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âChange your tone.â Nanami says it so casually, not even looking up from his watch as he carefully winds it. Heâs sitting in his usual spot in the couch, tie half undone and draped down his chest. Â âI donât tolerate brats.â
You huff, even stomping your foot a little just for exaggeration, but Nanami doesnât budge, still fiddling with his watch. âI wonât ask again.â
âOr what?â you spit, âYouâll spank me?â
That earns you a quirk of his brow, something so small but serious that your stomach immediately drops.
âSit down.â
You move, recognizing that low, gravely tone in his voice as impatience, but he holds a hand up when you try and join him on the couch. âFloor.â he points to his feet.
You hesitate, then sink to your knees. You know the position he wants you in- head up, hands folded on your lap, mouth closed- but you look down indignantly, ready to quip.
He surprises you with a warm, large palm cupping your cheek.
Gently, Nanami caresses your chin with his thumb and pointer, looking down his nose with a placid smile. With a delicate yet firm roll of his wrist, he tilts your head up, making sure youâre meeting his eyes before he continues. âI donât need cheap tricks to remind you whoâs in charge.â
The jungle of belt buckle surprises you as his free hand slowly drags his belt free. âBut if thatâs what you need to fix your attitude-â he says it slowly, âIâll happily oblige.â
ÝËđŕ§ boyfriend sukuna and the busted can of biscuits
neighbor sukuna series
contains: MDNI, fluff, crack-ish, smut, cussing, mentions of weight gain, nausea and moodswings, alcohol, unprotected sex, uncle sukuna, nephew yuji, choking, creampies, reader is sensitive and a little crazy in this one, misunderstandings
words: 8.4k (hehe)
note: this was supposed to be short but i hope you enjoy it anyway
âGuys, I think it's too small,â you huff in defeat, sweat beading at your brow from being in this confined space for too long.
Hangers clink, a pile of clothing you liked but rejected you lay slumped on the bench, some dangling from hooks and the curtains swish with Shoko and Utahime's efforts.
What was supposed to be going out to watch a movie and shopping turned into an extreme sport of trying to get you into a pair of really good jeans. Every woman understands the struggle of finding those. Some are loose at the waist and perfect on your legs while others are perfect on your waist and loose on your legs.
For the first time, you faced a different problem. Your tummy was spilling out of the waistband like too much batter rising in a muffin tray and the denim was too tight around your thighs despite the jeans being your usual size. You had jumped and shimmied while Utahime attempted to tuck your belly into your waistband.
âDon't give up so soon,â Shoko grunts as she tugs at the zipper, one heel braced against the stall wall as Utahime holds either side of your fly together.
The pants and sighs coming from your dressing room must have sounded suspicious as one of the staff came to check on you three a few times. You couldn't possibly understand why given that this space was too cramped to even think of doing anything indecent.
âYou're going to hurt yourself. Stop.â You pull Shoko's hand away gently, seeing as both she and Utahime are now red in the face from the workout this was.
Don't even ask about the dress you had tried on prior. You felt like a Victorian being cinched into a corset that threatened to break your ribs.
Heaving, your best friends finally surrendered with twin deep exhales.
âI don't understand,â Utahime began with the shake of her head like it was unfathomable. âThey usually fit. You're not one to gain weight easily so why now?â
Shrugging, you sigh. âGrown woman body or whatever they say. I'm probably bloated is all.â
Twisting in front of the mirror, you turn this way and that, movement restricted by the confining denim. They were so nice and fit everywhere except where it counted.
âWhatever,â Shoko dismisses. âSizing isn't consistent anyway, it could just be the cut. Happens all the time.â
Utahime nods in agreement and steps out, curtain hiding her from view. âI'll go get one size bigger and see how that goes.â
She steps in with a new pair a few minutes later and this one is well behaved, sliding up your legs with no resistance, zipping up smoothly like it was always meant to be. The fit was comfortable and freeing. You wore the article of clothing rather than it wearing you.
âYeah, that's definitely the one,â Shoko compliments.
âCongrats on your grown woman body,â Utahime quips in amusement.
With a clap, you beam. âThis calls for celebratory dessert!â You announce as if those desserts aren't the reason you're in this situation in the first place.
Your mood isn't ruined by the change. Weight fluctuates and that's completely okay. Body image wasn't something you struggled with since you grew to accept that you were in this form for the rest of your life so you just did what you could to sculpt it into something you loved.
A pouch of fat hanging over the waistband of your undies wouldn't put you off. You'd just go to the gym more and eat better. It wasn't a train smash.
Thus you don't give it much thought after that, sitting in the cafĂŠ with your friends, the scent of roasted coffee beans and decadent chocolate wafting in the air as you scoop a spoonful of tiramisu into your mouth.
âHow's Yuji?â Utahime asks as she stirs sugar into her iced coffee and you hum.
Eyes lighting up, you smile at the mention of the three-year-old. âHe's great as always. Kid's already learned to ride a bike. Sukuna was a little miffed âcause he was bragging about learning to ride one on the first try when he was four.â
Shoko scoffs as that's typical Sukuna, competing with a child about his achievements.
âHe's also started calling himself âNephewjiâ because Sukuna insists that he calls him Uncle Sukuna,â you chuckle as you recall that.
The man's got a lot to say for someone who still responds when Yuji says âDadâ before he embarrassingly realises that the little boy is talking to his brother and not him. He's glared and told you to shut up when you'd snicker at him for it.
Utahime coos at that. âThat's so cute. We'll come visit him soon. Just let us know when he's at yours,â she tells you.
âSure! Not this weekend though, he's gonna be with his grandpa but we'll have him on Friday for that hockey game.â
âOh yeah, you're busy on Friday.â
As you nod, your eyes stray to the laptop screen of a college student who's been doing work in the cafĂŠ since before you three got here. There's two articles open.
One is from Vogue and reads, âIs Having a Boyfriend Embarrassing Now?â
That one has you nearly snorting in agreement because you've seen how women are treated like shit these days by undeserving men. It's like there's a curse tied to a woman praising a man because the moment she does, he fucks her over. One second she's singing âmy man, my man, my manâ on the internet and the very next, she's deadpanning with a quiet, ânever mindâ after finding out he cheated.
Men are disappointments. It's why you steer clear of them and why you consider yourself a misandrist. Society excuses their violent, unthinkable misdeeds as behaviors and actions that were written into their nature as if that was a fact. You hated it. You hated men.
Except your man because you trained him right and you'll be damned if you let Yuji grow up to be the scum of the earth either.
So no, your gaze sweeps over that article without a second thought. But it lands and sticks onto the next one, your brows twitching.
âHAVING A BOYFRIEND MAKES YOU FAT! Over the years and after studying human mating behavior, scientists have found thatâŚâ
That earns an eyeroll from you as you tune out of the conversation about the newest vampire movie that Utahime and Shoko are talking about and whether they think vampire venom has aphrodisiac qualities to it.
You've heard all about âhappy weightâ people are said to put on in a relationship and you think it must be because their cortisol levels have spiked from their stressful partners or they stopped putting effort into how they look because they have who they want now. To each their own, you're not judging them.
Sukuna comes to mind as you see if he ticks any of those boxes. The only times he has you stressed us when he's picking fights at the grocery store over the last box of his favorite cereal or protein shake, when he's running late while picking up Yuji from Jin and Kaori and your mind automatically assumes the worst accident happen and when he hides around the apartment, incredibly silent and stealthy for a man of his stature, to jump out and fucking scare you.
Even then, you wouldn't say you were troubled to the point of pulling out your hair or throwing a fit. You'd just chew him out for being late, be amused when he argued with strangers and whack him with the nearest object turned weapon when he gave you a fright.
No, the weight gain had to be from his gourmet level cooking and the fact that he hardly ever says no to what you asked for him to make. It was honestly infuriating how great of a cook he is. His only downfall is boiling pasta which you help him with. You can't be that envious because you're the better baker anyway and make him whatever he asks for in return. If your period was around the corner, he was whipping up meals high in iron so you didn't feel miserable, your cramps lessened and you had no breakouts, bloating or fatigue.
Speaking of your period, the man kneads at your hips like you're dough, pulling the dull cramps out of your lower stomach like there was a thread he had to tug at. He never turned the massages into anything sexual though the pampering had you purring and ready to pounce on him anyway.
In conclusion, the âhaving a boyfriend makes you fatâ is a load of bull in your case. You chalk it up to a side effect of the new birth control you had started a month or two back while cursing men for having it easy. It didn't take away your period entirely, you still bleed a bit for at least three days but it's light and nothing like the heavy, messy ones you used to have.
Your cycle is consistent until it isn't. For a few months you'd get it on the exact same day then it'd do a complete shift and come weeks later on the worst day possible. Though it always made you feel a bit more sane after you'd felt like the world was out to get you.
Sukuna would take your yelling and anger in stride, listening intently, scarlet gaze tracking you as you paced and tore him a new one if he so much as left his pillow askew or forgot to put the toilet seat down. He'd take it all in then poke the bear by asking, âhave you calmed down now?â which was always met with something coming hurtling towards his head that he dodges more often than a meek nod from you.
In conclusion, there's nothing for you to overthink just because you may have temporarily put on a few pounds.
Still, the fear of developing a beer belly like the deadbeat dad across the street lingers in the back of your mind that night when you're out with your boyfriend and your friends.
He notices but doesn't mention it. You're not much of a social drinker unless you're in the mood for it so you declining alcohol isn't odd.
And after that, you forget about the fitting room and the stupid article that was probably clickbait. The latter might have not even been backed up by actual science and just nonsensical theories made up by gossip columns for engagement.
A hush blankets the bedroom, the quiet sanctuary holding its breath as if any sound would disturb those who had long-awaited this hour. The blinds were closed, streetlight filtering through to stripe the walls in pale gold, lamps on the nightstand off.
Outside, the pitter patter of rain whispers against the windows and roof, covering the low hiss of wheels against the wet pavement as a car rolls past, headlights briefly flitting over the lovers. A blink and it's gone. Laughter rose and vanished somewhere down the block as a radiator ticked softly as if counting down.
The faint taste of wine smears over your tongue, the warmth of skin cooling in the night air as a stubble rasps against your cheek. A quiet hum escapes the man beneath you as your hands map out the familiar, glittery terrain of his inked body that could be mistaken for marble if not for the heat, softness and beat underneath his flesh. Broad shoulders, bulging biceps, back rippling wherever your palms splay.
Bedsprings creak as the headboard teases the wall with touches punctuated by steady thumps. Sweaty skin peels off sweaty skin only to meet with a damp slap a breath later. Hard grunts and soft moans pour from parted lips, breasts bobbing in time with the spring of hair. Up and down, up and down, you move on his lap with slick, squelching bounces.
Aching nipples graze his pecs with an electrifying spark that sizzles all the way down your spine and between your legs, hips stuttering as a sharp, broken gasp cuts through your chest. Your seesawing on his cock melts into rocking over him, airy sighs passing your lips. The flickering pearl of your clit rolls against the trimmed hair on his pelvis as you shudder from the delicious friction while he groans from your gummy walls fluttering around him, suffocating the length of him.
Greedy, calloused hands pet at you, rubbing down your back, kneading at your full hips, fingers tangling in your hair to bare your neck to him so he can suck hickeys into your dewy skin, licking away the saltiness, mouth pulling until it aches and you squirm before he pops off.
âFuck, I can never get used to this,â Sukuna suck air in through his teeth, unwavering gaze tracing your body like it's the first time all over again.
Glazed eyes regard you ardently, the intimidating crimson of his irises a mellow shade of pink in this lighting. The warmth in them has nothing to do with the streetlights and everything to do with his adoration for the woman making herself feel good on his lap. Taking what she wants, chasing it.
âThat's it, baby. Ground down on my cock, make it yours. It's all yours,â he murmurs in affirmation as you hum thickly in response.
Relishing in the way he's taking you in like a devotee to a goddess he's promised himself to, like a moth to a flame, you roll your hips, body meeting him in waves, the softness of your tummy melding to the firmness of his clenching abdomen as the pressure behind your bundle of nerves builds, stomach pooling with heat.
Looping your arms around his neck, you twirl strands of his coral pink hair, ducking your head to dab open-mouthed kisses to the side of his neck, tongue lolling against his skin as you lap at it all the way up to his lips where ravenous kisses are needed more than air. This isn't close enough for either of you, you want to unzip his skin and bury yourself beneath it, tuck yourself away right next to his beating heart and snuggle it.
Dizzy, you break away from the kiss, bracing your hands on his chest as you begin bouncing again, relieved sighs coming from you both. His cock twitches like it always does when he's close and you're as determined to get him there as you are to finish yourself, the taste of release sugary on your tongue as your mouth waters.
Sukuna's licking up the dribbling drool from the corner of your mouth, humming at the sweetness as he grips your hips, blunt nails digging into your skin as he lifts and drops you on his cock, knowing all too well that your thighs are burning from how long you've been at it.
The butterflies lounging in your stomach catch fire, the flames licking lower as you feel your orgasm begin to unfurl within you while your boyfriend smacks your ass, making you jolt. Sucking at your nipples, he nips at them meanly and your back bows with a high-pitched whimper.
His skin crawls pleasantly as your manicured nails drag up the side of his neck, brushing over his pulse before you wrap them around his throat, not squeezing and just holding it as you pick up your pace, gasps and moans trembling with how hard and fast he's bouncing you up and down on his length, cunt gurgling and clamping around him.
What was once lazy and languid like stretching in the morning, feeling your body loosen until you're a boneless heap on the bed is now akin to being a novice mountaineer losing their footing and clambering for the edge of the crumbling cliff, fingers bleeding and nails breaking in their desperation to liveâgripping, clawing, grabbing, clinging to any anchor they can find. If you didn't come now, if you didn't grab the rope tossed to you, you'd fall and die.
That's what Sukuna makes sex feel like. Whether it's nice and slow or hard and rough, you swear you wouldn't survive without it. It's why he didn't participate in No Nut November last year, hardly apologetic as he told his friends that he had a girlfriend he couldn't neglect.
Pink bubbles float in your mind as you're suspended in delirium, lightheaded as you're floating on the tantalizing anticipation of an orgasm that's surely going to crash down on you violently like you were being tackled by a linebacker. The soapy sphere grows and grows until it's too large to fit in your head, now encompassing you both in it. Air toasty, scents musky and comforting, bodies sticky, you move as one.
You're close, so close. Sukuna knows how to keep things steady, not changing anything in the environment that may disrupt your impending orgasm. He's always been good at that. So fucking goodâ
With a throat growl, he snarls, grabbing a fistful of your pudgy belly and squeezing it appreciatively, spellbound by how it wobbles. âFucking love this little chub of yours.â
And just like that, the bubble pops with a drizzling splatter.
Hand around his neck, your hips slow as your brain short-circuits, eyelashes batting as you scavenge for the sanity you have left in your muddled mind to process what your boyfriend just fixed his mouth to say to you. Sure, you could brush it off as something meaningless muttered in the moment but you're a little too sensitive for that right now.
Sukuna, on the other hand, is unfazed, more than willing to do the work as he picks you up and drops you down on his cock without a care in the world. Until you squeeze at his throat and he pauses, eyes meeting yours, brows creasing in confusion.
âSomething wrong, baby?â
âYou fucking love this little what of mine?â you ask in a sickly sweet tone that doesn't match your hardened, narrow eyes. It was an opportunity for him to think carefully before responding.
Boyfriend.exe opens his mouth and shuts it, blinking slowly as he tries to figure out what he did wrong fast as your patience was thinning like the blood flow to his brain as you gave his neck an encouraging squeeze. It felt like he had a swimming cap on his head, tight but not constricting and the rubber thing slid off whenever you loosened your hold.
You had his lifeline in your hand, sure. But Sukuna could hardly register the threat when he was into choking, cock threatening to spurt into the condom right then and there as the lack of air just made him all the more aware of how hot, tight and wet you were around him. Smothering him. He reveled in the way the pressure would block out everything else but you, edges of his thought blurred and replaced by sensation then it all came back with a heady, euphoric rushâthe sound, light, blood rushing in his ears and his view of you sharpening.
Sukuna makes the mistake of elaborating. Give the guy a break, he's only been doing this serious relationship thing for over a year now, he's bound to step on minefields now and then even if the alarm bells blaring in his head tried to warn him away first.
âYour little chub,â he repeats, rubbing at your belly like your grandfather used to tell you to do to the Laughing Buddha to bring you good luck and happiness except you're not feeling any joy or laughter right now. âIt's so sexy. Love me some cushion for the pushing.â
Left eye twitching, visions of you sinking your nails into the sides of his neck like talons and watching him bleed out seem very appealing right now. Unfortunately, you look awful in orange and love the fucker too much.
Deciding to be the bigger person which he clearly fucking thought you were with how he was playing with your slightly hanging pouch, you climb off his lap and rolled out of bed, tugging on the shirt he discarded like it personally offended you. Its owner certainly did.
Gaping, Sukuna watches, at a loss for words. His orgasm dissolves rapidly and rudely just like yours did but you're not as bitter about it as you are about his offensive words.
âBaby, where are you going? I didn't mean it in a bad way, I like a fuller figure as much as the next guy,â he fumbles over his words to explain, cock drooping against his stomach like it was sulking.
Inhaling deeply, you try to cool the simmering heat of anger in your stomach with the air in your lungs. âIt'd be better if you stop talking,â you advise as you pad over to the bathroom.
Brows high, Sukuna discards the condom and pulls on his boxers, nearly tripping over his jeans with a cuss as he chases after you.
âHey, hey, wait. Come on, it wasn't an insult.â Bickering and back and forth insults were tossed between you two all the time with no hard feelings, you both had thick skin and knew the other was only joking. You could take what you put out.
So he's glitching at this sudden, unexpected reaction from you.
Laughing at his excuse, you throw your head back and dread sinks his stomach as he knows that sound is far from humorous. He has half the mind to retreat or at least use something as a shield.
Tilting your head, you look at him with a crazed gaze, smile too wide and toothy. Your messy hair does not help, falling over your face like some entity out of a horror movie.
âIt wasn't an insult, huh? What will you call me next then after you basically called me a busted can of biscuits?!â
Jaw dropping, his eyes widen as his temper flares. âNow do not put words in my mouth, womanââ
You're not listening as you step up to him, scowl twisting your pretty features into something scathing as his stomach burns with anxiety.
âYou think I'm a beached whale, don't you? A fat cow? An obese dog with hip dysplasia?! Has this been your plan all along?â
Face scrunching, his mouth opens but you promptly cut him off again.
âThat's it, isn't it? You want to fatten me up like a turkey to be slaughtered on Thanksgiving! Clog my arteries. Make it harder for me to run away and leave you. No one else will want me like this, you manipulative fuck!â
Your eyes are wet now, nose reddened as tears stream down your face, sobs choking you up as your anger descends into sadness. Or maybe not because Sukuna knows you cry when infuriated and you loathe the fact that you do.
Hands raised, he approaches you like he would a wild animal. âNo, no, baby. Let's take it easy, okay? I understand I got you worked up and I take full responsibility for it but that was not my intention.â
Backing away, you shake your head. But Sukuna knows you well enough that you'd be throwing things or yelling now if you didn't want him near you.
âI'm off-putting and ugly now. You just had to point it out. I hate you,â you hiccup, bottom lip jut out as you sniffle, wiping at your stubborn tears.
âI hate me too,â he whispers, voice placating and soothing. âLet me hold my pretty girl.â
Arms spread, he beckons you with a nod but your chin is raised in defiance as you bite your trembling lips and shake your head.
âPlease?â His voice is so soft and pleading, gaze imploring you. It tugs at your heart and as if you're steered by the organ, you drag your feet and stuff your face in his chest, crying.
âI'm sorry. I didn't mean to blow up on you. I don't know where it came from, I justââ you're interrupted by a sob and Sukuna hugs you, patting your head and rubbing your back.
You were not fatphobic by any means, having grown up chubby yourself. Some people looked better bigger and rocked it so well. So you really don't know where the fuck this outburst came from.
Reeling from the rapid shifts in your mood, he presses his cheek to your head, kissing it as he comforts you. âNo, I'm sorry. I should've never commented on your weight. It's rude,â he says, realising that it was equivalent to asking an older woman her age.
Your body shakes lightly before your breaths steady and you calm down. âYou shouldn't have,â you agree and he stifles a smile.
âWhat do you want me to get you?â he asks as he pulls back, brushing your hair out of your face and cupping your cheeks, stroking them with his thumbs.
âNothing,â you answer wetly.
There's silence as he wipes away your tears, ever patient, pressing kisses to your cheeks, temple, forehead, chin and nose.
âSome tea would be nice,â you mumble against his lips and there's a tug at the corner of his mouth.
âMm, anything else?â
âNo,â you reply, still sulking.
Releasing you reluctantly, he leaves the bedroom to go make you the tea you asked for, no before you add, âAnd those digestive biscuits. The ones dipped in chocolate.â
As he's pouring the boiling water into your cup and stirring it, watching the teabag soak and the blend of leaves bleed the clear water a burnt sienna, he ponders as to why you exploded just now. You're sitting on the couch now, flipping through channels like nothing happened.
Shaking his head, he pushes the thoughts away, deciding that it must just be your period coming up as you did get rather moody around that time.
The hockey arena was loud with excited fans and music, everyone relieved that it's finally Friday and beaming as they got to see their favorite teams face off tonight. The air is cold, some folks' beer warming as the constant scrape of skates on ice echo from below.
You, Sukuna, Choso and Yuki are wedged into your row of seats that has one of the best views of the game. Choso's arm is slung lazily around Yuki as she leans in every few minutes, laughing into his shoulder and stealing sips of his soda.
Sukuna and you on the other hand just look like two old friends who'd come together because one had an extra ticketâno hand holding, knees barely brushing as one of you reaches for popcorn or when the crowd surges to its feet. No one would guess that you've been a couple for a year and three months now. That you go home together, do unspeakable things to each other and that his dad sends you birthday cards.
You're not a fan of public displays of affection and Sukuna respects that. He isn't that big on it either, just like he'd rather keep the happenings of your relationship between you two so no one thinks badly of you or him if one of you vents after a fight. It's how you've maintained peace and stayed in the good graces of each other's friends and family. Not that things were hectic anyway.
Even now, you were just laughing, munching on popcorn, bantering and trading commentary on bad calls the teams were making. Though the presence of Yuji did make you two seem closer, the three-year-old on your lap as he sips on his blue raspberry slushie. If anyone didn't know any better, they'd assume you're divorced co-parents who came to this game together for your child.
The three-year-old boy is having a blast, waving a foam finger bigger than his head that incidentally hit his uncle in the face now and then as he watches the match in awe, bouncing on your lap, cheering when the crowd does and booing in time with them too as if he understood what was going on.
âWatch where you put that thing, kid. Could poke my eye out,â Sukuna cautions as if the finger isn't made of foam.
Rolling your eyes, you whisper to Yuji to smack Sukuna again, both of you laughing as the man scowls, harsh features softened by his begrudging affection for you two. It's hard to stay upset when you're both sporting matching jerseys with him.
The lights dim midway through the second period between plays.
âOh no,â Yuki speaks from beside Choso as you and Sukuna look her way. Smiling with giddiness, she nods towards the jumbotron that flickers to life with the pink spinning heart graphic. âKiss cam.â
The camera swoops across the crowdâcheering couples leaning in dramatically, a grandmother smacking her startled husband on the cheek, two guys high-fiving before sharing an exaggerated smooch to roaring approval.
And then the heart frame locks on your section.
Choso and Yuki are first. She beams, tugging her dark-haired boyfriend down by his collar. His eyes widen in surprise then he grins and kisses her easily while you cover Yuji's eyes, the crowd whooping as they break apart, cheesing.
Then the camera slides one seat over as Yuji tugs your hand off his eyes.
Heat crawls up your neck. Sukuna and you don't do this. Not at parties, weddings or even on dates. It's always done behind the tinted windows of his car, in corners he'd drag you to when he couldn't wait to go home or in the comfort of your apartments. It wasn't a rule so much as an unspoken understanding: some things were just for you.
Sukuna does not hesitate. Grinning at the screen, he turns his baseball cap backwards with one smooth motion, taking off your one as well as he dips his head towards you. Hand coming to your cheek, he shields your mouth from the camera. Then he kisses youâslow and confidentâhidden from prying eyes and your mortification seeps out of you as you melt into it.
A flurry of shocked giggles break against his mouth as he pulls away, beaming like he just won the match as onlookers cheer, Yuji included.
âYou're such a show-off,â you accuse, dazzled.
Your boyfriend shrugs, smug as he winks. âGotta give the people what they want sometimes.â
The heart graphics swivel, scanning other sections nowâsome enthusiastic and some awkward couples, bashful strangers, one confused brother and his horrified sister.
A wet smooch is planted on your cheek before you can respond and you gasp, looking at the sheepish toddler on your lap.
âHey, this is my woman, little man. You can't steal her,â Sukuna grumbles, banding an arm around your shoulders now.
His nephew huffs, shaking his head, petulant.
âListen hereââ
âDon't argue with the kid,â you remind him, unable to take him seriously when he does that and has your sticky gloss on his lips. Chuckling, you reach over and wipe it off.
He moves away with a grunt. âNo, I like my lips moisturized.â He smacks them together to make a point and you scoff.
On the ice, the puck drops again.
A wave of nausea starts a few minutes later when Yuki swaps seats with Sukuna now that Choso and Sukuna are on their feet, yelling at the referee like their lives depended on it. You watch your boyfriend pump his fist, scooping up his nephew as they both watch the match.
You're hunched over a paper tray of nachos, squinting at them they've been made to poison you. It sure as hell felt like it with how your stomach churns and the stringy cheese has the popcorn you ate earlier ready to make a reappearance.
It's not the first time something you usually enjoy put you off this week, you just thought you got over this bout of vomiting yesterday.
âAre you okay?â Yuki asks, eyeing you.
Swallowing thickly, you nod. âI'm fine, I justââ You press a palm to your stomach as it bubbles. âI feel gross and tired and everything smells weird.â
Grimacing in solidarity, the blonde woman lowers her soda. âYour period.â
That has you freezing.
You haven't gotten it yet and it's been five days past the due date.
She tenses beside you like she reads your mind. âIt's late?â
The woman starts counting on her fingers, listing off the things you'd told her so far. âYou've been nauseous for a few days. You said your jeans were tight. You cried because Sukuna finished the orange juice.â
âHe drank the last of it and didn't replace it,â you argue defensively. âHe knows how much I like it!â
âYou called it grounds for a breakup.â
âSure felt like it.â
Yuki leans closer, gaze heavy with the implications that you have avoided like the plague until now. âGirl.â
Slumping against the backrest of your seat, your voice drops to a whisper. âIt can't be that. We've been careful. Like, obsessively careful. It's too soon. We haven't even talked about that.â
The crowd roars around you, a sea of jerseys and foam fingers but you're pale. Sukuna is bristling as his favorite player gets shoved, expression downturned like he's ready to go down there and defend the man before he cackles when his teammates do the same to the other guy.
Sukuna and Choso are down in the lower section now, the older man attempting to explain offsides to Choso while holding the toddler upside down like a sack of potatoes. Yuji shrieks in delight. Sukuna looks like a natural.
âEven if you're careful, there's still a possibility,â Yuki points out, watching Choso steal Yuji away from Sukuna for a dramatic high-five. âYou two aren't exactly baby-averse either.â
âThat's the point! We've raised Yuji since he was like six months old. He's only three now. That was so recent! Plus we only just got together. Having aâŚa,â you can't even say it as you shake your head. âThere's no way.â
Heads lifting, you both glance at the jumbotron where a baby girl in a tiny jersey waves and flashes the camera a gummy smile. You flinch.
Yuki is having none of this back and forth as she fishes for something in her tote bag and you catch a glimpse of a pharmacy logo on a brown paper bag.
Sucking in a gasp, your brows raise. âYou did not.â
âI keep them on hand, okay? I'm not exactly celibate,â she defends. Don't you know it. âBesides they come in handy when you're spiraling like this.â
Ten minutes later, you're cramming into a stadium bathroom stall, balancing two pregnancy tests on the metal toilet paper dispenser like they're defusing bombs.
âWhy do you have two as well?â You hiss, the urge to chew on your nails embarrassingly hard to resist.
âMoral support,â she answers like it's obvious.
Tearing open the boxes felt like you were committing a crime once you both were in separate stalls, going through the motions.
âThis is insane,â Yuki whisper-yells as you see her shadow under the next stall. âWe're taking pregnancy tests at a hockey game.â
âQuite on brand for us actually,â you mutter as there's no such thing as too much information between you.
She could FaceTime you asking you about a freaking ingrown and you'd tell her to point the camera to it or come over so you could look, tweezers ready. Hell, you waxed her in the bathroom of Wasuke's home once when Choso surprised her with tickets to an island getaway for their anniversaryâspread eagle as you stripped away at her pubic hair while she bit down on a towel.
After what felt like eternity, you stood side by side at the sinks, four white sticks balanced on a wad of paper towels between you two.
The tests beep at about the same time and you two scream.
âAre you okay in there?!â A concerned man passing by the restrooms shouts from outside.
Eyes squeezing shut, you glance away. âYou look.â
âMe? You look!â
Simultaneously, you both look.
You chance a glance at your ones.
One line. Negative.
Hard exhales that are borderline hysterical laughter leave you both as you share a relieved glance.
âOh, thank God,â you sigh, sagging against the cool tiled wall. âGosh, okay. Okay! I'm fine. Just overthinking and fucking bloated.â
You could live with that.
Nodding, Yuki shakily turns to look at hers, reaching for them as your eyes land there too.
Blood drains from her face.
âGirl.â
You straighten. âDon't scare me, Yuki.â
She says your name low and trembling.
Eyebrows up to your hairline, you take a step forward, eyes bulging out of their sockets.
Two pink lines. On both sticks.
Blinking, you wait for your eyes to adjust and the results to change. They don't.
âYou're not even late,â you muse.
âI know.â
âYou've been on the pill since you were like sixteen.â
âI know.â
âYou made me take one!â
âI know!â Yuki exclaims, tossing her hands up in exasperation. âMaybe our tests got swapped when we were rinsing them off?â
Face falling, you fix her with an unamused look. âDon't even joke about that,â you were not about to speak pregnancy into existence for yourself.
Carding a hair through her hair, her perfectly straightened strands fall back into place right after, unaffected by her stress.
âI know! I'm just trying to make myself feel better.â
Damn, you got fucking lucky there.
The truth was as much as Sukuna and you were on the ball when it came to using protection, staying on your birth control and wrapping it before he taps it like responsible adults, you're only human.
You're not a stranger to those moments of weakness when the world is asleep and you both wake in the middle of the night or early morning and he gets behind you, murmuring for you to turn to your side. When he's taking you from behind, his cock melts into your gooey cunt and it's so good that you're whimpering and crying. And he cups the side of your face and licks your tears from chin to cheek, murmuring, âFuck, I'm sorry, baby,â in his gravely voice. There's no condoms then, not when you're dripping with his warm, sticky seed after and he stays buried inside you as he spoons you, drifting off again with you in his arms.
Ahemâback to the situation at hand, you think as you snap out of your memories that warm you down south.
Yuki looks frazzled, pretty face flushed with both fear and excitement. It all feels surreal as you stare at each other while the crowd outside rumbles.
Then there's a crack in the heavy silence as you dissolve into panicked, high-pitched laughter that teeters dangerously close to sobbing.
âHoly shit,â she breathes, sobering. âI'm pregnant.â
âOkay,â you say, gripping her shoulders. âBreathe. In and out, yeah? We don't have to tell them right now.â
âRight now?â Yuki squeaks.
âNo! You need to calm down and absorb everything. You can tell Choso once you get checked up and it's confirmed,â you assure her.
That puts her at ease as she relaxes and nods.
Sukuna immediately frowns as you two return to your seats, Yuji asleep in his arms now.
âEverything okay?â he asks, handing you a soda which you were in dire need of. Actually a beer would be better but you were still iffy about alcohol.
âFine,â you chirp too brightly.
Choso looks between you two. âWhy do you both look like you've committed tax fraud?â
Sukuna waves him off. âYou know these two. They were probably giving each other taper fades down there and got caught.â
The younger man's cheeks warm and he laughs.
âThe bathroom line was just long,â Yuki says quickly.
Exchanging a look, your boyfriends let it go, distracted by the replay of the final goal. Thank God their favorite team won so they're distracted.
Yuki takes the sleeping toddler from his uncle, holding him like he's a teddy bear. You don't blame her, you'd want a cuddle after all that too.
At home that night, you text Yuki.
You: We'll figure it out. You're not alone.
Yuki: Oh my gosh.
Fortunately for Yuki, she doesn't have to stew in her thoughts and spiral alone since the next day, you're all gathered again for a barbecue at Wasuke's house that he insisted on having every other week. Sukuna's family is loud and affectionate, in an aggressive kind of way that you've come to adore.
His dad mans the grill like it was the highest honor. Jin argues about fantasy football. Kaori chases her son around the yard while Yuji wields a rubber dinosaur like a weapon, giggling and dodging his mum's attempts to snatch him up.
Yuki and Choso are nursing their drinks and talking to Sukuna. She opted for the non-alcoholic champagne much to the confusion of the two men. They shrug it off as her following in your footsteps. You two act like sister-in-laws already and the guys find it hard to complain about it.
As you were helping Jin set out plates on the table, your phone buzzed on the other side of it. Sukuna, closer, glanced down automatically.
Yuki: I STILL CANâT BELIEVE THE PREGNANCY TEST RESULTS LAST NIGHT
His ears start ringing as he freezes, all the chatter and laughter around him muffled by the whooshing of blood in his ears, heart pounding in his throat.
âPregnancy tests?â
You halt mid-step at your boyfriend's words.
Oh. Shit.
âWhat?â Your chuckle is too high to be real.
Sukuna is more than happy to turn your phone towards you. The screen displays Yuki's name and a new message preview.
Time stops.
Your boyfriend blinks, eyes blank. âWhat pregnancy test?â
Wasuke turns slowly. âWho's pregnant?â For an old man, he had a sharp sense of hearing.
Jin drops the burger he was cutting up for Yuji. âExcuse me?â
âPREGANT!â The toddler shouts and claps.
Lunging for your phone, you make a strangled noise when he holds it out of reach. âIt's notââ
His eyes never leave you, the crimson of them piercing as things start clicking into place like pieces of a puzzle. Your moodswings, your nausea, the weight gain you've complained aboutâhow did he not see it before?
Sukuna is staring at you, eerily calm. âYou're pregnant?â
âNo!â You deny way too quickly.
âBut Yuki just textedââ
âShe justâ That's notââ
Choso chokes on air while Yuki looks like she might actually faint.
Setting down the tongs, Sukuna's father looks like he's about to be a judge in a courtroom. âSon.â
âI'm notââ You start.
His brother points to your stomach, eyes understanding behind his rimless glasses. âIs that why you didn't want wine just now?â
âI don't like white wine.â
Yuji tugs at his uncle's jeans. âI have baby?â
âCousin,â Sukuna corrects, half-listening.
The pink-haired toddler brightens with joy as he cheers, âI have cousin!â
âNot helping, bud,â Kaori mutters, giving Yuji a small smile. Though she is a bit giddy at the thought of a new addition to the family.
Yuji, unperturbed, bounds over to you.
Sukuna musses his hair as he rakes his fingers through it, face contorting in confusion and hurt. The latter squeezes your heart painfully as he looks at you.
He calls your name so softly and a bit betrayed as if you stabbed him in the chest. âWhy wouldn't you tell me?â
Jin claps Sukuna on the back, trying to lighten the mood. âMan, that's awesome!â
Wasuke is brimming with pride. âI'll build a crib.â
âThere is no crib!â You squeak.
Yuji hugs your leg and you instinctively pet his fluffy hair as he peers up at you hopefully. âYou have baby?â
âI do not have baby,â you cry, ready to actually burst into tears from all this misunderstanding.
Yuki suddenly makes a distressed sound. âIt's me!â
All heads turn to her.
She stands rigid beside Choso, clutching her phone like her lifeline. âIt's not her. It's me. I'mâŚpregnant.â
Silence crashes over the yard.
Choso blinks. âYou'reâŚwhat?â
âPregnant, emo boy. Pregnant,â Sukuna provides in exasperation as the word had been tossed around quite a bit this whole time. âI swear he blasts music too loud in those headphones.â
The younger man looks like someone unplugged him. âYou're pregnant,â he repeats faintly, certain now.
Yuki nods, eyes wide and terrified.
A beat.
Wasuke cleared his throat. âWell,â he says gently. âThat's still a baby.â
Kaori clutches her husband's arm, leaning against his shoulder as she smiles softly at the idea of becoming a grandmother.
Choso huffs out a shaky, nearly hysterical laugh. âA baby,â he echos.
Yuji, who was spawning beside everyone it seems, tugs at Yuki's skirt now. âI be big cousin?â
âUncle, actually,â Sukuna offers again.
The little boy gasps, jumping. âI be like Uncle Sâkuna!â
âAt the game last night, I took a test with her,â Yuki explains as she knows everyone is wondering. âIt was actually because we were worried that she might be pregnant but, well, it was me. I was going to tell you after I got a check up butââ
Choso cuts off her rambling as he steps forward and pulls her into a much-needed hug.
âI get it. I'm terrified,â he admits into her hair. âBut I'm not going anywhere.â
Tears well in Yuki's eyes, the fear of how he'd take it melting away as she slumps in his arms and exhales in pure relief.
Clapping with the others, you beam at them as you ignore your boyfriend's side-eye. âCongratulations!â
Jin suddenly whoops. âI'M NOT THE ONLY ONE WITH A KID ANYMORE!â
His wife smacks his arm. âRead the room!â
Everyone swarms the couple with hugs and congratulatory pats on the back while Sukuna falls back with you. Yuji chants âBABY COUSINâ as he runs around the yard.
Sukuna looks at you as you take a swig of his drink as if you just survived war.
âYou sure you're not pregnant?â he murmurs.
Swatting him, you glare lightly. âPositive.â
Later, in the car on the drive home, you lean your head against the window.
âWell,â you say. âThat was a disaster.â
Sukuna huffs a laugh. âYou let my entire family believe you were pregnant for a solid three minutes.â
âI panicked!â You insist. âYou didn't help either by jumping to conclusions!â
He reaches over, lacing his fingers with yours. âFor the record⌠I wouldnât have minded.â
You turn to look at him. âWhat?â
âIf it had been you,â he said quietly. âI mean, yeah, it wouldâve been a shock. But⌠I wouldnât have freaked out.â
You raise a brow. âYou absolutely would have freaked out.â
âBriefly but still,â he admits. âI meanânot right now, necessarily,â he rushes on. âBut⌠I donât know. Iâd build the crib myself. Iâd read all the books. Iâd get one of those ridiculous baby carriers and pretend I hate it but secretly love it. Iâd absolutely teach them terrible jokes.â
You laugh, tension finally cracking. âYou are ridiculous.â Though you don't deny that he'd be a good dad, seeing him with Yuji stirred something in you before you even came to love the man.
âIâm serious.â
You squeeze his hand. âGood to know.â
He glances at you, smiling softly. âGood to know,â he echos.
And somewhere in the back of your mind, the idea didnât feel quite as terrifying as it had the day before.
In the passenger seat, your phone buzzes again.
Yuki: HE JUST GOOGLED âHOW BIG IS A 4 WEEK FETUSâ IâM GOING TO PASS OUT
You grin as you type a reply.
You: WELCOME TO PARENTHOOD, GIRL
Sukuna sneaks a glance at you, smiling to himself as he thinks about you carrying his actual baby this time. Honestly, he doubts it'd be all that much different from dealing with you now.
Already, he has to deal with three new cravings of yours a week. You'd text him or just blurt them out at random moments no matter what you two were doing.
âPizza with hot honey, bagels with grapes and cheese, head, butter chicken with nachos, steak, head, caramel popcorn, spicy tikka with flaming hot doritos, head, sour worms, slushies with vodka, glazed donuts, head, pickles in ice cream.â
He gets them all of course even if he's fucking weirded out. Some do taste good.
Sukuna never lets an opportunity to eat you out pass him by either. Fingers interlocked with yours, he holds your hands, staring up at you through half-lidded eyes as he licks and sucks at you just right so you're gasping and sighing dreamily. When your gazes clash, yours bleary and dazed, you tend to slur out a, âI'm gonna put a baby in one of these days,â that has him panting out a balmy laugh against your puffy, syrupy folds.
He even had to search for discontinued snacks from your childhood that he wills himself to recreate like green Barney cupcakes were purple frosting and pastel star sprinkles, Danish star-shaped butter biscuits dipped in caramel chocolate, cosmic brownies, some strawberry yogurt ice lolly.
Your cravings aren't limited to food though, you say anything off the top of your head.
âCan I ride your abs? It'd be a lot firmer than my pillow but just soft enough so it doesn't make my pussy ache.â âWanna bend me over and fuck me real quick? My back is aching.â âCan I use your dick as a mic? Sounds fun.â âI bet I'm stronger than you. Fight me.â
The pampering isn't one sided, of course. You bake his favorite treats especially if he had a bad day, give him a massage that leads to a good fuck only if he wants it to, run him a bubble bath, buy him his favorite games pre-release, give away your lavender plants and avoid buying anything with it because he's allergic, drop off snacks at his workplace and cheer him on when he's playing football with his colleagues on Thursdays. That's not even half of it. It's nice to feel seen and treated tenderly and do the same for the person you love.
He's cheesing like a lovestruck fool now and only snaps out of his daze when you call out to him.
âRyo,â you start sweetly. âCan we get those cinnamon rolls you got last week?â
There it is. He exhales an amused breath as he checks the time. The bakery will close in an hour but he can get there in fifteen minutes if he takes the shortcuts.
âSure, baby,â he nods.
Content, you smile and stare ahead, lips twitching.
âDo they have donuts?â
He hums, inclining his head. âI think so.â
âGreat! Can I stack them on your diââ
Laughter bursts out of him as he chokes on nothing. âWoman, you're fucking ridiculous.â
you try not to show how aware you are of that fact. how your hands feel slightly too warm, how you smooth your clothes twice before he opens the door and how your heart is beating just a little faster than usual.
youâre still new to this. to him. to being his.
the door opens before you knock a second time.
he looks the same as always- broad shoulders, steady gaze, presence that fills the doorway like he owns the world behind it. but his eyes linger on you a second longer than necessary.
âyouâre late,â he says calmly.
you blink. âiâm two minutes early.â
âstill late.â
but he steps aside to let you in.
his place is surprisingly quiet. not cold. not empty. just minimal. clean lines with low lighting and the faint scent of incense lingering in the air. it feels like him. controlled and deliberate.
you step inside carefully, as if the floor might react to you.
he notices.
one of his hands settles at the small of your back, guiding you forward without asking. his touch is warm. firm. not hesitant in the slightest.
ârelax,â he murmurs near your ear, voice low. âyou look like youâre entering enemy territory.â
âmaybe i am,â you whisper before you can stop yourself.
his mouth curves slightly.
âyou are not.â
and then-
a tiny sound interrupts the moment.
a small, high-pitched chirp.
you freeze.
ââŚwhat was that?â
he exhales through his nose, almost annoyed.
from behind the couch, something small and white stumbles into view.
itâs a kitten.
not just any kitten- a ridiculously tiny, snow-white creature with oversized ears and paws slightly too big for its body. its fur is soft and slightly fluffy, not yet fully grown in. its tail sticks up like a little flag as it waddles toward you with determined clumsiness.
you stare.
he does not react.
âyou,â you say slowly, âhave a kitten.â
âshe lives here,â he corrects.
the kitten reaches your shoe and immediately attacks the lace like it has discovered its greatest enemy. it bites. paws. kicks with both back legs in dramatic, exaggerated movements.
your heart is gone. completely gone.
you crouch without thinking. the kitten abandons the shoelace and looks up at you with wide, bright eyes. one tiny pink nose. little whiskers twitching.
âhi, baby..â you breathe.
it steps onto your hand the second you offer it, small paws warm and impossibly light. it wobbles as it climbs higher, hooking tiny claws gently into your sleeve for balance.
behind you, he watches silently.
âsheâs so small,â you whisper.
âshe was smaller,â he replies.
you glance at him. âhow long have you had her?â
âa few weeks.â
you stare at him again.
this man. this terrifying, unmovable presence.
and heâs been quietly taking care of a kitten.
as if sensing your disbelief, he steps closer. you feel him before you see him. his body heat. the weight of his presence behind you.
âshe followed me,â he says. âpersistent thing.â
the kitten suddenly launches itself upward, climbing your arm with surprising speed until it reaches your shoulder. you gasp softly, steadying it with your hands.
it nuzzles under your chin.
you melt.
he does not.
âcareful,â he says, but he doesnât sound worried. just observant.
you stand slowly, kitten now cradled carefully against your chest. it immediately begins pawing at your necklace, tiny claws tapping the chain.
you laugh quietly, shyly.
he steps closer again.
too close.
one of his hands reaches forward- not for you at first, but for the kitten. his fingers are large compared to its tiny body. the kitten turns and grabs one of them instantly, biting down in playful aggression.
you tense.
he doesnât flinch.
it gnaws on him. kicks at his finger. refuses to let go.
âsheâs attacking you,â you murmur.
âshe does that.â
you watch as he slowly lifts his hand, kitten still clinging stubbornly. it dangles for a second before scrambling higher, climbing up his wrist like itâs scaling a mountain.
his other hand automatically steadies it.
gentle.
careful.
the kitten makes a triumphant little sound as it reaches his forearm and settles there, tail flicking.
you canât stop staring.
âyouâre good with her,â you say softly.
he looks at you then. really looks.
âim good at controlling fragile things.â
the words should sound dangerous.
instead, they make your stomach flutter.
because heâs not squeezing. not restraining.
just holding.
the kitten suddenly abandons him again and hops poorly toward you. you catch it just in time, holding it close as it presses into you, purring loudly now.
you smile, cheeks warming.
âi think she likes me.â
thereâs a subtle shift in the air.
he steps forward until youâre forced to look up at him.
âshe does not prefer you,â he says evenly.
you try not to smile. âshe literally just left you.â
his hand comes up again- this time not for the kitten.
for you.
his fingers tilt your chin upward gently but firmly, making you meet his gaze.
âdo not mistake her attachment for competition,â he murmurs.
your breath catches.
youâre still shy with him. still getting used to how direct he is. how he doesnât pull back. how he never hesitates.
the kitten, completely unaware of the small tension, squirms her way between you and stretches up on her hind legs, placing its tiny paws right against his chest.
he glances down at it.
then back at you.
ââŚshe is tolerable,â he admits.
you laugh softly.
and without thinking, you step closer.
he doesnât move away.
one of his arms slides around your waist naturally, pulling you against him while the kitten remains nestled between you both. the warmth of his body contrasts with the tiny, vibrating purr against your chest.
youâre aware of everything. his hand at your waist, the kittenâs soft fur under your fingers, the steady rhythm of his breathing.
you look up at him again, still a little shy.
âi didnât expect this,â you admit.
âwhat.â
âthis version of you.â
his thumb traces a slow line against your hip, thoughtful.
âthere are many versions,â he says quietly.
the kitten suddenly reaches up and bats at his chin.
you both look down at it.
he exhales, almost amused.
âbold creature.â
you rest your head lightly against his chest, careful not to squish the kitten between you.
he allows it.
and when the kitten starts purring louder, he doesnât pretend he doesnât like the sound.
he simply tightens his arm around you both. protective of the small life in your hands.
You pretend to give Sukuna the silent treatment, and he spirals, trying to figure out why
The first thing Sukuna notices when he walks through the apartment door in the evening is that you donât come over with that soft âhey, Kunaâ heâs used to, and that you don't even look up.
The lock clicks shut behind him, the keys rattle as they drop onto the console table, his boots hit the entryway tile with its usual thud, and still⌠nothing. Despite the familiar sounds of him being home, the silence from the living room is deafening.
You won't even spare him a glance. Youâre on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, staring at your phone, relaxed like there's nothing wrong, but for him everything is.
Because you always greet him. Always. Sometimes itâs loud and teasing, sometimes you donât get up but still call out his name, sometimes you only look at him and smile, just that soft little curl of your mouth and a light in your eyes that means more to him than anything. But today? Nothing.
He walks forward quickly, dropping his gym bag by the wall, his gaze fixed on your profile, lit by the faint blue glow of the screen. The room smells like the candle you always light when you want things to feel cosy. Itâs soft and sweetâthat vanilla thing he used to tease you about but secretly loves because it means the day is done, youâre home, and youâre safe. But right now, none of that comfort is registering properly.
He crouches down next to you, trying to catch your eye, but you keep your eyes locked on the phone, scrolling, like the rest of the world has ceased to exist.
His chest tightens, and before he even opens his mouth, his mind starts racing through the last forty-eight hours, trying to work out where he must've fucked up.
Yesterday morning, he kissed your temple before getting out of bed. You didnât wake right away, but you shifted towards him with that sleepy little noise he loves. He made you coffee. Went to the gym. It was packed, so he texted to say heâd be back late. You asked for a photo, and he sent a sweaty, shirtless selfie. You sent back a row of hearts, and he said heâd grab your favourite takeout on the way home because youâd said you were craving it earlier.
Nothing wrong there.
In the afternoon, he helped you repot the new herbs on the balcony, grumbling when soil got under his nails. You laughed, wiping some dirt from his jaw with your thumb.
Evening? Together, you watched the reality show youâre obsessed with, and he let you put your freezing feet on his legs under the blanket. You eventually fell asleep, curled against his side, breathing softly against his throat. He then carried you to the bedroom and went to sleep, tugging you close to him.
And today seems fine too. Sukuna kissed your sleeping forehead, left early for the shop, and sent you a photo of a dog he saw at a red light. You replied with a sleepy selfie and a string of kisses. After work, he went straight to his usual Monday sparring sessions. He was quiet most of the day, sure, but thatâs never an issue for you two.
Nothing. Thereâs absolutely nothing he can point to.
So what the fuck is going on?
He exhales slowly through his nose and finally murmurs, âHey.â
Silence. He waits a beat, watching your lashes flutter but not lift, and the knot in his gut tightens.
ââŚWhatâd I do?â
Still nothing. Your thumb just keeps moving across the screen.
Now his brain is spiralling. Not visibly, of course, because on the surface your husband looks the same as ever, but inside? Inside is carnage.
He starts grasping at straws, thinking of stupid shit, really fucking stupid shit, because thereâs no logical reason for this, and he needs to find something. Anything. Even something small, something petty, so he can fix this.
ââŚIs this about the gym bag?â he finally tries in a low, rough voice. âI left it in the hallway again, didnât I?â
Itâs as if you donât hear him at all. He swallows the lump in his throat, hating how your silence eats him alive.
âIs it because I forgot to answer your text after sparring with Toji?â
Still no response. His brows furrow, and his next words come out a little faster, like heâs running through a checklist that makes less and less sense the longer he speaks.
ââŚDid I eat the last mozzarella stick?â
Thatâs when your eyes finally lift. Theyâre bright; too bright, actually. Then your mouth twitches at the corner, your fingers suddenly lose interest in the phone you werenât really scrolling on anyway, and you bite the inside of your cheek, fighting a smile.
The realisation crashes in like cold water, and Sukuna freezes, letting out a sharp breath that sounds more like a low fuck me.Â
âYou little brat,â he growls, but the relief he feels is so sharp it almost hurts, relaxing every tense muscle until his shoulders visibly drop, and thatâs when you crack.
The laugh bursts out of you like youâve been holding it in for hours. Itâs loud, bright, and smug, and you bury your face in your hands as your whole body shakes. You donât even look at him right away; you just cackle, absolutely delighted with yourself.
His hands grip your thighs, lifting you against his chest like you weigh nothing as he stands. Your legs wrap around his waist, and your arms loop around his neck.
âYou think thatâs funny?â His voice is low and rough, but the edge of a smile is already there. âMaking me think I fucked up?â
Youâre still giggling into his shoulder with no regrets. âYou shouldâve seen your face.â
His right hand grabs your chin and lifts it so you face him.
âNext time you pull that shit,â he murmurs against your mouth, his teeth grazing your lower lip enough to make you shiver, âIâm not asking questions. Iâm just gonna make you scream my name until you forget how to be quiet.â
notes: it was totally gojo who put you up to this because that man loves messing with sukuna
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last thing you excepted when riding geto suguru is him ending up crying
the room smells faintly of the incense he lit earlier, something woody and expensive that he swears helps him focus, though right now focus is the last thing on either of your minds.
youâre straddling his hips, knees digging into the mattress on either side of him, palms planted on his chest for balance. suguruâs hands are greedyâfingers splayed wide across your thighs, thumbs brushing the sensitive crease where leg meets hip like heâs trying to map every millimeter of skin. his hair is a dark spill across the pillow, half of it stuck to his damp forehead, and those sharp violet eyes are locked between your bodies, watching the way your cunt swallows him inch by slow, torturous inch.
âfuck,â he breathes, almost laughing under it. âlook at her. greedy little thing just keeps taking me.â
you roll your eyes even as your hips stutter forward. âyou talk about my pussy like itâs a separate person.â
âshe is,â he deadpans, voice gone a little wrecked already. âsheâs my favorite person right now. sorry, baby, youâve been demoted.â
you snort, clench around him on purpose just to watch his jaw tick. ârude. iâm literally the one doing all the work here.â
âand doing it so well,â he coos, sliding one hand up to palm your breast, thumb flicking over the nipple until it pebbles. âmy perfect girl. riding me like itâs your job. should put you on payroll.â
âyouâd pay me in dick?â
âbest currency iâve got.â he grins, lazy and smug, then groans when you drop down harder, taking him to the hilt. his head tips back for a second, throat working. âshitâyeah, just like that. fuck, you feel so good. so warm. so tight. christ, iâm obsessed with this cunt.â
you canât help the laugh that bubbles out, a little breathless. âyou say that every time.â
âbecause itâs true every time.â his other hand grips your ass, encouraging the slow grind youâve settled into. âi could live here. never leave. just keep you seated on me twenty-four seven.â
âromantic.â
âi try.â
you lean down, kissing him messy and open-mouthed, tongues lazy, more breath than anything. when you pull back heâs still smirking, eyes half-lidded, looking far too pleased with himself.
âyouâre so chatty tonight,â you tease, rolling your hips in a slow circle that makes his breath hitch. âusually youâre just grunting and calling me a good girl.â
âi can multitask,â he says, voice dropping lower. âgood girl.â
there it is.
you pick up the pace a little, chasing that particular angle that makes your toes curl. his hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts before he cups them fully, bringing one to his mouth. he sucks the nipple gently at first, then harder, tongue flicking, teeth grazing just enough to sting. you moan, fingers threading into his hair, tugging lightly.
âthere she is,â he murmurs against your skin, switching to the other breast. âmy favorite sound.â
youâre both laughing softly between gasps now, trading stupid little barbs that donât even make sense anymore.
âyouâreâ nghâsuch a menace.â
âtakes one to know one.â
âshut up and suck harder.â
âyes maâam.â
itâs easy, light, familiar. the kind of sex where you can still make fun of each other and mean the praise at the same time.
then something shifts.
you grind down particularly deep, clenching on the upstroke the way you know drives him insane, and his whole body locks up for a second. not in the usual oh-fuck-iâm-gonna-come way. different. quieter.
his hands slide around your back, pulling you down until your chests are flush. he buries his face in the crook of your neck, nose pressed to your pulse, arms banding tight around your ribs like heâs trying to fuse you together. you feel the first shaky inhale against your skin.
then another.
then the softest, wettest sniffle.
you freeze.
everything stillsâyour hips, your breathing, the lazy rock of the bed. you can feel his cock still throbbing inside you, but the rest of him has gone strangely fragile.
âsuguru?â your voice comes out smaller than you mean it to. you try to pull back so you can see his face but he wonât let you, just tightens his hold, keeps his mouth pressed to your throat.
another sniffle, muffled.
your heart does something painful and lopsided. âhey. did iâdid i hurt you? shit, iâm sorry, i didnât mean toââ
he shakes his head once, quick. âno. no, baby, you didnât.â his voice is rough, thick. âjustâfuck. just love you so much.â
you blink.
he pulls back just enough that you can finally see him. cheeks flushed, eyes glassy and red at the rims, long lashes clumped together. his mouth is soft, trembling at the corners like heâs fighting not to let more sound out. he looks wrecked in a way that has nothing to do with orgasm and everything to do with whatever just cracked open behind his ribs.
âsorry,â he mutters, laughing once, wet and embarrassed. âdidnât mean to kill the mood. you justâfelt so good and i looked up at you andââ he swallows hard. âi donât know. got hit with it all at once.â
you cup his face, thumbs brushing under his eyes. âyouâre crying.â
âno, yeah.â he huffs another small laugh, turning his head to kiss your palm. âstupid, right? iâm literally inside you and iâm crying like a teen.â
ânot stupid.â you lean down, kiss the corner of his eye, taste salt. âsweet. really sweet.â
he groans, half mortified, half pleased, and pulls you back down so your foreheads touch. âi love you,â he says again, quieter this time, like itâs a secret heâs only just allowed himself to say out loud. âso fucking much. likeâcanât even think straight when iâm with you. canât imagine not being with you. and your cunt is perfect and your laugh is perfect and the way you make fun of me is perfect and i justââ another shaky breath. âi got overwhelmed. sorry.â
you smile against his mouth. âdonât apologize.â
âi ruined the porno.â
âyou made it better.â
he snorts softly, finally loosening his death grip so you can sit up a little. his hands settle on your hips again, gentler now. âcan we just⌠stay like this for a minute? donât wanna come yet. just wanna feel you.â
you nod, settling your weight more fully onto him, letting him stay buried deep while you stroke his hair back from his face. âyeah. we can stay like this as long as you want.â
he closes his eyes, lets out a long, slow breath, and presses one more kiss to your collarbone.
âthank you,â he whispers.
you donât say anything back. just keep carding your fingers through his hair, rocking ever so slightlyânot to chase anything, just to remind him youâre still here.
the room goes quiet except for the soft sound of your breathing, the faint crackle of the incense, and the occasional shaky exhale from the man underneath you whoâs apparently decided tonight is the night he falls apart in the best possible way.
pt2 to my dynamight panties fic because i couldnât help myself :P
you barely hit the bed before bakugo is on his knees in front of you.
he grabs your legs and yanks you to the edge like he owns you, eyes already locked on the way your soaked little panties cling to your core.
âjesusâ he mutters, voice already rough. âyou this wet from wearing my hero merch? wearing my name got you gushinâ, huh?â
you try to close your legs, bashful and overwhelmed, but his palms are firm, keeping you wide open.
ânuh-uhâ he growls, eyes dark and wild. âyou put these on and thought you were getting away without me devouring this pussy?â
and then, heâs there. mouth hot and wet through the fabric, tongue dragging across the soft drenched cotton just to tease you. the slick feeling of it makes your whole body jolt and thighs tremble in his grip.
you whimper. âkatsukiââ
âshut upâ he cuts you off. âlemme feast.â
before you can even respond and call him an asshole, he shoves the fabric to the side with two fingers and dives in, tongue flat and heavy against your dripping cunt. the first drag of it has you crying, which ultimately does nothing but fuel him. he just moans right into you and starts slurping loud like heâs starving.
he pants and pulls back to mutter a quick âso wetâ, and before you know it, heâs on you licking again. noisy, messy, and fucking feral. âfuck, baby you taste so fucking goodâ. his lips wrap around your clit and he sucks hard until your thighs start trembling uncontrollably and a cry rips from your throat.
he keeps sucking even harder.
sloppy, obscene sounds fill the roomâhis tongue working in tight circles, his mouth latching on with desperation like heâs never tasted anything better. he even works two thick fingers into you while heâs devouring your clit.
âtaste like fuckinâ candyâ he groans, lips dragging off your clit with a lewd pop. âpoor baby, look at you.â
youâre a mess, sobbing and begging for more all at once, thighs shaking around his head.
âmore katsuki, pleaseâ you whine at the sudden loss of pleasure.
âiâve got you baby, iâm gonna make the ache all betterâ he coos, mouth already back on you. he keeps eating, even through your orgasm. keeps sucking on your clit until your back arches and your moans start to become all broken. until youâre crying again, begging him to stop, but also begging him not to.
finally, he decides to have mercy on your poor overstimulated cunt.
âyou taste so good with my name sitting pretty on your pussyâ
you nod, whimpering with tears clinging to your lashes.
âthatâs my girlâ he whispers sweetly while pressing a soft kiss to your thigh. ânow gimme another one.â
you donât even have time to gasp before heâs shoving his sweats down just enough and gripping the base of his painfully red and throbbing cock.
âkatsukiâ!â
but heâs already pressing in.
just the tip at first, sliding through your slick folds and right into where youâre sensitive and trembling. your hands reach up blindly, desperate for him. when your fingers curl around the back of his neck, you tug him down into you, clinging tight like you need his whole body on top of you to breathe.
he groans at the way you hold him, melting into the way your arms wrap around his shoulders like a hug. like you need him so bad you have to be this close.
âfuck, babyâ he breathes, nose brushing your cheek. âyouâre killinâ meâ he whimpers but would never admit. he pulls out for just a second, dragging his cock up and down your slit, teasing your clit with the thick head until you jolt and whine, before thrusting it back in with full force.
âyou made a mess all over my face, now youâre makinâ a mess all over my cock. youâre a dirty girlâ
you nod weakly, eyes fluttery and dazed. âp-pleaseâŚâ
âyeah baby, you want it?â he grins, all feral. âthen take it.â
you whine and he keeps thrusting into you slow and deep. heâs so thick and pulsing and throbbing inside of you. the slide in and out is so easyâyour cunt even makes the filthiest little squelch when he bottoms out.
âfuuuckkâ he groans, grabbing under your thighs to tilt your hips just right. âyou hear that, princess? you hear how bad your little pussy needed me?â
your mouth falls open in a breathless sob, tears beading at the corners of your lashes. youâre still sensitive and overstimmed, but his cock feels too good. itâs so warm and deep, filling you perfectly.
âtakinâ me so goodâ he pants. âyouâre always so good for me. love you muchâ his hips snap forward even deeper and you cry out in overwhelming pleasure.
âkatsukiâahh, too muchâ!â
âshhh, itâs okay baby, breathe. youâre being such a good girl. youâre taking me so well, making me so proud. gimme one more baby, you can do itâ he soothes, voice sounding like honey as he talks you through it.
heâs so lost in you.
he canât stop thinking about his name on your panties. or the way his precum glistens on your thighs. the way your nails are digging into his shoulders and your eyes all glossy and pretty just for him. and most of all, the way your pussy is squeezing around him like itâs trying to milk him of every last drop.
âlove you so muchâ he groans, pressing his forehead to yours. âso fuckinâ much. makinâ me crazy, princessâwearinâ my name like thatâfuckâiâm gonna lose itââ
heâs babbling, and youâre nodding, moaning, crying, and gripping his arms like a lifeline.
âcum with me. now. be my good girl, fuck, please, babyâi need it, need to feel you cum with me,â he begs in a needy, high pitched tone, voice cracking as he fucks you harder, like heâs right on the edge of falling apart.
and you do. you both do.
your sob shatters into a broken moan, your body seizing under him as you cum hard, clenching around him. the second he feels it, he breaks.
a soft, broken whimper breaks out of his mouth as his hips stutter and press deeper than before if thatâs even possible, and he spills inside you with a cry, mouth falling open against your neck like heâs losing his mind.
âohh fuck, babyâfuckfuckfuckââ he whimpers through it, holding you close like heâll die without you.
and when itâs over, and the waves of pleasure ease through and your bodies go all shaky and warm, he still doesnât let go. he just falls forward, face down right into your chest and arms wrapped so tightly around your waist.
you giggle, barely able to catch your breath. âkatsuâŚâ you whisper, breathy and sweet, your fingers brushing through his hair. âyouâre squishing meâ
âdonât careâ he mumbles and smiles all dopey as he nuzzles his face into your chest. âmine.â
he leans back just enough to look at youâand god, is he whipped.
âyouâre so fuckinâ perfectâ he says dramatically, plopping his face back down onto you. âhowâre you real?â
you giggle again, shy now. âyouâre just sayinâ that 'cause i let you wreck me.â
ânoâ he murmurs, kissing your cheek and nose. âsayinâ it 'cause itâs true. and 'cause i love you.â
your heart flips, and you canât help but hide your face in his chest, giggling like itâs the first time heâs ever said itâeven though he says it all the time.
âi love you tooâ you whisper, and he just holds you tighter.
âwho wouldâve thought my hero merch would get me such good sex?â
vyntrixx's note ⥠: because the world needs more soft/fluffy toji (ËśË áľ ËËś)
toji figured it was just a little cry. you curled up on the couch, face hidden in your arms, body all small and tight. he thought youâd sniffle for a minute, get it out, then be fine.
but then he heard you actually sob. loud, shaky, the kind that cracked right through his chest. his stomach dropped.
âbaby?â his voice went soft right away, rough around the edges but still careful. he crouched down in front of you, trying to peek under your arms. âhey, whatâs goinâ on?â
you shook your head, pressing your face deeper like you didnât want him to see.
ânah, donât do that.â his hands were warm and steady as he gently pulled your arms down. the sight of your wet cheeks made his heart clench. âshitâ i didnât know it was serious.â
you hiccuped something that didnât even make sense, and he was done for. he scoiped you up, big arms wrapping you in tight, holding you against his chest like you might break.
âi got you,â he whispered into your hair, rocking you a little. âcry all you need, iâm right here.â
your sobs shook through both of you. his shirt was damp but he didnât care. one hand rubbed your back slow, the other cradled your head, thumb brushing over your temple. he pressed kiss after kiss after kiss into your hairline.
âhurts hearinâ you cry like that,â he admitted quietly. âfeels like my fuckinâ chest is crackinâ open. just tell me whatâs goinâ on, yeah? lemme help.â
you sniffled, still curled tight into him, but you didnât let go. and neither did he. toji just held you, steady and warm, like nothing in the world could touch you as long as you were in his arms.
toji kept rubbing your back, steady and slow, waiting you out. he wasnât gonna push, but he wasnât gonna let you bottle it up either.
âcâmon, baby,â he murmured against your hair, voice low. âtalk to me. whatâs eatinâ at you?â
you shook your head into his chest, voice all broken. âyouâll think itâs stupid.â
âdonât care if itâs stupid,â he said instantly, his tone firm but soft. âif itâs makinâ you cry like this, it matters. so it matters to me.â
you sniffled, fingers clutching at his shirt. âi just feel like iâm too much sometimes. like i need too much from you. and i hate it.â
his arms tightened around you so fast it almost knocked the breath out of you. âdonât you ever say that again,â he muttered, pressing a kiss to your temple. âyouâre not too much. never.â
âbut-â
âno buts.â his voice dropped, a little rough but warm, steady. âyou need me? then you need me. thatâs all. and iâm here. i want to be here. you think iâd stick around if i didnât?â
your throat tightened, tears spilling again, but softer this time. he caught them with his thumb, brushing them away.
âlisten,â he said, tipping your chin up just enough to meet his eyes. âyou can cry, you can cling, you can tell me whateverâs in your head. iâll take it all. i want it all. thatâs what beinâ with me means.â
you let out a shaky laugh, more tears slipping. âyouâre too good to me.â
toji smirked, leaning down to kiss the corner of your mouth. ânah. just love my girl. even when sheâs snotty cryinâ all over me.â
you hit his chest weakly, cheeks hot, but the way he was smiling at you, soft, patient, like you were the most important thing in the world, made your heart ache in the best way.
âfeel a little better?â he asked, pulling you back into his chest before you could answer.
you nodded against him, whispering, âyeah⌠a lot better.â
âgood,â he mumbled, kissing your hair again. ânow stop hidinâ from me when youâre upset. you cry, you talk, you crawl into my lap and make me hold you. thatâs the deal.â
â g. satoru x gf who's insecure abt her chest âĄ
you were curled into his side after a movie, his arm a heavy, warm weight around you. his fingers had been tracing idle patterns on your shoulder, but theyâd slowly drifted lower, skating along the thin fabric of your top. a familiar, tiny knot of insecurity tightened in your stomach. you werenât flat, but you werenât busty. not like some of the girls you saw on social media.
you sighed, the sound barely audible, and let your forehead rest against his chest. you felt him still, his energy shifting into something more attentive.
âhey,â he said softly, his voice a low rumble. âwhatâs that sigh for?â
you just shook your head against him, not trusting your voice. his hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers gently threading through your hair.
âcâmon,â he coaxed. âtalk to me.â
you took a shaky breath. âitâs nothing,â you started, but the words felt hollow even to you. âjust⌠sometimes i wish i had bigger.. you knowâ
he went still for a second. then, he shifted, rolling so he was hovering over you, caging you in with his arms. his blue eyes were suddenly very serious, all traces of lazy amusement gone.
âlet me be the judge of that,â he said, his voice a low murmur that went straight through you.
before you could protest, his fingers hooked into the hem of your top. âcan i?â he asked, but he was already lifting it, his gaze locked on yours, asking a different, more important question. you gave a tiny, hesitant nod.
the cool air hit your skin, followed immediately by the searing heat of his look. he didnât say anything for a long moment, just drank the sight of you in, his expression one of pure, unadulterated reverence. it made your breath catch.
your arms came up instinctively to cover yourself.
gently, he caught your wrists, pinning them to the couch on either side of your head. âno hiding,â he chided softly. âi wanna look at whatâs mine.â
he lowered his head, and you expected a kiss, but he bypassed your lips entirely. his mouth was warm and soft as it closed over one peaked nipple through the fabric of your bra. you gasped, back arching off the bed at the sudden, electric sensation.
âtoruââ
âshhh,â he breathed against your skin, the vibration making you tremble. âjust feel.â
his fingers, deft and sure, found the clasp of your bra at your back and unhooked it with a quiet snick. the garment loosened, and his warm palm settled over the newly freed skin of your ribcage, his thumb stroking a gentle, soothing arc.
his tongue, wet and hot, laved over the sensitive peak, circling it slowly before he sucked, just enough to make you whimper. his free hand came up to cup your other breast, his thumb stroking over the skin in time with the pulls of his mouth.
âso perfect,â he mumbled, switching sides, giving the same devoted attention to your other breast. âthe perfect size. fit in my hands just right.â he demonstrated, squeezing gently, and a moan tore from your throat. âsee? made for me.â
he took his time, licking and sucking, worshipping every inch until you were a writhing, pleading mess beneath him.
âyou taste so good,â he groaned, his voice rough with want. âso sweet. and the little sounds you makeâŚâ he sealed his mouth over you again, sucking hard, and you cried out, your hips bucking against nothing.
he pulled back, his lips slick and swollen, a smirk playing on them. âstill think theyâre ânot muchâ?â he asked, his thumb brushing over your wet, oversensitive nipple, making you jolt.
all you could do was shake your head, dizzy with pleasure. he laughed, low and triumphant, and leaned down to capture your lips in a deep, claiming kiss.
âgood,â he whispered against your mouth. ââcause iâm nowhere near done showing you how much i love them.âÂ
sum. MIA for two whole days, your older boyfriend finds you have been sick the whole time but donât worry, they are here to take care of you!
warning. non-sorcerer! jjk men, you are early twenty and they are late twenty, petnames, fluff, crack,
GOJO SATORU
he bursts through your apartment door like a whirlwind in a storm â keys jangling as they hit the floor, designer sunglasses still perched on his nose, even though it's nearly sundown. the moment the door swings open, his voice echoes through the quiet, too-quiet apartment.
âsweetheart? baby?â his voice is deceptively cheerful, light and sing-song, but the tension is there, tight in the undercurrent. he hasnât heard from you in two days. no text. no call. nothing. and you never go that quiet, not even when youâre mad at him.
satoruâs long legs carry him through your apartment like he owns the place â which, to be fair, he kind of does, considering he pays your rent without your knowledge. he steps into the dimly lit living room and freezes.
youâre there, bundled up on the couch like a miserable, sniffling ghost. oversized hoodie swallowing you whole, one of his, naturally, and a pathetic mountain of tissues around you like a fortress. thereâs a blanket halfway off your legs, a cold cup of tea on the table, and your phone sitting dead by your hand.
â...what the hell,â he breathes, sunglasses slipping down his nose as he takes it in, brows furrowing under snowy bangs. âare you seriously dying in silence? do you hate me?â
you groan softly, barely able to lift your head. âdidnât wanna bother you⌠youâre busy with workâŚâ
âbusy with work? babe, i thought you got kidnapped by some creepy guy whoâs into sniffing socks or somethingâwhich, by the way, i wouldâve lost my shit over.â
heâs already moving, dropping to his knees in front of the couch, hands large and warm as they cup your flushed face. youâre burning. âoh my god, youâre so hot,â he says, wide-eyed, like itâs not from the fever. âand not in the good, ride-me-until-my-legs-donât-work way. like⌠medically concerning.â
you manage a weak laugh, and he beams like you just handed him the moon. satoru brushes your hair back with trembling fingers, his usual smugness cracking under genuine concern.
âyou didnât even call me,â he murmurs, voice dipping low. âtwo days, angel. two days. i almost broke into your classes like a psycho sugar daddy with a god complex.â
you sniffle, leaning into his palm. âdidnât wanna make you worryâŚâ
âi always worry about you,â he says, exasperated. âthatâs, like, half my personality. havenât you noticed?â
and then, of course, he softens â because heâs a menace, but heâs your menace. satoru stands, scooping you into his arms like you weigh nothing. you squirm, mumbling protests, but your limbs are too heavy, and his arms are warm.
âshut up. weâre doing this,â he says, already carrying you to your bed. âyouâre sleeping somewhere with actual blankets and no tissue graveyard. jesus, babe, this whole place smells like menthol and heartbreak.â
he sets you down carefully, tucking the blankets around you like youâre the most delicate thing heâs ever touched. he presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then lingers near your lips, hesitant.
âcan iâŚ? or am i gonna get the plague?â
you pout. âyouâll get sick.â
âworth it,â he says immediately, leaning down and giving you the softest kiss â just enough pressure to make your heart ache, his thumb brushing your cheek like heâs scared youâll disappear.
when he pulls back, heâs grinning again, wicked this time. âbesides, i bet iâd look hot with a fever. youâd have to nurse me back to health in, like, a slutty little nurse outfit. win-win, right?â
you roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away. âyouâre impossible.â
âand youâre my favorite stupid little college girl who forgets to eat when sheâs sick.â his hands are already sliding under the covers, slipping around your waist, pulling you close. âso now iâm gonna hold you like a clingy teddy bear, make you drink water, and maybe talk about how good youâd look drooling all over my shirt.â
you snort. âwhat happened to concern?â
âbaby, i am concerned. but iâm also very horny, emotionally overwhelmed, and tragically in love with you. deal with it.â
you let him spoon you from behind, his breath warm on your neck, his body a furnace. his fingers trace lazy circles on your stomach, lips brushing your shoulder.
ânext time youâre sick,â he mumbles, âyou better call me. i swear to god, iâll tattoo my number on your forehead if thatâs what it takes.â
you nod sleepily, and satoru kisses the shell of your ear.
âgood girl.â
GETO SUGURU
he doesnât knock.
he doesnât need to â your spare key has been hanging on his keyring for months now, worn from use. suguru opens your door slowly, shoulders tense under his tailored black coat, hair pulled into a lazy low bun like he didnât even bother styling it this morning. heâs been in meetings all day, working too much, sleeping too little â and now, heâs standing in your apartment, greeted by silence and dim, static air.
âbaby?â
his voice is low, velvety, laced with concern that makes your stomach twist. itâs the first time youâve heard him in two days. you were too sick, too dizzy, too caught up in your own haze of shivers and aching limbs to call him, even though you wanted to. god, you wanted to.
you hear his steps grow closer, steady and measured, then stop right in front of your bedroom door. it creaks open. his tall frame fills the doorway.
and thatâs all it takes.
your throat tightens immediately, and like a switch flipped, you burst into tears. snotty, pathetic, breathless sobs that hit you harder than you expected. your voice cracks as you try to speak, but nothing coherent comes out â just a whimper, an ugly sniffle, and a tremble in your bottom lip.
âsuguruâŚâ you croak, eyes watery as you sit up on the bed.
his expression falters for half a second â just a flicker of panic under the cool surface. he moves toward you so fast itâs like instinct, dropping his bag to the floor and shrugging off his coat in one motion.
but you beat him to it.
you swing your legs over the edge of the bed with all the theatrical effort of a dying victorian bride, forcing your shaky body upright. it makes your vision spin, but you donât care â you throw your arms open dramatically, like some sad, flu-stricken princess summoning her knight.
âhold me,â you sniffle, hiccupping through the tears. âiâm sick and miserable and ugly, and i think iâm dying.â
he blinks. then huffs a breath â a soft, low laugh, like he doesnât know whether to kiss you or scold you.
âyouâre the most dramatic little brat iâve ever seen,â he murmurs, but heâs already on his knees in front of you, pulling you into his chest. his arms wrap around you fully, palms spread over your back as he tucks your face into the crook of his neck.
âi missed you,â you whimper into his skin, voice cracking. âi was too dizzy to text you and i tried to make soup but it just turned into sadnessââ
âshh,â he whispers, stroking your hair gently. âbreathe, baby. youâre okay now.â
you cling to him like a koala, fists bunching the back of his shirt. your body sags in his arms, and he holds you up without flinching, like he wants to carry your weight, all of it â your illness, your loneliness, your melodramatic sniffles.
âtwo days without you and i already look like a corpse,â you mumble. âmy skinâs grey. iâm withering.â
he chuckles against your hair, then pulls back just enough to cup your flushed cheeks. âhm. dramatic. needy. sick. crying in my arms like a heartbroken soap opera wife.â his thumb brushes your bottom lip. âyou know thatâs kind of hot, right?â
you blink. âiâm literally disgusting right now.â
âyouâre my favorite disgusting little creature,â he says, and kisses your forehead. ânow lie back. iâm going to order real food, give you meds, and make you drink water even if i have to hold your nose shut.â
you sniffle again, eyes fluttering shut as you nuzzle into his chest.
âyouâre gonna spoil me,â you mumble.
he smiles, kissing your hair.
âi already do, sweetheart.â
his hand trails lower under the blanket, slipping to your waist, possessive and warm.
âand after you stop looking like a dying victorian girl,â he murmurs by your ear, voice dipping low, âiâm gonna spoil you in other ways.â
you groan into his chest, heat blooming in your cheeks. âgross.â
âmm. you love it.â
and heâs right. because even at your worst â sick, crying, clingy â suguru geto looks at you like youâre the only thing thatâs ever made his life worth slowing down for.
NANAMI KENTO
he shouldâve come sooner.
the thought pounds in his head, rhythmic and steady like the ticking of his watch as he pushes into your apartment with a key he made you give him months ago â âfor emergencies,â you said, laughing. but this feels like one. you hadnât texted him back in two days, and thatâs unlike you. you were always eager to reply, dramatic even in your âi miss youâ messages. so when the silence stretched into a second night, nanami ended his meeting mid-sentence, picked up his coat, and walked out without an ounce of hesitation.
the moment he steps inside, he knows somethingâs wrong.
your apartment smells off â like the sour tang of sickness masked under old lavender candles. he closes the door quietly, gaze sharp as he sets down his briefcase and calls your name once, calmly.
no answer.
the bathroom light is on.
and then he hears it â the retching.
nanamiâs blood runs cold. he moves fast, faster than youâd ever expect from the man who lectures you about walking too quickly indoors. the bathroom door is cracked open. inside, youâre slumped on the cold tile, hugging the toilet bowl, trembling and feverish. your hoodie is sticking to your back with sweat, your knees red from the floor.
you donât hear him. not until his calm, familiar voice cuts through the haze.
âsweetheart.â
your head jerks up weakly. your voice comes out hoarse, cracking. âkentoâŚ?â
he doesnât say anything at first â just takes a slow breath and kneels beside you, sleeves rolled up in one fluid motion. his tie dangles over your shoulder as he brushes your damp hair back gently, then reaches for the towel nearby to wipe your mouth. his hand doesnât shake, but his jaw clenches. tight.
âhow long has this been happening?â he asks softly, but thereâs steel under it. restrained panic. the kind that only surfaces when something he cares about is suffering â and you are the only one who makes him lose control like this.
you sniffle, dazed. âsince last night⌠thought it would passâŚâ
âand you didnât call me.â
âyou were working,â you mumble. âdidnât wanna stress you out.â
nanami lets out a breath. a sharp one. he gently presses the back of his hand to your forehead, his frown deepening. youâre burning up.
âyouâre shaking,â he mutters. âyouâre not staying in here another second.â
âbut i threw upââ
âexactly why youâre not staying in here,â he says firmly.
and thatâs when your vision blurs again, but this time with hot tears. you cover your face with your hands, voice cracking like glass. âi feel gross, kento. i smell disgusting. my mouth tastes like death. i wanted to clean up before you came and now youâre seeing me like thisââ
he doesnât let you spiral.
his hands, large and warm, wrap around your wrists and gently pull them from your face. he leans in, forehead to yours, voice calm but low.
âyou think any of that matters to me?â he whispers. âyouâre sick. and youâre mine. i donât care if you smell like hell. youâre still the most beautiful girl iâve ever seen.â
you sniff, swallowing another sob. âi look like a wet rat.â
he presses a kiss to your damp forehead. âthen youâre my wet rat.â
and despite everything, you laugh â a weak, wet, pitiful sound, but it makes him smile.
then he lifts you. no warning. one smooth motion, as if you weigh nothing. your arms cling to his neck, dizzy and lightheaded as he carries you out of the bathroom and down the hall.
âwhereâ?â
âbed? no,â he says, striding straight past it. âyouâre burning up and soaked through.â
he stops in front of your closet and kicks it open gently. âclean clothes,â he mutters. âthen iâm drawing you a bath.â
you blink. âarenât you going to let me change myself?â
he looks at you, unimpressed. âdo you really think iâm letting you stand on your own right now?â
you pout. âyouâre bossy when iâm sick.â
âiâm bossy because youâre reckless and dramatic and refuse to call me when you need help,â he says, setting you down on the edge of your bed. his hands reach up, unzipping your hoodie with such care it makes your breath catch. âand if you ever do this again, i swear to godââ
you reach out weakly, tugging at his tie. âyouâll what?â
he leans in, gaze dark and heavy.
âiâll handcuff you to my bed and monitor your temperature every hour until you learn your lesson.â
your eyes go wide. ââŚis that a threat or a promise?â
his lips curl into the barest smirk.
âboth.â
TOJI FUSHIGURO
you were crying. again.
but not soft, delicate tears â oh no. it was messy, snotty, full-volume dramatic sobbing, the kind youâd only let out in the privacy of your kitchen, hunched over like some tragic figure in a bad medical drama.
the bottle of meds sat in front of you. sealed. stupid. evil.
and your fingers? useless. trembling. too weak to twist it open. your body had already betrayed you all day â shivering under five blankets, sweating through them an hour later, barely able to sit up without seeing stars. and this goddamn childproof bottle was the final straw.
âopen,â you whispered hoarsely, turning it with your palms, your arms shaking.
âopen, please⌠iâm not strong enough, oh my god. iâm a weak pathetic little victorian widow.â
you tried again. failed again.
your bottom lip quivered.
you dropped your head onto the counter with a dramatic thunk.
âthis is it,â you wailed to no one. âthis is how i die. taken out by a five-dollar bottle of generic tylenol.â
and that was, of course, the exact moment the front door opened with a heavy thud.
of course it was toji.
he was supposed to be out â working, training, maybe casually intimidating someone. but no. your hot mess of a dramatic arc just had to intersect with him at the peak of your suffering.
âyou better not be on the floor again,â his voice called out dryly.
you gasped. âtojiâ!â
and in he walked, black shirt clinging to his chest, hair still slightly wet from the shower he probably took at the gym, eyebrow cocked in that way â the one that said he knew he was walking into bullshit.
he paused at the kitchen doorway.
you were curled in front of the counter, shaking like a leaf in your hoodie and fuzzy socks, cradling the bottle of meds in your hands like it was your last hope.
your eyes, glossy with fever and tears, locked on him like he was salvation.
âbabe,â you croaked, dramatic hand on your heart. âiâm too weak. i need you.â
his face was unreadable.
then he sighed.
âyou canât open your meds bottle?â
âno,â you sobbed. âi tried. i begged. i even yelled at it. and it laughed at me, toji.â
he walked over slowly. âthe bottle laughed at you?â
âwith its silence.â
âyouâre outta your damn mind.â
you whimpered as he took the bottle from your hands like it was the easiest thing in the world. he twisted it open with one hand. one hand.
your mouth dropped open in betrayal.
âdonât gloat,â you muttered.
âi didnât say anything.â
âyou were thinking it. i can hear your thoughts. theyâre all smug and condescending.â
toji plucked two pills out, popped them in your hand. âyeah? what else are my thoughts saying?â
âtheyâre saying, âwow, my girlfriendâs so weak and small and pitiful, i could crush her with one hand.ââ
he snorted, pushing the water bottle toward you.
âiâd rather use the one hand to spank you next time you act like an idiot instead of calling me.â
your eyes widened. âi was preserving your peace!â
âand iâm preserving your life, you dramatic little shit.â
you downed the meds, still sniffling. âi want chicken soup and cuddles.â
âyeah? say please.â
you glared at him.
he leaned down, grabbed you by the back of the thighs, and lifted you up with zero warning, tossing you over his shoulder like a sack of rice.
you squealed. âtojiâ!â
âyou want cuddles? you get âem after soup. and no more dying alone in the kitchen, dumbass.â
you whined into his back, but your fingers were already gripping the hem of his shirt, safe and secure.
he set you on the couch, tucked you in aggressively, and went back to the kitchen to slam pots around. the bottle of meds still sat on the counter, now open. completely defeated.
you glared at it from your blanket cocoon.
âi hope you fall off the counter and roll under the fridge, you little bitch.â
âwhat was that?â toji called.
ânothing, babe! love you!â
âthatâs what i thought.â
RYOMEN SUKUNA
he knew something was off the second he walked through the door.
your apartment was dark. quiet. no sounds of you stomping around, no dramatic voice echoing from the bedroom about how he never refills the snacks or always leaves his rings on the counter like youâre his damn butler.
nothing.
just silence.
and sukuna?
he doesnât do silence when it comes to you.
so his voice comes loud, sharp. âoi. where the fuck are you?â
no answer.
heâs already heading down the hall, jaw tight, fingers twitching like heâs ready to rip the universe in half if itâs taken you from him. he calls for you againâlouder this time. still nothing. untilâ
a soft, pathetic sound.
gagging.
choking.
then⌠sniffling.
he throws open the bathroom door and freezes.
youâre on the cold tile, curled up dramatically beside the toilet like a tragic heroine in some bad romance movie. your hair is a mess, face flushed with fever, nose red, eyes glassy with tears. youâre shivering in one of his oversized shirts, legs tucked up like a child. and youâre talking to yourself.
rambling.
like youâre saying goodbye.
âtell⌠tell my mom i loved her,â you whisper hoarsely to no one. âand you can have my manga⌠just not the signed ones. bury me with those. and donât let that bitch from the office come to my funeralââ
sukuna blinks. hard.
âwhat. the fuck,â he growls, stepping in. âare you doing?â
you gasp, like heâs a ghost. âsukuna? is that you? i canât see, iâm so coldââ
he crouches beside you instantly, hands grabbing your face. your skin is clammy. lips dry. eyes dramatic as hell.
youâre not dying.
youâve just been throwing up for hours and working yourself into a spiral.
âare you fuckinâ kidding me right now?â he hisses, brushing your hair back, eyes scanning every inch of you. âyou didnât call. didnât text. didnât scream at me for buying the wrong brand of tea. i thought someone killed you.â
you sniffle, grabbing his wrist with trembling fingers. âi tried to crawl to the kitchen⌠to get water⌠but then i thought, whatâs the point? iâm dying anywayââ
he looks like heâs two seconds from slamming his fist into the wall.
âyouâve got a stomach bug. not the plague. stop acting like youâre in a fuckinâ soap opera.â
âeasy for you to say,â you croak. âyouâre not the one rotting from the inside out.â
sukuna lets out a sound thatâs half-growl, half-laugh, and scoops you into his arms like you weigh nothing. you cling to him instantly, arms locking around his neck like a koala.
âdonât cremate me,â you mumble into his throat. âi wanna be dramatic even in death. open casket. fake lashes. maybe some light fog and musicââ
he cuts you off with a sharp slap to your thigh. âshut up.â
you gasp, offended. âdid you just spank me on my deathbed?!â
âyouâre not dying,â he growls, carrying you to the bed. âbut if you keep talking, iâll kill you myself.â
you whimper pitifully in his arms. âthen⌠will you at least keep my diary? the one hidden in the closet behind the shoe box? donât read itââ
âiâve already read it.â
âwhat?!â
he lays you down gently, brushing his thumb across your damp cheek.
âyou wrote about me in it,â he says, voice low and dangerous now, âevery page. even the ones where you were mad. you love me so much itâs pathetic.â
you sniff, cheeks heating up. âiâm allowed to be obsessed with you. itâs your fault.â
he leans down, face inches from yours. âand iâm gonna baby you so hard after this that youâre gonna wish you died, brat.â
âyou promise?â you whisper.
his eyes flash with something possessive, raw, feral.
âyeah,â he says, dragging his thumb along your bottom lip, âbut only after i get some fluids in you. and not the kind youâre thinking, you filthy little goblin.â
you smile weakly.
and sukuna â your unhinged, dangerous, older boyfriend â tucks you into bed, curses the germs under his breath, and spends the entire night at your side.
because dramatic or not⌠youâre his.
and heâs not letting you go.
SHIU KONG
he had a key.
of course he had a key. he demanded it after you once locked yourself out at 3 a.m. wearing nothing but a t-shirt and one sock, sobbing over forgotten dumplings. "never again," heâd muttered, shoving the key into his wallet with the same reverence he gave blackmail material.
he wasnât expecting the door to be unlocked today.
or to hear⌠whimpering.
low, pitiful, echoing from somewhere deeper in the apartment.
âbabe?â he calls out, already slipping off his shoes. his voice carries a lazy calm, the kind he always uses when heâs preparing for bullshit. âyou better not be doing something stupid again.â
he turns the corner and freezes.
youâre on the floor.
literally on the floor, crawling toward the kitchen like a Victorian orphan in the final act. your blanket is trailing behind you like a cape, your hair a mess, eyes glassy with tears as you stretch your trembling hand toward the counter like itâs the promised land.
you pause, mid-drag, and look up at him with the most heartbroken face heâs ever seen.
âi dropped⌠my toastâŚâ
shiu blinks.
you sniffle. âit fell jelly-side down.â
his lips twitch. âoh no.â
âand then i got dizzy.â
âmhm.â
âand i think the floor is sucking the life out of me, shiu.â
heâs walking toward you now, casually, like heâs not biting back a laugh. âyouâre telling me⌠you belly-crawled like a war hero because you dropped toast?â
âiâm starving. i havenât eaten in days.â
he bends down, squats beside you, one elbow resting on his knee as he watches you dramatically paw at the floor like youâre about to fade into the afterlife.
âyou had broth.â
âbroth isnât food. itâs liquid regret.â
shiu snorts. actually snorts. âyouâre outta your mind.â
but his voice is gentler now, and without warning, he slips an arm under your waist and another beneath your knees, lifting you like you weigh nothing. you yelp, clinging to his shirt.
âshiu! put me down! i was making progress!â
âtoward what? an oscar?â
âtoward the toaster!â
he carries you to the couch instead, ignoring your weak little kicks as he deposits you like a fragile treasure, tucks your blanket around you like he hasnât seen you cry over expired yogurt before, then leans in close.
his voice drops, soft and dangerous.
ânext time you wanna reenact your dramatic death, text me first, sweetheart.â
âi didnât wanna bother you.â
âyouâre my favorite kind of bother.â
you blink up at him, pout trembling.
âyouâre such an asshole.â
he grins, brushes your hair back gently with a sigh. âbut iâm your asshole.â
and then he disappears into the kitchen, mumbling something about how heâs going to make toast the size of your face and spoon-feed you if you try to crawl again.
he does.
he even cuts it into heart shapes.
he just wonât admit it.
HIROMI HIGURUMA
he knew something was off the second he called and you didnât answer.
you always answered. even if it was just a groggy voice telling him you hated his ringtone and to never call you again. so when heâd finished his meeting, walked out of the courthouse with his tie loosened and a coffee he didnât even want, and still hadnât heard from you?
his stomach turned.
fifteen minutes later, he was at your apartment door, unlocking it with the key you gave him the night you first got sick and told him he was your emergency contact âbecause you look like youâd yell at doctors for me.â
he pushes the door open.
â...hello?â
silence.
and thenâ
soft sniffles. pen scratching paper. a dramatic sigh.
he follows the sound to the living room andâ
freezes.
there you are. wrapped in a blanket like a sad little lump, sitting cross-legged on the floor with your head resting against the coffee table. a whole stack of napkins laid out in front of you like legal documents, each one written in your slightly-shaky, overly-loopy script.
he walks closer, blinking at the one closest to him.
âto my beloved hiromi: you can have my succulents, even though you always forget to water them. i forgive you. i love you. tell my cat i said bye.â
his brow twitches. â...what the hell is this?â
you jump, head snapping up like a child caught drawing on the walls. your eyes are watery and dramatic, red from crying, your nose a little stuffy and your cheeks flushed from fever. you clutch a pen like itâs a quill and youâre writing your last will before war.
âyou came,â you whisper.
âyeah. what the hell is going on.â
you sniffle, voice soft and shaking. âi think iâm dying.â
he looks at the box of tissues, the half-empty bottle of cough syrup, and the room-temperature cup of tea on the table.
âyou have a cold.â
âa terminal one.â
he sighs, long-suffering but fond, dropping the briefcase onto the floor with a soft thud.
âyou sent me twelve napkin letters. in one of them you said i can have your pinterest password when you die.â
âyou should know what i liked. to mourn properly.â
âyou also left the air fryer to nanami.â
âhe said he liked it once!â
he crouches down in front of you, long legs folding easily, eyes scanning your flushed face. he lifts a hand to press it gently to your forehead.
âjesus,â he mutters. âyouâre burning up.â
you gaze at him with tear-filled devotion. âif i go, you have to be the one to eulogize me. make it sound like i was sexy and mysterious.â
âyouâre congested and covered in napkins.â
âso was marilyn monroe probably.â
hiromi lets out a soft breath. then he leans forward, gathering you into his arms with a slow, practiced motion, your blanket and all, lifting you gently until youâre in his lap, cheek pressed against his shoulder.
you melt into him instantly, mumbling, âi left you my lip balm too. donât let another girl use it.â
he hums. presses a kiss to your forehead.
âdonât worry, angel. youâre not dying.â
âyou sound like a lawyer.â
âi am one. and i can legally promise youâre going to be fine.â
you grumble something about rewriting your will just in case, and he lets you. even picks up a fresh napkin for you and hands you your glitter pen with a quiet, indulgent smile.
âjust let me make you some soup after,â he murmurs. âand then iâll read every one of your dramatic goodbyes.â
âeven the one where i left you my collection of embarrassing texts?â
âespecially that one.â
he holds you tighter. his voice soft, but his touch firm. grounding. safe.
because for all your chaos, he wouldnât be anywhere else.
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summary â for 713 days, you've been sketching strangers on your morning commute, giving away portraits to brighten their day. when a missed train puts you on an unfamiliar route, you draw a white-haired man who's impossible to ignore. you think you'll never see him againâuntil he plasters half of tokyo with posters trying to find you.
word count â 16.4 k
genre/tags â modern AU, ceo x artist, strangers to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn, soft romance, fluff, so much fluff, banter, provider!satoru gojo bc goddamn yes & him being a very dramatic puppy in love, misunderstandings
warnings â 16+ ONLY. contains suggestive sexual content, brief mention of financial stress and reference to past cheating experience.
author's note â put on your favorite taylor swift playlist and get cozy for the fluff. i squeeeezed every tiny bit of fluff that i have out of my heart into this. side note, the idea came to me after seeing a tiktok of someone handing out sketches on a train hehe. hope it makes you smile <3
masterlist + support my writing + artwork by @3-aem
Your alarm goes off at exactly 5:45 AM, the same time it has for the past three years. You silence it with a tap (or try, anyway) and slip out from under your warm blankets before the urge to just stay there and call in sick becomes too stong to withstand it.
Your small one-bedroom apartment is quiet, save for the distant early morning traffic of the city outside your window and your groaning as you make your way to the bathroom.
Your morning routine was more muscle memory than anything other at this hour. Shower (seven minutes), hair (five minutes, more or less), makeup (eight minutes), and outfitâalready sorted from last night (smart you)âcoffee and an avocado toast.Â
By 6:30, youâre checking your bag if youâve got everything: laptop, planner, phone charger, and most importantly, your sketchbookâa simple Moleskine with cream-colored pages that are perfect for graphiteâand a few spare pencils.
You flipped open to a new page in your sketchbook and wrote âDay 713.â Tomorrowâs entry would be 714.Â
Youâd been counting since the first time you gave a drawing to a stranger, an elderly street musician whose weathered hands moved across his guitar strings so smoothly, you couldnât help but try to capture his ease. When youâd shyly offered him the sketch afterwards, the tiredness in his face gave way to something softer.Â
Surprised. Delighted.
âIs this me?â he asked, his voice carrying that gentle kind of warmth older people always seem to have.
You had simply nodded.
The musician smiled, thanked you, and carefully tucked the drawing into the front pocket of his jacket, and that small moment sparked something in youâa sense of purpose, you could say, that had been missing from your otherwise structured life as a graphic designer. Since then, every morning without fail, you picked a fellow passenger on your train commute, capturing them in a quick sketch, and offering it to them before your stop arrived.
Maybe it was cheesy, but you didnât care. It was the smile that made it worth itâthe way a simple gesture could light up someoneâs face at such early hoursâthatâs what kept you going, for exactly 713 days and counting.
As you locked your apartment door this morningâTuesday, 6:32 AMâyou had no idea that your simple, stupid little cheesy routine was about to change.
Your phone vibrated as you reached the station entrance. A notification from the transit app lit up your screen:
Line 6 service temporarily suspended due to overnight maintenance issues. Please seek alternative routes.
Great. Just what you needed.
Line 6 was your direct route to the office, the one that got you there at precisely 8:00 AM every morning. And youâd never been late. Not once in three years at Takahashi Media Group. And today of all days? Really? The Yamada account presentation was at 9:30, and as lead designer, you needed time to prep.Â
Panic started to bubble.
âExcuse me,â you said to the nearest station attendant, trying to keep your voice steady while a tiny voice inside your head was screaming. âWhatâs the fastest way to Central District Station?â
Clipboard guy barely looked up. âTake Line 4, transfer at Miyashita to Line 9. Adds about twenty minutes.â
Twenty minutes?
Now panic was definitely starting to bubble up.Â
Okay, think. If you skipped your usual coffee stop and went straight to the office, you could still make it with just enough time to run through your slides once. Not ideal, but doable.
Line 4 was unfamiliar territory. Unlike Line 6, which you always caught early enough to get a seat, this one was already full. Businessmen in dark suits, students in uniform, and way too many elbows. And the smellâless lemony and clean, more like... cologne and sweat. You squeezed in and clutched your sketchbook to your chest as the doors closed behind you.
Usually, you picked your sketch subject within the first minute. It was like on autopilot by now. Your eyes would just land on someone, and youâd know. But in this crowded, unfamiliar car full of strangers, you felt a little bit lost. These werenât your usual commuters, the ones youâve come to recognize over hundreds of mornings, even if youâve never spoken to them.Â
But then you saw him.
He was standing near the doors at the far end of the car, one hand gripping the overhead rail, the other tucked casually into the pocket of his pants. He looked completely out of place, so unlike the others around him.
He was tall. Like, really tall. And his hair was white. It caught the overhead lights in a way that made it shimmer, like fresh snow under a winter sun. He looked young, though. Early thirties, maybe? The white hair didnât read as old, more like a choice. Or maybe it was natural. Hard to tell.
His suit was navy, perfectly tailored, but somehow different from all the other navy suits in the car. Maybe it was the cut, or maybe it was just him. He wore it likeâwell, like he wasnât trying. Top button undone, no tie. A pair of green-tinted glasses perched on his nose, partly hiding his eyes, but not quite.
Everyone else around him was either half asleep or nervously checking their watches, the usual morning commute zombie routine. But not him. He looked completely at ease and almost... amused. Like the full train and countless elbows between oneâs ribs didnât bother him.
You flipped to a blank page in your sketchbook, adjusting your stance as the train swayed. Your pencil hovered, studying him for a moment. Then, like always, the world blurred at the edges as your pencil touched paper, almost making you forget about the schoolboy who stepped on your foot every few seconds, squeezed between other schoolchildren on their way to class.Â
After a while, the train announcement: Next stop, Miyashita Station. Transfer for Lines 2, 9, and 11.
You signed the corner, tore out the page, and held it for a second. This part was usually easyâwalk over, smile, offer the sketch, say something nice, move on. But something about him made you hesitate.
What if he thought it was weird? What if he assumed you were flirting? What if he had a wife and three kids and a very awkward story to tell over dinner tonight? What ifâ
The train began to slow. Now or never.
You stood and started weaving through the packed car towards the stranger. He hadnât moved, still holding the rail with that same relaxed grip, still wearing that faint smile.
âExcuse me,â you said.
He turned, and for the first time, you got a clear look at his eyes through those green-tinted glasses. Startlingly blue. Vivid and almost unnatural. Somewhere between forget-me-nots and ripe blueberries. When they locked onto yours, warmth spread through your chest like youâd just stepped into sunlight.
âThis is for you,â you said and offered him the drawing.
For a second, he didnât react, and panic started to flare. Oh no. He hated it. He definitely hated it. But it was good, or not? Not Picasso, but decent. Solid. Right? Oh god, if he doesnât say something, literally anything in the next second, youâre going to spontaneously die.
Then, finally, his lips curled into a slow, handsome smile.Â
âA drawing? Of me?â
His voice surprised you. Deep and smooth, with a certain richness to it, like dark chocolate. And... was that a Kyoto accent? Subtle, but there. He reached for the sketch, his fingers brushing yours as he took it.
You watched, breath caught in your throat, as his eyes moved over the page. It felt like your entire morningâno, your entire existenceâwas waiting on his next words.
âYouâre very talented.â
...Huh?
You didnât know what you expected, but it wasnât that. Or rather, it was how he said it. Usually, people said âthank you,â or âoh, that's so sweet,â something polite and brief before they got off at their stop. But he said it like he meant every syllable. Like youâd just unveiled the Mona Lisa to him.
You. Are. Very. Talented.
The sincerity in his voice hit you oddly sideways.
Then the train doors hissed open and commuters surged forward, dragging you back to reality. Oh godâthe presentation.
âThis is my stop,â you said hastly, suddenly remembering everything else happening in your life. âI need to go.â
âWait.â He took a small step forward, but you were already being swept along with the crowd.
âI hope you like it!â you called over your shoulder, catching one last glimpse of him, but then his white hair vanished among the sea of dark suits, and the doors slid shut behind you.
It wasnât until you were halfway up the escalator to your connecting train that you realized something. Your signatureâthe tiny heart you always draw into the corner of your sketches. Gone. Missing. For the first time in 713 days.
It strangely bothered you. By the time you reached your office (7:58 AMâstill on time, miraculously), youâd almost convinced yourself it was just the chaos of the morning and had nothing to do with the handsome stranger who made your heart beat just a little faster when your fingers touched. Absolutely nothing.
You shove the thought aside and focus on your presentation. Line 6 would be back tomorrow. Back to your normal route, your normal routine, your normal life. Youâd never see that man again.Â
Or so you think.
Your presentation went flawless. The Yamada executives nodded along to your designs, and your boss even cracked a rare smile by the time you wrapped up. It was almost unsettling.
And by the time you packed up to leave, the handsome stranger had faded into the backgroundâa fleeting moment in a city full of them.
Line 6 was back on schedule that evening. You found your usual seat. Everything was exactly the way it had always been. Just how you liked it.
ââ ⢠ăťâ¸â¸
The next morning, you slipped back into your routine without thinking. Alarm. Shower. Tea and toast. Line 6 at 6:52 AM. Your favorite seat at the end of the car.
Your subject today was a young woman with brightly colored headphones, who seemed lost in her music. When you handed her the sketch (this time with your trademark tiny heart in the corner) she beamed. Youâd made her day, she said.Â
Life continued exactly as it should. Drawing number 714, 715, 716... each one gifted, each one with a tiny heart in the corner. Your little bit of everyday cheesy rom-com magic thingy carried on, uninterrupted.
A week passed. You were on your usual train, putting the final touches on that morningâs sketchâan older man engrossed in a paperback novel. When you handed it to him, his face lit up. But then it changed. Surprise gave way to something else⌠something like recognition.
âWait,â he said, adjusting his glasses to look between you and the drawing. âAre you the subway artist everyoneâs been talking about?â
âIâm sorry?â
âThe subway artist,â he repeated, like that explained everything. âThereâve been posters up on Line 4 all week. Someoneâs trying to find the person who draws portraits on the train.â He smiled, gesturing to the sketch. âItâs you, isnât it?â
âLine 4? I... I donât usually take that line.â
But then it hit you.Â
You thanked the man and stepped off the train feeling slightly dazed. All day at work, your mind kept drifting back to this strange turn of events. Someone was looking for you? Putting up posters?
There was only one person it could be.
The stranger from Line 4.Â
After work, instead of taking your usual Line 6 home, you found yourself heading towards Line 4. Your heart beat a little faster.
The train was full with evening commuters, but you barely noticed them. Your eyes scanned the station walls as the train pulled into each stop. Nothing at the first station. Or the second. Then, as the train slowed for the third stop, you saw it.
There, on a pillar near the platformâs edge, was a poster. Even from inside the train, you recognized your own work. It was the sketch you had given the handsome strangerâor rather, a scan of it. Below, printed in bold, clear type:
LOOKING FOR THE ARTIST
Did you draw this portrait on Tuesday morning, Line 4? Iâd like to thank you properly.
Please call: XXX-XXX-XXXX
The train doors opened, and without thinking, you stepped out, weaving through the tide of boarding passengers. You pushed your way toward the poster, staring at it in disbelief. It was definitely your drawing. No question. But why was he looking for you?
You pulled out your phone and took a quick photo of the poster, and then you just stood there, frozen. What now? Should you call? Would that be weird? What did âthank you properlyâ even mean?
You glanced around the platform, almost expecting to spot him nearby. But there was no sign of him. Only a sea of strangers, none of them with hair the color of snow.Â
On impulse, you peeled the poster off the pillar and tucked it into your bag. Back at your apartment, you unfolded it on the kitchen table. The drawing looked back at you, familiar and strange all at once. You traced a finger over the phone number, wondering about the man who had gone to such lengths to find you.Â
What kind of person did that? Was he just being kind? Did he want to pay you? Commission another drawing? Something about it was flattering⌠and also a little unsettling.
You took out your phone, entered the number into your contacts, and hovered your thumb over the call button.
This was ridiculous. You didnât know anything about himâother than the fact that he had white hair and apparently enough time and money to put up posters in subway stations. What if he was a stalker? Or some kind of... weirdo?
You folded the poster again and tucked it into a drawer. Maybe in a few days youâd feel differently. Or maybe it was best to forget the whole strange thing altogether.
ââ ⢠ăťâ¸â¸
Next day, you were back on Line 6, back to your routine. You chose your subjectâa woman with a long braidsâand focused on capturing the way the morning light played in her woven hair. By the time you handed her the sketch, all thoughts of the poster and the maybe stalker had faded.
Two weeks later, you were running a little late for work. As you rushed onto your usual Line 6 train, something familiar caught your eye on the station wall. The doors closed before you could really process it, and the train pulled away. You spent the rest of the ride wondering if youâd imagined it.
The next morning, you arrived at the station a few minutes early to investigate and what you found made your breath catch. There on the wall of your station, wasnât just one poster, but several. Each one with your sketch. And this time, beneath the drawing, a new message:
TO THE ARTIST
Dinner? This Friday, 8 PM.
Hanami Restaurant, Central District
You stared. Eyes wide. A dinner invitation? Posted publicly in the subway? Who even does that? Oh god.Â
He was a stalker.Â
Or⌠maybe it was romantic? No. Definitely creepy. Right? Who publicly invites a stranger to dinner using posters? A total stranger he didnât even know?Â
But... Hanami Restaurant? That was a nice place. Fancy. Not cheap. Youâd seen it once on your birthday when your coworkers took you somewhere nearby. This wasnât just casual ramen and a maybeâthis was⌠effort.
âOh, youâve seen them too?â
You turned to see an older woman standing beside you, also gazing at the posters.
âIsnât it the most charming thing?â she said. âTheyâve been popping up all over Line 6 for the past few days. My daughter thinks itâs a movie promotion, but I think itâs a real love story in the making.â She gave a wistful sigh. âI hope the artist shows up.â
You muttered something polite and hurried onto your train, heart thudding in your chest.Â
This had gone from odd to completely, absolutely weird. Not only had he expanded his poster campaign to your line, but now he was publicly inviting you to dinner? How did he even know which train you usually took? Or worse, were these posters up on every line in Tokyo? No. That couldnât be possible.
You sank into your seat, sketchbook clutched tightly against your chest, your thoughts spiraling. Was this romantic dedication? Or borderline stalking?Â
The invitation was for tomorrow night. You didnât have to go. Itâs not like he knew who you were or where you livedâtechnically, you could ignore it and carry on like none of this ever happened.Â
But⌠what would happen if you did go? What if he was charming and witty and everything youâd secretly ever dreamed about on sleepy train rides? What if he was a total creep?
You looked down at your sketchbook, heart still racing.
My God.
What had you started?
ââ ⢠ăťâ¸â¸
Friday evening arrived, and you found yourself standing in front of your closet, absently fingering the hem of a dress you hadnât worn in months. For a dinner you werenât going to attend. With a man youâd barely met.
âThis is ridiculous,â you muttered, shutting the closet door with finality.
Youâd already made your decision. Absolutely not going. This whole thing had gone from charming toâŚwell, kind of creepy. Who put up posters across the subway just to find someone they spoke to for like two seconds? It was excessive. Borderline obsessive.
You ordered takeout from your favorite place down the street and spent the evening sketching while a movie played in the background. Every so often, your eyes drifted to the clock.Â
7:30.
7:45.
8:00.
He was probably at the restaurant by now. Maybe checking his watch.
8:15.Â
8:30.
Maybe heâd ordered a drink to pass the time.
9:00.Â
Surely, by now, he knew you werenât coming.
You told yourself it was for the best. This way, heâd get the message. No need for awkward conversations or outright rejection. Just silence. Clear. Polite, in a distant kind of way.
Life could go back to normal. Back to routine. Back to sketching strangers who didnât plaster the city with posters looking for you.Â
And still, somewhere underneath all that logic, a quiet little voice whispered: What if heâs just sitting there, alone, sad, and feeling as unsure as you do right now?
ââ ⢠ăťâ¸â¸
The weekend passed uneventfully. By Monday morning, youâd nearly convinced yourself youâd done the right thing. Youâd protected your peace. Maintained your boundaries. All good decisions.
Your alarm rang at 5:45 AM. Shower. Hair. Makeup. Outfit. Green tea and avocado toast. Sketchbook and pencils in your bag. Everything back to normal.
On your usual train, your eyes landed on a high school girl seated near the doors. She looked tired, but focused. A textbook rested in her lap, worn at the corners and stuffed with colorful Post-it notes poking out from all sides. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and leaned in to read.
By the time the train neared your stop, the sketch was finished, your signature heart placed neatly in the corner. You stood and made your way over to her, when a flash of colour outside the train window caught your eye.
Another poster. But this one looked different.
As the train slowed, you could make out your sketchâthe one of the white-haired strangerâbut now surrounded by a border ofâŚwere those flowers?Â
You squinted, leaning closer as the train rolled to a stop. Then the doors opened, but instead of handing the student the sketch you had made of her, you stepped out onto the platform without thinking.
You moved toward the poster. It was definitely your drawing in the center, but someoneâhim, obviouslyâhad added to it. Were those real flowers? Pinned around the edges? You leaned in. Yes. Small blossoms. Some still fresh, others beginning to wilt.
And below, a new message:
TO THE ARTIST WHO DIDNâT COME TO DINNER
I understand. Perhaps too forward. My apologies. But Iâd still like to meet you.
Coffee instead? Your choice of time and place.
Same number below. No more posters after this, I promise.
Call: XXX-XXX-XXXX
You stared at the poster, not sure what to think of it. It was still... a lot. But the tone had changed. It didnât feel like pressure anymore. It felt like a peace offering.
âIs that about you?â
You jumped slightly and turned to find the schoolgirl from the train standing behind you. She was looking between you and the poster, eyebrows raised. You hadnât even noticed her step off.
âWhat? No, Iââ
âIt is, isnât it?â she said, pointing to the edge of her portrait still peeking from your sketchbook. âYouâre the subway artist! Iâve seen these posters for weeks. Everyone at schoolâs been talking about them.â Her eyes lit up. âBut itâs real! Itâs actually you!â
Your face went hot. âI just⌠draw people on my commute. Itâs not a big deal.â
âNot a big deal?â She looked at you like youâd just told her the earth was flat. âSomeone literally covered half the subway trying to find you. Thatâs so romantic.â She paused, glancing back at the poster. âThough I guess... it might feel a little intense if you donât know him.â
âExactly,â you said, a little too quickly, but relieved that someone finally understood. Not that you told anyone, anyway.
âBut now heâs apologizing and backing off. Thatâs actually kind of sweet, donât you think? Like he realized he overdid it.â Before you could respond, she suddenly gasped. âOh! Were you going to give me something?â She pointed to your sketchbook.
âIâyes, actually.â Youâd almost forgotten. You tore out the page with her portrait and handed it over. âI hope you donât mind.â
She took the drawing, her face bright. âThis is amazing! You made me look so... I donât know, determined? Like I actually understand what Iâm reading about.â She laughed. âThank you so much!â
A chime echoed through the stationâthe warning for the next train.
âThatâs my transfer,â she said and glanced at the poster one more time. âYou know, if I were you, Iâd call him. Not everyone gets a second chance at something interesting.â And with that, she turned and vanished into the crowd of boarding passengers.
You stood there for a moment longer, staring at the poster. At the flowers heâd carefully pinned around your sketch. It must have taken hours.Â
Your phone buzzed with a calendar reminder. Morning meeting in fifteen minutes. With one last glance at the poster, you turned and headed for the station exit.
Maybe the girl was right. Maybe there was something here worth exploring. Or maybe this was exactly how people ended up in true crime documentaries.Â
Either way, you had a decision to make.
ââ ⢠ăťâ¸â¸
For the next three days, the poster haunted you. Not in a scary way, but enough to slip under your skin and stay there.Â
You caught yourself absentmindedly sketching floral patterns during meetings, doodling petals in the margins of your planner, even on the back of your grocery list. His phone number was still saved in your contacts. You hadnât called it. Yet.
By Thursday afternoon, in the middle of yet another agonisingly boring meeting, you finally made your decision.Â
The moment your boss wrapped up, you grabbed your phone and slipped into the empty break room. Your heart thudded so hard it felt like it might knock your ribs loose. Before you could overthink it, you dialed the number.
It rang once. Thenâ
âHello?â
That voice. Deep. Warm. Curious. Instantly familiar.
âUm. Hi,â you said, suddenly questioning every life desicion that had led you to this moment. âThis is⌠well, I donât know if youâll remember, but I drew your portrait on the train a few weeks ago, andââ
âYou called.â He sounded genuinely relieved. âI was starting to think you werenât ever going to.â
âYeah, wellâŚâ You took a breath. âYou do realize those posters were kind of creepy, right?â
âI thought they were romantic?â
âFor someone I donât know, itâs more creepy than romantic. And also, what if I was already taken?â
âAre you?â
You went silent. Right. You probably shouldâve seen that one coming.
âIâm Satoru, by the way.â You could practically hear the smirk in his voice.
You gave him your name in return, nervously clicking your pen against the break room table.
He repeated it slowly, like he was trying how it sounded on his tongue, and that somehow sent a strange flutter through your stomach. Why did hearing him say your name suddenly make you so nervous? It was just a name. Your name. Youâd heard it a million times before.
But from him, it felt different. More intimate somehow. Ridiculous, you told yourself. You were overthinking it. Probably. Still... the little flutter lingered.
âListen,â you said, clearing your throat, trying to sound casual. âIâve got my lunch break in about an hour. If youâre free, maybe we could meet. Nothing fancyâjust coffee or something.â
âAn hour? Yes. Absolutely.â A pause. âWhere do you work? I can come to you.â
You hesitated, then figured it was harmless. It was a large and well known office building downtown, after all. Not exactly revealing your home address. âTakahashi Media Group. Midtown Tower, fourteenth floor.â
âPerfect. Iâll see you in an hour.â
The call ended, and you stared at your phone for a beat before heading back to your desk. You tried to focus on your emails, your task list, anythingâbut your eyes kept drifting to the clock.
It was just coffee, you reminded yourself. Just a casual meeting with the stranger from the train whoâd launched a city-wide poster campaign to find you.
 Totally normal.
Fifty-five minutes later, you were gathering your bag when a commotion near the reception area caught your attention. Moments later, your coworker Aki appeared beside your desk.
âHey, thereâs someone asking for you at the reception. And heâs... well, you should just come see.â
âSomeoneâs here for me?â you asked, frowning. âBut I was supposed to meetââ You stopped. âOh no.â
You hurried toward the reception area, Aki trailing close behind. As you rounded the corner, you saw a group of coworkers gathered near the glass doors, all pretending very badly not to be gawking at somethingâor better said, someone.
And there, standing right in the center of the chaos, was the handsome stranger form Line 4.
He was even more handsome than you remembered. Tall, effortlessly confident, and dressed in a perfectly tailored dark suit, with a blue tie that was the exact same shade as his eyes.
When he spotted you, his entire face lit up with a smile so dazzling it looked like it belonged in a toothpaste commercial. You saw your coworker Mei place a hand over her heart, and you couldâve sworn someone behind her whispered, âOh my god.â
âArtist!â he called, completely unaware of (or more likely, entirely unbothered by) the scene he was causing. âWow, youâre even prettier when youâre mortified.â
And then you saw the flowers.Â
Correction: you saw the flowers.
He was holding the most ridiculous bouquet youâd ever laid eyes on. A vibrant, overflowing explosion of violet, pink, and red, easily three dozen stems if not more. It was a lot. Even for him.
Every head in the lobby turned toward you.
Great. Just fucking great.
You walked over, ignoring the heat rising in your face and the whispers following behind you, wanting nothing more than to quickly escape the awkward scene. Reaching him, you grabbed his elbow and leaned in, voice low.
âYou really donât know how to be subtle, do you?â
ââ ⢠ăťâ¸â¸
Satoru had suggested a cafÊ not far from your office, and you followed him down the busy street, relieved to be away from the scene he had caused with nothing more than⌠his face.
People glanced at him as you walked, some doing double takes. He seemed completely unbothered by it. Perhaps heâs used to it. Being pretty comes with stares naturally, you assumed.
Maybe he was a model. Or a singer. Or both. And you were the only person in Tokyo who didnât recognize him and later it will be so awkward when paparazzi take photos of you holding hands on your way out and splash them across trashy magazines with some ridiculous headline andâ
Wait.
Holding hands?
Why were you even thinking about holding hands?
He could still be a stalker. A total weirdo. Aâ
You nearly tripped over someone weaving through the crowd, lost in your thoughts. Before you could catch yourself, Satoruâs hand landed gently on your elbow, steadying you as he pulled you closer to his side. Your arm brushed against his, and that brief contact sent a shiver down your spine.
Stupid, handsome and cute weirdo, for sure.
A few minutes later, you were seated in a quiet cafĂŠ, staring hard at a menu youâd already ordered from because pretending to study the drink list was easier than making direct eye contact with the man who was definitely watching you.
You could feel it. His gaze. Not bashful. Not subtle. Not even blinking, apparently.Â
Finally, you set the menu down. âYouâre staring.â
âI am,â he said, without a hint of shame. âItâs not every day I get to meet the artist whoâs been haunting my dreams for weeks.â
âHaunting your dreams, huh?â You glanced up and met those absurdly blue eyes. âYou know, you do sound very creepy sometimes.â
âDo I?â He tilted his head slightly. âIâll admit, I donât do this often.â
âWhat, stalk people? Or launch city-wide poster campaigns?â
He laughed. âBoth, I guess. That mightâve been a bit much. My colleagues say I have a tendency to go overboard once Iâve set my mind to something.â
âOh really?â
His smile widened. âOkay, fair. I deserved that. But in my defenseâit worked. Youâre here.â
âOut of curiosity more than anything,â you said, though you werenât entirely sure that was true. âSo now that youâve found me, what exactly was the plan? Beyond coffee, I mean?â
He paused, considering. âI must admit, I didnât think that far ahead. I just wanted to meet you. To thank you for seeing something in me worth capturing.â There was an unexpected softness to his voice. âAnd maybe to find out if the person behind the pencil is as interesting as her art suggests.â
âAnd? Verdict so far?â
âEven more interesting,â he said without hesitation. âBut I still have questions.â
âSuch as?â
âSuch as how long youâve been sketching strangers on trains. Why you give the drawings away instead of keeping them. Whether you draw for a living.â He leaned in slightly. âAnd if youâd ever let me see your sketchbook.â
Before you could answer, the barista approached with a tray.
âHereâs your cappuccino, miss. And Mr. Gojo, your usual.â She set down a borderline theatrical coffee drink in front of him, along with a small plate of pastries you definitely hadnât heard him order.
âChef sent these over for you both,â she added with a smile. âItâs that new recipe you suggested last week.â
âThank him for me, Hana,â Satoru said, offering her a warm smile that made her visibly melt. âThey look perfect.â
âOf course, Mr. Gojo. Anything else you need, just let me know.â She gave a polite bow before heading back.
You watched the entire exchange with growing suspicion. As soon as she was out of earshot, you leaned in.
âOkay. What was that about?â
âWhat do you mean?â
âThe chef takes your suggestions for pastries? And the barista knows your âusualâ, which looksâby the wayâlike something from the kidâs menu.â
Satoru looked mildly amused as he slid the plate towards you. âTry one. Theyâre amazing.â
You took one, but fixed him with a pointed look still. âStill not answering my question.â
âI come here a lot.â
âIâve been going to the same coffee shop near my apartment for three years,â you said, âand they still spell my name wrong on the cup.â
He laughedâa real one. It drew a few subtle glances from nearby tables.
âFair point.â
The pastry was every bit as good as he promisedâlight, buttery, with just the right amount of sweetness. But you werenât letting him off the hook.
âSo?â you asked, licking a crumb off your thumb. âWhy does everyone here treat you like youâre... I donât know. Someone important?â
âI suppose because I am someone importantâ
âWhat does that mean?â
âI figured Iâd bring this up eventually.â Satoru took a sip of his kidâs menu drink, then set the cup down. âI own Gojo Holdings.â
You stared at him. Blankly.
âOur headquarters occupies the top ten floors of this building,â he added, casually gesturing upward.
Suddenly, the name clicked into place. Gojo Holdingsâa name youâd seen before. On office towers, in business headlines, maybe even on the news channel. One of those massive investment and trading firms. It was the kind of company that quietly owned half the city without anyone really noticing.
âYouâre joking.â
âIâm not.â His tone was surprisingly straightforward. âIâm the CEO. Have been for about five years, since my father stepped down.â
âSo this buildingâ?â
âI donât own the whole tower. Just the top portion. Company offices. This cafĂŠâs independent, though we partner with them for corporate events.â
âWhich is why they know your usual.â
He gave a small shrug. âPerks of a eating here often.â
âSo when you were on that trainâŚâ
âI was just commuting. Like anyone else.â He sipped his coffee, completely at ease. âTraffic sucks. Trains are faster.â
âA practical billionaire. How novel.â
âCEO. Not a billionare,â he corrected. âWellâtechnicallyââ
âNot helping your case,â you cut in, and to his credit, he actually looked sheepish.
âSo thatâs how you managed to plaster half the city with posters.â You leaned back, studying him again. âMost people wouldâve just... posted something online.â
âI donât do things halfway,â he said, not even pretending to apologize. âBesides, I donât have social media. Too messy in my position.â
You took a long sip of your cappuccino, buying yourself a moment. Then you asked the question that had been quietly building in the back of your mind.
âSo what exactly does the CEO of a major trading company want with a graphic designer who sketches strangers on the subway?â
âThe same thing I wanted before you knew any of this. Get to know you.â
You tilted your head, unsure whether to believe him. He mustâve sensed your hesitation.Â
âOkay, listen,â he said, leaning forward. âIâve been renovating the executive floor of our headquarters and thereâs this white wall in my office. Itâs been empty for months because nothing felt right for itââ
âYou want to commission me?â You blinked, more confused than ever. âFor your office?â
âYeah. Actually, for the whole floor. A series of pieces,â he said. âNot landmarks or cityscapesâeveryone does that. I want your version. The people. The soul of each place. Like the sketch you gave me.â
âSo all thisâthe posters, the dinner invitation, the whole subway artist manhuntâwas for a commission?â
Something flickered in his expression. Not quite hurt, but close.
âNo,â he said after a second. âYeah. I meanââ He sighed. âDoes it sound that stupid?â
You took another sip of your cappuccino, more for the excuse to think than anything else. âItâs an âIâm thinking about it.ââ
âPerfect,â he said, pulling out a business card of his and sliding it across the table. âNo pressure. No expectations. If you're interested, call me.â
You turned the card in your fingers, still watching him. âHow do you even know I draw anythingâbeside subway sketches, that is? I never told you.â
He raised an eyebrow, like he couldnât quite believe you said it yourself. âYou donât?â
Stupid, handsome man. âIÂ hate you.â
ââ ⢠ăťâ¸â¸
Back at your desk, you twirled Satoruâs business card between your fingers, trying to make sense of it all. Was he being genuine? Or was he making fun of you?Â
You glanced at the flowers heâd gifted youâstill sitting in the large glass vase Mei had found in the office kitchen. They were slightly too vibrant, slightly too much, still too beautiful to ignore. No one brought those kinds of flowers as a joke. Right? And yet, the absurdity of it all made you question even that.Â
You slipped the card into your desk drawer and turned your attention to the ad campaign mockups waiting on your screen. But your focus faltered. Your mind kept drifting back to blue eyes, white hair, and the warmth in his voice when he said your name.
Aki appeared at your desk not long after, not even trying to hide her curiosity. You offered her the bare minimum. Just someone whose portrait youâd sketched on the train. Nothing serious. When she pressed further, you sighed and handed over his business card.
Her reaction was immediate. âGojo Holdings? That Gojo?â
You nodded, reluctantly.
âAnd he wants to commission you? For art? In his office?â
âHe mentioned it,â you said, already regretting sharing anything.
She didnât miss the nuance. âOh. He mentioned it. But also stared at you like you hung the moon?â
Your cheeks warmed. She grinned.
That evening, you moved the card from your desk drawer to your wallet, telling yourself itâs just in case you decide to take the commission. Nothing more.Â
The rational part of your brain knew this entire situation had âbad ideaâ written all over itâin flashing neon, no less. But the less rational part of your brain kept remembering how he looked at your sketch as if it were something precious. Not just charcoal on paper.
Days passed. Then weeks.
You kept up your morning ritualâtrain sketches, quiet observation, the meditative act of putting pencil to paper. But now, each time you boarded, your eyes scanned the car, quietly wishing to see him again. He never appeared.
The business card moved againâfrom your wallet to your bedside table, then tucked into your sketchbook, then back to your wallet. You drafted emails. Professional, polite. None of them made it past your drafts folder.
And then, lifeâas it so often doesâmade the decision for you.
It started with your car being a bit bumpy, then a strange rattle under the hood. And finally, smoke. The repair bill was roughly equivalent to two monthsâ rent.
That night, you sat at your kitchen table, staring at your bank account and mentally rearranging numbers that didnât cover the bill no matter what you tried. Between rent, old student loans, and the usual cost of just existing, you didnât have a cushion big enough to absorb the hit and your parents were still helping your younger sibling through college. Credit cards would only delay the problem.
Your gaze drifted to the business card sitting on the counter where youâd left it earlier. A commission from Gojo Holdings would cover surely more than the car repairs. And then some.
ââ ⢠ăťâ¸â¸
âThis entire hallway is yours to reimagine,â Satoru said, gesturing with a casual sweep of his arm. You trailed a few steps behind, sketchbook in hand, scribbling notes as he pointed at one blank wall after another. âBoardroom entrances, reception, executive officesâthe whole floor could use your touch.â
The headquarters of Gojo Holdings was exactly what youâd imagined. Sleek, modern, almost intimidating. Walls of glass divided up the offices, giving the illusion of privacy without actually offering much of it. Matte blacks, brushed steel, deep grays, and just enough warm wood or marble veining to say âtastefulâ without inviting any real comfort. But maybe that was the point.
Offices like this werenât meant to feel cozy. In these rooms, decisions were made that shifted markets. Billions moved with a gesture. A signature. A nod. And somewhere at the center of it all was Satoru Gojo, walking through it like he was on his way to pick up coffee at the mall.
âHow many pieces are we talking about?â you asked, already measuring the length of yet another white wall in your mind.
âHowever many feels right.â He glanced over his shoulder just in time to catch your raised brow. âWhat? I mean it.â
âYou know, most clients have a vision board. Timelines. Color codes. Budgets. A whole approval chain.â
âIâm not most clients.â
âClearly.â
He continued the tour, leading you through a maze of meeting rooms and long corridors, while you took notes in your sketchbookâdimensions, how the light shifted through the glass and how certain walls caught the sun.Â
You paused often to sketch rough layouts or mark potential placements, all while trying to ignore the way Satoru was watching you more than the rooms.
âAnd this,â Satoru said, stopping in front of a pair of sleek double doors, âis my office.â
His office was hugeâat least four times the size of your apartmentâwith windows stretching from floor to ceiling, offering a stunning view of the Tokyo skyline. Gentle afternoon sunlight streamed in, causing everything to shimmer softly, as if in a dream.
âItâsâŚâ you hesitated, searching for a word that wouldnât stroke his ego, ââŚadequate.â
Satoru burst out laughing. âAdequate? That might be the first time anyoneâs used that word to describe my office.â
âIâm sure people usually fall over themselves with compliments.â You moved towards the windows. âI thought Iâd try something different.â
âAnd that,â he said, following with hands tucked casually in his pockets, âis exactly why I hired you.â
âBecause I donât stroke your ego?â
âBecause youâre straight forward. I like that.â
Something in his tone made you glance up at him, but his expression was unreadable as he gazed out at the city below.
âThat wall there,â he continued, pointing to the large empty space behind his desk, âis where I originally thought your work would go. But then I thought, why not the whole floor?â
You walked his office slowly, taking in the space, the light, the simplicity. âItâs quite the blank canvas.â
âIâve been told my style is too minimalist.â
âBy who? The interior design magazine that did a feature on your last penthouse?â
His eyes widened a little before crinkling at the corners. âYou Googled me.â
âBasic research before meeting a new client,â you said, but your cheeks, of course, betrayed you.
âMmhmm.â He didnât look convinced. âCome here. I want to show you something.â
You approached the window where he stood.
âSee that building there?â He pointed toward the horizon. âThe one with the copper coloured roof?â
You squinted, seeing hundreds of buildings but not sure which one he meant. âNot reallyâŚâ
âMay I?â
Before you could fully register the question, he was behind you, one hand grazing your shoulder, the other gently tilting your chin to guide your gaze. His warmth at your back made your breath hitch.
âThere,â he said, his voice brushing your ear. âBetween those two towers. Thatâs where I first saw your work. A small gallery in Ginza. Community showcase. Your cityscape series.â
Your pulse stumbled. âYou knew? All this time?â
âKind of, yeah,â he admitted, still close enough that you could feel the quiet rumble of his words. âIâd actually thought about commissioning you back thenâat the gallery. But things got busy, and I let it go. When I saw your sketch on the train, I recognized it immediately and it felt like⌠I donât know. A sign. Like the universe was giving me a second chance.â
âHow poetic.â You turned slightly, realizing his face was only inches from yours. âWhy didnât you just ask the gallery for my contact info? Wouldâve saved you a lot of time. And posters.â
His lips curved into that maddening smile. âWhereâs the fun in that?â
âYouâre so weird.â
âSays the woman who stalks stranger on the train and draws them.â
âYouâre the stalker here.â
âSo, what do you think?â He stepped back and leaned casually against his desk. âCan you handle transforming the most boring executive floor in Tokyo?â
âLetâs talk numbers first.â
âI was thinking something in the range of two million yen for the full project,â he replied, watching you carefully.
You nearly choked. That was more than generousâenough to fix your car, pay off a good chunk of your student loans, maybe even take a breath for once. But something in his easy confidence made you want to test his limits.
âFour million,â you said, eyes steady. Bold.
His brows lifted. âThatâs quite a jump.â
âIâm quite an artist.â
âThatâs already well aboveââ
You tilted your head, pretending to reconsider. âHmm. So, if you donât want meâŚâ
You let the words hang as you casually closed your sketchbook and took a slow step backward, turning like you were ready to walk out. âI get it. Itâs a big commitment. Iâm sure someone else can paint your sterile corporate walls.â
Satoru blinked. âWaitââ
You took another step.
âThree million,â he said. âFinal offer.â
âDeal,â you replied, quick before he could change his mind. âBut I have conditions. I want full creative freedom.â
âNaturally.â He pushed off the desk and extended his hand. âThree million yen, complete creative freedom, and dinner.â
Your hand froze halfway to his. âDinner?â
âJust a simple business dinner,â he said innocently. âTo go over project details.â
âWe can go over those in an email.â
âSome things are better discussed in person. Over good food. And maybe a glass of wine.â
You crossed your arms. âThat sounds suspiciously like a date.â
âOnly if you want it to be,â he said, mirroring your stance.
âI donât.â
âThen itâs not.â
You narrowed your eyes. âFine. One business dinner.â
âAt Narisawa,â he added casually. âPrivate dining room, excellent view.â
âNarisawa? Thatâs a two month waiting list.â
âNot for everyone.â
âYouâre really trying to blur the lines between business and private, arenât you?â
âIâm merely suggesting a restaurant worthy of an three million yen commission.â
âMcDonaldâs exists.â
âIâm not taking you to McDonaldâs.â
âI thought I had creative control in this partnership.â
âOver the art,â he said. âDining arrangements fall under my jurisdiction.â
You gave him a look. âIâm starting to think this dinner is more important to you than the actual commission.â
âWhat would give you that impression?â
âMaybe because youâre pushing harder for this dinner than you did for the art.â
âI didnât need to push for the art. You were already sold.â
âPresumptuous.â
âAm I wrong?â
You sighed, knowing you were fighting a losing battle. âOne dinner. No private roomâthatâs weird. Main restaurant only. And Iâm paying for myself.â
âMain restaurantâs fine,â he conceded, far too agreeable. âBut Iâm paying. Consider it a signing bonus.â
âThatâs not how signing bonuses work.â
âIt is at my company.â
âFine. But this changes nothing. Itâs strictly professional.â
âOf course,â he said. âJust two colleagues having a quiet eight course meal at one of Tokyoâs finest restaurants. Completely professional.â
âYouâre impossible.â
âAnd yet, here you are, agreeing to both the commission and dinner.â
You extended your hand to finally seal the deal. âThree million yen, full creative control, and oneâsingular, not two, only oneâbusiness dinner.â
He took your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, and you hated how weak that made your knees feel.
âIf you say so,â he said.
ââ ⢠ăťâ¸â¸
Over the next two weeks, Gojo Holdings basically became your second home. You spent hours wandering the halls, filling your sketchbook with rough layouts and scribbled notes, snapping photos of how the light shifted from morning to dusk.Â
The project had you more energized than anything youâd worked on in years. Full creative freedom and a proper budget? That almost never happened. You didnât want to waste it.
What you hadnât expected was how often youâd see Satoru, though. Despite being constantly pulled into meetings and conference calls, you know, running a whole financial empire and all that, he somehow always knew when you were in the building.
Sometimes youâd catch glimpses of him through the glass walls of the conference rooms, commanding attention with a casual confidence that was almost mesmerizing to watch. Heâd be deep in conversation with some serious looking executives, completely in his element, and then, as if he could sense your gaze, his eyes would find yours. A subtle wink or the ghost of a smile just for you, and suddenly your stomach would do that stupid fluttering thing again.
Other times, heâd just⌠appear. Out of nowhere. Usually while you were measuring a wall or standing on your tiptoes trying to track the afternoon shadows.
âNeed a hand?â heâd ask, already handing you a coffee like he knew you forgot to eat again and make some terrible joke about âhangingâ your work. (âGet it? Because theyâll be hanging on the wall?â âYes, Satoru, I get it. Itâs still not funny.â âYou smiled though.â)
Heâd carve out little bits of timeâten minutes here, twenty thereâdespite his full schedule. Sometimes heâd walk with you through the space, telling stories about silly board meetings. Seriously, who wouldâve thought that a company handling millions in the stock market could be run like a sitcom half the time?Â
Other times, heâd just sit nearby while you sketched, sipping his coffee in silence and letting you work. Strangely enough, his presence was never distracting. If anything, it felt⌠comfortable. Good, even.
And occasionally, heâd say something that surprised you. A thought about layout. A comment about color balance. Something you didnât expect from a guy who usually talked in numbers and strategies.
âShouldnât you be doing CEO things instead of analyzing my color palette?â youâd ask.
âI could, but Iâve already yelled at three departments today. Iâm ahead of schedule,â heâd reply with a grin.
And the strangest part wasnât how much he was around. It was how quickly you got used to it. And how weirdly empty the rooms felt when he wasnât there.
Your concept came together almost on its own. A series about Tokyo told through its people. Not neon signs or city skylines, more salarymen passed out on the train, old women gossiping in corner markets, teenagers packed into ramen shops after school. Quiet, ordinary moments that felt honest. Human.
Your apartment turned chaotic. Canvases leaned against furniture, reference photos were spread across every flat surface, and your sketches were taped to the windows just to see how they looked in different light. You worked late most nights, completely losing track of time until your stomach reminded you that you hadnât eaten anything except an energy drink and half a protein bar.
Youâd send status updates to Satoru sometimes. Professionally, mostly.
The concept boards are coming along well. Iâll have something concrete to show you by next week. â You
His replies, however, did not share your sense of professional distance:
Iâm sure theyâre amazing, but Iâd rather see the artist than the art. When are you letting me buy you dinner? â SG
You rolled your eyes at his persistence, but you couldnât help the small smile tugging at your lips.
The art comes before the artist. Patience, Mr. Gojo. â You
Mr. Gojo was my father. Iâm Satoru to you, remember? And patience has never been my strong suit. â SG
The exchanges continued like thisâyou sending actual work updates, him responding with barely veiled attempts to see you again. It was absurd. Unprofessional. And yet⌠you looked forward to his replies more than you cared to admit.
Three weeks in, his patience seemed to officially ran out:
Dinner. This Friday. 8 PM. Iâve already made reservations at Narisawa. Unless youâre planning to work through the weekend again? â SG
You stared at the message for a long moment before typing back:
Iâm in the middle of the sixth canvas. Friday wonât work. â You
His response came almost immediately:
Art can wait. Food canât. The reservation is at 8. â SG
You scoffed.
I donât recall agreeing to this Friday. Reschedule? â You
Ten minutes passed with no response. You had just returned to your canvas when your phone rang. His name lit up the screen.
âHello?â
âI donât accept a no.â
âThat sounds problematic.â
He laughed. âOnly when it comes to dinner invitations. Specifically ones Iâve been waiting weeks for.â
âIâm covered in paint and havenât slept properly in days.â
âYou could show up in pajamas and still be the most interesting person in the room.â
âFlattery wonât work.â
âYouâre an awful liar, you know that? Your voice just did that thing it does when youâre trying not to smile.â
Your traitor lips curved anyway. âYou canât possibly know that over the phone.â
âBut Iâm right, arenât I?â
You sighed and set your brush down. âWhy are you so persistent about this dinner?â
âBecause I want to see you,â he said simply. âBecause youâve been painting pieces for my walls and I havenât even seen your progress. Because maybe I miss the way you look at me like youâre immune to my charm.â
âI could send photos of the work.â
âOr,â he said, âyou could wear something you like, let me feed you something expensive, and tell me about your process in person.â
âYou wonât let me out of this, will you?â
âNo.â
You sighed. âFine. But Iâm paying for myself.â
âWeâll discuss that over appetizers.â
âThereâs nothing to discuss.â
âFriday at 8,â he said, ignoring your protest. âIâll pick you up.â
âI can take the train.â
âHumor me.â
You could practically hear the smile in his voice.
âHas anyone ever told you youâre impossible?â
âYou. Repeatedly. Itâs part of our thing.â
âWe donât have a thing.â
âYet,â he added. And before you could argue, âIâll see you Friday. Wear something that makes you happy.â
After the call ended, you stared at your phone for a few moments longer, until the screen turned black.
Somehow, despite your best efforts and at least three attempts to ghost him, you had a dinner on Friday night. Not a date, you told yourself. A business dinner. With a man who was way too attractive, way too confident, and had launched an entire campaign just to commission you. Totally normal.
You turned back to your canvas and tried to focus, but the flutter in your stomach wouldnât go away.
It was just dinner. In a restaurant. With candlelight and probably a lot of eye contact. Nothing more.
Still, as you painted into the night, you caught yourself wondering what you might wear that would make you feel good. And maybeâjust maybeâmake him look at you the way he had in his office, when he stood so close you could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin.
Strictly professional, you reminded yourself.
Even you didnât believe it anymore.
ââ ⢠ăťâ¸â¸
Friday evening arrived with the kind of weird, way too warm weather that made you rethink your outfit three times before settling on something that felt like youâcomfortable but still nice enough for... whatever game Satoru might be playing.
You were fixing your lipstick when your phone buzzed.
Downstairs. Take your time. â SG
You walked over to the window for a quick glance outsideâand there he was.
Satoru was leaning against the passenger side of a sleek black car, arms crossed, dressed in a dark suit that looked almost identical to the one heâd worn the day you first saw him on Line 4. As if he could feel your gaze, he looked up. And saw you.Â
No wave, no winkâjust a slow, knowing smile spread across his lips.
You blinked and stepped back from the window, heart fluttering in a strange way it hadnât in a long time. Who even was this man? And how had he managed to get under your skin so completely, so quickly? You were dressing up, wearing lipstick, checking the window like some high school crush was picking you up for prom.
It was ridiculous. Stupid, even.
You grabbed your bag, took a breath, and headed downstairs before your brain had time to start asking too many questions.
He was still just a client. A persistent, maddeningly handsome client.
When you stepped out, he was still leaning against the passenger side door and just for a moment, he froze. No smirk. No teasing remark. Nothing prepared. His usual cool confidence seemed to falter as his eyes swept over you slowly and deliberately, like he wasnât quite sure he was seeing you right.
âWow,â he said quietly, straightening up a little and running a hand through his hair before letting out a breath. âYou lookâŚâ He actually stopped to find the wordâthat alone felt suspicious. ââŚreally beautiful.â
âStop that.â
âStop what? Being honest? Sorry, not tonight.â
Before you could say anything else, he was already opening the car door for you, one hand briefly touching the small of your back as you slid inside. Not in a sleazy way. More like it came naturally to him. Which made you almost forget to be annoyed by his presumption.
ââ ⢠ăťâ¸â¸
Narisawa was exactly what you expected and somehow even moreâthe kind of place where the lighting was soft without being dim, where the air smelled faintly of thyme and something far more expensive, and where every detail felt carefully chosen to whisper, âyou absolutely cannot afford thisâ.
Satoru had, of course, managed to get a table by the window, offering a view of the skyline that felt almost unreal. It was the kind of view that made the whole night feel like it belonged in a movie and made you almost forget this was technically a business dinner.
Conversation came easier than youâd expected. Over the first few coursesâeach one more art piece than meal, which made you feel slightly guilty about ruining it by eating it (I mean, who does that? Making such pretty food just for it to end up in a stomach?)âyou talked about everything from your work as a designer and your favourite bands, to his tragic inability to make anything more complicated than instant noodles, and how he once almost made it into the national basketball team.
But what surprised you most was the way he asked about your art. He had a way of asking about that didnât feel performative or polite. He was actually listening, not just waiting for his turn to talk.
âSo, the third piece,â he said, slicing into what was probably the most perfectly cooked fish youâd ever tasted. âThe one with the commutersâhow do you get that sense of movement in a still frame?â
You paused. âYouâve been paying attention.â
âI told youâIâm interested in your process.â
âMost clients only ask when itâll be done and how much itâll cost.â
He smiled, lifting his wine glass. âIâm not most clients,â he said, echoing what heâd told you that first day at his headquarters.
For the next twenty minutes, you talked shop. Layering techniques, color and motion, how to evoke emotion without showing too much. He asked questions that actually made you thinkâsharp, specific ones that showed he wasnât just nodding along to be polite. He was genuinely interested.
At some point, somewhere between your third course and your second glass of wine, you caught yourself relaxing. Laughing. Enjoying it. And then you paused and set your glass down.
âCan I ask you something?â you said, unsure why the question suddenly felt heavier than it should.
âAnything.â
âYou really went through all thisâthe car, this restaurant, the whole dramatic dinnerâjust to talk about brushwork and layering techniques?â
He leaned back in his chair, fingers resting lightly against his glass as he searched for the right words. âI donât know,â he said finally. âMaybe I just like you.â
âYou like me?â you echoed, unsure if it was a question or a warning.
âIs that so hard to believe?â
âKind of, yeah.â You fidgeted with your napkin. âI mean, you could be having dinner with a dozen other people tonight. Models. Actresses. CEOsâ daughters. People who donât get paint on their shoes and give you a hard time.â
âMaybe thatâs exactly why.â
Something shifted between you at his words. Like someone had turned the volume down on the room so you could hear each other better. You took a slow sip of wine, partly to buy time, partly to keep your expression neutral as you studied him across the table.
âSo, youâre single then?â you asked. âUnless your girlfriendâs very cool with you taking strangers to fancy dinners.â
Satoru raised an eyebrow. âAre you asking if I have a girlfriend?â
âIâm asking if I should expect an angry phone call later.â
He laughed. âNo angry phone calls. And yeahâIâm single.â
âShocking,â you said. âA successful and attractive CEO who canât keep a girlfriend? Whatâs the catch?â
âMaybe Iâm just picky.â
âOr maybe youâre married to your work,â you teased. âLet me guessâcanceled dates for board meetings, forgotten anniversaries because of some deadline?â
âThatâsâŚâ He paused, glancing down on his glass for a moment. âActually, my last girlfriend cheated on me.â
Your smile slipped. âOh. I didnât mean toââ
âDonât be sorry. She wasnât the right one. If she had been, maybe she wouldâve understood that building something that lasts takes time. And attention.â
âHow long ago was that?â
âAbout two years.â He reached for his wine, swirling it once before taking a sip. âHavenât really dated since then.â
âSo, casual things?â
âMore like burying myself in work. Honestly, the closest thing Iâve had to female company lately is my secretary. And she has this strangely strict voice that sounds exactly like my mother when sheâs disappointed.â
You laughed, sharp and sudden, covering your mouth with your hand. It wasnât even that funny, not really. But the way heâd said itâso dry, and slightly frightenedâand the face he made, like a kid whoâd just been scolded for wearing the wrong socks to a school recital, caught you completely off guard.
For a moment, he didnât look like the CEO of a massive company or the man who moved literal billions without blinking. He looked boyish. Almost shy. Like he was letting you peek at something most people didnât get to see. And somehow, that made it even funnier.
You tried to compose yourself, but your shoulders were still shaking as you dabbed at the corners of your eyes. âIâm sorry.â
He smiled as he watched you try to hold in your laughter. âI like when you laugh like that.â
âLike what?â
âLike youâre not thinking about how you look doing it.â
Something in the way he said it that made the humor settle into something softer, something that hangs in the air a little too long. Like neither of you wanted to be the one to move past it first.
âWell,â you said, trying to ignore the way your pulse had picked up, âyour secretary sounds scary. I can see why youâd rather have dinner with me.â
âAmong other reasons.â
Heat crept up your neck before you could stop it. You picked up your glass, needing the excuse to look away for a second. âAre you always this charming?â you asked, trying to sound casual, but your voice came out a little softer than intended.
âIâm trying,â he said. âWith you.â
He said it like it wasnât heavy at all. But it was. And you could feel it settle in your chest.
âSatoruâŚâ you started, not even sure what was going to follow. But then the waiter showed up and set down the next course with a brief description you didnât really hear because you only had eyes for him.
ââ ⢠ăťâ¸â¸
Dinner had stretched well past ten, neither of you making any real effort to end the night. So when Satoru suggested a walk instead of heading straight to the car, you said yes.
The night had cooled off more than you expected, and you pulled your jacket a little tighter around your shoulders as the two of you wandered through the quiet streets near the restaurant. It had rained earlier, leaving the pavement slick and glistening under the streetlights. At one point, a small puddle stretched across the sidewalk, and before you could react, Satoru just scooped you up without a word and carried you over it like it was the most natural thing in the world.Â
Maybe it was the warmth the wine had left in your chest, or maybe it was just the way his arms felt around you, steady and sure, but you let yourself lean a little closer against him before he set you down again on the other side.Â
âThat was unnecessary,â you said, trying to sound annoyed, though you didnât make much effort to slip out of his arms.
âMaybe,â he replied with a grin, âbut Iâve always wanted an excuse to do that.â
It felt goodâbeing with him felt really good. The kind of good that made you forget to guard yourself. The kind that crept in quietly and made you wonder what it would be like to have more nights just like this.
Youâd just rounded a corner into a small park when you heard soft violin music drifting through the air. You slowed, then stopped entirely. Just ahead, a street musician stood under the warm glow of a streetlamp, playing something slow and aching and beautiful.
You stood still and listened for a moment, a smal smile tugigng at your lips.Â
âDance with me,â Satoru said.
You turned to him. âWhat? No.â
âWhy not?â He held out a hand.
You hesitated and looked around for a second.Â
âYou know, I wonât take ânoâ for an answer.â
You surrendered and took his hand. âThis is so stupid.â
He smiled, soft and sincere, and stepped in close. One hand found your waist, the other guiding yours up between you. His touch was warm, steady. Familiar in a way it shouldnât be.
âYou know,â you began, as he gently started to move. Not quite dancing, more like remembering how. âI usually donât do this with clients.â
âFigures. I always suspected I was your favourite.â
âI wouldnât say that,â you teased. âThat other client of mine, a guy from an accounting firm is pretty smooth too.â
âOh really? Did he buy you dinner at Narisawa and slow dance with you in the park?â
âNot yet.â
âI like when you try to mess with me.â
âIâm not trying. You just make it easy.â
He spun you gently, then pulled you back in, your hand pressed lightly to his chest. You could feel his heartbeat through the fabric of his dress shirtâtoo fast, like yours.
A few people passed, smiling without staring. It didnât matter. You were too aware of his breath near your cheek, the weight of his palm at your back, the quiet between songs that didnât feel like silence at all.
âYouâre good at this,â you said softly.
âI only dance with people who make it easy.â
âThat line would work better if your hands werenât shaking a little.â
He leaned in closer, his breath gazing your ear. âSo are yours.â
You swallowed, the closeness of him settling into your skin. You didnât answer. Just let him hold you for a few more seconds, rain beginning to fall in light taps across your shoulders, your hair. And then he dipped you back gently, one hand firm behind you.
âStill think itâs stupid?â he asked.
Your breath caught as you stared up into those impossibly blue eyes, your back arching as he supported your weight effortlessly. The rest of the world faded away until there was nothing but him and the violin and the electric space between you.
âYes,â you whispered. âAbsolutely.â
âBut?â
You hesitated, then let your fingers curl lightly around the front of his jacket. âBut I donât want it to stop.â
Thatâs when you felt the first raindrop hit your cheek.
His gaze flickered down to the raindrop on your skin, how it slowly run down, and for a second you could have sworn he looked at you lips. And maybe, just maybe you wished heâd kissed you but then the rain came heavier.
âThatâs our cue.â But he didnât move right away. His eyes stayed on you.Â
Finally, he lifted you back up, drawing you close against his chest. You were both breathing hard, though youâd barely been moving. The rain was falling more steadily now, and you could see Satoruâs white hair beginning to darken with moisture.
âHome?â he asked, voice rougher now, like he wasnât quite ready for the answer either.
You nodded, not trusting yourself to say anything without giving too much away. Because at some point, this had stopped feeling like dinner with a client. You werenât sure when it changedâonly that it had. And now everything felt a little too close, a little too important.
ââ ⢠ăťâ¸â¸
When the car pulled up to your building, he was out and opening your door before you could reach for the handle yourself. Of course he was. Always one step ahead, always just⌠thoughtful in that maddening, disarming way.
âThank you,â you said, stepping out into the quiet night.
âMy pleasure.âÂ
The air smelled like wet pavement and something faintly floral from someoneâs balcony. He walked you to your door, hands tucked into his pockets, eyes flicking toward the sky like he wasnât quite ready to say goodnight either.Â
You fumbled with your keys for a moment, buying time before the inevitable goodbye. The silence stretched, not tense, but full. Full of everything that had happened and everything that hadnât.
When you finally turned to him, he was closer than youâd expected, close enough that you could see the way his white hair had dried in soft waves from the rain. He smelled faintly of wine and cedar and like someone you could spend the rest of your life with.
âI had a really good time tonight,â you said. âThank you. For the dinner, the dancing, the completely unnecessary puddle rescueâŚâ
He smiled, a little crooked, a little tired. âEven the terrible jokes?â
âEspecially the terrible jokes. Though the stories of your secretary will probably haunt me tonight.â
âOh, she haunts everyone,â he said. âSheâs very scary.â
You both laughed, but the sound died down fast, like the moment had suddenly remembered it was trying to mean something else. His gaze dropped, if only for the briefest moment, to your lips. Your heart hammered against your ribs as you waited, hoping, expectingâ
âI should let you get some sleep,â he said. But instead of stepping back, he stepped closer.
Your breath caught as his hand roseâslow, deliberateâcoming to rest gently at the back of your head. But instead of the dreamy kiss youâd hoped for, he kissed your forehead. Not your mouth. Not even your cheek. Your forehead.
The kiss was soft, warmâoverflowing with care. But not the kind youâd been waiting for. It was tender, almost reverent, and somehow, it left you feeling strangely hollow.
âSleep well,â he murmured against your skin before pulling back. And then he turnedâjust like thatâand walked back to the car. No glance over his shoulder. No hesitation. No second thought.
Inside your apartment, you leaned against the closed door, jacket still damp against your shoulders. You touched your forehead, where his lips had been. It had been sweet. Really, it had. Just⌠not what youâd expected. Not what youâd wanted.
You let your head fall back against the door with a soft thud. Why hadnât he kissed you? Why would he do all that just to not... kiss you?
Youâd been so sure. The way heâd looked at you over dinner. The way heâd held you during that ridiculous dance. The way it had all felt like a slow build to something. And you wanted that something.
But maybe that was the problem. Maybe you were just another commission to him after all, something to be handled with care but ultimately kept at armâs length.
It shouldnât have stung the way it did. But it did.
More than you cared to admit.
ââ ⢠ăťâ¸â¸
Monday morning arrived under a gray drizzle that matched your mood a little too perfectly. You stepped into a puddle on the way out, got your umbrella stuck in a doorway because youâd forgotten it was open, and then someone on the subway sneezed directly in your direction. It was that kind of morning.
Youâd spent the entire weekend replaying Friday night over in your headâevery glance, every word, every fleeting gestureâuntil youâd nearly driven yourself mad with questions that had no answers.
And Aki was absolutely no help. She was already perched on your desk when you walked in, your usual coffee in one hand and dark circles under your eyes doing all the talking.
âSoooo⌠how was your fancy dinner?â
âIt was fine,â you said, powering up your computer.
âFine?â Mei materialized beside her like sheâd been lying in wait for gossip. âThatâs it? You go to Narisawa with the hottest CEO in Tokyo and all we get is fine?â
âIt was a business dinner. We discussed the commission.â
âWhat kind of man gets you flowers that pretty just to talk about business?â
âA man who takes his commission very seriously.â
You could feel their stares burning into the side of your head.
âCome on,â Mei pressed. âDid he kiss you? He kissed you, didnât he? I can tell by your face.â
âHe didnât kiss me.â
âAh,â Aki said, with that stupid satisfaction of someone whoâd just solved a puzzle. âSo you wanted him to.â
You groaned and buried your face in your hands. âCan we please not?â
But of course, they were relentless, firing question after question at you about what you wore, what you ate, what he said, if there was a âvibeââuntil you were actually grateful for that boring meeting before lunch with a client who always rejected your ideas, made you change them back and forth a dozen times, and inevitably circled back to the original design. As frustrating as that was, it still didnât compare to what was coming later.
You had a meeting with Satoru after work to talk about delivery logisticsâwhen to bring the artwork, how many pieces were ready. The commission was nearly complete, and a few canvases could be brought to his office already. But the thought of standing across from him again, making small talk about framing and placement, felt unbearable.
Not to mention figuring out how to get those giant canvases out of your apartment, which was now packed to the walls with drying paint, sketches, and so many drop cloths youâd basically lost your kitchen to the cause.
For weeks, this commission had felt like the best thing to happen to your career. But now, standing outside the gleaming tower that housed his office, you werenât sure what to think anymore.
Was this just business to him? Had you imagined the connection, the tension, the way he looked at you like you were someone special? Maybe successful men like Satoru Gojo were just naturally charming, and youâd been naive enough to think it meant something more.
You straightened your shoulders and walked into the building. If he wanted professional, he could have professional. You had a job to do, no matter what kind of game your heart thought it was playing.
You raised your hand to knock on his office doorâthough really, there was no need. The walls were glass, and heâd already spotted you the second you moved.Â
He was on the phone, his shoulder pinning it in place as he typed something on the laptop in front of him. With a slight nod of his head, he gestured for you to come in. And there it was againâthat maddening smile. The one that made it look like his whole face lit up just from seeing you.
You stepped inside, lingering uncertainly near the door. He was still deep in conversation, something about a company merger and someone named Gerald being an absolut idiot, and how he might as well handle it himself. Always busy, it seemed.Â
Satoru shifted the phone slightly and glanced at you. âHey, you want coffee?â
You nodded and then he was back to his call. You wandered a little further into his office, taking in the space. It was always so tidy which felt strangely at odds with how chaotic his work seemed to be. You drifted toward the tall windows and looked down at the city below. In the gentle afternoon sun, people were rushing through the cityâcommuters heading home, students in uniform, ordinary lives unfolding far beneath you.
Satoru stood and walked over to you. He was closeâWhy would he come so close?âand placed a hand gently at your waist, a brief touch that lingered just long enough to make your breath catch. He pressed the phone to his chest for a moment.Â
âSorry for the wait,â he said, voice low. âIâm nearly done.âÂ
And then he was gone, stepping out of the office and leaving you reeling.
When he returned two minutes later, he had two mugs in one hand and a canned coffee tucked under his arm, balancing it all as he kicked open the door with his foot. Phone was still pressed between his shoulder and ear. He poured two cups and handed you a one, flashing you that easy smile of his.
You took a seat on the couch, sipping carefully and doing your best not to make eye contact. But you were sure heâd already noticed the flush creeping into your cheeks.
Finally, he hung up and let out a long sigh.Â
âIâm so sorry. Thereâs this big merger weâre handling, and the guy in charge is like the biggest idiot Iâve ever met.â
âItâs okay.â
He ran a hand through his hair, sending it falling messily back over his forehead.
âNo, itâs not. I donât want to keep you waiting.â
âI bet that just comes naturally with being important.â
âIâm not that important,â he replied with a grin.
âThe whole tower has your name on it. Iâd say that qualifies.â
âWhatâs more important right now,â he said, standing and walking over to you, âis you.â He took the seat across from you. âSo⌠how was your day? Treat you well?â
Why was he asking about your day now? What kind of game was he playing?
âIt was fine. Mondayâs not exactly my favorite.â
âDonât get me started.â He laughed. âI hope at least your meeting went well?â
You blinked. He remembers? Youâd mentioned it briefly during dinner.
âOh, uh⌠yeah. It went okay,â you said. âBut letâs talk about the commission. Thatâs why Iâm here, right?â
He frowned, and there was a moment of silence. âSure.â
You spent the next hour and a half going over the artworkâdiscussing placement, lighting, framing. He was enthusiastic and attentive, genuinely appreciative in a way that still surprised you, even now.
You moved through the headquarters together. Most people had gone home by then. The sun had already set, casting long shadows through the quiet halls. A few late workers lingered, but Satoru told them to go and rest and sent them home. And just like that, it was the two of you, walking side by side through the empty building, planning where each piece would live.
It was in one of the offices on the west side of the buildingâthe ones with the perfect view of Tokyo Towerâthat you found yourself on your tiptoes, trying to tape a placeholder on the wall for one of the larger pieces. You stretched, struggling to reach just high enough to get the angle right.
âWait, let me.â
Before you could respond, Satoru was suddenly right behind you. He gently took the tape from your fingers, easily reaching over you to press it into place. His body hovered just a breath away, tall and warm.
âThank you,â you said, suddenly flushed. But he didnât move away. âYou can step back now.â You didnât dare turn around because if you did, you would end up facing his chest. And you really didnât want to face his chest.
âDoes this make you uncomfortable?â
âWhat kind of question is that?â
âIâm just checking in,â he said casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world to stand inches away from someone like this.
âYou have a strange way of doing that.â
âI had a feeling.â
âAbout what?â
âYouâre avoiding me.â
âI donât.â
He reached out, fingers brushing your shoulder, and then slowly trailed the back of his hand down your arm. It sent a shiver down your spine that you hoped he didnât notice.
âSo this doesnât bother you?â he asked, almost curious.
âSatoru, whatâs your mission here?â
You finally turned to face him and regretted it immediately. You were much too close, nearly pressed against him. His white dress shirt did nothing to hide the muscle beneath, and you hated the fact that your first thought was how unfairly good heâd look without it.
âYouâre blushing.â He reached out, gently cupping your chin and tilting your face up toward his.
âItâs hot.â
âIt isnât,â he said, and smiled.
He was right. It was around eighteen degrees. Damn these fancy offices and their perfectly functioning ACs.
âCan we go back to work? Iâd rather not have a sleepover here.â
Satoru didnât move. Instead, he leaned in closer, placing one hand against the wall beside your head, caging you in.
âYouâre acting strange today,â he said softly.
âMaybe because youâre keeping me here.â
âWas I mistaken?â
âAbout what?â
âOur date.â
âWhat about it?â
His hand dropped from your chin. âI thought it was⌠good.â
You blinked, trying to read him. âIt wasââ you cleared your throat, ââit wasnât just good. It was great.â
âOh. Yeah⌠I think so too. Then whyââ
âBut you didnât kiss me.â
His eyes widened just a little. âYou⌠wanted me to kiss you?â
âIâŚâ You hesitated, feeling your face getting even hotter then is already was. âYes.â
âI thought Iâd be a gentleman and take things slow. Are we actually kissing on first dates these days?â
âI mean⌠yeah. It dependsâI guess, butâŚâ You trailed off, absolutely flustered.
He paused for a beat, then that maddeningly smug grin spread across his lips.
âDonât smile like that,â you said, pushing lightly against his chest.
âIâm sorry, I just⌠I didnât want to rush things. I mean, my whole approach was already kind ofââ
âWeird? Borderline stalkerââ And then his lips were on yours, silencing your words.Â
No hesitation this time. No uncertainty. You melted into him instantly, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.Â
His hands slid into your hair, fingers threading through the strands as he tilted your head back, deepening the kiss with a confidence that made your knees go weak. One hand traced the line of your jaw while the other found the small of your back, pulling you closer until not even air could fit between you.
You could taste the coffee on his lips, could feel the slight tremor in his hands that betrayed that he wasnât as composed as he looked. When he pulled back, you were both breathless, foreheads pressed together under the dim lights.
âStill think this is just about the commission?â he asked, his thumb brushing gently across your bottom lip, now flushed and swollen from his kiss.
âShut up.â And then you grabbed him by his tie and pulled him back to your lips.
This kiss was different. Hungrier. Needier. He pressed you back against the wall, one hand braced beside your head, the other tangled deep in your hair. You couldnât stop the soft sound that escaped when he deepened it further, like youâd been waiting for this longer than you wanted to admit.
âWhatâs the hurry?â he whispered between kisses, his mouth trailing along your jaw.
âYou made a whole-ass campaign to find me,â you said, breathless, your fingers twisted in his shirt. âDonât back down now.â
His laugh was low and rough against your neck. âFair point.â
Before you could answer, his hands slid down to your thighs, and suddenly you were being lifted, your back pressed firmly against the wall as he held you there effortlessly. Your legs wrapped around his waist, and the new position brought you eye-level with him, close enough to see just how dark his eyes had gone.
âStill too slow for you?â he asked against your throat, his breath warm on your skin.
âGetting there,â you managed, though your voice was shakier than youâd intended, your hands gripping his shoulders for balance.
âI do like a challenge.â
Without breaking the kiss, Satoru carried you across the floor into his office, your legs still wrapped around his waist, until he reached the leather couch by the windows. He lowered you both down, following you as you sank into the soft cushions, his weight settling over you as his hands framed your face.
âMuch better,â he breathed against your lips.
His kisses deepened, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to explore the taste of you. One hand slid into your hair while the other traced the curve of your waist.Â
âI hope you sent everyone home,â you said, fingers threading through his white hair as his mouth moved along your neck.
âDonât worry. And besidesâglass or not, the walls are soundproof. One of the perks of being CEO.â
âHow convenient.â
âI thought so.â His teeth grazed the sensitive spot just beneath your jaw, making you gasp and arch beneath him. âThough I have to admitâI didnât imagine using it like this when I had them installed.â
You tugged gently at his hair, bringing his mouth back to yours. âThen what did you imagine?â
âBoring conference calls,â he said between kisses. âDefinitely not as interesting as this.â
The leather of the couch was cool against your back where your shirt had ridden up, highlighting the heat of his large hands as they explored the newly exposed skin. Outside, Tokyo shimmered in the night, but the only thing holding your attention was the man above youâthe way he kissed you like he was memorizing every reaction, every breath, every soft sound you made.
âWhat makes you think Iâm that loud?â you murmured against his mouth.
âOh, I have a feeling.â
His hand drifted lower, fingers tracing the curve of your hip before skimming up the inside of your thigh. The touch sent a rush through your veins, making you gasp softly into his kiss.
âSatoru,â you whispered, fingers gripping the front of his shirt, pulling him closer as his touch grew bolder.
âI know.â His hand inched lower between your legs, while his lips kissed down your neck. âI hate waiting too.â
Then his hand slipped beneath the waistband of your jeans, chasing every bit of tension that had been building between you since that very first subway sketch. And as the lights of Tokyo glittered beyond the glass, the rest of the world fell away, leaving nothing but the heat between youâand the things neither of you could hold back any longer.
ââ ⢠ăťâ¸â¸
Later, you lay tangled together on the leather couch, your head resting on his chest as his fingers traced lazy patterns along your bare shoulder. Everything had gone still, except for your breathing and the distant noise of Tokyo still awake outside.
âSo,â Satoru said, his voice warm with amusement, âwhere exactly did we leave off with the commission?â
You lifted your head to look at him, a smile tugging at your lips. âPretty sure we got distracted somewhere around placing the canvas in the west office block.â
âAh, yesâthe once perfect placement. Facing the window, not the door. âOmg, what was I thinking?ââ he teased in a gentle mimic of your voice, his fingers tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. âFor what Iâm paying you, I really have no say.â
âDonât blame this on me. You gave me full creative freedom. Or maybe you need better negotiation tactics.â
âMy negotiation tactics are pretty solid,â he protested, his chest rumbling with quiet laughter beneath your cheek. âI got exactly what I wanted.â
âThe art commission?â
âAmong other things.â His arms tightened around you, drawing you closer. âThough I still think the pieces should face the door, so I can see them from the hallway when I pass that office.â
âIs that your professional opinion, Mr. CEO?â
âThatâs my completely biased, utterly smitten opinion,â he said, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. âThe CEO in me would probably have a lot to say about the productivity level of tonight.â
âPoor productivity indeed. We only managed to discuss half the rooms.â
âTerrible oversight.â His hand slid slowly down your back, caressing your hip. âWeâll have to schedule another meeting. Several, probably. Very intensive. Very hands-on.â
âHands-on is definitely the way to go with this project,â you said, tilting your face up to meet his gaze, and the look he gave you was so tender it made your heart skip.
In one smooth motion, he flipped you beneath him again, his weight settling over you as his lips found yours. âI think we should continue our discussion right now,â he murmured, trailing kisses down your throat.
You were just beginning to melt into his touch when the sound of the office door opening made you both freeze.
âOh fuck! I didnât know you were still here,â a voice blurted.
You scrambled to grab Satoruâs shirt from the floor next to the couch and pulled it over yourself as you pressed back into the couch cushions. Thankfully, the back of the couch faced the door, giving you at least some cover, but your heart was hammering so hard you were sure whoever it was could hear it.
Satoru pushed himself up, running a hand through his messy hair, looking far too at ease for someone whoâd just been caught in a very compromising position
âSuguru,â he said, voice calm and unbothered. âWhatâs up?â
âDonât botherâIâm just looking for my laptop charger. Iâll leave.â
âItâs okay. We were just...â Satoru began, then seemed to realize there was no good way to finish that sentence. â...Having a meeting.â
You buried your face in your hands, mortified. Why the hell is he starting a conversation right now? This was not how youâd imagined your evening endingâalmost naked on Satoruâs office couch, wearing only his shirt, while his colleague stood in the doorway looking for his goddamn laptop charger.Â
The time you waited for the guy to get his charger were the most agonizing twenty second of your whole life and to your bad, Satoru wasnât even the slightest bit ashamed.
Little did you know that Suguru would become one of your closest friends once you and Satoru were actually in a relationship. But every single birthday party or casual gathering, that story would come again. âHaha, did you know Suguru caught us on the couch?â Satoru would joke, while Suguru would groan, âCan we please never talk about that again?â
Six months later, the apartment Satoru found for the two of you was perfect in the way only he could manageâspacious enough for both of you to have your own creative corners and with big windows that caught the morning light beautifully and offered a stunning view of the city skyline. It was nestled just across from a quiet park where the trees already turned gold for autumn.
But it was the room heâd turned into your art studio that brought you to tears the first time you saw it. Windows that faced the north for consistent lighting, spacious storage for your materials, and enough wall space to work on several large canvases at once.
âYou didnât have to do all this,â youâd said, running your fingers along the custom easel heâd installed.
âI wanted to,â heâd replied simply, wrapping his arms around you from behind. âI want to see what you create when you have all the space and time in the world.â
Youâd cut your hours at Takahashi Media Group down to part-timeâsomething that wouldâve been financially impossible before Satoru. But the commission for his headquarters had led to three more corporate projects, and suddenly, you had enough steady work to support yourself as an artist. Real work. Meaningful work. Not just subway sketchesâthough you still did those too. Now, Satoru sometimes joined you on weekend train rides, amused by the way strangers reacted to receiving unexpected portraits.
Your mornings became a rhythm of coffee in bed while he read financial reports and you sketched ideas for new pieces. After the third time he found you passed out over a canvas at 2 AM, having forgotten to eat dinner, he installed a espresso machine in your studio. Now, heâd show up with perfectly crafted lattes and whatever takeout heâd ordered, settling into the window seat with his laptop while you paintedâtaking calls with investors in Tokyo, New York, and London, all while keeping an eye on you and making sure you donât overwork yourself again.
âYou know I can hear you smiling through the phone,â youâd tease after he hung up from his calls.
âCanât help it,â heâd say. âIâve got the most beautiful view in the city right here.â
The subway sketches evolved too. Instead of giving them all away, you started keeping someâthe ones that captured something more, moments that felt like little revelations about people, about life. Satoru convinced you to include them in a group exhibition at a gallery in Shibuya. The opening night was small and intimate, but watching people connect with your work in a way they never had when you were just handing out drawings on trains felt like validation of everything youâd been trying to do.
âThis feels like coming full circle,â Satoru whispered into your ear as you both watched guests study your pieces, his hand resting warmly at the small of your back.
âFrom stalking me through my art to displaying it properly?â
âFrom falling in love with your work⌠to falling in love with you,â he corrected. And even after months of dating, after hearing him say those words more times than you could count, they still made your heart skip.
Suguru became an unexpected constant in your life too. What began hella awkward slowly turned into real friendship. And the three of you fell into an easy routine of weekend dinners and spontaneous museum visits, Suguru often playing the role of best friend and occasional voice of reason when Satoruâs grand romantic gestures got out of hand.
Which happened more often than youâd expected. Like the time he rented out an entire floor of a restaurant because youâd wanted to eat there but hated crowded rooms. Or when he bought a whole flower shopâs worth of peonies because youâd mentioned loving them once. Or the morning you woke up to find the cityâs best sushi chefâapparently an old friend of his, because Satoru seemed to know everyone in this goddamn townâpreparing breakfast in your kitchen, just because youâd been craving good fish.
âYou know you donât have to keep trying to impress me,â you told him after each increasingly excessive gesture. âI already said yes to moving in with you.â
âIâm not trying to impress you. Iâm trying to spoil you. Thereâs a difference.â
The truth was, it was the small things that meant the most. The way heâd automatically order your coffee when you were running late, or how heâd text you photos of interesting architecture from whatever city he was traveling through, or the fact that heâd learned to distinguish between your different paintbrushes and how to clean them properly when you forgot.Â
He even kept a sketchbook of his own now, filled with terrible but enthusiastic drawings of you working, cooking, sleeping, just existing in the space youâd built together.
Your family adored him, of course. Your mother immediately started calling him her âsecond sonâ after a chaotic family dinner heâd attendedâwhich, by the way, you always thought was kind of weird. Like, why would parents call him their âsonâ when he was spending every other night between your thighs?âStill, he charmed everyone with stories about his work, genuine interest in your fatherâs completely ordinary job and about your cousinsâ college applicationsâand even remembered your auntâs dogâs name. He always brought the perfect wine to pair with whatever your mom was cooking, and never forgot a birthday.
The subway sketches and posters that had started everything found a permanent home in the hallway of your shared apartment. A dozen framed moments that told the story of your work and your relationship. The original sketch youâd given him on that crowded train of Line 4 hung proudly in his office at work, right next to his desk where everyone could see it.
âThatâs where it all started,â heâd say whenever anyone asked. âBest investment I ever made.â
Three years later, when Satoru proposed during one of your morning train ridesâgetting down on one knee right there in the subway car where you first met, causing a scene that had fellow passengers cheering and taking picturesâyou realized that sometimes the best love stories start with the smallest gestures.Â
A sketch handed to a stranger. A poster campaign that was equal parts romantic and unhinged. A decision to be brave enough to call a number written on a business card.
And every morning, as you watched the city wake through the studioâs windows while Satoru hummed in the kitchen, probably checking market reports with one hand and making your coffee with the other, you couldnât help but smile at how beautifully imperfect it all was. How your once carefully ordered life had been turned upside down by a man with white hair and the kind of heart that didnât know how to love in small doses.
âStill think Iâm weird?â heâd ask sometimes, appearing in your studio doorway with a mug of coffee and that same grin that had made your knees weak the very first time.
âThe weirdest,â youâd always reply, taking the coffeeâand the kiss that came with it. âBut youâre my weird. And I love you.â
âI love you more,â heâd say, leaning down to kiss your forehead.
And that, youâd learned, made all the difference.
masterlist + support my writing
author's note â wait ! before you go ! if you enjoyed this story, iâd be forever grateful if youâd consider gifting me a few minutes of your time to participate in a research survey for my masterâs thesis in psychology <3 (am i shamelessly using my reach to gather primary data ? yes. yes i am. and i have no regrets.)
here's the link.
itâs completely anonymous, but just a heads-up: the survey touches on nightmares and emotional wellbeing, so it may be sensitive for some. please feel free to stop at any point if it doesnât feel right for you.
other than that, thank you so much for reading !! i hope you enjoyed the story. i need provider!satoru gojo so bad like ugh but instead iâm stuck in higher education trying to become my own provider. send help :')))
wishing you all the soft chaos you deserve. take care <3
ps: if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here.
the room is quiet, save for the soft hum of the early morning. pale sunlight slips through the blinds, painting golden stripes across the bed sheets and across his skin.
gojo's already awake.
has been for a while now, lying flat on his back, eyes wide and unfocused as he stares at the ceiling. his heartâs still racing, chest rising too quickly for someone who's just woken up. and below the sheets, heâs achingly hard.
because of you.
he turns his head slowly, almost like heâs afraid of what heâll see.
and there you are. still fast asleep, sprawled out on your stomach, face turned toward him. lips parted. breathing soft and even.
he swears under his breath. lifts the blanket just enough to peek beneath it. fuck. godâyouâre wearing his shirt. just that. itâs ridden up a little around your waist, exposing the bare curve of your ass, the soft dip of your back.
his cock twitches.
the dream flashes through his mind againâyour voice all breathy and wrecked, the heat of your body wrapped around him, the way you begged him not to stop.
he bites his lip. hard.
you shift a little in your sleep, unaware of the chaos heâs spiraling into. and he wonders if he can wait. if he should wake you. if youâd be okay with his hand ghosting up your thigh, if youâd press into his touch the same way you did in his dream.
he wants you. so badly itâs driving him insane.
you rustle beneath the covers, shifting just slightlyâjust enough for a quiet breath to slip from your lips. itâs barely a sound.
but to him, it might as well be a moan.
gojo runs a hand down his face, dragging it over his mouth like thatâll somehow ground him. it doesnât. youâre still there. still soft and sleeping and tempting him without even trying.
âfuck,â he mutters under his breath.
you stretch just a little. the hem of your his shirt rides up further. his eyes drop to the exposed skin of your thighs, the slope of your assâand before he can stop himself, he shifts closer. just a little. just enough to feel the heat radiating off you.
maybe if heâs careful.
maybe if heâs quietâ
the next thing he knows, heâs leaning over you, forearms braced on either side of your body, blanket pushed down around your hips. his breath catches. your cheek is still pressed against the pillow, brows softly furrowed like youâre just on the edge of waking.
and he canât help it.
he rolls his hips forward, a slow, grinding motion that presses his aching cock against your ass. his sleep shorts are the only thing separating him from you. the friction is barely enoughâbut it still punches the breath from his lungs.
god, you feel so warm. so soft.
he grits his teeth and does it again, hips moving just a little slower this time, savoring the drag of the fabric, the shape of you beneath him.
he shouldnât.
but he needs you.
he moves again. slower this time, like heâs testing the watersâlike if heâs careful, he can stretch this moment forever.
the thick heat of you under him, the cling of his shirt to your skin, the soft, mindless press of his cock against your ass with every gentle grind.
itâs dizzying.
heâs not even inside you, and still heâs gasping into the crook of your neck like youâre wringing the life out of him.
his hips roll forward again. then again. the rhythm is lazy, almost tender, and somehow worse because of it. like he's not trying to get offâjust feel you. just use your warmth to relieve the ache that's been plaguing him since he opened his eyes.
every slow drag of his cock against you sends sparks up his spine. and the friction of his shorts, damp and sticky with pre-cum, only adds to it.
his forehead drops to your shoulder. heâs panting now, quiet and uneven.
itâs sinful. itâs selfish.
but itâs you. and heâs helpless.
he grinds into you again, this time just a little harder, and your body shifts with the motionâhips tipping slightly, breath hitching in your throat.
he freezes.
and thenâ
ââŚâtoru?â
your voice, hoarse and thick with sleep, shatters the stillness.
his nameâthat nicknameâfalls from your lips like a whisper, delicate and confused.
he sucks in a breath through his teeth. pulls his head back enough to look down at you, andâfuckâyouâre blinking up at him, hazy and warm, face half-smushed into the pillow, lips parted just slightly.
youâre still so sleepy. so unaware of how heâs been using you.
âiâŚâ he starts, voice hoarse, raw with need. âshit. sorry, babyâi didnât mean to wake you.â
but his hips are still hovering dangerously close to yours. his breath still trembles. and his cockâstill pressed up against youâis throbbing.
you shift a little beneath him, body arching into his by instinct, and your sleepy eyes flutter open just enough to see the way heâs trembling above youâlike heâs barely holding it together.
âitâs okay, âtoru,â you mumble, voice soft and slurred with sleep. âi donât mindâŚâ
âfuck,â he groans, burying his face into the warm crook of your neck. âthank you. thank you, babyâŚâ
he moves againâgrinding into you slowly, reverently, like your body is holy and heâs here to worship. the drag of his cock against you is deeper now, more deliberate. but still patient. still soft.
his hands slide beneath the hem of your shirt, fingertips splaying across your bare waist as he keeps the rhythm. he kisses your shoulder. your neck. just the tip of your jaw.
âyou feel so good,â he whispers, voice wrecked. âdidnât mean to⌠fuck, i couldnât help it. had a dream, baby. thought i could stay quiet.â
your thighs shift slightly, spreading without a word, and the motion makes him groan low against your skin. his cock twitches again, damp with need, straining against the fabric between you.
and your quiet soundsâsoft sighs, broken little breathsâstart to fill the room, painting the silence with heat. they slip from your lips without thought, like your body is reacting before your mind can catch up. and satoruâs addicted.
âthatâs it,â he murmurs, nose nuzzling the shell of your ear. âlet me hear you.â
you whimper softly as he rolls his hips again, this time slower, deeper. the head of his cock catches between your cheeks and he shudders, cursing under his breath like heâs trying not to come already.
he's just about to rut into you again, a little harder this time, when your voice cuts through the haze.
âwait⌠satoru.â
he stops instantly.
breath ragged, muscles trembling, but he obeys. his hips still, though he's still pressed flush against youâhis cock hot and aching where it rests between your bodies. he lifts his head, eyes wild and a little dazed.
âyou okay?â he asks, voice hoarse, laced with concern. âdid I hurt yââ
you roll onto your back slowly, lazily, and his words catch in his throat.
your skin glows in the soft light. you hook your legs around his waist, dragging him down into the cradle of your hipsâand his breath leaves him in a shaky rush.
but you donât let him move.
not yet.
your hands slide up his chest, slow and teasing, nails barely grazing the firm lines of his body. he sucks in a breath as you trace over his abs, your touch featherlight, your expression still soft with sleep.
and then your hand slips past the waistband of his shorts.
he gasps.
you wrap your fingers around his cock, thick and flushed and leaking, and his whole body shuddersâhead dropping, forehead pressing to yours like heâs praying.
âf-fuck,â he chokes out, hips twitching into your grip. âbaby, what are youââ
âjust wanted to feel you,â you murmur, voice breathy.
your hand moves slow, teasing, just enough to make him twitch and pant above you. your thumb brushes over the tip, collecting the pre-cum and spreading it down the length of him, and he lets out the softest, most desperate whimper.
his arms buckle slightly, and his weight sinks into you, one hand buried in the sheets beside your head, the other gripping your hip like itâs the only thing keeping him grounded.
âplease,â he breathes, lips brushing yours. âplease, babyâfuck, Iâll do anything.â
you loop your free arm around his neck, pulling him down, and his lips crash against yours like heâs been waiting all morningâhell, all his life. the kiss is lazy in rhythm, but messy and needy, full of open mouths and shaky breaths, teeth knocking a little as you both whine into it like youâre coming apart just from the taste of each other.
youâre still stroking him, still pumping him in slow, slick pulls, and heâs barely holding onâhips stuttering, chest heaving, moaning into your mouth like youâre torturing him in the best way.
âfuck, baby, I canâtâIâm gonna lose itââ
you tug his shorts down with your other hand, fumbling a little, but he helps, shoving them halfway down his thighs just enough to free himself completely. His cock slaps against his stomach, flushed and leaking, and you guide him downâbetween your legs, to where youâre already soaked from all the teasing.
he pants into your mouth when you line him up with your entrance, his tip just barely nudging your folds.
âare you sure?â he rasps, voice breaking with restraint.
your legs tighten around his waist.
âwant you, âtoru,â you whisper. ânow.â
he chokes on a moan and then pushes in.
slow. deep.
the stretch pulls a gasp from your throat, and he buries his face in your neck with a broken groan, like the warmth of you around him is too much. like itâs everything heâs ever needed.
âfuckâbaby, you feelââ he gasps, bottoming out, hips trembling as he sinks all the way in. âso warm, so perfectâshit, iâm not gonna last.â
you clench around him just a little and he whines, breath stuttering.
then he pulls back and thrusts forward.
the sound of skin on skin fills the room, slick and slow at first, but it picks up quickâlike once he starts, he canât stop. like heâs wanted this all morning and now heâs finally inside you, heâs going to fuck you until his name is the only thing you remember.
your arms stay looped around his neck, keeping him close. Your mouths find each other again, messier this time, all tongue and moans and desperation.
and he fucks you deep, hips rolling with practiced ease, cock dragging perfectly against all the right spots.
âi dreamed about this,â he pants into your mouth. âwoke up so hardâjust needed youâfuck, baby, i need youââ
but it doesnât last. he tries to keep it together, he really does, but the way you squeeze around him, the soft whimpers you let out each time his hips meet yoursâitâs too much.
his rhythm falters. gets sloppier. more desperate.
each thrust comes quicker now, his body pressing tighter against yours, his moans getting higher and needier, fingers digging into your hips as he loses himself.
âsâshit, baby, iâm gonnaâi canâtââ he gasps, voice trembling.
you giggle softly, breathless, feeling him start to stutter. you tilt your head, brushing your lips against his cheek, and whisper, âalready?â
his whole body shudders, and then heâs burying his face in your shoulder with a broken whine.
âdonâtâfuck, donât teaseââ
but itâs too late. he cums with a soft cry, hips stuttering hard against you, spilling into you. the way he groans your name, the heat of him filling you, the trembling press of his bodyâit tips you over the edge, too. your legs tighten around him as a soft gasp escapes your lips, your body clenching around him, pulled taut with pleasure as you come together in a slow, messy, breathless tangle. his whole body goes taut, then slumps against yours, breath ragged and skin burning hot.
you hold him close, running gentle fingers through the damp strands of white hair sticking to his forehead. heâs panting, face flushed a pretty pink, eyes squeezed shut as he tries to recover.
âplease donât say anything,â he mumbles into your neck, still breathless, voice small.
you laugh, soft and warm, and pull him in for a sweet kiss.
âgood morning to you too, loverboy.â
author's note. someone pls convince me this is good enough i just needed to post something it's been so long i'm sorry </3
summary. Newton said the smaller the distance, the stronger the pull. Gojo Satoru thinks that explains the way he feels when youâre close.
word count. 18.2k (i need help)
content. mdni, fem!reader, college au, nerd! gojo, simp gojo supremacy, fluff, banter, tensionnnn, pet names, he's so down bad it's actually pathetic, teasing, smut, male mast., oral (male + fem rec), cum eating, face sitting, p in v, mating press, slight hair pulling, praise, swearing, light dumbification (just a lil), tit play, overstim, creampie, aftercare, pillow talk
author's note. fashionably late (?) to the trend BUT HERE WE ARE
Gojo Satoru is already arguing with the professor.
The classroom smells like coffee and too-new textbooks, the kind of sterile atmosphere that clings to the first week of university. Half the students arenât even paying attention yet, still easing into the rhythm of things. But not him.
Gojo stands tall near the front, hands in the pockets of his pressed slacks, sweater vest and button-up perfectly in place, thick-rimmed glasses pushed up the bridge of his nose. His snowy hair is perfectly messy, his posture relaxedâalmost bored.
âIâm just saying,â he drawls, voice smooth and annoyingly self-assured, âyou canât talk about general relativity without at least addressing gravitational time dilation. Not if you want to keep your credibility.â
Thereâs a beat of silence. Someone in the back stifles a laugh.
The professor straightens her notes. âWeâll get there, Gojo.â
âSure,â he says, unbothered, but thereâs a glint in his cerulean eyes. âBut isnât it a little irresponsible to feed undergrads simplified versions of reality? Weâre not children.â
âYouâre barely adults,â the professor mutters under her breath.
And just when it seems like heâs winding up for another volleyâanother casually devastating critique thatâll make the professorâs eye twitchâthe door opens with a quiet creak.
âSorry Iâm late.â
The room stills.
You step inside, backpack slung over one shoulder, sunlight catching in your hair like some perfectly staged movie scene. You arenât frazzled or apologeticâjust calm, composed, like this is your class and everyone else is simply borrowing space in it.
Gojo turns. And forgets how to speak.
He doesnât recognize you even though heâs memorized everyoneâs faces during the orientation. But yours is unfamiliar. Distractingly so. And in that moment, standing half-turned at the front of the classroom, he is completely, totally, undeniably wrecked. His mouth parts slightly. No sound comes out.
The professor clears her throat. âTry to be on time next class.â
You nod easily. âOf course. Wonât happen again.â
Gojoâs eyes follow you as you make your way to an empty seatâhis row. The one he claimed early on for optimal note-taking and strategic interruption placement. And of course, because the universe clearly enjoys watching him suffer, you pick the seat right beside his.
He doesnât move. Doesnât sit. Just watches as you settle in beside him and flip open your notebook like nothingâs happened. Like you didnât just reset the laws of gravity around his universe.
âGojo?â the professor prompts from the front.
He startles. âHuh? Ohâyeah. I mean, yes. Sorry.â
Silence stretches as the lecture resumes. Gojo Satoruâs foot bounces beneath the desk. His fingers twitch like they want to scribble something but forgot how pens work.
He chances a glance at you from the corner of his eye. Youâre taking notes, completely unfazed. Like you havenât just walked into his orbit and thrown everything off-axis.
-
Itâs quiet in the library. The kind of quiet that almost feels sacred, broken only by the occasional rustle of paper or the soft click of a keyboard. Youâre tucked away at a corner table, head down, headphones in, completely immersed in your reading.
Gojo spots you the moment he steps in. He hadnât meant to come hereâphysics homework was the last thing on his mind todayâbut the second he saw you seated, that changed. Suddenly, heâs very interested in gravitational lensing and quantum field theories.
He chooses the table diagonally across from yours. Not directly oppositeâthat would be too obvious. But just close enough that he can sneak glances without it being weird. Probably.
He flips open a textbook. Doesnât read a single word. Just peeks at you over the top of the page like a little nerdy menace in disguise. Every time you adjust your hair or furrow your brows or smile faintly at something you read, itâs like heâs been hit in the chest. Repeatedly.
Then you look up.
He freezes. Straightens up. Pretends to be deeply fascinated by a diagram of a particle collider. You blink. Tilt your head a little. Thenâyou pull your headphones out. âGojo Satoru, right?â
He almost drops his pen. âUhâyeah. Thatâs me.â
âYouâve been staring at page fifteen for like⌠twenty minutes.â
He blinks. Looks down at his book. Flips it to page thirty-seven. âRight. Yeah. Thatâs, uhâintentional.â
You smile. âSure it is.â
He wants to melt into the carpet.
You go back to your notes, sliding your headphones on again like itâs nothing. But that smile doesnât leave your face. And Gojoâs certain heâll be thinking about it for the rest of the week.
-
You're sitting under the tree near the physics building, nose buried in your laptop, headphones on, pretending you donât feel someone staring at you. You do. Of course you do.
You glance up. Heâs there.
Gojo, the cocky know-it-all from class. Still in that damned sweater vest, hair all floofy like he just rolled out of a nap and somehow made it fashion. Heâs holding a coffee cup with one hand and awkwardly adjusting his glasses with the other, pretending like he just happened to pass by. He absolutely did not.
You blink. He panics.
âOh. Uhâhey,â he says, and it comes out a little too loud, a little too fast, like his vocal cords staged a mutiny the second your eyes met.
You slide your headphones down. âHi.â
Thereâs a long pause. He fidgets with the sleeve of his shirt, eyes flicking everywhere but your face now. âYou, uh⌠You always sit here?â
You raise an eyebrow. âDuring this exact 30-minute window between classes? Yeah. Kinda my thing.â
âOh,â he says, and laughsânervously. âCoolcoolcool. I justâuh. I just thought you looked like someone who enjoys differential equations under tree shade.â
You squint. âYouâre making fun of me.â
âWhat? No! IâI do that too. All the time. Big tree guy. Huge⌠leaf enjoyer.â
Thereâs a beat of silence. You bite back a laugh. âYou good?â
âI was,â he mumbles, almost to himself, then louder: âYeah! Iâm totallyâso good. Amazing, even.â
You give him a look. He clears his throat and tries again. âListen, I didnât get your name earlier, and thatâs kind of a crime in several countries, probably. SoâŚâ
You pause, then finally tell him.
He repeats it under his breath like a prayer. âPretty.â
You tilt your head at him, teasing. âSo⌠was there a reason you were looking at me in class? Or is staring at people just part of your regular schedule?â
He flinches. Like, visibly. Adjusts his glasses again even though theyâre already perfectly in place. âStaring is a strong word.â
âYou choked on air.â
He groans, half-laughing, half-dying inside. âOkayâyeah, that⌠may have happened. But in my defense, I didnât know I was capable of being that flustered until you walked in.â
Your eyebrows lift. âYou were flustered?â
âFatally,â he replies without missing a beat. âIt was the most embarrassing moment of my entire academic career. And I once accidentally called a professor âdadâ in front of the entire cohort, so.â
You snort. âNo you didnât.â
âUnfortunately, I did. That man never looked at me the same again.â
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. Thereâs something kind of charming about the contrastâhow sharp and smug he is in the lecture hall, then how weirdly dorky he gets the second he talks to you.
Gojo notices the smile. He lights up. âThatâs a win, right?â he grins. âThat counts as a win?â
You roll your eyes. âBarely.â
âStill counts,â he sings, rocking back on his heels. âYou like coffee?â
You blink. âThatâs random.â
âI just thoughtâmaybe next time I bring one, I could bring you one too. You know. If weâre both going to be professionally loitering under this tree during our thirty-minute window.â
You pretend to think about it. âWhat kind?â
âWhatever kind makes you smile again.â
You pause. Okay. That was smooth.
You look away, just for a second, to hide the grin threatening to take over your whole face.
âYouâre annoying,â you mutter.
He beams. âYouâre not the first to say that.â
You part ways not long after, the building just a few steps ahead, and Gojoâs still standing where you left himâhands in his pockets, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, hair gleaming like spun silver in the sunlight.
You steal one last glance as you walk away, andâyep. Heâs still watching you.
Still smiling like he knows something you donât.
And just when you think youâve escaped unscathed, you hear his voice call after you: âBy the way, if you keep looking at me like that, I will ask for your number next time!â
You donât turn around. You canât. Your cheeks are already on fire.
But he laughs, bright and victorious, and you know he saw the way you tripped on the curb a second later. Cocky bastard.
And yet⌠youâre smiling the whole walk to class.
-
Youâre seated a few rows back this time. Thought it might help with the whole not staring directly at Gojo Satoru like he invented astrophysics problem.
It doesnât.
Not when heâs in his usual seat up front, one leg crossed over the other, sleeves pushed to his elbows like heâs here to work. Glasses low on his nose. A pen between his fingers that he keeps spinningâcasually, like itâs no big deal heâs also kind of stupidly good at everything.
The professor drones on at the front of the room, explaining quantum field theory, but youâre only half-listening.
Because Gojo raises his hand. Again.
âActually, thatâs not entirely accurate,â he says, voice way too smooth for a know-it-all. âIf you factor in the renormalization group flow, the outcome shifts entirely. I can show you if you want.â
She blinks. âI⌠well. Thatâs a fair point, Gojo.â
He grins, leans back like he didnât just out-nerd a tenured physicist, and thenâthenâhe looks at you. Like he knows youâre watching.
And you are. You so are.
Gojo tilts his head slightly, mouth curling into that infuriating little smirk as he mouths: Impressed yet?
You look away instantly.
You are. Youâre very impressed. Unfortunately. But youâre not gonna let him know that. Not yet.
So instead, you raise your hand. And when the professor calls on you, you challenge his answer.
Gojo looks like you just proposed.
-
Class ends and students start filing out, a low murmur of backpacks zipping and chairs scraping filling the air. Youâre casually packing up your things, pretending not to notice the way someone is lingering by the door.
He shouldâve left already. But noâheâs leaning against the wall like itâs a conscious choice, not that heâs waiting for you or anything. Totally not that.
You sling your bag over your shoulder and head out. You donât even get five steps into the hallway before you hearâ
âSoâŚâ
You turn.
Gojoâs standing there, hands in his pockets, lips parted like heâs still catching his breath. His glasses are a little crooked. Probably because heâs been running that hand through his hair again. He straightens up when you face him.
âThat was⌠impressive,â he says, rubbing the back of his neck. âLike, really impressive.â
You smile. âThanks. You were good too, by the way.â
He blinks. âGood? Iâgood? Thatâs it?â
âYup.â You start walking. âTry harder next time.â
Thereâs a pause. And then he jogs up beside you, looking equal parts offended and delighted. âOh, okay. So thatâs how it is?â he teases, grinning. âYouâre one of those girls.â
âWhat girls?â
âThe ones who enjoy crushing the academic dreams of sweet, helpless nerds like me.â
You give him a look. âHelpless?â
âDevastatingly,â he says, deadpan.
You snort. âYou literally made a PhD cry last week.â
âShe recovered.â
âYou sent her a fruit basket.â
âSee? I care.â
You try to hold back your laughter but fail miserably, and he lights up like you just handed him the Nobel Prize.
You turn the corner toward the next building, Satoru trailing beside you like a very tall, mildly wounded puppy.
Heâs oddly quietâhands still shoved in his pockets, eyes flicking your way every few seconds like heâs waiting for a verdict. It's kind of adorable.
You stop walking. âCome on,â you say, already veering toward the campus cafĂŠ. âIâll buy you a coffee.â
Satoru blinks. Twice. âL-like⌠like a date?â
You snort, rolling your eyes. âWoah there. Hold your horses, bud. Iâm doing it so maybe youâll stop moping around.â
He gaspsâactually gaspsâhands flying to his chest in mock offense. âI am not moping!â
âYou literally sighed ten times during that walk.â
âI was brooding. Itâs different.â
You raise an eyebrow. âYou pouted when I said you were just âgoodâ in class.â
âIâm a sensitive soul!â
âYouâre insufferable.â
âBut charming,â he says quickly, catching up to walk beside you again, shoulder bumping yours. âUndeniably charming.â
You hum, lips twitching. âSure. Letâs go with that.â
He grins, all pearly teeth and pretty-boy smugness, practically floating now. And just as you're about to step into the cafĂŠ, you hear him mutter something behind you, half to himselfâ
âIâm so gonna make you fall in love with me.â
You turn slightly. âWhat was that?â
âNothing!â he chirps, already holding the door open for you like a gentleman. âLadies first!â
-
He watches you from the tiny round table by the window, chin propped in his hand, glasses slipping a little down the bridge of his nose. Youâre standing at the counter, reading over the menu with a furrow between your brows like youâre solving quantum equations instead of choosing between oat milk or soy.
He could watch you forever. Not in a creepy wayâokay, maybe a little creepyâbut in that dumb, enamored kind of way where even the way you tap your fingers against the counter makes his heart do this weird flip.
You step up, voice soft but certain when you order. Vanilla latte, extra shot, light foam.
He files it away instantly. Vanilla. Extra shot. Light foam. Heâs going to remember that forever. He could write a thesis on it.
Your name is called, and he watches the way your eyes crinkle a little when you thank the barista. When you turn around, drinks in hand, and start walking back toward him, he panicsâbecause suddenly heâs hyper-aware of how dumb he must look just staring.
He quickly looks down at his phone screen, pretending to scroll through something important. Itâs literally just his calculator app open from earlier. Nothingâs calculated.Â
You slide his drink toward him when you sit. He doesnât even care what it is. You couldâve handed him gasoline and he wouldâve sipped it happily.
âThanks,â he says casuallyâway too casually for someone whose brain short-circuited the moment you looked at him.
And then you take a sip of yours, and he blurts it out without thinking:
âYouâre sweet.â
You blink. âHuh?â
He clears his throat. âThe drink, I mean. Itâs sweet.â
Smooth. So smooth.
You squint at him suspiciously. He hides behind his cup and takes a sip.
You're mid-sip of your latte when he says itâcompletely out of nowhere, eyes locked on you like he's trying to memorize your entire existence.
"You're kinda pretty when youâre annoyed, yâknow?"
You almost choke. "What?"
He leans forward, resting his chin in his palm, grinning like he just cracked the code to the universe. âJust an observation. Purely academic.â
"Youâre impossible," you mutter, eyes darting awayâand he sees it, the blush creeping up your neck.
And thatâs it. Thatâs his victory.
He leans back in his chair, smug as hell. âYou're blushing.â
"I'm not."
âOh no, donât worry. I think itâs cute,â he says, like itâs a fact in a textbook.
You throw a sugar packet at him. He dodges with a laugh.
"You trying to kill me? And here I thought this was a date."
You give him a look. âItâs not a date.â
He shrugs, grabbing your drink and stealing a sip like it is. âCouldâve fooled me.â
You snatch your cup back, but itâs too lateâheâs already smacked his lips like a wine critic.
âAre you always this annoying?â you ask, sipping your drink now.
He shrugs. âOnly when I like someone.â
You freeze for half a second. And he sees that too.
Your voice is careful, teasing but cautious. âSo you like me now?â
He hums, looking away dramatically, as if heâs pondering some great cosmic truth. âI donât know⌠Maybe. Youâre cute when youâre flustered. And when youâre mean to me. And when you roll your eyes. Andââ
âOkay, stop.â
âNope. You gave me coffee. Iâm powered up now. Canât shut me up.â
You groan, slumping in your seat with the most dramatic expression you can manage.
He grins wide, and that smug sparkle in his eyes softens, just a bit. âBut seriously,â he says, voice quieter now, âI like talking to you.â
And that shuts you up for a beat.
You meet his eyes again, and this time, thereâs no teasing, no cocky grinâjust sincerity, wrapped in dorky charm. ââŚI like talking to you too,â you admit, soft.
And just like that, he lights up all over again.
-
You both exit the cafĂŠ, coffees in hand, the air warmer than before but still crisp. The sunâs out, and so is Gojoâs smileâuntil you stop at the sidewalk and glance down at your phone.
âShit,â you mutter. âIâve got class right now.â
His face drops instantly. âWaitâalready? But I havenât even finished annoying you yet.â
You laugh, nudging his arm with your elbow. âYouâve done plenty in the last thirty minutes, trust me.â
He exhales dramatically, shoulders sagging as he pouts. âThis is tragic. A real loss for humanity.â
âDonât be so dramatic.â
âBut I miss you already,â he says. âWhoâs gonna listen to my unfiltered genius now?â
You raise a brow, backing away slowly. âIâm sure youâll find a new victim. See you, Gojo.â
âWaitâwait, when do I see you again?â he calls after you, half-joking, half-not.
You shoot him a smile over your shoulder. âYouâll live.â
And as you disappear into the crowd, he just stands there for a moment, lips pressed together, watching you go.
ââŚNo I wonât.â
-
You donât think much of it when Gojo catches up to you outside the lecture hall again. Heâs chatty as usual, teasing you about your keychain, dramatically proclaiming how he almost tripped over a squirrel on the way here, all while walking a half-step closer than necessary. Same old Gojo stuff.
You head toward your usual seat, a few rows back from the frontâjust enough distance to not get called on every two minutes. Youâre used to watching him breeze right past, to the very first row, like heâs the poster boy for "overachiever of the year."
So when you slide into your seat and Gojo casually takes the one right next to you, backpack dropping with a thud at his feet, you do a double take.
âWhat are you doing?â you whisper.
He only shrugs, flashing that annoyingly pretty smile. âJust felt like switching it up today.â
Youâre not the only one caught off guard. A few students glance over and someone even nudges their friend like this is newsworthy.
Because Gojo Satoru doesnât switch it up. Heâs the guy who color codes his notes and brings a backup calculator. But now heâs here, sitting so close that his knee bumps yours beneath the table and stays there.
You try to focus when class beginsâbut it's hard when he's right there beside you, radiating warmth. Every now and then, his fingers graze your thigh beneath the deskâcasual, like itâs nothing. Like itâs everything.
You donât look at him. But you know heâs grinning. And just when you're starting to think this canât get more distractingâ
âBefore we end today,â the professor says, âIâm assigning a group project. Pairs, selected at random.â
Your stomach sinks. You glance at Gojo, whoâs already turned toward the front again, fingers drumming lightly on the desk. Like he knows.
You hear names being rattled off. A list of partnerships. Thenâ
âAnd lastly, Gojo Satoru andâŚâ A pause. âYou.â
Silence. You blink. Gojo leans back with a loud, satisfied sigh and stretches his arms behind his head.
âOh no,â you mutter, already dreading whatâs coming.
âOh yes,â he says, grinning so wide it should be illegal.
-
You step out of the lecture hall with Gojo hot on your heels, practically bouncing with excitement. Heâs still beaming about the professorâs decision like he just won the lottery.
âThis is fate,â he says, catching up to walk beside you. âWeâre gonna be the best pair in that class. I mean, youâve got the brains and the beauty, and Iâve got the everything else.â
You snort. âYouâre not serious.â
âOh, Iâm dead serious.â He adjusts the strap of his backpack with dramatic flair. âThis is the beginning of a legendary academic alliance.â
You roll your eyes, trying to suppress the smile tugging at your lips. âSo, when do we start this legendary alliance of yours?â
He doesnât miss a beat. âThought youâd never ask. I was thinking⌠we could cash in that coffee date you promised me. Use the time to plan out our project. Very responsible. Very scholarly.â
You shoot him a look. âItâs not a date.â
âSure,â he says easily, eyes twinkling. âA purely educational rendezvous at a cozy cafĂŠ where we might happen to sit close enough to accidentally brush knees again.â
You groan. âFine. But weâre actually working on the project this time.â
âNo promises,â he grins.
And you hate how you laugh at that.
-
Youâre tucked into the booth of a cafĂŠ, a half-empty cup of coffee sitting forgotten as you scribble into your notebook. Across from you, Gojoâs talking a mile a minuteâbouncing between theories, concepts, and potential outlines for your project with the kind of ease that only someone dangerously smart could pull off.
And the worst part? Every word out of his mouth actually makes sense.
You glance up at him, brows lifting slightly. âOkay, that last one? Thatâs actually⌠really solid.â
He beams. âRight? I knew youâd see the brilliance.â
You shake your head with a small laugh. âI hate to say it, but Iâm impressed.â
Gojo leans forward, resting his chin on his hand with a smug grin. âCareful now. Compliments like that might go to my head.â
You ignore him, scribbling something down beside his last idea. The two of you work like that for a whileâyou writing, him throwing ideas around and occasionally sipping from his drink. And before you know it, youâve got the skeleton of a full project mapped out.
He stretches his arms above his head, shirt riding up just enough to be distracting. âWhew. Honestly? I didnât expect to get this much done.â
You close your notebook, tapping your pen against the table. âWe could start putting together the first draft later this week.â
Gojo nods. âYeah, sure. We could work at my place or somethââ
You cut him off, tone light. âYou could come to mine.â
He freezes. Blinks. âY-your place?â
You smile sweetly. âMhm.â
He stares at you, cheeks tinged pink behind his glasses. âIâyeah. Yeah, totally. Your place. Great idea. Love that. Very efficient. Extremely platonic and professional.â
You laugh. âYouâre cute when you malfunction.â
âI donât malfunction,â he mumbles.
You donât believe that for a second.
Heâs trying so hard to play it cool, but his brain short-circuited the moment you suggested your place. His legs bounce under the table, fingers fidgeting with the sleeve of his shirt like itâll ground him somehow.
You lean back in your seat, arms crossed as you observe him with a smug little smile. âYou alright there, genius?â
Satoru clears his throat, adjusting his glasses even though theyâre not crooked. âMe? Totally fine. Just recalibrating. You know, like⌠spatially. Mentally.â
You blink at him. âUh-huh.â
He runs a hand through his snowy hair, the tips poking out in every direction like even they are flustered. âI just wasnât expecting that, is all.â
âYou werenât expecting me to suggest we work on the project?â
âNoâI mean, yesâbut at your place?â He lifts his hands, palms up like heâs holding the concept of your apartment in the air. âDo you even realize what that implies?â
You tilt your head. âThat I trust you to not snoop through my things?â
He looks offended. âI would never snoop. I am a gentleman.â
âOkay, gentleman,â you say, standing and grabbing your bag. âThen bring snacks when you come over.â
That shuts him up real quick. He stares up at you, blinking as you sling your bag over your shoulder and give him one last little smirk. âOh,â you add casually, âand maybe wear those glasses again.â
His jaw drops.
You donât wait to see his reaction. You just turn and walk off with the smuggest little sway to your step, leaving Gojo sitting thereâcompletely malfunctioning, heart doing gymnastics in his chest.
He presses a hand over it, eyes wide. âOh god.â
-
[gojo]: hey. hey hey hey
[gojo]: when u said ur place⌠u meant like. like ur apartment right
[gojo]: like ur home. with walls. and couches. and stuff
[you]: i am aware of what my apartment contains, yes.
[gojo]: just checking đ
[gojo]: do i need to bring a textbook? or will u be tutoring me using sheer intimidation alone
[you]: i thought i was the one taking notes last time?
[gojo]: yeah but you intimidated me into being smart. thatâs powerful
[gojo]: anyway whatâs ur address đ
[you]: [sends location]
[you]: and bring snacks like i said. iâm not letting you in if you show up empty handed
[gojo]: what kind of snacks
[you]: surprise me
[gojo]: âŚ
[gojo]: you have NO idea what youâve just done
[you]: satoru itâs literally just snacks
[gojo]: and now iâm overthinking EVERYTHING. chips? chocolate? do i bring a charcuterie board???
[gojo]: i need you to know iâm taking this Very Seriously.
[you]: iâm sure you are.
[gojo]: đ¤ just u wait. iâll be the best study buddy youâve ever had.Â
[you]: is this your way of flirting or are you always like this
[gojo]: âŚyes
-
You open the door and there he isâstanding on your doorstep. His arms are full: a tote bag slung over his shoulder, a drink carrier in one hand, and a plastic bag filled with snacks in the other.
âYou said surprise you,â he announces, stepping in. âSo I brought everything. Chips. Cookies. Gummy worms. Protein bars, because balance. And boba. I panicked.â
You raise an eyebrow. âYou brought a buffet.â
âI wanted to impress you,â he says, dead serious, slipping his shoes off at the door.
You stifle a laugh and step aside. âCome on in.â
Your place is cozy, warm lighting humming softly. Gojoâs eyes flit around like heâs taking mental notes of every detailâyour throw pillows, your bookshelf, the faint scent of your perfume lingering in the air. You pretend not to notice how he seems ten times quieter than usual.
âSit,â you say, motioning to the couch.Â
He plops down next to you, thigh brushing yours, and pulls out his notes. âSo. I was thinking we model the phase shift in the magnetic field usingâwaitâwait, are you actually listening or just staring at my mouth?â
You blink at him. âI was listening. You just talk a lot.â
He leans in, smirking. âBut you were also staring.â
You swat his arm. âFocus.â
âYes, maâam,â he mumbles, hiding a very pleased grin.
As you two dive into the project, itâs surprisingly productive. Heâs brilliantâhe rattles off concepts with such ease that youâre genuinely impressed. You ask questions. He answers. You scribble notes while he paces your living room barefoot, gesturing wildly as he explains advanced equations like theyâre childrenâs bedtime stories. Heâs in his element. And kind of hot, too, in a completely nerdy, passionate way.
âYouâre really smart,â you say eventually, mid-note-taking.
He freezes. Turns to you slowly. âSay that again.â
You raise an eyebrow. âI said youâre smartââ
âNo no,â he says, dropping onto the couch beside you again. âSay it slower. Maybe into my ear this time.â
You laugh, shoving him gently. âGod, youâre impossible.â
âAnd yet you invited me over.â His voice drops just slightly, eyes glittering behind those thick-rimmed glasses. âKinda makes me think you like having me around.â
Your heart skips. âMaybe I do.â
He stares for a momentâreally staresâand then gives you the softest smile. âThen I guess Iâm not leaving until we finish the whole project. Top marks, remember?â
âTop marks,â you echo.
When your hands brush reaching for the same pen, you both freeze.
You recover first, pulling your hand back slightly. âYou can have it,â you say, trying to keep your voice casual.
Gojo, stubborn as ever, immediately shakes his head. âNo, itâs alright. You can have it.â
âNo, seriously, take it.â
âI insist.â
âYouâre being annoying.â
âYou like when Iâm annoying,â he says with a cheeky grin.
You roll your eyes and shove the pen towards him. âJust take it before I stab you with it.â
There's a beat of silence where you both just stare at each otherâawkward, heated, too aware of how close youâre sitting. You can feel the air shift between you, something lingering and soft.
Gojo clears his throat loudly, leaning back against the couch with exaggerated nonchalance. âUhâsnack break?â he says, voice a little too high-pitched to be smooth.
You bite back a smile, grateful for the out. âYeah. Snack break.â
He springs up like heâs been given a second life, muttering something under his breath about chips and cookies while you try very hard not to laugh.
Gojo rummages through your cabinets like he lives there, narrating dramatically under his breath. "Let's see... we have some chips, half a granola bar... oh-ho, instant ramen! A true feast fit for a queen."
You lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching him with an amused smile. "You're so dramatic."
He whirls around, holding the ramen packet in one hand like itâs a sacred artifact. "Dramatic? No, no, this is culinary excellence, sweetheart."
You snort, covering your laugh with the back of your hand. "You're about to microwave that."
"Precisely." He winks at you. "Modern problems require modern solutions."
You roll your eyes but grab a cup, filling it with water and handing it to him. Your fingers brush when he takes it, and maybe youâre imagining it, but he seems to pause for half a second longer than necessary, fingers brushing yours again on purpose.
"I'll make you the best cup ramen of your life," he declares proudly, tossing it into the microwave and punching in the time.
"Bold of you to assume I have low standards," you tease.
He leans an elbow on the counter, cocking his head at you with a lazy, smug grin. "Again. You invited me over. I'd say your standards are excellent."
Your cheeks flame immediately. "Shut up."
He just laughs, tossing his messy hair out of his eyes, looking at you like youâre the only thing that matters in the room.
The microwave dings and Gojo gasps. "It's time."
He pulls the ramen out like itâs a precious treasure, dramatically blowing on it before holding it out to you.
"Milady," he says in a terrible fake accent, "your meal."
Youâre laughing too hard to even be annoyed. You take the cup from him, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.
-
You both make your way to the couch after the world's most gourmet snack break (according to Gojo), slumping down with your legs tucked under you while he scrolls endlessly through your streaming options.
"Pick something," you say, poking his thigh with your toe.
"But it's so hard," he whines dramatically. "What if I pick something that doesn't match our vibe?" He flashes you a sly, boyish smile, the kind that makes your heart lurch even when you don't want it to.
You roll your eyes, tossing a throw pillow at him. "Just pick something, drama queen."
He catches the pillow effortlessly, still grinning, and finally settles on some random romcomâprobably because he thinks it'll impress you with how emotionally available he is. Not even five minutes in, he does the whole exaggerated stretch and casual arm drop behind you. Textbook.
You give him a look. "Subtle."
He just beams, smug and utterly unbothered. "Thanks. Been practicing."
You shake your head, laughing under your breath, but you don't move away. Instead, you let the warmth of his arm hovering behind you linger there, like a secret.
You both slowly ease into a lazy sort of comfort, shoulders brushing every so often, knees bumping when one of you shifts. Heâs fidgety, thoughâtapping his fingers against the cushion, sneaking glances at you when he thinks you won't notice.
You notice. You just pretend not to.
Time blurs, the movie forgotten as conversation picks up again. Dumb stuff. Stories about professors, weird classmates, Gojo ranting about a physics experiment gone wrong because "the equipment was stupid, not me," and you laughing so hard your stomach hurts. At some point you realize how late itâs gotten.
You glance at your phone. "Shit, itâs almost midnight."
Gojo pouts dramatically. "Nooo, donât kick me out."
"You have class at eight tomorrow," you remind him, stretching your arms above your head. "Donât you dare blame me when you fall asleep in class."
He sighs, long and exaggerated, standing up anyway. "Fine. But just so you know, leaving is painful for me. Agony, even."
You snort, pushing yourself off the couch. "You'll live, Satoru."
He lingers by the door, bouncing on his heels like he wants to say something. And then he blurts, all in one breath: "Do you wanna go on a date with me?"
You blink, caught off guard. "A coffee date?"
"No, no!" He waves his hands frantically. "Likeâa real date. A good one. A fancy one. With food and everything!"
His voice goes a little desperate toward the end, as if you're seconds from rejecting him.
You cross your arms, fighting back a laugh. "Are you begging, Gojo?"
"Yes," he says instantly, with zero shame.
You tap your chin, pretending to think it over just to mess with him.
He looks genuinely tortured, hands clutched in front of him like he's praying.
Finally, you shrug. "Alright. You can take me out."
The way his whole face lights up could rival the sun. "YESâYES, OH MY GODâokay, okay, I wonât screw this up, swear on my honorâ"
You laugh, pushing him lightly toward the door. "Text me the details, Romeo."
Heâs still beaming when he stumbles out, waving giddily.
You shake your head, grinning to yourself as you shut the door behind him.
-
You stand in front of the mirror, arms crossed, glaring at the mountain of clothes on your bed.
Itâs ridiculous. It's Gojo Satoru, for godâs sakeâthe same man who wears sweater vests unironicallyâso why are you panicking about what to wear?
You pick up a red dress, stare at it, and toss it aside. Too much.
A simple blouse and jeans? Too casual.
You want to look good. Scratch thatâyou want to make his brain short-circuit when he sees you.
Finally, after what feels like hours of spiraling, you settle on a black off-shoulder dress that hugs your figure flatteringly. Itâs something that feels like youâsimple but pretty, enough to make your heart skip when you catch your reflection.
Right as youâre fixing the final touches, your phone buzzes.
[gojo đ]: here <3
[gojo đ]: try not to fall in love with me too fast ok
You snort under your breath. Too late, you think, heart thudding faster than youâd ever admit.
You grab your bag and head outside, spotting him.Â
You almost don't recognize him at first.
Gone are the thick-rimmed glasses and the nerdy sweater vest he usually sports in class. Tonight, Gojo Satoru is dressed in a simple white button-upâsleeves rolled up to his forearmsâand black dress pants that cling just right to his lean frame. His snowy hair is still messy, like he ran his hands through it a million times, but somehow, it works. He looks effortlessly good. Stupidly good.
And when he spots you, he nearly trips over his own feet.
"Hey," you greet, a little breathless from how unfairly good he looks.
"Hey," he says back, voice cracking halfway through. He coughs, fumbling to form literal words, cheeks flushed. "You, uhâyou lookâwow."
You laugh softly as he practically skips toward you, offering you his arm with an exaggerated flourish. "Shall we, m'lady?"
You roll your eyes but take his arm anyway, feeling the warmth of him through the fabric of his shirt.
He leans down to whisper in your ear, cocky and sweet all at once: "Just so you know, I'm totally gonna brag about this to my future grandkids."
You elbow him lightly in the side, and he laughs, the happiest sound you've heard all day.
You laugh softly, letting go of him to get into the car, and he stands there for a second like heâs been shot.
When he finally gets himself together and slides into the driverâs seat, he sneaks a look at you. "Youâreâ" he starts, then cuts himself off, shaking his head like he canât believe his own luck. "Perfect," he finishes under his breath.
You pretend not to hear it, hiding your smile as he pulls out onto the roadâone hand casually on the wheel, the other fiddling nervously with his collar.
Neither of you says much at first. The radio hums softly between you.
But every few seconds, you catch him sneaking glances your way, grinning like this is already the best date ever.
-
You recognize the place immediately.
Itâs a beautiful rooftop restaurantâone youâd mentioned wanting to try in passing, months ago, when a friend posted about it on social media. You hadnât even realized he was listening.
The fact that he remembered makes your heart swell.
Satoru pulls into the valet line, hands slightly fidgety on the steering wheel. He throws a quick, nervous glance at you, like heâs scared you wonât like it.
"You, uh, mentioned it once," he says, almost shyly. "Thought it'd be better than, y'know... coffee again."
Your chest tightens in the softest, sweetest way. You open your mouth, ready to tease him, but the look on his faceâthe earnest hope in his eyesâmakes you stop. You just smile instead.
"Itâs perfect," you say quietly.
And the way he beams after that? God, you almost have to look away. Too much.
He practically leaps out of the car the second it's parked, sprinting around to your side to open the door for you. Exceptâhe miscalculates the timing and almost slams it into his own shin.
"Owâshitâ" he mutters under his breath, recovering quickly and yanking it open like nothing happened. He straightens up, all suave-like, grinning down at you.
"Milady," he says dramatically, offering you his hand.
You roll your eyes but take it anyway, letting him help you out of the car. His hand is warmâso much bigger than yoursâand he doesnât let go right away. In fact, he keeps holding it as you walk toward the entrance, fingers intertwined like itâs the most natural thing in the world.
And you donât pull away. If anything, you squeeze a little tighter.
Inside, the restaurant is even more beautiful than you imaginedâglittering fairy lights, soft music, a gentle breeze whispering across the rooftop.
Gojo glances down at you, smiling like you personally hung the stars. "Ready for the best date of your life?" he teases, but thereâs a nervous edge to itâlike your opinion actually, genuinely matters to him.
You bite your lip to hold back a grin.
"Lead the way, Romeo."
And he does. Hand in hand, heart thundering, wearing the dopiest smile imaginable.
Dinner with Gojo isâŚeffortless.
For once, he isnât tripping over his words or cracking half a dozen stupid jokes just to fill the silence. Heâs confidentânaturally confidentâin a way that makes your heart stutter. Itâs like all the nervous energy he usually carries around you has melted away tonight, leaving behind nothing but the real Satoru.
He leans back in his chair, the sleeves of his white button-up rolled up to his elbows, flashing the veins in his forearms as he lifts his wine glass to his lips.
Thereâs a lazy smirk playing on his mouth as he listens to you talk, bright blue eyes never straying from your face.
"Youâre staring," you tease after a moment, pretending to inspect the menu like youâre not burning under his gaze.
"Yeah," he says simply, not even bothering to deny it. "Youâre beautiful. Iâm allowed to stare."
You nearly choke on your water.
Recovering quickly, you raise a brow. "Smooth," you deadpan, setting your glass down.
He chuckles lowly, the sound curling around your spine like smoke. "Only because itâs true," he says, and the sheer casualty of it has your cheeks heating up.
And the worst part? You canât even pretend youâre unaffectedâbecause he sees it. The way your lips twitch, the way your eyes flicker away for just a second.
"So," you say quickly, trying to regain control of the conversation, "when youâre not busy terrorizing professors and making girls swoon, what do you do for fun, Gojo?"
He hums, pretending to think about it, tapping his fork against his lip.
"Hmm...think about you mostly," he says airily.
You whip your napkin at him across the table, and he lets out a bark of laughter, catching it midair like a reflex.
The two of you fall into easy conversation after thatâbantering, laughing, throwing subtle (and not-so-subtle) jabs at each other. It feels so natural that you almost forget this is your first real date.
Thereâs a momentâbetween courses, when youâre both picking at the remains of dessertâthat you catch him just looking at you again. No teasing. No smirk. Just watching. Soft, and a little awed.
You shift slightly, suddenly aware of the intimacy stretching between you. "What?" you murmur.
He blinks, as if waking up. Shakes his head, smiling faintly.
"Nothing," he says, voice a little rough. "Youâre justâreally fucking gorgeous."
Itâs so sincere that you donât even know what to say back. You just look at him, feeling your chest tighten in that dangerous, dangerous way again.
-
The drive back is quietânot uncomfortable. JustâŚfull.
Full of things unsaid, full of that warmth thatâs been simmering between you both all night.
Gojo parks in front of your place, turning off the engine, but neither of you make a move to get out right away. You just sit there, the hum of the night wrapping around you, the silence speaking louder than words ever could.
He turns in his seat slightly, arm draped over the steering wheel, looking at you with that soft, lopsided smile he reserves only for you now.
"I had a really good time," he says quietly, like itâs a secret meant only for you.
You smile back, feeling something sweet and dangerous unfurl in your chest. "Me too," you murmur, fingers twisting slightly in your lap.
The moment stretchesâcomfortable, a little electricâand you know you should say goodnight. You should.
So you finally reach for the door handle, pulling it openâAnd then, without thinking, you turn back.
Leaning in quick, before you can psych yourself out, you press a soft kiss to his cheek.
Itâs light, barely a brush, but Gojo freezes like youâve just electrocuted him.
You donât wait for his reaction. Your face burning, you practically stumble out of the car, slamming the door shut behind you with a muttered, "Goodnight!"
Through the window, you catch a glimpse of him: Wide-eyed, stunned, a hand lifted dazedly to his cheek like he can't believe what just happened.
And then he laughsâa breathless, giddy sound that you swear you can hear even as you rush up the steps to your door, heart hammering like crazy.
Inside the car, Satoru slumps back against the seat, grinning so hard his cheeks hurt. "God," he mutters to himself, still touching the spot where you kissed him, "Iâm so fucked."
-
Youâre lying in bed when your phone buzzes in your hand. Heart still racing from that impulsive kiss you planted on his cheek, you scramble to pick it up, thumbs fumbling.
[gojo đ]: next time, youâre not getting away with just a kiss on the cheek.
You nearly drop your phone.
Oh. Oh.
Your stomach flips. Your face burns. And even though you want to play it cool, you canât fight the smile tugging at your lips. You bite your lip, thumbs hovering over the keyboard before finally typing back:
[you]: is that a threat, satoru?
The reply comes almost instantly, like he was waiting for you:
[gojo đ]: no baby, thatâs a promise.
You stare at the screen, heart hammering against your ribs.Â
Baby. God, youâre so done for.
And like he hasnât already made you melt enough tonight, he sends another message:
[gojo đ]: get some sleep, prettyÂ
You bury your face into your pillow with a squeal, kicking your feet into the mattress. You type back quickly before you lose your nerve:
[you]: goodnight, satoru. try not to miss me too much.
And a few seconds later:
[gojo đ]: too late.
[you]: careful, satoru. you're sounding real desperate rn.
You barely have time to smirk before he hits you with:
[gojo đ]: desperate?
[gojo đ]: for you? always.
And like he knows youâre losing it, he sends one more:
[gojo đ]: sleep tight, gorgeous.
[gojo đ]: dream of me.
[gojo đ]: i'll definitely be dreaming of you. (and if i wake up hard, it's your fault btw)
You scream into your pillow.
Your hands tremble as you type your final text:
[you]: sweet dreams, toru <3
[you]: maybe next time you wonât have to just dream ;)
And the moment you send it, you shut your phone off and toss it across the bed because thereâs absolutely no way youâre surviving if he replies. (He does. Five seconds later.)
[gojo đ]: fucking hell.
-
Satoruâs still staring at your last text. Eyes wide. Mouth parted.
maybe next time you wonât have to just dream
He drops his phone onto the bed with a dull thud, dragging both hands down his face.
"Goddammit," he breathes, tipping his head back against the headboard.
He sits there for a good minute, struggling to breathe normally, heart hammering against his ribs, cock already half-hard just from that one text. (Just from a text. He's so far gone it's not even funny.)
"Pull it together, Gojo," he mutters, raking a hand through his messy hair.
But the moment he squeezes his eyes shut, itâs you he seesâsmiling up at him all coy, leaning in close, whispering things in that pretty voice you have, like you knew exactly what kind of mess you were leaving him in.
You did. You knew exactly what you were doing.
He groans, thunking his head back harder against the headboard, biting down a low, frustrated sound as your words loop endlessly in his brain.
Youâre driving him insane.
Before he can talk himself out of it, he shoves his sleep shorts down just enough and wraps a hand around his cock, cursing under his breath when he realizes how hard he already is.
Itâs wrong. He knows itâs wrongâyou havenât even properly kissed yet. But god, you're just so, so perfect. So effortlessly beautiful.Â
He squeezes his eyes shut tighter, his hand moving slowly, pretending itâs you insteadâyour hand wrapped around him, your body pressed close, your breath ghosting over his ear as you whisper all the filthy things he can barely even let himself imagine.
"Fuck," he hisses through his teeth, hips bucking up into his fist, desperate for more.
He canât help it.
Youâre in his head. Youâre under his skin. And heâs not even sure he wants to be saved.
His thighs tense, muscles flexing as he fists himself harder, chasing that high like a man starved. The sound of his breathâharsh and brokenâfills the room. Your name nearly falls from his lips like a prayer.
And when he finally comes, itâs with a soft, bitten-off moan, warmth spilling over his knuckles.Â
His mind blanks for a long, dizzy secondânothing but the feeling of you filling every corner of him.
He collapses back against the pillows, breathless. Staring at the ceiling like heâs just been fucking wrecked. Sweaty. Panting. His hand sticky and his soul halfway out of his body.
He drags a hand down his face again, groaning. "...I'm so fucking screwed," Satoru mutters to himself, glaring uselessly at the ceiling like itâs personally responsible for his downfall.
-
The sunlightâs barely filtering through his blinds when Satoru stirs awake, messy hair flattened against his forehead, phone slipping from his chest with a quiet thunk onto the mattress.
Groaning, he blindly pats around for it, eyes still crusted shut from sleep.
When he finally blinks them open, he sees the last thing he remembers: your text. The text that ruined his entire night.
He slaps a hand over his face and drags it down slowly, mumbling, âIâm going to hell.â
But because heâs an idiotâan idiot in loveâhe still unlocks his phone, thumbs hovering nervously over the screen.
He needs to text you. Needs to act normal. Needs to pretend he didnât almost cry last night over how fucking good it felt imagining you touching him.
He taps out a message, agonizing over every word:
[you]: good morning :) hope you slept well!
He stares at it for a second longer, wondering if he sounds too eager, then panics and deletes the smiley. Then retypes it. Then deletes it again.
Then sends it without the emoji because God forbid he looks like heâs about to propose or something.
He tosses his phone down and flops back against his pillows, staring up at the ceiling like it holds the answers to his sins.
Not even ten seconds pass before his phone buzzes. Heart slamming against his ribs, he fumbles to read it:
[sweetheart đ]: you too, toru. sweet dreams? ;)
He physically chokes. Coughs. Slaps his own chest like heâs trying to restart his heart.
âSweet dreamsâ?â he sputters aloud, horrified, voice cracking. âSWEETâ?â
The images from last night flash vividly in his mind: your lips, your breathy giggles, your hands sneaking lowerâ
He shoves his face into a pillow and screams.
When he finally peeks out, shame swirling in his gut, he types back with trembling hands:
[you]: sweetest dreams ever. totally normal. nothing weird about them at all.
And then he turns his phone face-down. Because he cannot. He cannot see what youâre going to reply.
Heâs so down bad it's physically painful.
-
You stare at your phone, biting your lip to hold back a grin.Â
Totally normal. Nothing weird about them at all.
Sure, Satoru. Sure.
You kick your feet a little under your blanket, giddy, heart thumping like crazy. You know exactly what youâre doing. You know exactly what youâre doing to him.
And youâre not done yet. You let him stew in his own panic for a few minutesâjust to watch him sufferâbefore tapping out a reply:
[you]: sounds like someoneâs overcompensating⌠;)
You hit send and immediately burst into laughter, flopping back into your pillows. You can practically imagine him screaming into his hands right now, scrambling to figure out what to say without incriminating himself even more.
And because youâre a menace, you follow it up:
[you]: itâs okay, toru. you can dream about me whenever you want <3
There. Youâve officially ruined his whole morning.
You toss your phone aside and stretch, feeling like you just hit a home run. But then your phone buzzes againâmultiple timesâand you grab it, giggling.
First, from Satoru:
[toru đ]: youâre evil. pure evil. iâm never sleeping again.
And then another, right after:
[toru đ]: coffee today? my treat. i need to see your evil little face or iâm going to combust.
You roll over onto your stomach, kicking your legs up behind you, cheeks aching from smiling so hard.
Maybe you are evil. But god, itâs so fun when heâs this easy to tease.
You tap out your reply, heart light:
[you]: only if you promise not to die before you get here.
-
It doesnât even take ten minutes before thereâs a knock at your door. You blink in surpriseâyou hadnât even changed yet.
Another knock, this time a little quicker, a little eager.
You pad over and crack the door openâand there he is.
Satoru, all messy hair, rumpled shirt, soft smile. Holding two coffees in his hands.
And looking at you like you hung the moon.
"Hi," he says, almost shyly. "Brought you a coffee."
You blink at him.
He fidgets, rocking on his heels. "I, uh... thought maybe we could, y'know, hang out a little. If youâre not busy."
Your heart melts a little at how hopeful he sounds.
"Youâre impossible," you tease, swinging the door wider.
"And you're stuck with me," he chirps, stepping inside like he belongs there.
You take one of the coffees from him, fingers brushing, and he beams like youâve just given him the greatest honor.
"Thanks," you say, smiling into your cup. "Even though you didnât have to."
"I wanted to," he says simply, plopping onto your couch with zero hesitation. (And he leaves way too little space for you, thigh already brushing yours.)
You sit down beside him, your shoulders bumping. He hums under his breath, swinging his legs a little like a kid whoâs gotten his favorite candy.
For a minute, itâs just the two of you, sipping coffee, the silence warm and comfortable.
And then, out of nowhere, he leans his head dramatically onto your shoulder.
You freeze for a second, heart skipping.
He sighsâloudlyâagainst you. "Youâre not gonna kick me out, right?"
You laugh, nudging him with your elbow. "Not if you behave."
"Thatâs asking for a lot," he grins, tilting his head up to look at you. His smileâs a little mischievous, a little boyish.
You roll your eyes, trying to hide your blush behind your coffee cup.
And because heâs shamelessâand he knows heâs winningâhe adds, voice low and teasing: "Maybe if you give me another goodbye kiss?"
You almost spill your coffee.
He sees itâthe way your fingers fumble, the way your face flushesâand smirks.
"C'mon," he teases, nudging your knee with his. "Wasn't that bad of an idea, was it?"
You narrow your eyes at him, tryingâfailingâto fight your smile. "You," you say, poking his chest, "are way too full of yourself."
"And yet..." Satoru leans in, slow, eyes locked on yours. His voice drops to a whisper. "...you're not moving away."
Your breath catches. Because he's rightâyouâre not. If anything, you're leaning in too.
For a moment, neither of you says anything. The room feels too quiet, too charged. You can hear his breathing, slow and steady, can feel the heat radiating off of him.
Satoruâs gaze drops to your mouthâand lingers there. "Can I?" he murmurs, so soft you almost donât catch it.
Your heart thuds loud in your chest. You nod.
Thatâs all he needs.
Slowly, achingly slowly, he closes the gap, giving you every chance to pull awayâbut you donât. You tilt your chin up, meeting him halfway.
When his lips finally brush yours, itâs gentleâbarely a kiss, more like a breath, a promise.
You sigh against him, and that tiny sound seems to undo him. He tilts his head, deepening the kiss just slightly, just enough to taste you. His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin so tenderly it makes your chest ache.
You kiss him back, slow and sweet, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt.
It drags outâneither of you in any rush, savoring every second.
He kisses you like heâs afraid youâll vanish if he stops. And you kiss him like youâve been waiting forever for this moment.
When you finally, reluctantly, pull apart, you're both breathless. He presses his forehead against yours, grinning like an idiot. "So..." he whispers, voice a little hoarse. "Can I stay a little longer?"
You pretend to think about it, biting your lip to hide your smile. "Maybe," you tease. "If you behave."
He groans, flopping dramatically onto your couch again, tugging you down with him so you land half-on top of him, laughing.
"Not a chance," he says happily.
You're warm against him, tucked into his side, your head resting on his shoulder like you belonged there. And for a moment, Satoru feels like the luckiest man alive.
Until his brainâtraitorous, evil, rottenâreminds him.
Reminds him of how he spent last night fucking his fist like a deranged lunatic, thinking about you. Reminds him that you have no idea just how far gone he already is.
A quiet, horrified voice in his head: I'm a monster.
His throat goes dry.His hands twitch awkwardly where they rest on your waist, unsure if he should even be touching you like thisâuntil you shift, just slightly, peeking up at him with this sleepy little smile.
And just like that, every coherent thought leaves him. All that's left is you.
"You're comfy," you mumble against him, snuggling closer.
Satoru lets out a weak, broken little laugh, hiding his burning face against your hair.
If you only knew. If you only knew what you did to him.
He doesn't know how long he sits there with you tucked into him, drinking in your warmth. He could stay like this forever, he thinks. Hell, he wants to.
But then his phone buzzes.
He barely registers it, ignoring it at first. Until it buzzes again. And again.
He groans, reluctant, fishing it out of his pocket while you shift sleepily against him. The screen flashes: a reminder for his evening tutoring session he totally, utterly forgot about. He slumps.
"Something wrong?" you ask, voice soft, blinking up at him.
"I gotta go," he mutters like he's being forced into exile.
You bite back a smile, stretching lazily. "Duty calls?"
"Yeah." He pouts, actually pouts. "Stupid duty."
You laugh under your breath, and it's so unfair how easily you knock the air out of his lungs without even trying.
He stands reluctantly, dragging his feet like a kid leaving recess early.
"Hey," you call out. "Arenât you forgetting something?"
He turns around and blinks at you, confusion flickering across his faceâbut then you smile. Soft. Warm. Something just for him.
You step close, tiptoe a little to reach him. And Satoru swears, swears, his heart stumbles in his chest when you press a gentle kiss to his lips.
It's feather-light. Barely there. Sweet enough to make his knees almost buckle.
And when you pull back, a cheeky glint in your eye, he's just standing there. Frozen. Speechless. The stupidest grin pulling at his mouth.
"See you later, âToru," you say lightly, nudging him toward the door.
And all he can manageâvoice cracking slightly, heart hammering out of his chestâis a dazed "Y-Yeah. Later."
You shut the door behind him with a little wave, and he stands there for a good ten seconds before he finally remembers how to move.
-
Class feels different today.
Youâre hyper-aware of everything.
The way Satoru brushes his knee against yours under the table, all casual-like. The way his pinky keeps nudging yours on the desk until finally, finally, you relent and let your fingers curl around his. The way he keeps sneaking glances at you out of the corner of his eyeâand every time you catch him, he just smiles, like heâs getting away with something.
You pretend to focus on the lecture. Really, you do. But itâs hard when you can feel the warmth of his hand ghosting over your thigh under the table, a barely-there touch that sends your heart skittering against your ribs.
By the time the professor starts wrapping up class, youâre halfway to combusting.
"Donât forget," she says, tapping the whiteboard, "project updates are due next week."
You scribble the deadline in your notes, but Satoruâs already turning toward you, practically bouncing in his seat.
"Hey," he says, voice pitched low enough that only you can hear. "How about we work on it at my place today?"
You blink, startled. "Your place?"
He grins, bright and boyish. "Yeah! First time for everything, right?"
The way he says itâlight, teasing, almost a little shyâmakes something flutter wildly in your chest.
"Itâll be chill," he continues. "We can grab some snacks, order takeout, maybe actually get stuff done this timeâ"
You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious. "Are you actually suggesting a productive study session or trying to lure me into a trap?"
He gasps, hand clutching dramatically at his chest. "Me? Lure you? Iâm offended." Then he drops the act, leaning in close, that mischievous spark lighting up his eyes. "But if you happen to end up in my lap or something, yâknow... destiny."
You shove him lightly, cheeks warming. "God, youâre insufferable."
"Face itâyou love this," he says, nudging your shoulder with his.Â
You roll your eyes so hard itâs a miracle they donât fall out of your head. Still...you find yourself smiling.
"Fine," you say, packing up your stuff. "But weâre actually working this time."
He pumps a fist in victory. "Yes! Bring that sexy brain of yours, princess. Weâre gonna kill this project."
You throw a crumpled sticky note at him. He catches it midair, flashing a grin that practically glows.
-
Youâre home, lounging on your bed, phone in hand.
The texting starts innocent enough.
[you]: what should I bring?
[toru đ]: just that pretty little self of yours
You roll your eyes, biting back a smile.
[you]: be serious
[toru đ]: i am. iâm dead serious. maybe a notebook too though lol
You roll your eyes, thumbs hovering over your screen. Before you can type anything else, another message pops up:
[toru đ]: also⌠try not to look too pretty
[toru đ]: kinda hard to focus when youâre around
You blink at the screen, heart skipping a beat. The sudden boldness makes you squirm a little under your covers.
Before you can even react, a third text follows:
[toru đ]: hereâs my address
A pinned location pops up. Followed byâ
[toru đ]: hurry over please
You stare at the messages, warmth blooming in your chest (and spreading lower, if you were honest).
You should probably be nervous. You should definitely be more cautious.
But all you do is grin, toss your phone onto the bed, and start getting ready.
-
You barely knock once before the door swings open.
And there he is.
Black tank top clinging to his chest, basketball shorts slung so low it should be illegal. Lean muscles on full display. Sleep-mussed white hair falling over his forehead.
You actually forget how to breathe. Your brain just... shuts down.
Satoruâs mouth twitches into a knowing smirk. He leans lazily against the doorframe, crossing his arms â muscles flexing, because of course they do â and tips his head at you.
âWell, well," he drawls, amusement dripping from every word. "Didnât think youâd be that easy to stun."
You blink â once, twice â scrambling to find your voice. "Iâm not stunned," you blurt out, way too fast to be convincing.
"Mhm," he hums, that smug little grin widening. "Sure. You just like standing on people's porches looking like you forgot your own name?"
You shove past him with a flustered scoff, cheeks burning. But you can feel his eyes trailing after you, slow and satisfied, as he shuts the door behind you.
"You didnât tell me the dress code was..." you flounder, gesturing vaguely at his entire existence, "thirst trap casual."
"Aw, you think Iâm a thirst trap?" he coos, stepping dangerously close â close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him properly.
"I think youâre an asshole," you snap â except your voice comes out all breathy, completely ruining the effect.
Satoru chuckles â a low, rich sound that vibrates all the way through you. "You can be honest, y'know. It's just us here." He leans down, dropping his voice into a whisper, "You like what you see."
You make a strangled noise in your throat and whirl around, pretending to inspect the living room like it's the most fascinating thing youâve ever seen. "Whereâs your project stuff?" you demand, heart thundering against your ribs.
"Wow," he says behind you, tone all fake-hurt. "Use me for my brain and ditch me for my abs. Brutal."
"You have a brain?" you retort, finally finding a shred of composure.
He laughs again â easy, bright â and brushes past you, the barest graze of his arm against yours sending your nerves into a frenzy.
"Come on, nerd," he calls over his shoulder, tossing a wink at you that almost knocks you off your feet. "Projectâs not gonna finish itself."
You huff, yanking your notebook out of your bag to try and hide the stupid, giddy smile pulling at your lips.
Youâre just barely settled on the couch, notebook balanced on your lap, when Satoru stretches â arms over his head, tank top riding up dangerously â and says, âActually... weâll have more space in my room."
You blink at him, heart skipping a beat. "Your room?" you repeat, raising an eyebrow.
He flashes a wide, shit-eating grin. "Yeah. Bigger desk. Better lighting."
You narrow your eyes, pretending to be skeptical. "Oh? Already trying to get me in bed?"
Satoru stops dead in his tracks â but only for half a second. Then he tosses a look over his shoulder, cocky and wicked. "Donât give me ideas," he says, voice low and playful.
Your cheeks burn so hot youâre surprised you donât spontaneously combust. But youâre stubborn â so you just huff and follow him anyway, ignoring the smug little chuckle he lets out as he leads you down the hall. And then you step into his room â and freeze.
Because itâs... itâs not what you expect. Sure, itâs a little messy â loose clothes on a chair, half-done laundry â but what really grabs your attention is the shelf. More specifically: the shelf packed with colorful little figures. Posters. Framed prints. All of it instantly recognizable.
"...Is thatâ" you start, pointing.
"Digimon," Satoru says immediately, like he's bracing himself for judgment.
You stare. You blink. And then â you laugh. Loud, bright, uncontrollable.
He groans, dragging a hand down his face. "I knew it. I knew you were gonna make fun of me."
You grin at him, unrepentant. "You? Cool, confident, six-foot-whatever Gojo Satoru... secret Digimon stan? Oh, this is gold."
"Itâs not secret," he grumbles, crossing his arms like a petulant kid. "Digimonâs fucking awesome. Better than PokĂŠmon. Better story arcs, deeper charactersâ"
"You sound so defensive," you giggle, stepping closer to inspect a particularly adorable stuffed Agumon perched on his bed.
He steps up beside you, bumping your shoulder lightly with his and picks up the plushie to toss it somewhere else. "You're lucky you're cute," he mutters, mock-threatening, "or Iâd kick you out right now."
You bite back a smile, feeling that fluttery, giddy warmth bloom in your chest again. Because for all his teasing, all his cocky bravado â thereâs something painfully endearing about how unapologetically himself he is. No hiding. No shame. Just... Satoru.
"Youâre such a nerd," you say fondly.
Satoru smirks, eyes glinting mischievously. "Yeah? Still think Iâm a thirst trap though?"
You sputter, flustered all over again â and he cackles, so pleased with himself itâs criminal.
God. You are so screwed.
You perch awkwardly on the edge of his bed, notebook in your lap again, pretending youâre not hyper-aware of how huge his bed is, how close he is, how the mattress dips slightly under his weight when he flops down next to you.
"Alright," he says, stretching lazily, flashing a sliver of toned stomach again. "Serious time. Project planning. Let's go."
You nod, throat a little dry. "Serious," you echo, flipping open the notebook. "No distractions."
"None whatsoever," he agrees solemnly.
You start brainstorming, scribbling notes in the margins, muttering ideas under your breath. For a few minutes, everythingâs fine. Normal. Until you feel it â the slight brush of his knee against yours. At first, you think itâs an accident. You shift slightly to the side.
But then it happens again. And again.
And then â Satoru leans closer, peering over your shoulder, his breath warm against your cheek. His hand rests casually on the bed behind you, fingers curling ever so slightly around the edge of your shirt.
You pretend to ignore it. Pretend so hard it almost works.
But then he hums low in his throat â a thoughtful, lazy little sound â and lets his hand slide up, fingers brushing lightly against your lower back, and your entire body tenses.
"'Toru..." you murmur, trying for stern, but it comes out way too breathy. You donât even look at him â you canât â because you already know what youâll find: those blue eyes, lazy and half-lidded, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.
"Focus," you manage, tapping the notebook for emphasis.
He leans in, so close his nose almost brushes your temple, and murmurs in a voice so low it makes your stomach flip:
"You make it hard to."
His hand is bold now â fingers tracing slow, idle patterns over the dip of your waist, so gentle it leaves a trail of fire in its wake. Your breath stutters in your throat. You feel your heart hammer against your ribs.
You finally â finally â dare a glance at him.
And heâs looking at you like heâs starving.
For you.
The tension is a physical thing now, heavy and thick in the air between you. You swear you can hear the blood rushing in your ears.
"...You're unbelievable," you whisper, the notebook slipping from your fingers.
His smirk deepens, shameless. "You like it."
God help you â you do.
You scramble, trying desperately to recover your sanity, to remember why youâre even here in the first place. The project. The project, dammit.
You slap your palm over the notebook, pushing it toward him. "W-We should reallyâ really focus," you stammer, voice wobbling embarrassingly.
He just grins, slow and easy, that grin that makes you forget your own name.
"I am focused," he says, voice dropping into that low, teasing rasp. "Focused on you."
And before you can react, he shifts â the bed dipping under his weight as he gently crowds into your space.
Your breath catches.
He cages you in with a hand planted firm beside your hip, his other hand curling loosely around your wrist like heâs giving you the option to pull away â like heâs daring you to.
You donât. You canât.
Youâre frozen, wide-eyed, heart thudding like crazy.
His forehead presses lightly to yours, and you feel the whisper of his breath against your lips.
"You drive me crazy, y'know that?" he murmurs, voice impossibly soft. Every word vibrates through you.
You open your mouth â to say what, youâre not sure â but no sound comes out. Youâre too busy trying not to melt.
And then he moves. Sudden but gentle, he presses you down against the mattress, his body hovering above yours, careful not to crush you.
Your hands instinctively fly up to his chest â oh, God his chest â and you feel the steady pound of his heartbeat under your palms.
Heâs close now, so close you can see every detail of his face â the slight pink flush on his cheeks, the playful crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the way his pupils are blown wide with something between affection and hunger.
"Youâre so cute when you're flustered," he teases, and you want to hate him for it, you really do.
But you donât. You can't.
Instead, you fist your hands in the soft fabric of his shirt and squeeze your eyes shut, trying to will your racing pulse back to normal.
He chuckles, low and smug. Then â so lightly you almost think you imagined it â he brushes his nose along the side of your jaw, breathing you in.
"Youâre killing me," he whispers.
You whimper â actual, real, humiliating whimper â and he grins.
But he doesnât kiss you. Not yet.
He just stays there, letting the tension thicken, letting you squirm, savoring it.
Itâs agony. Itâs perfect.
You feel it â the exact moment his lips almost touch yours.
Itâs a whisper of a moment, barely-there, the ghost of contact that makes your whole body tense up in anticipation.
Heâs so close. So close you can taste the heat radiating off him, the sweet, addictive scent of his cologne, the lazy tilt of his grin as he leans inâ
And thatâs when you snap out of it.
At the very last second, you slip a hand between your bodies, planting your palm firmly against his chest to stop him.
His eyes fly open, confused, slightly wild.
You smile â sweet, smug â up at him.
"Uh-uh," you say, your voice still a little breathless but steady enough to make him narrow his eyes suspiciously. "Project first."
The sheer betrayal on his face.
"You've gotta be kidding me," he groans, dropping his forehead dramatically onto your shoulder like you just mortally wounded him. "I was so close, baby, c'monâ"
You cackle. Gojo finds it beautiful.
He lifts his head, leveling you with the most pathetic pout youâve ever seen. "You're evil," he accuses.
You just wiggle your eyebrows at him, smirking. "Should've thought about that before trying to seduce me in broad daylight, Gojo."
He collapses beside you with a dramatic huff, flopping back against the bed like his soul has been snatched from his body.
"Itâs almost 7. Unbelievable," he mutters. "This is harassment. I should sue."
You reach over, patting his chest twice, condescending and sweet. "There, there."
He turns his head, glaring at you â but the slight twitch of his lips gives him away.
"You owe me later," he says, pointing a finger at you like a solemn oath.
You hum, pretending to think it over, before shooting him a wicked little grin. "We'll see if you're good."
His groan is loud enough to rattle the bed.
You're absolutely thriving.
Youâre trying so hard to focus. You really are. Project notes scattered across the bed, laptop open, a half-written paragraph blinking at you like it's taunting your lack of progress.
And thenâ
"Break time!" Satoru declares, already tugging you off the bed by your wrist before you can even protest.
You stumble after him, laughing breathlessly. "Satoru, we barely got anything done!"
"Exactly why we need a break," he grins, dragging you toward the kitchen like a man on a mission. "Youâll thank me later."
You roll your eyes but let him haul you along, too curious (and maybe a little too charmed) to resist.
He lets go of your hand once you reach the kitchen and dramatically cracks his knuckles, looking far too proud of himself.
"Watch and learn, sweetheart," he says, shooting you a wink. "You're in the presence of greatness."
You snort, crossing your arms and leaning against the counter. "Oh yeah? You gonna burn the house down, master chef?"
He gasps â actually gasps â clutching his chest like you mortally wounded him. "You wound me."
You just laugh, watching as he rummages through the fridge with entirely too much flair, pulling out random ingredients and setting them on the counter.
"You're literally just making instant ramen," you point out dryly, but there's a smile tugging at your lips.
"Gourmet instant ramen," he corrects, wagging a finger at you. "With egg. And scallions. And a lilâ bit of love."
He tosses you another wink and you lose it, doubling over in silent laughter.
You lean back against the counter, arms folded, trying â and failing â to look unimpressed as he hums to himself, clattering pots around. Heâs in a black tank top and low-hanging shorts, muscles flexing casually with every movement, hair messy from dragging his hands through it.
And itâs... distracting. Way too distracting.
Especially when he starts cracking an egg one-handed like a cocky asshole.
"Show-off," you mutter under your breath.
"Donât act like youâre not impressed," he sing-songs, peeking at you from under snowy lashes, smug as hell.
You flip him off lazily. He just grins wider.
The kitchen fills with the scent of broth and spices, steam curling in the air. He moves with this effortless, chaotic sort of confidence â a little reckless, a little messy â but somehow everything comes together perfectly.
When he turns to you again, ramen bowl in hand, he looks so goddamn pleased with himself you want to laugh.
"See?" he says, stepping closer. "I'm basically husband material."
You tilt your head, raising a brow. "You make instant noodles and think you deserve a ring?"
"Handmade. Special edition. Enhanced with love." He winks, holding up the bowl like an offering. "You should be honored."
And even though you roll your eyes, you can't help the smile tugging at your lips â can't help the way your stomach flips stupidly as he steps even closer, towering over you with that lazy, confident grin.
-
You set the now-empty bowl down on the counter, nudging him with your elbow. "Since you whipped up such a gourmet meal, I guess the least I can do is the dishes."
Satoru leans back against the counter, grinning so wide it's almost embarrassing. "You spoil me."
You roll your eyes but start gathering up the dishes anyway, rinsing them under the tap. The warm water and simple task are oddly comforting, your movements easy, natural.
And from behind you, you can feel it â his gaze, warm and heavy, drinking you in like he's memorizing this moment.
Before you can even finish rinsing the second bowl, you feel him â long arms sliding around your waist, pulling you back into him, chest pressed against your back.
You huff a soft laugh, not bothering to fight it. "Needy much?"
He just hums, nose nudging into the crook of your neck, his hair tickling your skin. "You smell good," he mumbles, voice low and content.
"Why, thank you," you say, but itâs half a smile.
"I could get used to this," he murmurs, squeezing you a little tighter.
You finish up the dishes like that â his arms around you, his weight solid and comforting at your back, his soft little praises murmured into your ear in between.
"You're pretty," he says at one point, completely unprompted. "So pretty I don't know how I'm supposed to concentrate when you're around."
You duck your head, smiling to yourself, feeling your cheeks burn.
When you finally dry your hands and turn around to face him, he's already looking down at you with stars in his eyes, a little breathless like he can't believe you're real.
You loop your arms around his neck without thinking, tugging him a little closer, and he leans into it easily, lazily, like he's been waiting for this exact moment. "Can I kiss you yet?" he asks, grinning like an idiot, voice all hopeful and teasing.
You laugh, soft and fond, brushing your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. "Sure, loverboy."
And he doesn't waste a second â swooping down to finally, finally claim your lips in a kiss that's sweet and warm and a little clumsy with excitement, like he just canât hold it in anymore.
The moment your lips meet, itâs like something clicks into place.
At first, itâs a gentle brush of mouths, shy and smiling. He kisses you once, then twice, like he canât get enough, like heâs trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. But then you tilt your head just a little, arms tightening around his neck, and he groans â a low, helpless sound that rumbles against your chest.
And just like that, the kiss deepens.
His hands, which had been resting innocently at your waist, slide down â gripping your hips with a little more urgency, pulling you flush against him. You gasp softly into his mouth, and he takes full advantage, slotting his mouth over yours in a way that leaves your knees just barely holding you up. You feel it when his fingers flex, pressing you closer, when his body shudders lightly against yours.
God, heâs starving for you. You can feel it in the way he kisses â slow but hungry, like heâs been waiting for this, aching for it.
When he pulls back for just a breath, his forehead presses to yours, and his voice is ragged, wrecked. "Youâre gonna kill me," he whispers, before diving back in, more desperate this time.
You whimper into his mouth without meaning to, clutching at the front of his shirt, feeling the heat of him seeping into your palms.
Satoru groans again, hands sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing just under the hem of your shirt, skin to skin.
Itâs not rushed. Itâs not frantic. Itâs slow â simmering â like heâs savoring every second, like he wants this moment to stretch on forever.
And itâs only when his teeth gently tug at your bottom lip â when your breathing turns shallow and desperate against each other â that you finally, finally break away.
Both of you stand there for a second, breathing hard, faces flushed.
You feel dizzy. He looks completely wrecked.
Youâre both breathless when you pull apart, foreheads resting together, lips tingling.
Satoruâs hands are still on your waist, holding you close like heâs not ready to let go. You can feel the way his chest rises and falls against yours â shallow, like heâs trying to calm himself down.
He gives a short, breathy laugh. âJesus,â he mutters. âYouâre gonna be the death of me.â
You smile, dazed. âPretty sure thatâs mutual.â
Thereâs a beat of silence â heavy with everything unsaid â before he leans in again.
Hungrier. Rougher. Like heâs been holding back all night and canât anymore. His mouth moves over yours with unfiltered need, hands pulling you closer like itâs the only thing keeping him grounded.
You make a soft noise into his mouth, and it only spurs him on. The way he kisses you â itâs not perfect. Itâs messy and fast and desperate, teeth catching on your lower lip, hands gripping tight like heâs scared youâll slip away.
Your fingers wind into the fabric of his tank top, pulling him even closer until youâre practically wrapped around him.
He breaks the kiss just barely, lips brushing yours as he breathes out, âTell me if itâs too much.â
You shake your head. âItâs not. Iââ You swallow. âI want this. You.â
His expression softens for a split second before that heat comes rushing back. His mouth is back on yours, slower this time but no less intense â like heâs trying to memorize how you taste.
When his hand slips under your shirt and settles on the small of your back, warm and firm, you shiver.
He kisses you like he means it. Like he feels it.
And when you finally pull back again, breathless and flushed, he just smiles â eyes glassy, voice low.
âYou have no idea what youâre doing to me.â
You barely have time to catch your breath before heâs kissing you again.
No warning, no hesitation â just the searing press of his mouth against yours like heâs starving for it. Like he needs more. And you give in without thinking, letting him pull you closer until thereâs not a sliver of space left between your bodies.
His hands are on your waist, fingers tightening like heâs trying to anchor himself. And when your hands slide up his chest, over those broad shoulders, he groans into your mouth â low and wrecked.
Itâs dizzying, the way he kisses you. Every time you think heâll stop, he comes back for more â messier, deeper, rougher. Your fingers tangle in his hair as his lips trail down to your jaw, then your neck, slow and hot and reverent.
And then suddenly, he pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes.
His voice is breathless, raw. âHold on.â
Before you can ask what he means, he lifts you â effortlessly, like itâs the most natural thing in the world. You let out a startled gasp, arms wrapping around his neck as he carries you through the apartment. Your heartâs hammering so hard youâre sure he can feel it.
Heâs grinning now, cocky and breathless all at once. âI warned you Iâm husband material.â
âShut up,â you mutter against his neck, flustered beyond reason.
But thereâs no hiding the way your legs tighten around his waist.
He nudges his bedroom door open with his foot, stepping inside, and the second youâre both in, he sets you down gently. And just like that, heâs on you again â kissing you like heâs waited his whole life for this.
His mouth is still on yours when he shifts forward, slowly pressing you back until your knees hit the edge of the bed. You stumble slightly, gripping his arms for balanceâand the second your weight tips back, he goes with you.
The two of you collapse onto the mattress in a tangled mess of limbs and breathless laughter, but heâs quick to recover. Quick to pin you there beneath him, hands braced on either side of your head, his hips snug between your thighs.
He looks down at you like heâs never seen anything more beautiful.
And then that glint returnsâdangerous and wicked and so unlike the stammering nerd you met on day one.
âYou have no idea what you do to me,â he breathes, voice low and rough in your ear.
You shiver.
His lips find the side of your neck again, and this time they donât lingerâthey devour. Hot, open-mouthed kisses that make your back arch, that pull quiet, helpless sounds from your throat. His hands wander too, slow at first, fingertips tracing the curve of your waist, your hips, every line and dip he can find.
You reach for him, needing moreâbut he grabs your wrists, pins them gently above your head with one hand.
âNuh-uh,â he smirks. âIâm in charge now.â
Youâre just about to sass him when he dips down again, this time trailing kisses down your collarbone. Then lower. He peppers slow, aching kisses across your chest, teasing the hem of your top with his free hand.
And then he sits up, straddling your hips, eyes practically burning.
âCan I tell you a secret?â he asks, and itâs a loaded question.
You nod.
He leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear. âI jacked off to the thought of you the other night.â
Your breath catchesâyour whole body burns.
âAfter that text you sent,â he goes on, voice like velvet laced with sin. âYou have no idea what you did to me. I read it once and couldnât stop imagining it. Youâwhispering in my ear like that, all sweet and smug and filthy.â
He moves again, kisses dragging hot and slow down the slope of your neck, and then your chest, until heâs tugging your shirt up and over your head.
âI was in bed,â he murmurs. âOne hand on my phone. The otherâŚâ He lets the implication hang, but his hand slips down your thigh, then up again, teasing, until your breath comes in sharp gasps.
âI was thinking about you,â he says. âAbout your voice. About what youâd look like straddling me, telling me what you wanted while I fucked up into you so slow.â
Your hips buck at thatâand god, the smirk that pulls at his lips should be illegal.
He starts undressing you slowly, worshipping, like every piece he reveals is a treasure. âI need you,â he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. His voice is hoarse, eyes searching yours like he needs you to understand.Â
The kiss that follows is devastatingâopen-mouthed and hungry, a collision of breath and teeth and need. Youâre clawing at his clothes like they personally offended you, yanking at the hem of his shirt with fumbling fingers and a frustrated groan.
âOff,â you hiss against his lips.
He laughs, breathless, tugging it over his head and tossing it aside, revealing smooth skin and defined muscle, the dip of his waist disappearing into those loose shorts you suddenly despise.
You push at them with impatient hands, and he grinsâcocky, flushed, wrecked and loving every second of it. âDesperate, huh?â he teases, voice still husky from the kiss.
âYouâre one to talk,â you shoot back, dragging your nails down his sides. âYouâre not exactly subtle, loverboy.â
Heâs all hands again thenâroaming your body, trailing heat in their wake as he presses you down into the bed, lips never far from your skin. Every motion is frantic and reverent all at once, like heâs starving but determined to savor every inch of you.
You push at his chest gently, and he lets you, eyebrows raised in surprise as his back hits the mattress.
âOh?â he breathes, propping himself up on his elbows. âTaking control now?â
âDidnât you say I killed you the other night?â you murmur, crawling between his legs with a sly smile. âFigured I should finish the job.â
His eyes darken immediatelyâheat blooming in them so fast itâs dizzying. âYou have no idea what youâre doing to me.â
You doâbecause the second your hands slide up his thighs, heâs already sucking in a breath, already biting back a groan. His abs tense under your touch, his head tipping back as he watches you through lidded eyes, gaze glazed over with anticipation.
âYou been thinking about this, âToru?â you ask softly, dragging your nails lightly along the waistband of his shorts.
He swallows thickly. âEvery night.â
And when you finally tug his waistband down, your breath catches.
He's thick, long and heavy, flushed a pretty pink at the tip, and already straining toward you like heâs been waiting for this moment forever. Your mouth parts without thinking. You donât even realize youâre staring until he lets out a shaky, nervous laugh. Your hands wrap around him and his hips instinctively buck upwards.
âFuckfuckfuckfuck,â he mutters, voice gravelly.
Heâs already goneâchest rising and falling in short, sharp breaths. His hands clutch the sheets when you lean in, letting your tongue flick across the swollen head, tasting him.Â
âOh fuckââ
You take your time. You donât give him all of it, not yet. You swirl your tongue around the tip, teasing the slit until he hisses between clenched teeth. He jolts when you lick a slow stripe along the underside, right at the base where itâs most sensitive, your fingers cradling him, gentle and thorough.
He groansâloud and rawâand you feel his hands fist the sheets tighter.
âYouâre killing me,â he pants, head tipping back, voice nearly wrecked.
And still, you donât rush. You bob your head slowly, steadily, sinking down deeper with each pass until his abs tighten and he moansâloud, desperate. You feel him twitch on your tongue, hear the soft, breathy curse that falls from his lips as you wrap your hand around him and roll your wrist just right. You squeeze his balls and he nearly sobs.
You glance up through your lashes, and the sight of himâhead tossed back, jaw clenched, face flushed, his entire body shaking with restraintâis seared into your memory.
You donât take your eyes off him, not even as you hollow your cheeks and take him deeper. Heâs so closeâyou can feel it in the way his thighs tense, the way his breath stutters, the broken sound he makes when you moan around him.
âFuckâbaby, Iâm gonnaââ
You donât stop. You want it. Want to see him fall apart. And he does, with a choked groan that rips out of his chest as he spills into your mouth, hot and thick. His hand flies to your hair, not to pull you awayâbut to keep you there, his hips giving the slightest jerk as he rides it out. You swallow it all only pulling off when he starts to twitch. And when you finally draw back, lips slick and chin damp, he looks completely undone.Â
âHoly shit,â he breathes, dazed.Â
You just smile sweetly and wipe the corner of your mouth with your thumb.
Heâs still catching his breath when you go to pull back fully, smug and satisfied. âMm-hm,â he hums, voice rough and curling with mischief. His hand catches your wrist, firm but gentle. âMy turn, sweetheart.â
You blink. âOh?â
Before you can tease him back, he movesâeffortlessly. One arm wraps around your waist, the other plants on the bed, and in a single fluid motion heâs pulling you up, flipping you like you weigh nothing and settling you inches away from his face. You squeakâactually squeakâas your knees plant on either side of his head.
âSatoruââ
âShh.â He grins, that ridiculous confident smirk plastered across his flushed face. âSit, baby. Be good for me.â
He gives your ass a squeeze, encouraging, eyes gleaming up at you. You hesitate for half a second and he adds, voice dipped low and sinfully sweet,
âYou got to have your fun.â
Then he pulls you down.
His mouth is on you immediatelyâhot and unrelenting. Tongue flicking, lips sealing around your clit as he groans like you taste better than anything heâs ever had. His hands grip your thighs, fingers digging into soft flesh, holding you there like heâs starving and youâre the feast. And when your hips twitch, instinctively trying to lift offâhe drags you right back down.
âOh no, sweetheart,â he murmurs against you, voice muffled and vibrating through your core, âI said sit.â
Youâre braced against the headboard now, knees shaking, thighs clenched tight around his head as you grind downâslow at first, then faster, chasing that high with ragged breath and trembling limbs.
Heâs not just letting you. Heâs encouraging it.
Big hands grope your ass, fingers digging in, guiding you against his mouth like he wants you to lose it. His tongue moves with practiced precision, sucking and flicking, drawing soft whimpers and broken gasps from your lips as your body arches.
You glance down again and the sight nearly finishes youâhis eyes half-lidded and dazed, cheeks flushed, hair a total mess from how many times youâve tugged on it.
He looks wrecked. But heâs moaning like heâs in heaven. Like this is exactly where he wants to be.
And then he says itâmuffled, half-choked, voice thick with lust and absolutely feral. âSo fucking sweet.â
You grind harder, hips rolling, and he groans into you.
He doesnât care if he canât breathe. Doesnât care if heâs dizzy. Doesnât care if youâre seconds from suffocating him. Heâs already decided this is how he wants to go out.
Buried between your thighs, mouth full of you, hands holding you down like youâre sacred.
And when you finally breakâback arching, eyes fluttering shut, thighs clamping around his head as your orgasm crashes through youâhe doesnât stop. Not for a second.
He rides it out with you, tongue still moving, swallowing every sound you make.
When he finally lets go you collapse beside him, completely spent, your body still trembling in the aftermath. Your cheek presses into the pillow, breath catching in your throat as you try to come back to yourself. Satoru shifts next to you, propping himself up on one elbow. He brushes your hair back gently, eyes soft, and asks quietly,
âYou okay?â
You nod, still catching your breath. âYeah. Justâholy shit.â
He huffs a small laugh and leans down to kiss your shoulder, warm and unhurried. âGood.â
You feel him watching you for a second longer, like heâs making sure youâre really alright. You stretch out, boneless and warm, assuming this is the part where you both wind down.
But then his hand slides down your back.
You feel him shift behind you, and when you glance over your shoulder, his expressionâs changed. Still gentleâbut focused. Hungrier.
âYou done?â he asks softly, voice right at your ear now.
You blink. âI⌠thought we were.â
He smiles, and itâs a little crooked, a little smugâbut not cocky. Just him.
âNot even close.â
Before you can respond, his hands are on your hips, guiding you forward. You let him, moving onto your knees again, bracing your hands against the headboard as the mattress shifts beneath you. He settles behind you slowly, fingers trailing up your sides. The air changesâmore intimate now, more intense.
âYou okay like this?â he murmurs.
You nod.
âGood.â He kisses the back of your neck. âHold on to something.â
He settles behind you again, one hand steady on your hip, the other guiding himself down. You feel the slow drag of him through your foldsâwarm, thick, and deliberate. You suck in a breath, hips twitching slightly. But he doesnât press in. Just rocks forward enough to slide himself through you again. And again.
Your fingers curl tighter around the headboard. ââŚSatoru,â you breathe.
âMhm?â His voice is low, calm. Way too calm for what heâs doing.
You try to push back into him, but he keeps you where he wants youâjust a firm, gentle grip at your hip keeping you still.
Heâs quiet for a moment. You glance over your shoulder and catch the look on his face: focused, a little tense, clearly feeling itâbut taking his time anyway.
âYouâre doing that on purpose,â you mutter.
A breath of a laugh leaves him. âYeah. Kind of.â
Your forehead drops forward. ââToruâŚâ
He groans softlyâjust a little, like heâs trying not toâbut doesnât stop. Just drags himself over you again, slower now. âGod, you feel good,â he mutters. âI just⌠give me a second.â
You shift again, needy and frustrated, and he finally stills behind you, tip resting right where you want him. You both freeze.
ââŚYou okay?â he asks quietly.
You nod, exhaling hard. âPlease.â
Thereâs a beat. And then he leans forward, lips brushing your shoulder, voice quiet and serious against your skin. âYeah. I got you. Just spread âem a bit for me⌠yeah, thatâs it.â
He eases in with that first, deep strokeâslow enough to feel every inch of him push through your walls. The stretch burns just a little, but the heat in your core blooms even hotter. Heâs thick, heavy, and you feel every vein drag along your inner walls, textured and pulsing, making your whole body clench around him without thinking.
Behind you, Satoru groansâlow and raw, like itâs dragging out of his chest. âGod⌠you feel unreal,â he mutters, breath shaky.
He holds still once heâs fully inside, his hips pressed against the swell of your ass, his hand flexing on your waist like heâs trying not to move too fast. His cock twitches inside you and you gasp at how full you feelâyour body stretched and throbbing around him, nerves lighting up from the inside out.
âOkay?â he murmurs, lips brushing the back of your shoulder.
You nod, voice barely there. âYeah. Justâfuck, Satoru.â
He pulls out slow, almost all the way, and you feel every ridge of him drag against your soaked walls. Then he sinks back in with a soft grunt, and you swear you feel him throb againâyour body squeezing around him on instinct.
The pace he sets is slow but deep, grinding into you just right, the friction steady and maddening. Your thighs are trembling already, your hands gripping the headboard like itâs the only thing keeping you grounded.
Every time he pushes in, his cock presses against that spongy spot deep inside you, and every time he pulls out, itâs this slow, deliberate scrape that leaves you gasping. Thereâs no space left between youâjust wet heat and tension, pressure building with every stroke.
And thenâhis hand moves. Slides down from your waist, slipping between your legs, fingers finding your clit with no hesitation. The first pass is light, almost teasing.
You jolt. âSatoruâ!â
âI got you,â he says quietly, like a promise. His thumb circles you, slow and tight, while his other hand braces your hip steady against him. And all the while, he keeps fucking into youâdeeper now, rhythm starting to slip, strokes a little rougher, his breath coming harder against your skin.
âYou feel so good around me,â he murmurs, thumb pressing down just a little harder. âSo warm. So tight. You keep squeezing me like that, babyâfuck.â
Your whole body is shaking now, moaning helplessly as his fingers keep working your clit, dragging you closer and closer to the edge. Every stroke is slick, deep, devastating. You can hear the wet sounds of him sliding in and out of you, the soft slap of skin, his strained breathingâyour own whimpers growing louder with every thrust.
The pressure builds sharp and fast, your body locking up as your orgasm crashes toward youâ
And Satoruâs still going. Still thumbing your clit, still grinding his cock into you like he canât get enough.
Your body tightens around him without warning, breath catching as the pleasure crestsâsharp, blinding, unstoppable. You cry out, head dropping as your orgasm rips through you, muscles clenching so hard around his cock that it knocks the air out of both of you.
âOh myâfuck, thatâs itââ Satoru groans, stuttering inside you as your walls flutter and squeeze around him.
Youâre still shaking, coming down from the high, when he slowsâlets you ride it out, then carefully pulls out, the sudden emptiness making you gasp. You barely have time to blink before heâs flipping you onto your back like you weigh nothing.
He spreads your thighs open, throws your legs over his shoulders, and lines himself up again with a low, strained breath. His eyes meet yoursâstill soft, but blown wide, jaw tight with restraint. Thereâs nothing teasing left in him now.
He doesnât ask this time. Doesnât wait. He thrusts back in hardâdeepâand keeps going.
No more slow buildup. No more holding back. Just relentless, steady driveâhis hips snapping into yours over and over, the wet sound of skin meeting skin filling the room.
You gasp, fingers flying to his forearms as he leans over you, caging you in. His pace is brutal now, almost punishing, but it never stops feeling goodâthe angle perfect, the pressure hitting deep with every stroke.
âSatoruââ you sob, voice cracking.
He groans through gritted teeth, muscles tense, hips moving like heâs possessed. âYouâre soâfuckingâtight.â
You can barely think. Your legs tremble over his shoulders, body arching with every thrust, your orgasm still making aftershocks ripple through you.
He reaches down between you again, hand slipping to your clit like itâs second natureâhis thumb moving in tight, fast circles that make your back arch off the bed. âYou gonna give me another one?â he pants, voice rough and shaking. âCome on, sweetheartâI know you can.â
You donât even answer. You canât. The pressureâs already building againâtoo fast, too much, your body barely holding on as he keeps fucking into you like heâs been waiting for this all night.
You feel him twitch inside you, hear his breathing hitchâbut he still doesnât come. Heâs chasing you again, driving into you like your pleasure is the only thing that matters.
You donât know how he keeps going like this. His pace is ruthless, hips pistoning into you like heâs been starving for itâbut itâs the focus that kills you. Heâs watching every twitch in your body, every gasp, every time your walls flutter around him like heâs memorizing it.
Then he shiftsâleans in until your knees are almost pinned to your chest, folding you in half under him. The new angle makes you cry out, his cock hitting impossibly deep, your body arching beneath the weight of him. âYou feel that?â he breathes, voice rough and close to a growl now. âSo deep inside you, baby. Just like this.â
And thenâhis mouth is on your chest. You gasp when he takes your nipple between his lips, tongue circling, sucking slow and steady while his hips never stop. The hot pull of his mouth makes your toes curl, especially when his free hand moves to palm your other breastâthumb brushing over the sensitive peak, fingers squeezing just enough to make you whimper.
Itâs too much. Youâre overstimulatedâhis cock still driving into you, thumb still tight and unrelenting on your clit, his mouth sucking, teasing, biting gently down before soothing with his tongue.
Pleasure spikes sharp and fast, and itâs not buildingâitâs crashing. Your entire body locks up as the heat inside you explodes again, white-hot and shattering, a sob wrenching out of your throat. âFuckâSatoruâ!â Your cunt clenches tight around him, waves of pleasure ripping through you, and he feels it. You feel him falter, his rhythm breaking as he groans like youâve just knocked the wind out of him.
âShitâfuckâfuck, Iâmâ,â he doesnât even finish the sentence before heâs coming too, hips jerking as he spills inside you with a choked moan. You can feel him pulsing deep inside, every twitch of his cock matching the aftershocks still tearing through you.
He holds you tight through it, arms wrapped around your back, forehead pressed to your shoulder as you both shake through the comedownânothing but breathless curses filling the room.
You donât even realize your eyes have fluttered shut until you feel him shift, just a gentle repositioning of his weight as he carefully pulls outâslow, like he doesnât want to hurt you. You wince, breath catching at the sting, and immediately his voice is there, low and warm in your ear. âHey, you with me?â
You nod faintly, your body boneless, brain melted, heart still pounding. He kisses your shoulderâonce, twiceâand gently lowers your legs from where theyâre still draped over him, massaging your thighs like he knows theyâre trembling.
âOkay,â he murmurs. âIâll be right back, yeah? Donât move.â
You canât even laugh at that. He gets up anyway, grabbing the closest towel and heading to the bathroom, still totally naked, completely unbothered. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror across the roomâhair a mess, chest flushed, thighs shakingâand you groan, flopping back against the sheets.
By the time he returns, youâre still half out of it, and he just smiles, fond and lazy as he nudges your legs apart again. âEasy,â he whispers, wiping you down gently, taking his time like youâre made of glass now. âYou did so good for me, baby. So fucking good.â
You sigh as he finishes, and the second heâs done, he tosses the towel and climbs back into bed with youâpulling you against his chest, arms wrapped tight around your waist like heâs anchoring himself. You melt into him, cheek pressed against his collarbone and he grabs your hand, intertwining your fingers, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.
A pause. ThenââYouâre unreal, you know that?â he murmurs. âI mean, I already knew, butâJesus.â
You roll your eyes, lips twitching. âYouâre just saying that âcause I made you come so hard you forgot your own name.â
âSweetheart,â he says solemnly, âDonât be mean.â
You laughâtired, softâand he smiles at the sound.
Then quieter: âYouâre incredible.â He leans in, presses a kiss to your forehead.
You bury your face in his chest, heart warm and too full. âStop being sweet,â you mumble.
âNever.â He grins.
You donât say anything for a while. Just breatheâslow and steadyâas his hand runs gently along your back, grounding you. The roomâs quiet now, save for the soft hum of the city outside the window, and the faint rustle of sheets as you both settle into the aftermath. He shifts just enough to pull the blanket higher over the two of you, tucking you in without saying a word.
Your eyes are heavy, but you blink them open to look at him. Heâs already watching youâmessy hair, flushed cheeks, the ghost of a smile on his lips like he canât quite believe youâre real.
âWhat?â you murmur, voice rough with sleep.
He shrugs a little, eyes soft. âNothing. Just⌠youâre kinda perfect, yâknow?â
You snort under your breath, too tired to fight it. âDonât start.â
He chuckles, nose brushing your hair as he tucks you in closer. âI wonât. Promise.â
Thereâs a pause, just the two of you breathing in sync, his thumb stroking slow circles into your hip. âStay here tonight,â he whispers.
âBut âToru⌠we have class tomorrow.â
He groans dramatically into your skin. âLetâs bunk.â
You snort. âYou say that every time.â
âBecause itâs the right answer every time.â He lifts his head enough to look at you, hair sticking up in every direction, eyes still heavy-lidded but shamelessly clingy. âCâmon. Itâs late. Just stay.â
You hesitate, even though youâre already leaning toward yes. He catches that and nudges his knee between yours, coaxing you closer.
âIâll set an alarm,â he adds. âYou can wear one of my shirts. Iâll even make you coffee in the morning.â
You huff a quiet laugh. âAre you trying to bribe me?â
He shrugs. âDidnât think I had to.â
You roll your eyes, but youâre already settling in again, your cheek resting over his heartbeat. âFine,â you murmur. âBut if we oversleep, Iâm blaming you.â
He hums, content. âThatâs fair.â
So you stay like thatâcomfortable and a little too in love to care about anything. And with Satoruâs arms around youâhis breath steady against your skin, his presence anchoring youâyou drift off. No words needed. Just safe. Just held.
Perfect.
author's note. whoever started the nerdjo agenda, i owe you my firstborn child
please do not steal, modify, or translate my work.
pairing â star player satoru x broke artist reader
synopsis : after months of being your muse, satoru finally flips the table and makes you his canvasâreverent, hungry, and utterly devoted. you spent weeks capturing his form; now he worships yours, whispering that you are the masterpiece.
wc â 3.5k tags â smut, fluff, university au, pining, finally touching, soft dom satoru, service top satoru, hand worship, oral (f receiving), mirror sex, slow burn payoff, first time, established relationship, emotional smut, he loves you so much itâs sick, you lets yourself be loved, gentle filth, satoru is down so bad itâs pathetic
a/n: yes. this is the smut for free throws & figure drawings. i couldnât add smut in the original oneshot, but these two never left me alone, the part two which includes their life after college is still in the making!
eight months in.
thatâs how long it takes before satoru touches you like this.
not because you werenât ready. not because he wasnât. but because heâs a golden-retriever-faced menace who waitedâwaitedâuntil your need outweighed your pride. he could tell. he always could. and he never pushed, never asked, never made you feel cornered. just circled closer every day like gravity, like fate. one teasing comment at a time. one lazy smirk, one thigh brush, one perfectly timed stretch of his jersey in your face. every moment so casual. calculated. loving. he gave you time to breathe, time to bloom.
he made it a game. but not one he ever planned to win fast.
heâd kiss you slow in the halls, hand in your back pocket, mouth curling into your neck just to feel you twitch. heâd crawl into your bed after practice, shirtless, smelling like sweat and mint gum and expensive laundry detergent. heâd grin like a devil and mouth at your collarbone like he was innocent. always stopping short. always leaving you throbbing, breathless, caught between a gasp and a growl. and heâd laugh when you shoved him away, cheeks pink, thighs pressed tight, muttering something vicious under your breath. and then he'd say something stupid like, "it's cute when you fluster," as if you weren't already melting inside.
satoru gojo is shameless. but heâs also patient. reverent. completely and utterly yours.
he never tried to touch what you werenât ready to give. not once. not even when you straddled his lap in the studio, thighs framing his hips while you adjusted the light for your latest sketch. not when you fell asleep with your hand in his shirt and your face in his throat. not when your breath hitched the first time he kissed the base of your spine, or when your hips unconsciously pressed against him during a late-night cuddle. heâd grin, yes. heâd tease. but heâd always stop. always wait. because he wanted you to feel safe. he wanted you to choose.
because he knows how much you overthink. how long you spent folding your love into corners, how tightly you hold your own body together, like itâs a project you havenât quite finished. youâre an artistâyour hands are your pride, your purpose. and he knows that too. better than anyone.
he fell in love with them first.
long before you ever let him in, he was already watching the way you curled your fingers when you thought, the way you rubbed your thumb over your pencil before sketching, the way paint smudged the edges of your knuckles like a secret only he was meant to see. he watches them like a man starved. kisses them when you let him. cradles them like they might shatter. memorizes the little freckle on your index finger and the groove of your palm. calls them magic. says they saved him.
"you know you could ruin me with these," heâll murmur sometimes, his lips brushing the heel of your palm. "all that talent, all that precision, and you use them to paint me?" his smile is crooked. adoring. "no one's ever been so lucky."
and when you look away, flustered, pretending not to care, he kisses the dip of your wrist and whispers, "iâd let you wreck me. just say the word."
but he waits.
days turn to weeks, then months. your sketchbooks fill with him. you pretend they donât. he pretends not to notice. he starts bringing snacks to your sessions, then full meals. makes you take breaks. kisses the stress from your forehead. lays his head in your lap and lets you draw in peace. he runs errands for you. he fixes your squeaky cabinet. he folds your laundry, badly. he doodles in your margins when you aren't looking and gets scolded every time.
he never asks for more.
and still, he waits.
until one night, you pull him into your bed.
not like usual. not with the intent to sleep. not with your body curled toward the wall and his arm tossed carelessly around your waist.
no. this time, you kiss him first.
this time, your mouth is open and soft and wanting, your hands sliding under his shirt like youâre memorizing the ridges of his stomach. and for one suspended breath, he freezes. just to make sure you mean it. his lashes flutter. his breath stills. his hand hovers above your thigh, waiting.
and you do.
because for once, you arenât overthinking. you arenât afraid. you want him. you trust him. more than youâve ever trusted anyone.
and the moment your back hits the sheets, heâs all over you.
knees planted wide between your legs, hands everywhere, mouth hot and eager as it trails kisses down your body. his eyes are bright and ravenous, that blue burned down to smoke, lips already slick from the kisses he's stolen. his hands shake, just barely. like he canât believe heâs allowed to touch. like he doesnât want to ruin anything by rushing.
"took you long enough," he breathes, voice shot to hell as he watches you peel your shirt off. his gaze drags over your chest, reverent. like youâre light. like youâre art. like youâre his. something in him breaks a little, seeing you like this. bare. willing. glowing.
"youâre so annoying," you mutter, breathless, smiling despite yourself.
"mmhm," he hums, nuzzling against your neck. "but youâre still letting me fuck you. canât be that bad."
your glare doesnât land. not when heâs pressing you into the mattress, nosing at your jaw, whispering, âbeen dreaming about this. you, under me, making all those noises you try so hard to hold in.â
he kisses your hands first. of course he does. each finger, with reverence. your palm, with warmth. your wrist, with devotion. he presses them to his chest like theyâre sacred. says something about how theyâve built whole worlds. says he wants to earn every touch.
he doesn't just want you.
he cherishes you.
and fuck, you are noisy.
it drives him insane.
satoru hears it before his mouth even touches you. that soft, hitched breath when his hands slide beneath your thighs, calloused fingertips dragging slow and reverent like he wants to learn the shape of your tremble. the little gasp you try to swallow when he kisses the sensitive skin above your knee, letting his lips linger there too long, humming softly as if he's savoring something decadent. the sound that breaks from your throat when his thumb barely brushes over your folds and finds you soaked â it has him swearing under his breath, jaw going tight, shoulders tensing as though heâs barely keeping himself leashed.
his groan is guttural, lodged deep in his chest, like it takes effort to keep himself from diving in right then. his eyes are hooded, lashes clinging to sweat-slick skin, pupils blown wide beneath strands of silver hair that stick to his damp temple. his mouth is parted, a bead of spit catching on his bottom lipâalready pink from where he's been biting it raw. his expression flickers, moment to moment: awe, hunger, something like devotion. he looks like a man seconds from prayer and sin all at once.
âmm,â he hums low, dragging a knuckle through your slick. his thumb ghosts over your clit but doesnât linger yet. âyou always get this messy when i just look at you?â
your thighs twitch. your jaw clenches. your hands fist into the sheets, trying not to give him the satisfaction. but your eyes flutter half-shut and your lips part around a breath that catches anyway.
âdonât narrate it,â you mumble, voice shaking, already unraveling.
he laughs into your skin, hot breath ghosting over the inside of your thigh, and his grin is all teeth and mischief.
âcanât help it,â he murmurs, dragging his mouth lower. âyouâre too fuckinâ cute when you try to be mad at me.â
his palms slide behind your thighs, thumbs smoothing over your skin as he eases you apart, spreading you open like youâre something sacredâhis. the air hits your wetness and your body jerks, but heâs already lowering himself, settling between your legs like itâs his home.
his eyes roam every inch of you before he even touches. he stares, quiet for once, like he wants to memorize the way you look right now, how flushed you are, how your chest rises with shaky breath.
âshit,â he whispers, licking his lips. âyouâre unreal.â
you breathe his name again, soft, tentative. he glances up, and when your eyes meet, his smile softens into something molten.
âshhh,â he says, lips brushing your skin. âjust lemme taste you, baby. wanna make you feel good.â
and then he devours you.
no teasing. no hesitance. just tongue, mouth, hunger.
he groans like heâs been starved, like every inch of his body is aching to have this. he buries his mouth in you and licks like heâs drowning and the only thing keeping him breathing is you. his tongue is hot and slow at first, dragging between your folds, mapping out every part of you. and then deeper, messier, hungrier.
his nose nudges the crease of your thigh and he exhales sharply through it, groaning as his tongue circles your clit and flicks just right. your hips jump and he grins, lips curved against your skin.
when you moan, broken and high-pitched, his lashes flutter and his eyes roll back, like the sound of you is enough to undo him. he tightens his grip on your thighs, keeping you still while he feasts. you feel his jaw flex, the sharp edge of his cheekbone brushing your thigh with every movement.
he pulls back just a moment, lips slick, breath ragged, eyes glazed.
âyou make the prettiest sounds,â he breathes, voice thick, reverent. âc'mon, donât hide them from me. wanna hear everything.â
his tongue returns, more focused now, lapping and sucking in rhythm. you twitch beneath him, thighs clenching, and he lets out a low, gravelly noise of satisfaction. his lashes flutter again, mouth working hungrily, jaw moving with purpose.
âmmm,â he hums against you, smirking. âtastes better than any fuckinâ sweet iâve had. shouldâve done this sooner.â
your hand flies to his hair, tugging without thinking, and he groans loudâvibrating straight through you. his shoulders shudder, like he wants to grind himself into the mattress just from your sounds alone.
âfuck,â he breathes, and the tip of his nose bumps your clit again as he speaks. âpull harder. make a mess of me.â
thenâwithout warning, without mercyâhe sinks two fingers inside you.
thick. slow. deep. curling like he knows exactly where you need him.
your back bows. your breath stutters. your body arches up into him, and you make a sound heâs never heard from you beforeâwrecked and raw. his free hand anchors you down, palm spread flat against your stomach like heâs holding you to the earth.
âlook at you,â he groans, eyes flicking up to watch your face. âso fuckinâ tight. like youâre made to take me.â
his fingers work a slow, maddening rhythm inside you, knuckles dragging firm as his tongue flicks your clit in sync. the room is too hot. your vision swims. your thighs shake beneath his mouth.
he watches every twitch, every breath you catch, every expression you canât hide. he looks wreckedâhair damp and curling against his temples, lips swollen and slick, jaw sharp with tension.
he pants against your cunt, voice breaking.
âclose,â he murmurs. âi know. i can feel it. fuck, baby, gimme it. let me have all of it.â
you shatter.
legs trembling, voice cracking. your orgasm crashes through you like thunder, loud and bright and soaked, and he moans into itâdesperate and unfiltered, mouth still moving, tongue still pressing through every wave. your body jolts with every aftershock, thighs shaking around his head, hands twitching against his shoulders. your fingers go slack in his hair, your voice frayed.
his fingers donât leave you. they ease, slow, coaxing every tremor from your body with tenderness. his mouth lingers, placing soft kisses now, like heâs trying to soothe you through the comedown.
your hands push weakly at his shoulders, breathless, spent.
and he loves it.
he finally lifts his head, breath warm against your thigh, chest heaving like he just ran through a storm and found peace in you. his pupils are blown wide, nearly eclipsing the soft blue, hair disheveled and damp with sweat, strands sticking to his flushed forehead. his lips glisten, raw and parted, breath shaky as though your taste alone stole every last thread of his composure. his tongue drags across his lower lip slowly, like heâs still savoring the flavor of you, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smug, breathless grin.
he looks wrecked. and radiant. wild with need and dripping with adoration.
âyou okay?â
you nod, barely. dazed. lips swollen, eyes glassy, pupils unfocused. your lashes flutter as he kisses up your bodyâdelicate presses, reverent, like each inch of skin is something sacred, like heâs anchoring himself in the world by mapping every place heâs made you feel good. he doesnât speak at first. just hums, low and satisfied, murmuring quiet praises into your skin like theyâre instinct. like worship.
his mouth finds yours again, and he kisses you deepâwet and warm, a slow press that melts into something messier. he lets you taste yourself on his tongue, groaning into your mouth as your hips roll against him without meaning to. when you whimper, he exhales through his nose, kissing you deeper, his fingers slipping beneath your thighs to anchor you down.
âmm,â he exhales, voice syrup-thick as he shifts beneath you. ânot done.â
his hands settle at your hips, palms steady, guiding you effortlessly into his lap like youâre weightless. your back meets his chest with a slick press, your sweat-slicked skin sliding against his. his arms coil around your waist, strong and grounding. his chest rises and falls behind you, a little too fast, like heâs barely managing to keep himself from dragging you under.
the mirror is in front of you.
angled just right. angled perfectly. and god, he made sure of that.
his cock, flushed dark and twitching, slides between your folds as he shifts his hips beneath you, letting the tip nudge against your clit before gliding through your slick. the friction alone makes your head tip back, a choked sound escaping you.
he watches your reaction in the mirror, that infuriating smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. you feel itâhis amusement, his awe.
âlook at that,â he purrs, voice heavy with affection and mischief. âhavenât even put it in yet, and youâre already fallinâ apart on me.â
he kisses the side of your head, nose brushing your temple.
âbreathe, baby.â
his fingers dip down again, slow, teasing circles over your clit. featherlight, just enough to make your stomach tighten. your head tips back, body twitching in his lap. your nails scratch lightly down his arms, the only defense you can muster.
thenâ
he pushes in.
inch by inch.
thick, stretching you open like itâs the first time. because it is.
your breath shatters. your whole body jolts, hands flying to his forearms. your nails dig deep. your thighs strain to close, but his arms hold you open. you gaspâa helpless, breathy thing that breaks before it ever becomes a word.
âshh,â he coos, voice gentler now, lips grazing your ear. âsâokay. i got you. just breathe. youâre takinâ me so good already.â
he groansâlow, shaky. your walls flutter around him with every inch he sinks in, the stretch making your whole body shiver. his hand doesnât leave your clit, rubbing slow, steady circles to ease the burn.
âfuck,â he moans, forehead dropping to your shoulder. âyouâre squeezinâ me like a vice. gonna make me lose it before i even move.â
you try to speak, to say something bitingâbut the words collapse into a soft, keening sound as he bottoms out.
his hand finds your chin and tilts it forward.
ânuh-uh,â he murmurs. âdonât look away. wanna see how fuckinâ pretty you look like this.â
your eyes drag open, hazy and wet, and meet the mirror.
you barely recognize yourselfâflushed and shining, lips parted in a stunned gasp, your skin glowing with sweat. your brows are drawn, mouth twitching as your walls flutter around the thick weight of him inside you.
he starts to move.
slow. dragging. deliberate.
your breath stutters. your knees twitch, thighs trembling.
âthatâs it,â he hums, breath hot on your neck. âjust like that. god, youâre makinâ the cutest faces. yâknow that? fuckinâ adorable. you sure youâre not the one obsessed with me?â
he rolls his hips deeper. you cry out, barely a sound, just air and heat. your hands tremble where they grip his thighs, too overwhelmed to speak.
âwhatâs that? no smart little comment now?â he teases, kissing your shoulder, his voice drenched in adoration. âthought you were tough, angel.â
he grinds up into you again. your mouth falls open.
a whimper.
a moan.
and nothing else.
he laughs. delighted. wrecked.
âknew it,â he whispers. âknew iâd turn that sharp mouth of yours to mush.â
his thrusts quicken. deepen. his arms wrap tighter around your waist, locking you in place as he fucks up into you, smooth and controlled. the mirror shows everything. your body bouncing with every roll of his hips, his cock splitting you open again and again, the muscles in his abdomen flexing as he moves.
âlook at you, baby,â he growls, picking up the pace. âfuckâhowâre you this gorgeous and still act like iâm the muse?â
his voice cracks with it. because you areâyour expression undone, jaw slack, eyes lidded and wet. your thighs tremble with each thrust, every sound that escapes you more broken than the last.
âdonât hide from me,â he pants, breath sharp and quick. âkeep watching. wanna see the exact moment you fall apart.â
you try.
but your eyes blur. your vision swims. your body rocks helplessly in his lap.
your orgasm coils tight in your belly, sharp and violent.
âsatoruâpleaseâiâmââ
âthatâs it,â he whispers, mouth brushing your ear. âlet go. let me feel you, baby. wanna watch you fall apart all over my cock.â
you break. again.
your body collapses against him, your scream breathless, voice cracking. every muscle pulls taut, trembling. your walls clench hard around him, and he groansâdeep, raw, as he fucks you through it, chasing his own edge.
âthatâs it. fuck, thatâs itââ
he spills into you with a strangled cry, hips jerking, cock twitching deep inside, thick and so much it spills out around the edges. his arms crush you to him. he moans again, low and broken, like he doesnât know how else to react. he doesnât thrust again. just stays buried. trembling. like finishing inside you knocked every last thought out of his head.
his arms wrap around you like heâs trying to anchor himselfâlike if he loosens his grip, he might float away. his palm is pressed flat against your belly, grounding you, fingers twitching like they still donât know how to stop touching. his forehead rests against your shoulder, breath ragged and warm, strands of hair clinging to the sweat-damp skin of his temple.
your bodies breathe in tandem. chest to back, sticky with sweat and afterglow. his cock twitches again inside youâa slow, pulsing aftershockâand you feel the lazy, inevitable trickle of his release starting to slip out around him. your thighs twitch. your toes curl. your reflection in the mirror shifts, barely perceptible, trembling like the rest of you.
âyou okay?â he murmurs, lips brushing the back of your shoulder.
âno thanks to you,â you mumble, your voice thick and flat with exhaustion. it lacks the bite you were aiming for.
he laughsâquiet and hoarseâand kisses your jaw. âso mean,â he croons, nuzzling against your cheek. âand here i was, giving you the best night of your life.â
âshut up,â you whisper. your eyes are half-lidded, unfocused. âi canât even feel my knees.â
âthatâs a good thing,â he says, smug now. âmeans i did it right.â
you groan, shifting just enough to smack his thigh with the back of your hand, weakly. âyouâre insufferable.â
âyou love it,â he replies, kissing your temple. he still sounds dazed, too satisfied to be cocky for real. âgonna run you a bath soon. hot. lavender oil. bubbles.â
âdonât make promises youâre too tired to keep.â
he exhales a breathy laugh, the sound low and melted. his hand trails up your stomach, then down again, soothing, thoughtless. his thumb traces just beneath the curve of your ribs.
âgive me five minutes,â he murmurs. âthen iâll carry you. princess treatment.â
âmm. better.â
he adjusts his hold on you slightly, only so he can tuck his nose into the crook of your neck, exhale slow and deep like heâs trying to memorize the way you smell like skin and sweat and everything he just did to you.
âbut not yet,â he says, the words nearly lost in your skin. âjust let me stay like this. hold you a little longer.â
and he does. he stays wrapped around you like he was carved to fit there.
like if he lets go, the world might stop.
a/n : i missed writing themâmissed how individual they are, and how their chemistry feels like a natural consequence of who they are, not just the romance. free throws & figure drawings is still the piece iâm proudest of, and this feels like a little love letter to that <3 also: i toned down the explicitness in this oneânot because they arenât filthy, but because i really wanted to center the intimacy over the porn teehee :3
The train car is empty besides you and Bakugo, but he keeps his voice down anyway. His knees are spread so far that they are right up against yours, claiming more space than he is owed.
"Who's who?" you reply.
"The one that you're interested in." He gestures to your outfit with a scoff, "Come on, we were married- I know your tricks."
Ex husband: it's still weird to think about. For five years, you took this train home together. Now, Bakugo gets off at the third stop and you get off on the fifth. You know his mother, you were there for his father's funeral, and now you don't know what the inside of his apartment looks like. Your intersecting lives are starting to drift, despite the way you both try to stay close.
"I bet you put perfume on your ankles, whore." That shocks you a bit out of your maudlin thoughts. You smack him with the back of your hand and he chuckles as he pushes you away.
"Are you sure you want to hear about this?" His finger still has a tan line from his wedding ring.
"I dunno," he sniffs, "Gotta talk about it at some point though."
The train inches to a stop. No one gets on, no one gets off.
"I think Sero is cute."
Bakugo snorts and scoffs, rolling his eyes with a flourish only reserved for you.
"What?" you laugh.
"Sero? Really?" He's gruff as usual, trying to be unaffected and succeeding, "I dunno, I just thought you liked..."
"Meatheads?" you tease.
"People who act like me."
The train takes off, smears of neon light flickering as you pass through the city. It's the same as it ever was, yet always different, always changing. "I need something different."
Bakugo breathes in through his nose, an inverse sigh. His jaw is set hard, eyes loyal to the facade. You almost believe he's unaffected until he reaches over and pats your thigh, the touch lingering just a moment too long.
"We were good, though. When it lasted," he says.
"We were," you agree, placing your hand over his. "I think we're good now too."
He nods. The divorce was mutual, the final straw after months of screaming matches and broken hearts. When you first took off your ring, you never thought you could bear to look Katsuki in the face again, but today, as friends, you meet his eye.
Bakugo softens for a second, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips, but he returns to his normal self.
"I'll put out feelers for you," he says softly, "To see if Sero's interested."
Your stomach tightens and you're not sure if it's good or bad. "Thanks."
Bakugo hooks an arm over your shoulder and pulls your head into him. He still smells like vanilla and pepper, that stupid cologne you bought him last anniversary. When he presses a kiss into your temple, it almost feels like it did in the beginning, before the fall.
"I just want you to be happy, baby," Katsuki whispers.
The train starts to roll into its third stop of the night.
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cult leader ! geto. fem ! reader. corruption. oral (r receiving. praise. dub - con
he never lets anyone else touch you.
not his followers, not the other women who beg for his attention, not even the cursed spirits that slither through the shrine halls.
âsheâs mine,â he said, once. voice calm, sweet, final.
they didnât ask again.
so now, here you are. bare, kneeling before him on silken sheets, the temple quiet except for the low hum of candles and his breath in your ear. his hands are warm on your thighs. his robes are still on. he always stays dressed when he ruins you.
âyouâre my little altar,â he murmurs, thumb brushing your lips. âdonât you know that?â
you nod, eyes wide. he smilesâsoft, indulgent. dangerous.
he lays you back like heâs positioning a sacred offering. spreads your legs like heâs opening a scroll, taking his time. every movement reverent. slow. owned.
âlook at you,â he breathes. âfuck, youâre perfect. they donât even know, do they?â
his voice drops.
âwhat i do to you when theyâre asleep.â
his mouth meets your inner thigh and your body jolts. he doesnât move. just kisses there, then licks slowâso slowâup to your cunt like he has all the time in the world.
you gasp. his hands hold you still.
âshhh,â he whispers, breath warm against you.
âlet me have it.â
his tongue drags over your clit, slow and wet and deep. he eats like heâs starving, like itâs ritual. and maybe it is. because every time he buries his face between your legs, you forget what it means to exist without him.
you cry outâneedy, overwhelmed. he groans, low in his throat. it rumbles against you. he likes your desperation. drinks it in like itâs divine.
âthatâs it,â he whispers, voice soaked in adoration. âsing for me, pretty thing. i want them to hear who you belong to.â
your fingers curl into his hair. he doesnât stop. doesnât pause. just flattens his tongue against your clit and sucks until youâre arching off the mattress, shaking, sobbing for it.
and when you comeâhard, loud, helplessâhe holds you down, lips still working you through it like he never plans to stop.
you twitch. whimper. plead.
âtoo muchâgeto, please, iââ
he finally pulls back, chin glistening. his eyes are soft. so soft itâs terrifying. âcall me suguru,â he says, leaning in, voice velvet-sweet.