#<< technically

text desc

cadence - ‘oh just keep talking that’ll make it true’

hawthorne - ‘puhlease you don’t know skull ball like i do’

mog - *amused*

Men were, by far, the easiest demographic to lift things off of.

Muscular men especially often had an over-inflated ego, to the point they thought they could easily walk through the most urban parts of Japan without having some possession worth at least ten thousand yen lifted off of them.

Thus, another day of waiting for any of the hundreds of job applications you’d sent in this week meant another day of having to pickpocket wealthy tourists to just scrape by. Hey—you gotta do what you gotta do, right?

Well, unfortunately for you, you made one major miscalculation. Clocking Satoru Gojo, heir to the Gojo clan (and thus, maybe the wealthiest man in Japan) as a trashy, billionaire tourist was a fatal mistake. Normally, you could pull the whole routine of fake stumbling into the man and apologizing profusely, pretending you couldn’t speak English, and batting your eyelashes at them until they figured you were just a sweet, docile local girl. But not with Satoru Gojo.

With a curt bow and mumbled out apology (both clearly faked but seemed believable to Americans with no prior knowledge of real Japanese culture), you were happy to get on your way with his heavy wallet before feeling a tight weight around your wrist mid-dash.

“That routine was cute, really, but I want my wallet back.” Your head turned back, slowly, met with a pair of ephemeral and ever-sharp, blue eyes staring back at yours over the rim of navy glasses. A sly smirk had already tugged up at the corners of his mouth, heaps of amusement used to mask his annoyance.

You mentally scrolled every possible response before defaulting to pretending not to understand what he’s saying. All fun and games until he repeated himself in perfect Japanese.

“Y’know, I’m not a bad guy. If you needed handouts you could’ve just asked—not to be weird, but you’re clearly pretty enough to get away with it. Hell, I might’ve given you that wallet for a kiss,” he teased. God, you could’ve sworn he winked! Who does this guy think he is? “Now, I really insist. Wallet, please,” he grumbled with a pale hand outstretched and the other still keeping you from running away.

You huffed under your breath, half aggravated at the fact you’d been caught and half relieved he wasn’t calling the cops or worse. Your one loose hand dug through your pockets, fishing out his black, leather wallet and placing it daintily in his hand.

Before he could yank it away, before you even took your hand off the wallet, you used the position of your hands to your advantage in grabbing the (admittedly, very attractive) man and yanking him down into a kiss. It was a tactic you often refrained from—you were a petty thief, not a… sexual deviant, but he had already made it clear he didn’t mind kissing you. Desperate times call for desperate measures!

He was tense, shocked at first before relaxing into the kiss for the barely two more seconds it lasted. His grip loosened the slightest bit (but just enough for you to finish executing the plan) on your arm, while your grip simultaneously tightened around the wallet.

Yanking it back, you made a dash into the crowd to disappear where he couldn’t chase you.

He scoffed, taken aback if not extremely endeared by the mischievous giggle he was sure you didn’t realize you made as you bolted. He wiped gently at his lips and stared off into the crowd you’d disappeared into. His were far softer than yours, but you weren’t exactly a bad kisser. He definitely wouldn’t mind going again, at least.

Separately, you continued giggling to yourself half-menacingly, digging through the wallet and simply elated with the gorgeous and shiny debit cards far classier than anything you’d stolen before—not to mention the countless ¥10 000 notes practically overflowing from the main pocket.

You wiggled the drivers license out of a smaller pocket, made for just one card instead of a handful of bills, squinting at the modelesque ID photo staring back at you. What kind of jerk managed to look good in his driver’s license photo??

“Satoru Gojo…” you huffed, flushing, before shoving the license card back into the wallet. Out of sight, out of mind. Surely you wouldn’t be caught up in thinking about the very handsome (and surprisingly smooth-skinned?) stranger for weeks on end, right?

Definitely not every time you spent his stolen money—whether notes or using the debit card he, for some reason, didn’t deactivate…