vela

Well, the half of you that he could see in his vision. You were tucked behind your friend, who had enough to say for the both of you. She was halfway through introducing the college newspaper before he noticed you at all. The setting sun pooled golden along your throat and cheekbones, your hair lifting softly in the wind, and your expression, through all of it, utterly relaxed. 

"So would that be okay?" Yumi finishes, he had caught her name somewhere in the middle of her spiel, but the rest of it flew over him.

"Uh," Satoru hums, a real testament to his sharp mind. Suguru answers for him; at least one of them had been listening. Suguru walks Yumi back through everything she had just said, the newspaper, the semester, the plan to cover the sports section, like he had been listening to every word. 

Well, because he had been. Suguru had been listening while Satoru was just standing there with the sun in his eyes and you in his line of sight, watching the way you hadn't looked at him yet, the way he already found himself wanting to know what your voice sounded like, what you thought about, what you were like when you weren't standing on the sideline of a soccer field looking like you had somewhere better to be.

"Great! See you tomorrow," Yumi says, already turning on her heel. You nod after her, a small polite gesture, your eyes cast somewhere just past Satoru's shoulder, and then you turn and follow her across the track, leaves skittering around your sneakers as you walk away.

Satoru’s eyes follow you, and he only snaps out of it when Suguru reaches over and smacks the back of his head. 

“You done?”

Satoru gapes at him. “What?”

Suguru just looks toward where you disappeared, then back at him.

Satoru immediately looks away. “Shut up.”

“Do you like soccer?” It slips out of Satoru’s mouth before he can stop himself. It was either that or saying something objectively worse, like admitting the fact that he’s thought about you an unreasonable amount since yesterday’s practice.

Suguru told him your name yesterday, and you introduced yourselves properly today, which means there is absolutely no reason for him to be embarrassing himself like this already.

“No, not really,” you confess with a shy laugh. “The sports section wasn’t exactly my first choice-” Your eyes widen slightly. “Not that there’s anything wrong with soccer. Or sports. God, that sounded bad.”

Satoru laughs, not because you’re funny (although you are, a little) but because you’ve known him for roughly 10 minutes and already managed to reject something he likes, unlike most people who hear he plays soccer and start pretending they’ve always been deeply invested in its history.

Satoru has never put much belief into that whole opposites attract thing, mostly because it sounds like something people say after making objectively questionable decisions, but he looks at you for a second longer than necessary and thinks maybe there are more flawed theories in the world.

Satoru’s known you for almost a month, mostly through awkward encounters at practice and increasingly less awkward walks afterward. Somewhere between post-practice interviews and waiting for his teammates, who insist warm-down stretches take thirty years, he learns you’re pre-med. 

He also learns that you’d originally wanted to cover research studies in the biology department for the paper instead of sports. Unfortunately, most of those positions had already been filled by upperclassmen before applications even reached sophomores.

Satoru nods sympathetically and says something supportive like a normal person when you tell him. Secretly, though, he’s glad, which immediately makes him feel like a terrible person. 

He wants you to get the opportunities you actually wanted, but selfishly, he likes that sports means you end up here instead, sitting on cold bleachers with your laptop open and asking him questions after practice and pretending not to laugh when he starts giving useless answers just to keep the conversation going.

On the first practice of the week, you’re nowhere to be found. Satoru notices on his first sweep of the bleachers, the sidelines, and the small cluster of students hovering near the track. Yumi is there, which means you should be too, tucked somewhere close to her with your laptop balanced on your knees. But today the space beside her is empty.

He tells himself it’s nothing. People miss things; it’s normal. He repeats this to himself twice during drills and once more during the cooldown. But after practice, he finds Yumi anyway, hands shoved deep in his pockets like that makes any of this casual.

"Hey," he says, "Where's your friend?"

Yumi's pen stops moving. "She's sick."

"Sick?"

She turns to face him fully then, "Relax, she’s not dying. It's a cold, not medieval tuberculosis."

Satoru laughs in return, because it was funny, but underneath it, the same low hum of worry was sitting unmoved right in the middle of his chest. "...Do you think I could get her number?"

Yumi stares at him. "I just told you," she says slowly, as if he's a little bit foolish, "she's sick."

"I know."

"So why do you need her number?"

He opens his mouth, then closes it. His hands are still in his pockets, which is the only place they could be right now, because they have gone slightly damp, and he absolutely has no interest in Yumi knowing that.

Yumi watches him for another second, letting him sit in it, and then the corner of her mouth pulls up. "I'm kidding," she says, already flipping to a new page in her notepad. She scribbles your number down, tears it off, and holds it out to him. 

Satoru sits in his car for an embarrassing amount of time, staring at your name at the top of a blank text message. He types something. Deletes it. Types something else, reads it back, winces, deletes that too.

Satoru: Hey, it’s Satoru Gojo. Heard you’re sick, hope you feel better.

He deletes it. Too formal, sounds like a get-well card from a coworker.

Satoru: Hey! It’s Satoru from the soccer team. Yumi gave me your number.

He deletes that too. He should’ve scrapped it after the exclamation point.

Satoru: Hey.

He stares at that for a long moment, then deletes it. He throws his phone face down on the passenger seat and runs a hand through his hair, tipping his head back against the headrest. He has played in front of hundreds of people, taken penalty kicks with the score tied, and not once felt his hands shake, so he doesn’t know why drafting a single text message to you is doing this to him.

He picks his phone back up.

Satoru: Hi, it’s Satoru. Yumi mentioned you were sick, feel better soon.

He reads it four times. It’s fine. It is completely fine and normal. He sends it before he can talk himself out of it and turns his phone face down on the passenger seat, wishing that he could do the same with whatever is sitting in his chest every time he thinks about you.

He hears his phone ding and something in his chest flinches, which is insane, which is genuinely embarrassing. But he still reaches for his phone off the passenger seat so fast he nearly fumbles it between his fingers.

You: hiii satoru!! yeah im okay, just a cold! thanks for checking in tho

He reads it once and types back:

Satoru: And here I thought you had perfect attendance

He stares at it and immediately regrets sending it. But 2 minutes later, your typing bubble appears.

You: i have a 102 degree fever. so sorry i couldn't make it out to stand in the cold and watch you run in circles like a hamster on a wheel >:( have some compassion

He grins at his phone like an idiot.

The next time you come to practice, there is a bottled tea drink sitting in your spot on the bleachers, impossible to miss. Beside it, a post-it note pressed flat against the cold metal.

Glad you're feeling better.

Beneath the words, occupying considerably more space, is a small doodle of a hamster. You look up. Satoru is already on the field, in the middle of warming up, looking right at you. 

Suguru falls into step beside him during a water break, glancing once in your direction and then back at Satoru. "So when are you going to tell her?"

Satoru, mid sip, chokes. Water goes everywhere, a significant amount of it landing directly on Suguru, who recoils and shoves him hard in the shoulder.

"Tell her what?" Satoru asks.

Suguru wipes his sleeve, unimpressed. "That you like her."

Satoru wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He seems to be processing this like it’s new information. "I don't… " he starts, and then stops, and then says nothing.

You had only made it out to a handful of games during the season; you and Yumi split the roster between you, trading off week by week. But it’s the last game of the season, and you are both there, and Satoru sees you from across the field during warm-up and has to actively remember how to breathe.

You are wearing his jersey. His number, his name across your back, which you have because 2 weeks ago in the library, you had knocked your drink across the table and onto yourself, and the only thing Satoru had in his bag was a spare jersey. You had given it back the next day, freshly washed, but he had told you to keep it and then walked away before his face could do anything embarrassing.

Your hair is tied up with ribbons in the team’s colors, and there is face paint on your cheeks. You are standing next to Yumi, who is scribbling something in her notepad.

Suguru appears at his shoulder. "Breathe."

Satoru shoves him lightly for being insufferable and then, annoyingly, takes his first breath after seeing you. 

A week after the last game's victory, the final sports issue finally gets printed. You and Yumi had spent stupid amounts of time on it, more than necessary, probably. You had argued over layouts, stayed late editing quotes, and gone back and forth over photos until both of you were cross-eyed under the fluorescent lights of the newspaper office.

You almost don't give it to him, but you'd written this one with him in the back of your mind the whole time. And it was the thing you'd spent the better part of two weeks on, the piece your editor sent back twice with notes that made you want to close your laptop and walk into the ocean. 

There was no practice to go to anymore, no bleachers to sit on, no easy excuse to find yourself in the same place at the same time. You hadn't quite realized how much of your access to him had been built into the structure of the semester until the season ended and took all of it with it.

But you ran into him on a Thursday morning. He was coming out of the building you were going into, his bag over one shoulder, looking like he'd had roughly just enough sleep.

"Hey," he says

"Hey," you hum back, and then, before you could think about it long enough to talk yourself out of it, you pull the folded copy from your bag and hold it out to him. “The final issue."

He takes it and finds your name before he finds anything else, which he does every time. He stands there in the cold of the path like he has nowhere else to be, like the words you wrote were worth taking the time over, and you let yourself look at him the way you don't usually let yourself look at him.

October had been all fire and gold, the air still holding the last warmth of summer in the afternoons. But November had come in quietly and taken all of that away, leaving something crisper and cleaner behind, the trees stripped back now, the sky a pale gray that sat low over the campus. 

Satoru’s white hair catches the morning light the way it always does, but there is something about the gray November sky behind him that makes it look softer. A few strands have fallen across his forehead, and the cold, with its real teeth to it this week, has put the faintest color along his cheekbones.

He turns another page, and something in his expression shifts. You look away before he can catch you watching.

"You wrote about the last game like you actually cared about it," he says, which was not what you expected him to say.

"I did care about it," you say, carefully.

"You told me a month ago that you didn't even know the offside rule."

"I looked it up," you confess, and something paints his face at that, something warm and slow, and you feel your heart do the thing it has been doing around him for months. 

He closes the issue and looks at you. "It's good," he says, which you can tell is not what he actually wanted to say, which is its own thing to think about.

"Thank you," you say.

The wind moves through the bare trees lining the path, and he shifts the issue to one hand, and you watch him not quite look at you, which is unusual because Satoru Gojo has never once had trouble looking at anything directly in his life.

"I kept thinking about what you'd write," he says finally, still not quite looking at you. 

You don't say anything.

"And then I kept thinking about that and then about other things and then," He stops, then starts again. "You take up all my mind when you're not with me. And half of it when you are."

Something blooms in your chest, your heart doing something without your approval, your hands not entirely steady either.

"That's a lot," you say finally, which is not really a response, which you are aware of. So you reach out and close your fingers around his wrist, then lean forward and rest the top of your head against his chest.

"I know," he smiles.

You pull back to look at him and think about September, the soccer field, the afternoon you didn’t dare to look at him yet. You think about cold bleachers and post-practice walks and every conversation that started about one thing and ended somewhere neither of you had planned. You think about his jersey still hanging in your closet. 

"I chose the photo of you from the third game," you say. "There were better ones technically."

"You're not looking at the camera. You're looking at something off to the side, and you're..." you stop for a second. "It's the best one because of your smile. I've never seen you smile like that in any of the other photos."

"I know that photo," he says, quietly.

"It ran on the front page."

"I know." He hums, "I was looking at you."

He closes the distance slowly. His hand comes up to your jaw, cold from the November air. He’s so close that you can see the gray sky caught in his eyes, and then he kisses you, his thumb moving once against your cheek. When he pulls back, he doesn't go far; his hand is still at your jaw, and you feel the cold on your face and the warmth of his hand and your own heartbeat, shaky and loud, and entirely his fault.

just the tip, technically—just the thick swollen head of him seated snug inside, no thrusting, no rocking, no cheating—but it’s warm and full and perfect and your eyes roll back immediately like your pussy’s trying to kiss his cock goodnight.

“jesus fucking christ,” he pants, arms shaking, “you’re—you’re holding me, baby, i can’t—”

“shhh,” you murmur, already lowering yourself until your chest is pressed to his, your cunt clamped down tight and still around him like you were built to do this, like you were meant to do this, like this isn’t the worst fucking idea you’ve ever had—

“it’s just cockwarming,” you whisper, breath hot against his ear. “we’re not moving.”

but your pussy keeps fluttering. every breath he takes makes his cock twitch. every twitch makes you clench. every clench makes him groan and every groan makes you want.

you bury your face in his neck. breathe him in. smell the sweat and the shampoo and the sharp clean scent of his skin and pretend you’re not slowly dripping around the base of his cock like a fucking needy whore.

“fuck,” he whispers, voice shaking. “baby, you gotta stop—”

“i’m not moving,” you whisper, biting your lip hard enough to leave a dent.

and you’re not. technically. because if you move it doesn’t count, right? if you stay still you’re a good girl, you’re not cheating, you’re just sitting here still like someone who didn’t accidentally impale herself on her boyfriend’s cock during a desperate dry humping session while ovulating, because it’s just the tip, it’s cockwarming, it’s not a real fuck if you’re both crying about it inside.

“you sure?” he breathes, eyes glassy, jaw clenched, fists buried in the sheets like he’s one centimeter away from fucking up and five seconds away from nutting inside you just for being warm.

you nod. try to look convincing. try to ignore the way your pussy flutters again—because it’s not your fault, it’s muscle memory or instinct or the devil, maybe, but definitely not you.

he groans. sharp and guttural. one of those stomach-deep noises like it’s pain, like it’s good, like the pressure’s so much it’s tipping over into agony.

“you’re fucking tight,” he mutters, voice strangled. “like—like blood flow cutting off tight. like medical emergency tight. like—fuck, babe—”

you clench again, experimentally.

his whole body jolts.

“baby.”

“sorry,” you say, not sorry at all.

his hands grab your hips like he’s going to stop you. like he could stop you. like he’s not actively losing his grip on reality while his cock is sheathed to the tip in your sweet, wet, fluttering fucking cunt.

“okay okay okay,” he pants, “it’s fine, it’s good, we’re good—just stay still—don’t clench—don’t clench again—fuck, okay, you’re clenching—”

you are. you’re clenching again. because he’s leaking. because it’s hot. because your cunt is drooling around him and your brain is going static and your whole pelvis feels like it’s glowing and you swear it’s just the hormones, it’s not like you want this, you don’t want to—

“fuck—fuck, i’m gonna cum—”

“don’t,” you gasp, tightening your thighs around his hips, not moving, still not moving, “satoru, don’t—”

he whines. actually whines. high-pitched and broken and fucking precious, like his soul is trying to escape through his teeth.

“baby,” he sobs, “i told you not to clench—”

“you’re such a little bitch,” you spit, just to be mean, just to win, just to distract—and he cums. just like that.

no thrusting, no warning, no control—just his back arching and his arms going tight and his face twisting like he’s seeing god as he empties his soul into your cunt in slow, hot, endless waves. every pulse another betrayal.

every spurt another nail in your coffin. your mouth falls open in shock and awe and disbelief and pure molten fuck as he fills you past the point of saturation, creamy and thick and so much more than just the tip.

you can feel it leaking down already, soaking your panties, sticky between your thighs, staining everything.

he’s panting. blinking up at you. ruined.

“…oops,” he says.

you stare down at him.

“…satoru.”

“technically,” he whispers, grinning, “you moved first.”

you shift a little and flinch immediately because it’s still coming out of you, warm and viscous, soaking through your poor panties like they’re tissue paper, and satoru’s just lying there, flushed and panting, looking way too proud for a man who just came like a teenager in a movie theater.

“you’re disgusting,” you mutter, voice flat. dazed.

he grins. “you’re welcome.”

“i’m going to kill you.”

“that’s fair.”

he’s still inside you. you can feel it—softening now, twitchy and spent, and still plugged up tight with his mess—and you should climb off, you should run for a towel or the bathroom or a time machine, but instead you just stay there. legs spread. pussy full. brain fried.

satoru lets his hands settle on your hips again. not to move you—just to hold you. like he’s grounding himself.

“you okay?” he asks, a little softer now, and you hate that it sounds real. like he means it. like he knows he pushed it.

you nod once. barely.

he presses his thumbs to the curve of your hips, gentle. “wanna get cleaned up?”

you exhale. long. still dizzy. “not yet.”

he hums. smug. self-satisfied. then, quieter. “we can try again later. properly, this time. y’know, if you really wanna warm my cock.”

you don’t dignify that with an answer. just close your eyes and stay there. stuffed. soaked. ruined.

just the tip, technically—just the thick swollen head of him seated snug inside, no thrusting, no rocking, no cheating—but it’s warm and full and perfect and your eyes roll back immediately like your pussy’s trying to kiss his cock goodnight.

“jesus fucking christ,” he pants, arms shaking, “you’re—you’re holding me, baby, i can’t—”

“shhh,” you murmur, already lowering yourself until your chest is pressed to his, your cunt clamped down tight and still around him like you were built to do this, like you were meant to do this, like this isn’t the worst fucking idea you’ve ever had—

“it’s just cockwarming,” you whisper, breath hot against his ear. “we’re not moving.”

but your pussy keeps fluttering. every breath he takes makes his cock twitch. every twitch makes you clench. every clench makes him groan and every groan makes you want.

you bury your face in his neck. breathe him in. smell the sweat and the shampoo and the sharp clean scent of his skin and pretend you’re not slowly dripping around the base of his cock like a fucking needy whore.

“fuck,” he whispers, voice shaking. “baby, you gotta stop—”

“i’m not moving,” you whisper, biting your lip hard enough to leave a dent.

and you’re not. technically. because if you move it doesn’t count, right? if you stay still you’re a good girl, you’re not cheating, you’re just sitting here still like someone who didn’t accidentally impale herself on her boyfriend’s cock during a desperate dry humping session while ovulating, because it’s just the tip, it’s cockwarming, it’s not a real fuck if you’re both crying about it inside.

“you sure?” he breathes, eyes glassy, jaw clenched, fists buried in the sheets like he’s one centimeter away from fucking up and five seconds away from nutting inside you just for being warm.

you nod. try to look convincing. try to ignore the way your pussy flutters again—because it’s not your fault, it’s muscle memory or instinct or the devil, maybe, but definitely not you.

he groans. sharp and guttural. one of those stomach-deep noises like it’s pain, like it’s good, like the pressure’s so much it’s tipping over into agony.

“you’re fucking tight,” he mutters, voice strangled. “like—like blood flow cutting off tight. like medical emergency tight. like—fuck, babe—”

you clench again, experimentally.

his whole body jolts.

“baby.”

“sorry,” you say, not sorry at all.

his hands grab your hips like he’s going to stop you. like he could stop you. like he’s not actively losing his grip on reality while his cock is sheathed to the tip in your sweet, wet, fluttering fucking cunt.

“okay okay okay,” he pants, “it’s fine, it’s good, we’re good—just stay still—don’t clench—don’t clench again—fuck, okay, you’re clenching—”

you are. you’re clenching again. because he’s leaking. because it’s hot. because your cunt is drooling around him and your brain is going static and your whole pelvis feels like it’s glowing and you swear it’s just the hormones, it’s not like you want this, you don’t want to—

“fuck—fuck, i’m gonna cum—”

“don’t,” you gasp, tightening your thighs around his hips, not moving, still not moving, “satoru, don’t—”

he whines. actually whines. high-pitched and broken and fucking precious, like his soul is trying to escape through his teeth.

“baby,” he sobs, “i told you not to clench—”

“you’re such a little bitch,” you spit, just to be mean, just to win, just to distract—and he cums. just like that.

no thrusting, no warning, no control—just his back arching and his arms going tight and his face twisting like he’s seeing god as he empties his soul into your cunt in slow, hot, endless waves. every pulse another betrayal.

every spurt another nail in your coffin. your mouth falls open in shock and awe and disbelief and pure molten fuck as he fills you past the point of saturation, creamy and thick and so much more than just the tip.

you can feel it leaking down already, soaking your panties, sticky between your thighs, staining everything.

he’s panting. blinking up at you. ruined.

“…oops,” he says.

you stare down at him.

“…satoru.”

“technically,” he whispers, grinning, “you moved first.”

you shift a little and flinch immediately because it’s still coming out of you, warm and viscous, soaking through your poor panties like they’re tissue paper, and satoru’s just lying there, flushed and panting, looking way too proud for a man who just came like a teenager in a movie theater.

“you’re disgusting,” you mutter, voice flat. dazed.

he grins. “you’re welcome.”

“i’m going to kill you.”

“that’s fair.”

he’s still inside you. you can feel it—softening now, twitchy and spent, and still plugged up tight with his mess—and you should climb off, you should run for a towel or the bathroom or a time machine, but instead you just stay there. legs spread. pussy full. brain fried.

satoru lets his hands settle on your hips again. not to move you—just to hold you. like he’s grounding himself.

“you okay?” he asks, a little softer now, and you hate that it sounds real. like he means it. like he knows he pushed it.

you nod once. barely.

he presses his thumbs to the curve of your hips, gentle. “wanna get cleaned up?”

you exhale. long. still dizzy. “not yet.”

he hums. smug. self-satisfied. then, quieter. “we can try again later. properly, this time. y’know, if you really wanna warm my cock.”

you don’t dignify that with an answer. just close your eyes and stay there. stuffed. soaked. ruined.

“You need to start taking this seriously,” he recalls his father slamming his fist down at the desk before throwing a bottle of Henessy at the wall. “I don’t want this company to go bankrupt just because I have a son who only thinks with his dick.”

Ouch… but he’s not wrong about that.

So now Satoru finds himself driving up a winding road somewhere very deep in the mountains. Exactly five hours away from the city. And, for the past three hours, all he’s been seeing are miles and miles of pine trees, sheets of snow, and — he had recently learned this from Suguru — sugar shacks. Apparently when you’re out over a hundred miles into wilderness territory these sap houses are littered everywhere.  The fact that Satoru is beginning to count more shacks than designer cars on the road is really starting to get to him. 

“This whole thing is so fucking stupid,” Satoru has also been talking to himself throughout the journey in order to not lose his mind. “He could’ve just sent me door to door caroling instead of whatever this is.” Satoru doesn’t know how to sing well, but he does know all the lyrics to ‘Baby It’s Cold Outside’ and that usually gets him all the tips. He wonders if he can manage to make a small side hustle when he starts wasting his week here.

He takes a sharp turn up around the hill before finally recognizing a big red sign with the name ‘Mistle Town’ as seen on the postcard his dad left him before leaving. It takes him another five minutes of driving through said small town, which is quite literally something out of one of those really bad holiday movies that his mom would force him to watch when he was little, before arriving at the inn. Upon arriving, Satoru is noticeably disappointed at the lack of valet assistance and, the size and design of the inn, is rather lackluster. 

First, it just looks like a regular white farmhouse. Maybe having a max of ten rooms, none of them being penthouse sized, Satoru assumes. There are a couple of flowerbeds out front, all covered in a couple of inches of snow, and there’s subtle signs of holiday decor slowly bleeding its way outside. He sees someone dressed in an oversized puffer by the entrance, arms occupied with red tinsel and large white ornaments, and figures that the first nice thing he’ll do is to help out a random stranger — just to prove something to his dad.

Satoru parks his Rolls Royce in a spot furthest away from everyone else in the parking lot and sends a ‘im alive and well’ text to Suguru, because he’s very much so going to be in frequent contact with him for the remainder of the trip, before heading up.

“Need a hand?” He points out the obvious but still manages to throw a smile as if he’s already fixed the situation unfolding in front of him.

Satoru’s presence seems to pull you from your busy trance. You wiped your body around, nearly smacking the damn tinsel in his face, and made a small surprised noise.

“I’ve got it,” you muffle out and he looks entirely unconvinced but, whatever, he tried anyway.

Satoru gives you a few encouraging pats on the back before heading inside, failing to realize his strength and causing you to lose your balance, making a few ornaments tumble to the ground. Thank god they’re all plastic though.

He pretends to not hear you yelling after him as he enters the double doors, immediately greeted by the scent of roasted coffee beans and leather. It’s the precious hour in the morning where nobody comes by, right after the cleaning staff had just finished vacuuming, when he struts in. He immediately spots someone vaguely familiar by the front desk. Long black hair, a red poofy bow tie in the back, and a distinctive scar across her face. The woman isn’t working alone, a man with another facial marking is next to her, brewing two cups of coffee by the espresso machine. 

Satoru looks at the woman again and outwardly smiles. “What are you doing here?”

“Ugh,” Utahime’s composure immediately falters at the sound of his voice, not that it’s a big shock. “Helping the family business, what else?” she throws back with a certain sharpness to her tone, and waves off the casual talk. “Have you even mentally prepared yourself for what you’re getting into?”

Satoru simply shrugs and saunters over to a nearby seat by the counter. “Nah, honestly just planning to fuck around till I get back.”

Utahime flushes a little, though it’s mainly from frustration. “Satoru Gojo, you really are—”

“Utahime,” the man next to her speaks, handing her a cup of coffee, and slides Satoru a freshly brewed one, too. “I can explain the details to him, if you would like?”

The older female rubs the bridge of her nose and exhales a long, overdue sigh. “Please do, Choso.”

“Yeah,” Satoru leans into the counter, lips pointed down at this new face. “Please, do tell.”

“You’re basically our little Santa helper.” A new voice rings out from behind him. It spooks Satoru from his seat and he whips his head around to be met with your narrow eyes.

“Huh?”

“Also think of this as an unpaid internship.” You start laughing when he gags on his own saliva at your statement. “Okay, you don’t have to be so dramatic about it.”

Satoru swallows. “U-Unpaid…?”

Now it’s Utahime’s turn to speak, she huffs and tosses a couple of stockings into his arms. “Your father sent us a lengthy email a few days prior regarding your bratty behavior. So, of course, we came prepared.” 

“Prepared…?” He feels the fabric in his hands and whines at the grainy texture. This is so not 100% real wool.

If Satoru thought he had any chance of actually taking over his father’s company, because he knows the difference between supply and demand, he’s wrong.

Customer service is not his forte. He’s always thrown emails and sponsorship paperwork at his many assistants, and Satoru doesn’t even know his own email log-in password. So, when you walked up to him first thing the next morning with a brown apron, the inn’s logo large and embroidered in the center, telling him how to function all these coffee machines that he’s seen behind hundreds of counters, it invoked some fear into his already wrecked nerves. Plus, no one dared to warn him about the clientele during a holiday rush.

“I want a venti peppermint frappe with two pumps of chocolate, three pumps of hazelnut, replace it with almond milk, one shot of espresso, and top it off with a drizzle of caramel on top.”

He slumps against the counter. “You sure you want all of that?”

“Can I please get a half dozen sfogliatella and a cannoli?

He starts picking at his cuticles and sneers. “Sorry, I don’t speak Italian.” 

“My change is supposed to be five dollars, you only gave me three back?”

Satoru groans. “You’re trying to scam me, aren’t you?”

By the end of his four hour shift, Satoru feels like he’s just done more charity work than he’s ever done in his life — actually, maybe this could also be comparable to the time where he did the ribbon cutting ceremony at Chanel; gotta support small businesses, right?

“Gojo.” You’re seated across from him behind the counter, arms crossed and pursed lips.

He barely spares you a glance as he idly plays whatever shitty mobile game that’s number one on the app store. “Mhm? What is it?” He clearly knows you’re upset, your voice practically screams ‘I will end you’ in the most monotonous way possible. But can you blame him? Of all places, Satoru does not want to spend his winter break here.

You jerk your head to the side, fingers rhythmically tapping away on the counter, clearly unimpressed. “It hasn’t even been a full day and you’ve managed to piss off every single customer.”

Satoru expression shifts, brow creasing, and sighs, grabbing a handful of mint chocolate from the freebie candy jar by the register. “Don’t be dramatic,” he rolls his eyes and shoves three pieces in his mouth before jabbing a finger at a young man. “I didn’t piss him off!”

You glower, cheeks slightly puffed out. “That’s Yuuji and he’s practically a family friend and Choso’s little brother, so he doesn’t count,” you explain before adding, “Plus, he’s literally nice to everyone. You’re not special.”

And for a second, Satoru considered arguing that fact. Having been born into wealth, granted whatever wish he wanted, his butlers and maids are always on speed dial, that’s the lifestyle he’s used to. Placed on this tiny rock called Earth just to take over it one day, is what his father used to always say to him. But how can he, Satoru Gojo, take over when he’s stuck working a minimum — scratch that, unpaid — wage job as punishment? 

Instead of fighting, Satoru slumps against the counter and pouts, like a little kid who just got their toy taken away. You and your sister Utahime have a clear advantage over him, by somehow being close, yet distant, friends to his family. Maybe karma is real. 

“I’m putting you on ski lessons later.”

Satoru’s ears perk at this. “Oh, so I get some employee benefits, right?”

You roll your eyes, digging deep in your pockets to pull out a sheet with his name next to a list of others. “Wrong. You’re in charge of teaching five year olds how to ski.” 

“Huh?”

Somehow that sounds even worse than being a barista. Kinda. 

By the end of his first day of unemployment, Satoru tries to convince himself that a full change of scenery is nice. Well, he has to convince himself, otherwise he’s stuck dreading each coming day for the rest of the week. 

“Tired yet, Gojo?”

You flop down on a spare armchair in his room, squishing his Canada Goose jacket underneath. He’s too tired to yell at you to get off and tumbles onto his bed, feet dangling off the edge, letting out a loud groan when his face immediately makes contact with the rough wooly blanket. Surprisingly to him, everything just feels so comfortable that the quality of the products doesn’t even cross his mind.

Sure, the air in the room is a bit musty, and he can feel his cheeks flaring up from the sudden change in temperature and the dull aching nag in his legs from demonstrating ski tricks to toddlers, but there’s an odd sense of fulfillment swelling in his chest just about now. He almost suggests taking over Choso’s lesson but, according to the hotel pamphlet, there’s going to be an ice fishing tournament tomorrow and he kinda wants to check that out, too.

“Exhausted,” he mumbles into the sheets, eyes squeezed shut. Satoru wiggles his body around for a few moments before slipping out of his snow boots and stares out the window, noticing flickering green and purple lights in the night sky. “Woah, are those…?”

He hears you laugh beside him. “Yeah, northern lights. We see them all the time during the winter.”

“Only seen them bitches in ‘Polar Express’.” Satoru finds himself saying whatever’s on his mind right now, his brain too whipped out to control his mouth. “You guys are lucky to see this every night.”

“I know you’re all pooped out from today but,” he feels the mattress dip by the edge and your fingers poking at his thighs. “Did you wanna head up to the balcony and watch them for a bit?” you say this experimentally, waiting for his reaction. 

Satoru might be a stranger to most natural phenomenons, having to zone out all the time whenever he did go on family vacations to a fancy national park when he was younger. Though, during the short time of spending his time here, it makes him think about packing up and leaving behind the fast paced city life for a bit of natural beauty and brightness.

“Carry me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you’re like a giant.” 

He manages to gather some energy to sit up on his elbows. “You should at least have some form of hospitality to a family friend, you know?”

You eye him for a long moment, and then finally huff, breaking the contact to kick your feet into the festive carpeted floor. “Alright, just don’t lean your whole body weight on me.”

“Wouldn’t count on that.”

Both of you end up tumbling onto the balcony rails around one in the morning. As expected, Satoru couldn’t keep to his promise, throwing his ridiculously long arms around your shoulders, and whining the whole way up the stairs. It’s not his fault that the inn didn’t have an elevator installed. In all, it’s not a bad day — a bad night, even. 

You straighten him against the railing before throwing a blanket over him. The fabric is thick and heavy, and Satoru forgets the ache in his limbs as he watches the way your eyes focus, eyebrows knitted, when you’re making sure he stays bundled up against the winter air. Once upon a time, Satoru never would’ve thought he would actually enjoy being in the company of someone who’s actively trying to teach him a lesson.

“Okay,” you say suddenly, almost like a reminder that you need to breathe, and pull away from him once he’s wrapped tightly like a swaddled baby. 

You both sit in silence for a moment, and Satoru feels the urge to fill all that silence. He supposes maybe that’s why most people find him so annoying. He never really shuts up, always wants to add the last comment to everything. Though, with the help of Suguru by his side, it’s gotten slightly easier and bearable for others but, when his head is big and full of loud thoughts, it’s so hard trying to calm the buzzing noise in his head and —

“Gojo, look,” your pointer finger darts at the illuminated skyline in the distance and he snaps his head, following the trail, before gasping.

He feels your other hand tugging at the blanket when he finally makes out two faint bright lights in the distance. You squirm slightly next to him, to the point where your shoulders touch, and Satoru finally breathes, because suddenly, there’s heat rushing in. The loud, rough winds around him seem to die down and he’s aware of the slightly gazed expression on your face as you look into the far distance.

“Did you make a wish?” he finds himself whispering.

You grin. “Yeah, gonna make you work here for eternity,” you reply back in good natured spirit.

Something stirs inside Satoru. Something important. Well, Satoru-level important, so in the grand scheme of things, not very — but still. He unravels parts of his blanket and throws it over your head, making sure that it messes up your hair, and laughs when you throw him another pout. 

“Did you make a wish?” you adjust the blanket so it covers your shoulders, moving a little closer to him, avoiding the cool breeze.

Satoru nods but presses a finger to his lips. “Not telling, though. Might not come true if I do.”

“Oh, shoot. Maybe I should’ve kept mine a secret then.”

He rolls his eyes and nudges your waist with an elbow. “You will definitely not see me here again.”

Satoru realizes, very fast, that his life has become very different, very quickly. And it might not be the bad kind of different. 

Over the course of the next few days, he’s practically glued to your side as you’re showing him all things related to hospitality that his father tried to drill into him when he was a pre-teen. Obviously, it didn’t work at the time. Satoru’s known for being defiant just because he wanted to, and eventually his father stopped with the after school etiquette lessons. You, on the other hand, unfortunately have him tied around your fingers.

“You need to tidy up the edges more, Gojo.”

“There’s barely a wrinkle in these sheets!” He points at the bed sheet on the mattress, the one that he’d been working on for the last ten minutes in vain while you stood next to him with slightly concerned eyes. It’s a room service type of lesson today and, even though Satoru has never made his own bed before, he’s positive that he didn’t leave behind any smudges that might catch anyone’s eye.

“Did you check tuck in the sides? Or are you trying to get off easy for today?” You say, there’s a mild accusation in your tone when you speak, smiling as you step aside. 

And, despite the warm smile, Satoru frowns a little, because guess who forgot to tuck in the sides? 

When Satoru ducks his head around the mattress and sees a good loose chunk of the sheets hanging off and groans when you’re right. “It’s not my fault that they’ve made them so big for no reason,” he replies, somewhat embarrassed, rubbing the back of his head and messing up his already ruffled hair.

You roll your eyes and stick a tongue out. “You’re getting the hang of it though, maybe even faster than Yuuji when he first offered to help.”

He flushes at the unexpected praise and quickly fixes the sheets, turning his whole entire body away from your sight. “Better than Yuuji, right?”

“Oh? So, you only work better with compliments, Gojo?” You sound amused, as if a lightbulb just popped on top of your head.  

Satoru flattens out the bed once more, strangely now feeling satisfied with the final outcome before turning around, sticking out a tongue of his own. “Only if it’s from you,” he answers, honestly. 

You laugh, and hopefully it’s not at him. “I thought you would be more annoying to deal with.”

“So, I’m just regular amounts of annoying?” He points out, with a fake frown, his fingers fiddling with the edges of the sheet.

You turn your gaze, seemingly in deep thought, before responding with a small shrug and grin. “Possibly a perfect amount of annoying.”

Satoru feels the blood rushing to his cheeks, again. “Well, of course, it’s the perfect amount because I’m perfect,” he replies, instantly, but suddenly he’s shy and feels the need to go to the next room to fix their stupid sheets before he combusts in front of you.

“Gojo,” you say, almost hesitantly. 

He swallows and rubs the back of his neck, wiping off evidence of his sweaty palms. “Yeah?”

“You missed a spot,” and your pointer fingers direct at the far right corner of the bed frame. He must’ve pulled the sides too hard and it caused the other side to flip over. Ugh, he’s not cut out for this at all.

“I’m… uh, still better than Yuuji, right?”

“Mhm, getting there, Gojo.”

By day four, Satoru has surprisingly adjusted to the rules and responsibilities. He’s not entirely sure what’s gotten him mildly well behaved, Suguru is a bit surprised by the daily updates being less… aggressive and whiny. What started as long vent paragraphs about the lack of heated flooring and needy customers, soon turned into photo albums of kids face planting into the snow and unconsented selfies with you in the background. Satoru absolutely makes sure you end up looking the worst out of the two because he’s gotta let his best friend know who’s the prettiest and he’s definitely racking up a blackmail album of all of your worst moments in case anything happens in the future. 

It’s closing time and he just got back from the reindeer shed out in the back, covered head to toe in all things hay and snow. First things first, and no one bothered to tell him, but reindeers smell bad. Like, really bad. Especially at the end of the day, where their pens are covered in shit and countless carrots and apple bits from the little kids overfeeding them. Satoru is vaguely aware of the fact that he smells, just like he’s vaguely aware that the hotel lobby is oddly quiet from the usual banter between you and the usual workers.

Utahime and Choso are sitting by the cafe bar, seemingly deep in conversation about ordering more supplies for next week. Satoru thinks about interrupting their session with probably an unrelated dumb question, but the idea dies when Utahime notices his presence and motions him to come over. 

“You stink,” Satoru casts a half-glare at Utahime and begins picking out some of the scattered hay pieces stuck to his sweater. 

“For the record, I became good friends with Rudolph and Vixen today,” he grumbles back and Choso throws him a pat on the back.

“Hey, I don’t mind your stink, by the way. Smells kinda nice,” Choso offers up, but Satoru only shoots him a very unhappy look.

“If you think I smell nice then I’m really worried about what you think smells bad,” then he turns over to Utahime again, who’s engrossed in whatever is on her clipboard right now. “So, what did you need from me?”

“My sister,” she starts and taps away at the clipboard before handing it over to him. It’s pages upon pages of invoices from the past month. “Could you hand this to her? She should be in the back.”

“You treating me like an errand boy?”

Utahime scoffs. “What? Don’t wanna see her?”

“No, I do,” he responds, a bit too fast for his own liking, and straightens out. “Uh, is that all?” Satoru hopes his face doesn’t betray how much he’s a bit excited to interact with you, given that today was a full day out in the trenches, and he absolutely needs to hear you say his name at least twice a day in order to have a good night’s sleep.

Choso is trying really hard not to laugh, and Satoru takes it as a sign that he currently has a cheesy smile on his face — go figure. “One of the corner rooms upstairs requested a weighted blanket, mind also doing that too?”

There’s a certain relief that floods through Satoru and he thinks maybe he can take on a few more tasks for the night if that means spending a little more time with you, even if his body is screaming that he needs to take a two hour long shower. 

“Hey,” he starts to say when he rounds the corner, “Where’d you put those weighted blankets again?”

Satoru expected to walk in on you neck-deep in paperwork. You’ve mentioned earlier in the week that this year would be the busiest and there’s a bunch of stuff due. Something about end of the year tax returns and inventory counts, it all goes out his ear but he remembers something similar that his father told him in a prior conversation. He thinks he could probably help you figure out some of it, but that might be a bit much.

What he walks in on, thought, is you sitting in your little makeshift office. You’re on your laptop, the screen’s tilted just right enough that he gets a glimpse of what you’re looking at. You’re looking at flights and hotels, even got a whole spreadsheet on the second monitor. From what he’s seen of you so far, you didn’t come off as the type to talk about your future that much.

His voice catches you by surprise and your expression flickers from something vaguely focused to embarrassment real quick. You hastily close out the tabs and go back to the hotel’s homepage.

“What is it, Gojo?” And there’s this awkward, oddly frantic moment of you fumbling around with the keyboard and mouse, like a teenage boy who’s just got caught looking at porn.

“Ah,” Satoru thinks seeing your flustered side is rather adorable, to say the least. “You tryin’ to plan a vacation or something?” He struts over to your desk, placing a firm hand onto the back of the chair, and there’s this smile on his face that just screams ‘gotcha’.

Your face scrunches up but it’s not out of annoyance. “Kinda?”

Even with a grumpy look, it’s a good look on you. Makes you kinda dark, brooding, and beautiful, and it turns your eyes into dark storm clouds, or some other weird, waxy poetic shit that Satoru can’t figure out the words to. Either way, Satoru thinks you look cute and can’t stop noticing your little facial movements. You’re more expressive than you would probably imagine.

“Ooh, where to?”

You sigh and start playing with your thumbs. “Malaysia. My friend told me great things about it and I’ve been meaning to go for a while now but time and money are always iffy.”

“Makes sense, I can imagine that being an inn assistant doesn’t pay all the bills.”

That was probably the wrong thing to say. You huff and glare, an icy-death glare, at him. If looks could kill, Satoru is sure that he’ll be six feet underground by now. 

“Weighted blankets are on the second floor closet by the laundry room,” you answer his initial question curtly before shutting the laptop. “Don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“It was just a question,” he mumbles slowly, and maybe even a little dangerously. “If money’s an issue—”

“Gojo.” Your voice is fixed and rigid, one that leaves absolutely no room for debate. “Your dad was right about you; you always just fall back to your fame and wealth.”

As you’re busy staring, Satoru realizes that you’re kinda being a total ass to him right now.

“That’s not fair,” his voice is rising and can’t seem to put a stop to the words spilling out. “Don’t bring my dad into this conversation.”

“Or what? You can go back to your privileged life anytime you want. This is just a field trip for you while others actually have to try hard and make a living.” You spit out. 

“No one forced you to become an inn worker, you know? If you’re so worried about money then you could’ve just found another high paying job.” Satoru wrinkles his nose and his volume continues to rise. 

You immediately offer him a dark glare and it comes off in a cut-throat way that shuts Satoru up mid thought. The rest of his counters die in his throat when you start making hand gestures at the office exit and he gets the hint: ‘leave before I lose my shit’ is the calling he sees.

And it works, because he finds his tone shifting a little, awkwardly kicking the floor and backing off. “Whatever…”

That was last night and, by now, Satoru is realizing that he’s kind of a giant asshole and the guilt is slowly eating away at him. Was he always like this? It couldn’t have been — he’s only met you a few days ago, and this is only meant to be a quick, ‘vacational’, getaway. Sure he might be a bit selfish and a dick, but he had been able to function perfectly fine before all of this, hadn’t he? 

Satoru’s not really sure.

It’s noon, and he’s lying in bed. Choso had asked him to cover his shift at the cafe, and he’d agreed, readily, even though it’s supposed to be his day off, because you’re working. Choso had texted him, though, saying that you had simply said you’d work the entire shift by yourself.

Of course. It’s absolutely not funny anymore.

Satoru sighs. He’s going to apologize, that’s for sure. It wounds some of his pride, yeah, but whatever, this tension between you guys, though, isn’t worth it. He finds himself wasting his entire morning away rotting in bed. There are things that he could be doing, that he looks forward to, like feeding the reindeers or demonstrating basic ski moves to little kids. Choso and Yuuji totally got him addicted to yelling out ‘pizza’ and ‘french fry’ at every chance he gets. They also got him addicted to a shitty relationship forum they both browse, but somehow the idea of reading other people’s relationship drama, when he’s facing drama of his own, is kinda mentally exhausting.

On second thought, maybe he should post on that forum, actually.

It might not be such a bad idea.

Or maybe he could reach out to Suguru and ask how to apologize? 

His best friend is a bit more grounded and attuned with other people’s feelings compared to him, afterall. Satoru’s not good at this stuff and he’s always just cut others off whenever they do argue, but this feels different. And, well, for the first time in forever, Satoru is desperate. 

“I fucked up big time and I need to apologize, help me out here?”

Suguru scoffs over the line. “Wow, what happened to saying ‘hello’ or ‘how are you’?”

Satoru rolls his eyes. “Hi, hello. How are you? How do I make a sincere apology?”

“I’m good, thank you. Now, for your request, depends on how big the fuck up is.”

He bites his tongue, finding the right words to essentially not sound like a huge dick but, no matter how he wants to rephrase it, the outcome is the same. “I might’ve implied that she’s poor and needs someone to take care of her?” It sounds so stupid, so mean, and so degrading now that he’s saying it out loud. 

He hears Suguru sucking in his teeth and sighs. After a couple of pauses, his best friend finally speaks. “That’s pretty fucked up.”

Satoru frowns. “Okay, yeah, it is,” and he sits up in his bed when a snowball makes an impact against the window. It’s Utahime. And, currently, she’s throwing him the nastiest glare that a woman has ever given him in his life. “Um, I’ll call you back, buddy…”

“What? I haven’t given you—”

“Don’t have time for unwarranted advice right now.”

“You called me!”

“Bye!” Satoru ends the call before shuffling towards the window, swallowing a hard lump, and inches the glass panel just small enough for him to hear coherently and not big enough for her to punt him across the face. “Lovely morning, isn’t it?”

But Utahime is in an obvious shitty mood and Satoru’s lack of charming antics aren’t going to work this time. “I’m going to apologize, I promise,” he tries to insist.

“This is all your fault,” she immediately gets to the point and it makes him shrink back just a tiny bit. He’s starting to see that the bluntness runs in the family. “Just get your ass to work.”

“But my shift doesn’t start till—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Utahime starts to form an even bigger snowball and raises it to the window panel. “Ass out of bed, now.”

Okay, so as much as Satoru had tried to tell himself that this week wouldn’t be bad, it’s really starting to get fucking awful.

Everyone’s in a shit mood. Yuuji tries to crack some jokes but the usual crowd isn’t having it. You’ve been throwing Satoru dirty looks while working behind the cafe counter together and he’s been put on drink duty — which is his worst nightmare — while you’re attending to the customers because you’re young and cute enough for them to be nice to you. Satoru has spilled hot coffee and chocolate on himself like four times so far, and the shift just started. He’s terrified that the rest of this week is going to be like this.

“Can we talk?” Satoru whisper shouts over the espresso machine.

He sees your shoulders tensing up but immediately relaxes them afterwards. “Did you hear something, Yuuji?”

The boy looks up from the bar counter, it’s his day off and he’s catching up on some homework, but the seemingly growing tension that’s unfolding in front of him is making it painfully hard for him to focus on anything engineering related. Yuuji scratches the back of his neck before darting his eyes back and forth between the two of you. Normally, he would be the voice of reason, but Satoru doesn’t blame him when he shakes his head.

“N-Nah, must’ve been the wind or something...” 

Great, he’s been reduced to an air draft.

“Mhm, that’s what I thought,” you agree without missing a beat. As the next customer in line spends an eternity holding everyone up, debating whether to get the seasonal muffin or french toast to go with their drink, you continue, “Thought I heard a rotten brat for a second.”

He absolutely doesn’t expect the harsh insult. Satoru widens his eyes at the outburst and there’s a small pause, the silence ticking in between everyone, and he’s sure that you’re glaring him down somewhere in a small reflection on the counter. 

Satoru debates whether to call out your name and shake some sense into you, but Yuuji quickly swallows and makes a motion with his hands to his throat, a universal signal saying — ‘I wouldn’t test the waters, if I were you’.

And, after the customer finally decides that they didn’t want any pastries with their coffee order, you finish the transaction before announcing that you’re going on a small fifteen minute break to “stretch”. Though, anyone could see that you’re planning to cool off before you manage to actually blow up in Satoru’s face.

“How the hell am I going to talk to her?” he groans to Yuuji once you’re finally away. He’s managing the cash register and, surprisingly, finishes taking the remaining orders quite smoothly compared to his first day. At least he can pat himself on the back for this. 

“You’ve really pissed her off, dude,” Yuuji replies and Satoru just rolls his eyes because that’s all he’s been hearing from everyone else all day today. “You should talk to her when she’s not… charged up.”

“Way to point out the obvious.” Sometimes he forgets that Yuuji is a bit oblivious. How is he doing so well as a mechanical engineering major? 

Yuuji makes an audible ‘pop’ and whistles. “What did you even say to her?”

Satoru groans into his hands. “Did she not tell you?”

“Well, she wasn’t exactly in a chippy mood to talk about anything this morning — outside of work, that is.”

“Here’s a little TLDR version: might’ve said something classist.”

“Might’ve?”

“Okay, definitely said something classist.”

“Then…” Yuuji drums his fingers against the counter, deep in thought. “Y’know, whenever me and Megumi fight, I always invite him out to the movies to try and cheer him up. Might not be applicable to you but…”

Satoru blinks. “Are you suggesting a date would help?”

“Maybe not a date—”

“No, I’m sorry for calling you dumb, you’re so right—a nice date might work!”

“You never called me dumb, though?”

“Yeah, okay, whatever you say, kiddo.”

Satoru unravels the ribbon on his apron and throws it in Yuuji’s general direction, not caring if he tossed the stained uniform directly in his face. He hops the counter and pats the younger male on the shoulder, flashing him a genuine smile because, hey, maybe Yuuji actually is smarter than he looks.

“Gonna totally invite you to the wedding.”

It’s no secret that Satoru Gojo hasn’t been on a proper date in a pathetically long time.

He has swiped right on a number of highly influential celebrities and figures on dating apps before. Matched with nearly all of them. Gone on…maybe a lot of first dates with not a lot of second dates coming right after. Who cares though, everyone’s just there for the photos and followers anyway. Satoru knows that he’s attractive and that he personally loves big, lavish dates but, at this point, he knows you enough to understand you absolutely hate big gestures. 

After a short winded conversation with Suguru and Utahime, separately, Satoru has concluded on not buying you first class tickets to Malaysia. 

“Are you trying to get her to hate your guts?” Was the general consensus of the conversation with said people. 

So, what’s the next best option if he can’t fly you out to Malaysia? The answer is pretty simple — bring Malaysia to Mistle Town. And no, he’s not going to be relying on his black card for anything, even though the back of his mind is telling him otherwise. 

Choso blinks several times at Satoru’s printed out proposal. The colorful letters and Google image photos of beaches and coconuts slapped poorly onto the document screams back at Choso and Yuuji, bright and early on Christmas Eve. 

It’s unusual for Satoru to be bouncing excitedly in place for someone other than himself. So this catches everyone off guard. 

Yuuji whispers something intangible to Choso, but Satoru is able to make it out as, “Do we even have coconuts here?”

To which Choso replies, “It’s winter, so I don’t think so.”

And Yuuji moves onto the next question in queue, “What should we do about the lack of palm trees?”

A patient sigh from Choso, “We could always trim the pine trees outside?” He lamely suggests. 

“It’s a good idea, no?” Satoru jumps right back in, completely missing the flat vibe from the brothers. He frowns. “Why are you guys giving me that look?” 

And, like his best friend and your sister, the brothers throw him a confused head tilt. 

“Well,” Yuuji weakly starts, “Your plan ‘Project: Bring Malaysia here in hopes of Y/N falling in love with me’ doesn’t really sound that great… even on paper.”

Satoru grins, fully expecting that to be the response. “I’ll order the things, don’t worry about it. I just need to borrow your lungs for this project.”

Yuuji scratches his cheek in confusion, laughing nervously again. “Our lungs…?” he echos. 

“How long do I have to keep this dumb blindfold on, Choso?”

“U-Um,” Choso shoots Satoru a brow as he carefully guides you through the hotel lobby. 

It’s currently decked out from head to toe in all things yellow, green, and pink beach themed inflatables. Choso and Yuuji reminded Satoru last night that maybe two flamingos would’ve been enough to get the message across, but seeing that he ordered a whole colony? Yeah, he’s sending the rich boy prayers as he reels you in further, avoiding collision with the colorful balloons and seven-foot tall palm trees, too.

“Choso?”

He squeezes your shoulders when Satoru shoots him a thumbs up. “Ten seconds.”

Satoru quietly walks over to both of you, tip toeing so the sounds of his loafers are minimized against the flooring. Once he’s inches away, Choso retreats off into a different room, mouthing to him words of final encouragement, which Satoru gladly took. 

You appear restless under the blindfold. “I swear to god, if I take it off and there’s a giant pile of reindeer shit in the middle of the lobby I will actually kill somebody—”

And Satoru quietly debates whether or not he wants to keep you like this for a little while before revealing the big surprise. Seeing you flustered and confused is a very cute look on you, after all. But, he’s gotten you this far and it would absolutely kill him to leave you on such a bad notice. It’s now early evening, and the sun’s just starting to set enough that the golden rays illuminate your features from this angle. It takes Satoru back to his first private meeting with you on the balcony and he remembers why he’s even doing this in the first place.

Carefully and slowly, he slips down the blindfold and softly calls out your name. “Hey, take a look around you.”

Your eyes are blown wide when you see his face. Anger and frustration dissipate from your face when you soon realize that Satoru carries a soft expression. He watches as the emotions wash off as quickly as they came. Then, you finally take a look around your surroundings and gasp. “You—You did all of this for me?”

Satoru tenses a little, a bit on the edge. “You want the short or long answer?”

You don’t notice because you’re too preoccupied with the numerous fake flamingos around you. “On second thought, maybe no answer would also work.”

He laughs at this, slightly, before turning shy again. He feels silly, ashamed, and it makes his cheeks flush. “I wanted to say sorry again for what I said earlier.”

“You finally want to talk about it?”

He looks at your idle hands and then back to your face. When he sees that you don't move them away as he inches closer, he takes both of them into his palms, giving them a tight squeeze. “Yeah, I was a big idiot and I thought I was trying to help in the beginning but I just sounded—no, I am—a giant ass.” Satoru concludes. 

The atmosphere grows quiet and heavy again. The air humid and thick despite the opened windows and you’re looking at him. Then, there are tiny little smiles that break out on your face, like freckles and stars in the sky. 

“You’re such a pillow princess,” and he outright blushes ten shades darker at the nickname, “you’re lucky you’re cute.” Coming from you, that’s as good as a love confession.

I like you, he thinks, but doesn’t say it. He really likes you and doesn’t want to fuck this up.

But, everyone knows that Satoru Gojo is a child at heart. 

Satoru doesn’t know who gives in first; realistically, it might’ve been one of those stupid, rare, impossible moments where it’s completely shared. Suddenly the gaudy blow up palm trees and inflatable pool blur from his vision and he feels the world roaring around him when your palms rest on his cheeks. He ducks his head down but you’re the one who closes the distance between. 

You taste like strawberries and lavender, smell like warm cocoa, and feel softer than any sherpa blanket he’s had. Satoru closes his eyes and his vision goes white, his hands shakily snake around your waist, pressing you hard against his chest as if you might disappear at any moment. Satoru sighs into the kiss, it feels pleasantly warm, that throb in his chest, it’s a slow, steady thrum of simmering desire and comfort. He’s pretty sure he’s adding way too much tongue, the drool and saliva that comes dripping between you two will be uncomfortable soon, but for now, it adds to the blissed out, satisfaction you’re both basking in.

Finally, you pull away, shortening yourself a good several inches from planting the rest of your feet on the ground. Your eyes are glossed over, watery and looking at him without vexation. “You’re something else.” You say, but there’s no bite.

Satoru doesn’t speak for a moment. He’s too focused on the feeling of your warm fingers sprawled all over his heating face. Too focused on the dull pulse of both nervousness and infatuation slowly spreading through his body because you’re giving him that look. This all feels romantic and stupid, he thinks.

“I’m sorry, again.” The words are quiet, hesitant, and Satoru almost regrets them the moment he speaks.

You shift around a little, now dancing on the balls of your feet, but the grasp you have on his cheeks is still relatively firm, even applying a bit of more pressure as if it’s your way of showing reassurance. You tip your head; your eyes are so vivid and bright, it sends a shiver down Satoru’s spine. In this moment, he remembers every single thing between them in shocking detail — the awkwardness, the tension, the frustration, the dumb banters, and suddenly he’s overwhelmed.

“I’ll forgive you if you give me a private city tour,” you laugh. “And come back to work with us again next year.”

Satoru offers a small smile. “Unpaid?”

“Will you say no if it is?”

He hugs you tighter, a chuckle bubbles in his throat. “I don’t think I can say no because it’s you.”

Though, while some might think that Satoru is the real loser here for being whipped so hard over a small town girl, you know that deep down the real loser is you. Because you managed to have the son of a CEO wrapped around your fingers and now you will never know peace again. But you’re not really complaining; instead, you’re working even harder to save just enough to eventually see your dream destination while Satoru whines and sends an ungodly amount of selfies everyday when he’s back home. And you won’t allow yourself to get snappy because, well, you’re very much head over heels for him, too.

“so, you’re one of those guys who don’t care what happens to them?” you ask, tilting your head as you hold the phone to your ear. satoru shrugs and his grin only widens the longer your phone rings. ten seconds pass before your phone tells you that the number you dialed is currently busy, and satoru’s muffled laughter becomes unbearably suspicious. you narrow your eyes and involuntarily take a step back. “what’s with the smile?”

satoru scoffs and dips his head, pushing himself off the wall and taking a step towards you. “y’know, you’re rather brave, comin’ out to catch a serial killer all by yourself. and in the middle of the night, too.” he stops advancing when he sees you pull a gun out of your pocket and hold it up threateningly, a look of warning in your eyes. “okay, okay, relax. i’m not gonna do anything to your pretty face.”

“what did you do?” you ask suspiciously. satoru widens his eyes in mock disbelief, as if he’s completely and utterly shocked that you’d ever accuse him of anything.

“besides the fifteen separate counts of murder? not much, really.”

“i’m not an idiot,” you snap, cocking the gun and aiming it at his head. “you’re not the one in control here, satoru gojo. spit it out before i put a bullet through your skull.”

satoru laughs and holds his hands up in surrender. “fiesty, aren’t we? it’s alright, i like my girls with a little fire in them.” he tilts his head to the side and looks you up and down, eyes lingering on parts of you that suddenly make you feel naked, despite the coat covering most of your figure. “put down the gun, sweetheart, then we can talk.”

you wait a second, scanning satoru’s overly relaxed face before cautiously lowering the gun. “what are you hiding?” you ask again, eyes hardening.

“a lot of things. but i think you’re talking about what i did to your boss, right?”

“you have five seconds before i shoot you.”

satoru makes a face and then rolls his eyes dramatically. “fine, since you’re bein’ so pushy about it. i killed him, obviously. you’re a smart girl, shouldn’t you have figured that out by now?” when you don’t immediately answer, satoru sighs and shakes his head. “and here i thought that the girl who’d been tailing me for the past week would have a little sense in that pretty head of hers. looks like i was wrong.”

“shut it,” you snap again, re-dialing the number and letting your phone ring for fifteen seconds. when nobody picks up, you internally curse and think about what to do next. dialing 911 would be worth a try, but the look in satoru’s ice-blue eyes makes you think otherwise. despite the gun in your hand, something about him makes you entirely certain that he could overpower you, even if you landed a shot on him. and even if you just shot him right now, he’s been shown in the past to be able to function fine with a bullet through his chest. that’s how two of your subordinates lost their lives to him—by underestimating your city’s notorious killer.

so you decide to bide your time.

“ran out of options?” satoru asks smugly. he raises an eyebrow when you slide your phone back into your pocket and exhales a laugh. “you gonna wait for a big, strong man to rescue you? ‘cause i’m right here, honey, and i could be your savior.”

“that was actually the shittiest line i’ve ever heard,” you scoff, rolling your eyes at the self-satisfied look on his face. “are you seriously proud of that one?”

“well, it worked.”

he pushes himself off the alley wall and towards you so fast that you hardly even have time to process it, and before you know it, you’re the one pressed to a wall with a gun to the side of your head. satoru’s other hand grabs both your wrists and pins them above your head, and his face is close enough to the point where you can feel his breath—which is unexpectedly minty—on your cheeks as he grins down at you. “you really think i’d use a line as shitty as that if i didn’t know it’d make you lower your guard? tch, you really shoulda known better.”

you use every curse word you’ve ever heard in that moment and grit your teeth, rapidly thinking through all the possible ways you could get out of this situation, but nothing comes to mind. you’re quite literally stuck in between a rock and a hard place, with a gun pressed to your head and with your limbs out of commission. 

satoru clicks his tongue and widens his eyes at you, leaning in closer. his lips are uncomfortably close to your own as he traces the gun down the side of your face, cold metal brushing against your heated skin. “not gonna fight back? that’s no fun.”

“the fuck you want me to do?” you snap irritably, glaring up at him and curling your hands into fists. satoru tightens his grip on your wrists and cooes a sarcastic apology to you, taking his time looking you up and down again. if you didn’t value your life, you probably would’ve said worse, but seeing as you were the only person in this ridiculously isolated alley, it wouldn’t be worth much. 

“i dunno. didn’t that detective academy or whatever teach you anything?”

you roll your eyes again, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you consider the possibility of your eyes getting permanently stuck in the back of your head just because of him. “y’know, you’re not giving me a whole lot of options.”

satoru laughs. “if i did, that’d defeat the whole purpose, wouldn’t it?”

at this point, death would be preferable to hearing his idiot talk any longer.

“so, i’m gonna be the one asking the questions from now on,” satoru continues, clicking his tongue disapprovingly when you scowl. “if you behave, i won’t hurt you that badly, ‘kay? keep that in mind.”

“thought you liked your girls feisty.”

“oh, that’s true,” satoru muses thoughtfully. “yeah, never mind, you can be a little bratty. i need a reason to fuck you stupid anyways,” he grins after a moment of consideration.

“what the fuck?”

“you heard me, sweetheart,” satoru cooes, feeling his pants tighten as he watches your eyes widen. your “tough” demeanor drops for a split second, and satoru can’t help but want to fuck it off again when it returns. your scowl deepens and you frantically think through all your options again, but there isn’t a whole lot you can do at this point.

“if you wanna stay alive, you’ll be a good girl and you won’t scream,” satoru murmurs, leaning in closer and pressing his lips to yours. you grit your teeth and try to shove him away with your shoulder, but it doesn’t do much. satoru smiles against your lips and hums softly, pulling away with an almost affectionate look on his face. it’s so at odds with who he is and what he’s done that you drop your guard again, wanting to believe that he really will keep his promise not to hurt you.

satoru sees the shift in your features and smiles tenderly, all traces of his borderline-sadistic look gone. he studies your face for a moment and kisses the corner of your mouth, letting his lips linger for a second before he pulls away again. “i’m gonna let your hands go now, m’kay?” when he drops your wrists, they fall limply on his shoulders as you warily study him, eyes wide with confusion. it’s jarring, the way he just… changed personalities within the span of a couple seconds. “i’m not gonna hurt you, pretty,” he breathes, dropping the gun and letting it fall to the floor with a loud thwak. “this’ll be a lot more fun for me if you don’t resist, yeah?”

oh, fuck it.

“okay,” you murmur, ignoring every siren going off in your head. you don’t really have any other options, and honestly, nobody was going to walk by and get you out of this sticky situation anytime soon. and satoru was pretty attractive… and you could just arrest him afterwards, right?

as if he read your mind, satoru smiles and promises, “you can handcuff me after i’m done with you. just let me have a little fun one last time, baby.”

yeah, it’d be a stupid decision to believe the sweet-talker towering over you. there’s no way he’s just going to let you drag him off to jail, but there’s a reason he’s stayed out of the grasp of the law for so long. it’s hard to live a life as on-the-edge as being a serial killer, but the reason satoru’s survived for this long is because he knows how to use his words. he knows how to make a person go against every warning in their head, and he knows how to get what he wants.

which, for tonight, includes you.

“you have thirty—no, twenty minutes,” you mumble, knowing damn well that this would be the end of your career as a detective. whether or not you dragged satoru in after all this, you could never continue your work knowing you had sex with the biggest serial killer in the city.

satoru laughs and kisses you again, lips trailing down your face and settling on your neck. “haven’t i already made it clear that i’m the one in control here?” he muses as he slips his hands under your coat and tugs it off. it falls to the cold ground and bunches up around your feet, leaving you in a button-up shirt and flowy, dark pants. “c’mon, let’s get these clothes off you.”

within a minute, the rest of your clothes save for a black lacy pair of undergarments join your coat on the floor, and the chilly nighttime air nips at your skin. “i’m cold,” you mumble, feeling yourself involuntarily tense up everywhere but where satoru’s hands cloak your skin. satoru laughs in response and presses his knee to the spot in between your thighs, and something in you snaps at the point of contact. 

“you really are an idiot, aren’t ya,” satoru scoffs, hand sliding down to your waist. his fingers latch on the waistband of your panties and he tugs them down, exposing your already-wet pussy to the cold evening air and his eyes. “lettin’ a serial killer fuck you in a dark alley… what kind of detective does that?” satoru spits on two of his fingers and slips them inside you, instantly groaning when he feels you clench around him. “fuck, you gotta be the tightest pussy i’ve felt in a while,” he mutters, white hair falling into his eyes as he looks down shamelessly. “do you not have sex with other guys?”

“don’t have time,” you swallow what would’ve been an embarrassingly loud moan as his fingers go deeper and deeper. how long are this man’s fucking fingers?

“aw, look at you, you’re so cute,” satoru cooes, smiling down at your scrunched up face. you look back at him through squinted eyes, hips starting to roll against his fingers. it’s true—you really haven’t had time to have sex given your already-insane schedule. it’s almost like you spent more time tracking the man who’s now knuckle-deep inside you than sleeping, but the slutty part of your head tells you that it paid off.

“‘m gonna cum,” you whine pitifully, squirming around satoru’s fingers as he curls them inwards, making you clench around him even tighter. a shiver runs over your body, starting from in between your thighs and spreading all over you as satoru’s fingers move back and forth inside your soaking wet cunt. “g-gojo—”

“call me satoru, baby, and you’re not cumming until i say you can.” with that, satoru withdraws his fingers from your pussy with a pop! and grins at the way you glare at him sullenly. he mockingly pouts and licks his drenched fingers clean, tongue lapping up your essence. “heh, don’t worry, i’ll make you cum more than you knew you could once you’re stuffed with my cock.”

although you’ve determined satoru’s “promises” to be dubious at best, he fufills this one after he’s spread your legs wide open and positioned his cock at your entrance. “this might hurt, baby, but remember, no screaming.” after you nod in acknowledgement, satoru slips his tip in and watches, amused, as you try to close your legs on reflex. “uh uh, keep ‘em nice and wide f’me,” satoru tuts disapprovingly.

and true to his word, it hurts—a dull ache spreads throughout your legs as his dick goes farther and farther inside you, reaching places you hadn’t felt in a long time. satoru’s hands settle somewhere on your waist as he pushes himself deeper, ignoring your gasps and pleas for him to slow down a little. your shaky hands move to his hair and you unwittingly pull on it, somehow eliciting a soft groan from satoru’s lips, and somewhere in the back of your mind you think that of course a serial killer has a hair pulling kink—it just makes sense. 

“s-satoru, it won’t fit,” you whisper, feeling satoru hit an especially tight spot in your cunt. even with how wet you are, it just feels like you can’t possibly take any more of him—he might as well be ten feet inside you, given the pain in your hips. but, as expected, satoru only smiles tauntingly down at you and murmurs words of encouragement as he somehow pushes past the barrier and gets all the way in amid your pained whimpers.

“yeah, that’s it, knew you could do it,” satoru says sweetly, voice coated with poisonous honey. now that he’s all the way in, the ache from your waist down starts to fade into pleasure, especially as satoru starts moving himself in and out to get you used to the feeling of his dick. “just like that, pretty girl. jus’ like that.”

soon enough, he sets an unexpectedly harsh pace that makes your back arch off the cold, brick wall behind you, and even as satoru tries to keep up his “cool serial killer” act, you can hear his quivering breaths as he gets close to cumming. “shit, i forgot how fuckin’ good it felt to fuck a cunt this tight—” he mutters through gritted teeth. “‘m gonna cum inside, ‘kay?”

you nod breathlessly, chasing your own pleasure and not actually listening to the words satoru murmurs in your ear. at this point, it didn’t matter—all your pathetic little head could think about was satoru’s dick, and somehow, you forget that he’s a killer when he cums inside you. it’s hot and thick and it almost knocks you over—when was the last time you felt this good, if ever?

the coil in your stomach snaps and you cum with him, nodding along to satoru’s praises on how well you’re taking him. you squirt all over his painfully hard dick and suck in a sharp breath as you do so, body trembling from the force of both of your orgasms.

“see, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” satoru murmurs when you both come down from your highs, stroking your hair almost tenderly. you bob your head in response, face warm and eyes unable to properly focus. he stuffs his fingers back inside your puffy cunt and scoops the cum dripping down your thighs back inside, mumbling something about not letting a single drop go to waste. “who knew the pretty detective i’d had my eye on would be this good to me?” he cooes, grinning snarkily.

satoru’s earlier promise floats through your head and you force yourself to look him in the eye. “y-you said you’d let me arrest you after,” you breathe, back still pressed to the wall as satoru surveys you amusedly.

“oh, sweetheart, you’re in no condition to be giving orders,” satoru says condescendingly, pulling up his pants and grinning at you. his cheeks are still flushed red, but whether that’s from the cold nighttime air or from the heated sex, you don’t quite know. “we should do this again sometime,” he continues conversationally as he picks up your coat for you. despite the fact that you’re still naked and trembling, satoru drapes your coat around your shoulders and helps you button it up.

“but you said—” you protest, but satoru cuts you off with a raised eyebrow.

“you didn’t seriously believe me, did you?” satoru tuts, shaking his head. “i’m a serial killer. i’m not gonna turn myself in just ‘cause of a detective’s pretty pussy, baby. you should’ve known better, doll.” satoru wraps an arm around your limp shoulders and tugs you in for a kiss, lips pressing firmly against your own for a couple seconds before he pulls away with a satisfied smile.

One day, soon you imagine, Satoru will decide everyone was right about you all along. You’re avoidant and selfish, a mess on a good day. Your bones are good but the flesh that covers them is rotten as a discarded plum, falling from the branches of the only home it has ever known, at the end of spring. You are no good. Not like him, even in his shades of light gray morality. Not like your fellow sorcerers. Not like your students.

Your phone pings again.

Satoru: why are you making me suffer???

Satoru: please please please please please~

You place the device face down and focus on changing into the extra set of clothes you always keep in your office. Sorcery is messy work and your shaking fingers fasten each of the buttons on the simple white top.

Why do I keep doing this?

Vibrations make your phone move across the wooden bench and you jump, picking it up with a sigh.

“What?”

A chuckle from the other end, one that instantly makes the tension in your shoulders relax, isn’t as unwelcome as you assumed it would be when you refused to call him. You picture his smile when he laughs, the dimples you love to press your thumbs into. Even your tortured mind conjures memories of the delicate crinkle of his nose when he grins and the cleft in his chin.

“Someone has her sassy pants on today.”

Sighing, you let the world roll off of your shoulders. Finally.

“Technically I don’t have any pants on right now.”

“Without me?” He sighs and then remembers you said you were still on campus. You hear him shift wherever he’s at and you sit down on the bench, preparing to put your pants on, holding the phone to your ear with your shoulder. “Why are you pantsless on campus? Is there something you need to tell me?”

A snort escaping in response, you smile for the first time in what feels like days. Truthfully it has only been a few hours, you’re a pro at keeping up appearances at the very least, but each has felt more and more forced.

“Nope, just had to wash off some gore and didn’t want to bring it home with me. They’ll probably ask us to break the lease if we start washing curse chunks down the drain.”

He chuckles again and you want to be frustrated with how carefree he seems but find it difficult to hold his good nature against him.

“Aren’t you considerate?”

Sliding your pants on, you stand in a fluid motion and hop to settle them in place on your hips, fastening the button.

“Something like that,” you mutter. Sitting back down on the bench, you cut to the chase. “When are you coming home?”

“Why? Miss me?”

“Terribly.”

You respond flatly and suddenly your phone chimes, a request to video chat coming through from Gojo. Answering it, you don’t bother to hide the wistful smile on your face and he grins at you from your bed at home.

“Well come home then, I’ve been waiting for you.”

“You could have led with the fact you’re there.”

He twists his mouth to the side and shrugs. Rolling your eyes, you smile back at him. It’s impossible to stay mad at someone you love so much it threatens to tear you into pieces when he’s gone for too long.

“I wanted to surprise you and it looks like I still managed to do it.”

“Yeah, you still manage to do that a lot.”

“Oh stop it, you might make me think that my future wife actually likes me.”

Giggling, your face warms at the insinuation he’s making. He can tell you’re feeling better now that his eyes are on you and the relief he feels is immeasurable.

“Hurry, I’m getting bored and you know what happens when I get like that.”

You know better than anyone that a bored boyfriend spells nonsense so you pack up the last of your things, ready to leave your troubles behind on campus just as you intended to start with. Self doubt, suspicion, distrust - it’s all gone as soon as he gives you his grace to carry on.

“Don’t get antsy, I’ll be there soon.”

Another irresistible chuckle comes through your speakers and you feel lighter than air by the time you disconnect from the call and prepare to head home.

you're sitting across from him, in a restaurant that’s not too fancy, more of a family-type deal. he's forgone his blindfold in favor of his square-framed glasses, but his uniform is still on. he insisted on treating you to dinner after you exorcized an unregistered special grade on your own. however, with gojo, things can't always be so easy; he always adds his patented gojo twist to things, and this time the twist is this terrible joke.

“come on, it'll be funny!” he whines, from across the table.

“you want to propose to me in this restaurant for free food? when you make well over six figures a year? and have full access to thousands of years of old clan money?” you ask, incredulously, reaching to take a sip of your drink, suddenly wishing you had gone with a stronger option.

“yes, exactly. what's not clicking?”

“uhmmm, all of it?”

“look it'll be funny. you could even say no, then you can run out and i get free food as pity points,” he smiles at you, and you find it hard to keep saying no. “i mean, they'll probably all call you heartless and tell me i deserve better but that's fine.”

“okay and if i say yes, what about a ring? or the fact that we're not even together? how is anyone going to believe you?” you ask, thinking you've backed him into a corner, until he just sighs softly, keeping an easy smile, and reaches into his pocket. he pulls out a black velvet box, and shakes it a bit by his head.

“you think i hadn't planned for that?” he asks, smirking in your direction, trying to hold back laughter at your aghast expression, you drag a palm over your face, finally conceding.

“okay. fine! fine! just…try not to embarrass me. please?”

“no promises! also the waitress is coming this way, so get ready. tears are optional but preferred.”

you roll your eyes at his statement, your gaze following him closely when he stands up and walks over to your side of the table. you look around desperately hoping that no one will actually have their attention drawn to you but the thing about gojo is wherever he goes he commands attention. consequently, when he stands at a whopping 6’7 everyone’s already looking, and when he drops down on one knee in front of you, holding that little velvet box in front of you, you catch people’s smartphones shooting up immediately, great. and you're sure the vision of jujutsu’s strongest sorcerer, taking off his sunglasses and holding up a ring box to you would haunt you forever. you think right under reverse cursed technique in his list of talents, they should add acting, because the look in his eyes almost feels real.

the way your name falls so delicately from his lips, before he clears his throat, feigning nervousness. the way he struggles at first to look you in the eyes, the ring sparkling in the dim lighting. he starts:

“you are truly the most beautiful woman i've ever met, inside and out. to know you and love you is a pleasure too great for words, and i want to continue living in it every day. will you marry me?” you roll your eyes, but the smile across your face is genuine, maybe he was right, maybe this is funny. so you have no issue, saying yes, throwing your arms around his neck as he spins you around, delicately sliding the ring onto your finger. the two of you giggle all the way back to jujutsu tech, containers of your free leftovers in hand.

and so it becomes a tradition.

satoru continues to propose to you every time the two of you get the chance to have dinner together, and despite all your better judgment, you laugh and say yes every time.

and what started as a joke, turned tradition, starts to morph into something else.

satoru notices it on a summer day. you're out with the students, supervising them as they spar. the sun’s been beating down for days, he's standing beside you his eyes trained on your hands. your left ring finger has a tan line, it's from that ring. you're not wearing it, you returned it to him last night, forgetting to give it back after dinner and then desperately trying to get your schedules to align for at least five minutes, but he'd been out of town for a week and when he finally got back late last night to find you working on paperwork in your office, he didn't know why it felt like his heart sank when you slid the ring off and put it in his hand.

now, the box feels heavy in his pocket (when did he start carrying it all the time?) and he looks at you with so much adoration that had his blindfold not been on, he'd look like a love-struck puppy to any passerby. you'd been wearing the ring so much it's left a mark on you, it's obvious you'd been wearing it, the tan line a stark reminder that it was there; and something about it makes satoru wish he could make the next proposal permanent. you turn your head to him, smiling softly.

“the first years are something else this year, gojo, did you see yuuji and maki spar? they're going places,”

and he's not sure why but before he can stop himself he's blurting out:

“let me take you on a date.”

you sputter and falter, turning fully to look at him, “are you being serious?”

he nods, that goofy smile of his making you weak to his every whim, it's the same one he gave you that night at that dinner table; the same one that made you start this tradition.

so he takes you out, and then that becomes a tradition. still every day, he thinks of the way that ring looked on you whenever he slid it on your finger, and how he felt rejected every time you gave it back. he'd clear his schedule if he knew he could have dinner with you, just to see the smile you couldn't stop whenever he got down on one knee.

satoru doesn't propose anymore. he figures the next time he does it, he should be serious about it since you're his girl now. on a tuesday night, you're sitting with him on the couch, your legs are thrown over his lap and he looks at you, focused so intently on a book you've been dying to finish, the bookmark always staying near the end as you get called into emergency exorcisms, and he knows. he fishes that ring out of his pocket, the same one he gave you in that restaurant almost two years ago, and there's no fanfare, no cameras, no theatrics. he just opens the box, looks at you, and says,

“hey baby, let's get married.”

“Could you…?” Zoe wordlessly asks, holding a bottle of sunscreen and pointing to their naked back. 

“Yeah, of course.”

It’s a small hotel room, filled with minimalistic furniture. Basic, white and beige. Still, for the last couple of days, Hange has managed to make a mess of it: there’s books, clothes, and bags. It doesn’t bother you, however. It only makes this trip more endearing. 

Your hands are sticky from sunscreen, yet you smile at them, feeling your lover’s warmth all over your palms. It stains you, beautifully so. 

“All done, love.”

Hange turns around, cheeks tainted pink and a smile blossoming on their face. The typical oval glasses that adorn their face are discarded on the bedside table. Now, their gaze is blurred, but they still smile at you. 

“Thanks, pookie.” Hange kisses your cheek, placing a hand to your waist. You giggle at the stupid nickname they gave you a couple of years ago, after your third official date. “I love you.”

You smile, stupidly. 

“I love you.”

The gold rings adorning both yours and Hange’s fingers is only proof of how much. You remember confessing your undying love for them before taking them on a date. Honestly, you have loved them ever since you were born – no, actually before that. Because there’s no way you came to this world, willingly or not, for any other reason than loving Hange Zoe. 

“Your turn now, babe.”

Taking your shirt off, you turn around. 

Zoe repeats the ritual once performed on them, the caring and loving hands now helping protect your skin from the unforgiving sun that will eventually face you today at the beach. 

Their touch comes along with memories, of times in which you would stare in the mirror and not recognize yourself, times in which love sounded like a lie instead of a promise, times in which you couldn’t picture yourself happy. Or alive. 

You call, Satoru answers — it’s what he told you God does. You call and He will answer you. Did you get to that part? 

You didn’t pay a lot of attention in your read, not really interested in religion or finding God, but it was Satoru that intrigued you enough to open it. Something in his eyes, or whatever they say. 

Phone calls became regular occurrences. Sometimes, he would even call first, having mundane conversations before tacking on a Bible quote at the end so it didn’t seem so unprofessional to talk to you for so long. 

Agh, I’ll have to call you later. Remember that He’s the bread of life and whoever comes to Him shall not hunger!

And then you’d sigh, and then he’d hang up. 

But eventually, he insisted on meeting you for coffee. So you did, hesitant when you got there, but you were soon settled. He wasn’t in that cross logo’d t-shirt that he wore when you first met him, nothing like that at all. Instead, he was wearing normal clothing — crewneck, pants that for once didn’t belong with a suit, sneakers. 

“Hey!” he said. “Sorry I’m a little late. Traffic’s insane, isn’t it?” Then he talked to you, and not once did he mention his job.

It didn’t take you very long to become smitten. He wasn’t like you expected — he wasn’t some rigid goodie-two-shoes coming from the Bible Belt or whatever you first thought, but he was shockingly normal. Typical guy, really, if not even better.

Now, here you sit on the couch, grinning like a child as you text him to get home.

hurry up i wanna watch this movie :L Geez, you’re impatient. Can’t you wait? maybe i’ll just start it without you then Be a good girl and sit tight ;)

You swallow at his message, biting your cheek before tossing your phone down on the couch.

If there’s one thing that you can say is actually different about Gojo, it’s the fact that you’ve been dating for almost six months and you haven’t fucked him yet.

There’s no issue with his celibacy for you, you can take care of yourself and he loves you in other ways, but it’s just different. What once was a large part of your past relationships is now something so insignificant, and it doesn’t bother you.

But sometimes, like this one, Gojo makes it hard.

He calls you pet names that seem so incriminating, and teases you without a second thought. It drives you insane and it must drive him happy, because all he does is laugh it off while you sit in a pool of flustered embarrassment and hot cheeks.

He’ll cook with you in the kitchen, eyeing the way you frost the fresh cupcakes he just took out of the oven, so quick to grab you by the wrist and pop your vanilla-covered thumb into his mouth, looking into your eyes when he ‘harmlessly’ bites the tip of it and pulls away.

( You taste so sweet, baby. Keep it up! )

You grunt to yourself, walking off to your bedroom and flopping onto the bed, staring at the ceiling and cursing your head.

You knew from the beginning that Satoru was gonna be the death of you, but you never anticipated that he’d kill you like this — when he’s not even around to watch you die.

All that consumes your mind is him; the way he smirks when he beats you at your favourite board game, or his low chuckle when you get annoyed at the way he toys with you. The way he reclines back on the couch when he gets home, complaining about something he did that day, or the way he rolls his sleeves up before he helps you make dinner.

Before you know it, you’re slowly slipping your pants down your legs, tossing them on the floor and dropping your hand between your legs.

Your breath knots when you cup your pussy, rolling your hips into your hand with a hum as you press your head back into the pillow. You’ve touched yourself, sure, but not in the freedom of your bed in a while. This is the bed you share with Gojo, after all, and there’s obvious things preventing you from doing this in front of him.

“Fuck,” you whisper to yourself, shutting your eyes and picturing all that he is. Muscled arms, taut shoulders, long fingers, piercing eyes — you spread your legs wider, letting your hand move under your shirt, whining as you grope your chest. “Satoru,”

Dragging a finger through your lips, you slowly push it into your begging cunt, picturing it’s his finger curling inside of you. Picturing that it’s Satoru, your God-given Satoru, who’s finger-fucking you so you can take his cock later, whispering ‘good girl’ in your ear and telling you to keep going. Who has stopped teasing you, and doesn’t want to keep you waiting.

“‘Toru,” you breathe, the squelch of your pussy being the only thing in that room besides you and your panting. “Oh, ‘Toru,”

“Wow, why don’t you say my name like that more often?”

Your eyes go wide and you sit up so fast that you get dizzy, your fingers disappearing from your cunt quicker than they were there. “Satoru!? Wh—”

“I called, but you didn’t answer,” he says simply, stepping forward from the doorway, his hands in his pockets. “Which makes sense, your phone is on the couch.” “I—” “And I knocked. You didn’t hear me, though.”

You just about die.

Sitting up, you tug your shirt down, scrambling to pull your panties back up your legs as tells well in your eyes. You know that, deep down, there is nothing to be ashamed of — you were in your own bed, in your own home. Why are you so humiliated?

Gojo must notice, because he braces your shoulders with a frown, turning you towards him when you try to run off and dig a hole somewhere. “Hey, what’s wrong? It’s okay.” “No,” you mumble, trying to pull his hands off of you, blinking away salty tears. His hands don’t budge. “Just let me go—” “What’s wrong, hm?” he asks, his voice quiet and his eyebrows furrowed. “You’re not embarrassed, are you?”

You purse your lips, shrugging and stiffly shaking your head.

He tilts his own. “Ashamed?”

You don’t reply.

Gojo sighs, letting go and slowly moving over to the bed. You want to shrivel up when he examines where you laid before, sitting down on the edge and looking back to you.

Contrary to what you thought, he smiles. “Come here, okay?”

Your brain is telling you to run, but his eyes drag you back to stay. You cautiously make your way over to your bedside, stopping when you’re standing in front of him. Your legs are crossed where you stand, your arms crossed over your nipples poking through your t-shirt, trying to will the hem to be longer.

“What are you ashamed of?” he asks you, eyes pinning you in place in a humiliating way. He doesn’t mean it, you think, but it doesn’t make it any less hard.

“I-I dunno,”

“Are you scared?” “No!” “Good,” he says, smiling at you again, reaching out. “But you’re ashamed. You feel bad?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, nodding hesitantly. No, you never really feel this way, not really worried about what higher beings think of you fingering yourself in bed by yourself. But, for some reason, the thought swims laps in your head now. You want to run away.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Gojo says, grasping your hand when you give it to him, drawing you closer with his gentle hold. “Everyone loses track of themselves, it’s normal.” Your lip quivers, but you nod. Fuck knows why you’re nodding, but you do.

Gojo purses his lips, sighing through them like a filter. You don’t miss his eyes flickering down to the bows that peek out from under your shirt. “There are other ways to be closer to God, you know?”

You blink, sniffling with a shrug. “How?” Gojo’s tongue darts out over his lip, his teeth digging into his lip like he’s stuck in thought. His legs slightly part themselves, and you’re drawn forward, closer towards him and his pleading eyes.

“I can show you.” His voice is quiet, like he doesn’t want God to hear. “But only if you want me to.”

You don’t know why you don’t think, but instead you just do, nodding and smiling back when he does so to you. His thumbs run over your skin, bringing you in close, leaving goosebumps in their wake; he looks up into your eyes.

“Kneel,” he murmurs, holding your hands in his as he watches you slowly drop to your knees. “Do you pray?”

You shake your head. “No.” “So this is just for me?”

Your eyes flicker between his face and the hand of his that undoes his belt buckle, tugging it out through his belt loops with eerily practiced ease. Do they teach that in Sunday school now? “Yes,” you answer.

He breathes out a laugh, or a curse, or a prayer. You don’t exactly catch it. “Good.”

Your heart skips a beat, settling on your knees as you watch his hand palm himself over his pants. He leans back on his other hand, the button of his pants popping open when his fingers fiddle with it. Then, he slides down the zipper, and you don’t have to look up to feel how his eyes train on you. 

“Come closer,” he says, voice strained and cock visibly hard. “That’s what you want to be, right? Closer?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, his thumb grazing over your lip. “Satoru,”

“I know,” he says. He reaches his hand into his pants, breathing a chuckle when your hands rest on his thighs, palming his cock before pulling it out of his boxers. Your lips are so close that you almost drool. “This is what you want.”

“Yes,” you reply, nodding like you’re just doing it for fun. “Yes, I—”

“You know what to do, then, don’t you?”

You stop dead in your tracks, your hands rubbing up and down on the top of your thighs. 

(You suppose that, right now, there may be better uses for your mouth.)

It’s not a very long time that you hesitate, because Gojo looks at you like there’s no time to waste when you’re between his legs, ‘getting closer,’ practically drooling at the sight of him. You spit in your hand, pumping him up and down, your mouth finding him quick. 

Gojo’s head tilts back, a low moan coming out in reverb, his eyes fixed on where your lips wrap around him. 

“Such a little slut,” he says casually, “just wait ‘til you’re forgiven, baby.”

You whine around him; he grips your hair with a strong hand, his jaw hanging slack. 

You lean your head on his thigh, licking his tip, whimpering at the taste of his precum; you’ve craved this — how wrong is that?

“‘Toru…”

“You don’t trust me?” he says, barely focused, his eyes lidded with something carnal. “This is how it works, baby, trust.”

His trustworthy hand guides your mouth back onto his cock, pushing you until you gag and your nose rests against his happy trail. “Let me do the talkin,’ keep going.”

You’re determined now — you swallow around him, drink him in like a rush of gold. He controls the pace with his hand on the back of your skull, his hips jerking forward; your mascara streams down your face and all Gojo can do is deep breathing. 

“Oh, baby,” he groans, “you cry like an angel. You’re so — God, gonna let me cum? Yeah?”

You can’t speak, hardly can you breathe, so you just squeeze your eyes shut and nod, even though his hips were shaking and his cock twitching before you could say anything, anyway. 

Gojo cums with a shudder and his words sound nothing like prayer. You pull at his wrist, managing to make him let go, toppling back with a cough and gasp for air, his cum on your tongue and on your lips. You lick it clean. 

“My God, baby,” he says, his breathing slowing again. Gojo leans forward, his hands cupping your face. “Up on the bed for me, go.”

You nod dutifully, standing, being pulled onto the rickety mattress the second you hit your feet. Your legs are numb from being bent and Gojo’s pushing them apart, his fingers in your panties and his eyes full of hunger. Isn’t this sin?

“‘Toru, I—“

“Look at me,” he says, his hand gripping your jaw. “Do you believe in me?”

You hesitate, brows knitting together. “You, or God?”

Gojo smiles. “Do you believe in me?”

Your panties slip down your legs, his knuckles grazing your skin as they do. Lace falls to the floor and his lips kiss your swollen clit, gently sucking on it until you make a sound. 

You clasp a hand over your mouth. A cross hangs over bed, Satoru grips your thighs from down the bed; God watches you from above and below.

(Yes, you say, I believe in you.)

Gojo hums into your cunt, his nails digging into your hip bones, his tongue lapping up your pussy like it’s his sworn duty. He murmurs something into the inside of your thigh, circling your clit with his thumb.

“Ah, Satoru,”

“Fuck, say my name,” he groans, “I need to hear it,”

You arch your back, feeling your stomach coil; his hand under your thigh, his mouth on your cunt, his thumb not slowing down — you come through the gates crashing.

“Satoru!” you gasp, crying out as you cum on his tongue. He drinks you up like wine, the bed creaking from the way he grinds his cock into the mattress, the hand on your leg massaging the flesh there until it’s red. “S-Stop, I can’t—“

“No, you can take it, angel,” he corrects, pressing kisses up your body, pushing your shirt up as he goes. “You can take me, can’t you? Yeah, baby, you can.”

“I can’t, m—“

“Yes, you can.” Gojo breathes his words into your sternum, his cock throbbing against your inner thigh. “You asked for this,”

You gasp, feeling his tip cock prod at your needy cunt, his fingers tweaking your nipple. You spread your legs further. “Fuck,“

He scoffs, dropping his head as he slowly pushes into you, grinning at the way you writhe up into his chest. “You don’t think I heard you?” he taunts. “Moaning in the bathroom when I was praying? Thinking the shower hides it well enough? Desperate, and now you’re getting what you wanted so goddamn fucking bad.”

His pace is unforgiving, your eyes watering at the lack of time given to get used to his cock. You haven’t fucked anyone in a while — not while you’ve been honouring his ‘celibacy’ — and the stretch is almost too much. 

“Satoru! Fuck!” you cry into his hand, panting into his palm as he smiles down at you. 

“God, you’re so hot when you cry,” he breathes, his eyes moving down to where he disappears into your weeping pussy. “Angel tears, baby,”

“Mmm!”

“He’s watching you,” he murmurs against your jaw, “watching me fuck you — you’re such a good girl for me,”

Gojo takes his hand away from your mouth, finally letting you breathe, his spit-covered hand gripping your hip. Your head presses back into the pillow above you, eyes fluttering shut. “Satoru, please,” 

“Shit, that’s good,” he groans, “you sound so good when you beg, don’t stop,”

He grunts when you clamp down on him, his thumb pressing in on your puffy clit, and his eyes shut in pleasure as you grip his forearms. Gojo’s eyes fix on your bouncing tits, your glassy eyes, your pretty face; the sight alone has his cock throbbing, let alone how tight you’re gripping him. 

“Where should I cum, huh?” he asks, though something tells you he’s not asking. “Maybe I should fill up this little pussy,”

“Yes—“

“Fuck,” he groans, a shudder going down his spine. The squelch of your cunt sucking him in is only getting louder. “That’s it, baby, we gotta do it right don't we?"

You choke out a sob, a coil forming in your stomach. “I—“

“M’gonna cum,” he says, ignoring you, speeding up his pace. “Come on, angel, cum for me,”

You bite your lip, your stomach still clenching, the pressure building until it’s unbearable; you’re blown to kingdom come when Gojo grips your jaw, turning your head, sucking on your collarbone.

The shriek of his name you let out and the way your pussy grips him is enough to send him over, cum spilling into you until his slow thrusts push it back out, sweat pilling on your hairline. 

Gojo’s lips kiss over the bruised flesh on your skin, up your neck, across your cheek; they reach your lips he kisses you like it started as a lump in his throat, like a prayer. 

“There you are, angel,” he murmurs against your temple, pulling out of you to watch his cum seep back out after him. He grins when you squirm. 

from an outsiders point of view, your relationship is strictly platonic. but if you look close enough? you’ll see it, too.

you both hug like any other pair of friends, your arms wrapping around his neck as he pulls you in by your waist. your palm drags across his shoulder to rest against his neck, the slight chill of your favorite ring causes goosebumps to shift up his spine as your cheek presses against his.

from the look in your eyes you’d think you were fairly neutral about the interaction – but (again) suguru knows you like him. you ever so covertly caress his hair. your cheeks are hot as they touch his.

your blood doesn’t lie.

so he feels that he’s justified in his actions. you want him and he clearly needs you. what’s the harm in acting on such simple desires? even if it’s at satoru’s christmas party; with a full table and mid-conversation. you didn’t push him away, you shifted your thighs even wider when his fingertips grazed your smooth skin. you shuddered in delight when he moved your panties to the side, knuckles knocking against the wooden chair as your sweet nectar soiled the surface.

even with his intentions clear, suguru waits for you to tell him it’s okay, fingers slowly petting your soaked lips, ignoring your sensitive bud. the idea of coaxing you from that shell of insecurity and hesitance makes his cock throb against his pants.

“suguru? what are you doing?” your voice hurried, anxious.

his gaze stays forward, his tongue poking out from his lips to hide his smile. “hm?” he asks, voice soft and heavy with amusement. “what do you think, sweet girl?”

your hand is cold and damp from the glass of cider you start to chug, a bit of the liquid dripping from the side of your mouth that you quickly wipe away. your nerves are through the roof, thighs tingling as you lean a bit further back into your chair.

everyone seem occupied already, focused on the festive christmas music and mini feast in front of them. satoru’s voice is louder and slurred with alcohol. he’s arguing playfully with utahime, holding a mistletoe over her head that she fails to reach — you’re thankful that the sounds of her whines cover up yours.

you move your chilled hand to rest on suguru’s, shifting his position up to move against your clit. god, you were practically throbbing against him.

he wastes no time in rubbing the pads of his fingertips against your soft flesh, the angle causing his forearm to press against your thigh and effectively hold you in place.

you can almost hear how wet you are, feel flicks of your arousal hit the tablecloth you’re clutching and your exposed inner thighs. “so messy,” suguru murmurs, “do you know much satoru loves these chairs? they’re mahogany, you know.”

“su, please be quiet.” you hiss, eyes darting to watch if anyone is aware of your deeds. after so many rounds of eggnog, even nanami’s eyes are glazed over as he leans back and nurses another mug. he’s talking to his wife, lips closing in on her ear in a conversation you can’t make out.

“but you aren’t being quiet, are you? i mean just listen to how this pussy takes my fingers…” he eases two of his digits inside of you and the intrusion feels almost too good. you glance down and see his large, thick hand thrusting in and out of you. it’s obscene and better than you imagined.

the filthy sounds of your cunt sucking him in is all you can focus on as you lean forward, forehead pressing against your arm. you can even smell yourself, mixed in with the hint of cinnamon and sharp pine in the air.

“please,” you gasp out, “they can’t know we’re doing this–“

“shh,” he tells you, “i’m keeping watch. just let me make you feel good… don’t think about it right now.”

despite his words, your mind is screaming for you to beg for an explanation. the man you’d been pining over for a year is fingering you at the annual christmas party, for gods sake. he can’t possibly like you like that, right?

suguru was kind to everyone, protective and strong towards all of his friends. surely he massages everyone’s scalp when they feel stressed and he presses sweet kisses to everyone’s cheek when they need encouragement. you can only assume that he also… touches everyone this way, that he has had many of friends reaching their breaking point with just his fingers.

you feel the tight coil in your stomach press even harder against you, a heavy need begging to claw itself from your skin. suguru doesn’t know your tells, hasn’t spent hours between your legs in the same way you have… but he’s intuitive like that. always aware and watching even when no one else is. his hand quickly leaves from its place between your legs and before you can protest, you feel a hand gently rest on your shoulder.

“yo, are you feeling alright?”

shoko’s voice startles you back to reality but you decide to stay in place, posture rigid. she doesn’t sound suspicious, not in that very shoko way that tells you she knows something that you don’t. no, her voice is laced with genuine concern, a tone you recognize as something she uses with patients. you clear your throat to speak but suguru beats you to the punch.

“had a little too much cider, i fear. i’m gonna go put her in the guest room. help her sober up a little.”

he leans in close, asking if you can stand in the same way he would an injured deer. when you nod, you feel him lift your arm around his shoulder, hear shoko pull your chair back. it isn’t hard to pretend to be drunk when you already feel like your head is made of mush.

suguru is quick to move you to the side, pushing back your chair himself so that it rests firmly under the table. your dress is disheveled, but not as high on your thighs as before. your panties still rest to the side. your thighs feel sticky.

as suguru manouvers you down the hallway, you hear shoko responding to party goers about where you both were heading off to. suguru is a good guy, he’d never harm you while you were in a drunken state. they had nothing to worry about, you were in good hands.

“you know… if you weren’t so sneaky in your desires, i wouldn’t have had to tease you like that. next time, tell me what you want.”

“next time?” you muse, “so.. there will be a next time?”

suguru chuckles, pushing open the bedroom door and ushering you inside. when the door clicks behind you both, his hands are quickly at your hips, tugging up your dress until it bunches at your waist. you just barely hear his belt unbuckle. “yes. i’m assuming that you also want to fuck in satoru’s guest room?”

you nod quickly, at an almost embarrassing level of speed. “yeah, but we have to be quick–!“

your voice is cut off by the feeling of your front being pressed into thick, expensive sheets. when you weren’t looking at him, it was much easier. your soft whines and whimpers were too soft and muted for suguru to focus on them. but now, with his bare cock rubbing against your heat – his tip pressing against your clit and causing you to cream against his length… he finds himself feeling dizzy at the mere thought of you. his hand grips your hip firmly, the other lining himself up with your cunt.

“stay still f’me,” suguru murmurs, “gonna make sure i fuck you nice and deep.”

a thick, dreamy heat builds in your belly, the satisfaction of finally being beneath him. you know you’re too far gone when he finally enters you, leaning down until his hands intertwine with yours and his cock sheathes to the hilt.

“sugu!” you yelp, quickly biting your lip to muffle your moan. you can still hear the christmas music and chatter of the party, hoping they didn’t hear you.

sugur presses hot, open mouthed kisses to your neck until he reaches you earlobe. he tugs on the skin, sucking it into his mouth as he begins to thrust in and out of you. “such a perfect fucking pussy. she needed me so badly, practically forced me in.”

your mouth gapes open as his paces quickens ever so slightly, the soft clap of his hips meeting your ass loud in the empty room. your nails dig into the soft sheets and your head twists to catch his lips in a kiss.

it’s only in this moment that you realize it’s the first one you’ve shared all night.

suguru’s tongue is hot and all consuming, exploring your mouth while leaving just enough room to caress your lips with his own. “such a good girl,” he murmurs against them, “such a sweet, sweet girl for letting me fuck her like this.”

the praise makes you mewl against his mouth, the drag of his cock causing tears to pool in your eyes. he was so thick and strong on top of you. you know you’d be writhing against the bed if he didn’t make you take everything he was giving you so ardently.

a strong arm wraps around your waist, reaching down to tease your clit. you gasp, choking on the spit that’s pooled in your mouth as you fall forward and rest on your cheek. “g-gonna c-cum, su. s-so good, make me cum please!”

you hear your companion growl against your skin, soiled fingers just barely touching his cock as he brings you to the edge. “i know, baby. i know you need it. such a good girl asking for permission.”

he pants against your cheek, hair releasing from it top knot so that his bangs tickle your skin. you can smell the conditioner he uses, soft and masculine in a way that’s so suguru you can’t help but gush around him.

you cum so suddenly that you can barely talk, a silent moan is all you have to give as your mouth gapes open. “o-oh fuck!” you scream, unable to stop yourself from babbling about how good he feels, how much you’ve wanted him for so long. your throat burns from the way your voice tears from your mouth, eyes screwed shut as your blood pumps vividly in your ears.

suguru moves to grip your throat, not squeezing but simply lifting your head. your eyes focus on the falling snow outside the window, blurry with tears that smear your makeup on your cheeks. “you’re squeezing me so tight, sweetheart. gonna fill you up. you’ve waited so patiently for it, haven’t you?”

you nod, sniffling as you whine and hiccup. everyone at the party definitely knows what you’re doing now, but you find yourself not caring. “please, su. give it to me.”

suguru let’s out his own moan, finally releasing a thick spurt of his spunk inside of you. he laguidly fucks you through his orgasm, a long drawn out whine leaving his lips as he thrusts into you with quivering thighs. “so good,” he moans, “so fucking good.”

it takes a while for him to stop filling you up, and you sigh when he finally releases you. your body collapses on the bed as his cock softens and you feel some of his release drip out of you, coating your tummy and soiling your dress.

“next time,” you say, voice heavy and thick with fatigue. “we do this at my place.”

later, when you catch your bearings, you both are greeted with two cups of water left by the door and a lewd drawing. satoru’s doing, no doubt.

suguru laughs but you, on the other hand, are mortified. you doubt you’ll be able to look anyone in the eye until the next christmas party. 

note: and here is my second submission for my darling @k9nto’s reddit milestone collab! i struggled a little writing this one but it’s finally here. follow me if you want to see more. much love! sorin.