voice echoes louder than he meant, and everyone goes silent.

He exhales, rubbing his face “...Sorry. Just tired.”

Draken steps closer “If something’s wrong, you can talk to us, you know that.”

Mitsuya doesn’t answer. He just looks away, clenching his fist.

Later that night, as the group breaks up, Hakkai catches up to him.

“Bro, seriously. What’s going on? You’ve been… off.”

Mitsuya sighs “It’s nothing. Just—”

But he stops, looking away “Forget it.”

Hakkai frowns, but doesn’t push “Alright… but if you need me, you know I’ve got your back.”

Mitsuya gives a weak smile “Yeah. Thanks, Hakkai.”

They split ways, Mitsuya walks home under the dull streetlights, his phone silent in his hand.

The next day

It’s Hakkai who sees it.

He’s cutting through the back streets near Shinjuku when he spots you.

At first, he almost doesn’t recognize you, your hair is tied differently, your clothes look… off.

And you’re walking beside someone wearing the logo of Black Vipers, one of Toman’s rival crews.

You’re not laughing. Not smiling. You look scared.

The guy beside you has his hand on your arm, not gentle, not kind.

Hakkai’s first instinct is to step in, but he stops himself. He doesn’t know what’s happening.

Still, his gut twists.

“No way… that’s Y/N, right?” He thinks while he hides behind a parked car, watching as the two of you turn the corner.

Your eyes flick around, nervous, like you’re searching for a way out.

And that’s when Hakkai realizes, this is why Mitsuya’s been like this.

This is what’s been eating him alive.

That evening, when he finds Mitsuya again, his face is pale.

“Mitsuya,” he says quietly “Is your friend, Y/N, doing good?”

Mitsuya’s head snaps up “What? Why you ask?”

“I saw her. Today. Near Shinjuku.”

Mitsuya’s heartbeat spikes “Was she… okay?”

Hakkai hesitates “She wasn’t alone.”

Mitsuya freezes “What do you mean?”

“She was with someone from the Vipers.”

Silence.

Then Mitsuya steps closer, voice tight “What did you say?”

“She looked different… scared. Like something’s wrong.”

Mitsuya’s hands shake slightly, just for a second. Then his jaw tightens.

Draken, who’s been listening nearby, walks over “If she’s in trouble, we’ll go get her. You’re not alone in this.”

Mikey nods, his expression suddenly serious “Baji said it best when we started this. All for one, and one for all. If one of us gets hurt, we all protect them.”

The air around them changes, heavier, stronger.

Mitsuya looks down, his voice rough “Then let’s bring her back.”

It’s cold tonight.

You pull your jacket tighter, but it doesn’t help much. The air still feels heavy, like even breathing is a risk.

You walk fast, eyes down, pretending not to see the man beside you.

He’s taller, older, and his hand never really leaves your arm. The mark of the Black Vipers stands out on his jacket , a coiled snake in white paint.

“Don’t look so nervous,” he says with a smirk “We’re just talking.”

You don’t answer. You learned that silence is safer.

The street lights flicker. Every sound, a car passing, a dog barking, makes your heart jump.

This all started days ago.

That call.

They said if you didn’t cooperate, if you didn’t help them, they’d make sure Mitsuya got hurt.

You know Mitsuya is really strong but these boys are way older and they're known for using the worst methods to get rid of someone.

So, you’d tried to disappear, to keep him safe. No calls, no texts, nothing. You thought that if you just stayed quiet, it would end.

But it didn’t.

Now you’re stuck here, walking through dark streets beside someone you wish you’d never met.

“You hear me, sweetheart?” the man says again, snapping his fingers near your face.

You flinch “Y-yeah.”

He grins “Good. Just keep doing what we say. We’ll leave your little boyfriend out of this.”

The word boyfriend hits like a knife.

You want to scream that he’s not,  that Mitsuya doesn’t even know what’s happening, but the thought of his name in this man’s mouth makes your stomach twist.

So you stay quiet.

But in your mind, you see Mitsuya’s face. His smile. The calm in his voice when he says your name.

You remember his hands, gentle, steady, guiding yours while you sewed together in the clubroom.

And you remember the last time you saw him, the way he looked confused when you ran off.

“I’m sorry” you whisper in your head “I didn’t want this”.

When you finally reach the old warehouse where the Vipers hang out, you’re shaking.

The man pushes you inside, where the sound of laughter and loud music fills the air.

“Boss wants to talk to her.” he says to another guy.

You stand still, hugging your arms.

You don’t cry but your throat feels tight.

You glance at the door. For a second, you imagine Mitsuya walking through it. You can almost see him, his usual calm gone, eyes sharp, fists clenched.

The image makes your heart ache and warm at the same time.

You don’t want him here, it’s too dangerous.

But gods, you also want him to find you.

You whisper softly to yourself, so low no one can hear “Mitsuya… please don’t come.”

Then quieter, almost a breath, almost a prayer “But if you do… please be careful.”

Outside, somewhere far away, the engines of Toman bikes roar to life.

The room smells like oil and old smoke. Men laugh in the corner. A single bare bulb swings above us, making shadows jump across the floor.

The boss sits behind a small table. He looks calm. His eyes are cold.

“You did good coming.” he says, and his voice is soft, like a knife.

You hug your arms around yourself. Your hands are shaking.

“What do you want?” you ask. Your voice quivers.

He smiles slowly, like he’s enjoying the fear in you “We want you to do something for us.”

You laugh nervously “I already told you I won’t help. I don’t know anything about Toman plans.”

The smile fades. He leans forward “You know someone in Toman. Mitsuya Takashi. He trusts you. He would never suspect you.” He taps the table “That’s why you’re perfect.”

Your heart drops “What do you mean? I won’t—”

“You will,” another man says. His voice is low and threatening “Or you and your family die.”

Your knees feel weak “You can’t do that.” you whisper.

The boss’s eyes stay cold “We can. And we will. You refuse us again? We go to Mitsuya first. We make him hurt. We make him watch. And your family… they pay for your choices.”

Your mouth goes dry “I—”

“We already asked nicely,” he continues “You said no many times. Now, we make it simple. You stay. You do as we say.”

One of the men grabs your arm to make sure you don’t step back. His grip is hard “You’re not leaving. Not until we say.”

You want to fight, you want to scream. But one look at the men around you and your courage disappears.

“I can’t—” you choke out “I won’t hurt him.”

The boss leans down so his face is near yours “You already hurt him,” he says quietly “You ran. You made him worry. Didn't you? And also, he doesn’ have to know it was you. All you have to do is go back to Toman and somehow give the poison to Mikey. We've been asking you for weeks now. It's a simple job.”

You shake your head “No. Please. I won’t—”

He stands straight again “Good. Then you’ll stay as our woman here. You stay more and more and more and see your boyfriend and your family die just before you. ”

You press your hands to your face, trying not to cry. You imagine Mitsuya waiting at the corner, fabric roll under his arm, calm as always. You think of your mom, your family.

“You stay here tonight,” the man says “Don’t try to sneak out. If you do, we know where your family lives.”

You sink to a chair, heart pounding. The weight of their words presses down. You whisper his name, barely audible “Mitsuya… I’m sorry. I don't know what to do.”

Then after a while thinking and thinking you stop a man there, “I will do anything… Just don't make me kill anyone, please. I'm begging you.” You say on the ground, bowing to them.

“No, we can find you something to do to us with your cute face for a while” he says taking your face in his hand, forcing you to look up at him “But then we'll get tired and again, all we want from you is to go back to your boyfriend and then secretly kill Mikey. You keep rejecting our offer because you don’t want to kill your boyfriend's boss? Friend? But you know you’re risking his own life? Your own life and your family? So why? Why are you so fucking stubborn!”

He's about to slap you with his other free hand and you close your eyes as a reflex to prepare to take it. But seconds pass and you don't feel it so you slowly open your eyes as you hear “Put your hands down. Don’t touch her.”

It's Mitsuya who stopped his hand.

You call his name as soon as you see him “Takashi!”

For a second you only see him, his face pale, eyes wild, but he is here. Then you look past him and your chest opens with air you didn’t know you were holding.

The door is open. Outside the light cuts across the floor and there they are… Toman. They stand among bodies and dust. The Vipers lie on the ground, groaning or out cold. Even the boss is on the floor, unmoving, a hairline crack of blood at his temple, and he will not be getting up soon.

You let your breath go all at once. It comes out as a shaking, huge sound, a sob of relief. Tears spill down your face without permission.

Mikey is already stepping forward. He takes Mitsuya’s hand off the man in front of you with an easy motion and points at you.

“Go to her.” he says. His voice is low but kind “Now.”

Mitsuya doesn’t need to be told twice. He drops to the floor beside you and wraps you in his arms like he is holding something very fragile. You fall into him, crying loud and ugly and all the air leaves your body. He presses you to his chest, one hand at the back of your head, the other tight around your shoulders, and his voice is small and rough as he murmurs, “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry.”

You cling to him. You want to answer him, to tell him it’s not his fault, but the sobs keep coming. All you can do is hold him back. You push your face into his shirt and listen to the beat of his heart.

Takemichi comes running up, hair messy, eyes full of worry. He drops his jacket over you without a word and crouches down until his face is near yours.

“Hey,” he says softly “You’re safe now. You’re safe.” He keeps his hand warm on your shoulder like a small anchor.

Chifuyu, Draken, Hakkai, Smiley, Angry… they stand around like they just fought through a storm. Their breaths are heavy, their shirts dusty, but they are alive. They look tired and fierce at the same time.

Mikey looks at the man. He gives a short, sharp kick, not enough to be cruel, but enough to send him rolling a little and stay down. Mikey steps forward and speaks slow, his voice flat and cold “Your boss and you were not strong enough to kill me, so you wanted to use her instead? What a coward.” He presses his face on the floor in the direction of the door, to make him look at where his boss lies “Now look at your boss.”

The man flinches and his eyes drag to the boss’ body on the floor. Mikey doesn’t smile. He waits long enough that the man’s fear fills the room.

“I’ll let you all live this time,” Mikey says “But if you try to touch her, her family, any of us, or anyone we care about, you’ll regret it worse than you do now. Okay?”

The man nods fast, words stuck to his throat. He nods again, hard. Mikey gives him one more light kick and the man slumps, out or pretending to be.

Mikey turns to you then, face softer now. He comes close, right to where Mitsuya holds you, and crouches low so he’s level with your face. His voice is quiet “I’m sorry this happened to you. We’re sorry you had to go through that.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. You want to say it’s not their fault, you want to tell them that they did nothing wrong. But your voice is thin. Mitsuya’s hand moves, stroking your hair like he’s trying to smooth away the fear.

Takemichi looks at you with pure worry “You're really strong. You kept everyone you love safe.”

Mikey reaches out and places a gentle hand on your shoulder “We’ll make sure they can’t come back,” he promises “We’re not letting this sit.”

You finally force out a small breath and shake your head.

“It’s not your fault,” you whisper to the whole group, to Mitsuya, to Mikey, to everyone who risked themselves for you “Not yours. None of yours.”

Mitsuya presses his forehead to yours and huffs a small laugh that sounds like a sob “I should have found you sooner,” he says “I should have—”

You don’t let him finish. You hold him tighter and whisper instead, muffled into his shirt, “You found me. You saved me. Thank you.”

You lean into Mitsuya’s chest, still crying, still shaking, but the weight on your chest is lighter because they are here, because they did what they promised to each other. They saved you and they saved Mitsuya by saving you.

It’s been a week since that night.

A week of sleep that never feels enough, of your mom worrying, of quiet mornings where you stare at the ceiling and try to believe it’s over.

You told your mom you got caught in a fight after school, that someone tried to rob you and that Mitsuya and his friends saved you. She believed you, thankfully, and didn’t ask more.

Every day, Mitsuya comes to check on you.

Every day, he brings something small: your favorite chocolate, a flower, a little plushie, a homemade small cake, even a soft blue dress he said he made “when I couldn’t sleep”.

Your mom adores him now.

This morning, when she opens your door, she smiles in that teasing way only moms can.

“Hey, he’s here again,” she says, leaning on the door frame “You should really give him a chance, you know… he’s so cute!”

You groan and hide your face in your hands “Mom, please.”

She laughs softly “Fine, fine. I’ll let him in. Try not to die of embarrassment, okay?”

The door closes behind her, and you hear his familiar voice from the hallway “That you, ma’am.”

Then your door opens again.

“Hey.” you say, lifting your head a little.

Mitsuya stops at the doorway, blinking “You’re out of bed.”

You smile a bit “If I want to go back to school, I need to catch up with all the homework.”

He exhales, shoulders finally relaxing.

“That’s good,” he says “You look better.”

He walks over and sets a small paper bag on your desk “Here.”

You frown playfully “Hey, I told you I don’t need gifts. You don’t have to apologize every time.”

He sits beside you, pulling the chair close “It’s not an apology. It’s… I just like seeing you smile.”

You stare at him for a second, the words sitting between you like warm air. Then you clear your throat “You don’t have to do that either. What happened isn’t your fault. I’d do everything I did again if I needed to.”

His expression changes and then he looks away, hands tightening in his lap “Don’t say that.”

You blink “What?”

He shakes his head slowly “Don’t say you’d do it again. You almost got killed.”

You try to speak, but he keeps going, voice low and careful “Every time I close my eyes, I see you there, shaking, crying, because I wasn’t fast enough.”

He looks up at you then, and his eyes are glassy but steady “I should’ve protected you. I’m supposed to protect the people I care about.”

You swallow hard.

“You did,” you whisper “You saved me.”

He smiles a little, but it’s the kind of smile that breaks “I almost didn’t. And if something happened to you…” He stops, breath catching. Then, quieter “If something happened to you, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.”

Silence fills the room.

You can hear the clock ticking, your own heart in your ears.

“Mitsuya…”

He laughs softly, rubbing the back of his neck “Sorry. That just… slipped out. I didn’t mean to dump all that on you.”

You reach out, fingers brushing his sleeve “No, don’t apologize. Please.”

His hand turns, catching yours. His touch is warm “You keep telling me not to apologize,” he says, meeting your eyes “Then let me just say it straight. I was scared because… because I love you, okay? I didn’t even realize how much until I thought I’d lost you.”

You freeze. His words are quiet, but they hit like a heartbeat.

He swallows, nervous now, “You don’t have to say anything. I know it’s a lot after everything, I just—”

You cut him off, whispering “You’re stupid.”

He blinks, startled, “What?”

You smile through the tears starting in your eyes “You should’ve told me sooner.”

You lean in before he can react. The kiss is soft and short, like a secret, but it’s enough to make his hand tighten around yours.

When you pull back, your forehead rests against his. You both laugh quietly, the kind that feels like air after drowning.

“I love you too.” you whisper.

He exhales like he’s been holding it for months.

“Good…” he says softly 

You laugh for real this time, shaking your head “No. Now you have to keep bringing them.”

He grins “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I like them.”

He kisses your temple and stays like that for a moment, quiet, safe, breathing you in. Outside, your mom hums in the kitchen. Inside, the world finally feels still.

The days begin to feel normal again.

You wake up early, eat breakfast with your parents and go back to school. You still flinch sometimes when you hear a loud noise or a shout from the street, but it’s getting better.

Mitsuya walks you to school almost every morning now. You joke that he’s acting like your bodyguard, but secretly, you like it.

One afternoon, after class, you’re walking beside him and say quietly, “Takashi… can you bring me to meet Toman?”

He glances at you, surprised “Why?”

“I want to thank them. For saving me that day.”

He scratches his head, looking a little shy “You don’t have to. We didn’t do it for thanks.”

“I know,” you say softly “But I want to.”

He looks at you for a moment, then smiles… that calm, warm Mitsuya smile that always makes your chest feel lighter “Okay. Let’s go then.”

When you and Mitsuya arrive, everyone’s already there. Draken waves. Chifuyu grins. Takemichi gives you a shy thumbs-up. Mikey stands a bit apart, hands in his pockets, eyes calm but sharp as always.

You take a deep breath, step forward, and bow low “Thank you all for saving me that day.”

Mitsuya panics instantly “Hey— wait, you don’t have to— stand up, you don’t—”

You stay bowed anyway, stubborn.

Then Mikey’s voice cuts through the noise “Hey. Stand up properly.”

You straighten fast, hands still shaking a little. He’s watching you, not cold but serious.

“We didn’t do that for thanks,” Mikey says, his voice steady “We did it because we promised each other: if one of us gets hurt, we all protect them.”

He glances at Mitsuya, who stands beside you “Mitsuya is one of us. And we know how important you are to him. That was us protecting him.”

Your eyes sting. You blink quickly, forcing a smile “Then… thank you for protecting Takashi.”

You bow again and Mitsuya groans softly beside you, “You really don’t have to—”

But before he finishes, Mikey laughs “So you finally got together?”

Your face burns. Mitsuya freezes for a second, then gives one small, proud nod.

The whole group erupts, Chifuyu cheers, Takemichi claps, Draken shakes his head with a grin. Someone whistles. It’s loud and chaotic and perfect.

You laugh, cheeks red, hiding your face in your hands. Mitsuya puts an arm around your shoulders protectively, smiling wide.

Mikey walks closer and then he stops just beside you and leans slightly so only you can hear “You risked your own life not to kill me, because you knew that would hurt Mitsuya.”

You freeze, heart skipping. You look up at him, eyes wide. Then you nod once.

Mikey studies you for a long second. Then his expression softens, just a little “Now you know I can handle myself.” he says quietly “So next time, protect yourself, or that would hurt Mitsuya more than anything else.”

Before you can answer, he turns and walks away, waving lazily “Take care of her, Mitsuya!” he calls.

Mitsuya laughs embarrassed “Always.”

You turn to him confused, touched, still trying to process what Mikey said, but Mitsuya just nods gently, like he understood everything without needing words.

Then he pulls you close, his hand resting on your head. You sink into his chest, hearing his heartbeat.

Around you, the others are still cheering, laughing, teasing, but in that moment, it feels like the world finally stitched itself back together.

You look up at Mitsuya and whisper, smiling softly, “I love your family here.”

It began rather innocent: him accidentally bumping into you, flashing an apologetic grin; asking for a vacant place at the cafetery at your usual table in the corner, the one where the noise cut down a little and you had a better view on the students — naturally, that place become the center of everyone's attention, because wherever Gojo was, the crowd followed; helping you to get a book from the highest shelves in the library and then crushing your study sessions; waiting for you after the classes just to walk you out to the next campus with an excuse that it was on his way (it didn't. Business majors classes were hold in the corpus 20 minutes away from yours).

At first, you politely declined every single invitation to a frat party or a match. Then you tried to ignore him, but your disinterest would even more pique Gojo's attention. After this, it turned into clipped, gritted-out "no's". You even attempted to talk to his friend, Shoko Ieiri, the girl you shared the Advanced Chemistry class with.

"I don't think there's something I can do," she would murmur, eyes firmly set on some sample through the microscope, when you turned to her as a last resort. The sigh that left your lips was truly desperate. Shoko's gaze softened a tad as she looked up finally, since your presence kept looming over her like a tiny, grumpy cloud. "Satoru can be pretty stubborn, unfortunately. Especially, when he's pretty set on something."

"Yeah," scoffing under your breath, you crossed your arms, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in your chest. "Unfortunately for me. Am I another check mark on his to-do list? I just don't get it." The pencil in your hand almost snapped from the strength of your grip.

"Listen, I am not in a position to advice your something or anything," Shoko's lab chair screeched — the sound annoyingly loud in the tense silence of the lab — as she turned to face you fully. The irritation at her words flared up in you, but you forced yourself to listen to her. If not her, then who?! "But you might try to hear him out. He's not that bad of a guy."

Grimacing at her, you turned to return to your own table. "If he's not that bad, he would've taken a hint long ago."

An indifferent shrug was the only response you got.

After talking to Shoko, Gojo's pitiable attempts at "courting" you had weakened severely until coming to a complete halt. You couldn't believe your luck. But what annoyed you even more than Gojo himself was the way you would jump at seeing the familiar spark of frosty white hair in the crowd; the way your heart would do a little flip at the sound of his distant chuckles. The way the loneliness would engulf your usual table in the corner of the cafeteria without his company: you subconsciously craned your neck to see him, for all his persona and the impossible height were impossible to miss, and slumped in your seat, when he didn't happen to stroll in with a familiar effortless grace in his stride. In the quietness of the library, after the countless hours of studying, you could basically hear the grin in his voice as he handed you a couple of blueberry muffins and the bergamot tea from your favourite bakery — you didn't have the slightest idea how he managed to find out your usual order — and tapped on your nose, remarking that you actually should eat.

Somehow, Satoru Gojo annoyed you enough to...like him. Managed to creep under your skin like an itch you couldn't get rid of.

Or… didn't want to?

***

One basketball match changed everything.

"Sorry, sorry, oh— sorry again," you mumbled awkwardly, navigating through the crowd and somehow managing to balance two beer cups on your way to your seats.

"Geez, finally, where have you been?"

Rolling your eyes at Nobara, your bestie slash roommate slash the only person who made your university life not so miserable, you handed her the cup and tried to shout through the cheerladers' voices, the endless roaring of the crowd and the music coming loud from the speakers.

"There was a line!"

"Huh? What?"

"THERE WAS A FUCKING LINE!"

She took a sip from her cup with a satisfied nod and grimaced at you. "Don't scream at me."

Her audacity stole your voice, and you slumped down in your seat, huffing rather indignantly.

"Hey, don't pout. Sorry for that." Nobara lightly elbowed your side and opened a pack of salted peanuts, offering you a truce.

"Can't believe I agreed to go with you," a light grumpiness coloured your voice as you drank from your own cup.

"Aw, that's because I am awesome and you love me so, so much," she chirped gleefully and planted a kiss on your cheek. With her head on your shoulder, Nobara sighed dreamily at the sight of Maki Zenin — the manager of the university's basketball team. "She's so cute, isn't she?"

Meanwhile, Maki gestured widely, screaming something at her phone (not very pleasant as you might assume from your seat) and threw her bag at a guy in front of her. The guy followed her figure with puppy eyes.

Your lips twitched with a barely concealed smile that you hid behind another swig. "An angel, truly."

"Hey, what's that supposed to mean?"

Her words fell on deaf ears because at that moment, some airy melody rang from the speakers, followed by the joyful voice of the commentators to finally announce the start of the match.

Swallowing nervously, your eyes darted across the court, and the moment your gaze landed on the tall figure with stark white hair, your heart galloped at a racing speed.

"Who are you gawking at, huh?"

Gojo might've really had the eyes on the back of his head — he wasn't called Six Eyes for nothing, some weird sixth sense that you assumed related only to the basketball court — because that very moment he turned around and briefly scanned the audience. His eyes widened in surprise as he spotted you: the bright blue of his gaze and the joyous smile that broke on his face caught you so off guard you nearly dropped the cup. Like he was happy to see you there. Actually happy.

You offered Gojo a shy wave — a subtle move of your fingers — that only made his grin wider. Then, Suguru Geto tapped on his shoulder, and he quickly turned back.

Your hand fell limply to your side.

"Babe, what the hell was that?" Nobara hissed, jerking her chin towards the players gathered around for the last guides from the coach Yaga. "Have you just casually flirted with Satoru Gojo? Don't you hate his lungs?"

The next words came in a breathy voice. "I don't know anymore."

Your knowledge of basketball was rather... limited, but you dutifully roared along with the crowd the moment your university scored yet another point. The people's excitement was contagious, seeping right into you as well and lacing your voice with joy. You booed at the judge when he gave advantages to the rivals, screamed at the top of your lungs and held your breath at the last quarter. Your team went neck-and-neck with the other, and every point was crucial. You could see it in the way the player's uniform was drenched in sweat, their hair stuck to their temples, and laboured breathing. The stakes were too high.

The scorebox showed the fifteen seconds left — mere moments for you and the whole eternity for those at the court. Your eyes drifted to Gojo, as driven to him by some unknown force. His sharp gaze quickly darted from one teammate to another, calculating the last opportunities to score. And then...it found you amidst the sea of spectators. Cheeks flushed, hair a total mess, chest expanding with deep breaths. A small grin tugged at the corner of his lips as he took you in. Adorable.

But for you, the moment Gojo's gaze landed on you felt completely different — resembling more of a bolt of lightning that sent every nerve in your body on fire. You couldn't hear your own thoughts with the blood pounding at your temples.

Gojo barely tilted his head, nodding towards the basket and mouthed.

"This is for you."

He dodged one guy, then the other with perfect dribbling — you barely saw anyone in their element as much as Gojo was at the basketball court — and finally went for a shot.

Time seemed to stop moving in the gym of the Jujutsu University. The hundreds of eyes watched the ball cutting through the air with an impeccable trajectory.

Until it went through the net without hitting the rim and sealed the win.

You barely released a shuddering breath when Nobara crushed you in a hug, her beer mercilessly spilling on you both, but no one gave a damn. The crowd erupted with an ecstatic cheer and rose to their feet right then and there. The commentators were on the verge of crying, judging by their voices, but your world narrowed to one particular person. Gojo's teammates ruffled his hair, patted his back, and hugged him by the shoulders; someone even put him in a playful headlock, to which he responded with a wide grin.

A tight knot in your chest slowly seemed to loosen a bit.

Gojo found you later, at the party.

You stood a little away from the crowd, watching Nobara laughing with Maki Zenin near the bonfire. The light painted her auburn hair in copper tints every time she tilted her head, and judging by the way Maki's gaze lingered on her form, she noticed that too. A little smile curled your lips at the sight of lovey-doveys.

"Your friend has a crush on Maki, huh?"

Putting a can to your lips, you mumbled absent-mindedly, "She's pretty obvious."

"They both are, actually."

A light brush against your shoulder finally caught your attention. You lazily shifted your gaze, only to gulp at the sudden proximity to Satoru Gojo.

He stood beside you, hands tucked in his pockets, watching the rest of the party unfold with a faint smirk on his face. Standing there, existing, like he wasn't the one who flipped your world upside down a couple of hours earlier.

A forced smile made your cheeks hurt as you tumbled out nervously, hastily wiping your mouth, "I am— I, I mean, congratulations! You did so great! I don't understand much about basketball, but you—," your worried your bottom lip for a second before breathing out, "you were magnificent."

At your words, Gojo finally turned around. His grin softened into a gentle smile that showcased a pair of dimples on his pale cheeks. The firelight danced on his hair strands that seemed more ivory tinged now.

"You think so?"

"I do!" A sudden feeling of boldness flooded you as you stepped forward and reached for his arm to show how sincere you were. Or maybe it was just a beer.

Gojo immediately cast his gaze down and slowly wrapped his long fingers around your wrist. You gulped, but didn't look away from his face. The gods clearly spared nothing in sculpting it, otherwise you couldn't explain the sharpness of his jaw, the plumpness of his lips and the prominence of his cheekbones.

No one had a right to be that beautiful. Satoru Gojo wasn't aware of it.

His thumb pressed just a tad against your soft skin to feel an erratic pulse beneath it, but you did not attempt to pull your hand away. On the contrary, it felt strangely...natural.

"I am glad you were there." A gentle murmur hit you harder than expected.

Breath bated, you searched Gojo's face for any hint of the usual theatrics and grandeur until you saw none.

"You are?"

"Yeah".

The words about the last shot were on the tip of your tongue already, but they quickly died at the sight of shimmering blue in his eyes as Gojo finally looked up and released your hand from his grip.

You already missed its warmth.

"Listen, I knew I was a jerk towards you. Crowding and flirting and so on. I know, I know," a self-deprecating chuckle left his lips as the ironic roll of his eyes followed. You watched every expression, soaked it like Gojo was about to disappear again from your life. "I am not proud of this, I admit. I want to apologise to you for this."

You parted your lips to answer, but Gojo cut you off with a slight shake of his head.

"But I am not going to apologise for my feelings," his voice grew stronger, rising from the gentle murmur to the steady tone, eyes boring into you with an unsettling intensity that left you speechless. The people's cheerings fade into the background, and that chilly evening, thick with emotions so deep you couldn't name them, enveloped both of you in its bubble.

"I meant everything. I do like you. I like the way you smile when you finally grasp the concept you've been studying. The way your voice goes all that animated when you talk about the book you were reading. That little sparkle in your eyes when you saw the last cherry pie in the cafeteria...I love it all. And that shot was for you. I really meant it."

"I am gonna ask you just this once, and if you reject me, I will step back and never bother you again. You have my word," the weight of Gojo's promise would almost physically pin you to the ground, if not for the desperation lurking behind his gaze, darting between your eyes and your lips. He forcefully tore it away to glance right into your face. "Will you go out with me?"

You didn't believe what you were about to say. But hey, that day was already weird enough. You offered Gojo a crooked smile. "Yeah."

"Just one date, you won't — ", he blinked in surprise, a light frown crossing his handsome face. "Wait, what?"

You stifled a laugh and nodded, stepping closer, until you felt the hard planes of his chest. "I will go out with you."

A slow, almost dopey in its joy, grin curled Gojo's lips, until a small disbelieving chuckle left him. "You will? Just like that?"

Now you couldn't contain a smile either. "Just like that, Gojo."

A whoop full of happiness cut through the air and the noise of the party that slowly came to its eventual end as Gojo swept you off your feet and twirled you in a bone-crushing embrace. Your laugh was the prettiest sound Gojo had ever heard.

"Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you! I swear you won't regret it!"

Satoru Gojo kept his promise. And many others he whispered in the dead of the night to you beneath the star-spilt sky. His hand was a steady anchor amidst the stormy life that awaited both of you. His voice offered you peace of mind when the world was a little too harsh for you. His fingers traced reverently the silk of your skin every time he shared a night with you. His gaze was the first you searched for in every crowded room. His arms had become the safest place in the world.

Satoru memorised the way you organised your life, but you were more than happy when he eventually disrupted your usual order. Not because he was doing that on purpose. Rather, since that was Satoru: he was too big for your world, and you didn't want him to shrink himself into someone he wasn't. Dimming Satoru's light was the last thing you wished.

He had learnt by heart the things that even you didn't pay attention to: for example, your toothbrush always had to face the door — Satoru wordlessly turned it the way you preferred; your favourite plant was Zamioculcas that he made sure was always watered visiting you; you usually carried a few packs of wet cat food for the stray babies in your enormous bag — he ordered large boxes, so you wouldn't run out of them; your drink of choice was Margarita that you shared only while hanging with Nobara — Satoru learned on his way to pick you up; you hated the loud harsh sounds, and Satoru was the first one to whisper sweet nothings to you and rub soothing circles against the small of your back until you calm down. In other words, he made your life easier.

You, on the other hand, only added more difficulties to his. Satoru never told you that, not even mentioned in any way that you were somehow different from him. But some things didn't have to be pointed out to catch your eye.

Like his Prada glasses, which cost like your monthly rent or two. Satoru could leave them somewhere without batting an eye. Or the luxurious gifts he would get you out of nowhere just because you barely glanced at something while strolling. That warmed your heart, yes, but the cheque that Satoru couldn't care less about startled you. You stayed in the lab until you almost fainted from fatigue just to finish the project before the deadline to get an extra payment to spend on the gift, since you were adamant that the relationships were about taking and giving in equal measure. Not to mention the one social gathering he invited you to, just off-handedly, before the day it actually happened; you drained your bank account to look presentable by his side, and lived on the instant ramen the entire month after. Maybe if you had accepted Satoru's offer to live together, none of that would have happened, but you learned the hard way to rely only on yourself. Luckily, the iron argument sealed the deal: your tight schedules at the lab and his as a pro basketball player didn't match well.

The Gojo family was another... topic. While no one said anything directly to your face, you noticed the way their brows knitted in confusion for a fleeting second, eyeing you up and down. Sensed the baffled glances and fake, saccharine sweet smiles behind your back, questioning the fact of your presence. No. Your existence. The mere raise of the brow from one of Satoru's distant cousins at the sight of your shoes — the ones you borrowed from Nobara, who got them after the Fashion Week in Paris, albeit last year's Dior collection — had you doubting your entire life.

Complaining had never been on your list, though some thoughts did cross your mind. You made sure not to voice them, stoically listening to all the hushed whispers. Not once did your smile falter in front of them. It was the least you could do for Satoru. You knew he didn't have a lot of joy in standing up for you every single time, so, eventually, the gatherings got shorter, the invitations came rather rarely, and the calls, already small in number, would always leave him in a bad mood. The sound of your name appeared quite frankly between the gritted words and heated yells.

"Don't worry, baby," Satoru's lips always found the crown of your head in the reassuring kiss when you asked him what was going on. The bitterness in his voice poisoned your already tired, insecure mind even more. He was a master at hiding his emotions, but never from you. "I got this."

A strained smile — the corners of your lips lifting just barely — was your usual answer.

"Of course."

Satoru then offered you a quick grin that never reached his eyes. His large hands cradled your face in the gentle, trembling grip, and the faint murmur would twist yet another knife between your ribs. "I love you. I love you so much. You know that, right?"

Leaning into Satoru's palm like a kitten, seeking warmth, you bit inside of your cheek not to cry. Your hand came up to cradle his hand against your cheek just to memorise the way it perfectly engulfed your face.

"I love you."

Not to dwell on the way you voice cracked, akin to ice beneath one's feet, you simply moved forward to capture his lips in a kiss, until all you could taste were tears. Yours, his... Did it matter anymore?

And then, under the pale moonlight coming from the lone crescent peering right into the bedroom of his large penthouse, your gaze drifted unabashedly over Satoru's face, taking in every flutter of the long, snowy eyelashes. Every breath that left his lips. Every faint twitch in his expression, and even every tiny snore. Your finger tenderly traced the bridge of Satoru's nose, making its way to the perfectly sculpted mouth and down to the sharp cut of his collarbones. Committing each pale freckle and beauty mark to memory.

For you knew that night would be your last one.

Satoru loved you, and you loved him. He loved you fiercely, with the force so burning it could rival the Sun itself. It was only fair for you to step back and let him shine. Not to drive another wedge between him and his family. You loved Satoru enough not to burden him with your presence. He should soar up in the sky, not stay chained on the ground by the dead weight of you and waste his time knocking some sense into his parents.

A muffled sob escaped your throat as you pressed a small kiss between his collarbones. The next thing you felt was Satoru's strong arm curling around your waist to pull you against his strong chest. The faint smell of musk still clung to his skin, but you had never revelled in it as you did now.

"Why aren't you asleep, baby? Something's wrong?" Satoru's voice came in a deep, throaty tone that would usually have your toes curling.

The edge of the blade dug deeper into your heart, drawing blood.

"Nothing, love. Just some weird thoughts, that's all."

A boyish grin adorned his face — so handsome even in the middle of the night — as he lightly flicked your forehead.

"Your head will hurt from all the overthinking. Head so tiny, yet so many thoughts. Come here," Satoru let a shuddering yawn and tucked your head under his chin, nuzzling gently against your hair. "Better?"

Biting on your lip, you prayed to all the gods that Satoru wouldn't hear the tremble in your voice. The steady beat of his heart lulled you to sleep, but you knew you wouldn't close an eye that night. "Yes."

"Try to sleep, okay?" Satoru's finger came to play with a lone strand of your hair. The smile in his voice was evident. "And if you don't, just wake me up. We can talk or watch that documentary you mentioned earlier. I mean, did Tyra really not take any accountability?"

You gathered any ounce of your strength not to fall apart right then and there.

"Of course, Toru. Go to sleep now."

He sighed in mock exaggeration. "Always so bossy."

His chest rose steadily under your cheek. His skin felt warm under the weight of your palm. You registered it all subconsciously, clinging to every part of Satoru.

And only when his breath fully evened, you allowed yourself to whisper to the night.

"I love you. And I am so sorry."

***

You sincerely thought you were a nice girlfriend for scheduling your breakup over the weekend. Waited until Satoru finished showering and emerged all smiley and happy from the bathroom. Waited until he recalled all the TikToks he sent to you in the early morning, not even knowing you already had blocked him on all the socials. Waited until he dug in the last breakfast you cooked for him — fluffy pancakes with strawberry jam.

"Babe, this is so delicious," Satoru hummed, pointing a fork at you. "Are you sure you didn't wanna become a chief? I mean, this is the gift from the heavens."

"I think we should break up."

Satoru paused mid-way, mouth still open. He slowly closed it and heaved a hollowed chuckle, chewing on the pancake with more force than necessary. "Very funny, sweets. An excellent joke."

Straightening in the seat, you furrowed your brows in confusion. Weren't you clear enough?

"I said we should break up."

That time, Satoru finally stopped chewing and slowly lifted his gaze at you. The electric blue pierced deep in your soul as he pressed again, "And I said it was an excellent joke."

"Satoru," the movement of your throat was sharp as you fumbled with words. "I am not joking."

The desperate flex of his fingers caught your attention immediately when Satoru curled them into a fist before taking a deep breath. The smile that carved into his lips was as sharp as the knife.

"Care to explain why?"

A thousand thoughts twirled in your mind those days like a restless whirlpool, each of them seemingly worse than the previous: "I don't love you anymore", or "You suffocate me with your love", and the traitorous "I cheated on you."

All of them lie, of course.

So, you settled on offering Satoru the least you could do — the truth.

"We just don't work out, Satoru. It's better to break up before — "your voice was so tiny and fragile, Satoru thought he was hallucinating: his worst nightmare coming to reality, " — things get more serious."

The loud, screeching sound of the chair being pushed away, followed by a self-deprecating, disbelieving laugh, filled the room. You glanced up at Satoru only to find him pacing around like a caged animal. Your words punched him right in the gut.

"We don't 'work out?' Before 'things get too serious', huh? Sweets, that's gotta be a joke. The most shitty, not funny and cruel joke you have ever pulled on me, but okay," he nervously carded his fingers through the white hair, before walking to you. "Tell me this is it. Please."

You cast your gaze down, not able to see the way his eyes frantically searched your face for any hint of a joke and hear the crack in his voice, usually so steady and certain. A rock, a lighthouse in your stormy ocean.

The shake of his hands was violent as they came up to frame your face. You choked on a heavy sob, trembling like a leaf with the tears blurring your eyes so hard you couldn't see anything.

"But we were —, are working just fine. Have I done something wrong? Is it because of me? Just tell me what to do, I swear I'll fix everything!"

"It's not about you, Satoru. Never has been. It's about me."

His white brows furrowed in confusion. "You? What about you? But you are perfect for me," he chuckled almost tenderly — a small sound frayed around the edges — that only ripped your heart out. "You listen to all my stupid jokes, know how many sugar cubes I put in my coffee, and put the curtains down because you know how sensitive my eyes are. You stayed with me at the hospital after the injury and cheered for me the loudest." His voice rose just a tad to coax a smile from you. "You have never told me how to be someone I am not. Always seen me, not the Gojo heir. Not the star player. How can it be about you? No one in the world knows me as well as you do. Like —," his gaze swept across the room like something might've helped him to talk you out, "like your last Christmas gift, huh? That premium card you swore you just stumbled upon in the store, but I knew better how much it — Wait."

Satoru's smile slowly died as the realisation downed at him like a wicked joke of fate. "No, no, no, no. That can't be it. Is that because of money? My status? I told you countless times that it doesn't matter to me! What I have is yours." His voice dipped into the fragile, almost sacred warmth that he reserved only for you. "All I have is yours."

You couldn't do that anymore. Not even in the wildest thoughts did it occur to you that breaking up with Satoru would hurt that badly. It rather resembled a never-ending torture.

He never understood it. Growing up in a family that barely made ends meet. Pouring your blood, sweat and tears into studies to get a tuition fee waiver, because there wasn't any other option for you to get into the university. Scraping by taking double shifts at the cafe. Fighting tooth and nail over the place in the chemistry lab.

And never would.

Pushing Satoru away, you closed your eyes in defeat before forcing yourself to look back at him. He didn't dare to mutter a word, watching your face twist with pain as you shouted.

"It matters to me! It matters to me, Satoru, how fucking inferior I feel next to you!"

Something in his gaze faded away. He didn't recognise his voice when it came in a short, fractured breath, devoid of all strength.

"What?"

A violent sob rattled your frame as you hid your face in your palms. You cried and cried and cried until your chest tightened with pain, and you managed to utter hoarsely. "Every time I get into your home, or every time someone sees me besides you, I want to run and disappear into the cave. Don't you see that, To — Satoru?" No. He wasn't your Toru anymore. "I am like, dunno, a disastrous glob of ink on Monet's painting. A patch of dirt on the Versace gown. A bling-bling amidst Graff's and Harry Winston's. Well, you get it. Something to wipe away or hide in the closet. Someone who doesn't deserve to stand by your side."

"I don't get it," Satoru dragged his hands over his face and shook his head, letting out a humourless laugh. His eyes flashed with a weird gleam. "Did my parents or anyone at that point say something to you? Because if they did, I fucking swear —"

"No one said anything to me, Satoru! It doesn't matter. Because they say it to you —"

"And as I said, I don't care — "

"BUT I DO!" The rise of your voice to a frenzied cry startled both of you. Satoru stared at you with a gaze so desperate that a kiss of the gun would've been more merciful. You fiercely wiped your snotty nose — hell, you must've looked so ugly — and walked over to cup his face. He watched your every move as if you were about to disappear. In a way, you were going to.

"I do not want anyone to say something about me to you. I do not want you to fight with your family over me. I want you to be happy. Do not be torn between me and the world you belonged to."

Satoru wanted to shake you by the shoulders just to knock some sense into your head, scream and shout what a total bullshit your words were, but instead, he got rooted to the spot by your doe eyes. His stomach twisted at your next words.

"You'll meet a beautiful, smart, and kind girl, who wears pearls that cost more than I will ever be able to make, plays Brahms at the family gatherings, and who doesn't turn red in the face, while asked about favourite Japanese modern artists. Well, now I know plenty." You couldn't help but huff a tiny chuckle. Nothing twitched in Satoru's face. "And you will fall in love with her, and your whole family will like her. Everything will be just fine."

Satoru couldn't believe what was happening. Nothing in his life could ever prepare him for the pain that would follow with your leaving him. It didn't feel real. Probably, never would.

He slowly tilted his head down and rested his forehead against yours, whispering, barely audible. Like every word cost him a fortune. "Please, baby, please. I swear on my life, I will do everything. Just don't leave me. I don't —," Satoru's hands slip up your face as well, but you closed your eyes in defeat. Any ounce of strength left in your body evaporated. His arms fell to his sides as he croaked out helplessly. "I don't know who I am without you."

"You are you, Satoru. Always have been and always will be. A brilliant, wonderful, kind boy with a golden heart. And I..I am just me," you pressed your lips in a thin line before forcing a smile. "But I will work on it. As I said, it's all because of me."

"You don't get it." Somehow, Satoru's lifeless whisper hit you harder than any scream would. Because Satoru never raised his voice at you. Even now. There was a hunch to his shoulders that you rarely saw, if ever, as he turned from you and gripped the edge of the table. "I want to marry you. To become your family. But guess that doesn't matter anymore. Before things get too serious, huh?"

The room spun around you as you knitted your brows together, slumping in the nearest chair. Marrying… you?

But, on the other hand, it didn't change anything. You were still miles away from each other, standing on opposite sides of the societal hierarchy.

"I am so sorry, Satoru," words clawed up your throat as you shook your head.

Satoru finally turned around, and the dimmed, utterly devastated blue of his gaze tore you apart at the seams. "You are not sorry. If you were, you won't be leaving me now."

You didn't have enough in you to counter this. Words seemed meaningless, slipping like sand through your fingers.

"Please, Satoru. Let us go. It is for the better."

You had never seen an expression that hopeless and defeated on his handsome face.

"Is that what you want?"

"No," you wanted to scream, to shout, to cry out loud. "How can I possibly want to leave you? I have to. For both of us."

The silence stretched thin between you for so long, Satoru sincerely thought you didn't hear him. He stepped forward only to see you giving a short nod, almost cruel in its curtness.

After all, he never denied you everything. Even that. Even if it killed him from the inside.

Standing by the door with your bag, you couldn't help but steal a last glance at him. You parted your lips to say goodbye, but nothing even remotely plausible came to your mind. Satoru sat on the couch, shoulders slumped and gaze fixed on the floor. His name left your lips for the last time.

"Satoru."

His head snapped up as if he had been waiting for it that entire time. Maybe you changed your mind?

"Yes?"

That fragile hope in his tone twisted your insides.

"I love you."

Before he could answer, you slipped out of his apartments. And his life.

***

These months, the four agonising months, marked by Satoru's absence in your life, had sucked. Mildly put.

You sincerely thought you were doing the right thing — well, still were — breaking up, sparing his life from your presence, but it didn't mean it hurt any less. In a way, it was the opposite.

Pushing the love of your life away and then grovelling in the silence of your small apartment after putting on a brave face and assuring everyone that you were okay sucked. Crying yourself to sleep sucked. Feeling your heart breaking to pieces each time your gaze stumbled upon something that instantly reminded you of Satoru — like a photo on the fridge, his note with a smiley, kissy face between the pages of your comfort book and the tome of the manga he was reading — sucked. Walking around the places you used to hang out sucked.

What sucked even more was the fact that Satoru's presence seemed to linger everywhere. His laugh haunted you while you were lounging on the couch. The look of pure happiness on his face was ingrained in your mind while you were walking in a familiar park. And when your eye caught sight of a ball? Didn't even mention it. Perhaps that was your punishment. Now you were subjected to a lifetime of loneliness.

Still, you tried to do the thing you promised Satoru the final time you saw him. Attempted to go out of your shell. Took on some hobbies. Had a lot, a lot of time for self-reflection (given that you were free most of the evenings when you didn't throw yourself into work). And took small steps to discover what made you whole.

What and not who. That realisation sank on you with the force of a tidal wave. Kept you awake in three of the morning. Occupied all your thoughts until you finally, finally, were getting used to it. Still, there was a lot to be done. You only wished for Satoru by your side, though. Were you allowed to think about him, after all?

The revelation, of course, only made your mind drift to Satoru even more. How was he? Was his injury getting better? Did his father officially appoint him as the next CEO?

Gods. You sure had no right to worry about him anymore. Not after breaking both of your hearts. An utterly desperate and lifeless look on his face flashed every time before your eyes when you closed them.

You dragged your feet back from the nearest combini: Friday had finally marked the end of a long, exhausting week (not like you had many left, huh) and you treated yourself with sushi and a bottle of wine. There was nothing you wanted more than to run a bath and put Sex and the City on, rotting under the blanket. It would've been thousands of times better if Satoru were there, but alas...

A few raindrops fell on the asphalt, successfully putting the train of your miserable thoughts to a halt, and you hurried to the entrance of your block. Quickly fishing a pair of keys, you glanced up from your bag as something caught your attention in the periphery, and you got immediately rooted to the spot.

You would recognise the set of those shoulders, now slightly hunched, everywhere. A grey hoodie did nothing to hide his figure. White tufts fell over his forehead under the hood, and something twisted viciously in your chest at the sight. Your fingers twitched with the urge to feel the silk of that hair under your touch.

You took a deep breath, trying to take a rein over your hammering heart, and stepped closer, calling the man out softly. Rather hesitantly.

"Satoru? What are you doing here?"

Satoru went rigid for a moment at your voice. His shoulders tensed even more. Your throat clogged up.

But then he turned around and smiled. A tiny, almost pathetic lift of his lips, and he offered you a small wave. Just like the one you gave him at that basketball match.

"Hi, ba —" Satoru immediately corrected himself, wincing just for a second. His smile wavered, as did your composure. "Hi."

The effort that took you not to drop your things right then and run into his arms was only between you and the gods.

"Hello to you too." Swallowing the lump in your throat, you stepped forward. That totally wasn't the way you imagined that meeting would go.

"What are you doing here?" You prompted again, trying not to sound either harsh or desperate. Desperate to hear his voice. See his eyes. Look at his face.

"Just... was going around. Stumbled at your place. You still live here." Satoru lifted one shoulder in a nervous shrug, and his little smile morphed into a quick, uneasy grimace.

You didn't question those stalker-ish tendencies, but the doubt was clearly evident in an arch of your brow, because Satoru instantly raised his hands in surrender.

"No, really. I guess my legs just carried me there. Some memory, you know," he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, but then sighed, seeing your suspicion. "Come on, sweets. If I had been stalking you all that time, I would've done it way more discreetly."

That brought you some relief. "Guess you would've."

His Adam's apple bobbed with an effort. "Can we, uhm, talk?"

Something in your guts was telling you had a pretty good sense of the way this talk would go. You weren't sure it was the right time and way.

Casting your gaze down, you worried on your bottom lip before breathing out, "I'm — I'm not sure this is a good idea, Satoru."

"Please", his voice took on a pleading edge. You closed your eyes for a brief moment. "I just want to know how you are. That's all."

He was lying. And he knew you were well aware of it.

But, in the end, wasn't that what you wanted?  To see him, at least? Well, here Satoru was.

Thunder roared somewhere in the distance, and you were pretty sure that soon you both would be drenched to the bone.

"Besides, you don't want to get me standing under the rain, do you?" An amusement curled Satoru's lips before he let a humourless chuckle. "Have some mercy on your ex-boyfriend."

That sounded like a slur coming from Satoru. You glared at him. His smile turned even sharper.

Torn between the current state of your... relationship, and the fact that Satoru was standing right in front of you, you completely didn't know what to do. You didn't part your ways that badly. And you had never wanted to be that person who would resent his ex and scowl at every mention of them.

Because that was never true. You loved Satoru. And, judging by the yearning lacing his gaze and the nervous flex of his hands as he awaited your response, he still loved you, too.

After minutes of debating, with the rain intensifying, you finally gave in and nodded towards the entrance.

"Get in."

Satoru's wide smile now resembled more of a child's on Christmas.

"Yes, ma'am."

The weight of Satoru's gaze, burning a hole in your back, felt rather physical. The tension in your kitchen threatened to suffocate you both, while you busied yourself with making tea and a gigantic cup of hot cocoa for Satoru.

You placed the drink in front of him, and Satoru shot you a small, curious grin.

"Whoa, marshmallows."

"Yeah," you still absent-mindedly bought them at the grocery store. Habit. "You know, three years of always getting your marshmallows weren't in vain."

Satoru looked at you as if he seriously considered offering himself as a sacrifice at your altar.

Damn those puppy eyes.

Rubbing your palms up and down your thighs, you cleared your throat and offered an awkward smile. God, you wanted the ground to swallow you. "So, uhm, how have you been, To — Satoru?"

He pressed his lips together and leaned back in his seat, right hand on the back of it, like he was incapable of sitting straight. Well, some things never changed.

Satoru didn't look at you, instead glancing out of the window at the heavy rain, drumming against the windows.

"Not so good."

You immediately dropped your gaze, hugging the cup with sea ​​buckthorn tea. The scorching liquid might've burnt your hands a little, but it was nothing in comparison with the sharp pain in your chest.

Licking your lips, you forced yourself to look up at Satoru. He was still staring at the rain like it held something only visible to him. The muscle in his jaw jumped.

"I am sorry, but —"

Satoru released a long sigh and turned to you. You almost flinched at the sight of his eyes — usually so bright blue, flashing with mirth and charm, now reduced to the lifeless, dull grey. Under the better light, you also noticed the dark bags under Satoru's eyes, the hollow in his cheeks and even the light stubble. You had never seen him like it. Like he aged ten years or more in those months.

That was all because of you, right?

Tears filled your eyes so fast you couldn't even blink them away, when you felt salt on your lips.

You wanted to apologise once again, but then Satoru leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table, feverishly running his fingers through the white strands. Were you a little crazy, or even his hair seemed more…ashy?

"I am not gonna lie, I have never felt more awful and pathetic and miserable — well, you get it, in my entire fucking life," he waved his hand dismissively, and you closed your eyes just for a fleeting second, because you couldn't afford even a moment of not looking at him. That talk went even worse than you imagined. "But after you left, something has…changed."

You sat upright and drawled hesitantly, "Like…what?"

He huffed a humourless chuckle, and his eyes flashed with a weird, almost malicious glint. Your insides went cold.

"Well, I just told my father that he can suck my dick —"

You slowly covered your face with one hand. That was not good. Very, very bad, actually.

" — if he even for a moment thinks I was going to marry one of the girls he and my grandfather suggested. And then he started threatening to cut my trust fund off, blah blah, blah. Like I've ever given a single fuck about it."

Something in his tone was telling you that wasn't everything that had changed.

Satoru's voice sharpened in a way that could cut even the hardest steel.

"That was okay. Nothing I've heard before. But when he started talking about you," his voice dropped to a whisper and dangerously cracked. You couldn't hear it anymore. "That's where I draw the line. He knows that. Now everyone knows that."

A loud groan left you as you dropped your head in your hands.

"What have you done, Satoru?"

He just rolled his eyes. Harsh and sharp. "What I should have done, obviously. A long time ago. Tell all of them to fuck off."

"Oh —"

"Mildly put," Satoru scratched his head with a mild grimace. "And then got kicked out of the house. Trust fund cut off, obviously."

You couldn't believe what you had just heard. Satoru might've thought that his words would somehow soften you, so you could coo at him or whatever. But never did he expect you to slam your fist against the table and grit throught your teeth.

"Have you fucking lost your mind?"

Satoru blinked in shock, watching you suddenly stand up and turn from him, your hands curled into fists by your sides.

"What?"

Taking a deep breath, you tore your gaze from the windows and threw your hands in the air.

"Are you an idiot?"

Well, that kind of hurt. "I don't understand."

"Satoru." Oh no, he knew that tone. That only meant you were seething with rage. There were no means of escape, especially as you loomed over him. "So let me get it straight. You fought with your entire family, they kicked you out of the house and left you with no money."

"Pretty much, yeah."

"All because of me!?"

Satoru didn't like the way you said "me". As if you were something not even worth mentioning. The dirt beneath his feet.

"Satoru, we are not together! I am not your girlfriend anymore, I am not even in your life! We don't even talk! You can't throw your life away because of me! That's stupid!"

"Well, maybe I am stupid, hasn't it occurred to you?"

"Satoru," your voice trembled on the edge of tears. Why didn't he understand you?! "I am serious. This is serious. This is your life! This is all you have— had, especially given you can't damn play with your injury now!"

Satoru didn't answer you. You only saw the way he swallowed with effort, and the look of utter longing on his face told you everything.

You helplessly slumped back in your chair and hid your face in your palms for a small eternity. Satoru didn't dare to interrupt. He just watched you, soaking up every feature as if you were about to kick him out of your apartment forever. That was an option. You were pretty pissed.

He attempted to soothe you, "But there's something good."

You slowly glanced up, and Satoru almost snorted at the look of total disbelief in your eyes. "Such as?"

Satoru quickly stood up and kneeled between your chair, taking your hands in his. Cold as usual. Absent-mindedly, he rubbed your palms with his thumbs. As usual.

"I mean, you said it yourself, sweets. That is all I have known for my whole life. Rich kid, golden youth, spoilt guy born with a silver spoon in his mouth, all that stuff. I thought maybe it was it? My chance to find myself, huh? I don't want to be their toy to boss around all because of money."

Something crawled up your skin and twisted sharply in your chest as you breathed out, "What do you mean?"

Was he serious? So you both were doing the same thing all that time?

Satoru squeezed your hand harder and gave you a crooked smile.

"Just been here and there. Doing…some stuff."

You tilted your head in a silent question. He chuckled breathlessly and shook his head.

"Don't laugh, okay? I am teaching some kids basketball at school."

"Oh," your lips curled up in a tender smile as something warm bloomed in your chest. "That's really nice. You like it?"

"Yeah," Satoru's answer was immediate. And for the first time that evening, you saw a familiar spark in his eyes. "Kids can be a pain in the ass sometimes, but they are really cute. Listen to me, call me Gojo-sensei. Kinda gets in your head, you know."

A small snort escaped you, and the wide grin broke on his face. Oh, how he missed that precious sound.

"Where do you live now?"

"Crashing Suguru. He's not particularly happy when I drown my misery in another pint of strawberry ice-cream — "

Your smile slowly disappeared.

" — when he brings in some girl, but I bribe him with dark chocolate. You know he can't live without it."

"That he can," you uttered in a strained voice. Satoru's grin wavered as well, and he hesitantly reached to tuck the lone strand of your hair behind your ear. His hand trembled a little.

"What about you? There are boxes everywhere," he leaned back with a soft murmur, glancing around your apartment with packed staff around. "Moving out?"

Your heart suddenly felt twice its size, thumping violently against your ribs. "Uhm, yeah. Moving out."

"Where?"

Well, that was it. You squirmed in your seat, and Satoru's hand slowly fell to his side. He just waited.

"Eh…France."

He pinched his brows together with a slight frown and repeated incredulously, "You are moving to France?"

Satoru's sharp blue gaze seemed to pierce through you. Unable to meet it, you looked away.

"Yes."

"Why?"

Sighing deeply, you stood up and leaned against a kitchen counter, hugging yourself. Satoru immediately rose to his feet.

"That was a pretty much hard time for me too. Not delving into details, but…yeah. I felt like shit. Everyone was dating someone, or building a successful career, or, I don't know, just doing something meaningful," you gestured vaguely and combed your hair with a shaky hand. Satoru just stared at you like a lone, kicked puppy. "While I willingly kept fucking my own life over. Cooped yourself in that place. Left the love of my life."

Something in your face softened at the last words. Satoru forgot how to breathe.

"And that certainly shouldn't be…in vain, whatever. I told you I was going to work on myself, and I kind of do. Step by step, but I am going there."

"I still don't understand. I am happy for you, really am, but why are you leaving Japan? What about your mother, your job?"

What about me?

"My department's had its financing cut. My presence is not required anymore, as they said. I am just working the last two weeks, and that's it."

"Oh. I am..I am sorry to hear it."

"As for my mom," you didn't seem to hear Satoru's words at all, staring somewhere past him. "You know, she's never really cared that much about me anyway. She'll survive."

As cruel as your words might've seemed, you were right. Your mother was an…interesting woman indeed.

Satoru desperately cling to anything that could make you stay here like a lifeline.

"What about Nobara?"

Surely, you couldn't leave her. You two had been together from the first time he saw you at the university campus.

"Actually, she was the one who offered me that."

"Huh?!"

"She's recently been promoted at her job to the French edition of their magazine. Fashion weeks, runways, photoshoots… You know her, she's been ecstatic about it. So, when she asked me about it…I said I would give it a thought. I mean, it will be a nice fresh start, won't it? I don't have anything left here, so…why not? Gotta take risks, something like that."

Satoru couldn't believe his own ears. That would've been his nightmare coming true, if not for the fact that his worst one already was real. No. He wouldn't let you go that time. That was the stupidest thing he had done in his life, and if he had to beg…well.

The worst thing that you seemed pretty confident about it. But looking closely, he saw your hands trembled a little by your side, and your gaze darted nervously around. So, there still was some chance.

He ran his fingers through his hair. The gears seemed to work nonstop in his mind as he glanced around for any clue or sight for support. Until…

He weakly breathed out, "I am going with you."

Your eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. "You what!?"

Satisfied with your reaction and his genius mind, Satoru smirked lazily, "I am going to France with you."

Did you stare in The Office or something? Was there a hidden camera to look at?

Helplessly blinking, you finally managed to utter, "Excuse me? You going to France? With me?"

"I know, I know what you are thinking. He's crazy, an idiot, proper name, last name, backstory stuff, but hear me out!" Satoru walked to you and squeezed your shoulders, his eyes frantically searching your face for a hint of understanding. You still stared at him as if he had just announced he was going to fly to the Moon, no less. "You broke up with me because, citing "you felt inferior to me," right?

Pressing your lips into a thin line, you gave him a flat look. "Correct."

"But I am not superior in any way to you now! You're discovering yourself, me too, so why don't we do that together? Start everything from scratch? Including," his Adam's apple bobbed with effort as his hands slowly slid down your figure to rest on the dip of your waist. Your skin tingled at the contact. "Including us."

Blood defeaningly roared at your temples, and your heart jumped right into your throat. Wouldn't it be strange and weird? Getting back together after you pushed him away? After breaking both of you?

One of Satoru's hands drifted upwards to cradle your face, while the other pulled your figure closer to him. Your head spun at the sudden proximity. His thumb delicately traced the line of your jaw and settled on the apple of your cheek.

"How is that stupid and weird, if I love you?" Shit, had you been musing aloud? "And you love me."

You parted your lips to answer, but then Satoru tilted his head down just a bit, and it was enough to feel the faintest brush of his lips against yours. With knees slightly trembling, your hand flew up and twisted the fabric of his hoodie for support. Your tongue darted out to lick your lip for a mere second; it was enough for Satoru's gaze to flick there and stare at your mouth as if hypnotised.

"Or you don't?" You almost leaned in for a kiss when he suddenly pulled away, despite being a breath away from devouring you. You gulped and lifted a pleading gaze at him — and not like the look on Satoru's face was any better. A strange kind of bitterness settled in your chest at the shakiness of his voice: he really doubted it. Well, you gave him a good reason to, didn't you?

It baffled you. No. Weirded out in the worst way possible.

So, instead of answering, you simply stood on your tiptoes and pressed your lips against his. A feathery, almost invisible, but it was enough for Satoru to release a groan and kiss your back.

You forgot how to breathe. The room spun around you, and if not for Satoru's hand holding at your waist, you would've collapsed for sure. The familiar sense of heat shot through you as you boldly slid your hand up Satoru's toned shoulder, grazed his undercut — wait, did he actually whimper at that or what — and ran your fingers through the silky white hair. The months of raw longing, poured in that kiss, laced every brush of your tongues, stifled moan and impatient tug with desperate want. Damn, you almost forgot his lips slotting perfectly against yours, his gently nipping at your bottom lip, and his hot, raspy breath fanning over your cheek when you pulled away before delving in again and again.

Blinking away dizziness, you managed to gather your bearings together just to mumble, "Does it count as an answer?"

Satoru's chest rose up and down as if he had just run a marathon, and he slowly shook his hand in response before tilting your chin up. His eyes resembled more of a stormy ocean than a breezy sea, but his hold was as tender as always.

"I love you, Satoru. Still am and always have been. I told you the same when —," you swallowed the lump in your throat, "— when I left you." Voice sinking into a small, almost miserable whisper, you went on, "And I am sorry for that, so damn sorry, you didn't deserve it."

"No, no, no, baby, stop it," now both his hands cradled your face as his gaze gently caressed every twitch in it, every shift, every freckle and mole. "You did what you felt right to. I accepted that, even though it was the hardest thing in my life. Believe me or not, I felt so stupid and shitty and miserable for letting you go, but I had to respect that. I only wish I had noticed you feeling that way sooner," he ended with a small, bitter smile, placing a kiss on the tip of your nose before gently nuzzling it. "Missed you so, so much."

As much as you wanted to lean into Satoru's touch again with no care in the world, you felt the need to apologise for once again, "No, Satoru, but — Maybe if I told you that instead of going away, we wouldn't be apart these months. I am sorry."

"Stop that," his voice cut you off, not firmly but enough to shut you up. "Really, stop. I am not mad at you. I could never be mad at you. And maybe I need that too. Shook me good to realise what things really mattered in life."

A sad sigh left your lips when you remembered what happened between Satoru and his family. Yes, they were jerks, but you never wanted to be the reason for the wedge between them.

"But hey, now we're two psychos together, trying to figure out what to do with their life! Together, right?" Satoru's gaze carefully searched yours, and as you nodded enthusiastically, his face broke into the brightest grin possible. Maybe only rivalling the one he gave you when you agreed to go out with him at that bonfire party.

"Love you, love you, love you," you murmured between kisses, nuzzling against his jaw, eliciting shaky moans. Your hands slid under his hoodie to feel the hot skin under your palms, but the sudden roaring of the thunder made you jump.

"Oh, fuck."

Satoru wanted to tease you at first, but he quickly bit his tongue, remembering that noises like that still scared you. You mindlessly gripped his hoodie tighter, pressing your frame against his for comfort. His hand cradled the back of your head, and he tucked it under his chin, whispering soothing words.

"Maybe you wanna lie down or something?" Whispering into your hair, Satoru pressed his lips against the crown of your head as another tremble shook your body at the particularly frightening sound. His gaze briefly flicked at the sky through the windows. "Yeah, not getting better soon."

Without further ado, you sighed in response and gripped his hand to walk to your bedroom. In every other situation, his hands would've been on you in a second, but not now. Especially given that you had just gotten back together.

Your bedroom hadn't really changed: your favourite stuffed plush bear sat over the sheets, guarding your sleep; a stupid lava lamp that Satoru once gifted you was still on the bedside table, not to mention the horde of houseplants (he sadly noticed the absence of some) at the windowsill. You hadn't packed the bedroom stuff yet, though a couple of boxes obediently waited in the corner.

After all those months, Satoru's presence felt kind of weird in your bedroom, but now, with his hands enveloping you in an embrace, you had never felt happier.

You both stayed up the whole night: gods, you almost forgot how easy it was to talk to Satoru. He told you more about the kids he was teaching, the school, and that he tried to do some modelling photoshoots. It turned out pretty good. "Might be a nice gig," he shrugged nonchalantly, but you noticed his eyes sparkling with mirth.

You filled him in on the work drama, places you visited in your attempts to go out of your shell, hobbies you tried — his eyes widened at the mention of drawing and pottery, and he demanded to see your works the first thing in the morning.

You snorted quietly. "I don't think they are anywhere as good as your photos."

Satoru huffed under his breath and lightly nudged your shoulder. You both lie face to face now, smiling and giggling like a pair of students you once were. You felt as if you were floating in happiness.

"Come on, baby, don't be shy. I am positive they are nice."

"No, Toru, they are not. Believe me, my first flowerpot was disastrous." You turned a bit and waved at the deformed blob of clay, hiding in the corner. Satoru followed your move: his lips pressed into a thin line at the sight of a poor thing.

"Uhm…well, it's not that bad." His shoulders shook with a barely suppressed laugh, and you rolled your eyes good-naturedly.

"It's okay, you can laugh."

The laugh he let was truly thunderous, and even you, the mighty creator, couldn't help but laugh alone.

"Babe, I am sorry, it's just looking at me like I have to end its suffering," after some time, Satoru finally wept some tears and breathed out weakly with his hand on his stomach. You both looked at the hopeless blob. "Why do you keep it, anyway?"

Sighing in response, you murmured, "Dunno. I can't bring myself to throw it away."

Satoru just hummed in response and settled back against the pillows. "Will you take it to France?"

Your heart skipped a beat at the mention, and you just shrugged indecisively. The light mood you had slowly evaporated. After some minutes, you rolled back to face Satoru again, only to find him already watching you closely.

"Were you serious?"

He tilted his head in question; his hand came up to brush a hair strand behind your ear. "About what?"

The next words came in a hesitant whisper.

"Moving with me to France."

Satoru's thumb traced your bottom lip before he dropped his arm to the side. Shrugging casually, he lifted a steady gaze on you. "Are you still thinking about moving there?"

You swallowed nervously before nodding. "Yeah."

"Then I was serious too. We're dating again, it's only logical then."

You couldn't fight with that argument.

"Guess it is. I just…," you lifted one shoulder, still doubtful. "Can't believe you do that for me."

And he couldn't believe you questioned it. But instead, Satoru just blinked at you and muttered in the most serious tone possible.

"I told you I was going to marry you. Yes, I still want to. I wasn't joking and trying to hold you back in the heat of the moment —"

You wordlessly glanced at him.

" — okay, I did, but I was serious. And still am. Hell, baby," the mattress dipped under his weight as Satoru scooted closer. "You're the only thing — not a thing, person, I mean, you're the most serious I've ever been about anything and anyone in my life. I swear. Where you go, I follow."

His voice cracked at the last words, and you let a shuddering breath, cupping his face.

"Are you sure? What will your family say? Job? Suguru?"

Satoru lifted a corner of his lips in a small grin, recalling the same arguments he used to talk you out of moving.

"I am pretty sure I can find something there. Isn't this a part of discovering yourself, too? It could be pretty fun. Who knows, maybe I have some secret talent for pastries. Not just eating. Baking! Plus, I know French," he beamed at you like the Sun. You couldn't help but grin back. "It's a little rusty, though."

You both snorted, but then a frown crossed Satoru's face, and his tone turned more serious.

"Suguru…he'll understand. We still will be talking, right? Not as we used to, but…hey, now I will have an excuse to send him even more stupid memes."

"I am sure he will be ecstatic about it."

"He won't have any choice, heh. And my family…honestly? I don't really care. We both said everything we wanted to each other. I do not see any sense in bowing and scraping."

Your face crumpled in a grimace as you recalled that you were one of the reasons that entire thing happened, and hunched your shoulders. "Still sorry about it."

"And I am still saying you shouldn't be."

Minutes passed between you in a relative silence, interrupted only by the car noises and distant humming of the refrigerator as you stared at the ceiling. Finally, you turned to look at Satoru. Moonlight painted his features in an even more breathtaking way, highlighting the sharp jawline and illuminating the blue of his eyes.

"So…we are really going to France."

Satoru smiled at you — the gentle one he saved only for you — and reached for your hand to interlace your fingers slowly.

"We really are."

***

The morning sun crept through the blinds, bathing a bedroom in a soft, ethereal light, and its beams lazily caressed your face in feathery kisses. As your nose twitched at the sensation, begrudgingly, very begrudgingly, you blinked and reached for your phone. It came to life with a faint buzz; you tried to focus your bleary gaze on the time and sighed in relief as you still had half an hour before the alarm.

A careful attempt to sink back into the sheets didn't go unnoticed by the whole mountain of heat and muscle beside you. Satoru's arm snaked around your waist with an energy too restless for a sleepy man.

"Where are you going to, huh?" His voice, still deep and thick with sleep, felt like a pure sin against your nape. A shudder ran through your body as he gently nuzzled the soft skin there and pressed his lips against the point that shouldn't drive you crazy like it did. "Morning, ma choute."

Amusement curled your tone as you breathed out a chuckle, "Your favourite word, huh?"

Instead of answering, Satoru hummed something unintelligible against the curve of your neck, nosing it, while his lips found your pulse point.

"Can't help it. Not my fault if it fits you perfectly. So sweet," his head went into a dizzy, hazy state at the whiff of your chocolate shower gel and something so uniquely yours. "So soft." The hand that rested leisurely on your belly lazily drifted upwards to cup the tender swell of your breasts. Your breath caught in your throat as you arched into Satoru's touch with a quiet, sleepy moan.

"Ah, Satoru…"

When your voice dipped into that syrupy bedroom voice, laced with so much want, Satoru never could help himself. His hips bucked involuntarily, eliciting a surprised gasp from you, as you felt the throbbing of his length against your backside.

Your hair fanned over a pillow like a halo, catching the bright light, and Satoru's heart skipped a beat. He gently bit down on your pulse point, and as your gasp rose in a tone, he quickly soothed it with a lick of his tongue.

"Fuck, you're so beautiful. So, so beautiful. Can't believe you're mine." The heat crept up your body all the way to your cheeks, not only at the way Satoru rolled your nipple between his fingers, palming at the soft skin there, but at the bewilderment in his voice. As if he were actually shocked.

Another moan left your lips as you closed your eyes in the utter pleasure, coursing through your body and tightening your insides into the sweet knot. Subconsiously, you pushed your trembling thighs back against his front, to which Satoru responded with a low hiss.

"You're in a teasing mood today, huh?"

A sharp pang of disappointment shot through your body when his hand left your chest.

"Satoru…"

"Shh, patience, baby. Good things come to those who wait, don't they?" You almost whined at the loss of the contact, but then his hand — god, that hand — wrapped around your throat with a light grip, just enough to turn your face and capture your lips in a lazy, unhurried kiss. He licked at the seam of your mouth, and you immediately opened it, granting Satoru access. Your tongues lazily tangled, exploring each other; you slid your free hand down his toned pecs, sharp abs and wrapped it around the already hard cock. Giving it a few unhurried pumps, you heard Satoru moaning unbashfully against your mouth.

"Oh, fuck, yeah, keep going, love. Just like —, oh, just like that."

You fondled his balls with a sly smirk, to which he responded with a sharp, almost desperate cry, and…stopped.

"Hey, baby," the pout was evident in his voice, "That's not fair. Like totally not fair."

With a smirk widening, you turned just a tad to see his half-lidded gaze darkening with lust. "Haven't you just preached to me about patience, Toru?"

Satoru's head hit your shoulder as he let a groan, followed by a disbelieving laugh. "Vixen. You drive me crazy, you know that?"

"Yeah, yeah, yet you're still not inside me." After rolling your eyes impatiently, you finally heard the sheets rustling. Your insides clenched in anticipation.

Laughing quietly, Satoru kissed your shoulder, pulling you closer against his front. His hand slid under your hip, lifting it for better access, and hoisted it over his own. You almost whimpered as the thick head of his cock nudged your already wet entrance.

"Look at tha-a-a-t," the heat flooded your body even more at the cocky tilt in his voice and the way his fingers lightly grazed your folds. "For someone so soaked, you have a pretty big mouth running, ma chérie."

You attempted to glare at Satoru, but it ended rather poorly with the way your eyes were glazed with desire. Giving you a smirk, not even trying to hide his arrogance and smugness, he hastily fisted his cock and aligned it with your entrance, slowly yet surely filling you up inch by inch.

"F-fuck, you're so tight," Satoru's hot whisper fanned over your jawline as he pressed heated kisses up to your mouth. "So warm, so good, so p-perfect — babe, don't clench me like that, f-for me."

Your lips parted, forming almost a perfect "O" in its shape at the burn of the stretch, and the first loud moan tore from your chest, when Satoru finally gave you a shallow roll of his hips.

"Sa-Satoru, yeah…"

With no hesitation, you reached behind and tugged at the soft white tufts above Satoru's undercut, pressing his head into your nape to seek even more contact until your bodies fused in a messy, unintelligible tangle of limbs, needy touches and wanton moans. His hips built a slow, languid rhythm, moulding your insides into the shape of his cock; each thick vein and ridge of him against your velvet walls made your mind swim in pleasure, so overwhelming it drowned every coherent thought. One of his hands snaked up to squeeze your breasts, eliciting more shaky whimpers from you.

"Love you, love you so fucking much, you don't even, ngh, under-understand, shit, y-yes," Satoru slurred against your cheek after yet another sloppy kiss, his tongue darting to taste the salty skin as you literally cried in ecstasy when he hit that sweet spot inside. You were completely sure he would never let you forget this. His moves gradually lost their rhythm, giving in to a raw, primal desire. A string of desperate whimpers spilt from your lips, and you turned your head to muffle these cries in the pillow.

Wrong move.

Seeing it, Satoru's lips curled into a sharp smirk. He quickly wetted his fingers and dragged them down to press quick, tight circles on your clit, and with all the stimulation, your body jolted in pleasure. Heat, shameless and urgent, built at the base of your spine, coursed through your veins and lit every part on fire. His cock twitched inside you at the way you breathed out his name with such desperation that put all the prayers to shame.

"Give it to me, baby. Be a good girl, yeah? Cum for me."

Your thighs shook violently, which was a telling sign that you were close; he feverishly rutted against yours, rubbing your clit in quick motions, panting against the curve of your neck. His eyes rolled in pleasure as your cunt fluttered around him, coating his shaft in juices, and with a shameless guttural groan, he cummed too.

The sound of your name, spilling from Satoru's lips like it was the only word he knew, brought tears to your eyes. Of love, of longing, or devotion, you weren't even sure.

Satoru was still in you, behind you, wrapping you in his arms and scent, when you awkwardly tried to turn around. He lazily blinked at you — the blue of his eyes resembled the glimmering waves of the Mediterranean Sea, which lapped the shores of the city that had become your home. Swallowing a lump in your throat, you lean in to press a quick, almost chaste kiss on the corner of his lips. They twitched with a soft grin.

"Someone's awfully sweet. Good morning, I guess. Really good, that time. What if — "

Before Satoru finished, your hands framed his face, and you kissed him again, taking your time. He released a quiet, unexpected sigh and melted into it immediately, giving you all the reins. Sweet and soft, your tongue swept over his plump lips and explored his mouth, until you both pulled away to catch your breath. Resting your forehead against his, you muttered quietly.

"I love you."

Satoru didn't answer you right away; instead, he cupped your cheek, his thumb grazed the soft skin under your eyes, and he murmured back.

"I love you more."

You didn't want to delve into the endless fight of who loved whom more, so you just settled against his chest with a soft sigh. Satoru tucked your head under his chin and gently ran his fingers up and down your spine.

"How are you feeling? Wanna cuddle a little or go showering?"

"I wish we could cuddle more, but Nobara and Maki are coming in…very soon, actually."

Satoru stilled for a moment and released a groan, reluctant to let you go and leave that bed, jutting his bottom lip in the biggest pout known to the Universe.

"Is it today? Do we have to go with them, baby?"

"Yes. Toru, we promised them to show the Fine Arts Museum. Maki didn't visit it last time they were in Marseille because it was shut for some renovation. Apparently."

"Geez, I was hoping for a round two. And maybe three in the shower. Besides, we were there with Suguru last summer." His hand slid down to squeeze your butt in the last attempt to persuade you, but you stood your ground. With great effort.

"Satoru, no. We don't see them often. Get up."

Saoru's hand that reached to pinch your side as you hopped off to get to the shower, limply fell to his side. He groaned as his head hit the pillow, but as the sounds of water running filled the space, he enthusiastically got up and padded to the bathroom. He could be pretty…convincing when he wanted to.

Indeed, an hour later, Nobara suspiciously eyed both of you up and down — your hair told her everything she needed to know. Satoru didn't even try to hide a big dopey grin that screamed "I just got laid by the most gorgeous woman in the world". You elbowed him. Hard. His smile got even wider, so you sent him to help Maki with their suitcases.

"You know, I am so happy for you." You gave Nobara a cup of scorching latte, just the way she preferred. Her lips curled into an amusing yet soft grin. "No, really. You both look radiant."

She laughed heartily, nodding in gratitude; however, her gaze was fixed on your front yard. You followed the direction and chuckled as well, seeing Satoru and Maki trying to coax Nobara's cat — a fluffy, totally spoilt Persian named Lady — out of the carrier. She only hissed in response.

"Yeah. Me too. She's…I don't know how to explain it. But I am so happy she agreed to move here. The same is for you, by the way. Provence does wonders for both of you. Even Gojo."

You rested your elbows on the table with a melancholic sigh. Yes, the start of your journey in France was quite turbulent: a total mess with language, documents, fighting with landlords over the rent, and taking up any gigs for money…It only helped that you had some of it saved. Endless hours of work, tears and efforts poured into building your new life finally got its fruits: at one of the fashion shows, Nobara introduced you to the famous photographer, who instantly fell in love with your works. And Satoru…

"Phew, finally," the front door opened, revealing beaming Satoru with Lady in his arms, who…purred in content. Nobara's eyes widened in shock.

"Lady, what? He's a man! Have some dignity!"

"Can't help it if I am that charming," he scratched the kitty under her chin. "Even cats know that."

"That's, unfortunately, true." You squeaked in delight at Maki's tired voice and jumped into her arms. After a few solid minutes of hugging, you finally released her as she begged you to show her the bathroom.

"So, Gojo," Nobara drawled in a voice too casual. Satoru exchanged brief yet pointed glances with you. Lady cracked one eye open and yawned, staring at her catmom. "Do you have, by any chance, some calissons left?"

In Nobara's language, that meant she had been dying to taste them, but she would never admit it to Satoru. "Don't tell him, or his ego would grow even bigger!"

So you just happened to drop that you wanted to have those candies, and of course, Satoru whipped some up: they just waited to be baked. Judging by his cocky smirk, he already figured both of you out.

"Why do you call me Gojo? She's a Gojo too, you know?" The oven beeped a couple of times when Satoru put the tray with callisons inside. Nobara only rolled her eyes and hugged you with a grin.

And Satoru once decided to try his hand at the things that he loved the most in the world (after you, of course): sweets. In particular, pastries. To put it concisely, baking. It took a lot, a lot of time and years of learning in culinary academies under the guidance of chiefs, before he could finally name himself the one.

Marseille greeted you with arms open, the fresh scent of pastries lingering in the air, mesmerising views and the centuries of history ingrained in its walls. You left Paris after you realised it was high time to move forward, and since you mentioned a couple of times that you wanted to live in Provence for some time, Satoru started to look for a home and a place for his own bakery. His own thing. That he built only by himself, with no family barking and ordering him around. He and you. And Satoru could've never been happier for it.

You indeed had never made it easy for him. But now, seeing you laugh with your friends, among the paintings, with the sun casting a soft, almost amber glow on your figure, Satoru realised he would rather have things difficult with you than easy with anyone else. Because you were worth it.

You were worth everything.

You should’ve known something was up when he specifically bought only two first-class tickets to Las Vegas and your flight was at midnight. He’d insisted the two of you sneak out of the Kyoto Jujutsu Tech compound where you’d stayed for the duration of his visit to the Gojo clan, and hadn’t bothered to inform Shoko or Utahime or Yaga.

And so, again, you reiterate firmly and resolutely: none of this is your fault.

Your predicament—standing in a parking lot behind a Denny’s at nine in the night with a small fire going in a trash can nearby—is entirely, absolutely, positively Gojo Satoru’s fault.

“I want a divorce,” you tell him.

“We’ve been married for forty-seven minutes.”

“Forty-seven minutes too long.”

“You’re burning our wedding certificate!” Satoru says. “How are we supposed to file for divorce if there’s no proof we even got married?”

“I’ll figure it out,” you say, poking at the certificate with a stick you found on the ground. The corner of it curls and blackens satisfyingly. “I’m very resourceful.”

“You’re committing a crime is what you’re doing,” he says.

“You committed a crime first.”

“Getting married isn’t a crime—”

“Fraud is.”

Satoru opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again, at a loss for words. This is a rare and precious occurrence—Gojo Satoru, speechless! You would be savouring it more if you weren’t currently a married woman in a Denny’s parking lot in Las Vegas at eleven o’clock in the night.

Satoru had told you it was a vacation. He’d shown up at your room in the Kyoto compound at half-past ten with a bag tucked under his arm and said, simply, “Come on. We’re leaving.”

“Leaving where?” you’d asked.

“Somewhere that isn’t here,” was his cryptic reply.

You’d been in Kyoto for six days. Six days of watching Satoru navigate the Gojo clan and their elders with their careful smiles and careful words. Nearly a week of watching something tight and unhappy lodge itself behind Satoru’s eyes while he pretended, convincingly, that everything was fine. You knew he wasn’t; you’d watched him perfect his act for years, after all.

So, you went. You told yourself it was because you’d never been to Las Vegas. This, at least, is true.

You’d grabbed your bag and followed him out through a side entrance of the compound at nine forty-five, and you didn’t inform any of your friends or superiors. Because of this, your phone has been periodically buzzing in your pocket for the last several hours and you’ve been ignoring it, which is a problem that is also, for the record, Satoru’s fault.

The flight was actually wonderful. First-class seats entailed warm socks and warm food and a window seat, because Satoru had graciously sat by the aisle. When you were flying over the Pacific, he’d fallen asleep with his head tipped back and his sunglasses still on. He looked younger when he was sleeping, you’d thought. More like the version of him you’d met when you were both too young and foolish to understand what being a sorcerer actually meant.

After you landed, Satoru took you to a casino and then to a fancy place for lunch, and then to another two casinos—if he wasn’t careful, he’d turn into a gambling addict soon—and then he took you to a chapel on the Strip with fake flowers zip-tied to the pews and an officiant named Francis who had red hair and smelled like cigarettes and convenience store chewing gum.

Francis had cried a little during the vows, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief. Satoru had found this enormously gratifying. You, however, had been in something of a dissociative state.

“It’s not fraud,” Satoru says now, in the parking lot, watching you cremate your marriage certificate. “We did actually get married. Francis witnessed it. There are photos.”

“There are photos?”

“Francis had a camera.”

“What?”

“I think it’s just something he keeps on him professionally.”

You stare at him. He has the grace to look slightly sheepish. His sunglasses are still on. His suit jacket is open, and his tie, which had been done up neatly for the ceremony (clearly he’d planned far enough ahead to wear a nice tie) is now loosened and slightly crooked. The cheap gold ring on his finger—wrong hand; he’d fumbled it in the moment and jammed it on before either of you could correct it—catches the light from the parking lot fluorescents.

“That’s it!” you say, snapping your fingers at him. “That’s our proof to file for divorce! Take me back to the wedding chapel, Satoru.”

“No way,” he says. “I’m taking you to dinner first. We need to commemorate our first night of being married.”

“We’re behind a Denny’s,” you point out.

“I know,” Satoru says. “Denny’s is a perfectly acceptable dining establishment, but I meant somewhere nice. There’s a steakhouse on the Strip that has a three-month waitlist.”

“Then we can’t go there.”

“I called ahead.”

You gape at him. “Three months ago?”

“No,” he says. “I called ahead on the plane. You were asleep.”

“I wasn’t asleep for that long—”

“Yeah, you were asleep for, like, four hours. You even snored a little.”

“I did not—that’s not the point! The point is, you planned this. You planned all of it, the chapel, the restaurant, the—” You gesture at the ring on his finger, the ring on yours, the dying fire in the trash can—“everything.”

“Not everything. I didn’t plan for you to burn our wedding certificate in a fit of rage.”

“That’s your fault by proximity.”

“That’s not a legal standard.”

“I’m making it one.”

Satoru smiles, quick and bright. You have a long and storied history of making Gojo Satoru laugh when he isn’t expecting to, and it used to feel like winning something. It still does, if you’re being honest.

“Come on,” Satoru says, nodding towards the street. “Dinner first, Francis later. We can get the photos after and then you can file for divorce. I won’t stop you.”

“You’d better not,” you say.

“I said I won’t.” He holds his hands up, the picture of innocence. “I’m a man of my word.”

“You’re really not.”

“I’m a man of some of my word,” he amends.

The steakhouse is situated on the upper floor of one of the larger casinos on the Strip, lined with dark wood and low, hushed lighting. You are seated by a window. The Strip sprawls below you in every direction, extravagant and relentless, all that light going nowhere at tremendous speed.

“Were you really that confident I’d say yes?” you ask once the menus have been set in front of you.

“I was… hopeful,” Satoru says. It’s not a word you can recall him ever applying to himself before, in all the years you’ve known him; it sounds odd. You pick up your own menu and look at it without reading it.

What you’ve learnt about Satoru and what most people tend to miss is that underneath all the grinning and grandstanding and carelessness, there is someone who wants things very badly and has learned not to show it. You’ve known this for years. You’ve watched him want things, and watched him bury it under layers of grandiosity until it’s almost invisible. Almost.

“The elders have been at it for two years,” he says finally, without looking up from the menu. “The meetings, the candidates. They’re all very suitable women from very respectable families. Good for the clan’s interests.”

“You never told me it’d been going on for that long.”

“Didn’t want to make it a thing.”

“Satoru—”

“It’s fine. It’s just—” He sets the menu down and looks out at the Strip, all that light below. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life performing for someone who sees me as a resource. I do enough of that already. I knew it was going to happen eventually and that they were going to stop asking and start insisting. So. Vegas.”

“Vegas,” you echo.

“You were the obvious answer,” he says matter-of-factly. “You already know what you’re getting into with me. You don’t have any illusions. You—you’re my best friend. There isn’t anyone I’d rather be stuck with.”

“Stuck with,” you repeat. “Incredibly romantic.”

“I said what I said.”

The waiter arrives and Satoru orders for the two of you. You look down at the ring on your finger and think about how it came from the little rotating display by the chapel door, five dollars American. It fits almost perfectly except for being on the wrong hand.

“Er. You fumbled the ring,” you say.

“I was nervous,” he says.

Gojo Satoru, nervous. Gojo Satoru, who treats most of human experience as something happening at a slight remove, who has never, to your knowledge, shown up to anything in his life uncertain of the outcome—nervous!

“Were you,” you say.

“Briefly,” Satoru says, with great dignity. “It passed.”

“Of course.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“Of course.”

The fountains in front of the Bellagio are in the middle of their routine, water arcing up in great pale columns against the dark. The light from them moves across the window in slow, repeating patterns. Satoru’s eyes catch the shifting light. You swallow hard.

“We’re not arguing about the divorce, by the way,” you tell him.

“We’ll see.”

“Satoru.”

“We’ll see,” he says again pleasantly. You’re going to say something else, something firm and unambiguous, but he’s already put his cutlery down and is walking out, and you’re already following.

WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #2 – BREAKING AND ENTERING.

The supposed 24/7 active wedding chapel has a sign tacked onto the front door when you arrive later, which reads, Under maintenance. We apologise for the inconvenience!

“Fuck,” you groan.

“Language,” Satoru says. “Maintenance at midnight. Huh. That’s strange.”

“That’s what I’m focusing on right now, yes, thank you.”

You press your face briefly against the chapel door’s small window. The lights inside are off. Through the glass you can just make out the shape of the pews, the flowers zip-tied to their ends, and the little altar at the front where Francis had stood several hours ago and wept openly into his handkerchief. How are you supposed to get the photographs of your husband—you are using that word provisionally under extreme protest—looking at you like you’re the only fixed point in the room?

“He might live here,” Satoru says.

“Francis?”

“Some of these places have a back apartment for the officiant. We could knock.”

“We’re not knocking on a man’s door at midnight,” you say.

“It’s nearly one.”

“That makes it worse!” You step back from the door and look at the sign again. There’s a narrow alley running along the left side of the chapel, squeezed between the chapel building and the 24-hour tattoo parlour next door. You only notice it because Satoru’s already walking towards it. “What are you doing?”

“Recon,” Satoru says. “Just looking.”

He disappears around the corner. You stand on the pavement with your hands on your hips before deciding to follow him. The alley is cramped and smells stale. There’s a dumpster and a stack of plastic chairs leaning against the chapel wall. Satoru stands with his hands in his pockets, looking upward with his head tilted back.

“No,” you say.

“There’s a window.”

“I see that.”

“It’s open!”

It appears to be a casement window on the chapel’s ground floor, propped out at an angle, about eight feet off the ground and just wide enough for a person to fit through.

“That could be a bathroom window,” you say. “We’d be breaking and entering.”

“The window’s already open,” Satoru says. “Technically we’d just be entering. The photos Francis took are currently somewhere in that chapel developing in a back room, unattended.”

“If we get arrested,” you say, “I’m blaming you entirely.”

“Obviously.”

“I will give a statement to the police and it will contain your full name and a detailed account of everything that’s happened tonight, starting with the chapel and working backwards to Kyoto.”

“Sure. Boost or be boosted?” Satoru asks, turning to the chairs. “I’d say I’ll boost you, but I want it to be on record that I think you’d make a better lookout.”

“I’m not being a lookout.”

“You just said—”

“I’m coming with you.”

He pauses, glancing at you, his expression softening just a little bit. Warm and amused—gone before you can fix it in place.

“Obviously,” he says, smiling, and starts stacking chairs.

The window is, in fact, not a bathroom window. It opens into a small storage room at the back of the chapel, with folding tables against one wall, boxes of artificial flowers stacked against the other, and a mop in a bucket in the corner. Through a door on the far side, you can see the chapel proper. The dripping you can hear means the maintenance situation is a ceiling problem, probably towards the front.

“There’s a whole back operation,” Satoru says, impressed.

“We need to find the darkroom,” you whisper.

“Why are you whispering?”

“Because we’re trespassing.”

“Right, yes,” he says, lowering his voice. “The darkroom will need ventilation, so it’s probably towards the back.”

“How do you know anything about darkrooms?” you ask.

“I went through a photography phase in my second year of middle school. It was a whole thing.” He opens the storage room door and peers through into the chapel. “All clear.”

You follow him through. The chapel at night, empty and dim, is a different place entirely from what it was several hours ago. Smaller, somehow. Without Francis and the lights, it’s just a room with cheap flowers and worn carpet.

“Back room’s through here,” Satoru says softly; he’s already at the door behind the altar. You cross the chapel quickly, not looking at the pews or the aisle, not doing anything so foolish as standing in the dark and sentimentalising about a five-dollar ring and a laminated vow card.

The back room is small and smells sharply of chemicals—developer and fixer, mostly. There’s a red safelight along the wall that Francis has left running, bathing everything in a dim glow. A long workbench runs along one wall, and on it, clipped to a line strung above the bench, are your photographs.

Four of them, hanging in a row, damp and gleaming slightly under the monochromatic light. Even from across the room, you can make out the chapel and the altar. Neither of you says anything for a moment, until Satoru walks to the bench and stands in front of the photographs. You make your way and stand beside him.

The first one is mid-ceremony. You’re both facing Francis, and you can see Satoru in profile—head tilted, shoulders set. The second one is the ring exchange; you can see immediately why it’s blurry. You’d both been laughing, actually, you remember that now, because Satoru had fumbled the ring and said something under his breath, and you’d bitten down on a laugh and not entirely succeeded. Francis had captured exactly that, the two of you with your heads slightly bent towards each other.

In the third one, Francis had asked you to face each other for a photo, and while you’re looking at the camera, Satoru’s looking at you. You look—Francis had said surprised, and yes, there is that, but there’s also something else, something you would rather not name.

Satoru is looking at you the way he was looking at you in the chapel, the way he’s been looking at you in these odd unguarded moments all evening.

“We look like idiots,” Satoru says.

“Francis was right,” you say. “We both look surprised.”

“Were you?” he asks.

“Yes. Were you?”

“No,” he says, then adds quietly, “Maybe. About—about other things.”

In the fourth photograph, you are outside the chapel, looking at the ring on your hand, and Satoru is looking at you looking at the ring. Francis had captured the angle so cleanly that you can see Satoru’s full expression, soft in a way his face almost never is in front of other people, private. You realise you’re holding your breath.

“We should take them,” Satoru says.

“We can’t just take them,” you say. “They’re developing.”

“They look pretty developed to me.”

“Satoru, they’re damp—”

“They’ll dry.” He’s already carefully unclipping the first photograph from the line. “Francis has the negatives. He can print more.”

“You don’t know that Francis has the negatives, and besides, we’re stealing from him.”

“We’re borrowing from Francis.” Satoru holds the first photograph carefully by its edge and looks at it in the red light before setting it down on the workbench. “Hand me something to put these in. There should be a folder or an envelope on the bench somewhere.”

There’s a paper envelope at the end of the bench, brown and flat. You pick it up and hold it open. Satoru slides the photographs in one by one.

“We need to leave Francis a note,” you say, “and money. For the printing. For—everything.”

“How much do you think midnight darkroom theft runs these days?”

“What?”

“I’m asking genuinely.”

“A lot,” you say. “Leave a lot.”

You find a notepad on the workbench next to a jar of pens. Francis, you write. We’re sorry for the unauthorised visit. We needed the photos tonight, so please print yourself copies. Enclosed is payment for the developing, the breaking-in, the trouble, and your time. Thank you for everything. It was a beautiful ceremony.

You fold the note and put it on the workbench. Satoru takes his wallet out, removes a quantity of cash that makes your eyebrows go up, and weighs it down with the jar of pens.

You go back through the chapel and through the storage room and back out the window into the alley. Satoru drops down behind you and lands easily on the ground. The night air is warm, and the Strip is still brightly lit not thirty feet away. You hold the envelope against your chest. The photographs inside are still slightly damp.

“For the record,” you say, “this is also your fault.”

“The chapel was closed,” Satoru says reasonably. “I didn’t plan that part. Plus, we have the photos, so. Seems like it worked out.”

You look at him with his loosened tie and ruffled hair and think, He’s going to be completely insufferable about this for years. You are going to have to hear about the Vegas chapel break-in for the rest of your natural life and possibly longer.

“Come on,” you say. “You said the hotel’s three blocks away.”

WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #3 – VANDALISM.

There is only one bed. It’s not, on its own, an unusual situation. You’ve shared sleeping arrangements with Satoru before—field missions and overnight calls that left two sorcerers and one room. You’d use a pillow wall, most of the time.

The difference is that you are currently married to him.

“You booked a room with one bed?” you ask.

“They may have assumed, given that I made the reservation under a recently married couple’s names, that we would want,” Satoru says, gesturing at the bed, “the one bed.”

The bed in question is enormous, dressed in white linen and piled with decorative pillows. There’s a bowl of strawberries on the bedside table. The whole room smells faintly of roses.

“Did you request the honeymoon setup?” you say.

“The woman on the phone seemed very enthusiastic about it.”

“That’s not an answer!” You look around the room, hands on your hips. “Well, there’s a couch. You can use that.”

It’s one of those small, decorative couches present in hotel rooms to fill a corner, hold throw pillows, and look tasteful in photographs, but not to sleep on.

“I’m not going to sleep on it, but noted,” Satoru says, striding towards the minibar, shrugging his jacket off and draping it over the back of the chair by the window. “Whiskey or gin?”

“Whiskey,” you say. “We can put a pillow wall down the middle.”

“We’re married,” he says, crossing the room with two small bottles. He sits down on the other side of the bed. “It seems a bit prudish.”

You take the whiskey from him and twist the cap off. Satoru has his own bottle balanced between both hands, still unopened, and he’s looking out the window at the city below. You’ve spent enough years watching him, but it doesn’t seem to change anything; the flutter in your heart remains the same, as does the contentment you feel in your chest.

“I want to see them again,” you announce.

Satoru looks at you. “The photos?”

You reach for the envelope on the nightstand and slide the pictures out carefully, holding them by the edges. They’re drying, stiffening slightly. You hold them in your lap and he leans in slightly.

“You should’ve warned me,” you say quietly.

“About which part?”

“All of it.” You tap the third photograph’s edge, gently. “This.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “If I’d warned you, you’d have said no.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you,” he says, not unkindly. “You’d have thought about it too long and decided it was too complicated, and then you’d have spent months being strange about it, and then we’d have gone back to normal, and—” He stops, turning the bottle in his hands. “…I didn’t want to go back to normal.”

“It’s still a bad idea,” you mumble.

“Probably,” he agrees. His hand shifts on the duvet between you, the tip of his little finger coming to rest against the back of yours. “Hasn’t stopped being true, though. Whatever it is. You know what I mean.”

You do. That’s the problem: you’ve always known what he means, even when he’s being deliberately oblique about it. You’ve known him too long and too well for any of it to not make sense anymore. Which means, you understand now, that you’ve also known you’re in love with him for longer than you thought.

You look at the fourth photograph—Satoru, standing outside the chapel, watching you look at the ring on your hand.

“You could’ve just said something,” you tell him. “At any point. Like a normal person.”

“I took you to Las Vegas and married you,” he says. “That’s me saying something directly.”

His hand turns over and covers yours, warm and assuaging, and whatever reservations you’d been carefully maintaining for years simply crumble.

You close the remaining distance. Satoru’s free hand comes up to your face before you’ve fully moved, which means he was thinking about it too—has been thinking about it, probably, for longer than tonight, longer than Vegas—and he’s kissing you.

He kisses you decisively. There’s a certainty to it that shouldn’t surprise you—this is Satoru, who does nothing halfway—but it does, a little. But what surprises you more is how easy it is. How it doesn’t feel like a change in anything so much as a long-overdue acknowledgement of something that’s been there all along.

When you pull back, his forehead drops to yours. His sunglasses are still pushed up on his head, and you reach up and take them off without asking. He lets you.

“Hi,” Satoru says.

“You’re still wearing your sunglasses indoors at midnight,” you chide.

“I said hi.”

“Hi,” you say.

He smiles; it reaches his eyes. “So,” he starts.

“Do not say ‘I told you so.’”

“I wasn’t going to. Probably.”

“Insufferable,” you say, and kiss him again, which is both a rebuke and a surrender but mostly just because you want to. He makes a sound against your mouth that might be a laugh, and his arms come around you properly this time.

The decorative pillows go first. There are seven of them, and they go in ones and twos without either of you paying much attention—one knocked off when his arm comes around you properly, two more when you shift closer, the rest sliding off the edge in a soft succession of thuds. One of the small whiskey bottles, empty now, rolls off the mattress and lands on the carpet. You don’t notice any of it; you’re somewhat preoccupied by Satoru taking your face in his hands and tilting it and kissing you until you forget what you were arguing about.

You suspect that he’s thought about this for a long time, the same way you have.

“You’re thinking,” Satoru says against your mouth.

“I’m not.”

“You are. I can tell. You get this little—” He pulls back just enough to look at you, and traces something between your brows with one finger. “Here.”

You stare at him. “I hate that you know that.”

“No, you don’t,” he says. He’s right, and you hate that too, so you tell him so by pulling him back down by the front of his shirt.

He lets you tug at him willingly—more than willingly, with an enthusiasm that sends you back against the pillows and makes you laugh, briefly, before his mouth finds your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, and the laugh turns into a gasp. His hands are at your waist, warm through the fabric.

His tie joins the pillows on the floor; you get the knot loose while he’s working on the matter of your buttons. His shirt is untucked and you run your hands on his waist, his ribs, the warm plane of his stomach. Satoru groans against the side of your neck, and you shiver. He tosses your shirt aside, too, and his eyes darken when his gaze lands on your chest. He takes his time with your nipples, rolling them around with his thumbs, before taking one of them in his mouth.

He moves lower, pressing kisses to the underside of your breasts, moving down to your navel. When he reaches the waistband of your jeans, he looks up, pupils blown wide and asks, “May I?”

“Yes, yes, please.” You nod frantically, helping him pull your jeans and panties off when he unbuttons it. You’re already wet and needy.

“You’re so beautiful,” Satoru says, gazing up at you before littering kisses on your inner thighs, so close to where you want him. 

“Satoru, please,” you say. “I need you.”

He blows on your wet core, making you shiver. “Need me to what?”

“I need you to, hah, just—”

Satoru latches onto your clit, sucking and swirling his tongue around the bud. You moan, your hands flying to his hair and gripping the silver-white strands. He alternates between quick flicks and long, broad strokes, keeping your folds spread apart with two fingers while his other hand traces patterns along the underside of your thigh.

“Fuck, fuck—” You curse when his tongue moves in a circle right around your clenching hole. Satoru doesn’t stop. If anything, the sound of your voice breaking, the way you curse his name, only spurs him on. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you. He’s always known how to push your buttons. But this is different; this isn’t a playful tease during a mission.

He dives back in, his tongue flattening out to lap at you with broad, wet strokes that cover everything from your clit down to your opening. You arch your back, your hips lifting off the mattress instinctively, trying to press yourself harder against his mouth.

“Satoru… please, I’m—”

“You’re what?” he mumbles against your skin. He doesn’t wait for an answer, sliding two fingers deep inside you. You let out a strangled cry, your toes curling. His fingers are thick and warm, and he curls them, hooking them upward to find that sensitive spot that makes your vision blur. His thumb remains locked into your clit, rubbing circles on the engorged bud.

The sensation is overwhelming. It’s too much and yet not nearly enough. You can feel the tension building in your lower belly, a tight, simmering coil that winds tighter and tighter with every second.

“Right there,” you moan, your fingers knotting into his hair. “Right there, Satoru, don’t stop, please don’t stop.”

Your breath comes out in short, jagged gasps, your chest heaving. Just as you are about to orgasm, Satoru stops. He doesn’t just slow down; he pulls his fingers out of you with a sudden, wet pop and removes his mouth from your heat entirely. You freeze, your eyes snapping open. “Satoru, what the hell—”

He’s hovering over you, braced on his elbows, his hair messy and falling over his forehead. A slow, smug smile spreads across his lips, though his breathing is just as heavy as yours.

“Not yet,” he whispers.

“I hate you,” you groan, your hips twitching involuntarily, searching for the friction he just stole from you. “I actually hate you so much.”

“Liars don’t get to come,” Satoru teases, though his hand reaches down to gently stroke the skin of your inner thigh. 

He shifts, moving upward to kiss you. He tastes like you, and you moan into his mouth, before he pulls away just an inch, his gaze dropping to your drenched core. “I want to feel you,” he murmurs. “I want to feel how tight you are around me.”

Satoru slides backward, just enough to strip off his trousers and underwear in one hurried motion. His cock springs out, thick and flushed. Your mouth waters simply looking at it, while he pumps it once, twice, thumb circling the tip. He doesn’t lie back down. Instead, he sits up, leaning his back against the headboard of the enormous bed, his legs spread wide. He reaches out, grabbing your waist with those large, strong hands and pulling you forward until you are hovering over him.

“Ride me?” he asks.

The need for friction, for fullness, for him overrides any lingering frustration. You shift your weight, guiding his cock to your entrance. As you slowly lower yourself down, the feeling of his cock filling you, stretching you open, sends a fresh wave of pleasure through you. You let out a long, shuddering moan as you sink down completely, inch by inch, your pelvis flushing against his. Satoru lets out a choked sound, his head hitting the headboard with a thud, his eyes screwing shut.

“Fuck,” he moans. “You’re—you’re so tight. I can’t—”

“Shut up,” you whisper, though there’s no heat in it.

You begin to move, a slow, grinding rotation of your hips. You watch his face—the way his jaw clenches and his nostrils flare, the way he looks at you with warmth and wonder. You quicken your movements, bouncing on his cock. Satoru’s hands move from your waist to your hips, fingers digging into your skin, helping you ride him. He thrusts upwards, tilting his hips and dragging his cock against your walls.

“Look at me,” he groans. You look down, your eyes locking onto his. “I love you,” he says.

You feel the coil in your belly snap. Your orgasm washes over you as you clench around his cock, milking him. Satoru moans, his back arching off the bed as he thrusts upwards one last time. “I’m going to come,” he says. “Let me—”

You slide off his cock and he comes, his release spurting onto his stomach, a little bit on your thighs. You collapse against his chest. He wraps his arms around you tightly, pulling you into the crook of his neck.

For a long time, neither of you speaks. Eventually, Satoru shifts slightly, kissing the top of your head.

“So,” he whispers. “Shower?”

You lift your head slightly, looking at him with tired, happy eyes. “Already?” you say with faux innocence. “I thought you’d want to fuck me on that stupid couch first.”

WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #4 – EMBEZZLEMENT.

Hopefully Satoru didn’t mind you swiping his credit card from his wallet while he was fast asleep, one arm thrown over his face while the other was stretched out beside him. You’d wriggled out of his grasp carefully, pressing a gentle, barely-there kiss to the tip of his nose, before digging through his jacket’s pockets for his wallet and pulling out his black card.

It’s for a good purpose, you console yourself, hurrying through the streets of Las Vegas with a jewellery shop’s location pulled up on your phone. 

Las Vegas in the early morning is a different city entirely from the one that had swallowed you whole last night. It’s not quiet, exactly—it’s never quiet, you suspect—but it’s quieter, the frenetic energy of the Strip mellowed into something slower. The crowds have thinned, at least.

You walk with your hands in your pockets, Satoru’s black card tucked safely between two fingers. The morning air is warm and dry, and the sky above the glow of the Strip is beginning to lighten from black to the deep bruised blue that comes just before dawn.

The jewellery shop is three blocks from the hotel, according to your phone. It’s a small, well-lit place that stays open through the night, catering to those Las Vegas visitors who find themselves in need of jewellery at unusual hours, which you now understand is a larger demographic than you’d previously considered.

You walk and think about the rings. The ones currently on your fingers are not adequate. They’re soft metal, the gold already slightly scuffed from one night of existence, and they’ll tarnish in a week. You’d noticed this morning, while Satoru was still asleep: the way your rings sat a little loose, the way it had already lost some of its shine. It’s more of a placeholder than anything else.

The thought of replacing them had arrived while you’d lain in Satoru’s arms, listening to him breathe and looking at the ring.

You aren’t scared, though you’d expected to be. You’d expected to wake up this morning with the full weight of what’s happened landing on you like a dropped beam, and to spend the subsequent hours dealing with the considerable wreckage of your own panic. It seemed like a reasonable response to having been married to your best friend in Las Vegas by a crying man named Francis and then having the matter become rather more settled than a marriage certificate alone would suggest.

But when you’d woken up with Satoru’s arm around you and the photographs on the nightstand, what you’d felt was something almost irritatingly simple: you’d felt like yourself.

The jewellery shop is small and bright, jewellery arranged in lit display cases along the walls, a pudgy man behind the counter. He looks up when you come in, takes in the look of you—your clothes from last night, slightly slept-in, your hair not fully combed—and nods pleasantly.

“Morning,” he says. “What are you looking for?”

“Wedding rings,” you say. “Two of them, please. Something that’ll last for a long time.”

He nods again. “Do you know the other person’s size?”

You think about Satoru’s hands—the ring sliding onto his finger in the chapel, his hand covering yours on the duvet last night, the warmth of his arm around this morning. “I can estimate,” you say.

He shows you to a case along the left wall. The rings inside are simple, for the most part—plain bands in gold and silver and white gold, some with small details, most without. You find two plain bands in white gold, clean-lined and unornamented, substantial enough to last. 

“These,” you tell the man behind the counter.

He nods. You produce Satoru’s black card and spend a figure that makes you wince slightly but not reconsider, because the point isn’t the cost and you’re sure Satoru will agree with you about this when he wakes up and finds both you and his credit card gone. You leave the ship with the rings in a small white box and stand on the pavement outside for a moment in the warming air.

You pull your phone out and type in the search bar, Chapel of Eternal Love, and punch in the number attached. 

“Hello, Chapel of Eternal Love, Francis speaking—”

“Francis,” you say, smiling. “I have a favour to ask.”

WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #5 – MARRIAGE.

Francis, it turns out, is delighted. He’d gone quiet for a moment when you explained what you were asking, and then said, Give me an hour, and hung up before you could confirm the details. 

You make your way back to the hotel with your ring box in your pocket and the morning brightening steadily around you. The casino lobbies you pass are still going—slot machines, a scattering of determined gamblers, staff moving between stations—but the Strip itself is relatively peaceful, the night’s crowd entirely dissolved and the day’s not yet arrived. You have the pavement to yourself. It’s a strange and pleasant feeling, Las Vegas in the interstitial hour.

Satoru is awake when you get back, sitting up in bed with his hair in complete disarray and the duvet bunched around his waist. When you open the door he looks at you blankly.

“Morning,” you say.

“My credit card,” he says.

“Is fine.” You cross the room and hold it out. He takes it without looking at it, still watching you. “I needed it for a purchase.”

“What kind of purchase requires you to leave the hotel room at—” he glances at the clock on the nightstand—“six forty-seven in the morning?”

“The important kind.” You sit down on the edge of the bed and take the white box out of your pocket, setting it on the duvet between you.

Satoru picks the box up and opens it, and doesn’t say anything at all, which is the loudest thing Gojo Satoru can do. “You stole my credit card,” he says finally, “to buy us wedding rings.”

“I borrowed it,” you say. “To replace the ones we got from a spinning display rack for five dollars each.”

“I liked those rings.”

“They were tarnishing,” you say. “There’s more, by the way.”

You tell him about Francis. He looks surprised at first, and then warm, so utterly warm when he tugs you closer to him and kisses you again, and again, and once more for good measure. Satoru closes the ring box and holds it in both hands, the way he’d held the whiskey bottle last night before he’d covered your hand with his. 

“I thought you wanted a divorce last night, and now you’ve stolen my credit card and called Francis.”

“Yep.”

He looks at you for a long moment. The morning light filters through the curtains and he looks extraordinarily, unfairly beautiful, even just woken up.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay?”

“Yeah.” Satoru sets the ring box on the nightstand, next to the photographs. “Okay.”

Francis has decorated the chapel when you arrive. You’re not entirely sure when he found the time—it’s been barely two hours since your phone call—but the maintenance issue has apparently been resolved, because the lights are on when you arrive. The door is unlocked; when you step inside you find that Francis has replaced the zip-tied artificial flowers on the pews with fresh ones, white and small. There are candles lit along the windowsills. The worn carpet, in the warm light, looks less worn somehow, or perhaps you’re simply disposed to see it differently today.

Francis himself is standing at the altar in a clean shirt, his red hair combed and his camera in his hands. “You came back,” he says.

“We came back,” you confirm.

Francis looks at the two of you—Satoru in a fresh shirt with his tie done up neatly again, you in the best thing you could assemble from your bag on short notice—and grins. “The rings, did you—”

You produce the white box.

“Right,” Francis says. “Right, yes. Let’s—shall we?”

Here is what you think about, standing at the altar of the Chapel of Eternal Love for the second time in less than twenty-four hours:

You think about the first time, yesterday, and how you’d stood here in something close to a dissociative state, your brain running through the situation at high speed. You think about the parking lot behind the Denny’s and the small fire in the trash can. You’d meant it when you said you wanted a divorce, though you realise now that you were frightened of what being married to your best friend entailed.

Satoru had let you burn it, too. He hadn’t argued because he’d known you’d come around. Not from arrogance, but because he knew you, the same way you knew him, all the way down to the things you didn’t say aloud.

You think about the darkroom, the four photographs drying on the line in the red light. Climbing back out through the chapel window into the warm Las Vegas night and holding the envelope against your chest, the photographs still damp inside it. You think about the rings in the spinning display by the door—you can still see them from where you’re standing, the little rack with the remaining rings. They were the beginning, it turns out.

You turn to look back at Satoru. He’s smiling at you.

Francis clears his throat gently. “Shall we begin?”

The vows are the same ones from the laminated card. Francis offers alternatives—he has a small binder with options—but Satoru shrugs, so you use the same ones. When Francis gets to the rings you open the white box yourself. You take Satoru’s ring out and hold it; he holds out his right hand out of habit before catching himself and switching to his left, and you both laugh helplessly. Francis gulps and pulls out his handkerchief. You put the ring on the correct hand this time.

Satoru takes yours from the box and looks up at you—there’s that expression, the one from the photographs, the one you have a name for now. He slides the ring onto the correct finger and holds your hand for a moment after.

Francis is fully crying now. He dabs at his eyes without embarrassment and beams at the two of you over his handkerchief with radiant approval.

“I’ve never had anyone come back,” he tells you. “In twelve years, you’re the first.”

“We forgot something the first time,” you say.

Francis tucks his handkerchief away and straightens up. Smiling, he announces, “You may now kiss,” and so you do.

“So are we going to talk about it?” Shoko’s words confuse the hell out of you. It must be obvious the way she sighs, and Geto laughs without looking up from his phone, probably texting another girl. “Are you going to continue to sit there and pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about?”

“So, I actually have no idea what you’re talking about?” Another bold-faced lie to two of the people you care about the most.

“Oh, c’mon, Y/N. Next week, not ringing any bells for you?” You retrace the days until you’re hit with an upcoming December 7th. Now Suguru's smugness makes sense. Instead of admitting that you know what they’re talking about, you slump back into the couch and pick the next best option— playing dumb.

“Hmmm, nope. Nothing’s coming up.” That finally pulls Geto away from his phone, and Shoko puts her unlit cigarette down, to just deadpan. Their stares linger long enough for you to finally give in with a sigh. You couldn’t ignore his existence forever. “Yeah, I know.”

“We’re throwing something for him. You should be there.” That uncomfortable pit in your stomach opened up again. It had been months since you last saw Gojo. You didn’t even see him when he was in the hospital; you couldn’t bring yourself to. Seeing him all managed up, tubes sticking out of him, face uncharacteristically unresponsive to you made you nauseous, but not seeing him all that time made seeing him now harder.

“I don’t think either of us wants to see each other, or else we would have by now.”

“You don’t want to see him for some reason, but he wants to see you.” Suguru’s words hit the dead center of your armor, stinging you a little.

“He asks about you all the time,” Shoko adds, another stinging sensation.

“It’s honestly starting to get annoying.” You can’t help but laugh at Geto’s words. If anyone was being forced to put up with Satoru, it’s Suguru. They’d been best friends for what felt like a lifetime. You’d know, you and Satoru had been friends for an actual lifetime. You remember when Suguru Geto first became friends with Satoru, after all, Satoru practically forced you two to get along. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t missed your shared obnoxious best friend. 

You’d actually be doing more than lying, whatever is worse than lying. That's what you’d be doing if you said there wasn’t a Satoru-sized hole in your life. 

Anyone in their right mind would miss their childhood best friend. Especially if they beat the odds against dying, but that feeling of seeing Gojo— stupidly walking around, talking, and somehow taking all the space when doing so, laughing loudly with no regard for volume—felt wrong. All you could imagine is his lifeless body on the operating table, and a bunch of words you wished you had said hanging on your lips. If you’re being honest, that’s the reason you won’t see him. You were too much of a coward to admit you were madly in love with your best friend, and after surviving, you don’t think you could hide it from him anymore.

If he didn’t feel the same, it might kill you on the spot. To know that the person you loved more than anything got the chance to live again, and you can’t be there because of something as potentially one-sided as feelings, was too much. The lump in your throat builds, and you’re blinking back tears, realizing the two other people in the room were watching you struggle.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. He’s probably mad that I haven’t seen him, and I don’t blame him. Why would he even want me there?” Shoko sighs and turns around with a simple "whatever," but Suguru keeps his eyes on you, unmoved by your words.

“This is his first birthday after almost dying, and all he wants is to see you. I’m not saying you have to stay long, but…” His phone vibrates in his lap, a loud buzz filling the room and cutting him off, “…give the guy a proper goodbye if you’re set on not seeing him anymore. He deserves it.” With that, he hops up off the couch and answers whoever is on the other side of the phone.

You hate Suguru Geto so much. You hate how good he is at reading people and getting under their skin without all the information. However, you’re sure that he knows that you’re head over heels for his best friend. Which makes you standing inside of Satoru’s house dressed up, and almost about to pass out, even more sinister on his part. Shoko had warned you it was a surprise party, but you didn’t think sitting in Satoru’s place without him would make you feel so nauseated.

 It was almost the same. The same art that you put up on his living walls still held in place, the couches you fell asleep on way too many times to count, even the busted KitchenAid mixer that Toji had gotten (stolen) from his ex (situationship) still sat on the polished marble counter—a perfect capsule of time, unmoved by the months of change in Satoru’s life.

You wondered if he had stayed the same?

“Nanami just texted me! Everyone in position!” 

For those few minutes of you hiding alongside Suguru and Shoko, you felt the anxiety at its peak. Palms sweating profusely, heart about to break your ribcage, breathing rapid enough that it makes Shoko pull you towards her. Calming you down slightly enough to force a smile on your face when the lights come back on and scream surprise. For a moment, you forgot that you hadn’t seen your best friend in months until your eyes looked past his familiar white hair. His ghostly pale skin is covered in deep beige scars. They litter his body, one after the other, past his black top, and you assume the rest of his body.

That accident was written all over him. Seeing him didn’t make you as sad as you expected. It made you angry, angry at yourself for making him go through this change by himself. That anger almost completely takes you over before your eyes bounce to his— the same blue eyes that always make your breath catch. Gojo could never hide what he was thinking. The look of utter shock caught in his eyes pointed directly at you. He looked like he saw a ghost, and just as you were getting ready to say something, Haibara moved forward with his specially decorated birthday hat.

The party moved on as normal, or as normal as a party could while you’re actively dodging the host. Especially, after he stared you down whenever the group sang Happy Birthday. You managed to avoid the birthday boy at his own party. The getaway plan was even better. You’d go to the garage to grab another case of beers for everyone before saying goodbye. Fortunately for you, no one was nearby to see you sneak into the dark room. Clumsily, you look around trying to find the switch, praying you don’t accidentally open the garage door, before finding it.

Instead of your sweet ticket out of the party, you’re met with a motorcycle. Satoru’s motorcycle, specifically. In absolute pristine perfect condition. Something about seeing the motorcycle made you livid. Why the hell would he keep something like that around?

“If you were planning on never speaking to me again, I highly recommend not coming to my birthday party at my house.”

The words immediately freeze your anger into fear. Your heart drops to your feet when you turn to be met with a clearly very pissed-off Gojo. Arms crossed his broad chest, making him only look wider. Unlike most other people, Satoru's eyes get brighter when he’s angry, pissed, or irritated. Right now, two piercings, cold blue eyes stared down at you, locking you in place. You scramble for words to say, looking around for anything that could help you before you see it again, and your anger comes back.

“You still have the motorcycle?” The words come out with more bite than you mean, but right now, you really want to scream at him for being so reckless. He scoffs before laughing, almost maniacally.

“Are you kidding right now? You avoid me for months, and the first thing you have to say is some smart remark about the motorcycle? Seriously Y/N? No, how are you? No, are you okay? No, I’m sorry that I ghosted my childhood best friend during the hardest part of his life?!”

He’s right. You know he’s right. Anyone in their right mind would’ve cussed out. Screamed in your face, kicked you out of their home, and told you never to see them again. Yeah, that stupid motorcycle pissed you off, but he’s more right now.

“Gojo…”

“No! I’m not done.” He closes the door behind him. The music of the party muffled, leaving only you two truly in the moment. “You didn’t call. You didn’t text me. You didn’t let me know if you were okay. I’ve been up for months trying to get as much information about you as possible without crossing the random wall you put between us, Y/N.” He was beyond angry; he was livid. 

“Gojo-“

“Do you know how awful it feels to have to learn how to walk again, all while worrying if the most important person in your life is okay? For the first person you think of when you wake up from almost dying, to not want anything to do with you?”  His bright eyes start to redden with tears. Satoru was always sensitive, something you’ve always loved about him. “Every day, part of me hoped you would come through that hospital door, and every day you didn’t. My first friend, the last person I’d expect not to show up, did!”

“Gojo.”

“Why are you here now?! Why, after all this time, did you show up here? Especially if you were going to leave before I could say anything to you. If you were going to leave, haunt my fucking house and me, then you should’ve never come.” His voice cracks at the end, and that’s when he finally looks away from you. He’s right, you should’ve never come to his house or this party. You should’ve been a better friend. You should not have fallen in love with him. He was so upset with you in a way he had never been before; it felt like it was eating you alive. He shouldn’t be crying on his birthday. He should be laughing, making others laugh, annoying everyone in his general vicinity, being the Satoru Gojo you had the opportunity to fall in love with over the years. 

You hadn’t even noticed your own tears building before they dropped. Throat tightening, you struggle with what to say. So you settle for the easiest option.

“I’ll leave.” 

“No.” His head whips around, as if the two words startled him. “Not until you tell me why you disappeared?”

“Gojo.”

“I deserve to know why my best friend of almost three decades decided to stop talking to me for no apparent reason.” The misty-eyed stare between you is strong. Neither of you is backing down in silence for what feels like an eternity. Somewhere in between his anger and frustration, a pleading look flashes across his face. He needed the truth, and you were too scared to admit it. The words taste like bile just thinking about them. “Y/N please. You don’t have to stay. We don’t ever have to speak again. Please tell me.” The words come out so sweet, sweeter than you deserve, and it finally makes you snap.

“I couldn’t- I couldn’t look at you like that. I didn’t know how I could ever look at you as lifeless. No one wants to see the person they’re in love with barely grasping onto life. I didn’t have the courage to face you, and I couldn’t see you again without telling you that I’m in love with you. I couldn’t take it knowing I’d lose you after you got a second chance, because I can’t help but love you, Satoru. I know I’m a coward, and you deserve a much better best friend, but if you want an answer. I’m scared that knowing how I feel will make you not want to be around me, and I just can’t take that.” 

You’re a mess. The makeup you had on definitely was ruined. The anxiety of the confession burns through your body, followed by the lightheadedness of the relief. If you don’t get out of here soon, you’re definitely going to pass out.

“You’re in love with me?” All you can do is nod.

“I’m so sorry-” Satoru cuts you off. More specifically, his lips are what cut you off, and it takes you a full second to register that Satoru Gojo was kissing you. When the second did register, you’re quick to follow through. Hands finding his chest, and slowly up to his hair. His lips taste like whatever fruity seltzer he’d been drinking before, but they were as soft as they always looked. Slowly, but surely, the anxious and timid kiss grew needy and feverish. Somehow, your back is pressed against the fridge, and you’re clawing at both his shirt and hair. Satoru’s no better; his hands are focused on keeping you close, but his foot kicks your legs apart enough to slot his thigh right against you. Lips locking slower and messier each time, both of you practically out of your mind.

A loud thud is what pulls you away from the rather starving man in front of you. You don’t realize how desperate you were for air until you see how heavy you’re breathing. Satoru just kissed you. You two just made out. He has you pressed against his fridge because you two were making out. Sixteen-year-old you is probably somewhere losing her mind right now.

Before you can question what that noise was, Toru is pulling your face back towards him. He’s holding himself a few inches away, close enough that if you could lean and close the gap, you would, but far enough for Satoru to keep you back.

“You love me?” The question barely comes out above a whisper. You attempt to nod, but his hand keeps your head from moving. “Uh uh. I need you to say it.” His words are quick, but soft, like he’s afraid to break the moment with his need to hear you say the four simple words, so you do.

“I love you, Satoru.” His brows scrunch together like the words almost hurt him. “Are you okay with that?”

“What do I have to do to keep you here?” Maybe it’s the blood coming back to his head, but his question catches you off guard. 

“Huh?”

“What do I have to do?”  he repeats, “to make sure you don’t stop loving me, Y/N?” You can’t help but laugh at how ridiculous he sounds.

“I could never stop loving you, Satoru.” His eyes finally open to meet yours. He obviously was both amused and upset by your answer.

“Just tell me anything. I need you not to leave again. It’ll kill me.”

“Gojo. That’s not funny.” You try to move back to emphasize your seriousness, but the now warm stainless steel presses back against you.

“I’m not joking. I can’t have you leave again. I’ve been waiting since the day I met you for you to tell me you feel the same. If you leave me now, I don’t think my body can withstand that. So please.” Your eyes widened. 

Gojo loves you back.

He’s been waiting on you this whole time, as you had. Two idiots dancing around the fact that you both were hopelessly in love with the other. You’re so happy you could cry, and the tears do start to come, but Satoru squeezes your jaw, pulling your attention back to him.

“Tell me what I need to do to make sure you don’t leave me again.” You try to think of anything, but you keep drawing a blank, until that stupid hunk of metal shines over Satoru’s shoulder. Your entire body freezes up, and you feel that irrational anger coming back.

“Get rid of the bike. That thing almost took you from me.” He looks behind him briefly before snapping back to you.

“Deal.” Before he can open his mouth to say another word, you’re putting your lips back on his, dragging him back to you. Just like a perfect match, it feels like second nature to kiss Satoru. He knows just where to put his hand without getting into deep water. Just a row of deep, slow kisses, until you go to pull him closer and he does the same. Leaving you to grind harder than expected on his thighs, a pathetic moan tumbling out of you. Satoru breaks the kiss, bright blue eyes peering down at you in shock. 

“Sorr-” His hands drag your bunched-up dress across his thigh again, forcing another breathy moan out of you. 

“You sound better than I could’ve ever imagined, and I’ve imagined a lot.” He does it again, this time flexing this strong muscle, making you fall forward in a shudder.

“Tell me what you’ve imagined?”

“Oh, my god.” The heat between your thighs builds as you gleam under Satoru’s gaze and shamelessly ride his thigh. “This. Turning you on. Making out. Making you feel good.” The way his soft lips lightly trail down your neck, kissing between the confessions. It’s dirty and pulls another moan from you. Grinding down on his thigh shamelessly harder this time. “Making you cum for me, and just for me. Over and over, just like how I’m going to now.” 

It’s pathetic how much you’re chasing your own orgasm, but the high of the confession is lighting every nerve in your body on fire. He smells good, he tastes good, he feels good, and he’s all yours. As if he reads your mind, he presses his thigh into you, practically lifting against the fridge. 

“Tell me you love me.”

“I love you, Satoru.” You pant, eyes rolling back in your head, at a particularly rough drag. “I’m so close. Oh my-”

He snaps his thigh from you, and it practically hurts. You chase the feeling of the rough denim material, only for him to press your hips into the fridge. Pulling you into a sloppy kiss, tongues lazily meeting, almost your dying protest. You try to get his attention even though you could barely focus, by pulling his hair, but it just makes him moan unashamedly, hands squeezing at your waist. When he finally pulls away, his eyes are so low you’d think he was high if it wasn't for the obvious blush across his face or the swollen, spit-covered lips. He stares at your eyes, slowly bouncing between your lips and your eyes, questioning something.

“I was so close.”

“I know. I heard.” You’re sure your blush is now matching his. His chest shudders with anticipation. “Can I ask you a big favor?” At this point, you’re convinced you’d do anything for this man.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll get rid of the bike if you get on it.” Scratch that. You’d do anything but get on Satoru’s once highway ticket to death. 

“No.”

“Y/N-”

“No! I’m not letting you take me out on a ride. I hate that stupid bike.”

“We’re not going out. I just-” His eyes avert from yours, looking up at that garage ceiling. Are his ears turning red? “-I just want you to get off on it.” A beat of silence passed, and then another. By the time the fourth passes, Satoru closes his eyes and swallows in obvious embarrassment.

“What?” How the hell does one get off on a motorcycle? Let alone one that tried to kill your best friend?

“It would be in park! You wouldn’t have to go anywhere, but here. It’s a thing I’ve had for a while, and I dunno...” He rambles on and on before he finally looks back at you with an absolutely hopeless look in his eye. Past the point of pleading, this is his entire ego on the line. 

“Is it something you really want?” He nods before the sentence ends. You think long and hard about it before looking in his eyes and sighing. You’re just as hopeless as he is. “Fine, but don’t be hurt when this doesn’t end up working.” His entire body lights up with a new vigor, arms wrapping around you and lifting you easily over the bike. You knew Satoru was strong, but he lifted you like it was nothing, which shouldn’t be possible after all his body had gone through.

You’re pressed against the metal head of the bike, thanking your earlier judgment that you wore a skirt. Satoru looks like he’s about to explode from just staring at you sitting on the damn thing. He swallows hard again—it’s kinda cute. His eyes are locked on where your panty-clad cunt is meeting the cold black metal.

“Satoru?” You squirm at the intensity of his stare.

“Right, m‘sorry. You have no idea how long I’ve thought about this. I thought it would never happen.” His eyes finally look at yours, softening when he sees the worry in your eyes. “If you don’t want to do this, you don’t have to.” You mull it over for a second before letting the fear creep in. 

“No. I want to do this for you.”

“Jesus, don’t say that.”

“But I do. I want to recreate every little fantasy you have about me locked away.” Satoru shuts his eyes and drags a hand down his face, bringing a cocky grin to your face. You’ve always liked teasing Toru. He shakes his head in some form of restraint before narrowing in on the start.

“If you’re uncomfortable at any point or want it to be over, you tell me, and I’ll toss the thing to the curb faster than you can blink.” He’s serious, and it is sweet enough to warm your heart and ease your nerves, but you can’t help but giggle at him. “You ready?” You give him a small nod, and the engine revs, filling up the garage. 

Your question about how one gets off on a motorcycle gets answered as soon as the metal rattles against your swollen clit. Immediately, your body slumps forward.

“Oh my god-” The vibrations are so strong, you know your entire body is shaking with the bike. It feels so good. It feels even better when you lift your eyes to see Satoru staring down at you like you just set off his world. Another strong vibration has you loudly moaning. There’s no way you’re not going to cum fast. “Satoru, it's so good.” 

“Yeah?” You nod, unable to say anything that’s not an incoherent mess. How you two can hear each other over the loud ass engine is a miracle you’re not going to question. This stupid motorcycle is pushing closer to an orgasm than you’ve been able to bring yourself to in months. The harsh shift of the metal against your clit is too much; you’re too sensitive, forcing you back searching for some reprieve, but Satoru is quicker. “Nuh uh. Don’t run from it, baby.” 

Oh, he’s an evil son of a bitch. Hands forcing your hips to grind hard into the rapidly shaking metal, leaving you with no escape. You reach out to grab his wrist, hoping it would alleviate the pressure, but it doesn’t. 

“Want you to cover it, baby. Need you soaked so I can lick you clean and give you another one. So I can get you wet all again when I sink into that pretty pussy, and make you cum all over again.”

“Wan-ahh to fuck me, Toru? Oh fuck!” He smiles and wipes the thin line of drool you have yet to notice.

“Yes. More than anything. I think I can cum from just thinking about it. I’ve gotten off more times than I can count.” If you were in a better state of mind, you’d probably ask him why, but instead all you can say is—

“I’ve gotten off you, too, Toru.” It’s rushed, and there was definitely some kind of curse word thrown in there, but it works. Satoru’s ears are burning red, and his mouth is gaped open, hands slowing their motion to a teasing rhythm. “Ngh- All the time.”

“Tell me more.” His words are just as quick as yours. “Y/N, please tell me more.” You’re trying so hard to focus on him and his words, but the way Satoru keeps pushing you into the vibrations is making you want to tip your head back and ride out the feeling that’s starting to cool in you. One of his hands holds your face, forcing you to look at him.

“I- I think about you touching me, Toru.” It’s all you can manage.

“Like how I am now?” You nod, or nod as best as you can in Satoru’s grip.

“Think about how good your hands feel when you touch me. H-oh, how- they’d feel better in me.”

“Want to know what I think about when I’ve gotten off to you?” You’re quick and eager to nod. “When we were sixteen, the first time I ever saw you in a real swimsuit, I wanted to lay you on my bed and eat you out until you were begging me to stop. I think I fucked my hand raw to the thought of it.” Your eyes widen at the confession. You’re sure there’s a huge sopping mark on the metal, from how wet you were.

“I still had braces-”

“And they were cute. You’ve never not been beautiful. There’s never been a moment when I haven’t thought you were beautiful.” What? The rush of emotions fills you, almost over-taking the lust-hazed brain you had. The tears in your eyes are becoming more out of the random sincerity, than the overwhelming pleasure between your legs. 

“You think I’m beautiful?”

“Yes.” He’s quick with it. Mouth dropping right on your pulse point, and dragging his way to your ear. “Always will. Thought you were beautiful the first time I met you. I thought you were beautiful when you gave me that pity dance at prom. I thought you were beautiful at graduation. I think you’re beautiful now, riding my motorcycle in an inch of your life, and I know you’ll be beautiful when I take you upstairs and fuck you full.”

Everything is too much. His cologne, the sweetness of his words, the filth rolling off his tongue, the battering of the shaking metal against your clit. It’s no surprise when your vision starts to go white.

“S-Satoru. I’m gonna-”

“Yeah? You want that?” You’re nodding dumbly, as to be expected by now. “Baby, you’re dripping off the bike.” Were you? Oh well. “Gonna let me clean you up with my tongue before I take you inside and show you everything I’ve wanted to do to you for years?”

“Oh my god, Satoru.” Your hand flies on the bike onto one of Satoru’s forearms for leverage. Nails digging into his skin so hard that it would surely leave marks.

“I know, baby. Just say yes for me. You can do that, c’mon.”

“Yes-fuck. Yes! Please.” His face lifts from your ear, blue eyes focused on your face in just enough time to watch you fall over the edge. Eyes rolling back, mouth hanging open, surely nothing but obscenities and Satoru’s name coming out. You don’t know if you’ve ever cum this hard in your life, but it just won't stop. It’s probably embarrassing how pathetic you look on Satoru’s bike, the same bike that you hated for so long. That now you probably hate just a little bit less.

By the time you’re coming down, the motorcycle is off, and Satoru is peppering sweet kisses up the side of your neck. The sweetest of words leave him that are barely being comprehended. His face finally comes into view again, albeit a little hazy.

“You did great, baby.” That signature Satoru smile was there again, pointed at you. It felt great, almost better than that insanely strong orgasm you just had. You hadn’t realized just how desperately you needed a Satoru Gojo smile aimed at you until you finally got it again. The music inside the house cuts through the moment.

“Satoru, the party-” His hands leave your face, swinging your body towards him before he drops to his knees. 

“It can wait.”

“Satoru-”

“I distinctly remember someone telling me I have a mess to attend to, and from the looks of it, I got a lot to clean up.” Curse Satoru and his height. There’s no way any normal man could get on his knees and still be taller than his bike, but Satoru Gojo has never been normal. His slow kisses up your still quivering thighs make you also want to forget the party. Hell, if you could make everyone in this house disappear right now, you would.

“Everyone is inside.” He leans in closer, with another sloppy kiss.

“I’m aware.” His breath tickles the inside of your sensitive thighs.

“Everyone wants to celebrate you.”

“They’ll want to celebrate me later.”

“Satoru, it's your birthday.” You hate the way your voice wavers.

“I’ll have other birthdays, but since it’s my birthday, why don’t you let me have my gift?”

“Be serious.” Satoru’s eyes flicker up to yours, a look so stern it snatches the air out of you. He is being serious.

“If you don’t want to do this, I will walk away right now, happily. I’d never make you do something or do something to you that you don’t want, but I’m not leaving unless you and you alone don’t want me.” The intensity in his voice makes a shiver go down your spine. “Because right now, Y/N, I couldn’t care less about this damn birthday party.” 

That throb in your heart gets mistranslated somewhere down in the pussy, because you’re practically inching your lower half closer to Satoru’s face, forcing him to be face to face with your soaked panties. 

“Fuck, you’re soaked.” Satoru’s eyes glistened over as he'd just seen something amazing. Before you can say anything, he pulls your legs closer and further apart before slotting his face right against your core and taking a deep inhale. Only to let out the most pathetic moan ever. “And you smell so good. Wonder if you taste just as good?”

You practically jolt at the long drag of Satoru’s tongue against your covered pussy. The sensation was almost too much; you’re still so sensitive from your orgasm from just a few minutes prior. Here he was eating you out through your panties like a madman.

“T-Toru!” Your body tenses at the unabashed groan he lets out, against you. When his mouth latches against your clit, sucking the sensitive bud, you damn near scream his name out. Your hands find their way into his messy white locks, tugging harder than you meant to.

“Haa— do it again.” Oh, Satoru was overly freaked out. His sharp nose catches your clit perfectly, long tongue stuffing itself into your core through the cloth, sure enough, your hands are pulling Satoru’s pale hair again, earning yourself a pathetic moan from him. 

“T-Toru, are you, shit- gonna take them off?” Without a word, he yanks them down like he’s crazy. The fanning of hot breath against your core makes you twitch. He pulls away slightly enough before dragging two fingers through you; the loud pop of your wetness is almost deafening against the muffled music. You watch him gather your sex all down his fingers, watching your previous orgasm damn near run down his wrist before he drags his eyes to yours, and puts the fingers in his mouth.

Your jaw unhinges at the sight. Satoru Gojo is lapping at his fingers, greedily sucking and making out with them. Pale skin flushed, eyes so hazed over they could be mistaken for black, moaning like a porn star over the taste of your pussy. His other free hand comes down to palm himself over the jeans that seem way too tight for him, eyes rolling back. It was almost like he was alone, but it was you he was tasting. It was downright pornographic and depraved, and it was severely turning you on. Your body is turning into a furnace from how hot the scene made you. 

This would be an image that would stick with you forever.

“Fuck you taste perfect. You are perfect.” Is he…pussy drunk?

“Satoru…are you okay?”

“Yes.” He pops the digits out of his mouth. “Gonna be better after I eat this pussy, and get her all ready and stretched for me.” Satoru’s mouth is back on you before you can do anything. If his hands hadn’t already locked your legs back into place, you surely would’ve fallen off the bike.

Satoru was starved. Lewd slurps fill the air enough to make your ears hot in embarrassment and pleasure. Satoru could’ve sworn he was in heaven.

That he ever actually got out of that hospital bed, and died right there on the table, but the very real sounds of your pretty moans, the feeling of your twitching legs around his head, the addictive taste of your wet cunt, it was all too real to be fake. So much better than all the filthy fantasies he had stored in his head for years. If the perfect rough drag of his scarred lips right before they latch to your clif again didn’t get you, then the feeling of his fingers pressing against your opening will.

“Toru, I’m s-so sensitive.” If he heard you, he didn’t say anything, instead letting out a high-pitched, muffled moan against your core that has you shutting your eyes. When those pretty fingers you’d always wished were in you instead of yours were, it takes everything in you not to ride them, as the work past the ring of muscle, stretching you so good.

Satoru is so close to cumming his pants. You’re just as fucking warm and wet as he knew you’d be, and it’s driving him insane. Well, he’d already gone insane when he watched you cum on his bike, eyes rolling back with his name on your swollen lips. If he were any less of a man, he would’ve gotten it on camera and watched it over and over again, have it etched into every part of his body until his wrist snapped in half, every fleshlight he owned was battered, and his dick fell off.

Squelch.

Squelch.

Squelch.

You had the nosiest fucking pussy, and it was making him weaker with every push of his fingers that you cunt greedily swallowed.

“Satoru, you eat it so good.” Had you even meant to say that? No, but Satoru was both so happy and angry when you said that. Happy because you couldn’t keep yourself together enough to keep those inside thoughts inside. He was eating it good; he had been practicing for this day since he found a stray thong you accidentally left at his dorm years ago. He put it on a Fleshlight and taught himself how to eat your pussy. Making his jaw ache until he knew that he’d have you crying out for him to stop because it was too good. Almost cumming in his pants the first fifteen times. 

Now that’s why Satoru’s angry. All those fantasies don’t live up to the real thing. He could only imagine what you would say to him in those moments, but you’re here in real life, saying all the dirtiest words he could’ve prayed for. He knew how not to cum in his pants when practicing, but the real thing, oh, it was too much. Which is why he practically sobs into your soaked core, mouth, and fingers, desperately picking up speed to hide the way his hips pathetically fucked up into the tip of dangling foot for any kind of pressure like some ravaged animal.

“Hnng-ah fuck! Are you b-breathing?” Satoru Gojo couldn’t care less about air. He could go back on a ventilator for all he cares. He needs to make you come as soon as possible. His tongue circled your clit, desperate to hear those tantalizing sounds leave you. You were practically dripping down his wrist. When his long fingers graze that sweet spot, that’s when it unravels. “Satoru, I’m gonna-” You try to pull him away, tugging at his hair only for him to smack your hand away and push even further into you. 

He needed to make you cum more than anything right now, and he’ll be damned if you don’t cum on his face after he worked so hard.

“So good, so good, so good, I’m- cumming. Satoru, I’m gonna-” Right over the edge you went again. This time, with so much intensity, you think you actually do black out. Satoru doesn’t dare let up, his eyes roll to the back of his skull, watching the thin line of drool hang from your lips as your head tilts back. Wet patch in pants growing as stream after stream of cum leaves his weeping cock right as your foot presses down in uncontrolled pleasure. Obscenely loud, moans escaping you both like you’re getting ready to fuck on camera. 

It takes you, silently begging, and both of your hands to get Satoru to come off your poor, battered pussy. Neither of you says a word, just desperately staring at one another, breathing heavily. Satoru’s face is almost completely red except for the beige scars that almost look pink against his skin. Eyes low like eating, you put him in a daze. The entire lower half of his face is soaked, soft lips puffy and glistening, just begging to be kissed. Though you’re not fully down, after waves of your orgasm are still hitting you, you can’t help but lick your lips.

“Don’t.” Satoru’s voice is hoarser and deeper than it was when you two first walked in here. Something about him was laced with lust and want. It sent sparks down your body. He sounded so fuckable.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t lick your lips like that. Don’t look at me like you’re starving for me. I can’t-” He takes in a shuddering breath like he’s barely holding on before he pops up. One hand pulling you by your throat for a kiss, making you taste yourself on him, and damn, do you both taste good. Satoru’s hands are the only reason why your wobbly legs haven’t given out from underneath you.

Sloppy kisses that end with loud smacks, an inappropriate amount of whining, and the need to touch everything you could. The scene was enough to make someone look away in embarrassment. You two are stuck on each other, obsessed even. You pull away when the air supply runs out, shivers going down your body. 

Have you ever been this turned on? The answer is obviously no. Even fantasizing about Satoru wasn’t enough to get you like this. Satoru has that effect on you.

“I can't resist you.” Seems you have the same effect on him. He can’t help but get a couple more small kisses in before trailing down your face again. “Are you okay?” Satoru’s voice is soft; it's almost sickening.

“I can barely feel my legs.” He laughs, eyes crinkling at the end. He’s still your Satoru.

“That’s a problem.”

“I know, how am I going to walk back in there without looking stupid?” Without so much as a grunt (or a warning), you’re being lifted off your feet, body held bridal style with no ease.

“Nah, I mean you shouldn’t be able to walk at all. Guess I got to fuck that mobility out of you?” Your hand swats his chest like an impulse. Cheeks feel as if they could turn red. He makes quick steps to get inside, but before he can open the door, you stop him. 

“Everyone is still inside.”

“Then they’ll get out.” He says it like it's obvious.

“Satoru.”

“I’m serious. They’ll either get out, or they’ll hear us. I don’t care about them right now.” He’s insane. That accident took all the common sense out of his head.

“Sat-” It’s too late, the garage door flies open, and you close your eyes, hoping the dark lights hide your ruined makeup, disheveled dress, and loose ponytail. The music doesn’t stop, neither does Satoru, but he does laugh.

“You can open your eyes; no one is here.” What?

You do open your eyes only to be met with the fact that a single soul is in the house. Not even any on the balcony like they were before.

“Wait, does that mean-”

“Now we really don’t have to be quiet.” Satoru doesn’t even pay attention to the empty room, circling the apartment to find his bedroom. He doesn’t even bother closing the door behind him, making quick strides with you in his arms before he gently tosses you on the bed. He’s almost immediately taking his clothes off, blue eyes almost glowing in the darkness of the room. Satoru practically rips his black shirt off his body before he goes for the belt.

“Wait.” His eyes widened in fear, halting immediately. “Can I take them off?” You think the question might’ve killed him because he stares at you in shock before nodding his head like an idiot. He’s rushing over to the side of the bed, and he has to hold his smile back when he watches you struggle to balance your weight on your knees.

Yeah, he needs one more round.

The moment you get your hands on the belt, it’s over. Heat zaps down Satoru’s spine. As crude as it sounds, he’s never had you this close to his dick before. He doesn’t know just how long he’d last if you were even to stare at it long enough. Before he can bring himself to tell you to stop, you’re already pulling his pants down, damp boxers on display.

“Did you-”

“Yes.” He answers embarrassingly too fast. 

“You got off eating me out?” That blush creeps up Satoru’s neck all the way up to his ears.

“Yeah, I’ve gotten off from your perfume lingering in my bed.” He hadn’t meant to say that, but it makes your jaw unhinged enough to flash another sinful image through Satoru Gojo’s head. Making him visibly twitch.

“You’re such a perv, Toru.” The words are meant to be mean, but in all actuality, you’re not any better. The number of times you’ve gotten off to his cologne being stuck in your passenger side seat belt is one too many for you to admit. You shift closer, planting a kiss on his tip through his boxer, making his hips buck into your mouth.

“Don’t.”

“You can get a taste of me, but I can’t get a taste of you?” You drag your tongue across his print and the damp patch, watching his mouth drop slightly, a coy hum on your lips. “That’s unfair, don’t you think?” Toru nods dumbly, body unconsciously leaning into you. “Can I go down on you, Toru? I’ve thought about it so much.”

“Yes. Fuck yes, please.” Satoru knows this is a bad idea. He cannot cum again before he has sex with you, but as he made clear earlier, he can’t say no to you. So when you pull down his boxers only for his dick to smack right against his stomach pulling a weak moan from him, he just prays he has it in him to pull you off before he comes down your throat.

“Toru-” You’re in utter shock. Satoru’s dick is big. Not just big, it’s humongous, he’s fucking hung. No wonder he was so arrogant all the time; he had the size to back it up. “You’re so big.” There’s enough lubricant from his previous orgasm for you to stroke him comfortably.

“Fuck, you can’t say that.” He twitches in your hand as you let the spit from your mouth dribble down his oh so sensitive, bright red tip. He was so cute under your hand, slightly bucking up into your hand unknowingly. 

“But you are, and it’s so pretty.” Satoru Gojo loved to be praised. Any person with working eyes could tell you that. “Need to taste it.” You don’t let him say anything before you kiss the tip, earning a soft whimper from him. 

So he does whimper? Good to know.

One torturous, slow lick after the other has him clenching his fist by his side until they look like they’re going to pop. When you finally take him in your mouth, every thread in him snaps. Hands find purchase around the back of your head. He was right, you guys don’t have to worry about being quiet anymore. He’s practically moaning like a bitch in heat at every bob of your head. You’re not much better, loud slurps filling the room if it’s not your own pathetic moans around him. 

“Shit! I’m- you feel so good-ahh. Hnng- please don’t stop.” Like you would ever, Satoru Gojo has you wrapped around his finger just as much as he’s wrapped around yours. You’re practically dripping all over his sheets at every thrust, gagging a moan every time he tip hits the back of your throat. Spit spilling at the corners of your lips like the Satoru only slut you are. Watching his eyes roll to the back of his head, his chest rise at a sharp breath, the way your name rolled off his tongue. It was breathtaking being the one to make Satoru Gojo fall apart like this.

Just a little more, and he’ll cum down your throat just the way you wanted. Your hand that was absent mindedly drawing rough circles on your clit, moves to cup his spit-covered balls, fondling them gently. The change made Satoru stop with a particularly rough thrust to your throat and rather loud broken whine. One hand gripping your hair with a tight lock, and the other holding your throat in place. His tilted head comes back down, his chest erratically heaving as he gives you an almost pained look.

“Don’t do that.” It’s quick, and thought it didn’t sound as assertive as it was meant to be you pause befoe pushing your luck, moving your hand again, which makes Gojo thrust forward again, a loud gag coming from you, your hand constricting your throat. His other hand knocked yours away. He looks almost lost, torn as he works your throat over him. “I’m not cumming anywhere that’s not inside of you. If you do that, I’ll cum all over your face and waste all of it. We wouldn’t want that now?”

Satoru was so close to coming that the corner of his vision started to turn fuzzy. If he hadn’t stopped when he did this night might’ve taken a different turn. Mouth still full of his cock you shake your head no, eyes hazed over in your own lust. He painfully removes himself from your mouth, cussing himself out internally the entire time. It’s taking everything in him not to pull your warm, wet, hot mouth back over here and fuck it raw. 

“Take the dress off.” You scramble to pull the dress over you, moving to the middle of the bed and tossing it somewhere into the abyss. “You’re so good for me, baby. I love it.”

“Yeah?” Oh yeah, you’re gone. Who wouldn’t be looking at Satoru’s perfect body, even if all scared up, he’s still undeniably sexy. “You’re so good for me, Toru.” His weight shifts the mattress as he makes his way over to you. 

“I always want to be good for my girl.” His hands grab your ankles, pulling you. towards him. “Need to fuck you good.” That fucked out look on his face is all you see before he’s pushing your hands into the mattress for another sloppy makeout. You could kiss Satoru forever. His tongue knows just what way to lock with yours in the most lewd way, like he was made to kiss you. He pulls back, grabbing the base of his dick, which his hand could barely fit around.

He slowly glides his jerky cock through your wetness, making you both twitch. Saying nothing but watching it slip through and gather more lubricants, the tip hitting your abused clit so sinfully it made your jaw drop.

“She’s so messy.” You couldn’t care less what he was babbling about right now. You just needed him to put it in already.

“Stop teasing Toruuu.” You whine only to get a cocky grin from him. He was letting up, picking up the pace, to watch you squirm. 

“You want it that bad-oh.” All that squirming managed to slip the tip in, stopping you both. The smile is wiped clean off his face. Instead, one of awe replaces it as he watches himself fuck the same inch into you, sensitive head trapped between your warm, gummy, wet walls. “You- you- feel so-”

“Yeah, bet it would be better if you actually fucked me.” His eyes meet yours with a hard glare. 

“Count.”

“What- oh my god.” Your mouth forms a ‘o’ as he sinks more into you.

“Count. C’mon, my smart girl can tell me how. How many inches are in her right?”

“T-Two.” 

“There we go.” He pushes in more, holding back on his bodily urges that are telling him to quit with all the teasing, but he can’t.

Three follows with four, five with six, and by the time you’re at the last two inches, you’re practically shaking. There’s a line of drool hanging from Satoru’s mouth like he’s gone completely brain dead, eyes not disconnecting from where you two meet, like he’s hypnotized.

He is hypnotized.

“Just two more, baby.”

“Eight-ngh Satoru, please. I can’t!” Your body burned at the stretch. No one’s been as big as Toru.

“No. You can.”  You let out a high-pitched whine when he finally bottoms out.

“Nine! Fuck Satoru, I’m so full.” Those words bounce off deaf ears. Satoru is falling off this plane of existence; the only thing keeping him grounded is the clench of your core around him, sending shivers down his spine. When he doesn’t move, you call his name, only to hear a muffled moan into your neck. It takes pulling him out of your neck to see what’s happening, finally.

He’s so fucked out he’s not comprehending right. His blue eyes are crossed in pleasure, line of spit rolling down to his thick neck, shaking body completely flushed red.

“Pussy so good. It’s gonna kill me.”

“Toru, I need you to move.”

“I can’t. Need a second. It’s too good.”

“Toru, please, I want you to fuck me. Need you to fill me up.” It’s those words that put Satoru out of his daze, or at least his body out of its daze. His hips roll into yours with a sinfully quick pace. His hands roam your body, trying to find something to feel. 

“Want me to cum inside?” He grumbles in your ear with another fast snap of his hips. “Want me to fuck you full?” You nod as best as you can, mouth hanging open with pathetic noises coming from you, and another lewd squelch comes from you. “I think this pretty pussy wants that too. Just listen to her.” 

Nothing but the nasty wet smacks filling the room makes your ears burn. 

Plap, Plap, Plap.

“She’s practically begging me to pump her full of my cum. She’s so good. She’s so fucking addictive. So much better than anything I’ve used.” You’re half paying attention to him. More focused on how deep his dick is in you. Every thrust feels like the air is getting snatched from you in the best way. Besides, you’re not too far behind him in sounding incoherent.

“Toru, it’s so deep-ngh. I-hic” Were you crying? “Fuck don’t stop. Please don’t, don’t, don’t.”

“Wouldn’t fucking dream of it. Your pussy is so good to me, you’re so good to me.” One of his hands comes down, forcing your legs to wrap around his shoulders. “I need to fill you. Need to fuck you good. Need it. Need it. Fuck I need it.” The new angle, the stretch, the pressure, it has you seeing stars, and when Satoru hits that one spot, your entire body tenses. 

Something’s different.

“Oh my god, Satoru!”

“Right there?” He whines out, head reeling back every time he hits that spongy spot inside. You nod, fat tears rolling down your body, it’s almost too much, but before you can even think about Toru’s already pinning your hips. “Don’t you dare think about running from me. Waited too long for this, for you.” Each bed shaking brutal smack brings you closer, but something is different. 

More intense, it’s deeper. It makes your entire body tremble. 

“Sssatoru I- something feels-” 

“Nuh-uh. That’s not my name.” Fuck he’s hitting it so good you may not be able to tell him. Your back is starting to arch in, tasting your release, which makes your vision come in and out.

“Baby! Something’s different! I’m-” Your cut off entirely by the smack of Satoru’s fingers against your clit, making you jolt in pleasure. You’re so close.

“Don’t call me that. That’s not what you call me. You want to cum, you want me to fill you up so good you’ll be dripping me for days? Then you call me by- FUCK-” Your cunt clenches around him, making his head pop from your ear to the air, making him look at you. He’s just like you—unfocused eyes, pathetic moaning, completely fucked out and pussydrunk to your dickmatized. “You-you call me by my name.”

“T-t-t-” You’re right there.

“C’mon, be good for me and say it.”

“Toru! I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna-” His fingers come down in a harsh rub of your throbbing clit, and you’re gone. Your warning is a faded memory of the past, as the tremors of your orgasm take over. Vision completely gone, ears ringing, in what is the strongest orgasm of your life, given to you by none other than your childhood best friend.

“Oh, my god.” Satoru watches you spray the entirety of the sheets beneath you, his hand, lower stomach, and most importantly, his cock. Never in his wildest dreams did he think watching the girl he loves the most squirt all over would happen, but when it does, it hits him like a bag of bricks. Making him cum so hard he slumps forward, letting out the most pornographic cries, eyes almost shut as he watches his seed mix in with your cum, and it sends lightning down his spine. “It won’t stop.” He doesn’t know who he’s talking about, but you still haven’t stopped. He fucks you through it, almost losing his fucking mind doing so, house full of sounds that would surely get him a noise complaint.

When you both come down from the mutual orgasms, neither of you dares to move an inch. Both of you are still shaking too hard to be fully conscious. It’s only when that tear hits your stomach that you start to come back. Satoru’s head is down, in shoulder trembling just like you.

“Toru?”

“Don’t move. I can’t- don’t move, please.” He sounded so weak, it damn near made your heart clench. “Listen, baby.” You almost yelp at the overstimulation when Satoru gives a few weak, shallow thrusts. A popping squelch rings through the room. “Sounds so beautiful.” 

“Satoru, come here.” He doesn’t hesitate, meeting your lips one more time, with the shakiest and sweetest kisses of the night. He gently pulls out, and you groan at the big loss. Missing the fill now that it’s gone. How were you ever going to get anything done now that you know what sex with the love of your life feels like? His head falls to your shoulder, making sure to keep his weight off you. It’s silent for a little while, you two bathe in the post-sex afterglow, until the question in the air rings too loud in your mind. “So what does this mean for us?”

“Don’t ask such dumb questions.”

“I’m serious-”

“I am too. You’re not going anywhere, Y/N. Whether that's you being my girlfriend or, preferably, my wife, you’re here to stay. I’m here to stay. We’ve spent too much time avoiding the obvious to be picky about what we are now. We’re in love. Simple.” His arms sling around you, pulling you closer. The warmth of his body felt grounding.

“I love you, Toru.” You declare for the umpteenth time.

“I love you, Y/N.”

It’s your phone that wakes you up from your deep sleep with your boyfriend(?) at what had to be noon. 

“Satoru.” You grumble against his chest, refusing to open your eyes.

“Ignore it.” He makes no effort to move. The ringtone faded for all of three seconds before it blares up again, making you sigh.

“I got it.” He pulls you against him again, weakly trying to hold you back. “Toru.”

“Fine.” He rolls over, allowing you to crawl over him to grab the blaring phone, but not before smacking your ass as you bend to do so. You shoot him a dirty look, and he shrugs. “What? It’s great ass, and it’s mine.”

“Yours?”

“Yeah, baby, that’s my ass, that's my pussy, that’s my heart, you’re my girl.” You have to bite back a smile at his words. The thought of finally being Satoru’s girl makes your chest all fuzzy.

“So does that mean that’s my dick and my heart?”

“You know it. Now I highly suggest you answer that phone, or else I’ll show you what else your dick can do.” You scoff, but it’s clear by the way your nipples perk up that you’re turned on. Satoru pulls you on top of him, pressing his half-hard dick against your bare cunt. Disregarding who can hear you two, as he kisses down your bare body. You press the accept button before you have half the mind to ride him and show him what his pussy can do.

“Hello?”

“Oh. My. God.” Geto and Shoko’s voices flood the other side of the phone. “This was better than we could’ve imagined.”

“What are you two going on about?” Satoru looks up at you through his pretty lashes, a confused look on his face.

“We called Satoru, not you.”

Oh.

Oh.

“Please tell me you two have finally sorted things out. I was plastered by the time Geto was kicking everyone out of the house.”

“I think they did more than just sort it out. I’m never touching that motorcycle again.” Your jaw drops in horror before Satoru grabs the phone from your hands.

“You two really need to get a life.” You make out the words “dumbass” on the other end of the phone. “Uh-huh. Anyway, I got some time to make up for. I'll talk to guys later.” He tosses the phone to the other side of the bed, pulling you closer to him. “Good afternoon, baby.” You giggle at his antics, heart swelling with joy. Everything feels perfect.

“Good afternoon, Toru.”

A/N: I wrote this over the cycle of two ovulation cycles...no regrets! I'm hella rusty too, this might be a mess potench. Also, this wasn't proofread... so my bad!

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.

This time, Satoru doesn’t tease you like you were expecting him to. Doesn’t gloat. 

Instead, he kisses your cheek, then your forehead, until his mouth finally finds yours, a broken sound escaping him the moment he rubs his tip through your folds.

Then, his eyes find yours, and it feels like the world stops on its axis.

Forehead to forehead. Chest to chest. Your hand in his hair, his on your cheek. With Satoru Gojo of all people. The one person in this world whom you should stay away from. 

And here he is, looking at you like you’re worth more than your family name and the money bags that come with it, like he wants you for you. Nothing else.

“We don’t have to, baby,” he whispers, sweet and gentle, as if sensing the mental games you’re playing with yourself. “I’m happy to just be here with you. I mean it.”

There it is. An out.

You should stop this before it starts. You should do your best to save the peace between you and your parents—what’s left of it, anyway. You should forget about the way your chest warms up when his thumb strokes over your cheek.

But then, wise words ring out in your mind.

I’d rather disappoint my parents than disappoint myself.

And in this moment, you realize that losing Satoru would far surpass mere disappointment. It isn’t something you can bear, nor do you ever want to.

You shake your head, leaning up to kiss him, nice and soft. “I want this. So… stop making me wait.”

Satoru laughs, lips on your cheek as he notches himself on your entrance. “Yes, ma’am.”

Inch by inch, his length stretches you open, making your hands grasp at his shoulders for purchase, nails sinking into his skin. You whine at the intrusion, not used to his size by any means.

“You’re okay, pretty girl,” he murmurs against your mouth, one hand holding your cheek while the other strokes your hip. “Doing so good for me. Just a liiittle more.”

You huff, risking a glance downward, only to see he was only half inside. You throw your head back on the pillow. “Liar.” 

He smiles against your lips, kissing you. “Figured a little white lie never hurt anyone.”

A moment later, Satoru pushes his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt. You both release breathy moans at the same time, grips tightening on each other.

He pulls out, just the tip remaining, before sliding back inside your warmth, creating a slow, languid pace—giving you the chance to adjust to him.

You kiss him then, all teeth and tongue and want, panting hot against his mouth while your hands slip into his hair. “Fuck— faster, Toru. Please.”

The sound of his name on your tongue, so wanton while he’s inside you, spurs him on in a way he’s never felt before. His hands take hold of your hips, angling them up slightly so that he can fuck you deeper, the pace of his hips growing needier with each passing second.

“Mmh, wanted you for so long,” he says, words muffled against your skin while he kisses down your neck. “This—hah—can’t be real, baby. Feels so good.”

You drag his mouth back up to your lips, tongues sliding against each other in a fit of passion that you can hardly comprehend right now with how good he feels. 

“So good,” you whimper into his mouth. “Want more, Satoru, please—”

“Shh, I got you,” he says.

And then his hands press down on the back of your thighs, folding them up against your chest. He pounds into you without sense, the new angle opening you up to him in a way that makes you see stars.

The sound of his balls slapping against your ass fills the room, the sounds of your pleasure only adding to the conversation. 

Satoru pushes your shirt up, a sound between a whimper and a gasp, leaving him the moment his gaze sets on your breasts. His mouth latches onto your nipple before he can think twice about it.

“You weren’t—mmh—wearing a bra the whole time?” 

You whine, trying to drag his mouth back to yours by your grip on his hair, but he doesn’t let up. “Y-You ask stupid questions.”

He flattens his tongue, laving over the underside of your breast, his hips never faltering. He groans against your skin. “C’mon, sweetheart, don’t give me that attitude. Haven’t I been good? Yeah?”

A pout forms on your kiss-bruised lips. “Mm— I’m not giving attitude.”

Satoru laughs, the sound raspy and deep. “You are, pretty girl, but it’s okay. Toru’ll make it all better.”

His lips are back on yours, to your satisfaction, and his hand slips between the two of you, thumbing at your clit. You gasp, stealing the air from his lungs, clinging onto his shoulders and back like a koala bear.

A warmth coils in your stomach, making you squirm against his thrusts. Your nails claw into his back, raking down his skin, surely leaving marks that Satoru will admire for days. A memento of the moment he’s been waiting for.

His cock twitches inside you when you moan again, your pussy clenching around him like a vice, tight and warm. 

You whine. “Satoru—”

“Mm-hmm, I know, baby, don’t you worry,” he says, voice slightly smug as he continues to draw circles over your clit, feeling the way it pulses against his thumb. “Give it to me, sweets, know you can do it.”

Your hips buck up against his, your orgasm crashing into you. Your body tenses around him, squeezing him impossibly tighter.

If the way his pace stutters is any clue, you know he’s close. When you pulse against him, he drops his head onto your shoulder.

Satoru whimpers, so lost in his pleasure that he can no longer function. He fucks you shallowly now, and lost in your own mind, you turn your head to whisper in his ear.

“Inside,” you request, voice breathy. “Please, Toru.”

That makes Satoru cum before he can realize it. 

Hot spurts shoot inside you, his sounds muffled against your skin while his own climax wracks through him. It seems like it goes on forever, but the moment he kisses the underside of your jaw, you realize that he’s finished, finally slipping out of the post-orgasm delirium you put him in.

When your eyes meet his, both of your eyes widen, expressions almost sheepish.

As if it were finally occurring to you that you just had sex with Satoru fucking Gojo, you feel a bit shy, blinking up at him and absolutely unsure what to say.

“…Hi,” you whisper.

Satoru seems to share your thoughts. He brings his hand to your cheek, knuckles brushing over your flushed skin. “Hey, baby.”

Unsure of what to do, you decide to lean back into your old reliable method. The only way you know how to talk to him is without allowing a hint of affection to seep into your voice. Be mean to him.

“Get off me,” you say, pawing at his chest halfheartedly, “you’re heavy.”

It seems that Satoru has learned you well enough to know exactly what you’re doing. Trying to push him away the moment it all feels like too much to handle, reverting to what you know best.

He lowers his head, brushing his lips against yours in a chaste kiss. “Mm, no can do, pretty. I like to cuddle after sex, guess you’re just gonna have to deal with it.”

You squirm as he begins to pepper your face with kisses, wet and dry, trying to get a proper reaction from you. 

“Okay, okay!” you exclaim, laughing without realizing it. “Fine. We can cuddle…but we have to clean up first.”

Satoru beams at that. He kisses your forehead before practically leaping off your bed, searching for a towel. You aren’t sure why the sight of him prancing around your room in his birthday suit makes you feel so…warm and tingly inside.

God, what has he done to you?

You yawn, rubbing your eyes. “On the left side of the closet. Third drawer down.”

A second later, he’s back and wiping away the mess between your legs, careful with his movements. Once finished, he pokes around in your clothing drawers, managing to find a pair of fresh underwear and a pretty blue shirt that you should've known he’d pick out. 

“Matches my eyes,” he preens, doing most of the work as he pulls the panties up your legs and the shirt over your head.

“Of course you’d notice that,” you scoff, trying to ignore how warm this all makes you feel.

With his boxers back on, he climbs back into bed with you, lying on his back. A surprised sound leaves him when you rest your head on his chest, hand draped over his middle.

Satoru wears a smile as he wraps an arm around you, free hand lacing with yours. “Thought you didn’t wanna cuddle.”

“I never said that,” you grumble.

He laughs to himself, the kind that signifies he’s up to no good. “Aww. Just a cute little cuddle muffin you are.”

“I’ll get off you right now if you don’t—”

He immediately stops laughing and tightens his hold on you. “Sorry, sorry. You run a tight ship.”

☆

In your experience, the morning after could go one of two ways.

You could either cringe at yourself and your decisions, make awkward small talk with the person you had shared not only your body but also a bed with, and then tiptoe out of your hookup’s room, or not-so-discreetly kick them out of yours. 

Or, you could still make equally awkward small talk upon waking up, limbs still entangled and clothes mostly scattered across the floor, but not feel the gnawing feeling to run away and never speak to this person again.

And so far, you’re in no rush to make him go. 

Satoru shifts in his sleep behind you, one arm draped lazily over your middle while the other pillows your head. You blink blearily as you run your fingertips along his forearm, tracing the veins in his hand until you cover it with your own. His fingers slightly twitch until they fill the spaces between yours.

His nose brushes the back of your neck, inhaling indulgently. His arm beneath your head bends and curls inward, his nails gently scratching your scalp. “Morning.”

You feel your heartbeat quicken in your chest. His voice is deep and groggy from sleep, his lips just barely grazing your skin as he speaks. It only gets worse (or better?) when he presses a kiss to the crook of your shoulder and neck, firmer now yet unhurried. 

The strap of the camisole you’d thrown on last night after your shower was now pinched between his thumb and forefinger, slowly slipping it down the curve of your shoulder as his lips explored further.

“Good morning,” you manage out, voice slightly weak but not entirely from just waking up. “How’d you sleep?”

You can feel his lips twitch against your skin, probably turning into a smug grin if you had to guess. His hand stopped on your bicep, his chin now resting on your shoulder as he pulls you closer. 

“Better than usual,” he says, voice rumbling in his throat. “Even with you stealing the covers from me all night, it’d be worth it every time to wake up to this.” He picks his head up just enough to look down at you. “You?”

Your cheeks are warm, and you bury half of your face into the pillow. “Better than usual. I actually feel rested.”

Reaching an arm out, you turn the clock on your nightstand toward the bed. 2:38 p.m.

“We slept the whole day away!”

Satoru hums behind you, chest rumbling against your back. “Mm, good sex tends to do that to people.”

You smile, looking back at him over your shoulder. “Oh? So that’s why you were snoring into my ear all night?”

“Precisely why,” he replies easily, before pecking your lips. “Pussy put me right to sleep.”

This time, you lean in to kiss him. When you pull away, you freeze. 

Oh fuck.

Then you shoot up out of bed, eyes wide and panicked. It’d just dawned on you that, for all the days you could have had sex with your annoying-rival-to-friend, it had to be the day of the Ryomen dinner. And, of course, you had to oversleep with said annoying-rival-to-friend-and-now-hookup still in your bed. 

The drive alone would take two and a half hours.

“Holy shit, I need to go,” you say, scatterbrained as you rush into your closet.

Satoru props himself up on his elbow, sounding more panicked than he likely intended. “What? Why?”

You return to his line of sight, already half-clothed in a pristinely ironed dress, bouncing on one leg as you tug your stockings up. “I have to go to dinner with my family and the Ryomens. My mom is going to kill me.”

And he’s left to watch, helpless, as you check yourself in the mirror—putting your earrings on, looking beautiful as ever…to go have dinner with another guy and his family.

Satoru knows he should be relaxed about this. He needs to chill out. You had sex, yes, but it’s not like he’s your boyfriend or anything.

(Even though he’d thought about how great that would be as he admired you while you slept.)

“Oh, cool,” he says, forcing a cheery tone into his voice. “What for?”

You press your lips together, hastily applying your makeup lest you show up late with none on. “I’m not really sure. Probably to talk about their plans for us post-graduation. That’s all they talk about these days.”

He bites the inside of his cheek.

Doesn’t matter, he tells himself. Sex between friends can be…casual. Don’t read into it so much.

“Right,” he replies, rubbing the back of his neck, doing his best to seem relaxed. “Sounds boring.”

You nod at him through the mirror before turning to face him. “Yeah, it will be.”

A silence settles the moment your eyes meet.

Slowly, you walk over to him—still lying in your bed, clad in nothing but his boxers. “I’m sorry I’m leaving like this.”

He waves a hand through the air, making an exaggerated pshhh sound. “Don’t worry about it. I get it.”

You give him a lopsided smile before leaning down to kiss him. He barely has time to close his eyes—to savor it—before you’re already pulling away.

“I’ll text you, okay?” you say. “You can use my shower again if you want. Make yourself at home while I’m gone. Just don’t use up my body wash—it’s expensive.”

Satoru lets out a laugh that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Okay, no promises. Have fun.”

And then you’re gone, the door clicking shut behind you.

He falls back against the mattress, dragging his hands over his face.

It’s casual, he tries to remind himself. Don’t be a crybaby.

But you kissed him goodbye.

What was casual about that?

☆

The hallways are abnormally crowded today.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, Shoko’s messages flooding in.

shoko 💗: hi

shoko 💗: how was the dinner?

shoko 💗: did your parents finally come to their senses

shoko 💗: and drop the stupid engagement idea????

you: i wish

you: they seem even more into the idea now

you: mind you, sukuna fell asleep at the dining table with his fork hanging out of his mouth

you: like oh okay i’m seeing it now, total HUSBAND MATERIAL right here

shoko 💗: fuck my chungus life

you: fuck mine too

The sound of hushed voices in the distance distracts you, making you glance in that direction.

Only then do you realize that they’re looking right at you.

Actually, it feels like everyone is looking at you.

No, worse. It feels like everyone can see through you. Like they know exactly what you’ve been up to. What you did when no one was around.

But that’s ridiculous. How could anyone know?

Suddenly hyper-aware of yourself, you glance back down at your phone.

you: i feel like everyone is staring at me today

shoko 💗: maybe because you look sexier than usual?

you: one can only hope

You crash into someone, limbs flailing, only to be steadied by a gentle grip.

“Watch where you’re going, iPad kid,” Satoru teases, a wide smile on his face.

You pocket your phone, huffing out a laugh despite yourself. “I was watching where I was going. You just came out of nowhere.”

“Uh-huh, totally,” he says.

Without thinking, you glance over your shoulder toward the group that had been watching you earlier, the itch still unscratched.

Always observant, Satoru tilts his head. “Hey. What’s up?”

“Nothing, I’m fine,” you answer instinctively.

“Talk to me,” he says, nudging your arm softly, still trying to keep things light.

Then your eyes meet his—his blue irises practically begging you to open up.

“It’s just…” Your voice trails off, growing quieter. “You didn’t tell anyone, did you? About…”

Satoru leans back slightly, like the question physically hit him.

“Uh— no,” he says. “No, I didn’t. Promise.”

You catch the shift in his expression—the way it falters, like something just closed off.

Your eyes squeeze shut. Shit. “No, it’s not that I regret it or anything, it’s just that—”

“It’s okay,” he cuts in, rubbing the back of his neck. “Really. It’s fine. You don’t have to explain.” His eyes meet yours again. “I didn’t tell anyone. Don’t worry.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he echoes quickly. “Good. I’m glad we got that figured out.”

“Me too,” you say, though you don’t sound convinced anymore. “Did— did I say something?”

Satoru shakes his head, that boyish smile slipping back into place. “Nah. You’re good.”

You glance around again. “…Okay.”

“Okay,” he repeats. “Are you going to the party this weekend? Choso’s frat is throwing.”

You nod. “Yeah, I’ll be there. I assume I’ll see you there too?”

“Yup,” he says with a nod. “Well, I’ve gotta get to class. I’ll talk to you later?”

“Yeah,” you say, turning to watch him walk away down the hallway.

Well… that conversation went well.

Right?

☆

After a few days of Satoru avoiding you like the plague, you’re starting to think your conversation didn’t go so well.

He’s only sent you one Instagram reel over the last three days—and it was about tips and tricks for studying anatomy. Was he doing this on purpose? The last time you studied for anatomy, it ended with you in bed with him.

For what feels like the tenth time this hour, you check your messages.

Satoru :D: Good morning

Satoru :D: Sleep well?

you: good morning

you: yes i did, did you?

And there’s been no response since.

You wonder if you should message him again.

Maybe his phone got swept up in a tornado. (It’s 75°F and sunny outside.)

Maybe he’s currently being attacked by alligators and desperately needs you as a lifeline. (Though you know he wouldn’t even accept your help—he’d be convinced he could take an alligator in a fight.)

Maybe he just hasn’t seen your text. (You saw him repost a TikTok about boba milk tea an hour ago.)

You tap on the text bar, thumbs hovering over the keyboard.

“There’s no way you’re about to double text a man.”

You jump, quickly locking your phone. “Utahime, I was not. I was just checking our messages.”

Utahime hums, clearly unconvinced, scrolling on her own phone. “You keep telling yourself that, girl.”

Rolling onto your back, you stare at the ceiling, hands folded over your chest.

“Are you seriously sulking right now?”

“I’m not sulking!”

(You were definitely sulking.)

Utahime sighs, nudging your side. “Did you read this week’s blind items?”

You shake your head. “No.”

She tilts her head down at you. “Well, I’m pretty sure one is about you.”

“WHAT?!”

You’ve never sat up this fast in your life—lightheaded and dizzy as you reach for Utahime’s phone.

There is going to be an engagement post-graduation between a male and female from two of the most well-known families on campus.

A male who lives on floor three in the Newbrooke dormitory has still been shitting in the showers. (P.S. Can you please stop already?)

A notorious rich student was spotted talking to a girl who comes from a family that begins with the last letter of the alphabet. Are sparks flying?

A male has been making piss-poor SoundCloud music at 4 AM for the past week. (Please stop. You are better off sticking to your career path in accounting.)

A pit forms in your stomach.

Had Sukuna told someone about your situation? You want to say no—but once he’s had enough to drink, anything is possible.

But the one that concerns you more is the third item.

Could Satoru have already moved on? To a girl from the Zenin family?

Utahime presses her thumb between your eyebrows, smoothing out the crease. “Hey. What happened to taking these with a grain of salt? They’re probably not real. Aside from the shower shitter—that one seems pretty legit.”

You let out a weak laugh. “Yeah… you’re probably right.”

Even still, the pit in your stomach doesn’t go away.

☆

Music thrums against the walls, people packed in like sardines, moving with no particular rhyme or rhythm. Smoke fills the air, a thick fog that has no chance of dissipating. 

Sukuna’s arm is snug around your shoulder, something that you would have never thought twice about before. Now, though, you notice it like a thorn in your side. 

You try to scan the room, in search of your friends who you knew would be here tonight. Only, a hand on your face draws your attention elsewhere, and Sukuna is kissing your cheek in farewell before you can even realize he’s leaving you to fend for yourself.

“Later, girl,” he says, so casually, as if he had the right.

Fucking typical.

You huff and wave your arm through the air, coughing quietly. Once the smoke cleared just enough, your gaze locked in on something in the distance.

Satoru. Standing beside a girl from the Zenin family.

But even as he stands beside her, his glowing eyes are already on you.

Suddenly, it hurts to breathe. The walls are caving in on you. The music fades into a silence that becomes even more overbearing than the bass. 

Anger rises in your throat. Anger you have no right to feel. 

After all, Satoru wasn’t yours. You weren’t his. He can do what he wants, as can you. How could you forget that? And why did you want to?

If you were a braver person, one who could be honest with herself, you would walk across this room. You’d tell him how you feel. You would say it now, out loud and to his face. At least then, he’d know how you felt.

The problem, though, was that you weren’t any of these things. You were terrified and hesitant—so all you could do was this. Look at him and hope he can put the puzzle pieces together on his own. You can only hope he likes how it looks once it is completed. 

Your feet are moving before you can realize it. A moment later, you find yourself in the bathroom, pressing your back against the door to slam it shut. 

You release a sharp breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. Your hands cover your face as you approach the sink, palms pressing against the countertop.

Then, you catch your reflection in the mirror. 

You know better than this.

You know better than to wish for something that you have no right to.

You know better than to want Satoru. You know better than to envision a simple life with him. To want him in a way that is uncalculated and real.

Dropping your head, you close your eyes. Squeeze them shut, and hope that you were anywhere else but here, in this dingy bathroom with a flickering lightbulb above your head.

The door opens and shuts behind you.

You pick your head up, and there he is. 

Satoru.

His chest presses to your back, his hands bracketing yours on the counter as he dips his chin into the crook of your neck. “Were you not going to come say hi?”

You roll your eyes despite yourself, refusing to meet his eyes in the mirror. “No. Seems like you were a little preoccupied.”

Silence stretched thin between you. 

Then his hands find your waist, spinning you around to face him.

“Don’t do that,” he says, voice soft and almost pleading.

You swallow. “Don’t do what?”

“You know what,” he replies, “act like… you don’t care. Like you don’t feel anything for me, just because you’re upset.”

You avoid his gaze. “I’m not upset. It’s not like we’re dating. You can do what you want with…whoever you want.”

Satoru huffs, forehead knocking into yours before he pulls back. “How long are we going to keep doing this, baby?” he asks, hands finally coming to settle on your waist. “I don’t want anyone else. Not like how I want you.”

Finally, you tilt your head up, eyes meeting his.

It almost made you want to cry, realizing how easy things with Satoru were. How he opened himself up to you without fear, because he didn’t want an ounce of doubt to live in your head.

Maybe it was your turn to return the message.

“Me neither,” you finally admit. 

His expression softens in relief.

“Good,” he murmurs, brushing your hair away from your face. 

Your lips press together. “But why’d the blog say you were with a girl from the Zenin family?”

“The same reason that the stupid blog says you and Sukuna are together,” he says with a shrug. “It’s a rumor. People see you standing next to someone—at a very healthy distance, by the way, a very platonic and normal distance—and run with it.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “I don’t go around letting my rumored girlfriends kiss me on the cheek, though.”

You tilt your head, knowing full well that Satoru was capable of knowing that there were no feelings between you and Sukuna. “Careful, you almost sound upset.”

He shrugs his broad shoulders, tilting his head in the same direction you did. “Depends. Is he a good kisser?” 

Your fingers are still gripping the edge of the counter. “He is.”

Satoru glances over your face, the corner of his mouth twitching once he notices the slight pout on your lips. “Better than me?”

You don’t want to give him the satisfaction, but you’re not a liar. “No.”

A small smirk. “Good.”

“Maybe you should get back to your friend,” you retort, shaking your head.

“You’re cute when you’re jealous,” Satoru coos, hand cupping your cheek, thumbing over your bottom lip.

You splutter. “What? I’m not.”

“No?”

“No.”

Satoru’s hand starts to pull away. Panic sparks in you, and your hand shoots up, wrapping around his wrist to keep his palm against your face. He smiles softly, thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

“...Only a little,” you finally admit.

Satoru’s fingers thread into your hair, guiding your forehead to his lips. “That’s okay. I was jealous too.”

“Jealous? You?”

“Jealous. Me.”

You clear your throat, and for the first time in your life, you decide to prod for further reassurance. 

“Do you like her?” you ask, voice small.

He seems distracted, his lips on your cheek now in a chaste kiss. “Hm?”

“Do you like her?” you repeat, hands prodding at his chest to make him meet your eyes. “That girl you were talking to.”

Satoru scoffs, like the answer was obvious. “No. I’m a one-lady type of guy.” 

That answer shouldn’t make your face feel warm, but it does. He’s turned you into mush, putty in his hands. 

His thumb brushes over your hip bone. “Did you let Sukuna kiss you because you like him?”

You shake your head. “Maybe I just like kissing people. It’s fun, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” he says, nose brushing yours. “But do me a favor, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you murmur, heart rate doubling in your chest.

“The next time you wanna kiss someone, come to me instead,” he murmurs, hands sliding up your sides. “I’m better at it, anyway. Said it yourself.”

You can’t bite back your smile now, nor do you try to. “Okay.”

“Okay, baby.”

You hoped no one noticed how long you’d both been gone from the party, but when you exited the bathroom together—lip gloss smeared on Satoru’s mouth and your hair messier than before—it likely told the entire story for you.

☆

You wake up wrapped in a Digimon throw blanket.

A small, sleepy groan leaves you as you try to move—to stretch your limbs after a night of sleep.

Only, the heavily weighted blanket on top of you, known as Satoru Gojo, doesn’t make it very easy.

His arms are wrapped so tightly around you that you’d think he was afraid you might slip away in the middle of the night—so he set up precautions beforehand. His cheek is pressed against your bare chest, using your breasts as pillows.

The best pillows on the market, he says.

Blinking blearily, you scan his bedroom. Now, after only two months of dating, it looks like a shrine to you.

A framed photo of you hangs on his wall, another propped up on his bedside table. There’s one on his desk too—taken on the first day of your internship—set beside his computer.

Because, as he says, “seeing you smiling in that pretty little dress motivates me to study, ‘cause I need to pay for your tastes somehow.”

You’re smiling now, glancing down at him, his cheek squished against your skin. Your fingers glide through his hair before smoothing down his back, soothing the faint sting of the scratches you’d left the night before.

A quiet whine leaves him, and he fumbles blindly for your hand, guiding it back to his hair so you’ll keep playing with it.

“Good morning to you, too,” you murmur, scratching lightly at his scalp.

“Morning, baby,” he mumbles, voice rumbling against your skin.

Without opening his eyes, he presses a kiss to the underside of your breast, his mouth already trailing down the column of your stomach.

“What’re you doing?” you ask, smiling.

“Eating breakfast,” he replies simply, mouthing at your hip bone.

Just as he reaches for the hem of your panties, his phone begins to buzz on the bedside table. Undeterred, he tugs them down an inch.

“Ignore it.”

Then his phone buzzes again. And again.

A moment later, yours buzzes too.

Slightly concerned now, you reach for it, unlocking the screen to a message from Shoko.

shoko 💗: WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP

shoko 💗: [article link]

You tap the link, your eyes widening as you read the headline.

“What?” he asks, already pouting slightly at the interruption. “What is it?”

Wordlessly, you turn the phone toward him.

Satoru Gojo and Y/N L/N were spotted on the Gojo family’s personal yacht, indulging in promiscuous activities.

And to make matters worse, front and center is a picture of you sitting in his lap—his hand squeezing a handful of your ass like he’s afraid it might run away from him.

You press your palm to your forehead. “I told you we shouldn’t have taken the yacht out that day.”

Satoru hums, clearly distracted. “How do I save this picture? You look really sexy in this.”

“Satoru, focus!” you say, lightly swatting his shoulder. “What should we do?”

He shrugs, fingers resuming their slow work of tugging your underwear down your legs. “Right now, I’m thinkin’ I’ll finish my breakfast. We’ll figure the other stuff out later.”

You think you should protest—but the moment his mouth finds you, every argument dies on your tongue.

Because you know that he’ll make good on his promise. This will be figured out, one way or another.

And as long as you have Satoru by your side, you think you’ll be just fine.

Rumor has it you brought him home the next weekend to meet your parents.

Rumor also has it that from that moment on, the arranged engagement with Sukuna was off.

a/n: heyyyy yallll!!! how are you?

me?? posting 2 fics in one month?? #imonaroll #unstoppable

no, but seriously, if you read this all the way through thank you so much!! it’s the longest fic i’ve ever written so it’s a lil experimental for me. this is also my first time writing for gojo in about two years and it’s my second time writing him ever sooo i’m still figuring out how i want to characterize him lol

And when Gojo suddenly dies at the ripe age of thirty years old, his pretty face plastered on the front of a newspaper and a TMZ headline, after drowning in a hot tub after too much champagne and booger sugar, he finally got a taste of the fiery pits where sinners go. 

And to meet the Devil himself…literally. One minute, he was enjoying the comfort of the warm, bubbly water of his hot tub in the spacious backyard of his luxurious mansion in Los Angeles, California, accompanied by pretty women (and men) in the lewdest bathing suits and locking lips with some, cocaine lacing his tongue and champagne in his blood. 

And then the next, he was falling down, down, down a bit of fire, the blue sky above him getting smaller and smaller until it was nonexistent. When he fell down to Hell, he somehow wasn't burnt to a crisp and he was still wearing his tight swim trunks and sunglasses, his toned body sculpted by the Gods themselves on full display. 

How did he stoop so low? That was the question the Devil aka Satan aka Geto Suguru asked him. 

“Clever joke, wasn’t it?” the red, muscular man chuckled, sitting on this throne of bones and charred corpses. At first, Gojo thought he was just dreaming or hallucinating. Maybe he snorted too much of that coke. There was no way he was actually standing in the pits of Hell staring into the eyes of the Devil. 

Satan looked a lot different than Gojo pictured. His hair was long, rolling in black waves down his back, his hands clawed, feet hooves, and large sharp horns sticking out of his scalp. His forked staff sat next to him along with a twenty-feet tall three-headed Doberman that Gojo reminded himself not to piss off. 

He was also devilishly (hehe) handsome. If he wasn't Satan, the blue-eyed bachelor definitely would've tried his luck at getting him out of his clothes and sucking that devil dick of his that he could see bulging in those leather pants stretching across his muscular thighs. 

"Stop starin' at my cock," Geto deadpanned. "It's nice, I know, but my eyes are up here. Jesus, you really are a slut." He rolled his crimson eyes as Gojo began to process his words. "First of all, rude," the bachelor scoffed. "Second of all, who the fuck are you? Where am I?" 

He looked around at his new environment, cringing at the burning flames circling him and the crowd of hideous demons sitting in pews lining the room. The flames licked up towards the ceiling where the pews continued to stretch on and on, filled to the brim with an audience of hellish creatures and damned souls. 

When he turned back to stare at Geto, he was suddenly standing at a pew, almost like he was in a hellish courtroom, about to atone for his sins and voice every single on...which he did. 

When Geto sat up in his chair and took the scroll that one of his henchmen fetched for him, he smirked at the bachelor. "Why, I'm the Devil," he said. "Geto Suguru. I've been wanting the chance to meet the infamous bachelor. Now that you're dead, I can finally—“ 

"Wait, I'm what?" Gojo yelped. 

"Don't interrupt me," Geto growled, his eyes flashing gold, making Gojo button his lip. "Yes, you died and now you're here with me. God specifically told me himself that He doesn't want a whore like you tainting His paradise with your recklessness." 

Gojo was gobsmacked, still convinced that he was dreaming. So he began to laugh a big belly laugh that made his shoulders shake and his eyes prick with tears. "This isn't happening," he giggled. "I'm just havin' a bad trip. Damn, that powder was a lot stronger than I thought!”

"Oh, glad that you brought that up." Geto smirked as he rolled out the scroll and Gojo watched as it traveled all the way to his bare feet. His eyes widened when he realized that it was a list of all of his sins written so neatly in black ink along the parchment. 

Geto smirked at him, seeing that it was now clicking for him in that brain of his; the coke didn't fry it yet! "Now you got it," he chuckled. The Devil then cleared his throat, extending his voice to reach the entirety of the courtroom. 

"Gojo Satoru," he boomed, "due to the extent of your sins and refusing to live the life of a better man, I hereby sentence you to—“

"Wait, wait!" Gojo exclaimed to which Geto snarled, flashing his sharp, jagged teeth at the bachelor. "My bad for interrupting you, Mr. Satan, sir, but what sins? I didn't kill anybody!" 

Geto just smirked that wicked, frightening smirk that made Gojo shake in his trunks. He had always been someone who wasn't afraid of anyone or anything. In life, he'd chug a bottle of champagne and hit the highway; snort lines of a pretty woman's tits at a party; pop a pill and suck a stranger's dick in a nightclub bathroom stall if he was hot enough. 

He'd bag anybody and bed them before sending them on their way every night. He'd crash a sports car in a drunken haze and buy another the next day. He'd fight paparazzi and break a couple cameras while smiling in the face of the cops and a judge who'd sentence him to community service or a couple months in jail again. 

Shit, one flash of that pretty grin and he'd even fuck the same cop who arrested him, getting off with a slap on the wrist and his dick nice and wet. 

He always hid behind his money, status, and fame, figuring that nobody or nothing could ever touch him. But now, standing there in the fuming fires of the great below, staring dead into the eyes of his sins on paper, he was afraid. Very afraid. 

"Well, let's go down the list, shall we?" Geto mocked and snapped his clawed fingers. "Shoko, come read for me, please." 

A pretty, slender woman with red skin, long, brown hair, and an attractive mole on her cheek appeared beside him in a plume of black smoke. She wore a tight black turtleneck despite the unbearable heat of the flames and smoked a cigarette dangling from her lips. Without sparing Gojo a glance, she put on her glasses and began reading down the list. 

"Adultery; infidelity; driving drunk and high; snorting more coke than a skier could ski on in the Swiss Alps; drinking enough champagne and liquor to drown the sunshine state of California; spending money on cars, booze, and sex workers that could've gone to charity; committing assault and violence on those you deemed below you, such as paparazzi and nightclub bouncers; salaciously sticking your dick in every pretty body you see, including those who were married and in relationships..." 

The list went on and on and on. And as it did, Gojo withered more and more, his confidence and cockiness fading. He knew that this was real, that he was dead, and there was no getting out of this without possibly spending the rest of eternity in endless torture. 

Finally, Shoko stopped talking and took a puff of her cigarette, eyeing Gojo up. "Sorry, bachelor," she sighed before she vanished in a plume of smoke, gone. 

Geto snatched the scroll back, rolling it into his clad fist and making it vanish in a puff of black smoke. "Thank you, Shoko," he said to the spot she disappeared from. 

He then looked back at Gojo, the look in his eyes nothing short of disgust and venom...but also pity. "People like you really disgust me," he sighed. "You had it all; a life in the sun...and you just threw it away for quick, meaningless fucks and drugs. What a shame." 

"So what now?" Gojo managed to bark despite the stinging tears in his eyes and the lump in his throat. "You gonna kill me? I'm already dead!" He displayed his arms out wide as if to show the Devil that he was, in fact, deceased. "If you sentence me to death then—“ 

"Oh, no, no, little bachelor," Geto chuckled. "I'm not gonna sentence you to death or an eternity in Hell. What I've got planned for you is even better." He paused, smirking evilly at the bachelor. 

"Gojo Satoru, for your sins in life and living your days in endless greed, sloth, vanity, and lust especially. I hereby sentence you to a life of pure, agonizing want. A second chance at a life that you can't have with a pretty woman. You'll be reincarnated as an item for her gorgeous body, but you'll never be able to have it for yourself unless you free yourself of your selfish motives and cleanse your sins.”

Gojo blinked at the horned, red man, confused. Around him, Geto's jury began to shriek and cheer for more, salivating and drooling over the pain of this second life that Gojo was about to life. Before he could say anything or protest, Geto gave him a departing smile and took his staff in hand. "Farewell, Gojo Satoru...for now." 

And with one thunk of his staff against the fiery floor, Gojo disappeared in a plume of black smoke that choked his lungs and suddenly appeared somewhere else. Somewhere sterile, boring, and dead: a grocery store. 

And where was he? In a plastic trap of a box staring across the aisle at a bunch of other feminine hygiene projects, from deodorant to body spray to sunscreen. 

No hands, no arms, no legs. No sign of his impressively long, fat dick with the silver ball pierced through the bulbous, pink head. Not even a mouth or eyes though he could still see and breathe. His body was small and slender, his face curving upward in the blade of a razor. 

'That dick!' he thought to himself, enraged. Of course, Geto reincarnated him as a razor, forcing him to live his life shaving the soft, supple skin of a woman's legs, thighs and bikini line. He would've gladly had picked spending eternity in Hell because this hell was too much!

He was there for months in that box, untouched. Unwanted. Neglected. Unable to even beat his dick to pass the time. Forced to live with his pain, regret, and sins. 

Luckily, as soon as he felt he was doomed, there you suddenly were. Gojo couldn’t remember how long it had been. Time worked differently for a sinner like him who was reincarnated into an inanimate object. 

All he knows is one day you just appeared to him like an angel in the most sinful sundress he’d ever seen. The ruffled skirts clung to your hips and teased your thick, plushy thighs the way he wanted to. You were accompanied by two of your kids, a set of twins about the ages of two years, babbling and playing with their toys in the chart.  

“Nikiya, Nao, look!” you giggled, showing them a bag of fruit snacks. “Your favorites!” 

Both of the twins had your hair color and skin tone while their eyes weren’t your color. Perhaps their father’s? Was he in the picture? 

“Snackies!” Nao shouted, stretching his chubby hands out for them. You giggled and gave it to him once you tore it open, letting him chew on a grape gummy. 

Nikiya stretched a hand out for one too, her big eyes so bright and innocent. You cooed and gave her an apple one, earning a big, gummy smile in reply. You pressed a kiss to her chubby cheek, making the bachelor’s heart melt. 

Gojo was taken aback by your beauty. Your body. Your glossy hair and soft skin. The curves you displayed under your sundress that teased him as you walked by, that ass bouncing so enticingly for him. 

He’d fucked so many of the hottest women in his life. Models, actresses, strippers, OF girls, even his own costars on The Bachelor….but none of them compared to you and your mature build from aging and having babies. 

He needed you. Wanted you. Craved you. Didn't care if he had to spend his days gliding across your skin while you shaved your shapely legs and luscious thighs that he'd long to caress, touch, and taste. He just wanted to be yours. 

And he was gonna get you. 

He was damn near humming and vibrating with need as you neared him, looking everywhere but at his box on the shelf. “Let's see now," you hummed to yourself. "The perfect razor..." You paused, picking one up next to him and scowling. “Expensive," you sighed. 

Gojo curiously eyed your shopping cart of kiddie snacks, lotion, sunscreen, and new makeup. Were you going on a trip? 

As you tipped forward, he had the perfect view of your cleavage. So full and voluptuous like ripe, hanging fruit. He felt himself salivating, his cock aching to— 

“Y/N!” Suddenly, there was a scream of your name and you jumped, dropping the box of razors. A man appeared in the isle with you, not much to look at besides his green hair and ear piercings. 

Compared to you, he was a dusty. What the hell we’re doing with a guy like that? And then he saw the glittering engagement ring on your pretty finger. ‘Fuckin’ hell.’

“God, woman, are you done yet?" your husband scoffed. "We've been in here for 20 minutes! How long does it take a girl to shop for groceries?" 

You looked at him over your shoulder and glared. "I'm shopping for our trip too, Naoya,” you pointedly replied. "You'd know that if you listened to me." 

Your husband placed a hand on his heart, mocking, annoying you and Gojo both. "Oh, so now I'm the bad guy?” He scoffed, rolling his eyes like a petulant child. “Whatever, just hurry it up." 

When you turned back around, Gojo noticed how tense you were, and your depleted expression. Even your curious twins and their cute faces couldn’t make you happy. He didn’t yet know the ins and outs of your marriage, but he did know that this Naoya guy was an asshole and didn’t deserve you. 

Suddenly, you took your cart and began to walk off, making Gojo panic. He couldn’t let you get away! 

Thinking spontaneously, he began to rock back and forth in his box, trying to ease himself off of the shelf. Fortunately, with one rock to the front, he teetered over and tumbled to the tiled floor right by your white-painted toes. 

"Oh!" you yelped in surprise. You stared confusingly at the box and picked it up, admiring the fine razor inside with the blue jelly-soft handle and five different blades. “How'd you get loose?" you wondered aloud. 

Gojo ogled at your gorgeous face from inside the box, praying for God to have mercy on him and grant him the one gift of being yours. As you held him, he started to feel a stir in his chest and a shock that went through him like a current of electricity. 

You must’ve felt it too because you gasped and almost dropped him. Gojo wasn’t sure what it was, but he knew that you were the one. If he had to spend eternity being anyone’s razor, he’d want it to be you. 

You turned to your hubby when he walked up to you, still bored and still scowling. “Naoya, something weird just happened. This box just shocked me! It felt like a—“ 

"Twenty dollars?!" he exclaimed, gaping at the razor. "For one razor?! You're payin' for that, not me. Now c'mon, let's go before we waste more time in here buyin' stuff for a 3-day trip." 

He then walked off with the kids and the cart of items, leaving you to stand alone in the isle. “All this just to rebuild our marriage,” you scoffed to yourself. “A 3-day trip that I planned.” 

Unbeknownst to you, Gojo was listening to you mutter to yourself, feeling his heart wither for you. A great mommy and a beautiful woman getting neglected by her husband? That was a no-no. A big no-no. 

But all he could do was watch and stay silent, wishing for the chance to snag you as his own. What a hell indeed. 

You smiled down at him, placing the box close to your chest. "You're coming home with me," you whispered. "I'm sure you'll do the job for me." 

'Oh, baby, you have no idea,' Gojo thought. 

"This. Fuckin'. Sucks,' thought the white-haired, blue-eyed bachelor. 

If he were alive, he would be spending the summer lounging in his pool with a cool cocktail and a blunt. Or book a trip to the islands to spend his days at some fancy resort, surfing the waves, fucking the hottest women and men, and filling his nose with coke until he passes out on the most expensive sheets.