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ryomen sukuna proves he can treat you better than your asshole bf
ryomen sukuna does not concern himself with the miserable dwellings of day to day life of peasants (aka his frat buddies)
he parties,he gyms, he balls. he looks good and smells good and keeps his women limited to strict one night schedules.
he doesn't give two shits about who's fucking whom and whichever latest breakups circulating around campus. and he definitely doesn't keep track of his friends' girlfriends.
except when he spotted you one night , sitting in one corner of the raging neon lit room , fiddling with your fingers as you watched your boyfriend dance with other women .
sukuna told himself he didn't care about how your smile kept faltering or how sad your eyes looked.
yet, he never wanted to punch a man to oblivion so much than at that moment. he reigned himself in that night.
but the next time when he saw your crestfallen expression when your asshole boyfriend dismissed your homecooked lunch before the entire team , sukuna lost it.
so yeah. he did punch his teammate and frat mate to oblivion.
the rest was easy and quick. some bruises here and there. a little blood. but his favourite part was hearing your shy mouth yell "fuck you , you bastard" on your boyfriends bloody and beaten face (courtesy of him)
but sukuna's life somehow became even more convoluted after that.
his eyes track the slight colouring of your cheeks , the way your gaze darts away from his as you mutter a shy "thank you" .
the sweet scent of your shampoo lingers in his nose when you pass by him in the corridors. his mind replays the small smile you gave him when he crossed paths with you, in the dark quiet of his room.
days escalate to weeks and he finds himself sitting on the bleachers after practice, eating from the cute pink bento you prepared for him as he listens to you read out a line from your favourite book.
he surprises himself when he throws away his entire stash of cigarettes after you tell him one afternoon that you dislike the smell of them.
as autumn approaches, sukuna finds himself before you , pink cheeked, handing you the books he picked out in hopes that you would enjoy them.
ryomen sukuna did not care about feelings . he never bothered to question his own lack of them. but then how was he supposed to justify the way his heart beat stuttered when you placed a soft, barely there kiss on his cheek after he walked you to your apartment?
ryomen sukuna did not bother with cheek kisses. he was rough and in the bed,took from the women what he wanted.
and you were the antagonist of everything he was accustomed to. because it wasn't rough and hard and frantic when it came to you. hell, he hadn't even tasted your lips, and somehow sex hadn't even crossed his mind.
he was willing to take even the tiniest bit of affection you showed him. and somehow it was enough for him.
with you it was lingering fingers, and soft glances. easy smiles and reading poetry. eating sundaes at 10pm under the streetlights .
and when he realised that he looked forward to hearing your soft voice as you read to him, and eating your handcooked meals instead of his bland protein shakes and walking you home as the lamposts cast a warm glow on your skin—sukuna realised that he was utterly fucked.
because, as much as he wanted to deny it, he was no fool.
Firefighter!Sukuna who bust down your bathroom door when there was a fire in your building (one that you weren't aware of), clad in thick and hefty bunker gear, eyes scanning the brightly lit bathroom only to spot you in the middle of shower, completely bare, soap bubbles still coating your skin.
Firefighter!Sukuna who clears his throat, looking over his shoulder before turning back to you, cheeks dusted with a rather adorable shade of red.
"Th—there's apartment in next door fire." He stepped closer, hand gesturing for the bathrobe hanging beside the mirror.
"Huh?" Your brows are furrowed, trying to decipher who between you both was having a stroke, maybe the abrupt slam of the door did mess with you head.
The absurdity of the situation startles you enough that the thought of being completely naked before doesn't even cross your mind, at least not until he reached for the bathrobe himself, stepping closer to hand it to you.
Firefighter!Sukuna who acts instinctively, once you are modestly covered, yanks you over his shoulder to quickly move out into the smoke filled hallway, steps heavy against the wooden floor as he made his way out, making sure you didn't get knocked into the wall or door frames.
Firefighter!Sukuna who instantly jumps back into the building after making sure you are steady on your feets, looking over his shoulder once before continuing back inside, hoping he'd find you after the rescue is completed.
Firefighter!Sukuna who frowned when the medic informed that the people had scattered around some to the hospital for minor injuries other taking refuge with friends and family till the apartment complex was fixed.
Firefighter!Sukuna who mulls over the awkward interaction for days, rest of the team teasing him over his jumbled words, hoping to find a reason to go back to your apartment without seeming like a pervert or a creep.
Firefighter!Sukuna who groans loud when he is informed about the routine check up he must have to ensure health, begrudgingly walks into the hospital with rest of the team, brows furrowed as he waited for his name to be called.
"Ryomen Sukuna."
The lady at the desk announced his turn, gesturing towards the door with light glowing above the 'general physician's.
Sukuna sighed, stepping into the office only to be stopped in his tracks, before him stood you, much more clothed, stethoscope hung around your neck as you wrote on charts, eyes widening in recognition when thet met his.
Firefighter!Sukuna who awkwardly stepped into your office, almost tripping over nothing, nearly turning a routine check up into a life threatening emergency.
"You work here?" He asked, nearly slapping his own forehead, of course you do.
You nodded your head, lips pursed together as you placed the clipboard on the desk, patting the stretcher, "I'd hope so."
Firefighter!Sukuna who snorts at your sass, ugly little sound escaping the back of his throat, warmth blooming on his cheeks as you grinned back at him.
Firefighter!Sukuna who sits still while you noted his vitals, metal of the stethoscope cold against his warm skin, eyes following your movement, at one point he caught himself admiring your penmanship.
"You've got good handwriting." He mumbled, pointing to where you noted his pulse rate and blood pressure, "usually doc's have chicken scribble writing."
Firefighter!Sukuna who swears to keep his mouth shut when you continue to look at him in bewilderment, more than once did he catch you suppressing the urge to grin.
Firefighter!Sukuna who waits outside your office to get clearance, only to be handed a doctor's note instead.
"Come back for check up later, your heart rate was abnormally high."
street racer! sukuna hates asking teasing mechanic! reader for help
sukuna’s garage was an absolute mess.
oil-stained rags on the floor, random tools and parts lying around, dirty hands on the verge of pulling out every strand of hair on his head. he had been working in the garage for hours at this point.
so why - why - was nothing working?
he did everything he could. replaced the fuel pump. cleaned the injectors. put in new spark plugs. tested every sensor. all for nothing. the car sounded like a dream in neutral, but every time he accelerated past 30 mph, the damned car stalled out.
just his luck that his car would start having problems the night before a big race.
that’s why he’s been sitting outside your shop for the past twenty-seven minutes debating on if he should swallow his pride or go home and hope he can figure it out himself. sukuna’s phone dinged. a text from uraume:
talk to her
she’s the only one who can help you
he didn’t even bother responding to that. he doesn’t need anyone telling him what to do. you’re the last person he’d ever need help from… but he’s running out of time and options. so what does he do?
sukuna stared at the sign above the shop. his eyes followed down to the flashing OPEN sign, of course you’d still be open this late at night. his fingers drummed against the steering wheel. he doesn’t want to deal with you...
“fuck it.” sukuna grumbled before going in.
the bell above the door twinkled as he opened it. the shop was quiet. there was always a sense of calm this time of night in your shop — like the quiet after a storm. all the power tools had been turned off and put to charge. a soft hum of the overhead fluorescent lights.
“guess hell finally froze over, huh?” a wicked smile on your lips as you approached the front desk. your coveralls were halfway on, tied around your waist. hair pulled back into a curly bun.
“fuck you.” but sukuna was eating the words he said only years prior. claimed he’d never need you. said hell would freeze over before he’d ever ask for your help. boy, was he starting to regret that now.
“yeah, i’m sure you’d like that.” your smile widens.
you had noticed him sitting outside the shop, it’s hard to not notice a car like sukuna’s. his car sounded like a purring tiger when in neutral. anyone who knew anything about cars or street racing knew that sound was unique to sukuna and only sukuna.
he was the king of underground racing for a reason.
he exhaled slowly out his nose, trying to keep his calm. “i’m not in the mood.”
“yeah, i can tell. you’re all pouty.” you nudged him.
“i need something fixed.”
“oh?” you could almost laugh at how reluctant he sounded. like he’d rather blow his car up than admit he needs you to fix something. “must be pretty bad if you came to see little ole me about it.”
choosing to ignore you, “it stalls out every time i go past thirty.”
“always thirty? not twenty-five? not forty?”
“thirty’s the limit before it stalls.”
“weird.”
sukuna rolls his eyes. “i know it’s weird, that’s why im here.”
“wasn’t talking to you.” you turned around to head to the back. “bring your car to the bay, i’ll check it out.”
he drove his car around and into the service bay. he shut off the engine and got out. he opened the hood for you and watched as you did an inspection of the engine. “you replace anything?”
“everything.”
“everything?”
“spark plugs, sensors, fuel pump, injectors, wiring, i even changed the oil.” he listed off. “don’t know what’s wrong the damn thing.”
“your problem is electrical, not mechanical.” you explained. “you fixed everything that could have been wrong mechanically, but if the car stalls at thirty every time, the problem is electrical. mechanical problems aren’t exact, electrical are.”
you think for a second. “you said you replaced the wiring?”
“yeah.”
“the wiring for what exactly?”
he shrugged. “a few lights, the ecu, the radio.”
“you mean my ecu? the same ecu i built?”
the ecu is the engine control unit. essentially, it’s the brain of the car. the sensors around the engine send information to the ecu, and the ecu decides to how to run the engine accordingly. without an ecu, a modern performance car can’t run.
that’s why you built your own. most of your customers are street racers, so you learned how to build a standalone ecu to replace the factory made ones without the limitations. think about it like this: if the manufactured ecu was a computer, it’d be limited to medium graphics. which isn’t bad for casual use, but for someone who needs speed and clear graphics, it’s better to upgrade. or in this case, build your own.
you built and programmed that ecu specifically for racing. so why in the hell would sukuna go messing around with it?
“it’s in my car, it’s mine.”
“like hell it is.” your eyebrows furrowed. “i only gave it to you to spite you. it has been absolutely bliss knowing that every victory you have is because of me.”
god, he hated you. so, so much.
sukuna hated that you were right. he built his own ecu years ago but it was nothing compared to yours. he couldn’t go back to it, despite you rubbing it in his face. “so what? you want me to thank you? to devote all of my wins to you?”
“i want you to not touch my shit.”
“fine, fuck! i won’t touch it.” he exhaled a deep breath, trying to keep the last of his sanity. “just fix the car.”
“you’ll owe me.”
“how much?”
“a favor.”
of course you would never let things be easy. “what’s the favor?”
“mmm… don’t know yet.” you shrugged. “i’ll think of something eventually.”
“i’d rather pay you.”
“i don’t want your money.”
“what do you want?”
that precious, wicked smile returned. “for now? i just get to enjoy knowing you owe me.”
“you are an evil, little woman.”
“don’t forget genius!” you say pushing him aside to start working on the car. hands deep in the hood as you started to carefully unplug and unattach the wires connected to the ecu. you noticed many things wrong with it: the replacement wires were not the right type, the wires were not attached properly, and the high-performance MAP was corrupted.
sukuna is an idiot.
“you’re an idiot.” you say. “it’s no wonder the car keeps stalling out, it’s not even wired in properly.”
“but you can fix it?”
“duh, i built it.”
you spent the next few hours fixing everything sukuna did wrong. you threw out the bad wires he bought and replaced them with the correct wiring. after ensuring the wires were in properly, you got started on the fun part. instead of trying to fix the high-performance MAP, you replaced it entirely, giving sukuna an complete upgrade.
the corrupted MAP was decoding the signals wrong. instead of accurately decoding the temperature and boost pressure, it believed the engine was overheating and to prevent damage, it shut itself off.
the upgrade came from the tuning. sukuna sat next to you, watching closely. he said he wanted to know what to do if this happened again but your face quickly shut that idea down.
under no circumstances was sukuna to ever touch your ecu again.
with your laptop connected to the ecu, you began tuning everything. faster throttle response and ignition timing, higher rev limiter, controlled boost pressure, upgraded fuel mixture. you upgraded everything and made this one better than the first.
you had finished sometime around 2am. you were tired but felt accomplished and successful. you had exceeded yourself. closing your laptop, “alright, it’s done.”
“that’s it?”
“wanna go for a test drive?”
sukuna didn’t need to be asked twice. he buckled up and backed out. he slowly increased his speed, keeping a careful eye on the rpm. 10… 20… 30… 40… 50.
you did it. he exceeded the 30mph limit and didn’t stall. in fact, he felt better. faster, smoother, more agile. he had no doubts about the race tomorrow. he was going to win.
he dropped you back off at the shop. watching you get out and head back inside without so much as a thank you or a goodbye. but even if he wouldn’t admit it, he was glad he came tonight.
there really is no replacement for you.
BONUS SCENE:
it had been six weeks since you fixed sukuna’s car. six weeks since he owed you a favor. he’d never admit it but it was driving him crazy. every time he got a call or text, he felt a sense of anguish that you were cashing in on your ridiculous favor.
he’s had enough.
it was a bit past midnight. the service bay garage door were open. he pulled his car in and got out. “cash it in.”
you wiped your hands on a rag. “am i supposed to know what you’re talking about?”
“the favor.” he said like you were oblivious. “cash it in.”
“i haven’t thought of anything yet.”
“so think.”
“but i like knowing that you owe me.”
“y/n.”
ooh, he’s getting increasingly irritated if he’s saying your name. let’s think… what’s the one thing sukuna hates most in this world? people, yes. but other than that? sappy, physical affection. it irks him beyond belief.
“you’ll do whatever i ask?”
he’s already suspicious. “within reason.”
you stand, holding your arms out wide. “give me a hug.”
he’s silent for a moment. not in shock, just processing that that’s your favor. he spent all this time stressed over… what, a damn hug? he wasn’t going to do it anyway, but it’s the principle. “no.”
“you said whatever i wanted.”
“i said within reason.”
“it is within reason.”
“i’m not doing it.”
“then you can live with the fact that you owe me for the rest of your life.”
he wanted nothing more than to wipe that smug look off your face. your little shimmy as you tried to entice him to come closer. you were dangling this favor over his head like a mistletoe. he just wanted to be done with you. reluctantly, “fine. i’ll do it.” he pinched the bridge of his nose as if he was bracing himself for the hardest thing he’s ever done in his life.
he took a few steps to close the gap between you. he watched your arms wiggle as you smiled up at him. it pained him to wrap his arms around your torso, hands lingering at your waist. it was stiff and uncomfortable and possibly the worst hug ever received.
could be a new guinness world record.
after a moment, he pulled away quickly, as if touching you would give him some rare, contagious disease. “never talk about this.”
“aw, and i thought we were having a sweet moment.”
“i hate you.”
“likewise, honey.”
in truth, you never had a favor in mind. you just wanted an excuse to see him again.
as promised, the mechanic version. not all that confident in the banter but i hope it’s decent. thanks for reading, you’re so angel baby face 🙃 @keipurra
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
SYNOPSIS ᯓ★ After months of cold shoulder from your boyfriend, the relationship finally comes to an end when a Reddit post spiraled into your best friend’s orbit, and the poster? Your own boyfriend. The embarrassment and shame brought onto your name began tumbling when he thinks you will come back —like you always do, he quotes— to him. However, this time your best friend had a plan in mind to prove your snobbish ex-boyfriend wrong. To set you up with her friend . . . Who is also going through a messy break up scenario of his own.
PAIRING ᯓ★ nerd! gojo satoru x fem! reader
TAGS ᯓ★ does not follow the original jjk plot . suggestive content . no smut (it is implied that gojo and the reader had sex, but will not be described) . gojo and the reader are in their 20s . pokemon lover gojo . gojo is a middle school student teacher . cursing . mentions of sex . naoya cameo . romcom stuff . fake dating . mentions of cheating (not done by gojo or the reader) . shoko cameo . suguru cameo . loneliness . slow updates
You casually stared at the headlines, seeing his green hair made your blood boil. Just by the looks of it, you’d make out that he’d probably hire someone to pay more so the Zenin would be headlined. Based on experience itself, you’d seen him done it before himself. Quote unquote, call the media and pay them to headline the Zenin for traction, I need it up by next week.
Honestly, it doesn’t even surprise you anymore. You were 100% sure at least every company has done this somehow — but the sight of Naoya’s face just makes your blood boil somehow. And you hadn’t paid the internet to be shown something like this (though it wasn’t actually the internet’s fault at all, you just needed someone to blame for it).
For the past seven years, you were 100% positive that you know more shit about the Zenin clan rather than their contributions. And that, you couldn’t deny even if someone had asked you to fabricate it up.
“You’ve been staring at that for a while now,” Shoko blew a puff of smoke away from where you sat before she hung her cigarette by the side of the ashtray. Your gaze lifted from the screen to her figure where she’s pulling her hair back into a bun, “it’s not worth it. You know he pays the media to do that, only people full of shit do that.”
Only people full of shit, you thought. Nodding to yourself, she’s right. Naoya and his family are full of shit and everyone agrees.
Suguru and his friends had gone on their little Japan tour a few days ago. And you were left without any other work, he told you, “Rest day”. For the past week, he had you making flyers here and there for the tour, and you were glad to do it with the income that he promised you; no joke, he called you late at night for a request, even if he does sound apologetic, you still did it because you had no hard feelings for him. In fact, you were glad to even be doing this in the first place.
Also, he did promise to bring something back for you as an apology, extra income in a form of . . . probably food or a keychain. But, hey, a keychain from Sendai doesn’t sound too bad. Or a cheesecake from Hokkaido doesn’t sound too shabby at all.
“Ieiri, can I ask you something?” You pucker your lips slightly, the straw from your “half-full” cup, or as Satoru said “half-empty”. Ieiri stared at you, the streets are bustling and people passed by the sidewalk right by where you and Shoko sat outside the cafe, “It’s about Satoru and Suguru.”
“You’re gonna ask what happened between them,” she guessed. And she guessed right.
“Yeah.”
The corner of her lip tugged upwards slightly, “Don’t think it’s my place to tell that to you, you should ask Satoru about it. Or Suguru now since you’re working for him,” internally, you groaned at her very helpful inquiry, but still, the curiosity wedged in your heart.
Satoru had been extra busy lately, meet ups were rescheduled. Now that he had landed an act as a tree, he was needed during practices and . . . quote unquote, needed for prop making because he was apparently the strongest amongst his peers. It was a stroke to his ego, and Satoru wouldn’t stop telling you about how he helped carry things around the school during this time of the day. And it was bound to happen again.
Though, you don’t mind it at all — in fact, this was much better than the constant flex of social statuses, money, and fame.
“Did they fallout?” You asked, hoping for more enlightment from Shoko who is blissfully smoking her second cigarette of the day, “I just need something. Anything.”
“They fell out, reason? You’d have to ask the both of them,” she shrugs.
Today was one of the days Shoko could have a day off, and she had decided to call you up early in the morning for a little coffee and breakfast. Well, it’s noon now and the both of you were still together, not that you were complaining about it. Times with her are rare, and you’d salvage this moment with her. Her eyes were blankly staring at the people passing by, making sure that every puff of her smoke is directed away from people passing, “I didn’t know they fell out until Suguru came up to talk to me that he was going to move to start a band, actually. It was pretty upsetting, and for a while, I kinda hated them.”
Your eyes softened at her words, “Why?”
“I was there too, wasn’t I?” Her voice died to a soft whisper of solemn, she pressed the burning edge of her cig into the ashtray, pressing on it lightly to kill the fire, “then again, things happen. And it’s really not my place to say anything on their behalves because I’m completely clueless of what actually happened.”
Your thumbs fiddled with each other, Shoko clapped her hands together, “But, I’m completely chill about it now. That was a long time ago, and we’re all good . . . I’m good with the both of them. But them with each other?” She asks herself before shrugging nonchalantly, “Wanna grab dinner together later?”
“You seem to be getting close to Satoru,” Shoko replied, a tinge of slyness in her voice, “I take it everything’s going well then.”
“What? The whole fake dating stuff?” You were nonchalant in answering her, failing to notice the deadpan on her face, “it’s fine. I mean, we’re starting to get to know each other, we went out to see a movie, and stuff. Naoya’s still trying to fuck me up, I swear, he’s everywhere, Ieiri.”
Shoko sighs, “Yeah, that’s what he do. He thinks you can’t get better than him,” there are so many men better than him in every aspect, you rolled your eyes in annoyance, “he won’t stop at nothing to make sure you come back. Which is why Satoru is the perfect choice for this. He’s a total heartstopper.”
You nodded in agreement, “Yeah, I agree.”
“Out of curiosity,” Shoko answers again, sipping on her Americano, “what do you really think of him?”
You got lost in thought. Truthfully, you haven’t known Satoru Gojo for a long time at all, and if you were to be honest; you (shamefully) confess that you barely know him at all. Maybe the surface stuff about him, but if we were talking about what we think of a certain someone. You part your lips, “What do I think of him?” Shoko hums softly, waiting for an answer.
“Well, one,” your thoughts went back to the moments where Satoru drove you home, walked you through the alley, and made sure to wait until you get inside before leaving. Not to mention, the way he pays and teaches you instead of berating you like how Naoya would, “he’s very nice. He walks me home — actually, he drives me there . . . and walks me through the alleyway to my apartment, waits for me to get inside before he leaves. And he tecahes me stuff I don’t understand, and he says nice things to me. Unlike that dickhead, Naoya.”
“What else?”
You groaned, “I’ve known him for what? Going two months maybe, and I don’t know how he really is,” Shoko raised her arms up in mock surrender, finally making sense of it all, “ask me again in a year.”
Shoko grimaced, “I could bet you right now that in a year, you and Satoru are going to be in a loving relationshi—”
You cut her off immediately, “No, I’m saying that I don’t think I’ll be dating anyone soon and that includes Satoru. Despite him being nice,” and why are you talking like he likes you anyways? You shook your head, “and he probably doesn’t see me that way too. We need to stop twisting a completely platonic relationship into something romantic. Yeah?”
“Touche.”
Another thought striked you, “Also,” Shoko already swiveled her face away, “what is with that reaction?”
Shoko blew out a loud and dramatic sigh, “I just know that you’re gonna ask me something about Satoru’s life.”
True, “It’s just pure curiosity. How did he and his ex . . . You know, get together and broke up?” Shoko raises a brow in amusement, “Just curious.”
Shoko’s eyes glinted in a cheshire way, “Glad you asked, I actually just got the full information for that not too long ago. I’m taking full responsibility for what he’s going to say when you tell him that you know about it,” she straightened herself up, “they started dating two years ago. I actually know the girl, which is shocking to me when he told me about it because Suguru and I do not like her at all.”
“Apparently, since college years they had been talking behind our backs. Getting close and all. He confessed that after we graduated, he and his ex-girlfriend apparently started going out a few months after — and mind you, he kept it all a secret until . . .” She points at you and herself, “until all three of us met up so I could match the both of you up. I just knew, and pushed him to tell me about it; also, he got cheated on.”
“Why do you hate the girl?” You questioned.
Shoko hummed, “I wouldn’t say hate. My mistake, I strongly dislike her because we were partnered up a couple of times for a group project and she couldn’t contribute to anything. And by anything, I mean anything. Not even printing costs, transportations, I had to work on everything myself — I did rat her out to my professor and she didn’t pass the class. It’s a mutual thing.”
“Why did she chea—”
Shoko stares deep into your eyes, “All I know is that she never really thought that he was worthy of anything. She just thought he was easy,” you look down at the coffee — the dark brown liquid turning a bit lighter from the melted ice, “we might not see each other much. But, the one thing I can say about Satoru is that when he loves, he loves. And you don’t find that often. So, I guess finding out about this the hard way was very saddening for him.”
You bobbed your head, understanding the situation. “And you know what’s funny?”
Shoko toyed with her straw, “She cheated on him with another mutual good friend of ours,” you bit your lip.
“That sucks.”
“Totally. For someone who just got cheated on, he seems pretty okay — which is also one of his habit, you should take notes. He’s a lonely kid, doesn’t live with his parents anymore. I don’t even think he lives with them back when he was a kid at all. Hard for him to make friends, and he doesn’t talk much if you don’t talk first. So, I guess he felt the comfort with you. That’s good. He loves going outside if he has someone to go with, besides that? He locks himself in and plays games.”
The information opened a new vision and you nod your head, “Okay. Okay. Thank you . . .”
“Thanks for driving me.”
Shoko pokes her head out, “Hey, the alleyway’s pretty dark. Sure you can walk alone? I don’t mind risking a shif—”
“No, your shift is to save lives, gosh. I’ll be okay,” you waved your hand slowly, ushering her away, “it’s fine. Thanks for driving me home, Ieiri. Safe trips home,” Shoko smiles at you, rolling her windows up. You hear her honk three times before taking off into the streets.
The messages end right then and there, and you look around; night breeze caressing your skin gently — walking towards the wall right by the mouth of the alley, you plant your back to it. Shifting left and right, bored. Hands shoved right inside the pockets of your pants to warm them from the crispy air, shoulders rolling in a shiver. You had no idea why you were waiting for him too, maybe a part of you wanted him to walk you inside after all.
No longer than 10 minutes later, his familiar Sedan parked right by the sidewalk in front of you. A small smile tinged on your face at the sight of white mop of hair, instinctively you walked closer to him. The streaks of dark green paint and red ones on his cheek were apparent, and a shy smile displayed on his face.
“Sorry, did you wait long?” He brushed his hands against his white shirt —no, not white anymore. Barely even white actually, it had paint all over it now, and you were sure it was a result of his tree and prop making— Satoru looks down at you, “It’s chilly. You didn’t bring a jacket?”
Your head shook lightly, “No. I didn’t think it was gonna be this cold,” truthfully, it wasn’t actually that cold. You just couldn’t help but to agree at his statement, in fact the words came out before you could process it, “you came all the way here just to walk me inside here,” your hand gestured towards the mouth of the entrance.
Satoru took off his glasses, shouldering the sweat on his nosebridge, “Yeah. If you haven’t noticed, it’s creepy in there. Instead of you getting scared alone, we should be scared together,” he was scared all this time? Now the guilt pooled on the bottom of your stomach, swirling at his words.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
His fingers slid the glasses back into place, and the alluring cerulean glinted happily, “I actually wanted to, and I’m more than happy to do it. It’s my decision, no?” Smart, you bobbed your head in agreement, not being able to deny that, “Let’s get you home then.”
He walks first, guiding you into the alleyway. Satoru was tall enough to hide your view in front, all you could see is the outline of his back, and it made you feel safe. Satoru pops out of the other side with a smile, the streaks of paint crinkling under the strain of his skin, “How was your day?”
“Good,” you answered him slowly, “yours?”
Is he about to flex about his strength again? Satoru parts his lips, “Better now. It was tiring, but at least we got to meet. Ice cream tomorrow then? We can agree on that, right?” You grinned at him.
contents. nsfw! mdni. dom! nerdjo x fem! reader. est rel: dating. college au. unprotected piv. cǒckwarming. riding. praise + slight degradation if you squint. he’s just frustrated. reader’s called: baby + sweetheart. art creds: to00fu ˖ ࣪ . ࿐
studying for your biology final with satoru is hard. not because the material is, although the krebs cycle is currently working overtime to melt your brain into a puddle.
or because your boyfriend is a bad a tutor — he’s an amazing one. so patient, never getting frustrated when you mix up steps or forget what comes next.
and it’s definitely not because you’re not smart.
studying with satoru is hard because there’s always a fundamental conflict of interest. while you’re clawing at his sweats and t-shirt, slipping your tank top off, and trying to drag him into bed, he’s swatting your hands away and redirecting your attention to the textbook open between you
it’s hard for both of you. you can see the war raging behind his cerulean eyes, the way his gaze flickers from the desperate arch of your back to the highlighted text on the page.
satoru hates denying his pretty, wildly out-of-his-league girlfriend anything. but he’s also stubbornly, infuriatingly determined to see you pass this biochem exam.
he wants you to succeed, to prove that his brilliant girlfriend is more than just a pretty face. and you, right now, just want to feel him inside you.
“toru, please,” you whine, looping your arms around his neck, nuzzling the soft ivory hair at his nape. “my brain’s fried. we’ve been studying for hours. ‘m boreddd! i need a break.”
“a break is what got you a c- on your midterm,” he says, voice stern, though he doesn’t pull away from your touch. you can feel the tension in his shoulders, the way his muscles are coiled tight. “we’re almost through the unit. please focus”
“fuck the unit,” you murmur, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his neck. “fuck me. i want to be close to you”
he heaves a tortured groan, catching your wrist as your hand starts to drift down the front of his sweatpants. “not right now, baby”
“oh . . .i get it” you huff, pulling back. the rejection stings, even though you know it’s not personal. he just wants the best for you “you think i’m chopped.”
satoru’s head whips around, his brows furrowing in genuine confusion. “chopped? baby what are you talking about?”
“chopped,” you repeat, crossing your arms over your chest. “you know. like. . . unattractive . is that why you don’t want me? because you think i’m chopped?”
he just stares at you, his mouth slightly agape, expression shifting from confusion to utter disbelief.
“unattractive,” he says, propping his elbows on the textbook, completely abandoning the pretense of studying. “you think i find you unattractive.”
“well you’re not exactly jumping at the chance to touch me,” you mumble, feeling your cheeks heat up under his intense gaze.
he lets out a short, sharp laugh, completely devoid of humor. he grabs your hand, the one he’d just rejected, and slams it palm-down against his sweatpants. “does that feel like i think you’re unattractive?” he snaps
you shake your head, a quiet flustered breath escaping as you try to avoid eye contact.
“you think this is easy for me?” he murmurs, blue eyes darkening. “you think i want to be reading about flavin adenine dinucleotides when my girlfriend is sitting here looking like a wet dream and trying to get her hand down my pants? it’s taking every ounce of my self-control not to bend you over this desk and fuck you”
your breath hitches. you didn’t think he’d actually fall for your ragebait
“but i won’t,” he continues, gently holding your hand in his. “because i’m not just your boyfriend. i’m your tutor. and i care more about you passing this exam than i do about my dick feeling good for ten minutes. so no, i don’t think you’re chopped baby. you’re a beautiful distraction, and i’m trying to do the right thing here.”
he’s so sincere, so stubbornly devoted, it makes your chest ache.
“so” he sighs, tone shifting back to something softer, the sharp edge of his earlier frustration melting away. “are you going to stop pouting and let me teach you about the krebs cycle or are we going to have to find a way to make you focus?”
you blink meekly at him, at the way his shoulders slump slightly as he runs a hand through his already messy hair, a gesture of weary surrender.
he wants to be a good boyfriend, and a responsible tutor. but he also wants you. you decide to push your luck.
“i don’t know,” you hum, your voice a sultry lull “i have a very short attention span. i think you’re going to have to make me focus”
“can we at least compromise sweetheart?” he pleads, his voice dropping to that soft, persuasive tone he knows you can’t resist. “i know you’re bored. i know you want me. but i won’t be able to live with myself if you fail this exam.”
you want to stay mad, to maintain your pout, but it’s impossible when he talks to you like that.
“what kind of compromise?” you ask, your voice still a little sullen, but the fight has been drained out of it
a slow smile spreads across his face. he knows he has you. “you get what you want,” he says. “but we do it my way.”
your interest is piqued. “your way?”
“mhmm,” he hums, hands coming to rest on your thighs. his thumbs strokes the sensitive skin there. “you’ve been so good, sitting here and trying so hard. you deserve a reward. but it’s going to be a productive one.”
you have absolutely no idea what he’s talking about, but the promise in his voice is enough to make you nod in agreement.
“you want me inside you so bad? fine. you’re going to sit on my lap, and you’re going to keep my cock warm while we finish this unit. you get what you want, and i get what i want. okay?”
it’s a great idea, really. a perfect one. satoru gets to be your mean tutor and you get the satisfaction of being filled by him, even if it’s not the hard, fast fuck you’re craving.
“okay,” you agree, a blinding smile tugging at your lips. you’re going to be the death of him.
satoru doesn’t waste any time. he shoves the textbook aside and pulls you onto his lap. your skirt bunches around your hips as you straddle him on the creaky desk chair.
with deft, practiced movements, he hooks his thumbs into your panties and slides them down your legs. then he shrugs down his sweatpants just enough to free his cock.
he’s already rock-hard, his tip flushed a deep, angry red and beading with pearlescent pre-cum. he gives himself a few lazy strokes, cerulean eyes locked on yours, before positioning himself at your entrance. “all the way down,” he murmurs. “and then you stay still. understand?”
“mhm” you nod, breath catching in your throat. you rise up on your knees and slowly sink down, taking him inch by inch. you’re so wet he slides in so, so easily. your walls clench around him greedily. he groans, his head falling back against the chair as you settle in his lap, his entire length buried inside you.
“fuuuck,” he breathes, his hands flying to your hips to hold you still. “you’re— mghh— so tight.”
“toru please”you whimper. you want to move, to rock your hips, to ride him until you’re both a mess, but you force yourself to stay still, just like he asked you to.
he reaches for the textbook, propping it open against your back. the positioning is awkward, but it works.
“focus,” he says, his voice a little shaky “where were we baby? acetyl-coa combines with oxaloacetate to form citrate. what’s the enzyme?”
“citrate synthase,” you manage to gasp out.
“good. and citrate is then converted to isocitrate by aconitase. what happens next sweetheart?”
you try to focus, you really do. but your body betrays you. the feeling of him twitching inside you is just too distracting. you can feel your sweet slickness coating him, soaking the fabric of his sweatpants. you can’t help the tiny, involuntary roll of your hips.
“what did i say about staying still?” he frowns, grip tightening on your hips.
“but toruuu,” you whine, grinding down against him again, “i need . . . pleasepleaseplesse— pl”
“baby no” he tuts, his voice low and mean. “we’re almost through the unit. can you be patient for me? please? just a little longer?”
“you’re so mean” you glare at him over you shoulder. to his relief, you finally stop squirming and just sit still
“that’s my girl,” he murmurs, placing a gentle kiss on your shoulder. a sweet gesture that makes your cunt clench around him. “you’re perfect.”
to your credit, you try. for half an hour you answer all his questions, your voice wavering as you fight the urge to move. core tightening as he murmurs sweet praises against the curve of your neck
every time he shifts to turn a page, his cock drags against your walls, a constant reminder of what you’re not getting. you really can’t take it anymore. you start to move, a slow, deliberate grind that drags his cock against your most sensitive spots.
“mghh toru” you’re not trying to make yourself cum, not yet. you’re trying to provoke him. you just want to feel something more than the passive fullness.
satoru shakes his head, his voice strained. “two more pages, baby. c’mon just wait — fuuuck —you’ve been such a perfect student so far”
his praise is meaningless and irrelevant now. all that matters is the ache between your legs. you’re rutting hard against him now, chasing a high that remains just out of reach.
you can’t. you can’t think. you try to move, to drive yourself towards an orgasm, but it’s no use. the angle is all wrong. you can’t make yourself cum like this, not without satoru moving in sync with you.
satoru tries to maintain his composure. he clears his throat and tries to read a section out loud, but his voice is a wrecked, broken mess. “the. . . the regeneration . . step. . . please baby… malate. . . closes the cy— hck. . . cycle”
that’s it. that’s his breaking point. he can’t do it anymore. the words dissolve into a choked groan as you grind down particularly hard, your slick walls clenching around him. your wanton moans reverberating in his ears
with a guttural whimper, he finally tosses the textbook away. it lands with a heavy thud on the floor. his hands fly to your hips, grip bruisingly tight.
“you just couldn’t wait, could you?” he says despondently. “you’re just too impatient, you don’t listen to me and i’m not going to tutor you anymore”
( it’s the emptiest threat you’ve ever heard, you’ve got him wrapped around your finger )
you don’t answer. you wince as you twist around in his lap, a meticulous movement that brings you face to face with him. you loop your arms around his neck, your bare chest pressed flush against his t-shirt, and look him dead in the eye. your gaze is a silent plea for him to finally give in.
he meets your gaze, bright blue eyes burning with intensity. he does give in. with a breathy moan, he thrusts up into you.
“oh my—” the first thrust is so hard it steals all the air from your lungs. it’s not the gentle roll you’re accustomed to. it’s a harsh snap of his hips that nudges against a spot inside you that makes you see stars. you cry out, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt for purchase.
“oh, you wanted this,” he pants, his face mere inches from yours. his eyes are burning, all traces of your nerdy, doting boyfriend gone. “don’t pretend you didn’t — mhh— this is what you’ve been pestering me for.”
he rolls his hips again, another deep thrust that lifts you slightly off his lap. he’s not holding back anymore, using the strength in his thighs and core to fuck up into you, over and over.
“fuuuck! s’too much toru ,” you moan,head falling back. he bends his head to press hot, open-mouthed kisses to your neck, his teeth scraping lightly against your skin.
“look at me,” he murmurs. when you don’t obey immediately, one of his hands leaves your hip to gently cup your jaw, tilting your face forward, forcing you to meet his radiating gaze. “you wanted my attention, you have it. so— mghh keep your eyes on me”
each thrust is a powerful grind that sends jolts of electricity through your body. the desk chair groans and creaks beneath you, the obscene sound mixing with the wet, slick noises of your bodies and your broken, breathless moans.
“is this what you needed?” he breathes out, jaw clenched with effort. “you care hck about this more than passing your final?“
“yes,” you sob, the word torn from your throat. “fuckfuckfuck please don’t stop ‘toru.”
“my perfect girl” he groans, his voice breaking. “love it when you beg. you sound so pretty.” his praise only fuels the fire building in your core.
“you’re so wet— fuuuck you’re drowning me,” he whimpers, his gaze dropping to where your bodies are joined. “look at the mess you’re making mmh all over my sweats. you’re driving me crazy.”
you can only gasp in response, your ability to form coherent thoughts or sentences completely gone. the pressure in your core winds tighter and tighter. you can feel it in your thighs, in the base of your skull, in every single nerve ending.
“toruuu, i. . i’m going to. . . ” you trail off, eyes squeezing shut as he relentlessly grind into you “mghh i can’t— fuuuck i can’t take it”
“shhh it’s okay baby,” he murmurs, his pace becoming almost frantic. “i’ve got you. need to feel mhh feel you cum on my cock”
the sheer need in his voice is what finally pushes you over the edge. your orgasm completely shatters you, your body convulses as your walls clench and flutter around him.
“you’re so beautiful,” satoru sighs, his thrusts becoming erratic as he chases his own release. burying himself deep inside and painting your insides white.
you slump forward, trembling. he catches you, a strong arm wrapping around your waist, and he immediately laces his fingers through yours.
he presses soft, reverent kisses to your shoulder, the curve of your neck, any inch of skin he can reach, his body still shuddering with the aftershocks of your release. he stays buried inside you, lips never ceasing their gentle worship of your skin.
for a long moment, the only sound in the room is your ragged breathing and the frantic pounding of your hearts.
when you can finally form words again, you lift your head and look at him. his face is flushed, his lips are puffy and swollen, his foggy glasses askew on his nose.
“are you really going to stop tutoring me?” you pout leaning closer, lightly tugging at the hem of his t-shirt. “do you hate me that much toru?”
you’re completely aware that your pretty face and a little well-timed pout can completely unravel him. you revel in pushing just enough, saying just enough to watch the smartest guy on campus stumble over his words.
you throw him off balance on purpose. and he knows it, but that doesn’t make him any less susceptible to it. despite knowing better, he still falls for it every time. because he’s hopelessly devoted to you.
“no baby, i would never,” he sputters, pushing his glasses up “even if you’re not always the best student, you’re still my favorite one.”
satoru looks completely wrecked. it just makes you want him even more
you lean in and press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. “i personally think i was an amazing student,” you whisper, pulling back just enough to look him in the eye, “now, take me to bed and fuck me properly.”
your husband, nanami kento, disrupts your pilates session?! ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ac. thatsallitchief
“next, we’re gonna lift the right arm with the left leg and vice versa! thaaaat’s it.”
grunts and groans fill the living room as you desperately try to keep up with the lady on the youtube video doing pilates.
yep, apparently this is your new fixation (starting today).
but… you aren’t exactly the most active person there is.
“fuck!” your head slams against the floor mat, neck muscles already strained to the max.
your husband—nanami kento—ever so attentive, looked up from the novel he’s reading to take a peek at you.
the corner of his lips hold back from a smirk and you can already predict what he’s about to say.
“what.”
“nothing, darling.” he hides his face behind the book, and you’re seething with anger.
as such, you storm over to nanami and straddle his lap, throwing his book to the side of the couch.
he bursts into a laugh, covering his mouth with his palm and it just aggravates you on how adorable he is.
“what? what is it? why’re you laughing, huh?” you even start laughing too! what the hell!
nanami wraps his big arms around your body and plasters kisses all over your face.
“stop-“ kiss. “-it,” kiss. “kentoooo!”
he squeezes your cheeks and shivers from the amount of cuteness aggression he has right now. “my love, i was simply enjoying the view. you looked so adorable all focused and grumpy.”
“i’m not grumpy.” you pout. he kisses your pout away.
you sigh, “maybe i’m not meant to be a pilates girl.”
“you’re my girl, that counts for something, right?” he says softly. you smack his chest and giggle. “you’re so corny”
“you’re corni…er. i don’t see why you need to do all this when your body’s perfect already.” nanami gently swipes the hair out of your face and tucks it behind your ear.
“i just wanna be healthyyyyuh. plus i’ve got the mobility of an 80 year old, ken. i’m only 20!”
he kisses you again. and again. and again, until he finally whispers in your ear.
“let me worship you, baby. you’ll sweat more from it than dumb pilates.”
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neighbour higuruma loves to watch you masturbate through your bedroom window.
the first time was an accident. higuruma had just arrived home after a long day of work, shoulders heavy and eyes barely holding themselves open. a flash of light had caught his attention—you, his neighbour, light bracketing you as you pass your window in nothing but a small, lacy bra. his attention caught like a fly to honey, he’d found himself a slave to his own desires as he laid witness to your nightly routine. he’d watched you pull yourself apart, and wished it was his hands putting you back together.
it quickly becomes the small pleasure that lights up his day. he feels disgusting every time—he knows he should tell you, knows that he should stop looking. it’s invasive in a way that makes him sick to think of others doing the same to him. you’d hate him if you knew.
he watches anyway. it rapidly integrates itself into his nightly routine. he works until the sun has dipped below the horizon. he returns home with an unending ache in his back, a throbbing pain in his fingers, an iron weight around his heart. then he sheds his coat, runs a hand through his hair, and settles down on the armchair in his living room and watches as your bedroom light highlights your silhouette.
you always look so beautiful like that. you prance around your apartment in your underwear, lit up by the warm lights you always keep on. every time you retreat to your bedroom, he feels like it’s a show just for him. you grab a toy—this time a vibrator—and look down at it for just long enough for him to get a glimpse. when you lie down on your bed, arching your back and stretching indecently, he knocks his knees slightly wider.
you’re beautiful. you always take it so slow to start, tracing meaningless patterns around your breasts, your thighs, streaks of sensation beneath feather-light fingertips. he palms over himself idly, watching with heavy breaths. by the time you dip between your folds, fingers sliding easily, he’s hard enough to carve stone from the wait. you really know how to tease. he frees his cock from his pants as you spread your thighs wider, tracing slowly around your clit. he rubs his thumb over his cock as you arch on a gasp, fingers pressing with more pressure. when you finally bring your vibrator to your core, rubbing it where you’re sensitive, he strokes himself at a pace as steady as it is passionate; a physical means of getting off on the internal high of watching you fall apart. he comes with your name on his lips, a broken groan that tears itself from his chest.
when it’s done, he cleans himself up and watches you disappear into the shower, wishing you a quiet, guilty good night. the sickening clarity after the act almost outweighs the high of watching it. still, come the weekend, he’s out on his balcony talking to you from yours; you giggle at a joke he makes, invite him to come over, and he feigns unfamiliarity like he hasn’t memorised the layout of your apartment from his nights perving through your window. when he returns home, it doesn’t take long for you to pull out a dildo—it doesn’t take much longer for him to notice.
(one night, you’re going to catch him looking and come harder than you have in months. he’ll be so sick with guilt he avoids you for weeks. yet, every night you’ll keep masturbating with your curtains open and your lights on, hoping with a blooming perversion. every night, he’ll find himself watching.)
fwb higuruma is jealous of your growing relationship with nanami.
higuruma knows he has no right to feel jealous. he was the one to set the terms when you first got together, to ensure you both stayed just on the right side of casual. you’re not dating, you’re not committed, you’re not anything more than friends that fuck occasionally. it’s all he’d allow himself. it’s all he thought he needed from you, until nanami kento came into the picture.
the shift occurs seemingly overnight. one day, you’re fucking casually and laughing together right after. you stay the night, you have breakfast together, and he leaves for work with the evidence of your exploits carved into his back while his passion blooms across your skin. the next, you’re leaving as soon as you’ve come.
the first time it happens, he feels like he could be sick. you’ve just hooked up after a stressful day at work, and he finally can relax. finally, because he doesn’t realise quite how relaxing your presence is until you’re immediately sitting up, shaking your legs and arching your back on a long stretch.
“same time next week?” you ask conversationally. he stares, startled, and only thinks to nod as he watches you dress quickly. you’re not usually so quick to dress—most of the time, you both lounge naked in bed until the sun rises.
“got somewhere to be?” hiromi replies after a moment, brows furrowed in confusion.
you flash him a grin. “yeah. i have a date with that guy i told you about—nanami kento?”
nanami kento. the name quickly becomes the bane of his existence. more than the righteous anger of his job, more than the minor annoyances of daily inconveniences, that name pisses him off. it’s like a two-word trigger to ruining his day. the name nanami kento escapes your beautiful lips, and he’s forced to seethe in anger until the next time he gets you in his bed.
nanami kento takes over your life. higuruma learns about him slowly through quick asides and brief mentions. nanami is your age, he’s blonde, a business man that still makes time for you, a gentleman that always pays for you on dates. he buys you flowers, he opens the door for you, he lends you his jacket at the slightest shiver. he’s the picture-perfect boyfriend, and he’s clearly trying to get his teeth on you.
nanami kento drags you out of hiromi’s bed before the sun rises. he encroaches on your time together. you’ll be with hiromi, ranting about something that interests you, just to be interrupted by a text from nanami kento. you’ll be mid makeout and be called by nanami kento. you’ll be freshly fucked, breathless and lazy, then pick up your phone because you have plans with kento for dinner.
your time together is coming to a close. he knows it is. this nanami kento may be perfect, but there’s no world in which he’d be okay with you staying so close to a hook up. even when you both insist you’re just friends with benefits, he knows you’ve always toyed the line of something more. you’re too open, too vulnerable. twice a week, you fall into bed together. you fuck, you calm down with a leisurely make out and slow conversation, then you spend the night spooned in his arms. you wake together in the morning, share a quiet breakfast, and kiss each other on your way out his door to begin your commute to work together. you’re all but dating already.
so hiromi knows that sooner or later, he’ll be left behind in favour of a brighter prospect. why wouldn’t you? nanami kento is actually willing to commit, to give you more than vague promises of a potential future.
(but you keep going back to bed with him. what does it mean? how do you wake up in bed with him, spend your day with the perfect kento, then return home—no, not home, never home—to hiromi once more?)
he knows it’s his fault. wasn’t higuruma the one to set the terms of your arrangement? didn’t he say he wasn’t looking for anything serious? he knows he only has himself to blame. these are the consequences of his own actions.
yet, he watches as nanami kento visits you at work. he looks at you pulling nanami kento into a hug as you greet him, arms looping around the man’s neck as his hands rest respectfully on your waist, and he thinks: that should be me.
A bet is classic. What could be more fun than targeting a sweet girl and making her fall in love with the reputable campus fuckboy? Surely he wouldn’t fall in love with you.
fratboy!gojo x f!reader
notes: I have seen sooooo many ideas and tiktoks about the trope of reader being a bet & it always hurts so good! wanted to try it out and ofc it had to be with fratboy gojo >:)))
warnings: angst obvi hehehe, drinking, cursing, reader is super sweet and a bet obvi, no comfort or happy ending (yet? who knows), mentions of vomiting but doesn’t, mentions of blood, reader is never someone’s first choice:(( ummmm, gojo is an asshole ofc
Credit to @uzmacchiato for the divider!!
Satoru knew he should've said no in the beginning, knew it wasn't worth it just to impress his friends- his stupid frat brothers who never took anything seriously. Never thought about the consequences of their actions.
Buuut the idea of the bet was just too good to turn down.
The effort, the build up, the dedication- it would all come together so perfectly, especially with you as the main star. With you being you, you were doomed from the start before the bet could even fully take shape.
Sweet little you. Shouldn't you have known better?
Going around, shamelessly wearing your heart on your sleeve, always spreading kindness on the darkest of days, looking and talking to people as if they genuinely mattered- and maybe to you, they actually did, even when they couldn't have cared less about returning the favor. Not that you ever expected anything in return.
And most importantly of it all? You were so understanding. Far too understanding for your own good. The debilitating type that had rooted itself early on as some sort of lousy defense mechanism and eventually morphed into something self destructive. Had you subconsciously constructing and molding subpar excuses to justify someone's behavior, especially when it was directed towards you.
Always being an overly empathetic thing, so willing to sacrifice and minimize your own feelings when it came to others, always softening their blow.
Were you desperate or something to get people to stay? So desperate that you had unintentionally turned yourself into a doormat that people could stomp all over?
Anybody could've told you that it was idiotic to try and see everyone at face value, to so naively believe the words people told you. But you could've argued the opposite.
It wasn't naivety. It was you, sweet and trusting you, determined to not let your past heartbreak change the way you viewed others, to not let it bias you, scare you, or haunt you. Despite having been constantly hurt, you refused to allow your past experiences make you question and doubt every. single. new. relationship.
Always trying to see the good in people.
It would have turned out great, perfectly actually. You had played your part with flying colors, just as expected, putting on the most spectacular, albeit unknown, performance. And Satoru? Well.
Things would have turned out great.
If he hadn't started falling in love with you.
But the show must go on.
“H-Hey, Satoru! Wait-wait a sec!” The words spilled from your lips in an unintentional desperate plea, the halls fully swarmed and packed with students squeezing past one another. Dozens of conversations mulled around you, voices mindlessly buzzing and bouncing off the walls as you paced towards the white haired man.
Satoru had been anything but clear as of recently, a new push pull dynamic he’d adopted that had you more confused and thrown off than ever. You thought you were going crazy.
One night he was taking you out, looking at you like you were his dream girl who hung the moon in his sky, and the next he was treating you like some clingy puppy that he had never even asked for in the first place. The hot and coldness of it all had given you whiplash trying to keep up with him.
But of course, of couuurrrse, you believed him when he said it was stress. That finals and exams had him so busy, but of course he liked you! He was just new at this whole communication thing and needed time but please Y/N, I like you so much please im trying.
You believed it all.
After all, why would you not? Especially when Satoru was Satoru and you were you.
Sure, you knew you could be a lot, knew you could have more than afforded to shut up every now and then and not chimed in with your over the top unnecessary eager commentary, but regardless, the point still stood. Satrou Gojo, one of the hottest most pined after frat boys on campus that everyone treated like a myth, like an untouchable legend, talked to you, was nice to you, even took you out and seemed happy to do so.
Maybe for once, the rumors could have been just rumors!
Plus, the last few times you remembered being taken out was high school, and they never showed you much interest past the first date once they learned they couldn't get in your pants. Gojo hadn't even tried!
“Sorry-excuse me,’cuse me, sorr- oops, my bad, imsosorry- Satoru!”
He'd been oddly silent the past few days, completely unresponsive to your texts. But with finals coming up, surely he must've been cramming and just far too busy to respond.
He hadn't sat next to you like usual in lecture, but he showed up late, so maybe he didn't want to bother you?
But he didn't wait for you after either, gone before you could even leave your seat. You couldn't deny how it stung, but always chalked it up to him being too busy or in a rush.
You could visibly see his shoulders tense from behind, the slight tilt of his head as it hung forward in what you could only assume was annoyance, a brief mental preparation to deal with you. A pang bloomed in your chest, unease pulsing through you.
He slowed down just enough for you to catch up, but didn't stop. Slightly out of breath, you fell into step next to him, cheeks flushing and heat creeping up your neck from his clear uneagerness to see or talk to you. You nervously swallowed. He could be intimidating when he wanted to be.
He didn't greet you, didn't look at you, just waited for you to speak.
You awkwardly cleared your throat to speak, a small and meek “hi,” being the only word to squeeze out.
“I’ve got class.” Short, quick, dismissive.
His blunt uninterested response sent doubt pummeling through you, the gifts in your pocket weighing heavier and heavier with the possibility of rejection more realistic than you initially thought.
He would draw you in, perfect words to butter you up and make you feel foolish for ever questioning him, and then he'd get like this. Not mean per se, but just so uninterested in you that you wondered if you had made it all up. You weren't dating (yet? So you were hoping) but he had kissed you on the most recent date. Didn't that mean something?
You'd been so ecstatic afterwards, but with no solid friends on campus, you had no one to tell or squeal to. You carried everything alone, both good and bad. Gojo knew that, the whole frat knew that. It's what made you the perfect choice.
“R-right, yeah! Um- can you stop just for a second- i wanted to-” and he loudly sighed, piercing blue eyes rolling into his head as he stopped to turn to you. He didn't say anything, just stared expectantly at you like you were completely wasting his time. His gaze on you was irritated.
The eye contact had you jittery. Not the usual nerves you'd get when you turned your head just to find him already looking at you, so anxious you’d somehow mess things up with the hottest guy ever, so desperate to be good enough for him. No. It was the on edge, antsy type that had you replaying every dumb thing you've ever said to him, the doubt pooling at the very bottom of your stomach that felt like a heavy black tar. It felt like a test you knew you’d fail when you had studied so hard to do good. You just wanted him to like you the way you liked him, and god, did you fucking like him.
Don't fuck this up, y/n, this is the best thing that has ever happened to you.
Nervously swallowing and cheeks blazing, you gave an uneasy awkward smile before rummaging through your tote bag and pocket, muttering a tiny but sincere “sorry,” when his foot started to impatiently tap against the floor.
A small pit formed in your stomach, feeling slightly mortified and very embarrassed. The feeling was similar to a child showing off their very mediocre work to an overly critical parent.
“Sorry,” you huffed a fake laugh, pulling out the small container from your bag and the keychain from your pocket.
“I-um, I made these for you, since you know, you said you loved cookies, uh on the date, they're um your favorite..” and your words trailed off as you held out the tin, slowly beginning to feel smaller and smaller as he kept his hands by his side, no show of trying to take it from you. A small sticky note on the top read, “Hope you like them! :D <3”
“Oh! A-and, hah, I saw this and, and I thought of you, especially since you said you really, um, really liked that show.” nothing. “J-Just as a um, thank you, for the other night. W-Was a lot, o-of fun.”
You held both hands out, praying he didn't see the slight tremble of your clammy hands holding the items as you stood there feeling like an idiot. The thumping of your heart picked up, eyes looking anywhere but at him, bowing your head just slightly so you wouldn't have to see him look so repulsed by you.
Had you somehow misread everything? Like actually? This entire interaction felt like some humiliation ritual.
“Um, if, if you want, o-of course, no.. no pressure,” You pathetically added, already trying to lessen his blow, already trying to minimize and justify his cold reaction towards you.
He let out a small snicker, hands finally coming up to grab the items from your unsteady hands. You hid the sigh of relief that you wanted to let out, so easy to please and already feeling happy again that he accepted your gifts, as if it was a nuisance for him to do so.
“Wow, thanks. You do too much,” he dully noted, a small closed lip smile gracing his pretty features before he turned on his feet to continue his trek to class.
The comment made you freeze, staring at the spot he stood in, a “thank you?” not even having the chance to leave your tongue. You didn't think he said it with mal intent, but the words ‘too much’ always seemed to find its way back to you.
“Oh wait!” Gojo's voice broke you from your thoughts, and you immediately turned to face him, eyes wide and excited like a dog hearing the word ‘walk.’ Maybe he'd talk to you some more, or want you to walk with him! Or maybe-
“Party this Friday night at the house. You should come by, all my friends will be there.” The words made you deflate. A party… at his frat house… the idea made your stomach twist with nerves. You knew no one, had no friends to go with, and you were absolutely horrified of embarrassing yourself around him- even more- than what you felt like you had already done.
“Oh! Um, haha, I don't think your friends like me- um- very much, haha,” you stated, hand coming up to push your fallen hair behind your ear, a small wince on your face as to not make it a big deal.
His friends, and Gojo at first too, had been relatively mean to you starting off, relentless teasing about your looks, your interests, hobbies, lack of knowledge you had despite trying so hard. You had been so caught off guard when he told you he liked you.
“Psh, they're just playing! See you at 10pm,” he yelled back, already walking away, arm coming up to carelessly wave. You sighed to yourself. You knew you would go. You really wanted to see gojo.
Friday night was a mess. A good mess at first, at least. Cars parked up and down the street, people packed in like sardines in and outside the house, music so loud all the neighboring dorms and frats could hear, and god did it reek like sweat and musk.
The two shots - okay maybe three - you took right before for liquid courage seemed to do the exact opposite as you maneuvered around a couple making out, small “excuse me’s” falling from your lips every second in a measly attempt to find gojo.
The small revealing outfit you had on, at least, seemed to match the vibe, relieved when you saw girls wearing far less. The only con was that your favorite knee high boots would most definitely get stepped on, but at least you were taller now as you searched for the stark white tufts of hair.
The house thrummed from the vibration of the speakers, bass so heavy your teeth rattled. It was dark, the only light illuminating the rooms were colorful shades of blues, purples, reds, and greens shining and flashing everywhere. The party felt like everything you weren't, but for a split second you were almost proud of yourself, going so far out of your comfort zone it felt like you were on a whole other planet. You imagined how fun these parties could be if you had any friends, and before you could let the thought get you down, you let your tipsy self imagine what it would be like to experience these with gojo by your side, excited that you were about to.
Like the rest of the house, the kitchen was packed. Unable to find Gojo had you seeking out another drink and the multitude of bottles of liquor that covered the surfaces were calling your name. You felt confident, wanting another drink to keep your courage and vibes up, grabbing a red solo cup and creating a concoction that would be far too strong, but you were here to let loose right? You were at a party!
Further encouraged and emboldened when a girl passing by stopped to compliment you, you smiled to yourself, feeling the tension roll off your back and a new found self-assurance bloom within you.
Bodies flowed and worked around you, not shoving into you or looking at you like you didn't belong, but moved in rhythm near you, like you had every right to be there and fit just fine. You relaxed into the music, earlier shots of vodka giving you a nice buzz that warmed your skin, made your cheeks tingle, and more importantly a soft happiness that weighed in your chest that comforted you like a safety blanket. Pouring the liquor into the cup with a mixer that admittedly was way too little, you knocked over a different cup, relieved there was barely any liquid that spilled over.
Quietly giggling to yourself, you spun to grab a roll of paper towels, quickly drying up the small mess you made, already sipping on your drink that made you wince in disgust. It was perfect. You hummed along to the music, hips swaying while lights blinded you, walking over to the metal garbage can to toss the wet material. Looking inside, you couldn't help but notice the tupperware that looked exactly like yours.
Furrowing your eyebrows, you leaned in a little closer, tiny fractures cutting into your heart as you realized it was yours, still packed to the brim with your cookies, sticky note still stuck to the top. Next to the cookies, the keychain you had bought him.
You froze, just a moment before scooting back, not wanting to get caught staring into the trashcan as you processed everything. There was a dull ache in your chest, energy immediately depleting and inklings of shame and embarrassment circulating through you. Your mind worked through the different possibilities, seeking out any excuse or reason as to why your items now lay forgotten in the trash.
You felt the build up of tears, blinking them back with a shaky breath as you chugged your mixture that was mainly liquor, a hopeless attempt at suppressing the sadness you felt. You shivered, turning your head to gag at the disgusting taste. Surely all the alcohol would calm your nerves.
Maybe one of the guys had done it? And not Gojo? You were positive this was all some sort of misunderstanding, no way he would just do that right? He told you he liked you- it wouldn't make any sense.
You began your trek around the sea of people, legs a little more unsteady now, eyes slightly glassy, contents of your stomach filled with a majority of alcohol and barely any food from your earlier nerves. All you wanted to do was find him, figure out an explanation that you were positive you'd be more than willing to accept, and spend the rest of the night by his side having a good time. The cookies weren't hard to bake and it's not like the keychain cost that much- it was fine, you were fine.
A little more intense this time, you made your way through the frat house, a sigh of relief when a glimpse of that notorious white fluffy hair came into view, a black backwards baseball cap sitting perfectly on his head. When your eyes finally landed on gojo, albeit still a little wobbly and throat tight, you couldn't help the smile that automatically formed on your face, hoping he'd feel the same. Why wouldn't he? He did invite you after all.
He was surrounded by his friends and then some, everyone dialed in on what he was saying. You anxiously stepped forward, waiting for the right time to get close to him and say hello. You wondered if he'd hug you and say ‘hi baby,’ like he sometimes did. The thought made your heart flutter inside its ribs like a bird in a cage.
Maybe he'd even compliment your outfit, or your hair and makeup. You eagerly bit your lip, too excited to be embarrassed at your spiraling thoughts of being somewhat wanted by him.
“Bro and then she gave me a fuck ass keychain, dude!!” he broke up his commentary with a laugh, a little too forced for it to be genuine, but a laugh nonetheless. “Said it reminded her of me, like, she just can't get any weirder bro. God and don't get me started on the cookies. She said it was her thanks for taking her out, but she doesnt know its all a bet to get into her pants- shes a fucking virgin for sureeee, threw that shit out as soon as i got back,” and he snickered and grinned like he had won the best prize. Like he had formed the best, most elaborate plan and you had played your part perfectly. You really, really had.
His friends, who you recognized as toji and maybe sukuna, chuckled, all chiming in with terms of agreement and encouragement, adding on all sorts of lies and theories about you, like maybe you were secretly a whore putting out, your innocent act a devious little facade. Geto, who had always been kind to you, was there too, perched against the side of a couch, not joining in, but silent and accepting.
You flinched, physically recoiling back when you heard them laugh about how you were too much, too pathetic to see right through anything at all, a fucking stupid girl for thinking someone like you could have a chance at him. Everything you had told yourself, every insecurity that had coursed through you, all confirmed. Others really did view you the way you saw yourself.
“Bro and when I kissed her, swear i almost gagged-”
You drowned his voice out, the music. There was a ringing in your ears that wasn't there before. Frozen in your spot, fingers beginning to shake, throat burning so badly you weren't sure if the alcohol you had downed was about to make a surprise appearance or not.
The bodies around you blurred as the pit in your stomach grew, humiliation washing over you as if you’d just been doused with a bucket full of ice water. You didn't run, couldn't, feet glued to the floor as you were forced to listen to the group of the hottest guys on campus who didn't even know you as a person, didn't take the time to learn you, ridicule you and make fun of you. You guessed it didn't matter, because Gojo had.
Each breath was labored and jagged, chest tightening and skin prickling with such an intense heat that you felt constricted in the already sparse clothes you wore. The way the fabric dug into you, a certain stitch that scratched you, the zipper that rubbed against your skin - it felt like you were suddenly aware of every unpleasant feeling in addition to the shattering of your heart.
You wanted to go home, wanted the floor to swallow you whole- felt so unbelievably silly standing there watching the guy you liked- fuck, the guy you had fallen in love with- paint you out to be some weird nasty creature who was undeserving of his attention. Sure, you had felt that way initially, but he had been so kind to you that you had been so blindsided, unknowingly setting yourself up to fall right back into your constant cycle of heartbreak and misery.
Built up tears finally broke the surface, some beginning to stream down your face and others just dropping from the sheer amount that had welled up. It wasn't until gojo turned his head, eyes landing directly on you and smile completely dropping that your legs became unstuck.
Your breath hitched, crackling sob breaking through as your saliva grew sticky. The extra drinks sure to make you vomit after this. You spun so fast you lost balance for a split second on your heels, immediately righting yourself and pushing through the sweaty bodies blocking you in. You didn't say sorry or excuse me, just pummeled through, desperate to get outside so that maybe you could finally breathe. You felt like a pig in makeup, and the thought made you cry harder. So beyond embarrassed, having dressed up and done your hair and makeup, mortified that everyone else thought you looked just as ugly and silly. You had to get out of here, the air was too thick and stuffy as the walls closed in on you.
Your name fell on deaf ears, sprinting out the front door and down the porch steps, surroundings a blur from not only how fast you were moving, but the alcohol that coursed through you. You knew the gifts were stupid, sure, but everything else? The kiss? He wanted to gag? All the times he called you pretty, beautiful, yes, it was more than plausible that it was a lie, but why did he say it all then? That's right, because you were supposedly just a fucking bet.
Who would willingly want to be with you?
Gojo called your name again, louder. You weren't the only one sick to your stomach. He cursed, heart dropping to his ass as the overwhelming suffocating feeling of guilt bloomed inside of his chest, heart quite literally constricting at how shitty, how fucking disgusting, he felt. It spread throughout him and he would've thought it was dramatic if it didn't feel like he could currently drop to his knees and heave. The entire situation was beyond fucked up, everything a misunderstanding and completely not at the same time.
“Fuck fuck fuck,” he repeated, hoarse and panicked as he immediately trailed after you, abruptly leaving the conversation mid sentence, not caring how he looked when all the guys stared at him in confusion. He lost sight of you for a moment but knew you'd only try to leave, escape the perfect hell he had just created for you.
Why the fuck did he do this? How the fuck was he gonna make this up to you, and why had he let himself get involved in this shitty idea anyway? He knew he should've called it off, he knew he had fallen for you.
Muttering insults as hands came out to grab at him, others trying to talk and some pulling him in for a dance. He didn't look, didn't care who they were, practically throwing and shoving their hands off him with only you in mind. He would explain everything to you, lay himself bare and expose the ugliness and insecurities that festered inside of him.
He had been projecting this entire time, exhausted from maintaining such an ugly facade of the frat fuckboy, desperately trying to fit in with everyone else that he stupidly agreed to the bet just to feel some type of belonging and companionship. All at the expense of you.
He didn't think, that was his issue. So caught up in this fake lifestyle that he knew the act wasn't just pretend anymore, his morals slipping by the day as he settled into this new once foreign character. They were all fucking assholes. All of them.
Fingers tightly clenching your almost dead phone, you bawled, frustration making you grit your teeth in additional annoyance when the sidewalk wouldn't stay straight. Accidentally stepping off the concrete, your heel caught on the edge, sending you falling onto all fours on the pavement, too drunk to care about the pain that shot up your wrists and knees. You let out a guttural infuriated noise, a mix between a squeal and growl, feeling so much more than just pissed and heartbroken. You furiously smashed your palm against the concrete as if it held the blame.
“Fuck, hey, shit, are you okay??”
Gojo's palm rested on your back and in the blink of an eye you stumbled up, whipping around to face him seething and disgusted as tears continued to stream down your cheeks.
“Don't fucking touch me,” you spat backing away from him as if he had physically struck you, and at this point you thought you would’ve almost preferred that over the gut wrenching feeling in your chest. There was a physical pain that tore throughout you, your heart feeling like sharp talons had ripped it out and stomped on it like an attempt at snuffing out a flame.
If you had it in you, you would’ve laughed at his expression, so devastated and hurt and torn as if he wasn't the one who caused all this, as if he wasn't the one who could've prevented everything. He had the audacity to stare at you like he was scared of losing you.
“Please, please y/n, i can explain, I am so sorry, please,” and it was as equally pathetic as it was infuriating. gojo pathetically begged, arms awkwardly reaching towards you as if you were the solution.
You paused, tongue loose and words slurred, staring at him bewildered as you threw your palms up. He wasn't who you thought he was. Or maybe he was exactly who everybody said he was and it was your fault for thinking otherwise.
“I thought you liked digimon??”
He swore, hands coming up to drag down his face. You saw. Saw your cookies and the keychain you bought him in the garbage.
“That wasn't me, I swear, please believe me, I swear- I-I got back from class, one of the guys saw and- and started laughing, they took it from me before I could even say anything. They tossed it, and I swear, please believe me, I was gonna grab it after, I-I love Digimon, I loved your gifts, please.”
He was breathless now, a fruitless panicked attempt at defending himself.
You scoffed. “Sure it wasn't too much?”
Gojo winced, hands curling. “I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it like that-” You cut him off, angrily sniffing and wiping your bloody gravel pricked hands against your black mini skirt. God you felt ridiculous.
“Yeah?? Which fucking part??” Your voice raised an octave, almost yelling but you didn't care as passerbyers turned their heads. You spewed the words, moving forward just to angrily shove at his chest, blood smearing his white shirt. Good, you wanted to stain his shit, wipe your blood all over it.
He took advantage of the proximity, quickly but lightly wrapping his large hands around your wrists to keep you close. You screeched, thrashing in his hold, weakly trying to hit him, shove him, and with his loose grip, he let you, your small fists pounding against his hard chest
“Im sorry, Im sorry, Im so fucking sorry, I like you- I like you so fucking much-”
A broken sob escaped you, a mix between a snarl and cry getting stuck in your throat.
“I didn't mean anything I said in there, I loved kissing you, you’re beautiful - fuck, you’re perfect, you’re so fucking perfect and- and you know me, the real me, I feel like I can be myself with you, please please please, im begging you, let me explain everything- from the start.” He was frantic, words rushing out so fast they blended into one. His eyes were glossy and rimmed red and you knew it wasn’t from whatever drugs he had done.
You stilled your hits, pausing in his hold. Rapid breaths mingling, chests quickly falling and rising, faded background music from the frat echoing into the night.
“Please.”
Gojo spoke it like a prayer, voiced with despair and a frenzied anguish that he knew deep down would do nothing. He would continue to beg, to plead with you, to reason, but deep down, he knew. Your chin dropped to your chest helplessly, a small hiccup squeezing itself out as you tried to catch your breath. Your eyes felt swollen from how much you had cried, but you had plenty left.
You could feel gojo guide your palms to rest against his chest, a new set of bloody hand prints against the stark white, heart thumping like he'd just ran a marathon. You slammed your eyes shut, new sobs threatening to break loose, the feeling of wanting to curl up and die had never been more prominent.
“y/n, I'll do anything, please- please, I don't-” and his voice cracked, fingers tightening around your wrists. “I don't want to lose you- Im so, Im so sorry, baby.”
Your breath hitched, lips curling and fingers twisting into his shirt to bunch the fabric beneath your fingers. The agony and discomfort in your chest was painfully overwhelming, silently wishing you'd wake up from this nightmare, wishing you never heard him, trying to wrap your mind around how and why he would do this to you. You’d never understand, would never gain pleasure from hurting anyone, let alone, him.
“What did I ever do to you?”
The words came out small, so small and fractured and so confused, seeking an explanation or reason that could maybe get the two of you past this- that maybe you must've done something to deserve it and the two of you could come back from this, but you knew it was all for nothing. For no reason at all.
Gojo's eyes flashed with guilt, anger, and shame. He wanted to recoil, wanted to throw his head into his hands and sob, but he didn't want to let you go. He knew it would be the last time. Your gaze didn't meet his.
He swallowed, throat stinging and eyes burning. He regretted everything, internally begging to take it all back like some upper power would hear him and turn back time.
“Nothing, you didn't deserve this- you did- did nothing.” The words caught as his voice wavered and you wondered if he was crying. You refused to look at those eyes. His fucking blue perfect eyes that bore into you like you mattered- it was all lies- he had lied to you for months- almost an entire semester. You dug your teeth into your bottom lip, attempting to stifle the wail you wanted to blubber out. It had been months.
Months of getting to know one another, of a build up, of a hope for something more. The silliest stupidest notion that for once someone found you valuable too and it wasn’t one sided.
A shallow gasp, an unintentional whimper, your shoulders shook as you wept.
“I wish I never met you, g-gojo. I would never-” a cry broke your words, tensing up as you angled your head down to hide your uncontrollable tears. He wanted to correct you and tell you to call him satoru or toru, but he stayed silent, let the sting burn. “Never hurt you like this.”
You shakily exhaled, not paying attention to his mindless small whimpers of “I know, I'm so sorry, I know, please.”
You gripped the fabric tighter, lifting your head to finally meet his eyes, hating how he was crying, how he genuinely looked heartbroken at hurting you, how you hated seeing him like this. His chin wobbled, breath coming out in unsteady pants and for once, he didn't look like the notorious frat boy who could conquer anything. He looked small, like a scared little boy.
Unsteady shaky hands lifted to gently cup your cheeks, gojo preparing himself for you to yank away from his touch like it burned. He sniffled when you didn’t, perfect lips shiny and slightly parted as he fully rested them against your soft skin.
“I never want to see you again.”
His composure shattered, immediately shaking his head murmuring “no’s”, thumbs rubbing back and forth over your skin and under your eyes as he repeated the same words over and over again. You pushed him back roughly with all your drunken force, which wasn't much, but enough to send him stumbling backwards to create distance.
He was alarmed, not at what you had done, but at watching you walk away, brain filling with nothing but no no no no no please, please stay, stay with me stay.
“Y/n, no please, baby, baby, y/n, please hear me out- please-” his voice was shredded, raw from drinking and yelling and begging, but he didn’t care. He’d beg and beg until he had no voice left, and when it was gone, he would find another way.
For a moment, you paused, and he thought that maybe, just maybe you would listen. But when you slowly turned to him, looking so fucking beautiful still as street lamps glistened in the reflection of your eyes, cheeks shiny and tinted pink from the tears that painted your cheeks, it all clicked. It was torturous.
“Fuck y/n, please, I-I love you. I’m so,” he swallowed to ease the scratchiness of his throat. It did nothing. “I’m so in love with you,” and he whispered the words, loud enough so you’d hear, but almost as if they weren’t meant for you, as if he was just talking to himself and unintentionally said the realization aloud.
He watched as a lone tear dropped down your cheek and it was cruel. He was cruel, you were cruel. Standing there so perfect and so beautiful while you broke his heart, and it was all his fault since he had done it first. The silence was thick as the two of you stood feet apart, wordlessly staring at each other, letting his words hang in the air. You opened your mouth and shut it, letting the process repeat as you mulled over the words in your head, wishing more than ever he hadn’t said them. Wishing more than ever you didn’t feel the same.
“I’d pick you, over and over again Satoru, every time, in a room full of people. Everyone would,” you huffed a fake laugh, blinking away your tears as you stared into his dumb perfect eyes. “I thought-” your lips quivered, chin wobbling at the humiliating admission. “I thought for once, someone had finally picked me.” The words slowly fell from your lips, laced with what one could only describe as pure heartbreak.
Gojo felt the final blow split his heart, not a clean cut, but a jagged uneven slash that cleaved it in two. He called your name, desperate and all, watching you spin on your heel and angrily walk away, your perfume hitting him as the wind blew.
He stepped forward- yelled your name again. But you didn't turn, didn't peek, didn't flinch as you sobbed, fingers constantly wiping your eyes to see where you were going as you drunkenly walked back to your apartment. Cried for yourself, mourned who you were becoming, who you were becoming with him. You had fallen in love with him too, of course you had. He was so easy to love.
꒰ summary ꒱ when a misunderstanding leaves your family convinced you’re bringing a plus one to your cousin’s wedding in Japan, the last person you expect to volunteer for the role is your infuriatingly observant intern, Satoru. it’s supposed to be temporary. professional. strictly off the record. but with your mother already sold on the idea of your mystery boyfriend, and Satoru proving far too good at the role, pretending starts to feel a little too dangerous. also, why is your “intern” secretly the heir to gojo corporation?!
꒰ tags/warnings ꒱ fake dating ⚹︎ undercover ceo! satoru ⚹︎ accountant! reader ⚹︎ satoru is 29, reader is 26 ⚹︎ lots of family pressure. reader has a complicated relationship with her mom ⚹︎ forced proximity ⚹︎ one bed trope ⚹︎ slow burn ⚹︎ mutual pining ⚹︎ wedding chaos ⚹︎ angst and fluff ⚹︎ some suggestive content but no explicit smut ⚹︎
꒰ authors note ꒱ hi cuties! this is a commission piece, and it is about 12k total. this first part is just shy of 6k and the second part will be out next week. i hope you enjoy 🫶🏻 (art by @/hanamin_0123 on x)
main masterlist - part 2 >>>
"Oi. Boss lady."
“No.”
One problem at a time, and the spreadsheet in front of you wins by default. Because Column F is wrong. It’s been wrong for forty fucking minutes, and if it stays wrong for forty seconds longer, you may actually die here at your desk — hunched over, half-blind, and found by Shoko on a Monday morning with your face pressed into a pivot table like a cautionary tale.
"But… you don't even know what I was gonna—"
"—the answer is no, Satoru."
Unlike the human embodiment of a headache currently lingering on the other side of your desk, the spreadsheet in front of you is at least pretending to be important.
The chair beneath him creaks, and then comes the silence you know too well. It’s the one that comes right before he decides to be a problem on purpose. Attention is gasoline and Satoru is, structurally, a fire hazard. Still, your eyes flick up, and—
"No fair…” he huffs, that ridiculous pout tugging at his lips. “You didn't even let me finish the question."
Your eyes roll back down.
“Mhm.”
"And it was such a good question.”
You turn a page. "Really?”
“Yup.” He’s draped over the corner of your desk now, like gravity has wronged him, whining. “It was such a thoughtful… personal… deeply relevant… extremely genius level getting-to-know-you tier question that—”
You scowl. "—Satoru, enough. Just do your job."
It lands harder than expected. The sigh he lets out is deeply, theatrically offended. And when you glance up again, he’s sprawled over that same corner of your desk you made the mistake of clearing for him on day one because you’d thought, foolishly, that giving him a designated surface might contain him.
It had not.
Nothing about Satoru had ever suggested he could be contained.
Snowy white hair falls against his brow, sleeves rolled to his elbows; looking far too expensive and far too comfortable for someone whose official title is intern. His coffee is sweating beside your open planner — the one with a date next week circled in red: WEDDING, scrawled across the margin in your own handwriting. The condensation trails towards a stack of vendor invoices and—
…
Wait.
Are those the same vendor invoices you asked him to file yesterday?
Fucking great.
“Oh, c’monnn,” he grumbles, blinking at you over the rim of those absurdly expensive sunglasses he insists on wearing indoors. “One question. Just a tiiiiny one. It’s completely harmless. Humor me, yeah?”
You narrow your eyes.
“Satoru, you’ve been trying to ask one question for the last four months.”
“Yeah,” he says. “And you’ve been dodging it for four months. Imagine that.”
Technically… four months and four days. But who’s counting?
With an exhausted groan, your eyes fall shut, pinching the bridge of your nose. Noise drifts in from the hall — the elevator, the printer, a phone trilling somewhere nearby. But when you look up again, it all seems to fall away.
He’s gone strangely still. The smug grin hasn’t disappeared, but it’s softened at the edges, hooked at one corner with his head tilted slightly. And those eyes…
Oh.
That’s — no. You’ve seen his eyes before. Obviously. Four months of them. But right now, with the morning light doing something cruel and unhelpful behind him, they catch in a way that makes you forget you were mid-thought. The kind of blue that doesn’t ask if you’re looking. It already knows.
Which means of course, you look away first. “Fine.” Your hand drops as you mutter. “One question. But if it’s stupid, I’m sending you back to HR.”
It’s not much of a threat. It’s his last day, after all, and for reasons you still don’t fully understand, Satoru has always seemed oddly immune to consequences — which, frankly, feels statistically improbable given the amount of shit he’s managed to pull in the few months of being here.
“One question?” his grin sharpens. You point your pen at him. “Don’t make me regret this.” Yet his pleased chuckle is already making you. “Awhh… look at you. Finally yielding.” His pen twirls between his fingers, nodding with false solemnity. “Okay. So, here’s the thing… throughout these four months working beside you, I’ve seen a lot—"
“—that’s not a question.” You deadpan.
But ignoring you, he reclines back in the chair, hands clasped behind his head.
“Liiiike… I’ve seen the exact face you make when Mei-Mei emails you,” he smirks. “Even noticed you work through lunch more than you should. And I’ve noticed that little line right here—” he gestures vaguely between his own brows “—every time the budget goes sideways.”
Lips parting, you blink.
…why is he so observant?!
For someone who acts like he doesn’t give a shit, he’s strangely attentive.
You clear your throat, huffing. “Okay… what’s your point?” Your hands straighten a stack of papers that doesn’t need straightening. “Is there a question in here somewhere, or are you just reciting my habits back to me for fun?”
His grin is far too pleased. “Relax. I’m getting there.” And leaning forward, his voice drops, like he’s unraveling a conspiracy. “I just find it interesting how you answer work calls before the second ring. Every damn day. Doesn’t matter who it is.” His head tilts with a smug grin. “But for whatever reason, for the past month, your personal phone’s been ringing off the hook, and you never pick up. Not once.”
Heat creeps up your neck. Not because he’s wrong — but because he’s right. And he said it like it was nothing. Like noticing the pattern of your avoidance was just something that happened to him between stamps.
Oh.
Way too observant.
Shit. He couldn't have settled on what's your favorite color!? Or, what superpower would you have!? No. Of course he had to go for the fucking jugular.
His eyes drop to the planner lying open beneath the invoices. The circled date: WEDDING. And his grin sharpens. “Ohoho… I get it now,” he whistles, leaning back in his chair and kicking one leg over the other. “What’d your fiancé do to screw up this bad? Is the wedding off?”
Your head jerks up. “F-Fiancé?!” And he rolls his eyes with a scoff, still grinning. “Knew it. God, he must be really in the doghouse. Or maybe he’s just clingy as hell to be calling that much.”
You blink.
Okay. Nevermind. He’s wrong. That is not even remotely what’s happening. The most committed relationship you’ve had is the one with your coffee machine. And yet… part of it feels almost cosmically cruel.
Because somehow, this is the second time in a month that someone had looked at the scattered pieces of your life and decided a man must be hiding inside them. Except the first time, you never even got the chance to correct it.
After all… how do you tell your mother she’s wrong?
Last month, you still answered her phone calls.
Not because you expected anything different. But because somewhere between the second ring and the third, there’s this gap — this stupid, paper-thin gap — where you still believe she might ask how you’re doing and actually wait for the answer.
Some habits taste like smoke. Some burn like liquor. But yours, unfortunately, had always looked a lot like hope.
Hope is a terrible habit you’ve never been able to kick.
“Oh—uh, hi mom!”
Your phone was wedged between your ear and shoulder while you stepped out of your car, juggling your purse and what was left of your sanity. You were already behind schedule, and your mother was calling — which meant the day had already made its intentions very clear.
“What’s up?” the door slammed shut with your hip. “I’m actually about to—”
“—Trish sent the venue photos,” she blurted, launching into a conversation like always.
Blinking, you shook the bitterness away. Striding toward the towering glass of Gojo Corporation. “That’s—yeah, that’s great,” you muttered, badge in hand as you pushed through the front doors. “But I’m actually heading into work right now? So—”
“—It’s such a beautiful venue,” she ignored you. “Very traditional, very grand. But you know the Zenin family—they never do anything small.” And as she sighed in awe, you resisted the urge to roll your eyes.
The rational part of your brain told you to let this go to voicemail. But the rational part of your brain has never once won this fight. Because…
Hope is a terrible habit you’ve never been able to kick.
"Mom, I'm sure it's lovely, really… but I'm kind of—um, excuse me…" you pivoted around a man in the bustling lobby with a sigh. “Sorry. I’m literally walking into the building right now? But maybe we can revisit this later and—"
"—have you booked your flight yet?"
Your mouth flattened.
Clearly, your half of this conversation is optional.
“No… not yet,” you mumbled, as patiently as you could manage, jabbing the up button harder than necessary. “It’s been a crazy ass week so I haven’t had a chance to, but—”
“—every week is a crazy week for you.” The huff she let out sounded almost offended by the inconvenience of your life. “Why can’t you just book it now while we’re talking? I mean, it literally takes five minutes.”
A miracle, really, that your blood pressure isn’t a medical emergency.
Every week is a crazy week?
Yeah. No shit.
Two managers resigned last quarter. Another got escorted out by security. And their work didn’t disappear. No. It landed on your desk. Because that’s how it goes. That’s how it’s always gone. Group projects. Internships. End-of-quarter disasters no one else wanted to touch. If something needed fixing, it found its way to you.
You’re the one people relied on.
Just… never the one people chose.
“Mother. I’m at work,” you said, stepping into the elevator as the doors slid open, dropping your voice as you stabbed at floor fifteen. “Look—I’m about to walk into an eight a.m. meeting. But I’ll book it tonight, promise.”
“…eight a.m.?” she repeated slowly, before letting out a small, unbothered laugh. “Oh! Right. It’s eight p.m. here. Silly me. I keep forgetting.”
…
Keep forgetting?
She keeps forgetting that she’s ten thousand miles away? Forgetting that twenty years ago she abandoned you in another country to live abroad in Japan—handing you to your grandparents like a detail she'd get back to later?
How convenient that she forgot that.
The elevator slid shut, and you watched the numbers tick upward. “Um. Yeah…” you managed, trying to keep the hurt out of your voice. “Anyways. I’ll book it tonight. After work. Okay?”
"Okay, okay. Sure. Sounds good. But are you bringing anyone?”
Squeezing the strap of your bag, you swallowed the lump in your throat. This again? The last thing you needed was to walk into your shitty eight a.m. meeting looking emotional.
No thanks.
“I… uh…” you cleared your throat. “I um—actually—haven’t decided yet. But anyways, I gotta go, so—”
“Waitwatiwait. Haven’t decided? Does that mean… you actually found someone?!”
Her voice pitched up so fast it almost startled you, and your mouth dropped so low it could’ve hit floor one.
Shit.
“I-I—I didn’t say—"
“—oh, thank God. This is incredible!!” she squealed. “We’ve been so worried. I mean—Trish is younger than you and she figured it out,” her tongue clicked. “People have been asking questions, you know. Your aunt Sara keeps bringing it up every time I see her and—”
“—Mom, I—"
“—It’s about time,” The laugh she let out was relieved, like a problem in her life had finally begun resolving itself. “You can’t keep putting love on hold forever, because men aren’t going to wait around forever. You’re already twenty-six—not getting any younger, dear.”
Love?!
Who has time for that?
And why the fuck is twenty-six the age a woman expires?!
“What’s his name?” she pressed, practically beaming through the phone. “What does he do? Is he from there, or—oh, is he Japanese? Your father would love that, he always said—”
And she was off.
Spinning an entire man out of thin air. An entire future, really. Building him in real time from a tiny slip up you had because you were too tired and cornered and desperate enough to answer the phone in the first place. And you stood there, letting her. Because interrupting her has never once worked in the history of your life.
“—actually, never mind,” she chirped a moment later, as if she was being considerate now. “You have work. I’ll call tomorrow and you can tell me everything, yes? Okay, bye-bye honey—”
Click!
And just like that, the elevator went quiet. You were left staring at your reflection in the metal doors, phone pressed to your ear, listening to the silence where your mother’s voice had been.
‘We’ve been so worried.’
…
If they were so worried… why had you spent most of your life learning to take care of yourself? And yet, the second there might be a man, suddenly you’re worth getting excited about?
Funny how that works.
Scoffing, you lowered the phone, shoving it into your bag just as the elevator chimed open. Itadori Yuji’s head snapped up behind the reception desk.
“Morning, boss,” he waved, radiating sunshine as you walked towards the conference room. “Kento’s asking if you’re still good for the budget review at eight… or if I should just tell him to panic.”
Your smile softened, burying the sting. “Yes… I’ll be right there.” And as you stepped through the polished glass doors, you played the role you’d always played.
The reliable one. Twenty-six years old, with two master’s degrees, a career at one of the most competitive corporations in the world, and a team of seven that would quietly fall apart without you.
But…
None of that glitters quite like a diamond ring, does it?
“Oi,” Satoru frowns. “You’re makin’ that face again.”
“Huh?”
Blinking out of your spiral, your eyes trace back to the man across from you. His chin is resting in his palm, those impossibly blue eyes fixed on you with a quiet stillness that makes something in your chest trip over itself — like a lock turning in a door you didn’t know was closed.
“Oh.” You clear your throat, forcing the pen back into motion. “…what face?”
“The one you make when something’s wrong,” he says quietly, gaze unmoving. “When you’re upset and trying to act like you’re not.”
For a second — one terrible, unguarded second — you don’t have a single thing to hide behind. It’s just him, looking at you like your well-being is something he’s been keeping track of in a column you didn’t even know existed.
But then the sarcasm kicks in, right on time. "Wow," you say, forcing your hands back to the papers in front of you. "So… now you read faces?"
“Mm... nah. Just yours, sweetheart.”
And that grin — god, that fucking grin — hooks at one corner like he knows exactly what just detonated inside your chest. You don’t acknowledge it. Acknowledging things have consequences, and consequences with this man are not something you can afford.
"…that’s highly inappropriate," you mutter, shoving it down. "Let’s maybe redirect some of that insight toward the invoices, yeah?"
“Sorry, sorry.” He leans back, hands up like he’s the picture of innocence. “Wouldn’t wanna start shit with your dear future husband.” His grin goes sharp as he twirls his sunglasses between two fingers. “Though, wow. Tough look for him. Whatever he did, he clearly fucked up bad.”
Why does he sound… bitter?
No. You must be imagining it. This is Satoru. Satoru, who treats everything like a joke until proven otherwise. Satoru, who doesn’t care enough about anything to sound bitter over a man who may or may not exist.
You scoff. "You’re making some wildly stupid assumptions right now…"
He perks up at that. "Oh?" With his grin hooking higher, almost hopeful. "Wait. So, there’s no fiancé, then?"
Your lips purse.
What does he care? He’s not your mother.
“I wish you’d be this interested in your actual job,” you sigh, arms crossing. “Those invoices have been sitting there all week.”
“Uh-huh.” He tips his head. “And yet somehow, I noticed you still didn’t answer me.”
You frown.
What the fuck are you supposed to say!?
Oh. Um. Actually, Satoru, there is no fiancé. That’s the problem, actually! My mother invented him the other morning and I haven't worked up the nerve to call her back.
Yeah. No. You'd rather die at this desk.
“Maybe because it’s none of your business.”
“But I—”
“Drop it.”
He stares at you for a beat, then he flops back in the chair with a dramatic huff, long legs kicking out in front of him, mouth dragging into a sulky pout.
“Well, damn,” he grumbles, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair, rolling his eyes. “No wonder you’re single if this is how you shut people down…”
The second the words leave his mouth, he blinks. His gaze flicks up to yours like he hears it too late — like he realizes, all at once, how shitty that sounded.And it only feels worse the moment he sees your face.
God.
Of all the places to hit.
“Oho… wow. Okay. This?” you say with a thin, self-deprecating laugh, chair scraping as you shove back from your seat. “Yeah. This is exactly why I shouldn’t have let you ask, Satoru.” You reach for your planner, your purse, anything to do with your hands besides let them shake.
He straightens, watching you scramble. “Whoa. Wait. I—"
“—because you don’t know when to stop!” The words come out louder than you mean, blinking at the sting behind your eyes. “You just keep pushing and pushing and pushing until you get what you want. Well good. I hope you’re happy.”
Before you can turn away, he’s on his feet. “Wait—” And the moment his hand catches yours, you freeze, breath snagging.
His voice is quieter now. His grip is firm yet gentle, and the air between you shifts, while something warm and uneasy twists low in your chest. The kind of feeling that makes you want to lean in and run in the same breath.
Though your eyes stay down. “Satoru… let go.”
“I didn’t…” he starts, then stops, gaze flicking to where his fingers still circle your wrist — before climbing back to your face, slower this time. “I’m… sorry. I just—” His mouth tightens. “I see how hard you work, okay? I see it. And every time that phone rings, you get this look on your face like it’s already ruined your day before you even touch it. And…” His brows pinch. “Fuck. I dunno why, but it pisses me off!”
Your gaze hesitantly drags to his, and the look in his eyes is softer than they have any right to be — all that blue, stripped of its usual sharpness, turned careful. Like he’s stepping toward something breakable and knows it. Like… if he asked once more, something in you might actually give.
“Satoru…” your breath hitches. “I-I—"
“Oh, finally.”
Shoko’s voice trails in, and your head snaps up so fast your neck almost goes with it. She’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, coffee in hand — looking like a woman who arrived exactly on time for something she's been expecting all week.
Her gaze flicks down to where he’s holding you, and the corner of her mouth twitches.
"Sooo… not to interrupt whatever this is," she says, taking a sip, "but Kento's one eye-twitch away from a medical event. He needs you to sign off on the variance line before he starts reconciling his own will and—"
You're already jerking your hand back. "Yup—coming!" And as you step away, heat floods your face, but you don't look back. Not once. Not even when you feel him still standing there, watching you go.
Because looking back would mean acknowledging that something just shifted. And you are not — not — doing that today.
Unlike those invoices, perhaps some things are better left… unfinished.
You’re gone in a blur of heels, nerves, and professional self-preservation, leaving Shoko trailing behind and Satoru staring at the empty doorway like maybe the conversation might wander back through it.
It doesn’t.
And it’s not long before his mouth is pulling into a slow, petulant pout—just before he flops back in the chair with all the elegance of a man personally betrayed by the universe.
Un-fucking-believable.
He’d almost had you! After four months and four days of being stonewalled, redirected, and professionally shut down, you’d finally looked like you might give him something. A crack. A sliver. And then Kento had to ruin it with his stupid reconciliation sheet, his stupid earnest face, and his stupidly impeccable timing.
…
He could fire Kento.
Should he fire Kento?
As tempting as that thought is, Satoru settles for glaring at the empty doorway a second longer before dragging a hand down his face and raking it back through his hair. There’s no point. This performance will end soon. Because by this time tomorrow, he’ll be on a flight back to Tokyo. Where he can resume the slow, agonizing process of preparing to inherit a company he didn't actually give a shit about.
'Grow up, Satoru.'
'Apply yourself, Satoru.'
'You have no idea what it takes to run something like this, Satoru.'
Right. Because apparently, the heir to a multinational corporation needed to learn humility. Alphabetize files. Sit in a cubicle. Fetch coffee like some goddamn spreadsheet slut with a trust fund and nowhere to put it.
Four years of business school, two years shadowing his father; and yet, this is what they had for him?!
He scoffs. And when his gaze drops to the wreckage of your desk, he’s pulling the stack of vendor invoices toward him with a sigh that sounds put-upon even to his own ears. You’ve been nagging him about filing them for the better part of the week and… the least he can do is clear one thing before he goes.
The stamp thuds against the first page. Then the next. Then the next. And with muscle memory taking over, his face goes blank in the way it always does when boredom finally wins. It’s mindless shit. Still, he’s used to it. So naturally, when the phone on your desk buzzes, he doesn’t think twice; snatching it up, tucking it between his ear and shoulder as he reaches for the next invoice.
It’s probably another budget nuisance. Or Mei. Or one of the other thousand little crises that seem magnetically drawn to your extension.
“Yo,” another stamp echoes. “Satoru speaking.”
There’s a sharp inhale. “…who?”
His brow lifts. “Uh… Satoru?” Another thud of ink slams against the paper and he huffs, annoyed. “What do y’need?”
The line goes quiet for a beat too long. Before the woman on the other end finally murmurs, “Satoru…” Sighing in awe. “What a lovely name. Is that Japanese?”
"Uh… yeah?” he snorts, flipping to the next page. “I mean. Last I checked.”
“Mm… I thought so!” She giggles. And her voice pitches like she's just unwrapped a present she didn't know she was getting. “So… Satoru. Why exactly are you the one answering her phone, hm?”
…
Why the hell does this woman sound so invested? And why is she asking questions that should be obvious?
Frowning down at the invoice, he stamps it harder.
“Because it rang?” He says it like it’s obvious. “And uh—sorry, but. Maybe because I’ve been with her for months, so… why the hell wouldn’t I?”
"Months?!” A soft gasp crackles, far too delighted. “You've—you've been with her for months?!"
"Mmm… four months and four days, technically."
He’s been her intern for that long.
That’s the question, right?
"—technically?!" she squeals, like the word personally seduced her. "Ohmygoodness—oh, this is perfect. Four months and four days—that is so specific.”
He blinks. But she doesn’t give him time to process.
“Look at you Mr. Devoted. Keeping track. I was starting to worry she’d never find someone like you. Every time I asked it's like pulling teeth. But I knew there had to be someone. I told her father—I said, there is a man, I can feel it.”
Pausing mid-stamp, the words slowly begin to catch up. Satoru straightens.
"…sorry. Who is thi—"
“—everyone is so excited to meet you at Trish’s wedding. I already reserved your seat and—"
Her voice keeps going… and going… and going. He pulls the phone away slowly as her voice echoes on the receiver, staring down at the phone in hand to see:
📞 Mom
Oh.
Oh, shit.
This is not your work phone. Your work phone is currently sitting at its dock twelve inches to his left. And it dawns on him that he accidentally just spent the last sixty seconds answering your personal phone like an absolute jackass and—
"Uh…” he backpedals. “Wait. I—"
"I told Sara, I said, we have to meet him and—”
"Stop. I-I really think—"
“—Satoru, what are you doing?’
His head snaps up at the sound of your voice, mouth dropping as he sees you standing at the doorway, eyes wide in horror.
Oh, fuck.
“Who is on the other end of that phone,” you hiss.
He winces, pulling the phone from his ear like it’s toxic — and you’re snatching it right out of his hand. He lets you have it without a fight, sinking back into the chair like he’s trying to physically dissociate from the situation he’s just created while you press the phone to your ear.
“And I mean…” she rambles. “I certainly was never one to wait around at twenty-six, believe me. But—"
"Mom."
"Oh! Honey!” She gasps. “Oh, my goodness, hi—I was just having the loveliest chat with—"
"I'm at work. Gotta go."
"—okay! I can't wait to meet Satoru, he—"
Click!
The phone sits in your hand like evidence.
And Satoru — to his credit — has the decency to look like a man standing in the blast radius of his own stupidity. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Like he’s rehearsing an apology in a language he hasn’t learned yet.
You stare at him.
He stares at you.
And somewhere ten thousand miles away, your mother is already calling your aunt Sara.
“Sooo… funny story…”
“—what did you do?!”
Satoru flinched, and now, the tears were already rolling down your cheeks — hot, fast, completely unauthorized. Not the kind you could disguise as allergies or blame on the air conditioning. No. The ugly kind.
Great. Fucking great.
You were standing in the middle of your own office, in the building where you work, crying in front of your intern. And Satoru felt the weight of it all at once. In the last four months, he had seen you in every flavor of workplace misery there was. Pissed off, stressed out, one spreadsheet away from actual murder.
But cry?
Never.
And this had his fingerprints all over it.
"Shit," he breathed, panic flashing across his face. "I—fuck. Okay. Please don't—I can fix this. I can—"
"Fix this?" A splintered laugh ripped out of you, and you hated how thin it was. "Fix what, Satoru? You just confirmed a boyfriend to my mother, a boyfriend that doesn't exist—and she is, at this very moment, probably already—"
Another break in your voice cracked, and you squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your hand to your forehead hard like you could hold the tears in by sheer force. But it only made it worse, because now you could feel the wetness on your own face, the heat of it under your palm, and the mortification landed like a second wave.
God. How fucking humiliating.
"Hey, hey—it's okay,” his voice softened. “We'll just… call her back. Right? Tell her it was a misunderstanding. Easy."
“Easy?” you scoffed, the word coming out strangled. “Y-You don’t understand my mother, Satoru,” you managed, voice gone thin as thread. God, you sounded like a child. “If she thinks something is true, then it’s true. That’s it. That’s—there’s no correcting her, there’s no walking it back, she’s already told my aunt Sara by now and Sara’s told Trish and—oh, fuck—”
Another sob tumbled out, and your fingers dug harder into your temple.
God. Stop it.
Stop it stop it stop it.
Think.
Think logically. You're good at this. You solve problems for a living.
But every time you tried to grab onto a thought, it slipped — replaced by the echo of your mother's voice, high and delighted. The happiest she'd sounded talking to you in years. Maybe ever.
…what look will she give you when you show up alone?
"I can’t," you whispered, and the word came out waterlogged. "I-I'm supposed to get on a plane to Japan in a week and—do what? Tell them there's no one? Tell them I'm still—"
Single.
The word sat in your mouth like a stone. You didn’t realize you’d gone silent until the silence itself started ringing — your sniffling, the hum of fluorescent lights, the muffled life of the office continuing beyond the door like yours wasn’t actively coming apart at the seams.
And through all of it, you could feel Satoru looking at you. His stillness; holding you with an expression you'd never seen on him before and couldn't categorize if you tried.
"Um…” he looked down, scratching the back of his neck. “Soooo... the wedding's in Japan?"
You blinked. “What?” And as you wiped your face with the back of your hand, his gazed tentatively flicked back up. “The wedding…” he repeated, voice careful. “It’s in Japan?”
"Yes." Your brow furrowed, not understanding. "Why?"
He didn't answer right away. Just looked down at the floor for a second, jaw shifting, like he was turning something over in his head — something he hadn't fully assembled yet but could already feel the shape of.
"Huh… okay."
Okay what?
You watched his expression change in real time — from guilt to calculation to something else. "Right then!" He said, clapping his hands once, bright and sudden. "No biggie. I'll just go with you."
No biggie?
Your mouth dropped.
That wasn’t even an option, was it?
…is he crazy?
“You’re kidding,” your laugh was awkward and breathless. His eyes rolled with a smug grin. “Sweetheart, c’mon,” and he was gesturing between the two of you like the answer was sitting there in plain sight and you were the only person in the room committed to not seeing it. "Your family thinks you're bringing someone? Cool." A hand pressed to his chest with theatrical solemnity. "I'm someone."
You stared at him. Genuinely stared.
Oh. He wasn’t kidding.
Yup. He’s crazy.
"You are not 'someone,' Satoru. You are my intern."
“Yeah. For like… another six hours?"
He checked his watch with a shrug, and your lips flattened.
"…that is not the point."
“Mm… feels a little like the point."
He smirked, but it faded faster than usual, dimming at the edges as his blue eyes hesitated on yours. Something shifted in his posture; the performance pulling back, like a tide going out. "Um… look…" He pushed off the desk, stepping closer. "It’s really no hassle." He said, hands sliding into his pockets. "I already have a flight scheduled. My family's in Tokyo. And I was going back after this internship anyway, so… this just moves my timeline back a little."
He was shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t agreeing to fly across the world with you and walk straight into the disaster that was your family.
…
His family’s in Japan too?
You barely knew anything about him. He kept his life sealed off with the same practiced deflection you kept yours — jokes in place of answers, charm in place of honesty. You never bothered to ask, because asking meant caring and that was a door you never intended to walk through with anyone.
But…
"Just… let me come with you. I’ll be your boyfriend for the weekend. For the wedding. For… whatever you need,” he said. And this time, when he stepped closer, there was no grin to hide behind. "I can be useful. I caused this. So… let me fix it."
Heat creeped up your neck, and you scoffed, weakly.
"Okay… but you can't fix my mother."
"No…” he murmured, tilting his head. His hand came up and brushed a tear trailing down your cheek with a careful gentleness. “But… I can make sure you don't have to walk in there alone?"
Your breath hitched, and when your eyes finally lifted, the morning light was being cruel again — catching in that impossible blue and turning it soft. Like stained glass dipped in sunlight. Like something holy made dangerous by the simple fact that it was looking straight at you.
“Mhn. So, do I get the job, boss lady? Because that look you’re giving me…” a slow smirk curls up the corner of his mouth. “Very encouraging for my boyfriend résumé, by the way. Might get addicted to it and wanna make it a full-time gig.”
“Shut up,” you mutter, looking away too fast to be convincing.“That was not a look. I was just—” You grimace. “…never mind.”
He’s chuckling as you brush past him. And his words are what scared you the most. Which was bad. Very, very bad. Because your mother was one problem. Japan was another. But Satoru looking at you like that?
Shit…
That felt like the kind of complication that didn’t stay neatly contained. And you knew better than anyone. Nothing about Satoru had ever suggested he could be contained.
a/n: hehe. this has been fun to work on! i am excited to share the next part. clearly i love these fake dating/fake marriage tropes aha 🙂↕️ bc this is like... what—my third time doing it? soooo i tried to change things up and make it feel less standard/generic :) but anyways, like i said pt 2 will be out in a week, pls lmk if you wanna be tagged 💖
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…..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment
likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post
the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like.
୧ ‧₊˚ 𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝓖.𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 and his poor... exhausted manager ⋅ ✰
the worst part about being satoru gojo’s PR manager isn’t the scandals. it’s the fact he knows how to use his tongue
MDNI ✰ oral (fem receiving) ✰ a lot of pussy eating in here... ✰
art creds to @/narutoss.ramen. all dividers by @/uzmacchiato and @/pixopix
2.1k words
You sighed deeply as you scrolled through the latest disaster on your phone, the glow of the screen illuminating your tired face in the back of the sleek black SUV. Another night, another scandal. As his personal PR manager for the past two years, you’d become an expert at spinning chaos into manageable headlines. But tonight’s mess was particularly sticky.
The tabloids were exploding with photos of Gojo at an exclusive club in Tokyo, shirt half-unbuttoned, surrounded by three models and what looked suspiciously like cocaine on a glass table. The headlines screamed: Gojo Satoru’s Wild Night: Actor or Party Demon?
Your fingers flew across the keyboard, drafting the official statement you’d already sent to the press an hour ago: “Mr. Gojo was attending a private charity event and the images have been taken out of context. He remains committed to his fans and upcoming film projects.”
You rubbed your temples. Gojo had more scandals than some celebrities had followers. Drunken karaoke brawls, leaked videos of him making out with co-stars, rumors of underground fight clubs where he used his “sorcerer” persona from his most recent series for show, and the endless parade of women. Yet the public loved him. The blue-eyed menace was box office gold, and his supernatural charm made him untouchable.
The car door opened. Gojo slid in beside you, all long limbs and effortless arrogance. His white hair was messy, those striking blue eyes hidden behind his usual black sunglasses. He flashed that infuriating grin.
“Missed me, princess?” he drawled, leaning back against the leather seat.
“You’re late,” you said flatly, not looking up from your tablet. “And you smell like vodka and that strong ass cologne.”
He laughed, low and warm. “That’s my signature scent. Want a closer whiff?”
You ignored the flutter in your stomach. This was the game you two played. He caused fires. You put them out. And somehow, over time, the tension between you had grown thicker than the NDA you made every woman he slept with sign.
“Three models, Satoru? Really? The video is trending. I had to call in every favor with the tabloids to kill the worst angles.”
He shrugged, stretching his long legs until his thigh pressed against yours. “They were just fans. Harmless fun.”
“Harmless doesn’t get you trending for all the wrong reasons.” You finally met his gaze—or what you could see of it. “This is the fourth scandal this month. I’m running out of ways to make you look like a misunderstood genius instead of a chaotic himbo.”
Gojo’s grin widened. He reached over and plucked the tablet from your hands, setting it aside. “You’re so good at your job, though. That’s why I keep you around.”
His voice dropped, playful but edged with something darker. Heat. “And because I like rewarding my best girl.”
Your breath caught. This wasn’t new. After particularly brutal clean-ups, Gojo had a habit of “thanking” you in ways that blurred every professional line. You told yourself it was just stress relief. A transaction. But the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing in his chaotic world that actually mattered—made it dangerous.
The driver raised the partition without being asked.
Gojo’s hand slid onto your knee, long fingers tracing slow circles. “C’mere. Let me show my appreciation.”
“Backseat of a car, Satoru?” you muttered, but your body was already betraying you, thighs pressing together. "Really?"
“Private enough.” He tugged you onto his lap with that effortless strength, your pencil skirt riding up as you straddled him. His hands settled on your hips, thumbs stroking the fabric. “You’ve been working so hard for me. Cleaning up my messes. Dealing with my shit. Don’t you deserve a treat?”
You shivered as he pushed his sunglasses up, revealing those glowing blue eyes.
His mouth found your neck first, hot and teasing, sucking lightly just below your ear while he loosened your blouse. “Let me eat that pretty pussy, baby. Been thinking about it since the club. Nothing tastes better after a long night of damage control.”
You gasped as he lifted you, maneuvering you until your back was against the opposite seat and he was on his knees between your legs. The man who commanded screens and sold out arenas was kneeling for you. Gojo pushed your skirt higher, fingers hooking into your panties and dragging them down your thighs with deliberate slowness.
“Fuck, look at you,” he murmured, voice husky. “Already wet for me. My perfect little manager.”
He spread your thighs wider, exposing you completely in the dim light of the car. His breath ghosted over your core, making you twitch. Then his tongue—hot, wet, and devastating—dragged a slow stripe from your entrance to your clit.
You moaned, hand flying to his white hair. Gojo hummed in satisfaction, the vibration sending sparks up your spine. He licked you like he had all the time in the world, like cleaning up his scandals was worth every second of this reward. His tongue circled your clit with precision, then dipped lower, pushing inside you teasingly before returning to suck gently on that sensitive bundle of nerves.
“Satoru—” you whimpered, hips rolling against his face.
He gripped your thighs tighter, holding you open as he devoured you. The obscene sounds filled the car: wet slurps, your desperate gasps, his low groans of approval.”
“You taste so fucking good,” he mumbled against your folds, lips shiny with your arousal. “Better than any model. Sweeter than revenge. This is what I want after every fuck-up. Your legs around my head while I make you cum.”
Two long fingers slid inside you without warning, curling perfectly against that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. His mouth latched onto your clit, sucking harder while his fingers pumped in a steady rhythm. The coil in your belly tightened fast.
You came with a cry, thighs trembling around his ears as pleasure crashed through you. Gojo didn’t stop, licking you through it, drawing out every aftershock until you were panting and oversensitive.
When he finally pulled back, his grin was soaked and smug. “That’s one. Think you can handle more before we get to the hotel?”
The pattern repeated over the next few weeks, each scandal bigger than the last.
First came the leaked audio of Gojo trash-talking a rival actor during a press junket. You spent three days negotiating with studios and issuing apologies. That night, in his penthouse overlooking Tokyo, he laid you out on his massive bed and spent nearly an hour between your thighs. He edged you mercilessly—long, slow licks followed by fast flicks of his tongue—until you were begging. When you finally came, he kept going, making you squirt for the first time while laughing softly against your pussy.
“You’re so good at making me look innocent,” he praised, chin glistening. “Let me make you feel good, baby.”
Then there was the nightclub fight video. Gojo had “accidentally” flipped a table on some guy who’d gotten handsy with one of his female co-stars. The internet called it assault. You called it a PR nightmare. After three all-nighters and a carefully crafted statement about “self-defense,” Gojo rewarded you in his private jet on the way to a premiere.
He had you bent over the leather couch, skirt flipped up, face buried between your cheeks from behind. His tongue fucked into you while his thumb rubbed your clit in tight circles. The altitude and the thrill of being so high up made everything more intense. You came twice before landing, legs shaking so badly he had to carry you off the plane.
Each time, the rewards grew more intense. Gojo was insatiable when it came to you. He loved how composed you were in public—cool, professional, the one who tamed his chaos—and how completely you fell apart for him in private.
One particularly bad week culminated in a leaked sex tape rumor (thankfully fake, but the damage was done). You worked miracles to kill the story. That evening, Gojo didn’t even wait for the car to leave the underground garage of his building.
He dropped to his knees right there, pushed you against the hood of his expensive car, and ate you out like a man starved. Cars drove past on the street level above, but down here it was just the two of you. His tongue was merciless, fingers deep inside you, curling and scissoring while he sucked your clit until you saw white. You came so hard you nearly slid off the hood. He caught you, laughing that rich, cocky laugh.
“My perfect girl,” he whispered, kissing your inner thighs. “I make the messes. You clean them. And I make you scream.”
Months passed. The dynamic deepened.
You stopped pretending it was just rewards. Gojo started showing up at your apartment unannounced, glasses off, eyes soft in a way the public never saw. He’d pull you into his lap on the couch, not always for sex. Sometimes just to talk—about the pressure of being watched all of the time, the loneliness of fame, how your steady presence was the only thing keeping him grounded.
But the sex... the sex was still his favorite way to say thank you.
One night after he’d been caught leaving a love hotel with a famous idol (another fabricated story you’d dismantled), he took you to his bedroom and spent the entire night worshipping you. No rushing. He stripped you slowly, kissing every inch of skin until he reached your core. Then he settled in for a long session.
Gojo’s tongue traced every fold, savoring you. He alternated between gentle licks and harsh sucks, fingers pumping deep while he whispered filthy praise.
“Love how you get so wet for me. Love knowing all those scandals are worth it because I get to bury my face in this sweet pussy afterward. You own me, you know that? The world thinks I’m theirs, but this—” he licked a broad stripe up your center, “—this is mine.”
You came three times that night. Once on his tongue, once on his fingers while he sucked your clit, and once riding his face as he lay back and let you use him. By the end, you were a trembling, blissed-out mess, and Gojo looked happier than he did after any movie premiere.
The latest scandal was the worst yet.
A video surfaced of Gojo in a very compromising position at an afterparty—him, two women, and enough evidence to suggest an orgy. The internet was in meltdown. Sponsors were threatening to pull out. Your phone wouldn’t stop ringing.
You worked for 48 hours straight, barely sleeping. When you finally dragged yourself to his penthouse to deliver the good news (crisis mostly averted), Gojo was waiting.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just pulled you inside, locked the door, and dropped to his knees in the foyer.
“No more work tonight,” he said, voice rough. He pushed your legs apart right there against the wall, yanked your panties aside, and dove in.
His mouth was urgent, almost desperate. Tongue fucking into you, nose grinding against your clit, hands gripping your ass to pull you harder against his face. He moaned like he was the one receiving pleasure, the vibrations making your knees buckle.
You clutched his hair, moaning his name as he devoured you. This wasn’t just a reward anymore. This was need. Hunger. Possession.
He made you cum twice standing up, then carried you to the bedroom and did it again with you on his face. By the time he finally let you rest, your voice was hoarse and your thighs were sticky with his saliva and your releases.
Gojo pulled you against his chest afterward, fingers gently stroking your back.
“I know I’m a handful,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “But I’d burn every scandal into existence if it meant you’d keep letting me do this.”
You laughed weakly, exhausted but content. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah. But I’m yours, baby.”
In the quiet afterglow, with the city lights twinkling outside, you realized something. You didn’t just clean up his messes anymore.
You were part of them. And you wouldn’t have it any other way.
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