HOTLINE BL☆NG!
HOTLINE BL☆NG!
summ. wine nights and free will? a recipe for disaster— such as matching your ex on a corny dating app and having him in your bed within that same hour. . .
cw. eventual smut. 18+. fem!reader. alcohol/substance consumption. ex boyfriend!gojo. mild toxicity. breakup & makeup. girlhood ft jjk girlies. unreliable narrator sorta. sukuna slander. mild impact play. mild asphyxiation. oral (f). fíngering. backshōts. reader is a little questionable. self sabotaging my beloved. lowkey angsty. @/3aem on tumblr for art creds. most of these stories are real shit i’ve heard/experienced LOL. can you tell i’ve never used tinder a day in my life? 16.4k words. . oops.
rena’s note. @yung-notorious and her filthy mind. . .
“you like it when i fuck you like this? yeah you do.”
god, you do.
you can’t bring yourself to remember why you’d ever let go of dick this good. the kind that had you taking the rubber off and considering finishing inside. the kind that had you babbling apologies for having done absolutely nothing wrong. the kind that made you begin to believe his careless whispers, empty promises to work things out.
his fingers dig in the column of your throat, the weight of his hand wrapped tightly at your neck. he’s everywhere at once, but simultaneously no where to be found. while you can feel his tip prodding at your most sensitive spot, you don’t feel the overwhelming force of love he once bore with open arms for you.
“nahhh. . . don’t start running now.” you didn’t realize you were. the sheets are crumpled in your tight hold, while your other hand lightly pushes at his lower abdomen. naturally, he pins your wrist at your spine to maintain his ruthless pace, and with another gentle yet cruelly empty promise, “not when i’ve just gotten you back.”
how the fuck did you get yourself in this mess?
friday nights were meant to decompose after a long week. a cute tradition you followed— sipping on moscato wine and munching on takeout with your homegirls while the lamest horror movie played as background noise. the skincare bit happened every third friday of the month, which fell on this particular night, thin layers of korean products lathering at your skins while fluffy headbands sat atop your hairlines, keeping stray hairs away.
it was an easy way of recapping all of your week’s worth of bullshit and listing each girl’s new lineup of men of the season.
girlhood.
“i’m cool off men for a whileee,” you sigh, placing your third wine glass on the coffee table. you tuck your legs back onto the couch, propping your head into your palm. you watch as shoko, who’s seated on the floor, grabs your glass and fills it with another unsolicited round. you narrow your eyes at her, “after the shit kuna pulled— girl, slow down!”
“don’t watch me,” shoko chews at her unlit blunt tucked in her teeth, lifting an arm above her head to pass you your refill. despite the slight spin of the room, you accept the cup against better judgment, “keep talking. what the fuck did he do now?”
“you mean what didn’t he do,” seated in the pink bean bag rested on the floor, utahime quips. in between her teeth sits a wooden stick, drizzled in the honey-like wax residue she smeared over her shin. “i woulda left his ass the second i found out he— FUCK— lived with his mama at his big age.”
as utahime soothes her smoothened skin, yuki leans over the coffee table to grab at the blunt passed over to her. “y/n baby, you know i love you,” she starts off, taking a deep inhale before ghosting the smoke. you can tell she’s about the cook the shit out of you, “but come on— he lives in his parents’ basement. was that not a red flag in itself? is that seriously the kind of man you see yourself marrying.”
“nevermind the fact he’s pushing thirty and still unemployed,” shoko throws in her two cents, takeout back in her lap as she breaks open a new set of chopsticks, “he’s one more ‘tap in’ away from getting caught by the feds.”
“how much y’all wanna bet he’s at the club right now as we speak?” it’s a rhetorical question, but utahime pauses her waxing to check. with sticky fingers, she taps away at her phone, and with a knowing smile she yelps, tilting her screen towards you three, “aha!— and there goes the infamous money spread.”
“cornballllll.” shoko cringes.
you’re filled with dread and shame at the sight presented. god— every single chance you gave this man, he spun around and somehow does worse. it’s not like the two of you were together— never officially, but the sole fact that you’ve let this man treat you as if you were his girl haunts you. you’ve let countless of bullshit slide all because his stroke game came second within all the men you’ve dealt with.
the only thing you’ll give him besides a being a good lay is that you’ve never had issues concerning other women. he’s a very transparent guy— you’ve yet to receive a “hey girlie. . .” text from anybody. though, it isn’t like either of you have ever dropped any hard launches. it was mostly content that only close friends could catch onto— the interior design of his car, your latest set of nails, subtle shots of his tattoos, your purses and jewelry. nothing evident but pretty obvious to those who know.
if sukuna was still cool with him, however. . . yeah, he’d definitely know, considering the fact he purchased most of the purses you own. that’s excluding the fact your favorite necklace, the one with your name engraved, the one you always wear, was also bought by him.
“move,” you push utahime’s hand away from your peripheral, slumping further into the couch. embarrassment floods you yet again, and you drown it away with more wine. much to your chagrin, they spare no mercy as they giggle at your pout, “not too much on me— shoko, you’re literally the one who put me on!”
“don’t do that,” she rolls her eyes, picking at the orange chicken on her platter. you have half a mind at chucking your drink at her. “all i told you was to fuck him. nobody said anything about keeping him around.”
“instructions: unclear,” utahime giggles, smearing another coat of wax mixture onto her calves. “she’s now a year deep into a situationship with a man who files for disability checks to blow on parlays.”
you spring up in your seat, your wine nearly spilling on shoko in your excitement, “shit, i never told you guys!”
“told us what?” yuki kills the blunt in the ash tray, and stretches an arm to grab at her food. she knocks over a few emptied bottles as they roll on the carpet, and winces when one of them knock at shoko’s knee, “my fault girl.”
shoko clicks her tongue, but you loop your arms around her neck as you proceed, “before you bitches attacked me for literally just being a girl,” you decide ignore the way they all groan, “i was trying to tell you all why i finally ended shit with him.”
“well don’t hold back now!” utahime eggs on.
“guess what i found out,” you set the empty wine glass back onto the table. you’re most likely gonna need your hands in this specific conversation, “he bet thirty thousand dollars on the super bowl game— and lost.”
the room falls quiet. utahime pauses in her ripping, yuki drops her noodles from her chopsticks and shoko nearly chokes on her wine. amidst it all, three pairs of eyes slowly crawl to meet your gaze, in complete disbelief at what you’d told them.
“are you deadass?” shoko speaks first, her facial expression almost incredulous. her eyes are teary from her food slipping through the wrong tube. “you’re playing, right? right?”
“she has to be. . . this is a new level of low even for him.” yuki shakes her head, most likely in attempts to give him the benefit of the doubt. you don’t blame her— no sane person would drop thirty grand on a fucking betting app of all things— and on top of that, lose.
“i wish i was?!” you groan, still upset, “the worst part is that he told me that money was supposed to be deposit money for a condo he’d been,” you raise your fingers in air quotes, “looking into.”
“you know what though? this doesn’t actually surprise me,” utahime laughs, as if she hadn’t been in a daze for a solid minute. she rips at the strip, and winces, “didn’t i just say he was getting checks to place on parlays? frank gallagher looking ass.”
“but thirty thousand?” yuki emphasizes, blinking rapidly in her disbelief, “what the fuck would possess somebody to bet thirty grand on anything?”
“grown ass man, by the way.” shoko mumbles mindlessly, before chowing down some more food. you can’t find it in yourself to disagree.
utahime nods, blowing a puff of air, “on god, bro. don’t he got mortgages to pay off or some shit?”
yuki shoots her a deadpanned look, “girl, with what house.”
and that had been your final straw with him. not the fact he lived in his mother’s basement despite clearly having money to rent out a place, or the fact he was still flexing bands he allegedly has on the gram— but blowing all your money on a fucking football game. and losing. you do respect yourself, as much as these girls believe you don’t. a man with no ambitions and no money? you need to run and far.
“i’ll miss his dick though.” you pout, the alcohol already coursing through your body. being wine drunk always made you horny, that was a known fact, and letting go of one of your greatest eaters was not on your bingo card. naturally, the girls roll their eyes at your antics, “boo me all you want— he horsed me the fuck around in bed.”
“you used to say the same shit about gojo,” utahime points out, rising to her feet as she grabs the used strips in her hold, before circling around the couch, “and look how that ended up.”
technically. . . she wasn’t exactly wrong but that still stung a bit. “hime, seriously?” shoko rolls her eyes, and you feel her hand rubbing at your foot soothingly. her motions are a little stiff but you appreciate the sentiment, “we get you don’t fuck with him but he was still her man. and basically my friend, kinda.”
you hear her wince in the kitchen, followed by footsteps, “right. . . sorry girlie.” she runs back to you after throwing the waste away, and kisses at your temple. she doesn’t comment on the pout on your lips. “i didn’t mean it. . . okay maybe i did, but i’m still sorry!”
your history with gojo was complicated. you’d met him through shoko in your third year of college, at a kickback party hosted by his people. it’d been an invite only thing, but shoko had brought you along as a plus one, and you both instantly connected. as far as you were concerned, it was technically supposed to be a sneaky link vibe, but you soon learned gojo was anything but sneaky. in fact, he was so vocal in him wanting you, that he actually did end up getting you a couple months later.
he’s a year older than you, therefore he’d graduated a year ahead. the separation in itself was something you hadn’t looked forward to at all, but he had found himself a condo downtown, not too far from your residency, therefore seeing each other hadn’t been an issue. he always made it clear he wanted to see you— even after gruelling nine to five shifts in the office. his words matched his actions, driving you up to his place since yours had a stupid curfew policy for visitors.
(you’ve kept him in your dorm numerous times.) (your closet has suffered enough with his lanky ass.)
the first year worked out for the better. he was still welcomed to the parties you invited him to, he made time in his schedule help you with your studies, planned consist dates and even took you out on trips. he was physically, mentally and emotionally present— and you genuinely believed he would be your forever man when you’d introduced him to your parents at your graduation ceremony and he seemed thrilled. they adored him— and that says a lot considering they hated all your other exes. with good reason, but still.
it’d been the honeymoon phase until it wasn’t.
you expected arguments. those are inevitable in relationships, but with every argument he grew distant. you were now both graduated students juggling between jobs, rent and a relationship. it was a lot— your schedules never seemed to align which jumbled into multiple failed dates, which further escalated into more arguments. it hadn’t always been him, you could agree you were at fault too. that post graduation depression spiralled worst than you’d anticipated— the fear of falling behind when your boyfriend had already been successful so early into his career entirely consuming.
he reassured you plenty, but you could see it in his face as he spoke to you— he was exhausted. of work. of life. of you. he had bigger fish to fry than dealing with a workaholic girlfriend with low self esteem. the bigger the promotion, the less your value. you’d seen this play out before— it was less i love you’s and more hours in the office. less dinner dates and more project plannings.
the more time you spent by yourself, the more your mind began overthinking. you had no place in his life anymore. you didn’t resent him for it— you wish nothing but the best for him. he deserves to be successful in life, and he’s already so close to it. your slacking behind is nothing more than dead weight in his rise to the top.
the breakup had been anticipated. you’d broken up with him first. he never asked you to explain why. he nodded, never uttering a word. it’d been the first time you’d seen him in weeks. you kept it simple, “we should break up.” and he kept it even simpler, a curt bounce of the head in agreement. as quick as he’d entered your apartment, he left.
and that’d honestly been it. you’d been together for four years, and broken up for a year and a half. after all this time, you still don’t resent him for it. he made the rational choice in prioritizing himself and his future, and you simply didn’t fit in it. it took you quite some time to work on yourself as well, and you’re honestly satisfied with where you are in life. the breakup clearly worked in favour for you both.
it sucks that he was genuinely the only man you ever cared about. the only man you can confidently say you loved.
“look— now you got her thinking about him!” shoko complains, chucking the nearest thing— a throw pillow, at utahime. it hits her square in the face, to which she lets out a muffled oof! “way to fucking go.”
you blink out of your thoughts. well that’s embarrassing, you got caught up in the past again. you lift yourself from the slumping position you’d unintentionally fallen into the midst of daydreaming, “shit, my bad. got flashbacks to that time he ate me off the bone after his first promotion.”
“yo, what?!” yuki hollers, falling into a fit of laughter. shoko rolls her eyes so much you’re thinking it’ll get stuck at the back of her skull and utahime physically cringed from head to toe. “so fucking unserious— here we are, worried about your ass and here you go, upset you lost your best eater.”
not exactly, though there was some truth to her words. gojo was your best eater, and nobody’s topped him since. he really did tongue fuck you that night like you were the boss who raised his pay. but it wasn’t just the sex you missed— you wholeheartedly missed him. the closest thing to a soul bond you’ve experienced, now gone.
they don’t need to know all that though.
“oh come on,” utahime groans, picking at her nails. trust her to find any reason to slander your ex. for what reason? she’s never told you other than him annoying the fuck out of her, “he could not have been that great. it can’t be anything you can’t find elsewhere— plenty of men eat pussy.”
“okay but do they enjoy eating it or is it more of a duty thing?” yuki points out, rolling her thumb on her lighter mindlessly. she watches the flame arise, casting a soft glow on the sheet stuck to her face, “because you can definitely tell the difference. one eats for foreplay, the other eats for his own pleasure.”
shoko hums in agreement, still poking at her plate, “a man versus a munch,” and with a beat of silence, she takes a deep sigh, throwing her head back, “i should call him.”
“no! no you should not,” utahime laughs, before shooting you a glance. your smile quickly falters and is switched with a look of confusion as she points a nail filer in your direction, “and you,” you cock a brow, “stop thinking about him. we’re supposed to be independent women, y’all need to stand the fuck up.”
“hime, please, you were literally just complaining to your close friends about your latest dry spell.”
“irrelevant!” she dismisses yuki, waving a hand absentmindedly. you don’t see how it’s irrelevant exactly, but you let her proceed. “we are sexy, successful and strong women. stop relying on the past and focus on the future. there are bitches that fought for their lives for the freedom we have! you could literally get dick anywhere— they actually have apps for it, if you didn’t know—”
“so tell us, o’mighty one,” shoko cuts her off, “are you suggesting we download tinder to relieve our stress?”
she remains quiet, and you can see the gears churning in her head. you’re about ninety nine percent positive shoko was fucking around, but the scrunch in your friend’s eyebrows tells you she’s seriously contemplating the idea, “. . yes actually.” she finally decides.
“hime. . .” shoko groans, but is effectively cut off when she springs up to her knees to grab at her phone.
“no, seriously, think about it!” she scrolls through her phone like a maniac, searching through the app store and typing the name in. you all watch her incredulously, her enthusiasm in the matter as if she hadn’t been preaching about feminism half a minute ago, “i’ve met some of my best lays in college through tinder. i haven’t been on this app in years though.”
you don’t see why not. you were pretty tipsy and would never have agreed to this under typical conditions, however it could be regarded as a bonding activity. you also haven’t been on tinder since before your last relationship, and the shit sukuna put you through this past year was enough to make you want to deal with literally anything else.
“i’m down.” you pull out your phone, and shoko may have gotten whiplash with how quick she snaps her head back to eye you. you shrug your shoulders, “we don’t have to take this shit seriously— god knows i’m not entertaining anybody on this app for real.”
“exactly!” utahime nods, walking up to scoot herself beside you. she nudges at shoko with her foot, who flicks at her toes to keep her away, “it’s just for shits and giggles.”
“i’m definitely not doing this shit,” yuki crawls to sit at the couch’s feet, right at shoko’s side, and grabs at the remote sitting uselessly on the table, “but i will be watching you both embarrass yourselves.”
“the only other bitch with common sense here.” shoko sprawls her legs onto yuki’s lap. she receives a slap at the back of her head by utahime, and naturally she slaps the hand right back. “can’t stand that little fucker sometimes.”
“aweee, love you too!” she blows a kiss at her to which she receives a middle finger. you snort, eyes glued on your screen as you redownload that forsaken app back into your phone.
you’d probably regret it in the morning, but that was something saturday you would have to deal with. as of right now, with white wine in your system, logic was not an option. you were learning to live more in the moment, and apparently that starts with the corniest dating app in the world.
it’s not like you’d magically stumble upon your ex on the platform. now wouldn’t that be something? ha!
there’s no fucking way.
this had to be one big, fat cosmic joke. a cruel prank, even. and if it was, then the universe had a twisted sense of humour. you still don’t believe it— were the girls in on this? this kind of shit didn’t just happen to anybody.
it took about a total of twenty minutes between logging back into your old account, updating your password and bio, and swiping left on passing profiles until you landed on it. on. . . him.
you blink slowly. your phone is shaky beneath your unstable hands, and you’re pretty sure you’ve been holding your breath in far longer than recommended for the average human. it’s quiet as fuck in the room— despite the three girls huddled over your shoulders, sticking their noses in all directions to get a clearer view of your illuminating screen— almost as if to confirm if what they were seeing was truly was they were seeing, as if this was all too fucking ironic to be true.
there’s a knot of anxiousness that simmers in the pits of your stomach. you’re pretentiously aware that even the slightest movement— one wrong click or swipe, would ultimately change everything. there was too much at risk here. “oh there’s no fucking way. . .” shoko speaks up first.
utahime leans in impossibly closer, a few centimetres away from fully emerging with your iphone as her nose scrunches, “way too sexy? fuck around and find out? god, he’s still so corny, i swear.”
your eyes trail over his biography, curiously. that “way2sexy” had been an inside joke you both shared years ago— back when drake had dropped one of gojo’s favourite albums, certified loverboy. he overplayed the shit out of that song when it came out, so much that you received multiple complaints from your RA for “public disturbance”, but he swore it worked as daily affirmations for him in the same sense crystals and tarot cards worked for spiritual girlies. you called him corny for it, but before you knew it, it’d shown up in your spotify wrapped the following year.
rapid memories of morning rays of light peeking through blinds, a groggy yet mysteriously clear “alexa, play way 2 sexy” as you fixed your sheets and lit your candles, fighting over who gets to spit toothpaste residue first, hearty laughter to fumbled lyrics, shared minty kisses paired with one “gimme one more” too many.
the ache clenching at your heart is hard to ignore.
“i would give him the benefit of the doubt in believing he hasn’t updated his account,” yuki draws out, eyes narrowing as a finger sticks out to point, “but his age matches. emoticons as a grown man. . . no shade though.”
his age did match. inside joke aside, none of it was adding up. if he already had his account set up years ago, had he willingly changed his bio to one of your most infamous gags after the breakup? if you were to swipe right right now, would it instantly match? you don’t think you want to figure it out— both possible outcomes scaring you shitless.
“should i swipe left?” you speak uncharacteristically softly, torn between the idea of tucking your tail inwards and running away from the opportunity or your typical it is what it is mentality.
“yes! obviously— mmmph?!”
“do you want to?” shoko, with a pillow stuffing an agitated utahime in the face, counters. between all the girls, she seemed to understand you the most, granted her own relationship with the man. you’re sure he had given her his own version of their breakup, how you’d opened the doors to endless opportunities for him, had given him the easy way out. you never bothered asking her, afraid of the illusion you’d created to shield yourself shattering, “only you have the answer to that.”
“i honestly don’t know,” you sigh, joints in your thumb aching from hovering over your screen for too long. swiping left meant completely abandoning any the possibility of the two of you as one. you don’t want that responsibility weighted on your shoulders again, “what if he’s moved on? the shit that’ll do to my ego if i swipe right and he passes on me?”
shoko finally grants her friend the permission of speech, freeing her off the couch decoration, though the look she gives her serves as a warning to tread lightly. with a heavy breath, utahime releases a puff, “i’d crashout, just sayin’.”
“but what if he hasn’t moved on?” yuki poses, and apparently that was all the confirmation you needed to swipe. fuck pride— pride wasn’t going to get your back blown out. pride wasn’t going to help you get the love of your life back. pride can go fuck itself.
“wait—”
utahime is cut off again, however, not by shoko but tinder itself. the notification pings loudly, resonating in depths of your ear cavity and shoots straight to your chest. you can feel your heart pounding wildly against your rib cage. it’s so silent you can hear a pin drop, and the way your gut churns gives away the end result to your spontaneity.
it’s a match.
“well. . . shit.” shoko slumps back into the couch nonchalantly, and you don’t need to see her to know she’s sporting a smirk. you do feel her knee knock into yours. fake ass idgafer.
you’re no better, biting down your bottom in order to suppress the smile itching to spread. a year later and the sole idea that he’d already came across the same mindset as you, willing to give whatever it was that needed a second shot, had you beyond delusional. god, you need help.
“look at youuu, cheesin’ and shit!” yuki pokes at your cheek and you swat her hand away, ultimately caving into the smile. fuck yeah you were geeked— it’s hard carrying a nonchalant attitude when you were an honest to god, soft hearted lovergirl. if you played your cards right, with a few lash bats and glossy lips, you’d be getting dicked down in no time.
“i’m gonna be sick.” utahime deadpans.
“and i’m getting dickkk,” you sing, jumping to your feet as you stood on the couch. you turn around, hands clutching onto the headrest, giving your ass a cute shake as it rotates in circular motions. you feel shoko’s hand tapping it encouragingly, her phone illuminating as it records while she rests her head on your moving thighs. you hear yuki cackle, pulling out her phone to film as well. you giggle, “rip that pussy!”
“ayeeee!” they complete the lyrics, and the vibes are restored yet again, girly giggles filling the room. when your legs begin to feel wobbly, you stop your twerking to plop yourself right back down, leaning your head onto shoko’s shoulder.
you hear her click her tongue as the recording of your ass graces her screen, and she groans, “gojo is one lucky bastard— he can’t handle all that.”
he most definitely can, and has. you’ll opt with shrugging in the meantime.
“with that being said,” utahime jumps in, crossing her legs, “what’s the next move here? you reaching out first?”
your lips straighten as your mind reflects. if you still know him as well as you think you do, he’s definitely going to text you first as soon as he sees the green light. sure, you were anxious for a reply, desperate to check what his temperature was— but you’d already sacrificed a grand amount of dignity just swiping right. he could do take on the role of texting first.
“nah, i’m almost a hundred percent sure he’ll—”
ping!
you all whip your heads to the source of the sound. your phone. the screen shines as it undergoes facial recognition, and exposes the messenger. from tinder. gojo. sending you a message. just as you’d expected.
you can’t help the cocky smile, eyes trailing at their perplexed faces, “—text me first.”
naturally, the girls are impressed. even you are— that timing? would it be insane to genuinely be considering gojo might honest to god be your soulmate? yuki blows a puff of air, followed by a laugh, “your pussy has to be magical cause what the fuck?”
“ladies and gentlemen,” utahime stands to her feet, fisting her hand into an imaginary microphone, and addresses her fake crowd. in the hostiest voice she can muster, she curtsies as she continues in comedic fashion, “miss pussy fairy in thee flesh.”
“put a stamp on it.” shoko shakes her head in acknowledgment, laying her own phone in her lap as she claps. yuki places two fingers in her mouth and whistles at you, to which you rise to your own feet and dramatically place a hand over your chest in faux humility.
“oh please!” you flatter yourself, tucking your hair behind your ear. you smile behind your palm, your improv classes in high school coming in clutch, “this is too much— thank you! thank you deeply.”
“girl, byeee,” utahime breaks character first, giggling as she sits back onto the abandoned bean bag. you mimic her motions, as she pops open a stray water bottle and swallows a big gulp, “open his text! i wanna see what he said!”
you’re in the same boat, thumbing at your phone to unlock it and open the app. naturally the girls hover over you yet again, just as eager to see how he finally broke the no contact phase. it took him less than three minutes to slide in your messages, as the option had finally been granted.
right as your thumb hovers the message, a hum draws out your throat, “how much y’all wanna bet it’s something corny?” you tease, something close to a hunch giving it away. seeing as your assumptions were deemed accurate just a few minutes ago, the only way he’d think of clearing the ice would be with something plausibly lame.
“open itttt!” utahime ushers you, hands clamping at your shoulders. you roll your eyes, letting her dramatics sway your body back and forth before she lets up. you let out a sigh, and open the unanswered message.
and just as you’d predicted. . .
@gsatoru: they say shooters shoot 👀
“oh brotherrrr,” the girls groan in sync, and even you can’t stop the cringe that stiffens your face. if there’s one thing that hasn’t changed, it’s the fact he still doesn’t act his age. he needs to let those college days go.
“now, what’d i tell y’all.” you tut, leaving out the part of nostalgia simmering deep and warmly in your bones at his predictability. ever the goofy he was, gojo satoru. jeez.
“i was really found myself rooting for him too,” shoko sighs, rising to her feet. she dusts at her lap then stretches her limbs lazily, “i’m gonna go pee— hime, i swear to god, don’t take my seat.” she doesn’t look back to flip her off when she hears utahime blow raspberries her way. to which, against shoko’s wishes, leaps over to snatch her seat.
both you and yuki give her a deadpanned look, but yuki voices out your thoughts, “she’s gonna get on your ass and i’m not helping you out.”
“girl, boo.” utahime rolls her eyes, “more importantly, what the fuck do you answer to that?” her nail taps at your phone screen, peering at you expectantly through lashes.
you consider your options. do you reciprocate the same energy or do you call him out on his corniness? matching his vibe would be like starting off a blank slate— a new start, new conversations, something almost superficial. like a fling you meet at the bars for one night of fuckery that you regret the next morning. but calling him out would induce in falling into familiar patterns— calling him a cornball while he attempts to sweet talk you, old conversations brought up, risking broken boundaries for the sake of reminiscing.
decisions, decisions, decisions.
“i’m thinking taking the easy way out.” you nod your head, readying your fingers as you type your response out.
you miss the exchanged glances between utahime and yuki, too busy trying to format how to come off playful but not forgetful. flirty but not desperate. come pull up on me but demurely. well you’ll be damned— in what world had you ever expected second guessing yourself for gojo?
“what’s the easy way out?” yuki asks, and you hit send. where this confidence comes from is beyond you, but any error you make you can blame on the wine (you’re hardly fazed but it’s nice to have something to pin the blame on instead of yourself) (old habits die hard).
you tilt your phone, holding it out as you watch the girls’ brows furrow, eyes scanning over the screen. when their faces contort into a look of amusement mixed with horror, a girly giggle escapes your throat.
@yourstrulyname: sukuna ryomen wsp with you?? 🙈
“you didn’t!” utahime hollers, her laughter so intense she doubled over to clutch at her stomach. yuki sways her body back and forth as she finds herself in a hysterical fit as well. “goddd, i would kill to see the look on his face right now.”
“yooo, that’s evil.” the blonde swipes at a tear. “woulda had me deactivating the whole account.”
“who’s deactivating?” shoko pops back in, not without slapping utahime upside the head. she ignores the way utahime complains in favour to swipe a nearly emptied bottle to pour.
“it’s not even that bad,” you defend yourself, flashing her your screen as she installs herself in the bean bag utahime once occupied. her eyes squint as she reads the conversation, nearly bulging out their sockets when she catches your message, “nahhh, don’t give me that!”
“if he gives you the time of day after that,” shoko swirls the wine in her glass, snorting, “he must really still be in love with you.”
“he should know i’m playing. . .” you’re not sure if you’re trying to convince the girls, him or yourself. you really were just joking around— albeit a terrible joke, but one regardless! sukuna was officially removed from the roster, a financially irresponsible man never standing a chance against you, “right?”
“don’t ask us?” utahime chimes in, uselessly, to which you roll your eyes. well shit, maybe you should double text? let him know you were just fooling around, trying to check temperatures and establish the mood. your phone pings again, and all unnecessary thoughts are thrown out the window.
@gsatoru: oh so you got jokes now?
as you’re about to let him know you’ve been had jokes, but never the goofy type, you see the bubbles pop up, a telltale that he’s got more to tell you. you let him have it, already having possibly fumbled the mission before even starting. it feels like an eternity and a half waiting on his text, the girls having huddled over you yet again, just as curious to see what he had to counter with.
@gsatoru: can’t be a joke if the guy had you outside on valentine’s day tho. stk steakhouse? really girl?
your jaw falls slack. you watch with burning eyes at your screen as your built up suspicions were ultimately confirmed. okay, so those two were still somehow connected. you didn’t like to question male friendships, the lack of loyalty not one you’d ever understand. god forbid you ever started fucking with utahime’s ex of many years.
“wait. .” said girl speaks up, drawing the word out as she processes his answer. her tongue rolls around in her mouth, face cringing as the next words follow, “i can’t lie, he kinda ate you up.”
“just sassy as fuck,” shoko laughs, and it’s one of those giggles reserved to shit she honestly finds hilarious, “really girl is crazy. all comfortably like he’s one of your homegirls.”
“now what’s wrong with stk’s?” yuki grumbles, picking at her nails with a childish pout on her lips, “everybody isn’t born with a silver spoon plugged up our asses. god, i can’t stand rich people.”
you don’t bother answering the girls, already aware he chewed with his response, that he’s as sassy as he was years ago and that he had found that particular steakhouse shabby despite it being a fucking steakhouse. these were things you already knew. your thumbs proceed before your mind can register,
@yourstrulyname: been keeping tabs on me?
“you don’t look too happy,” shoko pokes at your cheek. there’s an ache creasing in your forehead, and you relax the furrow of your brows. you’re not exactly upset, just a bit on edge with his approach— you can’t tell whether he’s on tens or not. whether he’s genuinely joking around or not.
“i’m fine.” you poke back, and she nods. she ushers the other girls to pick a new movie to play, and you clock this is her way of allowing you some privacy between exes. you shoot her a grateful look, and she offers a sly wink. you’ll make sure to update her on whatever happens as soon as it’s over.
you switch your ringer off, and open his new message.
@gsatoru: hard not to when he posts you like he has smth to prove
@yourstrulyname: who said it was me?
you knew it was you. you knew he knew it was you. but still, you wanted to hear it from him yourself, wanted to know if he really was keeping tabs on you ever since the breakup. it’d help ease your mind with unanswered questions.
@gsatoru: you mean besides the bags and jewelry i got you?
@gsatoru: your build was a dead giveaway. could recognize you blindfolded in a room full of women
you bit your lip. you could work with this text, play around with it and see if shit flips. would he fall for the bait? you’ll start off slow, create an opening and see if he decides to indulge.
@yourstrulyname: like what you saw?
he answers instantly and your heart sinks a bit.
@gsatoru: of course
@gsatoru: you’re as a beautiful as the day you left me
is that how he saw it? you assume you did leave him in a practical sense, but there was no way he hadn’t seen it coming miles away. you had both been caught up in your lives, the additional stress of romance an unwanted factor in the rise of your careers. so yeah, you’d given him the opportunity to leave. it’s not as if he fought it anyway, so did you really leave him if he’d closed the door on his merry way out?
this was starting to get personal. toeing between the line of uncharted territory and familiarity. everything you didn’t want— debriefing the logic behind the underwhelming breakup on tinder of all places was out of the fucking question.
@yourstrulyname: you still cool with sukuna?
@gsatoru: something like that
@gsatoru: he’s slimey as fuck for sliding on you tho
you figured as much. you couldn’t imagine a world where gojo wouldn’t feel some type of way at his friend going after his ex girlfriend a couple months fresh off a breakup. he probably felt the same way towards you, the difference being one owes him more loyalty than the other.
@yourstrulyname: and what does that make me?
@gsatoru: did he mean something to you?
he didn’t. you think of the importance of somebody meaning something to you— the fear of losing that person larger than life itself. the joy of waking up in that person’s arms on a rainy morning. the vulnerability in bonding souls with that person. the relief your body undergoes as it melts in that person’s embrace.
he didn’t mean shit to you.
@yourstrulyname: no
@gsatoru: then that makes you someone who made a choice
neutral and impassive. you wondered if he truly meant that. in a sense, you assume he really did mature.
@yourstrulyname: so he’s in the wrong but i’m not?
@gsatoru: who am i to assign right from wrong? you’re both adults at the end of the day
you don’t know what to answer to that. there was a lot of truth to his words— you were both consenting adults with choices made. jeez, just what had gojo gone through all these months that made him none the wiser? you’re considering leaving him on opened for a while, at least until you come up with an answer to that philosophical ass message, when he double texts you.
@gsatoru: this is so backwards lmaoo. what’s good with you? how’ve you been?
so he realized it too. thank fuck— skipping small talk and diving into the nitty gritty this late at night was not how you expected your night to go. the girls had completely forgotten your predicament, invested in the latest reality tv show flashing on your flat screen.
@yourstrulyname: been good. you?
@gsatoru: wow you’re as dry as ever
@gsatoru: life’s been blessed, could be better tho. too much to explain over text
oh? was this what you were thinking it was?
@yourstrulyname: what are you getting at, gojo?
@gsatoru: gojo? so it’s fuck me then
@gsatoru: not getting at anything. ball’s in your court, yn
so it was. you contemplate it for a second— should you invite him over tonight? the girls won’t be upset about kicking them out, and if anything they’d encourage you to call them as soon as it’s over. you suppose your doubts lie within the idea of having your ex boyfriend back into your territory. in the comfort of your home, a home he’d once already graced.
as scary as it sounded, you also desperately craved seeing him. it’d been a solid eighteen months since you’ve broken up, and thirteen since you’ve last seen him entirely. ironically, around the time you started getting involved with sukuna. you weren’t sure if it was your heart or pussy talking, but laying up in bed with this man was not something you were against.
fuck it.
@yourstrulyname: you know where i stay at
and his response comes instantly.
@gsatoru: be there in half an hour.
oh fuck.
“yo. . .” you speak up, for the first time in a few minutes. the girls turn their heads, acknowledging you, as you shut your phone close and chuck it across the sofa. “i love y’all but y’all gotta go, like now.”
shoko shakes her head, but there’s a smirk on her lips. utahime, as lost as ever, gives you a frown. yuki has most likely caught on, rising to her feet, dusting her lap, “say no more.”
the girls do you an immense favour as they excuse themselves. they pick at empty bottles and containers, throw dirty dishes in the dishwasher, rearrange the throw pillows and even light up your candles. you feel bad for kicking them out so late, so you pitch in some money for gas as well as the inconvenience.
as they cleaned out your living room and kitchen, you’d rushed to your shower for a mini cleanse. pulling out your bests, you wash over intimate parts thoroughly, lathering your limbs in scented soap, before rinsing, brushing your teeth and stepping out. you stare at your reflection through the haze of steam, the foggy mirror reminding you of the missing messages he used to leave on mornings you had to get to work.
no point in dwelling on the past when he was on his way over this moment. you swap your silk robe for the skimpiest loungewear you own— matching camisole and shorts, and let your hair cascade back down. you’re about your fifth spritz of body spray when the doorbell rings, and your stomach flutters.
you halt in your step when you notice how fast you’re going. yikes! the last thing he needs is his ego inflating, knowing you were rushing to get him inside, nevermind the fact you washed, pulled out your sexiest pyjamas and even wore a brand new pair of panties. you know. . . just for preparations. better safe than sorry.
after the third mindless lap around your kitchen, you make your way towards the door. you inhale sharply, clenching at your shaky fingers, easing your nerves. you quickly snap out of your daze, pulling the door open.
his eyes, momentarily distracted by the number engraved in the wall next to your door, glaze over your figure curiously. his hands are tucked in the pocket of his sweatpants. he lets out a breath, a sound borderlining a chuckle as it shoots straight to both heartbeats, shoulders drop from its hunch,
“hey.”
he’s thick.
no perverted shit. you’ve noticed he’s put on weight in the right places— not to say he’d been anything less than nicely built in the past, but his biceps are significantly fuller and the material of his compression tee stretched over bulging muscles in a telltale pattern.
somebody’s been at the gym one too many.
“you good with this?” he mumbles, hand running across the smooth skin of your calf. with every stroke of his palm are fleeting memories of the past, burning deep into your limb. you hate the way your stomach sinks st the thought, “me being here and shit.”
“wouldn’t have let you in if i wasn’t.” you answer honestly, back pressed into the arm of the couch. you don’t understand how fast he’d gotten comfortable with being in your personal space just like that— you don’t understand how you’d allowed him in your personal space just like that.
he nods, and the air is eerily quiet. you watch with furrowed brows as he traces shapes into your skin with his fingertip, a frenzy of emotions resembling those of turbulence all in cerulean eyes. he’s torn— you can see it in the way his nose scrunches, as if he’s debating on whether he should voice out his thoughts or not. whether it’s worth debriefing— if this is his last shot or not.
with all this time passed, he’s still so easy to read.
“what is it?” you sigh, albeit irritated. the last thing you’d planned when you got rid of your friends in favour of having your ex over was this weird ass tension roaming. crazy sentence to speak— you know, but you were really hoping it’d be less talking involved and more sexing. it wasn’t that you were against conversing with him, but the way he was choosing to go about it was just so. . . awkward .
he senses the irritation laced in your question and immediately chuckles. his laugh sounds breathless, almost dry, but he shakes his head. his free hand swipes at his nose, a tic of his you noticed years ago whenever he’s feeling bashful or caught, and clears his throat.
“how’d you and sukuna happen?” he rips off the bandaid, and asks you the last question you wanted to hear. the tracing on your leg slows down, and your arms tighten a bit around your torso.
you let out a puff of air. if gojo notices your discomfort, he doesn’t mention it. in fact, he doesn’t pull the question back at all— he stares at you intensely, as if baring into your soul, as if the answer to his question will determine whether the boulder weighted on his shoulders will free him of restraint or not.
as if he still stood a chance or not.
“not much to say,” you shrug, as dismissive as possible. he doesn’t budge, the same intensity in his gaze and you roll your eyes, “honest to god. we broke up, he was there at the right time and shit happened.”
the words simmer into the stillness of the night, and he swipes his tongue over his lips pensively, “were y’all ever official?” he pushes, and you click your tongue against your teeth, offering him a deadpanned look. seriously, as if he didn’t know his own friend— in what world was sukuna anything worthy of official?
“god, no.” you shudder, and he nods again. “you know your friend.”
“i don’t,” gojo counters, momentarily wrapping his hand around your ankle. it fits as perfectly as it did all those years ago, where thumbs at your anklet— another prized possession he’d gotten you. your face heats in embarrassment, and he flicks his eyes to glance at you, a fleeting smirk on his lips, before staring back at the jewelry, “going after my ex girlfriend is not something i expected. i don’t know him at all.”
fair enough, you think to yourself. there has to be some lingering resentment towards you for the same reason. had the tables been turned and he’d gone after one of your closest friends, you would’ve cut him off from your life completely. you were being truthful— it wasn’t anything remotely serious with sukuna, not even close to how it’d been with gojo, but you could see it as a matter of principle. you’d already taken the initiative to break up with him first, and going after his homeboy?
god, you had questionable morals.
“it’s different with you,” he feeds in, as if he could read your thoughts. it was probably written all over your face, the scrunch in your brows never letting up. his index finger slides beneath the band of your anklet, the contrast of the silver shade lining perfectly against his complexion, “‘s hard to explain, but you broke up with me so you technically owe me no loyalty— besides, i get why you ended things. never blamed you.”
now that peaks your interest. he gets why you ended things with him? he never blamed you? you clear your throat, forcing the question out, “you do?”
“of course,” he shrugs naturally, as if it hadn’t taken you eons to conclude. as if it hadn’t broke you apart when you’d realized how unneeded you were, “i honestly expected it. you deserved better than what i was giving. you must’ve been lonely— work had always taken a big part of my time, and that left you behind in the dust.”
you’re waiting for the punchline. he continues, “i can’t lie to you— i was wishing you’d resort to cheating over breaking up. that way you’d still be mine, even if it was temporarily,” he chuckles, a soft shade of pink dusting over his cheekbones, as he sniffs, “corny, i know. but you didn’t deserve putting up with my bullshit, so you left. time is of the essence, and that was the one thing i never seemed to give you. you fell out of it— out of love, so. . . i’m sorry.”
words cannot seem to leave you. you’re left utterly speechless— that had been so far from the reason, the realization sitting bitterly at the pit of your stomach. anything, literally anything, would’ve been better than hearing him lie to you again.
“that. . .” you inhale a sharp breath, steadying yourself, “is nowhere near the reason why we broke up.”
he stops in his caress. you think he got whiplash from how fast his neck snaps, eyeing you incredulously. he genuinely seems so confused, and you hate it. to think he’d show up with some lame ass excuse, so far stretched from the truth of the matter, and expected you to believe that. to believe him.
he blinks slowly, “i don’t understand.”
you try to pull your leg away from his lap, feeling like he was stripping you bare of the last bit of dignity you had left, wanting to rip you open. he presses the weight of his hand lightly, urging you to stay near while simultaneously giving you the option to pull away. the ball was in your court yet again.
“wait— help me understand,” the pad of his thumb rolls over your ankle bone gently— far too intimately. your feet curl away, protectively, and his fingers stroke at the ball of your heel, “please. what drove you away? what was it i did?”
there’s a pang in your chest. does he really plan on keeping this up? right in your face? it was one thing wishing him well despite the obvious, but dragging it out even a year later was a bit much. inviting him over was starting to seem like a terrible idea.
“i fell out of love?” you parrot, unbelieving. “gojo— i’m not the one who fell out of anything. i gave you a way out, and you happily took it,” his face contorts into a deeper state of confusion. you huff, “i’m not blaming you for it or anything, but shit, don’t get up in here with lies to cover your ass.”
“lies?” he whispers, to himself, running his free fingers through tousled white locks. he stares at your anklet hardly, like the gift has all the answers he’s looking for. you don’t think he’s avoiding eye contact, but he seems so distraught, so out of the loop, that broadway ought to sign him to a new movie deal. what an actor.
“time is of the essence and you failed to give it?” you continue regardless, throat restricting as it burns in an emotion you’re far too familiar with. suddenly, you feel like you’re twenty five again, left to your own devices and thoughts in the emptiness of his apartment, dressed in your prettiest outfit and another failed date night. “i never gave a shit about that, i knew how much of a hardworking man you were. i took it to the chest— anything to keep you from leaving. you stopped loving me, gojo.”
his jaw falls slack, mouth gaping and you blink your lashes furiously to prevent tears from appearing. god, this was so humiliating, bearing your heart raw in front of your ex boyfriend, “y/n, i never—”
“spare me,” you scoff, mortified by the rush of emotions coursing through you. you take a deep breath in, calming yourself to avoid further explosive feelings, “this isn’t me saying i was the perfect girlfriend. i know i wasn’t— you know i wasn’t, and piling a spiralling partner on top of all the shit you were dealing with wasn’t an option. that’s fine,” it was fine. it didn’t matter, “doesn’t matter anymore. i broke up with you, you didn’t fight to stay, and we both moved on. shit happens.”
it hurt a lot. the sound of the door clicking shut, followed by the crack splitting in your chest. the run towards your bathroom, emptying your contents from both your stomach and heart. you were undeniably a mess, that period of time it took for you to recover. you would never voice it out loud, but you’d been praying he’d tell you just how wrong you were. how he needed you in his life. how you weren’t a burden to him. how he loved you enough to fight through it all.
he hadn’t.
there’s a soft hum in the silence. the sound of your clock ticking near the entrance door. the pounding of your heart against your rib cage. seconds turn into minutes of quietness, and it does no good to your mind. you’re focusing your gaze on the inanimate objects in your apartment, anything to dismiss the reality of the situation. your leg feels cold as his hand pulls away suddenly.
he rolls his tongue against his cheek. another tic of his— he’s formulating his word choice, carefully. you’d seen a ton of this before, though it usually followed a deep sigh and a you’re good baby, trust me. the more you’d see it, the more anxious you became. and christ, if that anxiety wasn’t forming right back.
it takes a while for him to speak, and every passing breath had your chest tightening. he runs his hand across his face, tiredly. when he pulls it away, there’s a melancholic smile on his face, “i think there’s a lot that needs to be addressed. jesus, i always knew you sucked at communicating but this is something else.”
you glare at him. he doesn’t mind it, continuing, “no, you weren’t the perfect girlfriend. but you were my girlfriend, and that’s all that mattered to me. you wanna talk about spiralling? nothing i’m not familiar with— you’re the only reason i didn’t let myself fall into that rabbit hole. you kept me going after graduation. i worked as hard as i did to make sure you wouldn’t have to lift a finger around me. that was the end goal— you were end goal.”
gagged is what you felt. nothing else pure shock. he doesn’t stop there. he isn’t merciful anymore.
“i know i didn’t go about it the right way,” a regretful puff of air is released, “i canceled on you often. our phone calls were shorter, our texts were vaguer and at some point i’d forgotten what you tasted like. but i never loved you any less. not once, even after we argued. not to say i’ve converted into those spiritual people, but you’re the closest thing to a soulmate i’ve experienced.”
shit, you weren’t tripping. he felt it too. fuck. the weight of his words made it impossible to steer him away. you want to intercept, to call him a liar and turn a blind ear at his confession, to shield yourself but how could you when every word he spoke broke the bricks you’d built down?
“i’m not an asshole— i could feel you slipping away. i did try my damned hardest to reel you back in, as you’d done with me. clearly that hadn’t worked how i was hoping it would,” a bitter laugh, or maybe a resentful one. towards you or himself? you wouldn’t know, “it’s because i loved you so much, i let you go. i knew i was losing you, and when you finally came to me, the right thing to do was agree. why keep you from reaching your fullest potential? you weren’t happy with me, trying to fight the inevitable was cruel.”
the inevitable. letting you go was the right choice to make because fighting the inevitable was cruel. he loved you so much he had to let you go because you deserved more than what he had to offer. you call bullshit— in what right did he have to make that choice for you? what right did you have to make that choice for him?
it’s too much at once. your eyes burn with a remorseful feeling, your heart aches in agony and your mind is clouded with thoughts. there your ex boyfriend sat, wide eyes still as blue as when he’d once been yours, presenting you his heart raw in cupped hands— and you still couldn’t find it in you to believe him fully. everything yet nothing made sense. vulnerability was a scary thing, and you weren’t ready to face it.
so, you kiss him.
his breath is taken out of his chest as you lean forward, sealing his mouth shut. you can’t take any more of his merciless words, and the only way to get your mind off it is by getting on it. he feels stiff against you, pupils dilating as you mould lips with his own. your hand travels to the back of his neck, sitting on your knees as you hold him still.
and with a faint lip smack, he pulls away ever so slightly, hands hovering awkwardly over your waist, his breath warm and fanning your cupid’s bow, “wait—”
“don’t wanna talk,” you interrupt, placing another chaste kiss on his lips. he tastes as good as the day you left him. and with another soft smack, your voice lowers, reduced to a whisper, “you gonna fuck me or not?”
he blinks and you stare back at him, full of conviction. a simple yes or no question— and he could gladly see himself out if his answer didn’t satisfy you. his hands finally rest on your waist, and you take it as an invitation to straddle over his hips. he eases your movements by aiding, lifting you just barely to sit on him. his hands fit just as they did all those times ago. a sour, bittersweet feeling— fingertips caressing the nakedness of your torso beneath your camisole.
your back arches as he finds your sensitive spots with quickness. he’d always been great at that, leaving trails of goosebumps past his teasing touches.
“you’re doing it again,” he mumbles against your lips, ever the hypocrite, fingers gripping at your waist like a vice. he rolls your hips over his own, reeling in the softness of your palms cupping at his face. you ignore him when he continues, still nibbling on his bottom lip the way he loves, “you can’t— mmh, avoid this forever.”
maybe not, but you sure as hell could right now. the tip of your noses bump into one another as you tilt your head, deepening the kiss. you want to rid your mind of these plaguing thoughts, ones that made you doubt everything you thought you knew. losing control was out of the question, so naturally you needed it back into your grasp.
sex was an easy way to do that.
“yes or no, gojo.” you give him one last chance, grinding your hips down on his awakening dick. you feel his bulge through his pair of sweats, the print so evident you wondered why he was trying to fight it. the sight alone had your panties dampening in your arousal, uncomfortably sticky against your loungewear.
he hums in between kisses, a false pretend of debating his options. his fingers slip beneath the waistband of your shorts and past your panties, fondling at the flesh that sat beneath. he could fake it all he wants, but fuck chivalry— he was turning to mush the more you sucked at his tongue, licking at the crevice of the roof of his mouth.
it’s when you sink your teeth into the flesh of pink lips, not hard enough to draw blood but enough to draw a moan from him, he comes to a conclusion. he nods his head, snaking his arms to wrap at your waist tighter as finally kisses you back.
“it’s always a yes.” for you. he doesn’t say it, doesn’t need to, but you hear it and dismiss it. no more lovey doveyness and time to get to the nitty gritty of shit— getting your back blown out. the very thought alone is enough to put a smile on your lips.
bingo.
your bedroom door hardly shuts before he pins you against it. he’s annoyingly big— tall in height and wide in weight. he towers over you comically, hands roaming at every inch of your body as he drinks you up. his lips seek yours desperately, sliding over your glossy ones with practice that suggests hints of comfort.
your arms loop at his neck, and his at your waist. his mouth hardly lets up of yours, mumbling a little jump, as you comply with ease. thighs trapping him in your hold, you then find yourself face to face with him as he lifts you, large palms cupping at your ass. you fit just as perfectly in his hands as you did years ago, flesh so fat he gropes it tenderly.
the walk from the door to your bed passes in the blink of an eye, a timeframe you find pointless to recall as you indulge in the taste of him through his tongue. his presence is so overwhelmingly powerful— every touch and caress at your body reducing your limbs to mush. you cling to him, either out of safety reasons or desire, tilting your head from side to side to deepen the lip-to-lip action.
when he gets to the edge of your bed, he lowers you until your toes reach the floor. due to the difference in height, your lips part, a thin string of saliva connecting from both your mouths as proof of your unison. the blue shade of his orbs darken with desire, eyelids lowering as he drinks up the sight of you— lips plump and swollen, slick in saliva, chest heaving from lack of oxygen.
he raises a hand from your waist to cup at your face, and you detest the way your lean into his touch. your cheek fits in his large palm, and he swipes a thumb at your bottom lip, collecting your shared spit onto the pad of his digit. as he smears the fluid further across your mouth, he prods his thumb a little further— testing out the waters, wanting to see if you’d cave into old habits.
naturally, you allow it, his thumb swallowed by your puckered lips. you roll your tongue over his finger and your eyes never leave his— hoping to convey the rush of emotions you feel through your sultry gaze. your core throbs in want, your stomach erupting in butterflies and your heart pounding unnecessarily. unspoken words you’re positive he understood, if the way he groans when your teeth sink lightly into his digit said anything.
“you’re gonna be the death of me,” he mumbles, popping his finger back out. it’s coated in saliva, and like the freak he is, pops it into his own mouth. once he’s had his fill, he removes his hand from his mouth, and lowers it to your fleshy waist, slipping past the waistband of your panties, “take these off— ‘m hungry, need a taste of that pussy.”
your cheeks nearly split from your excitement, and you comply to his order, gripping at the hem of your shorts to pull them down to your ankle. he assists you despite the previous demand, his own hands atop of yours, a warmth and sense of security so familiar. when your shorts reach past your mid thigh, you allow him to meet you halfway.
he pulls your shorts down to your ankles, lowering himself to a knee. his movements are agonizingly slow, basking in the sight of your thighs in contrast of the shade of your loungewear. he steadies a hand onto your calf, patting it lightly, and you lift your leg just barely, permitting him to slide the shorts off your ankle and tossing it aside.
when the item is discarded, he redirects his focus back to you. he pampers your skin in kisses— delicate but hungry, trails of moisture crawling back up at your inner thighs and shooting right to your core. he looked unexplainably sexy on his knees, littering your body in hushed praises, the tip of his nose nudging at your soft skin. you bit your lip in attempts to cease it from wobbling at the intimacy he was providing.
“god, you smell so good,” he speaks into you, hands snaking to the back of your thighs, pressing you forward into him. your panty covered cunt presents itself right before him, and he plants his nose right into your intimates, your body shuddering as his nose bumps into your clit deliciously. a shaky breath escapes you, and his hands travel upwards to play with your ass. “turn around, wanna eat it from the back.”
the words are taken from you when his hand slaps your ass encouragingly, releasing a mini squeal, “you’re still too freaked out.”
“mhm, something like that,” you don’t see it, as you’re occupied on spinning on your feet to plant your hands on your matters for stability, but you’re positive he’s smirking. your arch your back for him, wanting to properly present the meal he plans on devouring. your cunt oozes slick against your thong just thinking about how he’s going to do you in, “there’s that arch,” a hand slides in the curve of your lower back, before snapping the band of your thong. it recoils against your cheek and you jerk forward at the sting.
“oh? did that hurt?” he taunts, and as you’re about to protest, he does it yet again. the snap is intense but never painful, but the nerve he had to play around like your pussy wasn’t a few centimetres away from his face. you don’t acknowledge how your panties cling even tighter to your folds.
“fuck off,” you curse through gritted teeth, but your hips wiggle backwards in attempt to get him to hurry it up. as if now was any time to tease— you couldn’t stand it when he did it all those years ago, and your feelings haven’t changed since, “get on with it. . . the fuck?”
you hear him sigh, almost disappointedly, and it only aggravates you further. your brows furrow in annoyance and you think you feel a vein tick at your temple.
“still so disrespectful,” gojo tuts, rubbing at your booty tenderly. so he wasn’t exactly wrong, but how was he expecting you to react when he’d just said he was going to eat you out, and proceeds to do anything but that? of course there’s going to be a little pout on your lips, “we gotta work on that attitude of yours.”
your face twists into a look of further aggravation, and you tilt your head back, readying whatever other bratty objections you had— though you’re ultimately interrupted by a sharp sting that spreads across your ass.
the strike of his palm against your cheek sprawls into an intense heat, the pain oddly pleasurable, and the moan that rips out of your chest is impossible to suppress. your eyes nearly jump out of their sockets at the audacity, and right as you’re about to complain, he does it again. and again.
“o-okay, shit!” you attempt to voice out, but he’s relentless, delivering blow after blow onto the same ground. there’s a curve in his palm, and it amplified the sound across the room. despite your protests, you can’t deny every jolt of pain rushes to your clit. you’re positive he knows you’re enjoying this, “gojo— fuck, okayyy!”
to your pleasure, he eases the slaps, opting to smoothen his hand flat across the reddened flesh. he hums pensively, the heat of your skin radiating against his palm in a way that forces a smile on his lips, “ ‘okay?’ what do you mean by that, baby?”
you clench your teeth at his faux ignorance. you know exactly what he wants from you, and you’re not sure if you’re able to give it to him as you are. an apology— he wants you to apologize, that bastard. your left cheek stings like a bitch, even with his now gentle touches, and your core is begging you to cooperate with him, in order for that attention it was neglected of. he is such a dickhead— putting you in a predicament like this one.
you swallow the last bit of dignity you hold, a constant reminder in the back of your mind that this was for the greater good— for the sake of your pussy. with a pained sigh, you tilt your head backwards to meet his playful gaze that stares back at you, right below the plump of your ass, and you muster the cutest look you can give.
doe eyes paired with a little pout, “‘m sorry. . . for the attitude,” you’re not sorry at all, but you desperately want your cunt in his mouth, so you do what you have to do, “can you eat it now? please?”
he flashes you a million dollar smile, all thirty twos on full display, and it takes every ounce of willpower in you not to roll your eyes right then and there. he was so full of shit, his eyes might as well brown. but still, you knew he got off on this kind of thing, and when he presses a quick kiss at the print of your lips, he replies, “of course, sweet girl— only because you asked so nicely.”
there’s no further need to speak, as you feel your thong being pushed to the side, followed by a cold breeze hitting your bare cunt, meshed with warm breathe as he feasts .
gojo eats you out like he has something to prove, and you know what— maybe he does. to prevent you from straying from him, he grounds you with two firm hands gripping at your ass. he spreads the flesh apart, his tongue lapping at your slick greedily. you can’t tell who’s moans are louder— yours or his, the man so engaged in sucking at your clit, nibbling on the bundle of nerves with practiced ease. you hold onto the sheets on your bed with dear life, thighs trembling as you struggle to hold yourself up.
“fuck, don’t stop,” you whine, pushing your hips further back, your mind overcame with utter greediness for more of that insatiable pleasure. you might as well have swallowed him whole into you, just as he’s swallowing you whole into him, his tongue diving deep past your hole and into your folds. he flicks his tongue expertly, licking at every crevice and nook of your cave, his jaw working overtime as his bottom lip never lets up at your clit.
your entire pussy is consumed by him, no area going neglected— drool slips past his mouth and spills onto your floor. a familiar heat licks at the pit of your stomach, a telltale that your dam is bound to burst anytime soon. he remedies your ache with another painful spank at your ass, groaning into your pussy when you clamp down on his tongue.
he was so fucking nasty— fucking into you with his tongue like he needed this more than you did. he makes out with your cunt, like he was a starving man on death row. at a particular cruel angle of his tongue fucking, your body would react with an all consuming tremble, fingers clawing at your duvets, your lungs releasing pathetic mewls. and the further you pushed back into his merciless mouth, the closer his nose nudged at your puckered forbidden hole.
he pulls away with a gasp, subbing his mouth out for his fingers, the pads of three fingers rubbing messily at your sloppy lips. the sound it creates is downright filthy, so painfully loud that it damn near drowns out your own moans.
“pretty fuckin’ pussy,” he spits a wad of saliva at your already soaked cunt, further amplifying the squelching sounds. he drags his fingers down to your clit, pinching at the bud with enough pressure to have your knees buckling, before sliding back upwards to your clenching hole. he slides into your entrance, index and middle fingers twisting in with ease, “bet she missed me, hm?”
“y-yes!” you nod mindlessly, your high creeping up on you as he works himself into you. taking six inches of fingers twice was a task in itself— the average length of a man’s dick serving purpose as fingering was just downright disrespectful. his knuckles poke at your silky walls, stretching you out to the best of his abilities, “shit— oh fuck, ‘m gonna cum!”
to your statement, he latches his lips back to your neglected clit, sucking on the bud as if he were intentionally trying to milk you dry. he hums at your taste, the vibrations shooting right up your alley and into the knot tightening in your guts— and when he curls his fingers upwards, at that spot that has stars dancing beneath your eyelids, the dam breaks. that knot stood no chance.
“oh goddd,” you cry out, spraying your release all over. it dribbles out your pussy and past the lower half of his face, to which his jaw widens as his mouth gapes— greedily aiming to slurp at your juices while simultaneously flicking your bean. the stimulation has your brain going dumb, as you fall flat onto your bed, drool collecting at the corner of your mouth and staining your sheets damp.
he lets you ride out the euphoric bliss, the movements of his fingers and the lapping of his tongue slowing down the more your body reacted to the overstimulation. when he deems you well spent, he lets up, slipping his fingers out and popping them back in his mouth, swirling your taste across his pallets, “as sweet as ever,” rising back to his full height.
you haven’t came that hard in a while, limbs reduced to nothing as you merge into one with your bed. your legs are still trembling, and your chest heaves as you exhale deep breaths. letting your eyelids close shut, you take the time to regroup yourself from that mind shattering orgasm. who the fuck had he been fucking that forced him to keep this skill? granted, you had no right to complain but holy shit, he was no fucking noob.
you feel the weight of his body press on top of you, a well-built chest meeting your moist back. it doesn’t take much to realize he’s hovering over you. his lips litter kisses at the column of your neck, moving up to the shell of your ear, leaving a trail of goosebumps after each embrace, “you tappin’ out already?” gojo snickers at your shell of a body, and you kiss your teeth at his typical mockery, “what happened to my champ while i was gone?”
“fuck off,” you pout, a little embarrassed by the fact that you really were retired from the game. sure, you were getting dicked down real good by your previous partner (question mark), but it never had you as exhausted as you currently were. there was absolutely nothing gojo satoru couldn’t do, and that ticked you off to no end, “nobody said shit about tappin’ out.”
“hm. . .” he hums, nuzzling his nose into your jugular, his hips grinding into the cleft of your ass. it’s impossible to ignore the bulge poking into you, and you doubt he was trying to hide it regardless, his hips rolling against the plushness of your behind, “guess sukuna didn’t do as good of job as he should’ve.”
that has your eyelids opening right back up. talk about an awkward situation— bringing up you and your ex’s (question mark) sex life while having sex with your other ex was a double edged predicament in itself. had you agreed, which lowkey wasn’t entirely wrong, you’d be stroking the fuck out of gojo’s ego and be disrespecting sukuna. but had you disagreed, you could end up on gojo’s wrong side and fumble an entire night worth of dicking.
so, once more, you take the easy way out, at the expense of inflating the white haired man’s ego, much to your dismay, “think you can do better?”
he stays silent for a while. in what you assume is him coming up with an answer to your question, his kisses travel to the dead centre of your shoulder blades, wet and open mouthed, as they crawl lower down your spine. with every kiss, your body caves into a state of relaxation, as if he was undoing every stress clouding at your hazed mind with his mouth alone.
he lands at the middle of your back, before he pulls away abruptly. and just as soon as he started, he was finished— removing himself off your body entirely. panic settles quickly in your stomach, as you turn your head around to see what he was up to. had you unintentionally hurt his feelings? damn, and here you were enjoying the body worship.
“what are you—” your words are cut off as his hands cup at your waist. he slides you back towards the edge of the bed, your feet planted on the floor once more. you feel some residue of your previous orgasm beneath your heels, eugh. you don’t have much time to spend thinking about how gross it feels when a hand holds your shoulders, and lifts you right back up.
your brows jump to your hairline in surprise at the sudden manhandling, though you can’t deny you found just a bit sexy. with his chest pressed into your back once more, you can feel his heartbeat thudding at the blade of your left shoulder, the organ withholding a steady rhythm— the tempo of a lullaby you’d once been accustomed to. and then big arms wrap around your frame, and holds you.
you hate the way your body folds so easily to his touch. it’s been an entire year, and despite your mind shouting at you for the intimacy you’re allowing to gallop right back into your life, your heart craves it. the sense of security his embrace offers you alone makes the least of sense, but you blindly lean into him, allowing yourself to be deluded for the time being. he won’t be yours as soon as this is over, so you might as well take the most advantage of the situation.
it takes a minute for either of you to speak. here you stood— half naked and legs sore, but still happily in his arms. his cologne is still as rich and dominating as it’d been all those times ago. he breaks the silence first, his chin resting above your shoulder, as he mumbles, “you really hurt my feelings, you know.”
to some degree, you know you did. about what exactly? you weren’t sure, but still, you offer him what you believe he wants, the realization leaving a bitter taste in your mouth, “i’m sorry.”
“‘s all good,” he kisses your cheek so tenderly that your neck cranes to the side to meet his gaze. gojo had always been so readable when it came to emotions, as he always wore his heart on his sleeve, but even with all the knowledge you knew about, you weren’t prepared for the look in his eyes. raw, unfiltered emotions. you only notice the close proximity between you both when your noses bump into one another. he shoots you a warm smile, “could never be upset with you. you hold that power over me.”
it’s you who kisses him first, and he returns the favour with more intensity. it’s an awkward positioning for your neck, but you don’t let up regardless of the ache in your joints. his mouth stays on yours as if you were his lifeline, tongues sloshing one over the other, brushing your lips together so gingerly.
in the midst of his tongue down your throat, he slips a hand in between your thighs, cupping at your abandoned pussy. the casual brush of his fingers at your core sent a breathy whine from your throat right into his mouth, and it only motivated him to work harder, rubbing slow patterns into your throbbing clit. your hips chase the feeling, riding the wave of his fingers.
he pulls away from your mouth, just barely, mumbling against your kiss bitten lips, “one of these days you’re gonna let me finish speaking,” followed by a knowing smile. sure, it could be seen as a flaw, but it was the only way you could protect yourself while keeping him within arm’s reach. never ready to have him but never prepared to let him go, “we can do that later— gotta blow your back out first.”
you couldn’t agree more.
it all happens so quickly— he retrieves his hand from between your thighs, having collected your juices at his fingertips, before lubricating his dick. he pumps at the length leisurely, his bottom lip tugged by his top row of teeth, and the groans he lets out are enough to have you squeezing your thighs eagerly, your cunt aching and ready to go. in the midst of your eagerness, you slip your hand behind you and catch his twitching cock, working your wrist right above his own, jerking him off.
a deep groan grumbles from his chest, and he instantly stops your hand from moving any further. you frown at his ceasing, but when you tilt your head to voice out your confusion, he offers a sheepish smile, “don’t wanna cum too soon,” ever the minute man, he was.
though, you soon find yourself regretting your own thoughts the very instant you feel the tip of his dick pushing past your entrance.
there’s a blended harmony of both your moans that bounces off the walls. his fingers dig deep into the flesh of your hips, holding onto you so tightly you’re positive you’ll bruise, and you clamp down on his intruding dick so tightly you’re positive you never want to let him go. the initial stretch is a feeling you’ll never get used to, but the sensation is all but unwanted.
“fuckkk, y/n,” he moans right into your ear, his voice so full of want, you can’t help but understand exactly where he’s coming from. he pulls his hips back, almost entirely, though his tip stays inside. it takes him a second to regroup, mumbling incoherent words under his breath, before he plunges back into your cunt.
and from that point on, it’s wraps. he fucks into you like a madman— as if he’d been punishing you for your crimes. punishing you for sleeping with another man. punishing you for leaving him a year and a half ago. punishing you for punishing him. his pace is ruthless— hips meeting your ass as fast as he’d pull out, pounding into your little hole to mould it into the shape of him.
he’s thick, this time on perverted shit.
you’re so painfully full of him, and despite your arms stretched outwards to grip at the sheets that had suffered more than enough of your abuse on them, your walls never let go of him. you don’t want him to pull out ever, utterly obsessed with the rough pace he set from the jump. it feels impossible keeping the curve of your back when the tip of his length repetitively attacks at your golden spots.
“ohmygoddd,” you words come out slurry, head lolling forward uselessly. if he kept fucking you like this, you weren’t going to let him leave again. stuck in an endless loop of bliss, with every thrust into your folds, his balls would slap at your clit and drive you insane, “y’re d-doing me s’gooddd,”
“yeah?” he eggs on, his voice as breathless as you’d been, though his pacing would never suggest so. there’s a hypnotic recoil of your ass bouncing back onto his pelvis that indulges him into disrupting it, delivering a new spank at your cheeks. you cry out at the feeling, and he strikes again, hips never letting up, “tell me more baby.”
you rise at your tip toes when you feel yourself sinking, legs giving out yet again. you hold yourself up at your elbows, a newfound confidence pushing your hips back to match his pace. when he heaves out a loud moan, you’re encouraged to keep going. the melody of your skins slapping against each other echoes into the stillness of the night, arching your back the further he plunges into your guts. you’re so turned on, the evidence creaming around the perimeter of his cock, easing the slides of his dick inside of you.
“toruuu,” you whine, too fucked out to notice your first mistake— calling him by his favorite nickname. at that given moment, you couldn’t care any less, the intense heat in your guts growing once more. the curve of his dick reaches spots you don’t think anybody could reach, almost as if he was made entirely for you, “you’re so big— can feel you, nghhh, everywhere!”
“that’s cause i am everywhere,” you think you can hear him smirking behind you. though, he has every right to feel entitled, with how much of a mess he’s reduced you to. he rolls his hips deep, a firm bulge forming into your tummy. as if he’s got a sixth sense or eye, he leans forward to rest his chest against your back— your eyes rolling back from the new angle. he slides a hand beneath your stomach and presses at the bulge hard. you can’t help the squeal you let out, “that’s me right there.”
you nod your head feverishly, the applied pressure on your stomach pushing his cock right at your cervix. oh god, he was going to kill you. what a wonderful way to go— all judgements clouded in favour of an eight inched dick penetrating your walls, “‘s all yours— mmh, always been.”
and that’d been your final mistake.
because the chuckle he lets out right into your ear is dark. the sounds shoot right up to your spine, shivers crawling up your back deliciously. he might as well be back stabbing you with how his cock plunged so sloppily out of your gaping cunt, “you always knew how to, fuck, pillowtalk,” he pants into your neck, his additional weight onto your shaking frame nothing short on welcoming. the hand pressing into your stomach lowers to your clit, and pinches meanly at the bud, “you know i’d, mmh, give you the world if you asked— my smart girl, shit.”
he’s so cruel, talking to you so lovingly despite it all. you tighten your eyes, in poor attempts to ignore the tenderness of the words fleeting his lips and focus instead on the stretch of your cunt down his dick. you feel yourself creaming on him, further proof of both your unison through his diabolical thrusts. he pinned you into place like this— unable to do anything but take what he gave you gratefully.
at a particular stroke at your abused golden spot, your body releases another tremor of shudders. it overtakes you from head to toe, a moan so ripe escaping your lips as you claw at ruined sheets. gojo works into aiming at that spot over and over again, each thrust more intense than the previous one. the change of his pace, slowing for a minute, draws you near the end of the line quicker than you’d anticipated.
“oh?” he grunts playfully, swaying his hips back and forth into your poor pussy. mercy is nowhere to be found, however, “you like it when i fuck you like this?” another agonizingly beautiful thrust at the same place, you can’t help but reward him with a cry. he’s fucking you into the damn mattress, and he has the balls to ask this question knowing the answer. still, you nod your head mutely, tears collecting at your lash line, and he nips at the skin on your jaw, “yeahhh you do.”
god, you do.
and suddenly, you can’t bring yourself to remember why you’d ever let go of dick this good. the kind that would have you taking the rubber off and considering finishing inside. the kind that had you babbling apologies for having done absolutely nothing wrong. the kind that made you begin to believe his careless whispers, empty promises to work things out.
in the midst of your delusions, he pulls you both back up from the bed, standing once again. at this new position, he reaches impossibly further into you, the difference in your heights making up for the inches he’s dug into you. his fingers dig in the column of your throat, the weight of his hand wrapped tightly at your neck. he’s everywhere at once, but simultaneously no where to be found. while you can feel his tip prodding at your most sensitive spot, you don’t feel the overwhelming force of love he once bore with open arms for you.
or was it you were feigning you don’t? because as he works himself back into you, at a pace so tender yet cruel, the line of boundaries you’d once set has been entirely deterred. a force so overwhelming, just like his entire being, bringing you right back to him as if you’d never left— nevermind the fact your thighs could barely support themselves, quaking pathetically. it was getting too much— everything was a lot.
“nahhh. . . don’t start running now.” you didn’t realize you were. the sheets are crumpled in your tight hold, while your other hand lightly pushes at his lower abdomen. you were a trooper, but there was only so much pleasurable torture you could handle. naturally, he pins your wrist at your spine to maintain his ruthless pace, and with another gentle yet cruelly empty promise, he coos, “not when i’ve just gotten you back.”
how the fuck did you get yourself in this mess?
oh right. . . tinder. you had a bone to pick with the ceo of that app right after you come back to your senses.
“i— i can’t,” you fumble at your words, the lack of oxygen catching up to you. you’re bound to his mercy— hands tied, breath nearly restricted, pussy obliterated, and yet, there’s nowhere else you’d want to be. the pressure on your throat lolls your head backwards, chin facing the ceiling as your eyes fall onto snowy lashes, “gonna cum again— oh fuckfuckfuck,”
and despite his brutality, he shoots you a sweet smile, the contrast in his words versus his actions grand, “right behind you, baby.”
you cum, and hard . much harder than you had before. you gush your fluids down his piercing cock, your folds squeezing him tight as you release. you think your mind blanks for a minute, an orgasm so powerful, you fear your eyes would stay stuck at the back of your skull. you shiver in his embrace, the insatiable desire racking your body from top to bottom.
when he pulls out, you fall flat yet again onto your stomach, face first. you assume you look like a puddle of nothingness, your limbs spent from the overexhaustion. but still, you find yourself in a similar position to prior, as gojo leans over your body, a hand holding him up as the other works on his jerking him cum out. smart move, not finishing inside, though a weird feeling of disappointment sits in your stomach, swapping the fiery heat from your orgasm.
he sinks his teeth into your shoulders as you wince, emptying himself right onto your lower back. it runs hot and smooth into the dimples of your back, that you can’t help but stretch your limp arm towards the mess to collect the residue on your fingers. you pop them into your mouth, his taste still so familiar as he plops right at your side, face up.
there’s a thick silence that fills the sex scented room. you wonder what is going through his brain now that the lust demon that was half his ego had been taken care of. was he on the same page as you were? had he realized just how messy this could turn out? he’s too quiet for a man of his nature— and that terrified you shitless. no matter the outcome, you’re ready to kick him out. post nut clarity was a scary thing— it revealed the violent truth of how tempting the flesh could be, even with consequences on the line.
you want to beat him to it. the last thing you need on your consciousness is your ex boyfriend who’d you invited into your home a year after you broke up with him, leaving you. he seemed petty enough to do the eye for an eye shtick— it wasn’t too out of character for him.
with a heavy heart and sigh, you turn your head to the side where he lays comfortably. the words want to die in your throat, but your urge them out, the sooner the better, “you should—”
“no.” he interrupts, followed by a yawn.
you frown at that, brows scrunching as you insist that yet again, “you need to—”
“nah.” gojo cuts you off yet again, rolling onto his side. his dick falls limp onto your bed, and you don’t think about the mess it’s making. to be fair, you’d done far worse. and it was proven difficult to care about that mess when he brought a finger to play with your loose hairs, cerulean eyes zeroing in on them, “i’m tired. let’s get you cleaned up and go to bed.”
“you’re not listening to me.” you click your tongue, a little desperate to have him hear you. you’re scared to keep him around longer, because you know you’ll grow attached again and that already ended terribly once, and took you forever and a half to get over. he has to leave and right now, “you have to go.”
gojo hums at that. he stops the twirling of your hair, rather reluctantly, and finally meets your sharp gaze. he still looks at you like you hung the stars in the sky, “why?”
you narrow your eyes, “you know why,” you shouldn’t have to explain why two exes cozying up after indulging into each other was a bad idea. common sense, you figured, but was it common sense to have him over in the first place? a flurry of various emotions coursing over you laced with exhaustion had you overthinking like a motherfucker, “this was a bad idea.”
he trails his finger along the slope of your clenched jaw, and you don’t think about the fact it immediately relaxed at his touch. the longer he traced your skin, the longer he kept looking at you like that, you were wavering in your own logic. you’d both gotten what you wanted in the first place, so why was it he was still here? the rational decision would be to pretend this never happened and part ways again, but why was the thought of him locking the door behind him once again at your expense making you feel sick to your stomach?
when his finger lands at your pouty lips, he taps his index finger twice against the flesh. naturally, your pout deepens. his eyes flick from your mouth to your shying gaze, and his index swaps for his thumb. he runs the pad of his finger across the reddened surface, and his voice falls a few octaves lower, hushed for nobody else but you to hear, “you don’t want me to leave.”
you don’t.
he takes your silence as acceptance, and plants a soft kiss to your lips. it’s enough to rid your mind of its plaguing doubts in the meanwhile. and when his hand slides to cup at the back of your neck, ultimately deepening it, you can’t find it in you to care about the consequences for the time being. not when he was swallowing you whole like he was the one terrified to feel you slip from his fingers. you melt into him far too easily.
well. . . that was something you’d deal with in the morning.
tinder: 1, you: 0.
now can y’all stop calling me a deadbeat 🙎♂️
More Posts from Sorilyae and Others
FADE INTO YOU | GAMIN YOON X F! READER
req ?!; here
saint, stfu (`ー´) ?!; me writing…? AGAIN?!
Usually, you never cared about other people’s test scores, and only made sure you got in the top 10 when looking at your school’s scores. Your school was too dangerous for you to be getting curious with others, after all. But recently, a certain student caught your eye. Gamin Yoon. You’d noticed he’d been following you around, trying to talk to you, but he never did. Always asking you what you got on tests, always smiling in your direction when you take tests, the whole stalker effect.
Always taking last place on the score boards, but you always saw him studying. The president of the study group, but he was stupid. Something wasnt adding up.
You decided to take the initiative and talk to him instead (mostly because of curiosity, but also because it was getting annoying having him practically stalk you). And it turns out he wanted you to join the study group, and specifically, as a tutor. (mostly for him, but whatever.)
Tutoring Gamin was a full time job.
Sure, he tried, and sure, he did all of his work, but, to be honest? You’d never met someone so stupid in your life.
Once a week study sessions turned into 3 times a week, turned to every weekday, to every day. And only then did you see an improvement in his scores.
His reaction to his tests scores made you feel so proud of yourself for being such a good teacher—the way he ran down the halls to show you his test score, rambling his thanks to you, and talking about how he couldnt have done it without you.
Gamin had promised you that as soon as his grades had gotten up, you wouldn’t have had to tutor him anymore, but to be honest, spending time with him was…fun.
You’d never tell him, though.
KID
Summary : You discover that you're pregnant while on a mission on a completely different planet in another galaxy, and the father is your captain, Han Yun Jae.
Pairing: Captain!Han Yun Jae x reader
Warnings : suggestive, age gap, pregnancy, enemies to lovers
You placed the blood sample into the self-analysis machine and pressed the button to start the process. Your eyes darted around the room as you anxiously checked for any signs of someone approaching while the machine worked.
It’s been about three months since you left Earth, bound for another planet to explore, test, and determine if it could sustain human life. Every two years, teams like yours are sent on eight-month missions to scout new worlds. The organization dispatches countless teams across the galaxy to increase humanity’s chances of finding a suitable home.
The machine beeped, signaling that the results were ready. It started printing, the faint sound of ink being laid on the paper filling the room. Nervously, you bit your thumbnail, your eyes flickering around as you waited. The moment it finished, you snatched the sheet, your hands trembling as you scanned the results frantically.
beta-hCG hormone: 11,233 mIU/mL.
Fuck.
You see, the beta-hCG hormone determines if a woman is pregnant. Levels below 5 mIU/mL indicate no pregnancy, but anything above that confirms it. Beta-hCG levels double every 48 to 72 hours, which also helps estimate how far along the pregnancy is.
You are roughly three months pregnant.
How had you missed the signs for three whole months? you kept blaming the vomiting, mood swings, headaches, missed periods, and cravings on the stress of being in space. It all seemed so obvious now.
You pulled out your vitals smartwatch to update your status, indicating your pregnancy so it wouldn’t send you period reminders. As you filled out the prompts, answering the usual medical questions, you froze at the final one.
What date do you think you became pregnant?
The words stared back at you, and you stopped breathing. Slowly, you navigated to the calendar and selected the date—the night you made a huge mistake. The night you slept with your captain, Han Yun Jae. The man you couldn’t stand. And who couldn’t stand you.
It happened the night before the mission began. The team had decided to drink together in his office as a farewell to Earth. you had a few drinks, and soon enough, you was blurting out stupid things.
Everyone else had already left. you was the only one still there, struggling to stay upright. you tried to push yourself to your feet but ended up leaning heavily against the wall for support as you made your way to the door. Yun Jae, meanwhile, was tidying up, collecting the empty bottles when he turned and noticed you crash to the floor.
He laughed.
Groaning against the cold, hard surface, you muttered, “Ajhussi, it’s not funny. Why are you laughing?” you tried to push yourself up but barely managed to lift your upper half.
“I give up,” you mumbled, flopping onto your back. “I’m sleeping here.” Covering your eyes with your arm to block the soft ceiling light, you got ready to pass out on the floor.
“No, you’re not,” Yun Jae said, clearly unimpressed as he continued cleaning his desk.
“Pretty sure I am,” you retorted, your words slurring. “Could you pass me a blanket? That would be so sweet of you—for once.”
You heard his footsteps approach and felt his shadow fall over you.
“Y/N, get up,” he ordered, his tone exasperated.
“You had a chance to be sweet, and you blew it,” you said, stubbornly refusing to move.
He crouched down beside you. “Y/N, get up,” he repeated, but you ignored him, lying there defiantly.
“Maybe that’s why you’re still single at fifty,” you muttered, shooting him a smug grin.
“I’m thirty-nine,” he snapped.
“Same thing. You’re old,” you teased, earning a heavy sigh of frustration from him.
“Y/N,” he said again, his voice taking on an edge of irritation.
You finally lifted your arm from your eyes and glanced at him with a smirk. “Ajhussi~,” you sang in a playful, whining tone.
“Last warning,” he growled.
“You sound like my dad,” you said with a laugh, enjoying his growing frustration.
“Maybe that’s because you’re acting like a child,” he shot back sharply.
The smile fell from your face, replaced by a frown. “Stop calling me a kid,” you said firmly, your brows furrowing. “I’m almost thirty. I’m not a kid anymore.”
“Then get up,” he challenged.
You stubbornly turned your head away from him. “I can’t,” you mumbled, your voice tinged with something almost pitiful.
For a moment, there was silence. Then, without warning, you felt his arm slide beneath your knees and another under your back.
“What are you doing?” you asked as he lifted you effortlessly off the floor.
“Taking you to your room,” he replied gruffly.
You didn’t argue. you let him carry you down the hallway, though he nearly dropped you a couple of times—he was drunk too. When you reached your room, he set you down so you could unlock the door. you fumbled for your keys, but your vision blurred. Bending down to meet the lock’s height, you tried again, only for the key to fall from your shaking hand.
“Fuck,” you muttered, straightening up too quickly. The dizziness hit you like a wave, and you swayed, trying to regain your balance.
Yun Jae sighed, picked up the keys, and opened the door himself. He tossed the keys onto the counter inside, then stood there, holding the door open with an irritated expression. He was clearly eager to get this over with and go to bed.
“Thank you very much, ajhussi,” you said sarcastically, bowing in mock gratitude.
As you bent forward, you nearly lost your balance again, pitching toward the floor. Yun Jae caught you at the last second, groaning in frustration.
“What a dumb woman,” he muttered, hauling you upright by my forearm and steadying you with a hand on you waist.
He guided you toward the bed, but just as he was about to set you down, you tripped over an empty sample container. Instinctively, you grabbed onto him for support—and dragged him down with you.
He falls on top of you.
He's heavy, but not unbearable. His face is only inches away from mine, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath. For a moment, neither of you moves. It’s like time itself has frozen, holding you in this strange, uncomfortable limbo.
“Y/N,” he mutters, his voice low and strained, though whether it’s from anger or something else, you can’t tell.
“What?” you whispered back, my voice barely audible.
His eyes lock onto mine, sharp and focused despite the haze of alcohol clouding both your senses. you can’t bring yourself to look away, even though your heart is racing, pounding so hard that you are sure he can hear it.
“You… are such a pain in the ass,” he says, his tone half-annoyed, half-something-else.
“And you’re—” My retort dies in my throat as his gaze drops to my lips.
The air between you shifts, suddenly thick with tension. My breathing quickens as you realize he hasn’t moved away yet. Instead, he’s still hovering over you, his weight pressing you slightly into the bed.
“You should get off you,” you manage to say, though my voice lacks conviction.
He doesn’t respond right away. Instead, his lips twitch, almost like he’s fighting some internal battle. “You’re right,” he finally says, but he doesn’t move. His voice is quieter now, almost a whisper. “I should.”
But he doesn’t.
Instead, his hand, still gripping your arm for balance, softens its hold. His thumb brushes against your skin, sending a jolt through your entire body. you hate the way your stomach flips at the contact, hate the way your heart seems to betray you by beating even faster.
“Yun Jae,” you say, but it comes out weaker than you intend.
And then, before you can say anything else, his lips crash into mine.
It’s not soft or tentative; it’s desperate, rough, and filled with the kind of frustration that’s been building between you for months. you freeze for a second, your brain scrambling to catch up with what’s happening. But then, without thinking, you kiss him back.
The alcohol has dulled your inhibitions, but it’s not just that. There’s something raw and undeniable about this moment, about him. All the bickering, all the glares and sharp words, it all feels like it’s been leading to this.
His hand moves to your waist, gripping tightly as if to ground himself. you find yourself pulling him closer, fingers tangling in his shirt as the kiss deepens. For once, we’re not fighting—at least, not with words.
The night blurs after that. The tension, the anger, the alcohol—it all swirls together, igniting something we’ve both been too stubborn to acknowledge.
You stare at the screen in front of you, your vitals smartwatch blinking its persistent question:
What date do you think you became pregnant?
Your fingers hover over the calendar, hesitating as the memories rush back. That night, so long ago but still so vivid. The way his lips pressed against mine, the heat of his hands against your skin, the way you gave in to something you both swore you hated.
You press the date, and the screen logs it with an impersonal beep. The action feels like a release, but it only brings more questions, more weight.
Do you wish to notify the captain?
You let out a hollow laugh, though there's nothing remotely funny about it. Notify the captain. As if that wouldn’t open a floodgate of complications. How could you possibly tell him that one moment of weakness has brought you to this point?
My hand hovers over the screen, your mind racing with indecision. But before you can decide, the sound of approaching footsteps pulls you from your thoughts. My heart lurches, and you quickly shove the device into your pocket, forcing a calm expression as the door slides open.
There he is—Han Yun Jae. Cold, unapproachable, and as sharp as ever. His eyes meet mine, and you wonder, just for a fleeting moment, if he can see it in your face, if he can tell what’s between us.
"Y/N," he says curtly. "We’re heading out for another exploration."
You nod, trying to suppress the flutter in your chest. "Of course."
He steps closer, his presence dominating the room. The tension from that night still hangs thick in the air, unspoken, unresolved. And though he doesn’t know it yet, you can’t shake the fear that everything is about to change.
“We need to leave soon,” he continues, his tone impassive, his eyes scanning the equipment scattered around the room. you envy his ability to keep his composure, his ability to seem unaffected. You feel like you are on the edge of breaking, but you can’t let him see it. Not now.
"Right," you say, trying to steady my voice. "I’ll be ready in a minute."
You grab your gear, moving quickly, gathering the essentials for today’s exploration. We’re on a breathable planet, so you don’t need much—just the basics: a scanner, sample containers, a few tools for analysis. It should be a straightforward mission. But everything feels off today.
As you adjust your pack, you feel the familiar nausea begin to churn in your stomach again. It’s not as intense as it could be, but it’s enough to make your head spin. A wave of dizziness threatens to knock you off balance, but you keep moving. you can’t afford to look weak.
We head out to begin the survey of the planet. The bright sun glints off the barren landscape, but you can barely focus on the view. Yun Jae leads the way, as always, with his confident stride and cold, calculating gaze.
You follow, but every step feels heavier today. My thoughts keep drifting back to the life growing inside you, the life that you still haven’t told him about. you won’t—not like this. Not when the tension between you is still so thick, so unresolved.
The exploration continues, though it’s more difficult than usual. You are exhausted—physically, mentally. My body feels like it’s betraying you. you keep trying to hide it, but the pallor of your skin, the way your movements seem slower, doesn’t go unnoticed.
“Y/N, you’re okay?” Ha-neul, one of the engineers, asks as she glances at you.
You offer another tight smile, masking the fatigue and nausea swirling inside you. “I’m fine.”
But Ha-neul doesn’t buy it. She knows you too well.
We continue, and as you near the edge of a cliff to take a sample from a distant ridge, Yun Jae pauses and turns to you, his eyes glinting with that familiar authoritative gleam.
“We need to get a sample from that ridge,” he says, pointing to the jagged rocky formation.
“Yeah, on it,” you reply, starting to walk toward it. But before you take more than a few steps, you catch him watching me—his gaze lingering on my face, his expression tight with what looks like worry.
He holds up a hand, stopping you in your tracks. “Wait. You stay here and keep an eye on the equipment.”
You clench your teeth, holding back the sharp retort that rises to your lips. “Why do you always assume you can’t handle it?”
He doesn’t look at you but responds in that cold, condescending tone that always sends a rush of heat to your face.
“Because you still act like a kid who doesn’t know how to do anything. You get distracted, and you can’t afford to babysit you.” that was just an excuse covering the fact that he was worry at you state just by one look at your face but you didn’t need to know that.
My heart lurches, and before you can stop myself, the words spill out.
“I’m not a kid!” you snapped, my voice sharper and louder than you intended. The words hung in the air, heavy with frustration and unspoken meaning. “I’m twenty-eight, for God’s sake! Stop treating me like some helpless child.”
You turned to face him fully, your glare unwavering as you continued. “you get that being ancient must make you think everyone younger than you need to be babysat, but guess what? you don’t. I’m capable, and I’ve been handling things on your own for a long time now.”
You noticed the silence that followed your outburst, the kind that was too heavy to ignore. Slowly, your eyes drifted past Han Yun Jae to the rest of the crew standing a few feet away. Their faces were pressed with a mix of concern and curiosity, clearly having heard every word.
Some of them exchanged awkward glances, unsure whether to intervene or pretend they hadn’t just witnessed you snap. Others avoided eye contact entirely, their focus suddenly absorbed by the dirt beneath their boots.
Heat rushed to your face as you realized the spectacle I’d just created. My hands clenched at your sides, embarrassment and anger bubbling together. you turned away from Yun Jae and the crew, your voice quieter but no less firm as you muttered, “This conversation is over.”
Without another word, you walked off, ignoring the weight of their stares as you walked to get the samples.
My footsteps crunch over the rocky terrain as you make your way toward the ridge, your breath shallow and uneven. you feel the weight of their eyes on your back—on both Yun Jae and you. But you don’t care. you can’t care anymore.
You are not a kid. You are not the same person you was when you first met him, when you used to argue over everything like it was your only language. He might still see you as that naive child, but you are not. you won’t let him define you anymore.
The harsh wind stings your skin as you reach the base of the ridge, your hands shaking as you adjust the sample container. you glance over your shoulder briefly, your mind still tangled with everything that’s happened. And, of course, Yun Jae is standing there, watching you with that cold, calculating gaze, his posture rigid as if waiting for you to make a mistake.
You can’t stand it.
You remember the first time you met him. you was just a kid—barely out of childhood, if I’m being honest—and he was always there. Always around because of your father. Han Yun Jae wasn’t just your father’s protégé; he was almost like a shadow. Quiet, intense, and seemingly perfect in everything he did.
My father had always insisted that Yun Jae was a brilliant mind, someone who could shape the future of your father’s work, someone who deserved the respect of everyone around him. But you never saw him that way.
To you, he was just your father’s trainee who treated you like you was beneath him. He never smiled, never showed anything that resembled warmth, and he always treated you like an inconvenience. A distraction.
You hated that. you hated the way he looked at you with cold indifference, as if you was just a little girl who didn’t understand the world around you. He’d always brush you off, belittle your attempts to prove myself. At first, it was almost funny—his condescension was so obvious—but as you got older, it started to gnaw at you. you wanted to prove him wrong. you wanted to show him that you was more than just a child, that you could handle things on your own.
But every time you tried, he pushed you further away. His icy demeanor only seemed to grow colder, and his words became sharper.
“Don’t be so naive, Y/N,” he’d say, his voice always so cold and clipped. “You’ll never be able to understand. Stay out of it.”
And you listened to him. you listened because he was older, because he had always been the smart one, the disciplined one. you was just the spoiled little girl of his mentor.
But something changed after you hit your late teens. The more you pushed back, the more things began to shift. What started as petty bickering turned into real animosity. The tension between you grew, and your arguments became sharper, more cutting. There was no longer any pretense of camaraderie between us. you hated him. And somewhere, buried deep within his cold, emotionless exterior, you began to feel like he hated you too.
It wasn’t just the typical friction of youth anymore. It became personal. It was as if he saw you as nothing more than an obstacle—a nuisance to be dealt with, nothing more.
And as you continue collecting the sample, you can feel the weight of his presence behind you, but it doesn’t feel quite as suffocating as before.
A few days later, after hours spent scanning and collecting samples, your head was spinning, and your body felt like it was on the verge of shutting down. Exhaustion and nausea clawed at you, and you wasn’t sure how much longer you could keep pretending you were fine. Because you weren't.
You silently prayed you could hold on until you reached the base. Pressing a hand to your stomach, you tried to steady the roiling turmoil inside you.
“You look like you’re about to collapse,” Ha-neul said, her voice cutting through the haze clouding my thoughts. “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked as you finally stepped through the base doors.
You waved her off, forcing a smile. “I’m fine, just a little tired. I’ll rest soon.”
You made your way to your quarters, your stomach churning with every step. As soon as you were inside, you rushed to the small bathroom. The door clicked shut behind you, and you barely had time to close your eyes before the nausea hit full force.
You kneeled in front of the toilet, your body jerking with each wave of sickness. My stomach emptied itself, the bitter taste of bile rising in your throat. you couldn't stop it. It felt like it went on forever.
After what felt like an eternity, you finally pulled yourself together enough to sit back on your heels, your mouth dry and your face pale. you took a few shallow breaths, trying to steady myself. Your mind was spinning—sick, tired, and overwhelmed by the weight of everything that had happened, everything that was happening.
You stood, hands shaking, and rinsed your mouth with water, trying to rid yourself of the horrible taste. Reaching for your toothbrush and toothpaste, you began brushing your teeth automatically, trying to focus on something, anything, other than the racing thoughts in your head.
It was then that you saw him.
He was standing in the doorway behind you, his arms crossed, watching you through the mirror. you froze for a split second, your breath catching in your throat. you hadn’t heard him approach, hadn’t noticed him at all. He looked so out of place, his cold stare boring into you even as you tried to keep your composure.
But you couldn’t. Your heart was pounding. Still, you refused to look at him directly. you kept your eyes on the mirror, focusing on the task at hand—brushing your teeth, pretending he wasn’t there.
You felt the pressure of his gaze, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say anything. you just… kept brushing, as if you could make everything go away.
Just as you was about to spit and rinse your mouth, his voice broke the silence.
“Are you pregnant?”
His words hit like a thunderclap, shocking you into stillness. you didn’t respond, not immediately. Your hand froze mid-rinse, and you had to fight to steady myself, your thoughts racing.
He was right. Something was off. But you couldn’t let him know that.
You finished rinsing, washing your mouth quickly as you replaced the toothpaste and toothbrush.
The silence between you thickened. He was still standing there, his posture unchanged, arms crossed over his chest. His gaze never wavered, and you could feel his eyes burning into the back of your neck.
You turned slowly to face him, forcing a neutral expression, but inside, you were panicking. He was so close now. Too close. Your chest tightened with the sudden proximity.
“What makes you think that?” you asked, trying to keep your tone casual, even though your heart was hammering in your chest.
His eyes flickered with a slight, cold amusement. “You’ve been acting strange lately. More tired, more nauseous. The way you keep your distance when food comes around… You’ve been avoiding things, avoiding people. And the way you pale when you're on your feet too long—it all points in one direction."
you laughed—too sharply, too quickly. “I’m just tired. You know, long missions and all that.”
He raised an eyebrow, his expression unwavering. “And the fact that your periods haven’t come for 3 months? That’s just… coincidence?”
You froze, your breath catching in your throat. you couldn’t hide the shock in your eyes fast enough. “How do you know that?” you said, your voice betraying you with a slight quiver.
Yun Jae’s gaze hardened, but he didn’t break eye contact. “I have your ways.”
You backed away slightly, your heart racing, your mouth suddenly dry. "That's creepy," you muttered, trying to brush past him. you just needed to get out of there, away from his scrutiny.
But before you could even turn the door handle, his voice stopped you in your tracks. “You didn’t respond.” you look at him but you turned back to the door, your hand on the handle, but before you could open it fully, he stepped forward, blocking your way. you didn’t look up at him, but his presence was suffocating.
He leaned in, his voice lower now, the sharp edge gone. “You didn’t answer me.” he repeated in an irritated tone.
You didn’t have the strength to fight him anymore. Your body was exhausted, your mind overwhelmed, and you just wanted to escape—escape this situation, escape him, escape the uncertainty swirling inside you.
You met his eyes, standing tall despite the shakiness you felt inside. “You already know the answer,”the words coming out colder than you intended.
Yun Jae’s gaze softened just a fraction, but the icy wall was still there, still firmly in place. He didn’t respond, but his silence spoke volumes.
And with that, you pushed past him, opening the door and stepping out into the hallway, the cool metal of the ship offering no comfort anymore. you couldn’t let him get to you. Not now. Not when everything felt like it was spiraling out of control.
But as you walked away, you couldn’t shake the feeling that things were about to get a whole lot more complicated.
Days turned into weeks, and you avoided Yun Jae like the plague. you couldn’t face him—not after that conversation. Every meal became a calculated maneuver to dodge him. you either skipped eating entirely, braving the gnawing hunger, or grabbed your plate and retreated to your room or the lab. The smells of food only worsened the nausea, and you didn’t want him—or anyone else—noticing your discomfort.
But no matter how much you tried to act like nothing was wrong, you could feel the truth pressing against you, literally. Your body was changing. Your bump was small but undeniable now, a subtle curve that you could no longer ignore. you started wearing baggier clothes, anything to keep it hidden. Yet you knew this wasn’t a problem you could cover up forever.
Late at night, when you was alone in your quarters, the weight of it all would crush you. You would sit on the edge of your bed, your hands trembling as they rested on your growing belly. A part of you wanted to reject it, deny what was happening. But the fluttering beneath your fingers was impossible to ignore. A tiny life was growing inside you, and it terrified you.
You found yourself crying more often than you cared to admit. Silent, muffled sobs into your pillow as you thought about everything you would imagined for your first child. You'd always pictured being married, having a partner by your side, someone you could lean on when things got tough. you thought about warm nurseries, family gatherings, and laughter. Not this—being stranded on a distant planet, surrounded by cold metal walls, with the father of your child barely able to tolerate you.
The thought of Yun Jae made the tears come harder. you didn’t want to admit it, but a part of you had always cared about his opinion, even when you claimed to hate him. And now, the idea of raising this child alone, of carrying this weight by myself, was unbearable
The days blurred together, and you kept your distance from Yun Jae. you didn’t start conversations—not with him. When he spoke to you, it was only about the mission.
When it came to meals, you continued your routine of avoidance. The smells in the mess hall used to turn your stomach, but now that you was in your second trimester, your nausea had finally eased. you started enjoying food again—more than you ever had before. you were eating everything in sight. Still, you couldn’t bring yourself to sit with the crew. You’d grab your plate and retreat to your room or the lab. It was better than facing Yun Jae’s gaze, which had changed in ways you couldn’t understand.
You’d catch him looking at you, his dark eyes fixed on you from across the room. It wasn’t the usual cold glare. There was something else there—concern, maybe. Worry? you wasn’t sure. All you knew was that it made your skin crawl. It made you feel exposed, like he could see everything you were trying so hard to hide.
The lab was eerily quiet after everyone left. you worked in silence, the hum of machinery and the occasional beep from the scanner your only companions. It was better this way—being alone. you could focus on your work without the weight of their stares or the hushed conversations that sometimes carried your name when they thought you weren't listening.
Before leaving, Ha-neul had paused by your workstation, her gaze lingering with concern.
“Y/N, do you want me to bring you a plate?” she asked, her voice gentle but persistent.
“I’m not hungry,” you replied curtly, not looking up from my work.
She hesitated but eventually nodded, joining the others as they filed out of the lab. The door hissed shut behind them, and you sighed, grateful for the solitude.
Minutes passed, maybe longer. you was deep in analysis, your hands deftly adjusting the settings on the equipment, when the door opened again. you ignored it, assuming someone had forgotten something.
It wasn’t until a plate slid onto the desk beside you that you stopped.
You blinked at it, the steam from the food curling up in delicate tendrils. Slowly, you lifted your head, your eyes meeting Yun Jae’s. He stood there, his expression unreadable, though there was a flicker of worry in his usually sharp features. In his other hand, he held a second plate—his own, you assumed.
“Eat,” he said simply, his tone firm but not unkind.
“I’m not hungry,” you shot back, your voice colder than you intended. You turned my attention back to my work, determined to ignore him.
But then, as if on cue, your stomach betrayed you with a loud, unmistakable growl.
You froze, heat creeping up your neck.
When you glanced back at him, he was smirking faintly, the corner of his mouth tugged up in amusement. Without a word, he sat down beside you, placing his own plate on the desk and beginning to eat, his movements unhurried.
“Eat,” he repeated, pushing your plate closer to you.
You scowled, reluctant but too hungry to argue with your body. Picking up a fork, you took a small bite, chewing slowly as you tried to focus back on your work.
“What are you doing here?” you asked after a moment, your tone flat as you glanced at him.
“I want to talk,” he replied, his focus seemingly on his food.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” you said, taking another small bite, though your eyes never left the screen in front of you.
He didn’t respond immediately, and for a while, the only sound between you was the scrape of utensils against plates. But you could feel his gaze on you, studying you like he was trying to piece together a puzzle.
“Why are you avoiding me?” he said finally, his voice quieter but no less direct.
You didn’t answer, refusing to look at him.
“Why do you keep acting like this?” he pressed, his tone teetering between frustration and concern.
“I’m not acting like anything,” you snapped, dropping your fork onto the plate with a clatter. “I’m working, Yun Jae. If you’re done eating, you can leave.”
He exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. For a moment, you thought he might argue, but instead, he reached out and pushed his plate closer to mine, his movements slow and deliberate.
“Eat,” he said again, his voice quieter now, almost gentle, as if he knew how close you were to snapping but didn’t want to push you further.
Then, without another word, he stood and left the lab, the door hissing shut behind him. The sound lingered in the air, leaving an emptiness you couldn’t shake.
You stared at the two plates of food in front of you, your appetite wavering despite the persistent gnawing in your stomach. His plate sat there, untouched except for the few bites he’d taken, a silent gesture that felt heavier than it should have.
For a moment, you felt the weight of it all press down on me—the loneliness, the tension between you, the secret you were carrying that was slowly changing everything. My fingers tightened around the fork as you fought back the emotion rising in your chest.
The food blurred in front of you, and you swallowed hard, forcing yourself to breathe. you hated this—hated how he always seemed to know when to show up, hated the way he lingered in your thoughts even when you wanted to forget him. Most of all, you hated the way his quiet actions, like leaving his plate behind, managed to make you feel so unsteady.
Finally, you forced yourself to take another bite, chewing slowly as you tried to focus on the work in front of you. But no matter how much you tried to ignore it, the two plates beside each other felt like a conversation left unfinished, one that you wasn’t sure you was ready to have.
The kitchen was dimly lit, the soft hum of the ship's systems the only sound in the background. you shuffled quietly, rubbing your eyes and trying not to make too much noise. Hunger clawed at you, relentless and impossible to ignore. Sleep wasn’t going to come until you satisfied it.
After searching through the shelves, you finally found something that looked promising—a container of fruit, sealed tightly with a stubborn lid. you gripped it with both hands, bracing it against your body as you twisted, but it wouldn’t budge. Frustration built with each attempt, the hunger making your movements clumsier.
Unbeknownst to you, Yun Jae had been there the whole time, leaning casually against the counter with his hands in his pockets. He watched silently as you struggled, his cold, observant gaze fixed on you.
“Do you want some help?” his voice cut through the silence suddenly, calm and steady as always.
The sound startled you so badly that the container slipped from your hands, hitting the floor with a loud clatter. My heart jumped, and you spun around to glare at him.
“God, Yun Jae!” you hissed, clutching my chest as if that could steady my racing heart.
He didn’t flinch, didn’t apologize for startling you. He just stood there, his expression unreadable as his eyes shifted briefly to the container on the floor.
You stayed quiet, refusing to look at him directly. Instead, you bent down, picking up the container with shaky hands. Your face burned with embarrassment, but you ignored it, turning your back to him and trying once again to open the lid.
It was no use. No matter how hard you tried, the lid wouldn’t move. And then, without realizing it, you felt the tears start to fall.
At first, you didn’t notice them, too focused on your stubborn attempts to twist the lid. But soon, the drops blurred your vision, slipping down your cheeks faster than you could wipe them away. Your hands trembled as you tried to compose myself, but the harder you fought, the more the tears came.
It wasn’t the lid. It wasn’t even the hunger. It was everything. The pregnancy, the isolation, the weight of being stranded on this alien planet. The fact that you were carrying this alone, with no one to lean on.
Before you could spiral further, you felt strong arms wrap around you from behind, firm yet gentle.
You froze, your breath hitching as Yun Jae carefully took the container from your hands and placed it on the counter nearby. Then, without a word, he pulled you closer, his arms circling you in a quiet but steady embrace.
The warmth of his presence broke something in you. you let out a shuddering sob, your body trembling as the floodgates opened completely.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice low and calm as his hand came up to gently rub your arm. “Let it out.”
His tone wasn’t soft or warm—he wasn’t the type—but there was something in his voice, a quiet steadiness, that made you feel like you didn’t have to hold everything together for once.
He turned you around slowly, guiding you until your forehead was pressed against his chest. His hand slid to the small of your back, holding you close, while his other hand rested lightly on the back of your head, his fingers brushing through your hair.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” he said, his words deliberate, almost hesitant.
You didn’t respond, couldn’t. you just stayed there, your face buried in his chest as the tears came harder.
He held you through it all, his hand moving gently along your back in a soothing rhythm. “Calm down,” he said quietly. “You’re okay. It’s going to be okay.”
Minutes passed like this—his steady presence anchoring you as you slowly began to calm down. The tears slowed, your breathing evened out. you realized, almost absently, that your arms had wrapped around his torso, holding onto him without even thinking about it.
When you finally pulled away, he let you go, though his hands lingered for a moment as if making sure you was steady. His eyes met mine, and for the first time, you saw something different in them—something softer, more vulnerable.
“You’ve been holding this in for too long,” he said, his tone still calm but edged with something you couldn’t quite place.
You wiped at your face, refusing to meet his gaze. “I don’t need your pity,” you muttered under your breath.
“Gosh, Y/N, this isn’t pity,” he said, his tone calm but firm. “Why do you always have to be in denial?”
Silence stretched between you before he broke it.
“For twenty years, I’ve kept my distance,” he began, his voice quieter now. “Your father—he was the closest thing I had to a hero. He taught me everything, and when you joined the organization, I told myself I’d protect you. For him.”
You glanced up at him, startled by the admission. He looked away briefly, as if uncomfortable with saying it aloud.
“But I didn’t know how,” he continued, his voice steady again. “You were reckless, stubborn—always throwing yourself into danger without thinking.”
You opened your mouth to argue, but he cut you off.
“And I—” He hesitated, his jaw tightening. “I didn’t know how to handle it. Or you. You weren’t just some kid anymore. Not to me.”
My breath caught, but you stayed silent, waiting for him to continue.
“You were twenty when I started noticing,” he said, his tone cool but deliberate. “But you were too young, and I couldn’t—” He shook his head. “I couldn’t let myself feel that way. So I kept my distance. I thought it was better that way.”
Confused by his words, you frowned. “Wait, you don’t understand. What are you trying to say?”
He hesitated for a moment, looking away as if gathering his courage. When his eyes finally met yours again, they were filled with an intensity that made your breath catch. “I have feelings for you, Y/N,” he said, his voice low but steady.
You froze, completely shocked by the confession. He continued, his words tumbling out as if they’d been bottled up for too long. “I started falling for you when you joined the organization. At first, it felt wrong—I thought I shouldn’t feel that way. So I tried to keep your distance, to be cold with you. You’re your mentor’s daughter, and you’re so much younger than me. I mean—I'm ancient, as you call me.” He chuckled softly, and despite myself, you found the corners of your mouth twitching upward.
“And it’s true,” he added, his tone gentler now. “At times, I thought of you like a kid. I felt like I owed your father everything, and protecting you was my way of honoring him.”
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle before he continued. “But you’re not a kid anymore.” His gaze held mine, steady and unflinching. “You’re a woman. And now…” His eyes flickered briefly to your stomach, his expression softening. “Now, you’re carrying a life.”
Before you could respond, he turned, grabbed the container from the counter, and opened it effortlessly. He handed it back to you without a word, his expression unreadable.
You took it, your back turning to him as you started eating quietly, savoring the fruit. But then, you felt his arms wrap around you again, this time from behind.
His hand moved to rest gently on your belly, his fingers brushing against the curve. “It’s gotten big,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost contemplative. “How the hell have you been hiding this?”
You laughed softly despite myself, shaking your head. “Baggy clothes.”
His hand moved in slow, soothing circles, and for the first time, you let yourself relax into his touch. You stayed like that for a while, the silence between you comfortable and unspoken. Once you were done eating, and since neither of you could sleep, you wandered to the balcony.
We sat there until sunrise, talking about everything—the baby, potential names, your relationship.
For the first time, you didn’t feel like he was treating you like a kid.
how are little tiktokers already talking shit on 2 baddies like you’re embarrassing yourself just like you did during sticker era ….
HOW TO FAKE DATE A DOCTOR — SATORU GOJO
pairing — doctor!satoru gojo x fem!reader
summary — for six months, you've watched dr. satoru gojo order the sweetest coffee on your menu every morning at exactly 7:15 AM. for six months, you've convinced yourself his intense stares must mean he's spotted something medically concerning about you—maybe a suspicious mole or concerning symptom. but when a desperate white lie about a fake boyfriend results in him volunteering to play the part at your family's christmas dinner, what begins as a simple pretend relationship might just turn into something real.
word count — 9 k
genre/tags — coffee shop AU, holiday romance, fake dating, friends to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn, fluff, idiots in love, reader is a med student and barista, gojo is a cardiologist, age difference (reader is 25/gojo early 30s)
warnings — 16+ ONLY. contains suggestive sexual content, non-graphic medical talk
author's note — hey lovelies, welcome to my first attempt at a holiday romance. this was meant to be a short drabble but somehow turned into this 9 k words of pure fluff and pining. it's my little christmas gift to you all hehe. whether you're celebrating with family, working holiday shifts, or just enjoying a quiet day, hope this makes you smile. thank you for reading, and merry christmas !! <3 (fanart in the header)
masterlist
You first noticed him six months ago.
It wasn't just because he was strikingly handsome, with hair the color of fresh snow and the bluest eyes you'd ever seen, though that certainly didn't hurt. It wasn't even because of his white coat and the stethoscope casually draped around his neck, marking him as one of the doctors from the nearby hospital.
No, what caught your attention was the way he looked at you.
Every morning, like clockwork, the bell above the door would chime at precisely 7:15 AM, and Dr. Satoru Gojo would walk into your café. He'd order the sweetest drink on your menu (always with extra whipped cream), and while you prepared it, his eyes would follow your every movement.
It wasn't creepy or uncomfortable. And it definitely wasn't flirting — at least, you didn't think it was. Perhaps he saw something, a suspicious mole you'd never noticed, and now he was trying to figure out how to tell the coffee girl she’s dying without ruining her morning rush.
That had to be it.
You’d catch his gaze lingering when he thought you weren't looking. Sometimes, he'd tilt his head slightly, a small, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. It made you wonder what he was thinking. Was he judging your latte art? Probably. You were still working on that.
But when you turned around to give him his iced vanilla latte with extra whipped cream and three shots of caramel (it never varied, not once in six months), he'd break his smile to you, his gaze softening for a second, and then his fingers would brush against yours as you handed him the paper cup.
He always thanked you with “Much appreciated”. It made your heart skip a beat, if you'd be honest. Not that you read all too much into it of course. And so for six months, this had been your routine.
5:30 AM: Arrive at the café.
6:00 AM: Open up, prep for the day.
7:13 AM: Start making his drink because you knew he'd walk in exactly two minutes later.
7:15 AM: Heart fluttering slightly as your hand brushed his as you gave him his order.
10:00 AM: Shift end.
10:30 AM: Rush to classes.
Some mornings, he’d arrive in wrinkled scrubs, the faint scent of antiseptic clinging to him. Other days, it was a tailored dress shirt, sometimes with a matching tie. But the routine never changed.
Same order, same time, the same easy smile that would soften slightly when you remembered his order without him having to say it. Not that it was hard to begin with.
“Someone’s got a secret admirer,” Maki would say, nudging you with her elbow as Dr. Gojo left. You’d roll your eyes, but a faint blush crept up your neck anyway.
Between customers, you'd try to squeeze in some studying. The early morning shift wasn't exactly ideal, but it paid better, and you needed every cent you could get for your pre-med textbooks. Those things cost more than your rent, it felt like.
Your anatomy textbook usually lay open behind the counter, hidden from customers' view but accessible during slower moments. Sometimes, when the morning rush died down, you'd catch Dr. Gojo's eyes flickering to the pages as you made his latte. His expression would shift slightly, but he never commented on it.
You wondered sometimes if he was judging your highlighting technique (chaotic at best) or your margin notes (mostly question marks). He must have gone through all this years ago, probably with much more grace than your current fumbling through medical terminology.
The café job barely covered your expenses — between tuition, rent, and those damn textbooks — but at least it was flexible with your class schedule. Your manager understood when you needed to switch shifts for exams, and the free coffee helped during all-nighters.
Your coworkers thought you were crazy for taking such early shifts. "No one should be awake at 5:30 AM," they'd say. But they didn't understand the quiet peace of morning prep, the satisfaction of perfect latte art, or the way certain blue eyes would crinkle at the corners when you got his order just right.
It was a small thing, a fleeting smile, a brush of fingertips, but it was enough to make the early mornings, the aching feet, the constant struggle, almost worth it.
Not that you stuck to this schedule just for him. Obviously not. The extra dollar per hour for opening shift was the real motivator. The fact that it coincided with Dr. Gojo's apparent coffee schedule was just... coincidence.
Sometimes, during chaotic study sessions between customers, you'd catch him watching you mouth medical terms to yourself as you steamed milk. His eyes would linger on your textbook, then flick back to your face with that same intense look that made you wonder if he was counting your remaining days or something—or still trying to figure out if that one mole on your cheek was turning malignant.
The morning you had your anatomy midterm, your textbook sat next to the register, full of sticky notes and frantic annotations. You saw him notice it, saw something shift in his expression as he took in the obvious signs of exam stress. That day, he left an extra large tip with a small note that just said "Good luck."
It was probably just pity. He'd been through med school. He knew the hell you were going through. That had to be it. Absolutely. No other explanation.
That’s what you told yourself, anyway, as you added the note into your wallet, shoving it down next to a crumpled grocery list and a faded movie ticket stub, as if burying it under a pile of mundane objects could somehow bury the flutter in your chest.
For six months, this had been your life. Balancing early mornings, late classes, endless studying, and the mystery of a doctor who looked at you like you were a puzzle he couldn't quite solve.
So when he finally broke pattern that random rainy monday morning, it wasn't with some dramatic revelation about your health you’d imagined. Instead, he tilted his head slightly while waiting for his usual and said, "You changed your hair."
You nearly dropped the caramel syrup. After six months of intense stares and loaded silences, after convincing yourself he was cataloging your symptoms or contemplating your mortality, he was commenting on your hair?
"Oh." Your hand instinctively went to the ends you'd trimmed over the weekend. "Yeah, just a few inches."
"It suits you." He said it so casually, like he hadn't just shattered half a year of mysterious doctor mystique with three words. Then, with that same matter-of-fact tone, "The pathophysiology textbook you were reading last week—Robbins, right? It’s really good. Especially the part about metaplasia. Interesting stuff."
And just like that, the spell was broken. No terminal diagnosis. No earth-shattering revelations. Just a doctor who apparently noticed haircuts and had opinions about medical textbooks.
The sudden normalcy of it all was almost jarring. For months, you’d been half-convinced he was silently cataloging your every freckle, every mole, every perceived imperfection, convinced he was about to deliver some devastating news. Now? He was talking about metaplasia. It was almot—anticlimactic.
And, if you were being honest, a little embarrassing. All those covert checks in the reflection of the espresso machine, all those frantic Google searches for “atypical nevi”—for this?
You almost wanted to laugh.
After that day, your morning routine shifted slightly. He still came in at exactly 7:15, still ordered the same diabetis-inducing latte, still watched you work with those intense blue eyes the color of glacial ice. But now he'd occasionally comment on your study materials, or mention an interesting case that related to whatever chapter you were currently highlighting.
"Cardiac arrhythmias today?" he'd ask, spotting your textbook. "Had a case of atrial fibrillation yesterday. The patient presented with…" He’d then launch into a quick explanation, sketching a diagram on a napkin that somehow made more sense than three hours of lecture on the same topic.
Your coworkers were almost disappointed by this development. "That's it?" Maki had said when you told her. "Six months of smoldering looks and he just... helps you study?"
But somehow, it felt right. The mysterious doctor with pretty eyes turned out to be just a man who noticed details and perhaps had a soft spot for struggling med students.
He still made your heart do that stupid flutter thing when his fingers brushed yours during the handoff, but now you had a perfectly logical explanation for that of course—the vagus nerve or some other equally fascinating cardiovascular phenomenon he'd just explained.
That had to be it.
Some mornings, when the café was quiet and you were stumped by a concept, he'd even linger a few minutes after getting his order. He’d lean against the counter, close enough that you could smell the faint scent of his cologne, gesturing with his cup while breaking down complex medical theories into digestible pieces, somehow making autoimmune disorders sound as simple as iced latte recipes.
"You'll make a good doctor," he said one morning, completely out of nowhere and your cheeks flushed a deep crimson.
Your relationship—if you could even call it that—settled into something comfortably in-between. More than customer and barista, less than friends, but with a rhythm all its own. He'd quiz you while you made his usual, turning morning coffee runs into study sessions.
"Name three complications of chronic hypertension," he'd say while you pumped caramel into his cup.
"Increased risk of heart attack, stroke, and kidney disease," you'd reply, adding the extra shot of espresso he never actually ordered but always appreciated.
"Good. Now tell me about secondary causes."
One random Tuesday morning, however, the bell didn't chime at 7:15. You glanced at the clock, then back at the door.
7:16.
7:17.
A knot of unease tightened in your stomach. It was ridiculous, really. Why did you even care? He was just a customer. A regular customer, yes, but still just a customer. It wasn't like you were waiting for him or anything. You were just—used to the routine. That was all.
But despite your attempts at rationalization, a small, nagging worry began to gnaw at you. Had something happened? Was he okay? You found yourself staring at the door, your hand hovering over the espresso machine, your usual movements faltering slightly. You even messed up a latte, the foam swirling into a sad, lopsided blob instead of the usual pretty rosetta.
At 7:20, just as you were about to convince yourself he’d just overslept and that you were being completely ridiculous, the bell finally rang. He rushed in, slightly out of breath, his cheeks flushed. "Sorry I'm late," he said, his voice a little rushed. "Crazy morning at the hospital."
He looked like he’d run all the way, which was odd. Why would he run? It’s not like his coffee was that important. Right? And yet, your stupid heart did a little flip at the sight of him, a traitorous swell of warmth blooming in your chest. He made it. He was here.
He stayed extra long that morning. After the rush died down, he listened to you recite your flashcards, correcting your pronunciation of medical terms with a patience that made you wonder if he moonlighted as a professor. It was a strange sort of intimacy, this shared moment of slow study amidst the busy morning rush and the soft hum of the refrigerators.
And you never wanted that morning to end.
Your coworkers had stopped teasing you about him—mostly—and started asking if he could explain their own health questions instead. Then came the random stormy Wednesday that changed everything.
The morning had started normally enough—he arriving at 7:15 sharp, you already having his sugar latte ready. But the sky had opened up while he was waiting, rain drumming against the café windows. It wasn’t a gentle shower. It was a deluge, the kind that turned streets into rivers in minutes.
"Did you bring an umbrella?" he asked, watching you glance at the downpour.
"No," you sighed, already dreading the soggy walk to campus. "I checked the forecast last night—it said sunny all day." You internally cursed the weather app.
"When does your shift end?"
"Huh? Oh, uhm 10 AM. I have microbiology at 10:30."
His lips twitched into a faint smile and he left without another word. You tried not to feel disappointed—what had you expected? It's not like he could control the weather.
But at 10 AM sharp, as you were pulling your jacket tighter and preparing to make a run for it, you spotted him through the rain-streaked windows. He was standing outside the café in his white coat, holding a large dark blue umbrella.
Your heart definitely did more than flutter this time.
"Ready?" he asked when you emerged, as if waiting in the pouring rain for some barista was perfectly normal doctor behavior.
"You didn't have to—"
"Can't have my favorite barista catching pneumonia," he said. "Besides, I'm heading that direction anyway." You knew for a fact the hospital was in the opposite direction.
The walk to campus was suddenly—intimate. It was strange being this close to him. You’d seen him every morning for months, but always across the counter, a safe distance separating you. Now, you were walking side-by-side, the scent of his cologne so close it made it hard to focus on anything but his proximity, to say the least.
"So, what are you studying in Microbiology?" he asked, breaking the silence.
"We're covering bacterial pathogenesis this week," you replied, and the conversation drifted naturally to a discussion of how different pathogens could affect various organ systems like it was normal small talk.
As other pedestrians passed, their own umbrellas bobbing and weaving, he’d subtly pull you closer. Each time he did, your breath would catch in your throat, and a fresh wave of warmth would wash over you. You were grateful for his height, because you were certain your cheeks were flushed a deep shade of red.
It was absurd, how flustered you were by such a simple act, but the feeling of his arm occasionally brushing against yours, the shared intimacy of the small space beneath the umbrella, was enough to send your heart racing.
Desperate to focus on something else, you blurted out, "What kind of doctor are you, anyway? I never actually asked."
"Cardiology," he replied simply.
“Cardiology,” you repeated, the word lingering on your tongue. A doctor of the heart. When you reached the medical sciences building, he paused, lowering the umbrella slightly. The rain had begun to ease, but the air still smelled wet and clean.
"Thanks," you said, meeting his gaze. "For the umbrella escort."
"Anytime." That soft smile again, the one that made your heart do a stupid little skip again.
As you watched him walk away, umbrella tilted against the rain, you realized something had shifted. Maybe you weren't quite friends, maybe you weren't quite anything definable, but whatever this was—it felt like the beginning of something. Something more than just sharing an umbrella on rainy days.
⋆꙳•❅•̩❅*̩‧͙ *̩❆₊˚｡❆
Winter arrived on a random thursday morning, transforming rain into snow and turning your early morning walks to work into arctic expeditions.
It was during one of these frigid mornings, while you were preparing Dr. Gojo's usual order and the steam from the espresso machines fogging up the frost-covered windows, that your phone rang. Your mother's contact photo flashed on the screen.
You answered with your phone pressed between ear and shoulder, still working the machines. "Hi, Mom."
"Sweetheart! I was just planning Christmas dinner. You're bringing someone this year, right? That nice boy from your anatomy class you mentioned?"
You winced, catching Dr. Gojo's raised eyebrow from where he stood at the counter. "Mom—"
"Because Aunt Marie's daughter just got engaged, and you know how she gets—"
"My boyfriend's actually busy with hospital rotations," you blurted out, immediately wanting to punch yourself. "He's, uh, very dedicated to his work."
"Boyfriend? Why didn't you tell me? What's his name? What does he—"
"Sorry, Mom, huge line forming, gotta go!" You hung up, letting your forehead thump against the coffee machine with a groan.
"That sounded stressful," Dr. Gojo commented, amusement clear in his voice.
You looked up to find him watching you with that slight smile that always made you shiver. "Just my mom being... my mom." You resumed making his latte. "She's convinced that at twenty-five, I'm practically a spinster."
"Ah." He tilted his head. "And this fictional boyfriend with hospital rotations?"
Your cheeks heated. "Seemed easier than explaining why I'm still single. Between work, classes, and studying, I barely have time to sleep, let alone date." You handed him his usual. "Plus, now she'll stop trying to set me up with every eligible male she meets through her book club."
"A creative solution," he said, taking a sip. "Though hospital rotations over Christmas? Sounds like a terrible boyfriend." A playful smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
"Yeah, well, imaginary men are often disappointing." You started wiping down the counter, needing something to do with your hands. "At least this way I'll have a few weeks of peace before I have to tell her we broke up."
"Sounds like you've done this before," he observed, watching you attack an imaginary coffee stain with perhaps too much force.
"Is it that obvious?" You sighed, abandoning your fake cleaning. "Last year he was studying abroad. The year before that, he was sick. I'm running out of excuses, honestly. Pretty sure my mom's stopped believing me, but she plays along because it's less awkward than admitting we both know I'm lying."
He made a thoughtful sound, then pulled out his prescription pad (why did doctors always carry those around anyway?). You watched, confused, as he scribbled something down and slid it across the counter.
"Here," he said. "My number. Call me during Christmas dinner."
You stared at him. "What?"
"Well, your imaginary boyfriend should at least make an effort, don't you think?" His eyes held that familiar amusement. "I'll tell your mom all about my very important hospital rounds, maybe throw in some medical words. Make it convincing."
You stared at him, mouth slightly agape. Was he… offering to pretend to be your boyfriend? You couldn't quite process what was happening.
"You know," he said, after you'd probably been quiet for too long, "some of us actually do work hospital rotations over Christmas."
"I know, I just—" You stopped, realizing how her words might have sounded. "Oh god, I didn't mean to imply… I know you probably have to work during the holidays too, I wasn't trying to—"
"Someone has to make sure all those Christmas dinner caused heart attacks are properly treated," he interrupted, that familiar, almost-smirk back on his face, easing the tension in your shoulders. "Though I do get Christmas morning off this year."
You couldn't tell if he was trying to make you feel better about your lie, your accidental insult, or just sharing information. With Dr. Gojo, it was often hard to tell. After a moment of stunned silence, you managed, "Are you… sure?"
"Perfectly.”
"Thank you," you said, finally finding your voice as you picked up the slip of paper. "Really, thank you."
"Anytime," he said, that familiar, soft smile gracing his lips. "Consider it a Christmas gift. From your very dedicated, albeit fictional, boyfriend."
As you watched him leave, coffee in hand and snowflakes catching in his white hair. Even if he was probably going to tease you endlessly about your fictional, workaholic boyfriend for weeks to come, a small, stupid part of you was already looking forward to it.
⋆꙳•❅•̩❅*̩‧͙ *̩❆₊˚｡❆
The Christmas dinner was a random Friday night.
The table, laden with enough food to feed a small army, was surrounded by the usual suspects and the dinner turned out to be exactly as excruciating as you'd expected. You'd barely made it through the appetizers before the interrogation began.
"So, this boyfriend of yours," Aunt Marie started. "What did you say he does again?"
"He's a doctor," you said into your mashed potatoes.
"A doctor!" your mother brightened. "You never mentioned that part."
Your cousin Sarah leaned forward. "What kind of doctor? Where did he study? How did you meet?"
You were considering faking a sudden illness when your phone buzzed. Dr. Gojo's name lit up your screen with a video call request. You hadn't even suggested a video call—he was truly committing to this.
"Oh, that's him now!" Your mother said, clapping her hands together. "Put him on speaker!"
Before you could protest, you were surrounded by a sea of curious relatives as you answered the call. The screen filled with Dr. Gojo's face, and—oh god—he was actually in scrubs, in what looked like a real operating room.
"Hey, my love," he said as if it was the most natural thing in the world, and the casual nickname hit you like a train, making you forget your own name. You felt your cheeks flush and it didn’t help that he somehow managed to look unfairly handsome even under the surgical lights. "Sorry I couldn't make it. We had an emergency valve replacement come in."
"Are you... actually in surgery right now?" you asked.
"Just finished!" He tilted the phone slightly to show a glimpse of a team of medical staff behind him, all of whom waved. One even gave a thumbs up. "Thought I'd catch you before dessert. Is that your family I see?"
Your entire extended family crammed themselves into frame, cooing and waving at your "doctor boyfriend" who was dedicated enough to call from work.
"Oh my god, he's gorgeous," your cousin said.
"Dr. Gojo," your mother pushed forward, "we're so disappointed you couldn't join us. Though of course, saving lives comes first!"
"Please, call me Satoru," he said, flashing that unfairly attractive smile of his. "And I'm more disappointed than anyone. I was really looking forward to trying your famous apple pie that your daughter keeps telling me about."
Your mother clutched her chest, delighted. You had never once mentioned her apple pie to him.
"Are those Christmas decorations I see in the OR?" your aunt squinted at the screen.
And indeed, there were actual Christmas lights strung up in the background. Either this hospital was very festive, or he'd gone to ridiculous lengths for this act.
"We try to keep the holiday spirit alive, even here," he said, then suddenly looked off-screen. "Oh, looks like we have another emergency coming in." Dramatic beeping noises increased in the background. "I'm so sorry, but duty calls. It was lovely meeting you all!"
"Such a dedicated young man," your mother sighed after you ended the call.
"So handsome too," Aunt Marie added. "Those eyes!"
You slumped in your chair, caught between mortification and amusement. He really didn't have to go that far—the Christmas lights in the OR? The perfectly timed “emergency”? The entire surgical team playing along? It was almost impressive.
Your phone buzzed with a text: 'How'd I do? The lights were my colleague's idea. They says Merry Christmas, by the way. Your family seems nice.'
Another buzz, a separate message: 'Also, I expect a slice of that famous apple pie at the café tomorrow. After that performance, I think I've earned it.'
You typed back: 'You are absolutely insufferable. That was completely over the top.'
His response came almost instantly: 'Is that any way to talk to your dedicated doctor boyfriend who just saved a life AND charmed your entire family? I'm hurt.'
Despite yourself, you smiled.
Your phone buzzed one more time: 'By the way, your cousin already found my hospital's public contact info and sent a friend request. Should I accept? I feel like a committed boyfriend would.'
You groaned, burying your face in your hands. He was absolutely loving this.
Way too much.
The next morning, you weren't surprised when he showed up at his usual 7:15, despite it being his day off. What did surprise you was that he was still wearing scrubs. They were rumpled, like he'd been wearing them for a while.
"Please tell me you didn't actually work all night just to make that video call more convincing," you said as he approached the counter.
"You know, I am a doctor in real life, right? This isn't just a cover for your mom." He smirked. "But anyway, just finished an actual emergency shift." He glanced at the paper bag you had waiting next to his usual sugary coffee. "Is that… what I think it is?"
"Your well-earned reward for yesterday's Oscar-worthy performance." You handed him both coffee and pie. "Though I still can't believe you got your entire surgical team to play along."
"Bold of you to assume I had to ask." He took a bite of the pie and his eyes widened slightly. "Okay, your mom's reputation is deserved. This is actually amazing."
"Yeah, well, enjoy it while it lasts, because—" You hesitated, took a deep breath, and decided to just rip the bandage off. "She invited you to dinner. Tomorrow."
He paused mid-bite. "Oh?"
"I told her you're probably busy—"
"What time?"
You stared at him. "What?"
"What time is dinner?" He took another bite of pie, looking perfectly casual about the whole thing. "I actually have Sunday evening off, and this pie has convinced me your mom's cooking is worth experiencing in person."
"You can't be serious."
"Why not?" He shrugged. "I've already met them virtually. Might as well complete the experience. Unless you're worried I'll embarrass you?"
"I'm worried you'll be too convincing again," you said. "My mom's already planning our wedding, by the way. She told me this morning that your 'dedication to work' proves you'd be a good husband."
"Well, I'd hate to disappoint a future mother-in-law."
"This isn't funny!"
"It's a little funny." He leaned against the counter, grinning. "Come on, one dinner. I promise to be slightly less charming this time."
"Somehow I doubt that's possible," you said before you could stop yourself.
His smile widened. "Was that a compliment?"
"That was a complaint about your inability to do anything halfway." You busied yourself with wiping down the already clean counter. "But fine. Sunday at seven. Try not to bring Christmas lights this time."
"No promises." He pushed off from the counter, taking his coffee and pie. "Oh, and by the way?"
"Hmm?"
"I accepted your cousin's friend request. She's already invited me to your family's New Year's party."
He was halfway to the door when he paused, turning back with an expression that was softer than his usual teasing smile. "You look pretty today, by the way. The new sweater suits you."
You froze, your heart skipping a beat. You hadn't even realized he'd noticed you'd changed from your usual work shirt into a cozy sweater for your afternoon classes.
He was out the door before you could stammer out a response, leaving you to wonder what exactly you had gotten yourself into. And why one simple, genuine compliment made your heart race more than all his dramatic boyfriend performances combined.
⋆꙳•❅•̩❅*̩‧͙ *̩❆₊˚｡❆
Sunday evening found you pacing a worn path in the carpet by your parents' front door, checking your phone every two minutes. 7:15 came and went—apparently his almost unnervingly precise timing only applied to coffee runs.
You tried to convince yourself it was fine, that doctors had unpredictable schedules, but a nervous flutter had taken up residence in your stomach.
At 7:20, your mom’s worried, "Maybe he got called into surgery?" was interrupted by the doorbell. You took a deep breath, smoothing down your dress, and opened the door.
Standing there was Dr. Gojo—Satoru, you supposed you should call him now—looking slightly disheveled in a way that somehow only emphasized his unfairly attractive features. His white dress shirt, though slightly untucked at the waist, bore the clear signs of a hurried ironing, and he was carrying what looked like an expensive bottle of wine—definitely not the kind you’d find at the corner store.
"I'm so sorry," he said, running a hand through his already slightly tousled white hair. "Emergency consultation ran late, and then traffic was—"
"It's fine," you interrupted, a wave of relief washing over you. He’d actually come. "Really. You didn't have to—"
But the rest of your sentence disappeared into a surprised squeak as he stepped forward, closing the small gap between you. He leaned in and gently pressed a kiss to your cheek, his free hand settling naturally on your waist, just above your hip, as if he’d done it a hundred times before.
"Hi," he whispered against your ear, and you could hear the smile in his voice. "Missed you today at the café."
You stood frozen, brain short-circuiting from the casual intimacy of it all. This wasn't part of the plan. You hadn't discussed... this. The way his hand felt warm through your dress, how his cologne made you slightly dizzy, how natural it felt to have him this close. It was as if your body already knew this was right, even if your mind was still scrambling to catch up.
"I... you..." Words. You needed words. "You're late."
He pulled back just enough to give you that familiar amused look. "And you're blushing."
Before you could even process that observation—or the fact that your heart was currently attempting to beat its way out of your chest—your mother appeared behind you. "Satoru! We're so glad you could make it!"
He smoothly stepped past you to greet your parents, all charm and apologies for his lateness, seamlessly weaving a plausible story about a last-minute emergency consult and unexpected traffic. He shook your father’s hand with just the right amount of respectful firmness and charmed your mother with a compliment about her festive decorations. All while he left you standing in the doorway, slightly dazed, trying to remember how to perform basic human functions like breathing and blinking.
The slight smirk he threw over his shoulder as he joined the others in the living room told you he knew exactly what he'd done.
Insufferable man.
The dinner was simultaneously the longest and shortest evening of your life. Satoru slipped into the role of doting boyfriend with an unsettling ease, weaving medical anecdotes (carefully tailored for a non-medical audience) and charming compliments into the conversation like he'd been rehearsing for weeks. He even managed to compliment Aunt Marie’s notoriously sweet cheesecake without visibly wincing.
He sat close enough that your legs brushed under the table, his hand finding its way to your knee during your mother's third attempt to bring up wedding venues (she was already browsing bridal magazines online, you’d noticed). The casual touch, which should have made you incredibly nervous, instead felt strangely good, like a shared secret between the two of you in the midst of the family chaos.
"And how did you two actually meet?" your aunt asked over dessert.
"She makes the best coffee in the city," Satoru answered smoothly, his thumb drawing absent circles on your thigh beneath the tablecloth. "Though it took me months to work up the courage to say more than my order."
You nearly choked on your wine. He was mixing truth and fiction so seamlessly you almost believed it yourself.
Every story he told had just enough reality to make you question your own memory. He mentioned how you study between customers, but added details about imaginary conversations. He even talked about your first "date" with such specificity that you found yourself half-believing it had happened.
His hand never left your leg for long, occasionally squeezing gently when your relatives’ questions became too invasive. Somehow, he’d effortlessly positioned himself as both the charming guest and the attentive boyfriend, deflecting awkward questions with a disarming smile. And you’d never been so grateful for anything in your life as you were for him breaking the pattern on that random, rainy Monday morning.
"He even helped me with pathophysiology," you found yourself saying, leaning into him slightly, enjoying it. Two could play at this game.
"She didn't need much help," he replied, his voice laced with a warmth that sounded genuinely proud. It made your heart flutter. "Just someone to hold her flashcards while she made my ridiculously sweet coffee."
Your father, who hadn't said much all evening, finally smiled. "She works too hard sometimes."
"She does," Satoru agreed, his hand sliding just a fraction higher on your thigh under the table. "Though that's one of the things I admire most about her." A wave of heat rushed to your face, and you quickly looked away, focusing on a particularly uninteresting spot on the tablecloth. This is getting out of hand.
As the conversation shifted to some other topic—something about your uncle's questionable golf swing—you leaned in slightly, whispering just loud enough for him to hear, "You're awfully charming."
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping lower so that only you could hear. "Funny, you don't seem to hate it." You felt your cheeks burn even hotter now.
By the time dinner ended, your mother was completely smitten, your aunts were bickering over who would host the next family gathering (with Satoru as the guest of honor, of course), and your cousin had somehow convinced him to follow her Instagram—and had already tagged him in three separate stories.
It was all too smooth, too perfect, too real.
The way he helped you clear the table, his hand brushing the small of your back in a casual, yet intimate touch as he passed. How he effortlessly recalled every detail you’d ever mentioned about your family, from your grandmother’s obsession with crossword puzzles to your father’s love of bad puns. The soft, lingering looks he gave you when he thought no one was watching, filled with an emotion you couldn't quite decipher.
"You're very good at this," you said as you stood side by side at the sink, washing dishes after dinner.
"At what?"
"Playing pretend."
His hands paused for just a moment. "Who says I'm pretending?"
The wine glass you were drying slipped from your suddenly nerveless fingers. You managed to catch it before it shattered on the tile floor, but not before making enough noise to draw his attention.
"Hey." His hand was immediately at your waist, steadying you. "You okay?"
"Fine! I'm fine, just—" You set the glass down carefully, very aware of how close he was standing. When you turned to face him, you found yourself effectively trapped between his broad frame and the hard edge of the kitchen counter. "Slippery hands. From the... soap."
"Hmm." His eyes searched your face, and for a fleeting moment, you thought—you could have sworn—his gaze flickered down to your lips before returning to meet your eyes. "You know, for someone who spends all day handling hot liquids, you've seemed very clumsy tonight."
"Maybe I'm just… distracted.”
You could feel the warmth of his breath on your face as he leaned infinitesimally closer, his eyes fixed on yours. One hand came up to gently brush a stray strand of hair from your cheek, his fingertips grazing your skin, the contact sending a shiver down your spine. "By what?"
"You're doing it again," you whispered.
"Doing what?"
"Being too convincing."
A slow, almost hesitant smile spread across his face. It was a smile that reached his eyes, a smile that felt utterly real, utterly intimate, making your heart stutter in your chest. "Perhaps," he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath against your skin, "maybe I'm not trying to convince anyone anymore."
You could feel his breath ghosting over your lips, the slight tremor in his hand where it rested on your waist, the way the kitchen suddenly felt too warm, too small, too—
"Who wants coffee?" your mother's voice carried from the dining room, making you both jump apart. Satoru cleared his throat, taking a hasty step back, his hand dropping from your waist.
The rest of dinner passed in a surreal haze, neither of you quite able to forget the charged moment in the kitchen. What was that? You kept replaying the scene in your mind. His hand on your waist, his breath on your lips, the sudden shift in his eyes. It had felt… different. More real than any of the playacting.
It wasn't until your aunt, after a drawn out round of goodbyes and air kisses, finally got up to leave that anyone noticed the shift in the weather. "Oh my goodness," your mother gasped, pulling back the curtains. "When did it start snowing?"
Outside, the world had transformed into a winter wonderland that would've been charming under different circumstances. At least a foot of snow covered everything, still falling heavily in thick, white sheets.
"The weather alert says it's going to continue all night," your father reported, checking his phone. "They're advising against any travel. Roads are already getting bad."
Your mother immediately switched into hostess mode. "You absolutely can't drive in this, Satoru. These roads won't be plowed until morning, at the earliest."
"I'm sure I can—" he started.
"Absolutely not," she interrupted. "You'll stay here tonight. Both of you."
You nearly choked on air. "Mom—"
"Don't be silly, dear," she said, already bustling towards the hallway. "You can take your old room, of course. It's all made up. Satoru," she called over her shoulder, "I'll go find some spare cloths for you." Then, turning back to you, she added, "And honey, you still have some things in your old room, so it'll be just like old times!"
Old times? What old times? Your childhood bedroom with those old embarrassing school photos and faded posters of your first boyband crush that you’d somehow never gotten around to taking down? This was not part of the plan. This was definitely not part of the plan.
He wasn't supposed to see that side of you.
As you counted down the seconds until you completely died from embarrassment your parents bustled off to prepare the rooms, leaving you and Satoru alone again. He leaned against the window, watching the snow fall, a small smile playing at his lips.
"Convenient weather we're having," you said suspiciously.
He raised an eyebrow. "Are you implying I somehow arranged a snowstorm?"
"At this point, I wouldn't put it past you."
His laugh was soft and warm. "As flattered as I am by your faith in my abilities, even I can't control the weather." He glanced at you. "Though I have to admit, this is working out better than my original plan of pretending my car wouldn't start."
"You're impossible," you groaned.
"So I've been told." He pushed off from the window, moving closer. He stopped just inches away, until you could feel the heat from his body. His gaze dropped—or you thought it did, your pulse quickening at the mere possibility—to your lips for the briefest of moments before returning to meet your eyes. You blinked, trying to clear your head. No, it couldn't be. "Though I notice you're not exactly complaining about the situation."
Before you could formulate a witty retort (or even a coherent thought, for that matter), your mother’s voice rang out from upstairs, effectively putting an end to whatever was about to happen. "I found some spare clothes, Satoru! And honey," she called down, "your old band t-shirts are still in your dresser!"
You covered your face with your hands. "Please forget everything she's about to show you."
"Now how could I possibly pass up the chance to see teenage you's fashion choices?"
You peaked through your fingers to find him smirking, looking far too delighted by this turn of events. This was going to be a very long night.
⋆꙳•❅•̩❅*̩‧͙ *̩❆₊˚｡❆
"I really can sleep on the floor," Satoru offered for the third time, shifting his weight awkwardly in the doorway of your childhood bedroom. He looked around, taking in your teenage decorating choices, and you could practically hear the gears turning in his head.
"Don't be ridiculous." You tried to sound casual as you smoothed down the NASA bedsheets you'd had since high school on your small bed, that suddenly looked barely big enough for one, let alone two adults. "We're both adults. We can share a bed without it being weird."
He was quiet for a moment, and when you glanced up, you found him studying your teenage self's wall decorations with poorly hidden amusement. It was a chaotic mixture of faded movie posters (mostly featuring heartthrobs from your early teens), band posters (an ambarrasing One Direction poster taking center stage), and a poorly crafted periodic table, complete with hand-drawn elements and color-coded categories.
"Nice periodic table," he finally said.
"Shut up," you muttered, throwing a pillow at him. He caught it easily, because of course he did. "Some of us were nerds before med school."
You turned to your old closet, pulling out one of those oversized band t-shirts you'd lived in during high school. You gripped the hem of your sweater, suddenly very aware of his presence in the small room.
You could feel his eyes on you, a weight on your back, and you could feel the heat creeping up your neck. You paused, your fingers frozen on the soft knit. "Um… could you…?" you trailed off, not wanting to meet his gaze.
He didn't say anything, didn't move. You could practically feel his gaze burning into your back. Finally, you turned, holding your band t-shirt protectively in front of you. "Seriously. Turn around."
He blinked. "You know, I am a doctor. I've seen it all."
"Still," you insisted, your cheeks flushing. "Turn. Around."
He sighed, but finally turned his back, though the lingering amusement in his eyes told you he was still enjoying the situation immensely.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you muttered, pulling the t-shirt over your head. You smoothed it down, then took a deep breath.
"I would never," he said.
"You can turn around now."
He turned, his face carefully composed, though a telltale twitch at the corner of his mouth gave him away. His eyes traveled from the hem of the shirt to your face, making your heart stutter. "You look… cute."
"You're a terrible liar.”
You both settled into bed with careful movements, lying rigid as boards, backs facing each other in a vain attempt at maintaining some sort of personal space. The mattress, however, had other plans. It dipped under his weight, creating a subtle slope that kept trying to draw you toward the center—toward him.
Your childhood bed, which had seemed perfectly adequate when you were sixteen, now felt absurdly small. You pressed against the edge, but it was no use, there couldn't have been more than a few inches between your back and his. You could feel the heat of his body, warming the small space between you, his every breath, the subtle shift of the sheets when he moved.
The silence stretched, filled only with the sound of falling snow outside your window and your own heartbeat. It felt so loud, you were certain he could hear it.
"Thank you," you finally whispered into the darkness. "For tonight. For all of it. You didn't have to do any of this."
The bed shifted as he turned over. After a moment's hesitation, you did too, finding yourself face to face with him in the dim light of the streetlamp filtering through your old curtains. His hair was disheveled from the pillow, his expression softer than you'd ever seen it.
"It was fun," he said simply, his breath warm against your cheek.
A small laugh escaped your lips. "Fun? My mom interrogated you about your entire medical history, my dad made you look at his coin collection for an hour, and my cousin tried to show you every embarrassing photo of me from middle school."
"The braces years were particularly charming."
You kicked his shin lightly under the covers. "Shut up."
He grinned, the warmth in his eyes visible even in the dim light. "I mean it, though. Your family is… lively."
"That's a polite way of saying chaotic."
"They care about you. It's nice."
You studied his face, searching for the truth in his words. "Why did you really come tonight? You could have easily found an excuse to avoid this disaster of a family dinner."
"Would you believe me if I said I wanted to?"
"No," you said. "Nobody wants to spend their evening being questioned by my parents and subjected to my aunt's weird baking."
He was quiet for a moment, his eyes never leaving yours. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, more serious. "Maybe I wanted to understand you better. See where you came from. Meet the people who made you... you."
Your heart stuttered in your chest. "Why would you care about any of that?"
"Isn't it obvious?"
You stared at him, suddenly very aware of how close you were, how little space there was between you in this too-small bed. "No," you whispered. "It's not obvious at all."
"Then I must be doing a terrible job of showing you."
Your heart was racing now, your voice barely audible. "Showing me what?"
Before you could respond, he shifted, until he was hovering above you. Your breath caught at the change, at how his white hair fell forward framing his face, at how his eyes seemed to hold entire galaxies in them.
And then he kissed you.
The kiss was nothing like the casual touch of lips from before. It was soft, sweet, and achingly tender at first. He moved against you slowly, his lips parting slightly, inviting you to deepen the kiss. You met his silent invitation, your own lips parting in response. One hand cupped your face, his thumb gently stroking your cheek, while the other braced against the mattress, supporting his weight.
Then, with a soft sigh, he deepened the kiss, his lips moving against yours with a gentle urgency that made your heart ache with a longing you hadn’t known you carried. He pulled you closer, just a fraction, the kiss becoming more urgent, more demanding, yet still laced with a surprising tenderness.
You could feel the rapid thump of his heart against your own chest but then, just as suddenly as it began, he pulled back, breaking the kiss. He didn't move far, though, remaining close enough that you could still feel his breath on your face, see the rapid rise and fall of his chest. "Still think I'm just playing pretend?"
This time, you didn't hesitate. You were the one who moved forward, your hand sliding into his hair, the soft strands tangling around your fingers, pulling him back down to you. His surprised intake of breath was quickly lost as your lips met again.
This kiss was different—deeper, more urgent, six months of watching and waiting poured into a single moment. He made a low sound in his throat as your fingers tightened in his hair, urging him closer.
His own hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, his fingers pressing gently into the sensitive skin there. The weight of him pressed you into the mattress, his warmth seeping through the thin fabric of your band t-shirt.
"I've wanted to do that since the first time you rolled your eyes at my coffee order," he said against your lips, his voice rough in a way that sent shivers down your spine.
"That long?" You tried to sound teasing, but it came out breathless instead.
He smiled against your lips. "Longer, probably." He pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth, then another to your jawline. "Though watching you try to diagnose yourself with every terrible disease I mentioned was pretty entertaining, too."
You groaned, burying your face in the crook of his neck. "You're never going to let me live that down, are you?"
"Never," he agreed, pressing a kiss to your temple. Then, quieter, more intimate, "But I've got plenty of time to make it up to you."
His lips trailed down your neck, each gentle press sending shivers through your body. When he reached the collar of your t-shirt, he paused, his fingers toying with the hem. "Can I?"
You nodded, not trusting your voice, and he slowly, teasingly, pushed the fabric up, revealing your stomach inch by inch. The first brush of his lips against your bare skin made you gasp, your fingers tightening reflexively in his silky hair.
He took his time, pressing kisses to your belly, your ribs, the valley between your breasts. His tongue darted out, tasting your skin, leaving trails of fire in its wake. Your back arched, subtly at first, but with increasing urgency as his lips and hands explored your skin.
His fingers, still toying with the hem of your shirt, finally slipped beneath the fabric. He traced the curve of your waist, the swell of your breasts, leaving goosebumps in their wake. When his thumbs brushed over your nipples, you couldn't suppress the moan that escaped your lips. "More," you whispered, the word barely audible, but he heard it, his eyes flicking up to meet yours.
"You sure?"
"Yes," you breathed. "Please."
His fingers hooked into the waistband of your sleeping shorts. Your heart raced, your skin flushed, every nerve ending racing with the promise of what was to come.
He dragged the fabric down your legs, the cool air hitting your heated skin making you shiver. He settled between your thighs, his broad shoulders forcing your legs wider, and lifted one of your legs over his shoulder, his kisses trailing down your inner thigh. And then his mouth was on you, and the world fell away.
⋆꙳•❅•̩❅*̩‧͙ *̩❆₊˚｡❆
The next morning felt like stepping into a dream—a world where Dr. Satoru Gojo, the man you’d spent six months convinced was silently diagnosing you with rare diseases, was actually just a man utterly smitten with you.
It was as if a blurry lens had finally snapped into focus, revealing a picture so obvious you almost laughed. All those intense stares, the carefully timed coffee shop visits, the way he’d linger at your counter, even helping you study—it had never been about mysterious illnesses or professional concern.
He’d simply been trying to be near you, and you’d been too busy inventing medical mysteries to notice.
And the most embarrassing part? How obvious it had been to everyone else. Your coworkers’ knowing looks finally made sense, as did your mother’s immediate acceptance of him as your “boyfriend.” Even his colleagues had been in on it, helping stage that ridiculous Christmas video call just to make you smile.
When you later confessed your obliviousness to your coworkers, their reactions ranged from “Finally!” to a bewildered “Wait, you mean he wasn’t actually your boyfriend this whole time?”
Over breakfast, as he effortlessly charmed your mother into accepting a third helping of pancakes he casually dropped the bomb to your mom, “I actually rearranged my entire consultation schedule to match her shifts. I don't even like coffee."
Your mind went blank for a moment. He… what? Then, the implications crashed down on you. He’d rearranged his entire work schedule just to see you. And he hated coffee. He’d only ever ordered those sugary lattes because… because of you.
A blush crept up your neck, and you couldn't believe how adorably dense you’d been.
He met your gaze then, his blue eyes softening in that way that always made your heart flutter. Only now you understood what that look truly meant. He hadn’t been studying you. He’d been cherishing you with his gaze. He’d wanted to see you, to be near you, to simply be with you. And the realization made you ridiculously, undeniably happy.
Satoru walked over to you from where he stood next to your mom and leaned down, his breath warm against your temple, and pressed a soft kiss there. You closed your eyes, savoring the simple touch. God, you wanted more. You wanted him closer, his arms around you, his lips on yours again, just like last night.
You'll probably never get enough of that.
He pulled back slightly, his hand cupping your cheek, his thumb gently stroking your skin. His gaze held yours, a soft smile playing on his lips. Then he whispered three words that made your world stand still, "I love you."
Three little words.
But those three words little changed everything.
It felt as though time itself had stopped. He loves me, the thought echoed in your mind, a fragile, beautiful sound you couldn't quite believe was real. You’d imagined this moment countless times in secret, tucked away in the quiet corners of your heart, but you'd never truly believed it could happen.
And in that moment, surrounded by the warmth of his hand, the sweet scent of pancakes, and the soft morning light filtering through the kitchen window, you knew you’d never been happier in your entire life.
And most importantly, you didn't have to pretend anymore. He wasn't just someone you were pretending to date for your family's sake. He was actually your boyfriend. Really, truly your boyfriend. And what had once felt like a performance suddenly felt very much like coming home.
But the best part? At exactly 7:15 the next morning, he still walked in, ordered his usual diabetes in a cup, and watched you work with those intense blue eyes. Only now, when you handed him his drink, he'd pull you close for a kiss that tasted of caramel and cinnamon.
"You know," he said one morning, watching you make his order, "for someone smart enough to get into med school, you were remarkably dense about this whole thing."
"Says the man who spent six months staring instead of just asking me out."
"I was building suspense."
"You were being creepy."
"Maybe," he said, then smilled. "But it worked, didn't it?"
And really, you couldn't argue with that. Though you did make his next latte extra sweet, just to watch him pretend to enjoy it.
After all, some things were worth suffering through overly sugary coffee for.
masterlist
author's note — if you're familiar with a certain story on my blog, then no you didn't see this story, and this is definitely not a healthier version of another couple, and i absolutely do not have a thing for medical AUs, okay thank you.
anway, this was supposed to get spicier, but time got away from me because i really wanted to share it with you all for christmas so this is only suggestive, but i hope you enjoyed it either way. & thank you so much for reading this far !! your support means everything to me.
wishing you all a very merry christmas !! hope your holidays are filled with sweet coffee, warm embraces, and maybe even a handsome doctor of your own <3
ps: if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here!
tags — @fayuki @starmapz @snowsilver2000 @starlightanyaaa @sxnkuna
@cocomanga @nanamis-baker @rosso-seta @shervinss @chiyokoemilia
@janbannan @bloopsstuff
© lostfracturess. do not repost, translate, or copy my work.
THE MAN ACROSS THE STREET — SATORU GOJO
pairing — neighbour!satoru gojo x fem!reader
summary — when you inherited your grandparents' victorian home, you thought the biggest challenge would be the renovations. what you weren't prepared for was satoru gojo—your insufferably perfect neighbour with his perfect smiles and unexpected talent for home repairs. but maybe, just maybe, he's exactly the kind of renovation partner you need. because four seasons might not be enough to fix a century-old house, but it might be just enough time to fall in love—moment by moment, season by season.
word count — 14 k
genre/tags — home renovation AU, neighbours to lovers, slice of life, mutual pining, slow burn, domestic fluff, idiots in love, misunderstandings, found family, tension, happy ending, gentle romance, cozy vibes
warnings — 16+ ONLY. contains suggestive sexual content, small renovation accident, references to past family deaths (grandparents)
author's note — would you believe this fic has been sitting in my drafts since last year haha. but i finally finished it after months of adding scenes and expanding seasons. i wanted to keep it shorter but well, now it is what it is lol. hope you enjoy <3
masterlist + support my writing
When you inherited your grandparents' old Victorian home, you thought the biggest challenge would be the renovations. The sagging porch, the outdated wiring, the kitchen that hadn't been updated since the 1970s — these were all problems you could tackle with enough time, money, and YouTube tutorials.
What you hadn't counted on was Satoru Gojo.
Your new neighbor lived in the equally grand house across the street, though his was perfectly maintained with its pristine white paint and perfectly tended rose bushes. You'd noticed him the day you moved in, impossible not to really, with that white hair and those eyes in the colour of summer skies that seemed to find you no matter where you were.
It was frustrating, to say the least.
You'd first noticed him through your kitchen window one morning, still half asleep and clutching your teacup. He was at his mailbox, and for a disorienting moment, you thought you were still dreaming. No shirt. Sweatpants low on his hips. It was really way too early for someone to look that good. It felt almost unfair, frankly. But then he turned, caught you staring and flashed you a smile that could belong in a stupid toothpaste commercial.
You'd ducked under the counter so quickly you'd spilled tea all over yourself. It was ridiculous, really—hiding in your own kitchen.
Your first actual meeting came three days later, when you were balanced precariously on a ladder, trying to clear the gutters of last autumn's soggy birch leaves. You were reaching for a stubborn clump when a voice drifted up from below.
"You might want to secure that ladder before it slides."
You looked down. Satoru stood there, one hand casually steadying the ladder, the other holding a steaming mug. His white hair caught the spring sunlight, shimmering like spun moonlight, and his eyes were the kind of blue that made you grateful you were already holding onto something.
“It’s fine, really” you said, even as the ladder wobbled slightly.
“Famous last words.” A corner of his mouth quirked. “But humor me? I’d hate to call an ambulance before I know my new neighbor’s name.”
That had set the tone for everything that followed.
He had an uncanny ability to appear whenever you were struggling—or perhaps he was stalking you. Either way, he had a way of offering help in a way that somehow never felt condescending. It was subtle at first—the way he'd bring over coffee when he saw you starting an early morning project, or how he seemed to have an endless supply of useful tools that were "just gathering dust anyway", as he always said.
He never pushed, never overwhelmed, but he was always there, across the street and you found yourself looking over to his house more often than you'd care to admit.
You told yourself it was just practical. He knew the neighborhood, understood old houses, and happened to be surprisingly knowledgeable about house renovation. The fact that he had a smile that made your chest tight, or that he looked unfairly good in everything he wore was entirely irrelevant. He's just a neighbour, you told yourself, even as heat rose in your cheeks. A ridiculously attractive neighbour—unfortunately.
But as spring melted into summer, and summer faded into autumn, you started to realize two very inconvenient truths: One, restoring this house was going to take far longer than you'd planned. And two, Satoru Gojo was becoming a much more relevant aspect of this restoration than you'd wished.
But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It all began with the pipes in spring.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Spring was supposed to be about fresh starts and birdsong or whatever stupid idyllic nonsense romance movies peddled. Your old Victorian home, however, had other ideas. Because on one peaceful Sunday morning, the pipe under your kitchen sink decided it had had enough of gravity and time.
You were making coffee when you heard it—a suspicious gurgle, followed by a crack that could only mean trouble. And suddenly, your cabinet was a fountain. Lovely, really, if it didn’t threaten to turn your kitchen into an indoor pool. You managed to shut off the water and were now flat on your back under the sink, surrounded by tools, muttering curses at the rusted pipe, when a knock sounded.
“Having fun down there?”
You jumped in surprise and, naturally, hit your head on the cabinet. Of course it was him. Of course your ridiculously, unfairly attractive neighbor would appear right when you were sprawled on the kitchen floor, soaked and probably looking like a drowned rat.
“Ha ha,” you called dryly, not bothering to move. “I’ve got this.”
“That’s why there’s water running down your driveway?”
You closed your eyes. Counted to ten. “Don’t you have your own house to maintain?”
“Much less entertaining over there.” A rustle of movement, and then Satoru was crouching beside you. His white hair fell forward as he tilted his head, those stupidly handsome blue eyes assessing the situation. “You’re using the wrong wrench.”
“I am not.”
“You are.” He reached past you, picking up a different wrench. “Pipe wrench, not adjustable. Unless you’re aiming for an indoor pool, in which case, carry on.”
You glared at him, which was significantly less effective from your position on the floor. "Don't you have someone else to annoy?"
"On a Saturday morning? Please." He settled onto the floor beside you, his shoulder brushing yours as he leaned in to examine the pipe. "Besides, this is a two person job. One to hold the pipe, one to remove the fitting. Unless you've grown extra arms?"
You hadn’t. Hence the problem. You'd spent the last hour trying to manage it alone and had only succeeded in getting thoroughly soaked and increasingly frustrated.
"Fine," you sighed, scooting over to make room. "But if you make one more smart comment—"
"Would I do that?" He gave you an exaggeratedly innocent look that almost made you smile.
Working together, it took only minutes to remove the damaged section of pipe. He rolled up his sleeves, revealing toned forearms, the sleeves bunching just below his elbows. You tried not to notice how he smelled faintly of sandalwood, or how his presence made your kitchen feel suddenly so much smaller.
"You'll need to replace this whole section," he said, examining the corroded pipe. "The hardware store opens in an hour."
"I know that." You definitely hadn't known that.
"Of course you did." His smile made you want to punch him. "Just like you knew about using the pipe wrench?"
"I will set your house on fire."
He laughed, the sound filling the small space. “No, you won’t. You like having someone around who knows a pipe wrench from an adjustable one.”
A strange warmth spread through you, followed by a healthy dose of suspicion. Was he…flirting?
No. Impossible. Satoru Gojo didn't flirt. Or better said, he flirted with everyone—the barista at the coffee shop, the elderly woman selling tomatoes at the market, even the hardware store clerk he’d charmed into giving you a discount the other day. It was just his way.
Still it did make the small space feel a little warmer. And the worst part was, he wasn't entirely wrong. You did appreciate his help. But you'd rather deal with a thousand broken pipes on your own than admit that and witness his self-satisfied grin.
“Don’t you have your own projects?” you asked, pushing yourself up, feigning a nonchalance you absolutely did not feel.
“Nope.” He popped the ‘p’, looking far too comfortable sprawled on your kitchen floor. “My house is perfect. Which leaves me free to watch you struggle with yours. Better than Netflix.”
You grabbed a dish towel and threw it at his head. He caught it easily, because of course he did.
"Come on." He stood in one fluid motion that had no right to look that graceful. "I'll drive you to the hardware store. Unless you want water running down your driveway all day?”
You looked between him and your ruined cabinet, weighing your options. Pride demanded you handle this alone. Practicality pointed out that he actually seemed to know what he was doing, and you really did need that pipe fixed today.
"Fine." You sighed. "But I'm buying my own supplies." You blurted it out, remembering how he’d somehow paid the entire bill before you’d even reached for your wallet last time you'd run into him in the hardware store.
"Whatever you say." He was already heading for the door, keys jingling in his hand. "Though you might want to change first. Not that the wet look isn't working for you, but—"
You looked down at your soaked clothes, then back at him. Your white shirt clung to you like a second skin and was practically see through. Heat rushed to your face.
Why was he only mentioning this now?
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
After the Saturday sink incident, you'd sworn to handle the rest of the plumbing yourself. You weren’t entirely sure why—maybe it was pride, maybe it was the way he’d teased you endlessly about it, or maybe it was the strange flutter in your chest whenever he was near.
Whatever the reason, you’d plotted your renovation schedule around his presumed absences, binged YouTube tutorials until your eyes blurred, and even took your coffee breaks in the backyard, convinced he couldn’t possibly find you there.
But somehow, Satoru Gojo kept appearing anyway.
"That pipe threading looks wrong," he'd say, appearing beside you like some stupid house ghost. Or, "Those measurements seem off," right when you were about to make a cut. Or worst of all, saying nothing at all. He’d simply stand there with that look until you finally snapped and asked for help.
On one stupid cursed Monday afternoon, the bathroom pipes were your breaking point. You'd been at it for hours, surrounded by copper fittings and pipe dope, when his shadow fell across your work. You really needed to start locking the door.
“Don’t,” you warned without looking up.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it loud enough.”
“I was just admiring your work.” His voice held that familiar amusement that made your skin prickle. “Though if you’re planning on running water anytime soon—”
Your wrench clattered to the floor. “Fine. What am I doing wrong?”
“Would you believe me if I said everything?”
But the most infuriating part wasn’t just that he was right. It was the way he showed you. His large hands moving gently as he demonstrated the proper technique, his voice low and soft as he explained what you were doing wrong with such patience that made it impossible to stay annoyed with him.
By the time the bathroom was finished, you’d stopped pretending you didn’t need his help. By the time you tackled the upstairs pipes, you’d stopped pretending you didn’t want it.
It became a routine. You’d start a project, he’d appear with some tedious fact about old houses, and together you’d work until the sun dipped below the horizon. He never pushed, never took over, just quietly adjusted your grip on a tool or handed you the right fitting before you even asked.
“You know,” you said one evening, both of you tired and dusted with grime, “for someone with a perfect house, you spend a lot of time in my disaster zone.”
He was quiet for so long you thought he might not answer. Then, his voice, when it came, was different—softer, the usual teasing edge gone. “Maybe I like watching something beautiful come back to life.”
You looked up, a question forming on your lips, but he was already focused on the pipe in his hands again, his expression shadowed in the fading light.
The last pipe was replaced on a cool evening in late spring. You both stood in the basement and looked at your work.
“Guess you’ll have to find someone else to annoy now,” you said, trying for a light tone, though a strange heaviness settled in your chest.
“Your electrical panel looks pretty old.”
“Satoru—”
“And those windows definitely need reglazing before summer.”
“You don’t have to—”
“And don’t even get me started on that porch roof.”
You stared at him. “You’re not going to let me do any of this alone, are you?”
He smiled. “Now you’re getting it.”
And standing there in your basement, covered in dust and sweat, you finally admitted what you'd been fighting all spring—maybe you didn't want to do this alone after all.
Even if you’d never say it out loud.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Summer arrived like a slow exhale, bringing humid days and the kind of heat that made everything a sweltering ordeal.
The porch was your next project so that you could reclaim the space before the season completely slipped away. You envisioned lazy afternoons spent sipping iced tea in the shade, reading a book or simply napping. But looking at the porch now, with its peeling paint, crumbling railings, and warped floorboards, that vision felt miles away.
It had become normal to find Satoru on your porch in the mornings, armed with iced coffee and opinions about latest movies. You'd stopped questioning how he always seemed to know your schedule, or why he willingly sacrificed his free time to help you strip old paint from equally old wood.
“This is bad,” he said one stifling morning, poking a section of railing that crumbled at his touch. “How did it get this neglected?”
You swiped at the sweat trickling down your forehead, probably smearing paint stripper across your cheek. “Ask that my grandparents’ bank. Two years of bureaucratic hell before I could even touch the place.”
“I’m more concerned about what you’re doing there. You’re taking off more wood than paint.” His hands hovered for a moment before gently adjusting your grip. “Like this. Gentle but firm. Let the stripper do the work.”
Months ago, the correction would have annoyed you. Now you just moved your hands and noticed how the work immediately became easier. But the warmth of his breath on your neck and the familiar scent of sandalwood still sent a shiver down your spine. You swallowed, ignoring the flutter in your stomach. "Not all of us have a natural talent for restoring historic houses."
"No, some of us just inherited beautiful old houses and decided to learn through trial and error." His voice carried that warm amusement that had become familiar. "Mostly error."
You turned to glare at him, but he was already moving on to the next section, the muscles in his arms flexing as he worked. Not that you were staring. You definitely weren't staring. And if you were, it was purely to study his scraping technique.
So the days fell into a rhythm. Mornings were for demolition—tearing out rotten planks and stripping paint before the heat truly settled in. Afternoons were for repairs, matching new wood to old, rebuilding piece by piece as sweat dripped down your backs.
"My grandmother used to bring us lemonade out here when we were kids," you said one afternoon, both of you sprawled in the shade of the half-finished porch, and as you said it, you could almost smell the lemon, tart and sweet. Hear the clinking of the ice in the heavy glasses. "She had this really pretty set of vintage glasses."
Satoru lay on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes against the sun. “Let me guess—they’re still in the attic somewhere?"
“Along with about a hundred years’ worth of other stuff.” You took a long sip from your water bottle. “I’m almost afraid to look.”
He propped himself up on his elbows, the movement pulling his damp t-shirt tighter across his chest, revealing the faint outline of his abs and the curve of his bicep. A few stray beads of sweat trickled down his temple, catching the sunlight. "We should check it out. After the porch is done."
"We?"
"Unless you're planning to handle whatever horror show is up there alone?" He smiled. “Besides, I’m invested in this house’s resurrection story now.”
"Is that what this is?"
"Isn't it?" He gestured at the porch around you. “Old becoming new. Though hopefully with better plumbing this time.”
You threw a paint chip at him, which he dodged easily. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”
“Never.” He stood and offered you a hand. "It's too good a story.”
You took his hand, and for a moment, you simply looked at him. It struck you then how familiar his presence had become—the easy banter, the shared work, the comfortable silences. It felt like you’d known him forever.
“Alright, let’s get back to it,” he said, his hand still holding yours. “This porch isn’t going to rebuild itself. Unless you’re planning on serving me lemonade on a pile of rotted wood?”
“Who says I’m making you lemonade?”
He tugged you closer, just a little, until you were almost toe to toe. You tilted your head, your gaze locked with his, and something playful flashed in those sky blue eyes of his. “Aren’t I entitled to a little refreshment after all this hard work?”
“You have quite the ideas.”
“Hmh. I have another one.” He released your hand. “You should have a party here when it’s finished. Lemonade and those vintage glasses of your grandmother’s.”
“To celebrate what?”
He glanced over his shoulder, something soft in his expression. “That good things are worth the work.”
You looked away first and focused back on your own section of railing. If your cheeks were warm, it was definitely just the summer heat.
The porch took two more weeks to finish. Every board was carefully replaced or restored, every detail attended to with a gentle care that would have made your grandmother proud. You spent the final evening painting together, working in silence as the sun set.
“It’s beautiful.” You stepped back to admire your work. The fresh white paint glowed in the twilight, making the whole house seem to breathe easier.
“It is.” But when you glanced over, Satoru wasn’t looking at the porch. His gaze was on you.
You cleared your throat, suddenly very interested in cleaning your paintbrush. "So, about that attic..."
His smile, when you dared to look back, was warm and genuine. "Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow," you echoed, trying to ignore the way your heart quickened at the way he said it—like a promise, like there would always be another project, another reason to spend these long summer days together.
And it felt… good.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
The attic turned out to be exactly the treasure trove you'd hoped but also feared it to be—a cavernous space choked with dust motes dancing in the faint light filtering through grimy windows. Air hung thick and still with the scent of dried wood and dust. Piles of furniture shrouded in white sheets were scattered among stacks of old books with brittle pages and dusty hatboxes tied with faded ribbons.
It was chaotic, let's just say that.
But it was also so familiar it tugged at the edges of your memory, a feeling of coming home to a place you hadn't seen in years.
The attic had started as a simple weekend project, mostly to fix the insulation before autumn. But each box you opened was like a time capsule of memories. You'd find yourself lost in old photo albums or mesmerised by your grandmother's book collection, renovation plans long forgotten as you sifted through the memories of their lives—and yours. And what you'd initially considered a "weekend project" had clearly been a wildly optimistic estimate.
You were so absorbed in sorting through another box that you didn't hear the footsteps on the stairs until Satoru's head popped through the access panel.
"Your door was unlocked," he said, as that would explain why he always appeared out of nowhere is your house. "I brought lunch."
"Normal people call first," you replied, not looking up from the box in your hands.
"Normal is boring." He pulled himself up without any effort, which was almost offensive considering how you'd stumbled up here earlier. "Besides, you skipped breakfast again. I heard your stomach growling from across the street."
"That's not even possible." But the gnawing in your stomach told a different story. You were hungry, but you hadn't even noticed between the years and years of memories coming back to life.
"And yet." He settled beside you, closer than strictly necessary in the cramped space, and peered into the box. "What's caught your attention this time?"
You held up a bundle of letters, tied together with a red ribbon. "I think they're my grandparents' love letters."
His eyebrows rose. "From the war?"
"Maybe?" You were surprised for a second, not expecting him to remember the little detail you had told him one lazy afternoon in the sun—that your grandfather had served in the army and had been separated from your grandmother for some time. You untied the ribbon, handling the aged paper like it might crumble. The first envelope was postmarked 1943. "Oh. They are."
Satoru leaned in, his shoulder brushing yours as you pulled out the first letter. His body was warm in the cool attic air next to yours, and you caught a subtle hint of sandalwood—a scent that had become inseparable from these shared afternoons.
"My dearest heart," you read aloud, then paused, suddenly feeling like you were intruding on something private. But it’s been over half a century, you reminded yourself. They wouldn’t mind, surely. After all, they left all this to you. You continued, "The cherry trees are blooming here, and all I can think about is how we walked through the park last spring. Do you remember? You were wearing that blue dress, the one that matches the sky, and I knew right then I would marry you—"
"Your grandfather was a romantic," Satoru commented, a soft smile in his voice.
"Shh." You elbowed him lightly. "I carry your picture with me everywhere. The other men tease me about it, but I don't care. When things get dark over here, I just look at your smile and remember what I'm fighting for..." Your voice caught unexpectedly at the written words of your grandfather.
Satoru shifted closer and whispered, "Let me.” His chest brushed against your shoulder and his fingers slid over yours as he took the paper, the touch lingering for a moment longer.
“Sometimes I close my eyes and imagine I'm back home with you," he continued, lips close enough to your temple that you could feel the words as much as hear them. His usual playful tone was gone, replaced by something that made your heart melt. "Sitting on that porch swing, watching the sunset. Nothing grand or fancy, just you and me and the quiet. That's what keeps me going, the thought of coming home to you."
Satoru stood up, brefting you of his warmth and sat down on a dusty stack of boxes near the small window opposite you to get a better view of the letters. The afternoon light caught the silver strands in his white hair, making them glimmer like starlight. He looked younger, almost boyish in the soft light as he continued to read the letter. You watched him, struck by this unfamiliar sight.
"There are dozens more," you said after he finished, gesturing to the box. "Looks like they wrote to each other every week."
"Different time.” His startlingly blue eyes met yours, and for once there was no trace of his usual teasing smile. "People knew how to love back then. They took their time with it."
"You don't think people know how to love now?"
"I think we've forgotten how to do it slowly. How to let it build, letter by letter, moment by moment."
Your heart fluttered strangely, like a trapped bird. It was like glimpsing a part of him he usually kept hidden, a hint of the man beneath the playful nonchalance. Before you could process the feeling, before you could even form a coherent thought, he picked up another letter, breaking the moment with a small, almost apologetic smile.
“My darling," he read, "Today Mrs. Henderson's cat got stuck in our rosebushes again, and all I could think was how you would have laughed..."
You smiled and settled back against the old boxes as he read, his warm voice washing over you like a soothing dream. The afternoon light caught dust motes dancing in the air, and somewhere in the distance, a church bell chimed.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
August arrived with a heatwave so oppressive, even the cicadas seemed to fall silent. You suggested starting at dawn, hoping to get some work done before the worst of the heat set in, and to your surprise Satoru had no objection, even though you knew he hated early starts and loved sleeping in.
And you were even more surprised when Satoru showed up right on time and you didn't even have to wake him up, armed with paintbrushes and a concerningly large supply of water bottles.
"You really don't have to help with this," you’d told him. "I can do it on my own, really. It’s not complicated or something.”
He arched a brow. "When has that ever stopped me?"
The house was a dull greenish colour. It had originally been a soft sage green, but it had faded over time. It was a colour your grandmother had loved, a shade that reminded her of the rolling hills of her childhood home. So you decided to paint it sage again. But by midday the heat had become almost unbearable, pressing down on you. Air thick and shimmering.
"You need to take a break," Satoru said, watching you sway slightly on the ladder. "You look pale."
"I'm fine," you insisted, even as your head throbbed. "We're almost done with this section."
"The paint will still be here in a few hours." He was already taking the painbrush from your hands. "Go rest before you fall off that ladder and give me a heart attack."
You wanted to argue, but the world was starting to spin in a way that suggested he might have a point. "Just for an hour.”
"Whatever you say." His hand steadied you as you climbed down the ladder, swaying slightly. "Go. Sleep. I've got this."
You wanted to lie down for a moment, just until the throbbing in your head subsided. Instead, you woke to the first gentle breeze of early evening, carrying the distant hum of a lawnmower from a neighboring garden. You stumbled outside, still groggy, and stopped dead.
The house.
It was finished.
Every inch of peeling paint had been replaced with perfect sage green and the trim was crisp white. It looked like a completely different house, restored to its former beauty.
Satoru was putting away the last of the brushes, his white hair darkened with sweat and plastered to his forehead, his clothes splattered with green. He looked exhausted, but a genuine smile touched his lips when he spotted you.
"You did all that?" you asked, still not quite believing it.
He lifted the hem of his shirt to wipe his face, revealing a fleeting glimpse of his toned stomach with sharply defined abs that you quickly looked away from. He must have seen your reaction, but for once, he didn’t comment. When you looked back, his shirt was down.
“You needed the rest. And I had the time.”
"Satoru, this would have taken days—"
“A few hours with the right motivation.” He shrugged, as if it were nothing. “Besides, couldn’t leave it half finished. Would have ruined the aesthetic of the street."
You knew that wasn’t the real reason. Just like you knew he didn't spend every free moment helping you with this house because he was concerned about the aesthetic of the street.
It was absurd. He was Satoru, infuriatingly charming, impossibly handsome Satoru. There was no way he could—no, it couldn't be. But the evidence piled up. It was the way his eyes lingered on yours, the way his voice softened when he spoke to you, the way his presence filled every corner of your attention. It was a ridiculous notion, a phantom feeling that had no place in reality. He was a neighbour, a friend, someone who was simply helpful.
That's all.
The setting sun painted everything in shades of gold, catching in the wet paint and making your house shimmer like a scene from a fairytale. Satoru was still putting away brushes, his movements slower now, betraying his weariness even as he tried to play it off.
"You didn't have to do this," you said. "Any of it, really. The pipes, the porch, and now this."
He glanced at you, then back at the house. “I wanted to.”
"But why?" The question that had been burning in your throat all summer, since spring, since the first leaky pipe, finally escaped. "You have your own perfect house. Your own life. Why spend every free moment helping me with mine?"
“Would you believe me if I said I just like restoring things?”
"Not really," you said, trying to ignore the way your heart picked up speed when he moved closer.
He reached out to brush something from your cheek. "You have a little…paint.” His thumb lingered against your skin, sun-warm and gentle. "Right here."
Time seemed to slow, the moment stretching like honey in the golden light. You could see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes, the fine lines at the corners, the way his hair curled at his temples from sweat, and the small smudge of sage green along his jaw. He was so close. Too close.
"Satoru," you breathed, not sure if it was a question or a warning.
"Besides, watching you love this house back to life, even without knowing anything about renovations—" He paused, his thumb tracing along your cheekbone. "It's unexpectedly cute."
You could feel his breath against your lips, could see the question in his eyes as he leaned slightly closer. His other hand came up to cradle your face, and you found yourself swaying towards him, drawn in by the gravity of this moment you'd both been circling since spring.
But then a car door slammed somewhere down the street and broke the spell. You both stepped back.
Had that…had that almost just happened? You blinked, trying to clear the lingering warmth from your face. It must have been the heat. Or the paint smell. There was no way—
"I should—" He gestured vaguely at the remaining equipment.
"Right. Yeah. Sure" You were babbling, your heart racing like you'd been running. You desperately tried to convince yourself that you’d imagined the whole thing, that the almost kiss was just a figment of your overheated imagination.
He turned to gather his things, nearly dropping his water bottle twice. You watched him, trying to think of something to say that wouldn't sound desperate or awkward, but your mind was stuck on the phantom feeling of his thumb against your cheek.
At the garden gate, he paused, turning back with that smile that never failed to make your stomach flip. "Try not to break anything else before tomorrow?"
You smiled. "No promises."
He lingered for a moment longer, as if wanting to say something else, but then just nodded and stepped out onto the street. Just before he reached his door, you found yourself moving, yanking open your garden gate without thinking. "Satoru!"
He turned.
"Thank you!" you called out, hoping he could hear everything else you couldn't say in those two words. Thank you for helping. For caring. For almost kissing me.
His smile softened into something genuine, something that made your heart stumble in your chest. "Anytime!”
You stood there long after he'd disappeared into his house, your fingers absently touching the spot on your cheek where his hand had been, wondering how you were supposed to go back to normal after almost kissing your irritatingly perfect neighbour.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
You'd never felt more ridiculous than when you found yourself standing on Satoru Gojo's immaculate porch, holding a slightly lopsided stawberry cake in your hand. After three attempts to ring the doorbell without letting the cake fall to the ground, you were seriously considering just leaving it on his doorstep with a note and running back across the street. But before you could execute your escape plan, the door swung open, and suddenly all coherent thought left your brain.
Satoru stood there in low-slung sweatpants and a fitted dark blue shirt that clung slightly to his still damp skin. A towel was draped around his neck, and his white hair was darker with moisture, falling into his eyes in a way that should be illegal. Droplets of water traced down his neck, disappearing beneath his collar.
Not that you were staring, of course.
His eyes widened and a stupid, handsome smile lit up his face. "Don’t tell me your kitchen is underwater again?”
"No, no…no emergencies today.” You thrust the cake forward like it’s something hot. "I made this. To say thank you. For all the help." The words tumbled out in a rush. "It's stawberry. Though now I'm realizing you might not even like stawberries, which would be really inconvenient, and—"
"I love them," he interrupted your rambling and took the cake out of your hands. "Did you make this just for me?"
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late." He stepped back, gesturing inside. "Come in. It’s too hot to stand out here."
You hesitated at the threshold. In all these months of him appearing at your house, you'd never actually been inside his. It felt like crossing some invisible line you hadn't even realized existed.
"Unless you're scared," he added with that familiar teasing note in his voice.
You groaned and stepped inside. Where your house was still a work in progress, his was... perfect. Somehow both modern and classic, with original hardwood floors that gleamed and a fireplace in the centre of the living room. The furniture was clearly expensive but comfortable, and large windows filled the space with natural light.
"This is—"
"Not what you expected?" He walked past you towards what you assumed was the kitchen, and you caught another whiff of his shower fresh scent.
"I was expecting more mirrors, actually. You know, so you could admire yourself from every angle."
He laughed. "Those are all in the bedroom."
You felt heat creep up your spine at his words and tried very hard not to think about Satoru and bedrooms in the same sentence. You followed him into his kitchen that was equally perfect like the rest of his house. Without thinking, you hopped up onto the wooden island and watched him move around the room.
"Coffee?" he asked, already reaching for mugs.
“Please.” Your legs swung idly as you watched him slice the cake. "Though I should warn you, I don’t bake often.”
“Should I be afraid?"
"I take it back. No cake for you."
"Too late." He slid a plate across the counter. He leaned against the island opposite you, close enough that your knees almost brushed his. "So, I was thinking about your kitchen.”
"What about it?"
"You need new countertops. And fresh paint." He took a bite of cake, his eyebrows rising. "This is actually good."
"Don't sound so shocked."
You tried not to focus on how silly domestic this all felt—you on his kitchen island, sharing cake and talking about future projects like you were some kind of … couple.
"I was thinking," he continued, "we could start on that next week? I know a good carpenter who makes really cool wooded countertops that would match the original—"
Your gaze wandered as he spoke, taking in the space. That's when you saw it—a framed photo on the windowsill above the sink. Satoru, looking unfairly handsome in what appeared to be a suit, and a stunning woman with pale hair pressing a kiss to his cheek.
They looked intimate.
Happy.
Like an actual couple.
Your stomach dropped.
"—and the marble could be saved if we—" He paused, noticing your distraction. "What's wrong?"
"Actually." You set down your cake, sliding off the counter, "I just remembered I have this... thing. I need to go."
"Now? But we haven't even finished—"
"It's important." You were already heading for the door, trying to ignore how low his sweatpants hung, revealing a bit of his perfect abs, how at home he looked in this perfect kitchen with its perfect photos of him and his perfect girlfriend. "Thanks for the coffee. And, um, good luck with... everything."
"Wait, what about your kitchen?" He followed you into the hallway. "Shouldn’t we talk about it first, before—"
"I'll figure it out," you said quickly, nearly stumbling in your haste to reach the door. "You probably have other plans anyway. With... people. Important people. I'll just YouTube it or something."
"Other plans? What are you—"
"Bye!"
You practically fled down his porch steps, not daring to look back at his bewildered expression. You made it across the street with lightning speed, slamming your front door behind you and sliding down against it.
"Stupid," you muttered to yourself, pressing your palms against your burning cheeks. "Stupid, stupid, stupid."
Of course he had a girlfriend. Someone that hansome, that charming, that annoyingly perfect—how could he not? And here you were, bringing him cake like some lovesick teenager, reading too much into things.
He was just being polite, probably feeling sorry for the disaster of a neighbour who couldn't even fix a leaky pipe without flooding her kitchen and you were making a complete fool of yourself. You wanted to melt into the floor and disappear.
You could never face him again. How were you supposed to look him in the eye knowing you'd been almost kissing him in your backyard while his gorgeous girlfriend smiled at him from picture frames in his perfect kitchen? How could you ever stand on your porch again without remembering how you'd practically fled from his house like a guilty teenager?
Your kitchen tabletops would just have to stay ugly forever. You'd learn to love them. You pressed your forehead against your knees and groaned.
And now you'd just have to avoid him for... oh, the rest of your life.
Easy.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Summer melted into autumn with surprising speed, the maple trees lining your street turning from green to orange and crimson. As the days grew shorter, your grandmother's herb garden was dotted with fallen leaves that crunched underfoot. Even the air felt different—crisper, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and the promise of colder days to come.
And you threw yourself into the next project—the kitchen, armed with nothing but YouTube tutorials, sheer stubbornness and the grudging advice of the grumpy guy at the hardware store (who, you were convinced, hid whenever he saw you approaching).
Things weren't exactly going smoothly. You'd managed to miscalculate the measurements for the new cupboards (twice), and you were pretty sure you'd cracked the new sink while trying to install the tap. But it was your mess, your project, and you were determined to see it through, even if it meant several trips to the hardware store and more withering stares from grumpy guy.
"Back again?" he'd grumble. "What'd you break this time?"
"Nothing's broken," you'd insist, even as you clutched a piece of pipe that was definitely not supposed to bend that way. "I just need... clarification."
Your kitchen was slowly, painfully coming together. Sure, the subway tiles weren't perfectly aligned, and maybe one cupboard door hung a little lower than its neighbours, but it was yours. Every imperfect angle and slightly wobbly shelf represented hours of YouTube research and grumpy guy's reluctant advice.
If sometimes, late at night, you found yourself staring at your uneven grout lines and remembering how easily Satoru had fixed your sink that first day—well, that was between you and your slightly tipsy reflection in the new (only somewhat streaky) backsplash.
You'd gotten good at avoiding him. Early morning hardware store runs, late evening painting sessions with your curtains drawn. You'd even mapped out his routine—when he left for work, when he usually arrived home, which days he typically did yard work. All so you could time your own activities to minimize any chance of running into his blue eyes.
This was all totally normal, of course. Perfectly reasonable behavior for an normal adult obviously.
Some days were harder than others. Like when you could hear him on his porch in the evenings, chatting with Miss Tanaka about the weather and whether he wanted to go out with her granddaughter. She's so pretty and can cook such good beef stew, she'd say. As if Satoru didn't already have a girlfriend. A perfect girlfriend who could for sure cook a fantastic, wonderful, amazing beef stew. While you ate burned toast.
But you were managing. Mostly. The kitchen was... well, "finished" might be a strong word, but it was functional. Sort of. If you didn't mind that one burner that heated unevenly, or the fact that the new faucet made a strange gurgling sound when you ran hot water.
Even grumpy guy had stopped wincing visibly when you showed him your progress photos, which you counted as a win. "Could be worse," he'd said last week, which was basically a compliment coming from him.
You told yourself it was better this way. Better to have a slightly crooked kitchen than to face the mortification of asking for help from your impossibly perfect neighbour with his impossibly perfect girlfriend. Besides, character was important in old houses. That's what all the renovation shows said. And your kitchen certainly had... character.
It happened on one of those perfect late autumn evenings, when the sky turned deep purple and the air smelled like pine and fallen leaves. You were trying to hang a lamp in your dining room—the sort of task that would definitely require two people, but stubbornness had convinced you otherwise.
The ladder seemed stable enough. The wiring looked mostly right. You stretched, straining to connect the final wire, when you heard it. A soft groan from above, followed by the distinct sound of old plaster giving way. Everything happened at once. The ceiling cracked, raining down decades of dust and debris. The lamp slipped from your fingers, and your balance followed.
You hit the hardwood floor hard, the light crashing beside you in a shower of glass and plaster. For a moment, you just lay there, staring up at the hole in your ceiling and questioning every life decision that had led to this moment.
The sound of your front door bursting open echoed through the house, followed by rapid footsteps.
"Hey! Are you—" Satoru’s voice trailed off as he appeared in the doorway, his eyes widening as he took in the scene—you sprawled on the floor, surrounded by debris, the ladder tipped against the wall, and the sad remains of what was supposed to be your new dining room light.
"Don't say it.”
"Say what?" He crossed the room in quick strides and knelt beside you. "That trying to hang a lamp by yourself is stupid? Or that you're lucky you didn't break your neck?"
"Both. Neither." You winced as you tried to sit up. "How did you even get in here?"
"Your door was unlocked. I was on my porch, heard you scream." His hands hovered near your shoulders, like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to help. "Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine.”
You tried to push yourself up, but your ankle protested.
"Don’t be stupid." He moved closer, dust from your ceiling clinging to his dark sweater. "Let me see."
"It's nothing—"
"Let me take care of you.” His usual teasing smile was gone, replaced with genuine concern that made your chest tight. "Please?"
The 'please' did you in. You nodded weakly, and before you could process what was happening, Satoru slid one arm behind your shoulders and the other under your knees. He lifted you effortlessly, as if you weighed nothing at all.
"What are you—" you started, your hands automatically gripping his sweater.
"Kitchen has better light.” He carried you through the doorway, nudging it open with his shoulder. He set you down gently on the counter, careful of your ankle. His hands were warm where they rested at your waist, steadying you.
For a moment, he stayed close, closer than he had any right to be, and you found yourself level with those sky blue eyes that always made you weak.
"Stay," he whispered, finally stepping back. "Let me take care of this."
You wanted to protest, to maintain even a little bit of distance. But your ankle really hurt and you were really tired. So you sat there, perched on your counter (which was definitely not as level as you'd claimed to grumpy guy) and watched Satoru move around your kitchen.
He found a clean dish towel in the second drawer he tried and wrapped some ice in it. His movements were precise, practiced, like he'd done this a hundred times before. Probably for his girlfriend, you thought.
"Your cabinet organization is creative,” he said.
"It's a new system I'm trying out."
"Is that what we're calling chaos these days?" He returned, ice pack in hand. The counter put you at perfect height for him to—no. My god. Stop that train of thought immediately.
He carefully lifted your ankle, his touch impossibly gentle as he pressed the ice against it. The cold made you flinch, and his other hand came to rest just above your knee.
"Too cold?"
“No, it’s…” You swallowed, trying to ignore the warmth of his hand through your jeans. “It’s fine.”
He hummed, his attention focused on your ankle. He slowly rotated it, checking for damage. You studied his face—the slight furrow of concentration between his brows, the way his hair fell across his forehead, begging to be brushed back.
“Doesn’t seem broken,” he finally said, looking up at you. “But you should stay off it for a few days.”
“I have renovations to finish.”
“The renovations can wait.”
“Says the man with the perfect house.”
He frowned. "You know, for someone so smart, you can be surprisingly dense about—"
A phone buzzed loudly, making you both jump. His phone, you realized, as he pulled it from his back pocket with his free hand, the other still holding the ice pack against your ankle. Probably his girlfriend wondering where he was.
You pulled your leg back, ignoring the pain. "I should let you go," you said, trying to figure out how to get down the counter without falling on your face. "I'm sure you have... plans."
“No wait.” He kept you were you sat with his hand on your leg. He spoke briefly to the caller, then said, “Just work,” and silenced the phone. His hand returned to your ankle, adjusting the ice pack.
"Oh." You fidgeted with the hem of your shirt, heart hammering. "I thought... maybe it was your girlfriend." The words came out small, hesitant. "I wouldn't want to keep you. From her, I mean. She probably wouldn't want you touching other women's ankles and all that..." You were rambling now, a nervous habit you'd never quite kicked. "Not that you're really touching my ankle, I mean you are, but medically, like a doctor, not that you're a doctor—"
"What girlfriend?"
“The one in the picture? In your kitchen? Pretty. Blonde. Kissing you?”
To your surprise, Satoru started to laugh. "That's my sister. From her wedding. Is that why you've been avoiding me the last few weeks? Because you thought I had a girlfriend?"
"Your... sister?"
"She'd kill me if she heard you thought we were dating."
"But you're so..." Your mind scrambled for words that weren't 'anyoingly attractive' or 'unfairly perfect.' Like, for real, how can he still be single?
"I'm so...?" He was definitely teasing now, thumb stroking your skin just above your ankle in a way that made it very hard to think straight.
"Annoying," you finally managed, which only made his smile widen.
"Annoying enough that you made me cake, then ran away?" He moved closer, until he was standing between your legs, still holding the ice pack but now definitely invading your personal space. "Annoying enough that you've been avoiding me for weeks because you thought I was taken?"
"I wasn't avoiding you," you said. "I was very busy. With renovations."
"Mhm." His free hand came up to brush some plaster dust from your cheek. "Is that why you tried to hang a lamp by yourself?" His fingers traced your jaw and you swayed towards him despite yourself, your heart pounding.
"You're insufferable."
"Some of us," he murmured, now close enough that you could feel his breath on your lips, "believe good things are worth waiting for. Worth doing slowly, properly." His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth. "Letter by letter, moment by moment. Remember?"
Before you could respond, he stepped back. "Your ankle should be fine in a few days. Try to stay off it. And maybe..." He paused at your kitchen door. "Maybe next time you need help with something, ask your annoying neighbour instead of risking you life?"
You managed a nod, your mind still reeling.
"Oh, and by the way?" He looked back at you, his smile softening. "I really like stawberry cakes. In case you feel like baking again."
With that, he was gone, leaving you perched on your counter with a rapidly melting ice pack and the strange feeling that renovating this house wasn't the only project that was going to take time to get right.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Autumn fully arrived, bringing crimson leaves, cloudy skies, and more of Satoru's overbearing everything. Your renovation plans resumed, though now with significantly less chance of bodily harm as Satoru was helping you again. He'd show up at your door with brownies and supplies, his teasing somehow both more and less bearable now that you both knew why you'd been avoiding him.
The universe, however, had a sense of humour. It was on a warm Saturday afternoon, while you were both covered in paint from freshening up your living room panelling, that his sister showed up unannounced. She burst into your house, barely containing her glee at finally meeting the neighbour who had mistaken her for her brother's girlfriend.
You wanted to sink into the floor as she told you cheerfully how hard she'd laughed when Satoru called to tell her about the misunderstanding. Her amusement only grew as she took in the sight of the two of you, splattered with paint and clearly at ease in each other's company. She left you with her phone number and the promise of embarrassing childhood photos of her brother, while Satoru tried and failed to get her out before she could do any more damage.
The rest of autumn rushed swiftly into the frozen stillness of winter as the lines between your lives began to blur more and more—his tools mixed with yours in the garage, his coffee mug claimed permanent residence in your cabinet, and his presence became as much a part of your home as the creaky floorboards and old doorknobs.
It felt…natural in a way.
Natural that he'd show up at your house in the morning with fresh pastries and you'd make coffee for the two of you, and natural that you'd work on your house and do something fun at the weekends. Even the way your heart stuttered whenever he was near felt strangely normal, a natural rhythm in this new, unexpected something—something you never named. And yet, amidst the rush, there were moments when time seemed to slow, stretching out like taffy, each shy glance, each lingering touch, each shared laugh becoming a precious memory.
One of those moments was at the pumpkin patch. You'd been wandering through the rows of pumpkins, Satoru trailing behind you, searching for the perfect ones to decorate your house for Halloween. It was a tradition you loved since childhood, bringing back memories of visiting the local patch with your grandfather. You could almost feel the scratchy wool of his sweater against your cheek as he hoisted you onto his shoulders, hear his happy laughter, and feel the warmth of his hand in yours.
"Wait!" you called out, stopping so suddenly that Satoru almost bumped into you. "Look at that one!"
Off to the side sat perhaps the largest pumpkin you'd ever seen. It was definitely lopsided, one side bulging more than the other, and its stem curved at an odd angle.
"That's...quite a pumpkin." Satoru tilted his head. "Though maybe something a bit more manageable would—"
"It's perfect." You already tried to figure out how to lift it. The thing had to weigh at least twenty kilos.
"Perfect might be a stretch." His lips quirked up at the corners as he watched you circle the massive thing. "It's practically your size. And that's definitely not its best side."
You shot him a look. "Not everything needs to be perfect to be beautiful." Your hands settled on your hips as you studied your chosen pumpkin. "Sometimes the imperfect things are the best things."
"Like your crooked kitchen cabinets?”
You ignored his comment and attempted to lift the pumpkin, managing to get it about two centimeters off the ground before setting it back down. "It’s called character."
“Character?” He watched your continued attempts with clear amusement. "It's a safety hazard."
“Are you going to help me or just stand there looking pretty?”
“Oh, so you think I’m pretty?”
“Shut up and help me with this pumpkin.”
“As my lady commands.”
He stepped forward, effortlessly lifting the massive pumpkin like it weighed nothing. Show-off, you thought. Was there anything he wasn’t good at? Renovations, apparently, and now this.
Back home, he carried the pumpkin to your porch, the orange leaves rustling in the gentle wind. You carved the pumpkins on your newly renovated porch as neighbours raked leaves, the crisp autumn air carrying the faint scent of pine and damp earth. Later, his pumpkin looked like some stupid sculpture out of a museum. Of course. Because apparently, Satoru Gojo was good at literally everything. Yours? Well, yours was…cute. You’d call it ugly. Satoru insisted it was cute, and you almost, almost, believed him.
“Why are you so good at everything?” you sighed, more to yourself than him, leaning back and gazing upwards. "Any other hidden talents I should know about?"
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“I would, actually.” Your cheeks flushed as you quickly sat up, a nervous stumble sending you straight into his face, as he leaned in too. “Oh, I didn’t mean—”
Something flickered in his expression, a subtle twitch of his brow as his gaze flickered down to your lips. For a heartbeat, you thought he might—but then a single leaf drifted down and the moment shattered. He cleared his throat and turned back to his pumpkin.
"So, where do you want to place them?" he asked.
You let him return to safer topics, frustration washing over you, trying to ignore the way your skin still tingled where his leg had brushed against yours. This had become your new normal—these almost-moments, these near-misses that were driving you absolutely mad. Were you imagining things? Reading too much into every look, every touch? Or was he intentionally playing some game, dangling the possibility of something more, only to snatch it away at the last moment? It was agonizing, a slow torture that was getting harder and harder to endure.
You placed the pumpkins on your porch. Satoru excused himself, saying he had some work to do. Apparently, he was working on something international, fielding calls from overseas offices at ridiculous hours.
"I've got that conference call at two," he said, already backing towards his house. "Dinner later? I'm trying out a new recipe."
It wasn't the first time he'd invited you over—these casual dinners had become a natural part of your... whatever this was. But was it just natural? Or was it something more? You'd thought, with every invitation, every lingering look, every almost-kiss—and at this point, with almost-kiss number 3000, you were starting to lose count—that this time would be different. But maybe, just maybe, it was all in your head. Maybe you were reading too much into everything, again.
"What time?" you asked.
"Seven? Bring wine. And maybe that stawberry cake recipe you've been perfecting?"
"You just want me for my baking."
"Among other things." Before you could respond, he was already heading back to his house, calling over his shoulder, "Don't be late!"
You watched him go, your heart stuttering, wondering if he knew exactly what he was doing to you.
Dinner at Satoru's had become a natural part of your week, but something felt different that evening. Perhaps it was the early autumn darkness pressing against the windows, or the intimate warmth of the kitchen under the amber pendant lamps. Or maybe it was just how he moved around you in his kitchen, always somehow managing to brush past even though there was plenty of space.
He'd outdone himself with dinner, though you'd never tell him that—his ego was big enough already. But he was, you had to admit, a surprisingly excellent cook. Watching him plate the food with the same careful attention he gave to everything, you had to admit he had a talent for this too. Of course he did. It was starting to seem like there wasn't anything Satoru Gojo couldn't do perfectly.
The wine you'd brought paired perfectly with his cooking, because of course it did. He'd probably somehow predicted exactly what you'd choose and planned the meal around it. You wouldn't put it past him, not with how he seemed to anticipate your every move these days. Conversations flowed easily between you. He shared work stories, you gave updates on your projects, and somehow, your feet ended up on his lap beneath the table. He massaged them absently, after you complained about standing all day.
When he suggested a movie afterward, it felt natural to say yes. You watched him make popcorn on the stove and then moved to the couch. The movie was something neither of you really paid attention to, both too aware of how close you sat on his ridiculously comfortable couch. Every time you reached for the popcorn bowl between you, your hands would brush, sending little sparks up your arm. You caught him watching you more than the screen, but whenever you turned to catch him at it, his eyes were innocently focused forward.
As the evening wore on, the warmth of the wine and his presence made your eyelids heavy. You tried to stay awake, but when he gently draped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer, resistance melted away. You drifted off against his shoulder, the last thing you remember is the soft brush of his lips against your hair as sleep pulled you under.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
November deepened into December, and the air grew cold with the promise of winter. One morning, the first snow fell, lightly covering your porch and making everything look like a Christmas card. The holiday market downtown was in full swing by mid-December, stalls lined with evergreen boughs and twinkling lights that reflected off fresh snow. You'd been surprised when Satoru suggested you both go, casually mentioning it while helping you install new crown molding in your dining room.
"They've set up an ice rink this year," he'd said, measuring tape in hand, not looking at you directly. "Thought it might be fun."
Which is how you found yourself wandering between market stalls on a Saturday afternoon, your breath clouding in the cold air as Satoru walked beside you, unfairly handsome in a charcoal peacoat and blue scarf that matched his eyes.
"Have you tried the hot chocolate?" Satoru asked, nodding towards a stall where steam rose from copper pots. "I've heard they make it with real Belgian chocolate."
"Are you trying to fatten me up for winter?" But you were already moving.
He followed, a slight smile playing on his lips. "Just trying to keep you warm. Can't have you catching a cold before we finish that bathroom tilework."
The hot chocolate was rich and velvety with a hint of cinnamon, the warmth spreading through your chest as you continued to wander the market. Your fingers grew numb despite your gloves, and Satoru must have noticed because he suddenly handed you his cup.
"Hold this a second." Before you could question him, he removed his own gloves—expensive-looking leather ones—and handed them to you. "These are better insulated. Trade me."
"I can't take your gloves."
"You can and you will." His tone left no room for argument. "Besides, my hands run hot."
You reluctantly made the exchange, noticing how his gloves swallowed your hands but feeling instantly warmer. Something about wearing his gloves made your heart do a strange flutter. As it always seemed when you were near him.
As afternoon stretched into early evening, the market lights came on, making everything look magical. That's when you spotted it—the ice rink, lit up with fairy lights, skaters gliding in circles across the surface.
"Ready to try?" Satoru asked, following your gaze.
"I haven't skated since I was a kid."
"Perfect time to remember then. I'll make sure you don't fall."
Ten minutes later, you stood at the edge of the rink, wobbling precariously on thin blades while Satoru waited patiently beside you. He'd stepped onto the ice with infuriating grace, as if skating were as natural to him as breathing.
"How are you already good at this?" you said, clutching the railing.
"Can’t help it," he replied, like that would explain it. "Come on. I've got you."
Taking a deep breath, you placed your hand in his. His fingers closed around yours, warm and steady, as he pulled you onto the ice. Your legs immediately threatened to slide in opposite directions, but Satoru kept you upright.
"Small steps." His other hand came to rest at your elbow for support. "Don't think about it too much. Let your body remember."
You focused on not falling, even though all you could focus on was his hand in yours, his presence beside you as you slowly made your way around the edge of the rink. Other skaters whizzed past, some holding hands, others chatting to their friends.
After one cautious lap, you began to find your balance. Your death grip on Satoru's hand loosened slightly, though you weren't about to let go completely.
"See? You're a natural," he said, his voice warm.
"I wouldn't go that far. You're doing most of the work."
He smiled, adjusting his pace to match yours. "We make a good team."
The way he said it—so casually, so confidently—sent your thoughts spiraling. Did you make a good team? The evidence was certainly there—the beautifully restored porch, the new plumbing that never leaked, the kitchen with its even countertops that you'd finally finished together. But was that all this was? A renovation partnership?
Because holding his hand like this, skating side by side under twinkling lights with Christmas music playing softly in the background—it felt like more. It felt like a date.
Like something couples did.
Your mind raced as you made another lap around the rink. When had Satoru Gojo become more than just your annoying neighbour? When had his smug smile started making your heart race instead of your blood pressure? And why, despite all the lingering touches and loaded glances over the past months, had he never once tried to kiss you?
"You're thinking too hard again," Satoru said, interrupting your thoughts. "I can practically hear the gears turning."
"Just trying not to fall."
"Relax. I've got you." He squeezed your hand reassuringly, and you couldn't help but wonder if he meant it beyond the ice rink.
Was it possible you were imagining the whole thing? Maybe he was just being nice. Maybe this outing was purely neighborly. Maybe he wasn't interested in you that way at all. Or worse—what if he was gay? No, that couldn't be it. You'd met his ex-girlfriend when she stopped by to drop off some mail that had been mistakenly delivered to her place. Besides, no straight man looked at a woman the way he sometimes looked at you when he thought you weren't paying attention.
So what was it then? Was something wrong with you? Were you not his type?
"Ready to try without the railing?" Satoru asked, pulling you from your spiral.
"Um, I don't think—"
"Trust me," he said softly, and despite your better judgment, you did.
He guided you towards the center of the rink, one hand still firmly clasping yours, the other now resting lightly at your waist. The contact, even through layers of winter clothing, sent a jolt through you.
"You're doing great," he said as you wobbled slightly. "Just find your balance."
"Easy for you to say. You're apparently good at everything."
He laughed. "Not everything."
You didn’t believe him for a second.
Your right skate hit a rough patch of ice, and suddenly you were pitching forward, arms flailing. Time seemed to slow as you prepared for the inevitable crash onto hard ice. But instead of cold pain, you felt strong arms wrap around your waist, catching you. Satoru pulled you against his chest, steadying you both.
You found yourself pressed against him, your hands clutching his coat, faces inches apart. His blue eyes were wide, a few strands of white hair falling across his forehead. You could feel his heart racing—or was that yours?
"Are you okay?" he asked, breath warm against your cheek.
You nodded, unable to speak, certain that this was it—the moment he would finally close the distance between you. His gaze dropped to your lips, lingering there as one of his hands moved up to brush a strand of hair from your face. Your eyes fluttered closed in anticipation, heart hammering against your ribs.
"You know," Satoru said, amusement colouring his tone, "for someone who managed to restore an entire Victorian house, you're surprisingly bad at staying upright on a little ice."
Your eyes snapped open to find him grinning down at you and the moment shattered. He set you back on your feet, though he kept one arm loosely around your waist for support.
"I think I need a break," you said, trying to hide your frustration. "My ankles are killing me."
"Of course." He led you to the exit, his hand returning to yours like it belonged there. "Hot cider? My treat."
As you made your way off the ice, you couldn't help but think that for someone so skilled at fixing things, Satoru Gojo seemed determined to leave whatever was between you two beautifully, frustratingly unresolved.
Despite your disappointment at the almost kiss, the rest of the evening at the market had been pleasant enough. You'd shared warm cider at a wooden table, watching children chase each other through the snow while Satoru told stories about his own childhood winters. He'd insisted on buying you a knitted scarf when he'd caught you admiring it, and wrapped it around your neck himself with aching tenderness. And it made you want to die that he didn't kiss you while he wrapped the scarf around you.
By the time you'd explored every stall, your earlier frustration had mellowed into a dull ache of confusion. Satoru seemed completely at ease, carrying your purchases and guiding you through the crowd with a gentle hand on your lower back—another gesture that felt so intimate, yet so casually offered.
The drive home was quiet, snowflakes dancing in the headlights as Satoru navigated the slippery roads. You stared out the window, watching the familiar streets of your neighbourhood change under the touch of winter, your mind replaying that moment on the ice over and over again. Why hadn't he kissed you?
He must have felt it—that perfect alignment of circumstances, that electric current running between you. For months now, you'd been dancing around this thing, this unspoken whatever it was.
"You're quiet," Satoru said, his voice breaking through your thoughts as the car came to a stop in front of your house. The snow was falling harder now, collecting on the windshield.
"Just tired." You forced a smile. "Thank you for today. It was fun."
"Are you sure that's all it is?"
"Of course. Why wouldn't it be?"
Before he could answer, you gathered your bags and pushed open the car door. "Goodnight, Satoru."
You hurried up the now perfectly restored steps of your front porch, fumbling with your keys as snowflakes clung to your hair and eyelashes, desperate to bury all those confusing feelings deep down, underneath a lot of chocolate and trashy romance Christmas movies. But then the sound of a car door closing behind you made you stop.
"Hey," Satoru called, his footsteps crunching through fresh snow. "Wait a second."
You took a deep breath and turned to face him. He was standing at the bottom of your porch steps, snowflakes catching in his white hair, his forehead furrowed. "Something's wrong. I can tell."
"It's nothing. Really, I'm just tired."
"After all these months, I'd hope you'd know you can't lie to me." He climbed the steps slowly until he was standing in front of you. "Did I do something? Say something?"
You shook your head. "It's not about what you did."
"Then what?" He took another step closer, and you could see the genuine confusion in his eyes. “What is going on?”
"It's about what you don't do, Satoru." The words escaped before you could stop them, tumbling out in a rush of frustration and longing. "What you never do."
He blinked. "What I don't do?"
You gestured helplessly between the two of you. "This. Whatever this is. You fix my pipes and paint my house and take me ice skating. You look at me sometimes like—" You paused. "But then nothing. You never... you never try to..."
"You think I don't want to kiss you," he said.
"Well, what am I supposed to think? You spend every waking moment at my house, you bring me coffee every stupid day, you watch movies with me and like, you buy me cute little scarves and, I mean—who does that?”
You were pacing now, your frustration building as months of confusion spilled out. Snowflakes swirled around you as you moved, melting against your flushed cheeks.
"Do you have any idea how confusing that is? One minute you're touching my face like you can't help yourself, the next you're acting like we're just neighbours working on a house together. Am I imagining things? Are you just being nice? Is there something wrong with me—"
Your rant was suddenly cut short as Satoru closed the distance between you in two quick steps. His hands came up to frame your face and before you could process what was happening, his lips were on yours. His mouth was warm despite the cold, his lips soft but insistent against yours, effectively shutting down every coherent thought.
You stood frozen for a split second before your body caught up with reality. Then you kissed him back, your hands fisting in his coat, pulling him closer as his thumbs gently stroked your cheeks. The kiss deepened, his tongue teasing yours as one of his hands slid to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair.
When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard, little clouds forming in the cold air between you, his hands still cupping your face.
"For the record," he said, his voice deeper and rougher than you'd ever heard it, "I've wanted to do that since the moment I steadied your ladder that first day. Every time I've been in a room with you. Every time you've chewed your lip while concentrating on something. Every damn time you've worn my chequered shirt".
You blinked up at him, still dazed from the kiss. "Then why didn't you?"
"Because I was trying to be a gentleman." His thumb traced your lower lip, still sensitive from his kiss. "Because I didn't want to complicate things when you were already dealing with so much. Because I wanted to be sure you felt the same way." A small, self-ironic smile touched his lips. "And because every time I worked up the courage, I'd get lost in those eyes of yours and forget how words work."
"So instead you taught me about crown molding?"
"I'm better with my hands than with words," he admitted, then immediately looked chagrined at the unintended innuendo. "That's not what I—"
This time, you cut him off, rising on your tiptoes to press your lips to his. He responded immediately, his arms wrapping around your waist and lifting you slightly so you fit perfectly against him as snowflakes continued to fall around you.
"For future reference," you said as you broke the kiss, "I'd much rather you kiss me than explain proper grouting techniques."
"Noted."
Without another word, he scooped you up in his arms, one hand supporting your back, the other beneath your knees, and carried you towards your front door with the same effortless strength he'd shown lifting drywall and moving furniture.
"The door," you reminded him, fumbling with your keys.
"I've got it." He somehow managed to balance you perfectly while taking the keys and unlocking the door. "I'm very good with my hands, remember?"
Satoru carried you over the threshold and kicked the door shut behind him. Snowflakes melted in his white hair as he set you down in the dim entryway, but he didn't step back, holding you between his body and the wall.
"You have no idea how many times I've imagined this." His hands slid up your sides as his mouth claimed yours once more. "How many nights I've lain awake across the street, thinking about you in this house."
And you nearly fainted as you imagined him in his house across the stress, thinking about you, his hand down his pants and—
"Every room in this house," he said, his voice rough as he pushed your coat from your shoulders. "I've thought about having you in every single one."
"We did renovate them all." Your voice faltered as his lips found your neck, trailing kisses down to the sensitive spot where it met your shoulder. "Seems only fair we should... test our work."
"I think I’d like that." His hands slid beneath your sweater, warm against your chilled skin as they traced up your sides. Your own fingers tangled in his snow dampened hair, pulling him back to your mouth for a kiss that quickly burned away any remaining cold.
"Bedroom?"
"Too far," you breathed, already tugging at his sweater. "Besides, we just redid the living room couch."
He smiled. In one fluid motion, he lifted you again, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you towards the living room. The last snowflakes in his hair melted as he lowered you onto the couch you'd spent three weekends reupholstering together. His body covered yours perfectly, like he belonged there, had always belonged there.
And as the snow continued to fall outside, covering your Victorian home in a pristine blanket of white, Satoru Gojo finally showed you exactly what his hands were capable of—proving once and for all that some things were worth the wait.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Spring arrived with a gentle persistence, coaxing crocuses from the soil and washing away the last traces of winter. Your Victorian house looked lovely in the morning light, its sage green paint gleaming, and its porch ready for the warmer days ahead.
The sound of knocking preceded Satoru's arrival, followed by a short pause and his usual sigh when he'd remembered he had keys, before his familiar footsteps echoed across the parquet floors you'd refinished together. You were in the kitchen, still in your pyjamas, going over the plans for the sunroom you'd decided to add to the back of the house.
"Morning," Satoru called, appearing in the doorway with his usual—two coffee cups balanced in one hand, a small paper bag of pastries in the other. His white hair was slightly dishevelled, as if he'd rushed out without taking the time to comb it properly.
"You know you don't have to knock anymore," you said as he handed you the coffee. "You have a key."
"Force of habit." He pressed a quick kiss to your temple before sliding into the chair next to you. "Besides, what if you were up to something scandalous?"
"At seven in the morning?"
"I distinctly remember yesterday morning getting pretty scandalous. And the day before that—”
Heat rushed to your cheeks as memories flooded back of the way he'd pinned your wrists above your head with one hand while the other explored your body with agonizing slowness. The way he'd whispered in your ear exactly what he was planning to do to you, his voice dropping to that low register that always made you shiver. The way he'd taken his time, so thorough in his attention that you'd been reduced to breathless pleas before he finally gave you what you needed and—okay, stop. Not now.
Three months into your relationship, and he still made you blush like a stupid teenager—among other things.
"Those were special circumstances," you said, trying not to smile.
"Oh yeah? What kind of special circumstances?"
"You brought croissants." You peeked into today's bag, ignoring his teasing. "Are these the chocolate ones from that bakery downtown?"
"Maybe." He smiled, watching you with that soft expression that still made your heart skip. "I had an early video call with our research partners about the new pharmaceutical trial. Thought I'd pick up breakfast on the way back."
You paused, coffee halfway to your lips. "Wait, you already had your meeting? I thought that wasn't until nine."
"Started at five." He shrugged, stealing a piece of your pastry. "The Munich lab had some promising results they wanted to discuss right away. Worked out, though—wanted to catch you before you got too deep into those sunroom plans."
Warmth blossomed in your chest. In the months since that snowy night on your porch, Satoru had slowly woven himself into every aspect of your life. He still brought you coffee every morning, still helped with renovations, still looked at you as if you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
The only difference was that he now often spent the night, his clothes gradually migrating into your wardrobe, and his shower gel suddenly appeared one day in your bathroom. Even his microbiology textbooks and research papers had found their way onto your coffee table, his lab notes sometimes mixed in with your renovation plans.
"Speaking of the sunroom," he continued, "I think the windows we recently found in the attic would look great in there. The original glass has that slight waviness that would catch the light beautifully."
"I was thinking the same thing." You slid the blueprints towards him. "I've been playing with the dimensions to make sure they'd fit."
He leaned closer, his shoulder pressing against yours. "This looks perfect. Though we might need to adjust the framing here to account for the original hardware."
You smiled at his use of “we”—so natural now, so right. Every project had become a shared undertaking, every decision made together.
"By the way," he began, "I've been thinking—"
"A dangerous pastime for you."
"I'm serious." He took a breath, suddenly looking uncharacteristically nervous. "The house is looking amazing. We've fixed almost everything that needed fixing."
"Except that creaky step on the back stairs," you reminded him.
"And the slight warp in the pantry door," he added.
"And the—"
"Okay, so there's still a list." He laughed. "But my point is, we've done so much work here. Together."
"We have," you agreed, wondering where he was going with this.
He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it further. "Meanwhile, my house is just sitting there. I'm barely even there anymore except to grab clothes or check if anyone's stolen my mail."
Your heart began to beat faster as you caught his meaning. "Satoru Gojo, are you trying to say something specific?"
“What if we just... you know, focused on one house instead of two?" His eyes met yours, vulnerable in a way you rarely saw. "Maybe focusing on just one house instead of maintaining two?"
"Are you asking to move in together?" You couldn't help the smile spreading across your face.
"Well, technically I'm asking which house we want to live in. Though I'm kind of partial to this one. We've put so much of ourselves into it."
You twisted in your chair to face him fully. "You'd leave your perfect house with its perfect kitchen and perfect view?"
"My perfect house feels empty without you in it." The simple honesty in his voice made your throat tight with emotion. "Besides, this house has better bones."
"Yes," you said, sliding your arms around his neck. "Yes to consolidating our renovation efforts. Yes to deciding which house. Yes to all of it."
"You sure? I know you like your space and I don't want to, like, suffocate you or—"
You cut him off with a kiss, soft and sweet and tasting of chocolate pastries. "Satoru, you've been in my space since the day you showed up to fix my stupid leaky pipe. At this point, it doesn't feel like my space without you in it."
He rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed for a moment. When he looked at you again, there was that softness, that tenderness that still made your heart flip.
"I love you," he said simply. "In case that wasn't clear."
"I figured that out somewhere between you painting my entire house during that insane heatwave."
He laughed, the sound echoing in the kitchen you'd rebuilt together. "And here I thought it was my extensive knowledge of old pipes that won you over."
"That helped," you admitted, fingers playing with his hair. "Though it was really your hands that sealed the deal."
"My hands, huh?"
"Mmhmm." You pressed closer, coffee and blueprints momentarily forgotten. "Very skilled hands."
"Well" he murmured, those hands already finding their way under your pajama top, "some things deserve special attention to detail.”
"Are we seriously still doing renovation metaphors?"
He laughed and pressed a kiss to your neck. "Some traditions are worth keeping."
Later, as sunlight streamed through your kitchen windows—windows he'd helped you restore months ago when you were still pretending to be just neighbours—you lay tangled together on the kitchen floor.
"You know," you said, tracing patterns on his chest, "your house does have that amazing bathtub."
"True." He pressed a kiss to your hair. "But this house has you."
You smiled against his skin. “We could always redo the bathroom here. Get an even better tub."
"I like how you think." His arms tightened around you. "Though we'd need to check the floor supports first, maybe upgrade the plumbing—"
You propped yourself up on one elbow to look at him, at this impossible man who'd somehow become your everything.
"I love you," you said simply. "Even when you're being a total renovation nerd."
His smile was soft, genuine, the smile he saved just for you. "Especially then?"
"Especially then."
Outside, spring painted the neighborhood with fresh green. But inside, in this house you'd brought back to life together, you'd found something even better—a future you were building together, room by room, day by day, one cup of morning coffee at a time.
masterlist + support my writing
author's note — omggg, we made it through all four seasons and a complete house renovation ! kept thinking while writing that the most unrealistic thing about this story is not satoru gojo being a perfect neighbour and fixing leaky pipes for us, but owning a house in this economy lol.
anyway, thank you so much for reading this silly little story and i hope it brought you as much joy as it did me while writing it. until next time ! <3
ps: if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here.
tags — @fayuki @starmapz @snowsilver2000 @starlightanyaaa @sxnkuna
@cocomanga @nanamis-baker @rosso-seta @sugurbo @janbannan
@bloopsstuff @ihearttoru @momoewn @yokosandesu @90s-belladonna
@fairygardenprincesss @juneslove21 @glenkiller338 @gojossugarcandy @wiserion
@moucheslove @nanasukii28 @sugucultfollower @leuriss @raendarkfaerie
© lostfracturess. do not repost, translate, or copy my work.
me @ y/n when they do something i’d never do:
like babe this isn’t us ?? get it together
Saint Like
Pairing: G.W x Reader Request: Would you write a George x reader where Molly doesn't like George's girlfriend and she's kind of mean towards her but when she sees reader take care of George after he loses his ear she starts to slowly accept her? W/C: 2.2k A/N: finally back to writing! Yippie!! That sickness actually was the worst I've had in years. [masterlist] Much love, Saige
It hurts to be dismissed by your boyfriend's mother. Year after year you arrive at his home, welcomed by others in his family, banter with his father, and simultaneously given the stark cold shoulder by the woman who gave him life.
It confused you to no end. She never supported the twins' endeavors; she consistently dismissed and shrouded any thought of their joke shop, practically banning any conversation of the idea in the burrow indefinitely. In her own world, Fred and George would magically wake up one day and decide that they wanted to pursue a career that was more lucrative. Her own fear of poverty inflamed her distaste in their aspirations — purely because it had the possibility of their own financial demise. She wanted better for her boys, and unfortunately you were the easy scapegoat to place blame.
It poked and prodded every nerve on you. You wanted nothing but success and love for George and his family, but you were seen as a threat to the possibilities that they might turn out… normal.
—
The climate of the wizarding world was beyond bleak. Everyday you rose to the sun, beyond blessed to be living another day, but filled with anxieties that it truly may be your last.
Your addition to the order was practically mandatory. With no ties to your parents it was easy for you to sign away your life for the greater good. Your heart lied with George and your friends and fighting next to them would be an honor.
As it came up on Harry’s seventeenth birthday, figuring out how to transport the boy became more trivial. The magical protection given to him by his mothers sacrifice would wear off and he would be more vulnerable to Voldemort than ever. Every movement or spell he made was under the view of the ministry and it had to be done with extreme caution.
The burrow was the next safest place for him, but getting him there bred confusion and limited options.
“What if we just had him apparate out?” Ron asked. The order sat around the kitchen table at the Burrow, just days before operation Free Potter.
”He is still underage Ron, it’ll be flagged immediately.” Hermione replied, rolling her eyes slightly. Ron shook his head.
”We’re already breaking the law, why not one more!” He chuffed, disappointed how easily his idea was shut down.
“Pius Thicknesse has gone over, which gives us a big problem.” Moody interrupted “He’s made it an imprisonable offence to connect this house to the Floo Network, place a Portkey here or apparate in or out.”
The table silenced at his arrival, everyone soaking in the new information and the loss of yet another helper on the inside.
“That’s pointless, he is protected anyway -“ You started. You were honestly just thinking out loud, soon realizing everyone’s eyes on you.
“All that’s done is stop Harry from leaving safely.” You coughed, attempting to find your voice again. Moody shook his head in agreement, those in the order all now speaking among themselves. George arrived at the kitchen taking a spot next to you. He nudged you quietly, smirking down at you.
“Anything juicy?” He whispered, leaning down. You smiled and shook your head no, leaning over to reply.
“Just all hobgobble about how we will get Harry here. Even moody is stumped.” You whispered. George scoffed.
“Moody stumped? Give him like 4 minutes, we’ll be out of here in no time.” He chuffed. The feeling of his hot breath tickled your neck, causing you to shiver slightly. Giggling, you looked over the room, unfortunately making eye contact with Mrs. Weasley. She pursed her lips and scowled.
“I think we ought not be distracted.” She stood, walking around the large table to the sink. She stood with her hands firmly on the ledge leaning away from the crowd. As much as you felt targeted by the statement she was right.
“Its risky but it’ll take cooperation… from all yous.” Moody thumped, his fake eye spiraling around the room. Thievery fell into a hush, waiting for what he had to reveal.
“Everyone will be a potter. As many heads as we can round up. They’ll be confused, won’t know who’s who.” He coughed, opening his flask and taking a swig.
“Polyjuice potion?” George asked. It was more of a rhetorical question of course, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Aye boy.” Moody nodded.
“They’ll just kill us all.” Molly shrieked, the idea of everyone now the face of the target became increasingly daunting.
“No they won’t Molly.” Remus coincided. “We ride on brooms, quietly through the night in groups eh” He raised his eyebrows, checking the feelings of the table. Most people nodded in agreement.
“It’s the order Molly. We’ve been in danger from the beginning. It’s not the time to become fearful.” Moody coughed, standing up from the table.
“One month from today. Stay vigilant.” Moody snapped from the room, leaving everyone in silence.
—
The month came and went in a flash. It felt as if the sky was grey every day since that meeting. No sign of summer or joy, only the steep consequences that were to come.
“Hi my love.” George purred from behind you. He wrapped his arms around your torso, resting his head on top of your.
“Hi.” You whispered, leaning back into his body. You both swung lightly in each other's arms enjoying the feeling of peace.
“They just got word of who’s flying.” He mumbled, keeping his head steady. You kept swaying, but your body stiffened slightly at his words.
“You’re going.” You sighed. You knew he would, and you kicked yourself daily for worrying about his demise. It wasn’t exactly a positive situation to be in, but your milling about danger wouldn’t help.
“I know you wish I could stay, but Fred and I fly well, and they need people who are confident in their brooms.” He murmured, rubbing your sides lovingly. He turned you around to face him, his cheeks warm with glow, beaming down at you.
“What am I doing?” You asked, holding his arms tightly. Part of you wished to be in the sky with him, as if your presence could protect.
“You, my beautiful bird-“ George leaned down, kissing your forehead after every word. “You are meant to stay here. Look for signs and send alerts back if anything happens.”
You didn’t respond, you just sighed and smiled.
“I know you wanted to go.” He whispered. “But it’ll be good. A good opportunity to help from the ground.” He smiled. You could tell he was trying to reassure you, his eyes darting between yours looking for any sign of disapproval.
“Okay.” You whispered, leaning up so your nose grazed his. “I’ll be waiting for you, and you better come back in one piece.”
—
The night finally arrived and you spent every waking moment with George. You hated to think it was your last time seeing him, but the reality was clear. Anything could happen tonight and you would be sure that it was spent with him.
After dinner, Moody arrived at the burrow rallying up those who were going.
“5 minutes and we must be out, got it?” He looked around the room, heads nodding in acceptance. He turned to you and Molly, softening his face.
“You two will be the first to know if anything happens. I will send a message once we have left the Dursleys, then we will be back here in approximately 30 minutes.” His eyes widened in question, looking for any look of approval between you two. You dare not look at Molly and keep eye contact with Moody.
“Yes sir.” You choked, the air in your chest seizing.
“Atta girl. Alrig’t move out.” Moody winked, turning on his heel and walking out of the room, numerous bodies following. George paused and jogged over to you, kissing your cheek and squeezing your hand before joining the fray.
Once everyone left the burrow became quiet. Molly soon looked for any way to busy her fingertips knowing she’d have to distract her mind or else she’d go mad. You stood by the window for a short period, looking at the sky and prairie out past the horizon looking for any sign of movement. Hearing a hefty sigh behind you, you turned to face the sound, already anticipating a lecture.
“Could you help me make supper? I bet they’ll be hungry when they get back.” Mrs. Weasley spoke softly, her back turned to you still maneuvering pots and pans in the kitchen. You nodded to yourself and took a deep breath in, walking over near her.
“Maybe start with the potato’s, rid the eyes and peel the skin for me.” She didn’t look at you, instead speaking into her hands, sniffling after ever few words. She wasn’t crying, but you could hear the trouble in her voice clear as day. Grabbing a peeler, you got to work, trying to pass the time as well.
“I hope you know I don’t .. loathe you like you may think.” She whispered, just loud enough so that you’d hear but quiet enough that the words don’t linger in the air.
You stood in silence, peeling the potatoes, confused entirely by her statement.
“I don’t think-“ you lied, thinking it was the right thing to counter, even deep down you felt that she thought you were better off dead most days.
“You have every right to think it.” She snuffed, pausing her work and biting her cheek. “I just….”
“I understand a mothers love.” You whispered, picking up another potato and holding it softly. “I understand wanting the best for your children, but ..” you choked. You didn’t know if you had the confidence to say yet another thing that would make her angry.
“But sometimes their best interest isn’t yours and it’s out of a mothers control what their adult children do.” You finished. You knew it was the truth, but on the heels of Percy abandoning the family it had to have stung just as hard.
Mrs. Weasley didn’t respond. She didn’t move her head or acknowledge your statement but stood and pondered what you said. You couldn’t tell if she was boiling with rage or the words finally penetrated the field of deep affection that clouded her judgement so.
Just from the window, a owl rapped the glass, begging to be let in.
“That’s them.” She muttered, wiping her hands on her apron and rushing over to let the owl in.
“Thirty minutes.” She sighed
“Thirty minutes.” You repeated.
Time moved extremely fast after that. You both were taking turns by the window to cool down your nerves with the cold night air. The meal was brewing magically on the stone and didn’t need the tender touch of either of you to finish. Even though very little was said between you two, it felt as if you had become closer because of tonight. At least, we understood a little more about each other retroactively.
The sound of loud snapping wood alerted you both that people were apperating at the burrow. Running out of the burrow, you locked eyes with Harry, who was barreling off of Harris’s motorbike, stumbling towards the house.
“Death Eaters, loads of them — we were chased —" Harry coughed, falling into Mrs. Weasley's arms. Your mind raced, searching the sky for any one else who would arrive.
“Death eaters-“ You whispered, fear overtaking your body. You could taste the adrenaline in your mouth, a sour foul feeling overcoming your every sense. Luckily the pain of unknowing was only for a moment more, as Lupin and George followed suit.
“George!” You cried, running over to the boy. His hand held the side of his head, blood was dripping down his shoulder and across his cheek.
“I’m okay im okay.” He mumbled, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and hoisting himself upon your small frame. You tugged his body indoors, flopping him on the family couch in the living room.
“It’s just my ear darling.” He smiled weakly, his face was pale from the loss of blood but still held your hand tightly. Mrs. Weasley quickly began to tend to her son, allowing you to hold his hand and be with him through it all. Even though you were slightly inconvenient to her tending, she dare not ask you to move. Both Fred and you had been tied together, your sobs uncontrollable.
“Honestly I think I’m way cuter without an ear. Don’t you think?” George tossed, rubbing your hand affectionately. Mrs. Weasley had successfully stopped the bleeding and bandaged what she could, leaving you both alone in the room. Just in the kitchen, Lupin and the order continued to talk about their now sudden loss of Moody and who could be trusted.
“It definitely makes you stand out.” You laughed, finally feeling comfortable in his state. You both smiled at each other, the everlasting admiration you had for him only grew, how resilient and fateful even in the face of death he had been.
“I’ll always get the last laugh-“
💛 this is making me wanna listen to her fearless era again!
the other side of the door
satoru gojo x f!reader
**part of my gojo as taylor series
--
tsumiki and megumi fushiguro unknowingly cause a damper on your relationship.
you can feel satoru gloating at your side, his cheek nearly flush with yours, as you click the little arrow on your laptop.
your very meticulously made google calendar was perfect – a play by play of what you were doing at every second of the day – but at the current moment, was very deeply betraying you.
“we’re already a whole month back, sweetheart.” satoru murmurs.
you bite down on the softness of your cheek, sinking back against the headboard as you keep clicking, for the smallest sliver of light blue in your calendar.
it was a little on the nose, but it was the calendar that you shared with satoru – the one that marked all the special events like dates, anniversaries and the like.
and at the current moment, much to your disbelief and to the point that he had been trying to convince you of for the past hour, there had been an absence of him for weeks now.
you throw in the towel at the tenth consecutive click (silently ignoring that it means that it’s been well over two months now) and slam your computer shut, before turning over to him and frowning.
“you’ve made your point.” you murmur.
satoru grins, gloating in full flesh at the meekness in your voice, as he beckons for you to scoot closer to him on the bed. you absentmindedly lean your head against his shoulder, a motion that he welcomes with a quiet kiss on your forehead.
“have we really not done anything together in more than ten weeks?” you mumble.
you used to go on dates almost every week. satoru was as spontaneous as it got – any day that you spent with him was almost a guarantee of nothing not going to plan.
it meant going to the beach in the middle of the night, an unplanned road trip on your day off, and everything in between.
or it used to mean that.
satoru pauses for a second, almost like he’s milling over the thought, as he rubs circles into the side of your bicep.
“it’s just been a while since it’s been just you and me.” satoru notes.
you sigh. you suppose you worded it wrong the first time.
toji fushiguro dying unknowingly put a damper on your relationship.
because he left megumi and tsumiki in your wake and two kids – two kids that you had done nothing to prepare for – can and most certainly did turn things upside down.
it meant that satoru had to work more at the school, that you having any sliver of free time was less, and that the amount of stress you had was through the roof.
the two of them came with their own special resort of problems – of things that you couldn’t help but worry about.
megumi wasn’t too fond of satoru. they had their rare moments, but there was something about him that was extremely closed off, to everyone, but to you a little less. and to satoru, extremely so.
his requests to you always came in quietly, asking you to stay next to him until he fell asleep, to forgive him for fighting at school all the time, to promise to never leave him. on the flip side, his irritation with satoru was something that he made sure everyone was aware of.
tsumiki was very fond of satoru, but she was of most people. sometimes it felt a little obsessive that way – the way she was a little bit too close to her friends at school, the teacher in her class, and satoru.
he thought it was sweet, and at most times you were inclined too as well, but the obsession with being so close all the time was concerning.
and possibly even more than that, that most of the things you saw felt like they were a figment of your imagination, because satoru was so blind to their plight.
he didn’t worry about them as much as you did. but sometimes it felt like he didn’t see exactly what it was that you saw – tsumiki awkwardly pushing her food around the plate, red scratches all over megumi’s arms towards the end of the week, and matching pairs puffy eyes when they came down for breakfast in the morning.
though it wasn’t entirely his fault either. because by some turn of luck, every time they were around him they smiled – laughed at his dumb jokes, turned their nose up at the impressions he did of all of their teachers, and snuck into his classroom between periods to get snacks.
satoru pokes at the side of your temple.
“don’t feel too bad now. i know this entire thing has been stressful. especially for you.” he murmurs.
you shrug.
“you seem to be taking it just fine.” you note.
satoru shrugs.
“i can tell that most of your stress comes from what they’re doing at school. who megumi is fighting with, tsumiki’s friends – i can’t really relate to that because i’m right there with them. granted, tsumiki is two classes up, but her teacher gives me updates all the time.” satoru responds.
you give him a quiet nod.
“and since i’m there, i can tell you that they’re fine. he hasn’t fought with anyone in a few weeks now. and tsumiki is really excited to go to this dance.”
you groan.
“that dance you signed me up to chaperone for?” you groan.
“the very same. it’ll be fun.”
you curl your nose in disgust.
“spending my very limited free time giving snacks to a bunch of sweaty kids and asking them to not grind on each other isn’t my idea of fun, satoru. and some of your co-workers freak me out.”
satoru elbows you in the side.
“suguru will be there. and plus, it’ll be good for me. you’ll be my date.” satoru responds.
you lean back against the headboard.
“you didn’t even ask me to the dance.”
“it’s sadie hawkins, y/n. girls ask boys, silly.” he responds, flicking at the softness of your cheek.
you sigh, before turning to him and giving a smile. his hair is slightly damp from the shower he just took, skin still soft from the warmth of the shower. and it’s the thing that you worry about most.
you’ve slipped away from him because he let you. that you neglected him because of the kids, but at some point, he became so accustomed to it, that it didn’t even bother him anymore.
“are you going to go to the dance with me, satoru?”
he gives you a glimmering smile.
“i thought you’d never ask peach.”
--
satoru marks it with a big pink heart on the calendar the next morning.
“what’cha looking at?” you ask, placing your hands on the tops of both of their heads and ruffling their hair.
“the heart.” megumi states.
you hum in response, crouching down to be level with their heads. megumi welcomes the touch, leaning back against your knees, as tsumiki nestles her face in the crook of your neck.
“it’s for the dance.” you respond.
megumi groans.
“does that mean miss miwa is going to come over to our house for dinner?” megumi asks.
you frown.
“and why would miss miwa come to our house for dinner?” you ask.
you would rather die than invite miss miwa over to dinner.
kasumi miwa was tsumiki’s seventh grade teacher who you had the displeasure of meeting three times, each in the worst possible circumstances.
masked in faceforward politeness and her flashy personality, she had no reservations in correcting you each time you made a mistake when it came to the kid. that pick-up time was at two-thirty, not three-fifteen, that the projects were due at the end of the month, that the formal uniforms were for wednesday and wednesday only.
tsumiki was overly fond of her, satoru had nothing but good things to say about her, and megumi wasn’t a fan – but that was the norm, so you didn’t think much of it and kept it to yourself.
your sneaking suspicion about her were ones that you kept to yourself. and one that you didn’t even have time to worry about anyways.
“isn’t that what you do when you take someone to a dance? eat dinner together before?” megumi asks.
“who is taking miss miwa to the dance?” you ask.
“gojo, obviously.” tsumiki responds, shuffling away from the calendar to her seat on the dining table.
you can feel the muscles in your shoulder tense, a terse stiffness in your neck as you ponder over the thought.
megumi follows suit and you trail behind the two of them, keen to poke for more details. you note that tsumiki’s already made a mess of the food on her plate by swirling it around, as you take a seat in between them.
“and why would gojo obviously be taking miss miwa to the dance?” you ask.
“because he’s her work husband.”
you narrow your eyes at her, gesturing for her to explain.
“you’re his home wife. well, i know you guys aren’t actually married, but you’re his person here. and miss miwa is his work wife. she’s basically like what you are to him, but just at school.”
you sigh, as you reach for the glass of orange juice and down it in one go. megumi spares you a weird glance, before miwa continues.
“tsumiki.” megumi states, voice cautionary as he flits his eyes at you.
she misses the hint entirely.
“he eats breakfast with you, but lunch with her. and they’re planning the entire dance together so they spend a lot of time together. she even gets him coffee in the mornings.”
so that’s why he stopped asking you to make it for him.
it’s right at that moment that satoru shuffles into the kitchen, his tie hanging around his neck, as he scoots closer to you on the chair. it’s a chaste kiss that he presses to your cheek, before eating, and you can’t help but wonder.
was he so despondent because he had already found your replacement?
“you have to come by an hour early today. we’re having a meeting for the chaperones.” satoru states.
you give him a quiet nod as he leans back and you loop the knot through his tie. he gives you a glimmering smile as you tap the top of his shoulders, signaling that you’re done.
“save me a seat?” you ask.
“always.”
the thought doesn’t leave your mind the entire day.
--
you arrive thirty minutes early, an overly sweet coffee in your hand as a gift for satoru, as you make your way over to his classroom. the hallways are quiet, sparsely decorated lockers, as you turn the corner and enter his classroom.
only to find an absence of snow white hair and miwa excitedly scribbling on the board instead.
you knock on the door twice, watching as miwa turns over with a sickly sweet smile, and strolls over to where you’re standing.
“y/n. it’s so great to see you!” she states, wrapping her cold arms around you as she gives you an awkward embrace.
you spare her a polite smile.
“you too. how is tsumiki doing?”
“she aced her spelling test. she ran all the way over here to show satoru her result and took a whole picture with us to celebrate.”
satoru. you wondered when they had pranced into first name basis territory. if miwa ran over here with tsumiki each time, and how many pictures the three of them had taken together.
“that’s sweet. thank you for helping her out, that means a lot.” you respond.
“and thank you! you’re so sweet for helping with the dance. i know how busy you’ve been.”
you pause.
“what do you mean?”
“satoru just mentioned to me a few times that you guys haven’t had any time to yourself because of how busy you are.”
so he was talking about you to her too?
“yeah. things have been hard to adjust to with the kids and all and i’ve been putting in more hours at work to pay for the karate and piano classes and all that. but he understands.”
she slightly twitches her eye. you wonder if she does it on purpose.
“oh, of course he does. you’re doing very important work.”
you swallow hard.
“you too.” you respond.
“i mean, it’s just so rewarding. especially getting to be so close with students like tsumiki, after she lost her family so suddenly. i couldn’t imagine.”
you sigh.
“i mean. she lost her dad, but she still has a family.”
“of course she does! you’re putting in a great effort –”
it’s right at that moment that satoru walks in, eyes wide as he leans forward and presses a kiss to your cheek. you can still feel the tenseness simmering under your skin, misplaced anger for him festering in your head, as you offer him the drink..
“for me? you shouldn’t have.” satoru responds, exaggerating by placing a hand over his chest.
you shake your head as satoru wraps his arm around your shoulder, leading you to one of the desks right at the front. he shakes the coffee in front of you, as you deny the offer and lean forward on your chin.
“miwa and i are leading the meeting so i can’t sit with you. but i told shoko and suguru to sit right next to you, which is basically the same thing.”
you smile.
“shoko looks just like you! i can barely tell the difference.” you deadpan.
“don’t go kissing her now.”
“i make zero promises.”
satour gives you a glimmering grin.
right at that second, there’s three consecutive knocks at the door, accompanied with a set of spiky black hair at the door slightly peeking into the room.
“you can come in megumi.” satoru responds.
megumi drops his backpack at the door, fast steps dragging him to where you and satoru are sitting. he taps impatiently on your thigh, gesturing for you to pick him up, as you secure him into your lap and rest your head on top of his.
“always interrupting our alone time, aren’t you kid?” satoru jokes.
“and why are you not in class?” you ask.
“it’s passing period.” miwa answers.
you turn your head to where she’s standing – chalking assignments onto the board – as megumi sneers, giving her a very steady glare.
“why are you not in your class?” megumi asks.
“i’m leading the meeting with mr. gojo for the dance.”
“isn’t that meeting in twenty minutes? why are you here early?”
you lightly nudge megumi in the side, taken aback by his tone, as you turn towards miwa and giving her a polite smile.
“he doesn’t mind, he’s just not feeling well. please feel free to stay.” you respond.
“i was planning to.” miwa responds.
you ignore the strange response as you lightly tug at megumi’s ear, whispering in a hushed tone.
“i do mind.” megumi mumbles.
“well, you don’t tell people that. she isn’t doing anything, so just pretend like she’s not there.”
you sigh, turning to satoru and frowning. you know he gets the message, as he leans forward and pinches at megumi’s cheek.
“you’ve got to stop giving y/n so much stress, kid. she’s going to get an ulcer at this point.” satoru states.
“i could say the same thing to you.” megumi responds, in a matter-of-fact tone.
satoru looks up at you, a shadow of a smile on his face, as he crosses his arms over his chest and questions megumi.
“oh yeah? and how am i stressing her out, huh?”
“you have another wife.” megumi states.
you pinch at megumi’s elbow.
“another wife? i didn’t even realize that i had one to begin with.” satoru responds.
you give satoru a smile.
“tsumiki said that miss miwa is your work wife. and y/n doesn’t like that because she should be your only wife.”
satoru’s eyes widen, as he dramatically places a hand over his chest, before dropping to his knees and looking up at you.
“y/n, if you wanted me to marry you, you should have just said so. i’ll marry you right here, right now.”
you snort, turning to megumi, as you whisper in his ear.
“he’s completely crazy, right?” you ask.
“absolutely. i think you should cut your losses. you could do way better.”
satoru spares you a laugh, before reaching for megumi and tickling at his sides.
“you should cut your losses, kid. i’m revoking dessert privileges for attempted coercion”
megumi looks up at you, eyes expectant as he waits for corroboration. you shake your head, which earns you a playful smile from megumi, as he looks over at satoru and sticks his tongue out.
“oh come on. we’re supposed to be a team.” satoru whines.
“you haven’t pledged your allegiance. you and tsumiki ganged up on me the other night.”
“well, we had a valid reason. we should definitely get ice cream after dinner.” satoru states.
“not when it’s a school night and they have to wake up early next the day. you don’t want them to be late to class. again.”
satoru sighs, before placing his hands on his hips.
“speaking of class, you should be getting to yours. c’mon megs, i’ll walk you. say bye to y/n.”
you crouch down on your knees, giving megumi a pinch on the cheek, as he glares at you. he sticks his hand out, the tow of you doing your complicated and convoluted handshake, before megumi and satoru stroll out of the classroom.
“your relationship with megumi is very sweet.” miwa states.
you had almost forgotten she was there. you turn your head to find that she’s seated at satoru’s desk, pulling up slides for the projector on the computer, as you awkwardly rub your sweaty palms together.
“thank you. he’s just a little shy, that’s all. he didn’t mean to be rude earlier.” you state.
miwa hums in response.
“i hope you aren’t upset about the work wife thing. it was just a silly little inside joke that satoru, tsumiki, and i had come up with.”
you narrow your eyes at her.
“just because we spend so much time together. lunch, the development workshops, and emailing in between classes. we’re like attached at the hip so we just joked that we were married. but no foul play, of course.”
you sigh. then why did she feel the need to bring it up to you?
“of course.” you respond.
“i’m so glad that we could clear this up. i would hate to think you’re upset with me.”
you give her a nod, turning your head to the door as shoko and suguru trickle in, wide smiles on their faces as they turn to greet you.
it leaves a sour taste in your mouth.
--
three days later, you’re thirty minutes late to the meeting for the school dance. leaving the hospital late because the next nurse wasn’t there to get her report on time, getting stopped by every stoplight on the way to school, and circling three times for parking.
you sneak into the gymnasium, quietly making your way to the tables in the corner where suguru and shoko are seated, only to be stopped by a shrill voice in the air.
“y/n?”
you turn on your heel, giving miwa a clenched smile, as you feel your heart sink into your stomach.
did she need to look so perfect all the time?
“i thought that was you.”
“right, i apologize for being late. i was caught up with –”
“we were wondering where you were. they’ve been making such slow progress on the little take home favors that i was considering pulling satoru from doing the streamers with me because of it.”
the first name. again.
“right, it’s just that i was –”
“i do hope you can come on time to actually chaperone for the dance. that would be a disaster since we need to have a certain adult to child ratio to be in line with the district. you will come on time, right?”
“yes, i took –”
“good. i know that your job is important, but ours is too, you know? granted, you leave satoru’s kids here every day, and spending all day with them is just as demanding as working at a hospital.”
you sigh.
“satoru’s kids?” you ask.
she gives you a smile.
“what?”
“you said satoru’s kids.” you clarify.
“and?”
you pinch the bridge of your nose, feeling burning hot tears in your eyes, as you look up at her.
“they’re my kids too.”
“right, of course they are. you know i didn’t mean that.”
you sigh.
“honest mistake.”
you feel two hands on your shoulder, accompanied by a squeeze and the distinct smell of satoru’s cologne in your ears.
“hi sweetheart. you smell like bleach.”
“oh my god. i thought that was just me.” miwa responds, accompanied with a laugh.
you bite down on your cheeks.
“i was sanitizing the gurney. because our patient bled all over it.”
“don’t bring up blood. miwa here is going to start vomiting.” satoru jokes.
miwa leans forward, lightly shoving in his side, as he shoves right back.
“oh shut up. you feel the same way whenever i eat my fried rice.”
“the smell of soy sauce makes my stomach hurt.”
“god, you’re so weird, toru.” miwa responds.
you clear your throat, as the two of them look over at you with expectant eyes. satoru eyes hold no weight of suspicion or guilt in them – really nothing at all – and it makes your stomach hurt.
“i’ll be back. i just have to use the bathroom.”
“don’t get lost!” miwa responds, as you trudge your way down the hallway, dragging your feet against the floor.
you can feel the frustration building up in your chest.
the annoying part? you do end up getting lost.
you sit on the bench outside one of the classrooms, hiking your knees to your chest, as you press your forehead against your legs. it’s not long before you feel three taps on top of your head, only to look up and find suguru standing in front of you.
“miwa sent out a search party for you. she thought you might have gotten lost.”
you sigh.
“she works fast, doesn’t she?”
suguru snorts as he takes the seat next to you, digging into his pocket and digging out a lollipop. he holds it out to you, giving you an encouraging smile as you snatch it from his hand, and unrawp it.
“i thought you were going to offer me a cigarette.”
“i’m saving those for the night of the dance. i only use those when necessary.”
you laugh.
“save half of them for me. i’ll need those every time miwa decides to come over and talk to me.”
you lean back, sticking your head against the ridge of the window pane, as you immediately regret what you just said.
“sorry. i don’t mean to talk bad about her, i know she is your coworker and all but –”
“but she’s just so fucking annoying?”
you pause, leaning forward as you lower your voice.
“it’s not just me?” you whisper.
“you’re in a very large majority, y/n. she’s just…too much for some people.”
you frown.
“not for satoru. i don’t know if you heard, but she’s his work wife.”
suguru winces.
“you heard about that?”
“i’m slightly offended that you did and didn’t tell me right away.”
“didn’t seem like a good time. satoru was mentioning that you guys were kind of going through a rough patch.”
you pause.
“a rough patch?”
“are you not?”
“i mean, we haven’t spent time alone together, since we’re still getting used to the whole kids thing. i didn’t realize that he was telling you and miwa it was a rough patch. or that he was telling you and miwa anything.”
suguru leans back, placing a hand on your shoulder, as you pause – pondering over the thoughts, of every little detail that you had noticed. the nicknames, the lunches, the emails – maybe they were more serious than you had originally believed.
it eats at you when you and surugu eventually drag your legs back to the gymnasium. and as you make the little party favors, it’s the only thing that you can focus on.
that satoru holds onto her ankle to steady her when she stands on the ladder, that they have a secret handshake, that in the time that he didn’t spend with you, she was the one that was filling the space.
--
“we’re out of toilet paper. and dish soap. and if you’re going anyways, you should probably get laundry detergent.” satoru states.
he shuffles into the bathroom quietly, yanking his shirt over his head as he gestures for you to scoot over, reaching for his toothbrush in the cup.
“megumi also said that we shouldn’t eat spaghetti again. he’s starting to get really picky with what he eats.”
you sigh.
“i’ll get more chicken nuggets when i go then.” you respond.
satoru turns his head to the side, narrowing his eyes at you, as he sticks the toothbrush into the side of his teeth.
“are you good?”
“hm?”
“are you okay?”
you shake your head, reaching forward to spit the leftover toothpaste in your mouth, as you reach for the mouthwash.
“yeah, yeah.”
“miwa said that you looked really exhausted when you left. said she was worried about you.” satoru responds.
“i’m sure that she is.” you respond, noting that you can’t control the bitterness in your voice.
“hm?”
you sigh, slamming the cup down on the granite countertop, as you turn to him.
“do you always talk about me with your female coworkers? or is it just her?”
“what?”
you turn to glare at him.
“do you always discuss the grievances you have about me with miwa? about how i don’t have time for you, about how we’re going through a rough patch, and everything in between?”
satoru looks confused. you swear there’s a sense of irritation in his demeanor which wasn’t unexpected. he was defensive to his core.
“no. i don’t. but she’s just a friend. i just mentioned it to her here and there because she asked.”
“and why does she feel the need to ask about your relationship with me? that’s not normal. especially when she clearly likes you so much.”
satoru glares right back.
“are you insane? she doesn’t like me.”
“oh so now i’m insane. yeah, it’s totally normal for her to walk around pretending like the two of you are married and telling me that my kids aren’t actually mine and they’re just yours.”
satoru scoffs.
“oh come on. there’s no way that she said that.”
you scoff.
“so you believe her over me?”
“she wouldn't say that.”
“and you think i’m making it up? why the hell would i do that?”
satoru slams the toothbrush down on the counter, before leaning forward and sneering at you.
“because you want to blame me for what’s happening with us when it’s really you.”
you feel your heart drop in your chest.
“it’s me?”
“you work too much. you…every time you come home, you don’t even look at me. it’s all about how megumi’s being too picky with what he eats and tsumiki is getting too attached to her friends. those aren’t problems, and even if they are, you’re the one making them worse.”
you can feel your chest aching from the inside out.
“you were the one who told tsumiki that the hurt would go away if she was with her friends. she obviously is so obsessed with being around them all the time because she thinks that it’ll go away if she’s with them all the time. because you told her that. and megumi’s so spoiled and picky because you’re the one who tolerates every little thing he says. just because he asked you to sleep in his bed, it doesn’t mean you have to do it every time. you have to let him do some things on his own.”
you glare.
“and what about you, huh?”
“what about me?”
“since i clearly do everything so wrong, i must have been the one who pushed you right into her, didn’t i?”
satoru pinches the bridge of his nose.
“you know what, maybe you did.”
you look down at your hands, reaching down at the little scab on your finger as you angrily scratch at it, ignoring the bright red that starts leaking out of your finger. you look down at the ground, at your mismatched socks, as you barely choke the words out.
“maybe i should just leave then.”
satoru’s face drops.
“what?”
if satoru was defensive, you were proud.
“i’ll do you a favor and leave. tsumiki won’t get horrible advice, megumi won’t get coddled, and you…you won’t be disappointed because i won’t be here to do it.”
satoru immediately melts, reaching forward for your wrist, the grasp hard on your arm.
“peach. don’t be like that. you know i -”
“know you don’t mean it? because i had a sneaking suspicion that you…that you had been thinking that for weeks.” you whisper, noting the crack in your voice.
you ball your hand into a fist, jerking your hand out of his grasp.
“i don’t know what to say to tsumiki because…because i’ve never done this before. i don’t work with kids like you do and i just said what i was thought was best. it breaks my heart to say no to megumi because i’m scared he won’t even try to sleep if i don’t sit there with him. i know it scares him because toji was asleep when he died and…and sometimes i think he’s scared he’ll wake up and we’ll be gone too. and….and i don’t mean to neglect you but this entire thing is exhausting. i thought you were the one thing that would stay because i could trust you.”
“hey. of course you can trust me.”
“i’ve had enough, satoru. there’s…there’s nothing you can say to take back what you just said. you…you’re talking about another girl.”
satoru leans forward, placing both hands around your face, and squeezing hard. you note the slight glisten in his eyes.
“don’t say that.” he whispers.
“i’m going to leave.” you murmur.
all you want is him.
“and go where? we….we’re all here.”
“i’ll stay with shoko. just for a few days before we figure something out.”
“you…you can’t be serious, right?”
you’re not.
“i’ll still come to the dance since i promised you that. i’ll see you then, okay?” you state.
you’re not sure what makes your heart sink more. the fact that he said what he did or that he let you leave without chasing after you.
--
satoru notes that it’s a day and a half of chaos without you. and that he really hates it when you’re not around.
he doesn’t know how to iron tsumiki’s dress for the dance or do her hair. megumi won’t eat the pasta he made because it’s not the way that he likes it and he’s almost positive that you were right – that he really wouldn’t sleep through the night just because you weren’t there.
that without noticing it, you felt like the glue that kept everyone together. that tsumiki and megumi didn’t stress him out, only because you seemed to take care of that for him – used to fix everything perfectly, like a soothing bandaid on every issue that they had. that sleeping next to you used to seep the stress out of his joints, the sweet smell of your shampoo lulling him to sleep.
that he needed you around because he was scared to be without you.
“shoko.”
“yeah?”
“can you do me a favor?”
satoru sighs, as he turns over to her.
“i did tsumiki’s hair all shitty because i didn’t know how to do it. can you go fix it because i can tell she’s lying when she says she likes it?”
“why didn’t y/n do it?” suguru asks.
satoru pinches his lips together. you were upset that he was sharing your relationship details with other people. which is why he was determined to not do it again.
“she’s coming in from work.”
“god. when does she sleep?” suguru murmurs, as she walks across the room and gestures for tsumiki to come over to her.
satoru can’t help but feel miserable. only because he didn’t know the answer to the question. and that he was the only one that was so painfully blind to how tired you were.
“did you and y/n fight it out then?” he asks.
“what? no.”
suguru’s eyes widen.
“she’s got balls of steel. i can’t believe one person can have that much patience.”
“what are you talking about?”
“the stuff that miwa said to her. i figured she’d ask you to stop talking to her or scale back a little.”
satoru looks over, hands hard on his shoulders, suddenly too interested with the conversation.
“what did she tell you?”
“i mean…i don’t know. she said you and miwa were talking about how she smells like bleach? and the whole work wife thing, that megumi and tsumiki aren’t her kids.”
satoru can hear the blood rushing through his ears.
“what?”
“yeah. she didn’t mention it? she was pretty upset about it the day we all came here to set up, especially since work can be so demanding and all that.”
“she said that megumi and tsumiki aren’t her kids?”
“yeah. seemed pretty hurt by it. think it was the second time too.”
satoru stands eagerly by the table, switching the clipboards in their spots two, three, four times as he waits for the last thirty minutes to run out. until you had to show up, because you promised that he would.
and surely enough, five minutes before it hits the time, he hears a shrill voice from the stage, followed by the sound of thundering footsteps.
“y/n!”
satoru looks to his left, watching as megumi and tsumiki both excitedly run into your open arms, limbs wrapped around your legs as you reach down and soothe through both of their hair. he can’t help but trail up to where the three of you are standing, chest aching wholeheartedly, as he watches.
“did you miss me?” you ask.
“so much. gojo put butter in the pasta. and he spilled all the detergent softener in the laundry room so the smell gives us a headache.”
he notes that you frown at the mention of his name.
“and he did my hair all weird. shoko was trying to fix it, but i couldn’t find the clips that we were going to use to match the dress.”
“don’t worry. i swung by the house and grabbed them, they were in my drawer.”
“where did you go?” megumi asks.
you smile.
“sorry for leaving so abruptly, kiddo. i was having a sleepover.”
“adults have sleepovers?”
“no. but i’m just cool like that.” you murmur.
the two of them grin, laughing at your joke, as you reach forward and put your hands around their wrists.
“satoru’s trying. don’t be so mad at him. it’s not his fault that he has the cooking intuition of a newborn baby. and he can barely do his own hair, it was kind of silly of you to expect that he could do yours.”
satoru can’t help but laugh. but it’s the sound of his voice, he assumes, that draws your attention away, as you finally look to your left and look up at him. he can’t help but give you a halfhearted smile, one that you nod at, as you stand up.
“i’m going to give satoru a stern talking to about butter and hairspray. i’ll come fix your hair after, okay?”
“give him hell.” megumi responds.
you watch as the two of them run off, before turning over to satoru and giving him a smile. it’s almost like he reaches forward to touch you, before he thinks twice and drops his hand. you look down, twisting the silver bracelet – the one that he gave you – on your wrist, as you take a deep breath.
“you still don’t know how to do your tie.” you note.
satoru laughs, looking down at the loose knot hanging around his neck. he can’t help but delight in the fact that you reach forward, loosening the mess he made as you properly tie it for him – the way you did every morning.
“never learned how to do it so you’d always do it for me.”
you stifle a laugh.
“satoru.”
“i can’t do anything without you, you know?”
it feels like he’s talking about more than just the tie.
he must sense the hesitation, because he changes the topic just as fast.
“i love the dress. you look beautiful.”
“thank you. i bought it for our…”
“third anniversary. i remember.”
you smile.
“i remember what we did after more, but…” satoru whispers.
you reach forward and shove him.
“we’re at a school.”
satoru smiles. and for a split second, it feels like nothing had happened at all.
“too much butter makes megumi’s stomach hurt. and you really should have asked me to come do her hair.” you state.
“would you come if i asked?”
you swallow hard.
“hm?”
“would you come back if i asked you to?” he asks.
“would you even ask?” you respond.
satoru pauses.
“what?”
“when i left, i…i thought that you’d chase after me. i…i wanted you to chase after me. but i understand that now things are kind of fraught between us and that you might –”
satoru feels the regret seep through him immediately
“i was trying to give you your space.” satoru states, interrupting.
“hm?”
“i thought that i’d push you farther away. of course i’d chase after you.”
“it’s so nice to see you, y/n. did you sign in?”
you turn to your left to find miwa standing there, hair perfectly secured around her face with glittering earrings hanging from her ears. you wonder if the shade of blue her dress was intentional, if it was meant to match her eyes so perfectly, as you smile at her.
satoru notes the horrible timing. and that he hates her dress.
“hi miwa. you look beautiful.”
“so do you. did you sign in and start marking the wristbands when you came in?” miwa repeats, tone insistent.
“she was talking to me.” satoru responds, tone harsh as he responds.
“hm?” miwa asks, tilting her head to the side in confusion as she looks up at him.
“my girlfriend just got here. she was obviously talking to me.” satoru responds again, tone unflinching.
you note that her eye twitches the slightest as she steps back.
“of course. just get to it when you can, since you know, people will be here soon.”
“i’m going over there right now actually. i’ll leave you guys to it.”
“hey, wait. i’ll catch up with you after, miwa.” satoru responds, his hand extended as he gestures for you to wait.
you watch as miwa shuffles away, slithering to the other side of the room, and there’s a burning, aching desire in your chest.
to tell satoru that she wore that dress to match his eyes, for the two of you to laugh at how crazy she was. you wondered if he would even find it funny.
“yes?”
satoru looks down, reaching for the bag underneath the table, as he lifts it up.
“i brought my windbreaker for you. it’s supposed to rain tonight.” satoru states.
you smile.
“i kind of tore apart your entire closet looking for it. and if i remember correctly, you did indeed say that it was mine now since i wore it more than you.” you admit.
satoru smiles right back.
“i also got you a corsage, peach. since you’re my date and all.”
satoru pulls out a little plastic box, as you note the little white flowers encased in the baby blue ribbon. you can feel your chest aching, a burning sensation, as you reach in your own bag, pulling out the matching corsage that you had ordered a week prior.
“you had to have cheated. did you look in my email?” you ask.
satoru shakes his head.
“i know you like orchids. and you’re so on the nose that you’d get one to match my eyes.”
you shove him in the side.
“you love that corny type of thing.”
satoru smiles, before looking over at miwa and then back at you.
“only when you do it.”
you smile as you both exchange the boxes, fixing the flowers on each other, before quietly walking away from each other.
--
you sneak away from the dance without satoru noticing. you catch the perfect moment, when satoru and miwa are stuck in an animated conversation near the dance floor, and slip through the door at the front.
you clearly don’t go too unnoticed, because the following day, you wake up to a plethora of texts from suguru and shoko.
[shoko]: Left for work already, but Satoru yelled at Miwa last night after you left.
[suguru]: IT WAS BAD
[shoko]: Did he really say that Megumi and Tsumiki aren’t your kids? That’s horrible.
[suguru]: HE WAS LIKE YELLING OUTSIDE. GOING ON ABOUT HOW YOU’RE HIS GIRLFRIEND, HOW SHE HAD NO RIGHT TO MAKE YOU FEEL LIKE SHIT, ABOUT HOW HE WANTED NOTHING TO DO WITH HER
[shoko]: Oh, by the way. He’s like still on the porch. Sat through the rain last night and everything waiting for you. Think he was pounding on the window at some point and screaming but the rain was pretty loud.
[shoko]: Said something pathetic like he loved you or something.
[shoko]: Anyways, I left them out there for you to deal with.
that’s the next that gets your attention. you quietly pad to the door, swinging it open to find him sitting on the ground, half asleep against his knees with the corsage crumpled in his hand. you reach down, shaking at his shoulder to lightly nudge him awake.
“satoru. don’t tell me you sat out here in the rain.” you whisper.
he blinks a few times, the sleep still heavily lidded in his eyes, as he reaches forward, a cold hand against your warm cheek.
“chasing after you. not going home without you.” he mumbles.
you sigh.
“maybe come inside first, romeo. you’re going to catch a cold.”
you reach for his hands, lightly pulling up, and dragging him inside as he takes a seat on one of shoko’s chairs. you crank the heater up, putting a cup of milk on the stove for hot chocolate, before shuffling back over to him – noting that he’s slightly more awake now.
“i was knocking. and i’m pretty sure i was banging on the window at point, but i guess you didn’t hear me.”
“the rain was loud, satoru. i would have let you in if i had known.”
“gave you a whole spiel. it was really good too, about you know…us.”
you smile.
“us?” you question.
he doesn’t laugh.
“yeah. us. about how much i need you. how much i love you.” satoru responds.
you note that there’s a rasp in his voice.
“you’re getting sick, satoru.”
“i know you don’t want me to leave. i know you want to come back.”
you sigh. were you that obvious?
“did you yell at miwa?”
“did she really say they weren’t your kids?”
“maybe.”
it’s enough to set satoru off because he’s pushing off the chair, cold hands and wet clothing pressed to your face as he envelopes you in his embrace. you can still smell the faint whisper of his cologne, the smell so sweet it makes your stomach hurt, as he clenches harder.
“sweetheart, why wouldn’t you tell me that? i’d fucking yell at her then and there.” satoru whispers.
you frown.
“she’s your work wife. tsumiki like…loves her. i can’t just talk bad about her.”
“yes. you can. you could talk shit about my dead grandmother if she pissed you off. you could tell me anything if it was upsetting you.”
you frown.
“and you could have told me instead of everyone you knew that we were going through a rough patch. i know that you mentioned that you were upset we didn’t have time together, but…but i didn’t realize that i was letting you down so much.”
satoru reaches forward, titling your head up to face him.
“you didn’t let me down. i was being….”
“you’re just saying that because i left. if i was still there fighting with you…you…you’d have even more to say to me. about how how i worry too much, about how i don’t love you enough, about…”
“y/n.” satoru whispers, almost whining.
you push away from him.
“i made you hot chocolate. i think you’re getting sick and that you should go home and rest. also shoko would hate to see you bringing your wet mess in here.”
you push out of his embrace, tasking yourself with pouring the hot chocolate into one of her tumblers, before placing it in front of him. he ignores it entirely, reaching forward to make himself level with you.
“you know i’ll be waiting for you. i’ll be right on the other side of the door waiting to open it if you want to come back.”
“okay.”
“yeah? don’t…don’t hesitate to come back home, please. it’s not home without you.”
you give him a nod, lifting the tumbler and placing it in his hand and gesturing for the door.
--
satoru hears three consecutive knocks not even an hour after. he all but tumbles down the stairs, nearly slipping as he reaches for the knob, to find exactly what it is that we wanted to see.
the jacket pulled over your head, bright red eyes staring at him, and warm tears pouring out of your eyes.
you.
“satoru?” you mumble.
he can feel his heart drop at the tears and the crack in your voice.
“yes, peach?”
you note how soft his tone is.
“are you sick?” you ask.
satoru smiles.
“had a fever last i checked.” satoru responds.
he’s not sure what it is, but it sends the tears down your eyes faster, as you all but reach forward and burrow your face into his chest. satoru returns the favor, reaching down to rest his chin on the top of your head as he rubs circles into your back.
“it’s not cancer. i’m sure i’ll live.”
he pauses.
“sweet girl. what’s got you so upset?”
satoru notes that you make no inclination of responding, as he pulls back and gestures for you to wrap your arms around his neck. he scoops his free arm around your legs, steadily carrying you up the stairs as you heave in the sweet smell of his shampoo, warm tears still landing on his more pale than usual skin.
“are you really sick?” you ask.
satoru spares you a quiet laugh as he sets you down on the bed, peeling the jacket from your arms before digging through the fresh laundry for your pajamas.
“maybe take a shower first. you’ll feel better.”
you frown as you push off the bed, your cold hands on his burning hot arms as you look up at him. this couldn’t wait.
“i lied earlier. there’s a lot you could do to make things right.” you whisper.
satoru smiles.
“i know. i fully intend to do all those things too.”
you sigh.
“i want to stay in the rough patch. and…and even be here with you if we fight everyday. and you're sick and it breaks my hear tthat no one is here to take care of you.”
“i have no intention of fighting with you when you’re right.” satoru responds.
“you can’t just…”
satoru pauses, holding his hand up.
“i shouldn’t talk to my co-workers about you. and you…you’re right. i do think that she likes me and that’s why she’s felt the need to be so rude to you all the time. i’m sorry if it ever felt like i was siding with her, but you have to know, the only thing i really want is you.”
satoru sighs.
“tsumiki follows your advice so keenly because you’re so put together. she can’t really come to me with that stuff because you’re the one she looks up to. and megumi really doesn’t sleep when you’re not around, but of course, you’re the one who knows him better, who knows all of us better, to think ahead like that. and i love that you’re put together for them, but you don’t have to be for me. i want to know everything that bothers you because you…you’re my responsibility.”
“well, i –”
you pause.
“i don’t want to upset you again.”
“well, run away all you want. i’ll follow you anywhere you go. i had every intention to come wait outside of shoko’s apartment again at seven. every intention to do it every day until you came back."
“i wouldn’t make you do that.” you respond.
you swallow hard, before reaching for both of his hands, and lifting them to your lips to press a kiss to his knuckles.
"if you don't want to upset me, don't leave again. i'll do it, but i don't want to wait outside of shoko's door for you."
“i’m proud, but not proud enough to make you wait like that. i followed you five minutes after you drove away.”
satoru smiles.
“i left because….because i wanted you to chase after me, just so i knew that you still wanted me. it’s immature but…”
“no. it’s not.”
“i just…i don’t know how to explain what i was thinking but i…”
satoru leans forward, hands knotted behind your waist as he pulls you closer, searing warm lips pressed against yours as you lean against him. you can still taste the remnant of the chocolate on his lips, noting the cut on the right side of his lip.
maybe you don’t have to explain at all.
“have you been biting your lips?” you whisper, forehead flush against his as you brush your nose against his.
“was nervous you wouldn’t come back.” he murmurs.
you lean forward again, placing your hands on his burning hot face, as you feel the wetness spreading on his cheek. you lean back, wiping it away just as fast, before the door creaks open.
tsumiki and megumi are standing at the door, bright smiles on their faces, as they run up and tangle themselves between your legs. you lean against satoru, running your hand through megumi’s hair as you look up at them.
“is your sleepover over? we’re starving here without you.”
you stifle a laugh.
“yes. it is.”
you and satoru crouch down, his hand steady across your waist as you pinch at both of their cheeks. satoru leans to the left to press a kiss to your cheek, an action both tsumki and megumi copy, as you lightly pull them off.
“we missed you.” tsumiki responds.
“i missed you more.”
“are you happy after your sleepover? are we normal now?” megumi asks.
always the perceptive one.
you look over at satoru, granting him a gleaming smile.
“yes. i am.”
“oh thank god. satoru was getting sad too.” tsumiki responds.
you turn over to him and grin.
“take notes, kids. happy wife, happy life.”
--
an: ignored the voices and decided to post something! please me nice I was like fighting demons. anyways.
taglist: @invisible-mori @porridgesblog @k0z3me @sugu-love @yihona-san06 @bsenpai @sweetenertea @skzismyhome @mykyoon @violetmatcha @rebeccawinters @luna0713hunter @shotenvinsoot @itzmeme @gojoswifeyyys-world @cutiejg @chilichopsticks @torureadz @dreamxiing @mamamamamarga
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