Satoru Gojo Fluff - Blog Posts

THIS WAS SO ADORABLE I LOVED EVERY SINGLE SECOND OH MY GOSHHH!!! im gonna go hunt for more long gojo fics.

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 The sagging porch, the outdated wiring, the kitchen that hadn't been updated since the 1970s — these were all problems you could tackle with enough time, money, and YouTube tutorials.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.

Shit hits harder than fentanyl 🙏🏻

❝ 𝐑𝐔𝐌𝐎𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐈𝐓 𝐌𝐘 𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔 (𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐈 𝐃𝐎 𝐓𝐎𝐎) !! ❞

❝ A LOVE TRIANGLE GONE RIGHT ?! REPORTING FROM THE SET OF THE HIT SHOW JUJUTSU KAISEN ! ❞

✧ pairing: actors!satoru gojo and suguru geto x actor!reader

✧ summary: rumors swirl about a love triangle between you and your two heart throb co-stars on the set of jujutsu kaisen. except in this case, you and your two co-stars are happily dating. but what happens when you get casted in a movie where they want you to have a PR relationship with your co-star? especially when your boyfriends find out who it is—

✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, a lot of smut, no curses, modern au, jjk is a tv show, actor au, yes the actors and characters have the same names lol, reader is dating both of them, funny interview hijinxs, this is kind a lot of crack, jealous! gojo + geto, sukuna is here lmao, innuendos, oral (f + m), fingering (f! receiving), handjob (m! receiving), semi-exhibitionism, face sitting (f! receiving), multiple positions, multiple orgasms, sex (p in v), double penetration, creampie, multiple rounds, swearing, fanart by @ / _3aem

✧ wc: 17,900

“Reporters say the love triangle between the actors Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto and their co-star has become even more shrouded in mystery than the show itself!” an influencer reports on your social media of gchoice that morning, nearly vibrating from assumedly her three espressos, “the stars of Jujutsu Kaisen, the fantasy horror drama series written by Gege Akutami have been embroiled in dating scandals over the last few weeks—“ your phone’s notifications cut the audio from the video for a moment until you switch it to silent, “after being spotted leaving Suguru Geto’s loft just two nights ago, she was then seen having a lunch rendezvous with Satoru Gojo—“ 

You lock your phone, rubbing your temples, as the device nearly had an aneurysm from your social media notifications — buzzing itself off your dining room table and into an early death. Your agent was going to have a field day with this, and the main event is going to be your murder. 

“What are they saying about us now?” Suguru sighs, as he emerges out of the shower in only a towel wrapped around his waist, steam rolling out of the bathroom, as you offer him a coffee, his fingers brushing yours as he takes a sip, “my agent is demanding I call him— and I’d like to know what we’ve done now before he kills me,” he says, though he continues to sip his coffee nonchalantly, unbefuddled by the thought of his death. 

“Oi oi, calm down, shouldn’t you be more upset at the reporters than me?” Satoru comes from the bedroom, “Nanamin, just take care of it. Tell them we’re just friends if they ask you — do me a favor and pay off the reporter who got a picture of us kissing—“ and you nearly snort at the thought of Nanami Kento doing any sort of favor for Satoru. 

“You let him kiss you?” Suguru raises an eyebrow, a smirk on his lips, as your cheeks burn, rolling your eyes. 

“Not so much ‘let’ as he just kissed me without a second thought,” you shake your head, drinking your coffee as Satoru continues to bicker with Nanami, “I told him I thought I saw paparazzi but—“ 

“Satoru is do first, ask questions never,” Suguru sighs, but still the smirk remains, as he leans closer to you, his large palm against the back of your chair, “you never let me kiss you in public,” 

And you’re resisting the urge to bite your lip, “You know better — look at what Satoru’s done now—“ 

“And was it worth it, Princess?” Your mind wanders to the kiss — Satoru’s hand against the nape of your neck, his lips sliding against yours, the faint taste of the strawberry cake he had for dessert lingering on his tongue and now yours, and the sticky heat that settled over your body from the too humid night air and his warmth leeching onto your skin, and the eyes watching his need for you made it all the more—

“Maybe,” you mumble, choosing to sip at your drink as Satoru cut off your conversation with his own. 

“Just deal with it, Nanami, that’s why I hired you after all, huh?” He earns a swear from Nanami for the claim that he ‘hired’ him in any way whatsoever, and then his lips curl. “No they aren’t here with me—“ the bespectacled man shouts from the other line, “eh? What do you mean I look and sound like a man who only lies?” And then he’s hanging up, running a hand through his hair, a pout on his lips, “I was supposed to wake up to the two of you, not Nanami’s tirade,” he groans, as he makes his way over to you, only to wrap his arms around you from behind. 

“Well, it is your fault, Satoru,” Suguru smirks over the rim of his cup, “someone couldn’t keep their hands to themselves—“ 

“Jealous, Suguru?” he replies, as he presses a kiss to your neck, “jealous that our princess is much more affectionate with me,” 

Suguru cuts you off, “more like she babies you,” and Satoru’s face sours into a scowl, “if she had stayed at my apartment for the week, this wouldn’t have—“ 

“And then they would have seen me coming to your place, and what good would that do?” 

“Guys—“ you try to speak, but you’re cut off again. 

Suguru tilts his head with a small grin, “Are you lonely? Why don’t you find someon—“ 

“Stop, guys,” you couldn’t take this bickering this early in the morning, though you had grown used to it, “we have bigger problems to deal with than your egos,” you sigh, rising from Satoru’s grip even as he pouts, “we have to be more careful,” 

“But how? We’ve already cut down our appearances together for behind the scenes and even stopped going out for dinner or dates,” Satoru pouts, running a hand through his hair, “next thing you’ll want to break up,” 

“That’s not gonna happen,” you flick Satoru on the forehead, “but we have to do something, otherwise our agents will have us murdered,” 

“And Nanami will join them for sport,” Suguru adds, and you snort, finally finishing your drink, before he walks over to you, fingers under your chin, “so what’s your idea, sweetheart?” 

“Just take a break for a few weeks until the public finds something else to fixate on,” you sigh, “while the episodes air, all we’re going to get is more attention,” 

“We could just take a trip,” Satoru offers, “I own a private island—“ 

“Of course you do,” Suguru says, and Satoru only chuckles. 

“Being envious doesn’t become you, Suguru,” the snow haired actor clicks his tongue at him, before he’s pulling you into his arms, “we could go for a few days, get away from all the noise,” 

“It’s a good idea, but you’re forgetting one thing, Satoru,” Suguru tilts his head, “won’t they notice if we all go on vacation at the same time?” 

“Plus we have interviews to do in the coming week,” you remind Satoru, and he’s sighing, burying his face in the crook of your neck, “but maybe we can go after?” 

“Unless you get that role,” Satoru mumbles against your skin, pressing sweet kisses to the nape of your neck, “have you heard anything yet?” 

You shake your head, a sigh stuck in your throat, “It’s a long shot. This is such a big role and it’s for the lead,” and Suguru is finding his way to you, warm fingers cupping your cheek. 

“They would be lucky to have you — do you know how many people say you were their favorite character? They were ready to fight me and Satoru for you,” he adds with a chuckle, lips ghosting over the swell of your cheek, “I think they would beat us with sheer numbers,” 

“Nah, I’d win,” Satoru says, and you snort, rolling your eyes, “but he’s right princess, how crazy would they have to be not to cast you?” 

“There’s so many other talented people up for the role—“ 

“There’s always going to be someone else,” Suguru cuts you off gently, as his fingers find yours, lacing with yours so perfectly you wondered if it’s what they were made for, “but that doesn’t mean you’re any less valuable or incredible,” 

“And you’re already far more talented than you give yourself credit for,” Satoru adds, “but when do you get the role, inevitably,” Suguru smirks at him, “when would shooting begin?” 

“Probably just after our press wraps for season two,” you lean into their touch, “they still haven’t casted the two leads, but apparently both are down to the final audition,” and you’re pressing nosing Satoru’s cheek, before pressing a chaste kiss to Suguru’s nose, “and that’s why we’ll have to cool it for the next few weeks, ok?” 

But you don’t — or rather they don’t. 

“Who is Satoru Gojo’s…” Satoru rips off the tape off the cardboard printout of Googled questions, “favorite actor to work with?” 

“We all know the answer to that,” Suguru replies with a sigh, his eyes sliding to you, and you roll your own. 

“Look who’s talking — these two are obsessed with each other,” and Satoru has a shit eating grin, sitting back and watching the two of you argue, “the two of you are soulmates — and I’m not talking about your characters,”

“Don’t go there,” Suguru scoffs, and you tilt your head, lips curling, as your gaze meets his. 

“Are you begging?” and you can’t help the way your tone bites back, falling far over the line of playful teasing and into blatant flirting, and you can only hope the camera plays off the dark glint in Suguru’s gaze as he smirks as teasing rather than what you know it is — lustful. 

“You’re both wrong anyway,” Satoru cuts in, “obviously my favorite actor to work with is Megumi!” 

And you and Suguru both snort, words falling from your lips in unison, “Poor Megumi,” 

“Ehhh? What do you mean by that?” And Satoru smacks you both playfully with the piece of cardboard an intern probably painfully put together before tossing it away. 

“What happened to Suguru Geto….” in Jujutsu Kaisen?” Suguru reads. 

“Dead,” you and Satoru answer in unison, and Suguru raises an eyebrow. 

“You both are a walking spoiler,” and you gape at Suguru. 

“They asked, and he’s the spoiler warning — he read ahead and told me that his character—“ and Suguru covers your mouth, looking the camera dead in the eye. 

“You’re welcome—ow!” And he pulls his hand away, “did you just bite me?” 

“You weren’t complaining last night,” Satoru says, earning a whack to the face with the cardboard printout from Suguru, “when you tried to steal her snacks—“ 

And you weren’t really helping either. 

“Do you think of yourself as a heartthrob?*” You ask Satoru, hooked up to a lie detector, the polygraph examiner studying the results closely, as Suguru didn’t bother biting back his smile. 

“Well, I wouldn’t say I’m not—“ 

“It’s a yes or no question, Satoru,” you cut him off as he sighs dramatically, running a hand through his snowy locks. 

“Then I’ll have to say yes,” and he’s winking at the camera, and you’re snorting, looking at the lie detector reader. 

“It’s the truth,” he says simply and the examiner nods, and you scoff, as Satoru only pouts at you. 

“Have you ever,” Suguru lets a chuckle escape his lips, “look at fan accounts for yourself? I can answer this one, yes he does, I’ve watched him do it—“ 

Satoru scoffs, doubling down, “can you blame me? My fans do such wonderful edits—“ 

“And inflate your ego to a catastrophic size—“ and Satoru is reaching across the table to cover your mouth. 

“Be careful she bites,” Suguru warns, leaning back in his chair, as you grin against Satoru’s hand, and he shrugs, lips curling. 

“Don’t worry, I like it,” 

The examiner nods, “that’s the truth.” 

“We’ll start out tame,” you say, as you look at the list of thirst tweets in front of you and choosing one of the more…hinged ones, “Suguru Geto, I would let you kill me like the monkey I am, and I’d thank you for it,” and you show the tweet, “monkey emoji covering their face,” 

“That’s a tame one?” Suguru covers half his face with his hand, much like the emoji, “what the **** are the wild ones?” And you open your mouth to reply and he cuts you off, “I don’t want to know,” 

“Sweetheart, I’ll read one for you next,” and Satoru scans his list, and he clears his throat, holding out his hand to you, your name on his lips, “the only way I could die happy ever is if I suffocated when you sat on my face,” 

And heat climbs your face at his words, a single chuckle giving way to full laughter, “***, that’s a lot of pressure to put on me—“ 

“And on them,” Satoru adds, and you’re glaring at him only to dissolve into giggles, “I can't blame them. It wouldn’t be a bad way to go,” 

“It’s my turn,” Suguru scans the list and grimaces, “I don’t want to read this,” and then he runs his fingers through his hair and sighs, “I’d let Satoru Gojo **** me, spit in my mouth, and make my daddy issues worse, and I’d thank him for it, respectfully,” 

And you’re doubled over in laughter by the time he gets to the end of his monotone reading, while Satoru only grins at the camera, leaning against the table, as he pulls his sunglasses on only to tilt them down his nose. 

“I’m available.” 

No, this press junket did not help at all. 

“Fuck,” you grumble, propping yourself on your elbow, your knuckles pressed to your lips, “how are we still trending? Aren't there other things to talk about?” 

“Stop checking it, it’s only making you crazy,” Suguru sighs, collapsing next to you on the couch, his hand thrown over the top of the couch, before it slips down behind you, warm palm resting on your hip, “there’s nothing you can do,” 

“My agent said she’s definitely going to get news on whether I got the part tomorrow — and tomorrow is when the last episode of the season is airing, and when—“ 

“The scene with Kenjaku at the end, I know,” Suguru presses a sweet kiss to your forehead, “think I could pull off stitches?” He drags a finger across his forehead teasingly. 

“If you’re asking for a lobotomy, I always wanted to try doing one,” Satoru walks in from the shower, hair still damp, as he squeezes on your other side, “Princess, you can be my nurse, hm?” 

“Did you already have one?” Suguru bites back, and Satoru doesn’t reply, burying his face in the crook of your neck, “she’s still worried about tomorrow,” 

“Don’t you know there’s no such thing as bad publicity?” Satoru presses a sweet kiss to your neck. 

“Not when they’re speculating if I’m dating or cheating on one or both of you,” you shake your head, “what if the director thinks I’m a liability?” 

“If the director thinks you’re a liability after seeing your work and meeting you, then he’s clearly blind,” 

You flick his sunglasses down, “can you say that four eyes?” 

“Don’t you mean six eyes?” Satoru sticks his tongue out at him, and Suguru’s fingers find yours, laced hands against your thigh, “whatever happens, happens — you know your worth,” 

“And your worth is far too high for you — only I could afford it,” he wiggled his eyebrows, and you shove Satoru, but he grabs your wrist and pulls you against him, his lips grazing the soft skin behind your ear, “how much?” 

“For you? A billion dollars,” and his lips find yours in a kiss, lazy but warm, heat from his touch spreading like a flames carried by the wind. 

“That all? What a bargain,” Satoru pulls a breath away, his lips curled in a grin, only for Suguru’s fingers to cup your chin and make you turn around. 

Deep purple irises you grew lost in, his thumb dragging down your kiss bitten lips, “and for our princess?” He hums, lips grazing yours teasingly, “a steal,” 

“Well, you both stole my heart so you might as well have the rest,” and Suguru’s lips finally find yours in a real kiss, deep and full, until your mind is filled with nothing but him — and Satoru, whose  lips ghost over your shoulder and collarbone and hands slip under your shirt, warm palms against your far too heated skin, “fuck—“ you’re sighing, melting agaisnt them, “Sugu, Toru,” you’re whining already, drawing smirks to both of their lips. 

“Let us take care of you, sweetheart,” Satoru whispers, lips finding your earlobe and sucking at the sensitive skin, and Suguru pulls away from your kiss for a moment, a string of spit connecting your lips. 

“We’ll get your mind off things, Princess,” and his fingers tease the waistband of your shorts, “all night long.” 

And they do, they keep their promise — the three of you falling into bed in a jumble of limbs, and you forget until the next morning. 

And in the morning—you get the call, “okay, thank you,” you hang up, still between mussed sheets and arms wrapped around your waist, “I got it!” 

“Heh, I knew you would,” Satoru mumbles, burying his face in your side, “I’m so proud of you, baby,” 

“Hm? Proud of her for what?” Suguru murmurs, half asleep, black locks strewn around his head like a halo. 

“I got the role, Sugu,” you lean down and kiss his nose, and he’s grinning wide, fingers winding into the back of your head to pull into a kiss, “you’re looking at the leading actor of a movie,” 

“You’re going to be in demand now, Princess,” Suguru says, dragging a thumb down your lips, “will you still make time for us?” 

“Of course, always — you’ll visit me on set right?”

“You sure, sweetheart? Maybe you’ll be too busy for us,” Satoru leans up and presses a kiss on your neck. 

“Maybe for you,” and he’s pouting, and you lean down to kiss his pout away, and then you get an email, “oh it’s the casting sheet for the other roles,” you scan the list, “oh,” 

“‘Oh?’” Suguru raises an eyebrow. 

“The male lead, he’s someone we know,” you sigh, rubbing your temples, “and I’m already getting a headache,” 

Satoru furrows his brow, as the two of them lean over your shoulders to look — Satoru scowling and Suguru glaring at your screen, as they say his name at the same time — as if summoning him from the underworld. 

“Sukuna?” 

Ryomen Sukuna was both famous and infamous in the industry — famous for his portrayals of villains and antiheroes alike, ability to make you despise the enemy to the point of near or blatant admiration, and his skill of stepping into each role and taking it as his own. And he lives in infamy for, well, what happens between takes of the camera. 

“Look any longer and I’ll have you thrown off set, brat,” Sukuna says, without a glance at you, newspaper in hand as if he was pulled from thirty years ago, his phone seemingly laying discarded on a nearby. The P.A.s nearby cower a few feet away, trying to look preoccupied, as their terror has fully set in of this man. 

Or should you say monster?

“I see the stick up your ass makes you as pleasant as ever,” you mutter, and you don’t see that it earns you a smirk from him, his dark gaze takes over you, earning a glare from you, “now who’s staring?” 

He leans against the arm of his chair, “I was just noticing how lovely the view is without those two pests hanging on your every word,” and you’re rolling your eyes. 

“Jealous?” 

“Of your little throuple? No,” he smirks, rising from his chair, hands sliding into his pockets as he brushes by you, “because unlike those two,” he pauses, voice dropping to a whisper, “I know how to satisfy a woman on my own,” 

And you grit your teeth, holding your tongue — your relationship with Satoru and Suguru was a badly kept secret on the set or Jujutsu Kaisen, but it never was a problem — until now. 

You follow behind him, heading to the director’s trailer for your meeting before rehearsals began. 

“You want us to what?” 

“We spoke to your agents, and they agreed with us that it would be good publicity for the two of you to pretend to be a couple during the filming and leading up to production,” the director leans back in his seat, “it shouldn’t be a problem — the two of you have worked together before right?” 

You can’t hide your aghast expression in time, not before Sukuna glances at your face and sees the horror, and it puts a rare grin on his lips, “I’m in, what’s a little more acting?” 

You’re swallowing thickly, eyes flitting over Sukuna’s smug grin so fast you only hoped your gaze was sharp enough to cut,  “Can I please speak to you privately?” 

And Sukuna gets up from the edge of the table he leaned against, flashing you a wry grin, “see you out there, sweetheart,” and you wished you could rip out his heart and show him how very sweet you were — but you bite your tongue, waiting for the door to swing shut, “I—“ 

“Do you know part of the reason we choose you over the other actor vying for your role?” The director cuts you off, arms crossed over his chest, and you shut your mouth, shaking your head, “Jujutsu Kaisen has done tremendously this season — one of the most viewed shows across the world and do you know part of the reason?” and again you shake your head, “your P.R. stunts with Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto,” 

You knit your brow together — not your talent, your work, or art — but your boyfriends? “Your ability to have chemistry with the both of them have enticed the public and the number of times you’ve trended alone this season—“ 

Your fingers curl into fists, “With all due respect—“ 

“If you do this, the film will be a hit — i see you two already, there’s chemistry—“ 

You scoff, “more like a fucking bomb,” you mutter, running your fingers through your hair, “bottom line, do I have a choice?” 

“You do,” he says, arms crossed, “but so do I,” fuck, you grit your teeth. 

You emerge from the office, Sukuna waiting right outside, leaning against the wall right beside the doors,  “you fucking make this difficult—“ 

“And you’ll do what, brat?” his face twists with his frown, as he leans over, lumbering over you, “what do you think you could do to me?” And he’s clicking his tongue, the condescension rolling off of it, “director told us to play nice, so be nice,” his lips curl, “but I like you mean too,” 

He stalks off and you’re scrubbing a hand down your face. You were so fucking screwed. 

“You what?” Satoru’s mouth gaped at you, twisted in pure disgust, while Suguru only stared at you, as expressionless as Satoru was expressive, “and you agreed?” 

“She didn’t have a choice, Satoru—“ 

“That’s because the bastard didn’t give her a choice,” Satoru’s face twists again, this time in anger, brow furrowed, but lips in a sharp smile, “so why don’t we not give him a choice either?” Satoru is pulling his phone out. 

“What are you doing—don’t—“ 

“One call, and I’ll have this guy firing Sukuna—“ 

“And there goes any actors or directors who will want to work for me if these guys go off, and you know they will,” you shake your head, “I’ve run this — it’s either I do the movie or I don’t,” 

Suguru frowns, hands in his pockets, “What do you want to do?” 

Your face in your hands, “I don’t want to drop the movie because of this, I can’t—“ 

“Then you do it,” Satoru rubs the back of his head, and Suguru tilts his head at him, “and after you become the biggest star out there, I’ll take care of that director and Sukuna,” 

You and Suguru both snort, “Well that was verging on heartfelt,” Suguru shakes his head, “but he’s right, you can’t let two bullies kick you off your movie, you earned this role — and when you act circles around everyone else, you’ll have carried it too,” 

You wrap your arms around both of them, “How’d I get so lucky?” You murmur, and Satoru’s nose brushes against yours before meeting your lips, while Suguru kisses wet kisses against your neck, “encouragement and threats of violence,” and Satoru only grins, pressing a sweet kiss to the corner of your lips. 

“Anytime, sweetheart,” and Suguru rolls his eyes, before his arm slips around your waist. 

“And he really means anytime, last time you talked to Toji, he pouted for two hours,” Satoru glared at Suguru, while you laughed, pulling the snowy haired actor close. 

“It’s so cute when you’re jealous, Toru,” you kiss his chin, eyes sliding to Suguru, “but you’re terrifying,” 

“What are you talking about?” And Satoru chuckles, tilting his head. 

“You mentioned me during Toji? You nearly yanked our princess away from him,” and Suguru furrows his brow, lips a thin line, “maybe we should drop by during rehearsals,” 

You scoff, “Yeah that sounds like a terrible idea,” and Suguru’s arms are wrapping around you, “Sugu—“ 

“If we can’t spend as much time together, then we better make this time count, isn’t that right, Satoru?” 

“You’re right,” and Satoru’s hands slide under your baggy t-shirt, “better use all the time we have,” and as they lead you to the bedroom, your limbs entangled, you knew you weren’t sleeping that night. 

But you didn’t know that would be the last time you’d be sleeping with them at all for the next month. 

“You have to cut down the time you spend with anyone else — especially other men,” your agent told you, “that goes for Gojo and Geto too,” 

“Why is this role controlling everything in my real life too?” you mutter under your breath, “why does it matter we won’t get caught—“ 

“Like all the other times you didn’t get caught?” and your words leave you abandoned as no articulate response comes to mind, “it’s for a couple months. You can have them visit on set, you can still see them once a month, but not every day,” 

“But why—“ 

“Once a month reduces your chance of being seen with them exponentially over the next few months. Just deal with it. After this, you won’t have to put up with bullshit,” she hangs up, as you stare at your phone screen, squeezing it at the sight of Satoru and Suguru’s good luck texts — and why did it feel like you still always would have to keep putting up with bullshit? 

“Better not fucking cry. We have to pretend to fall in love in ten minutes — I would rather not be looking at something ugly this early,” Sukuna cuts into your thoughts, hands in his pockets, as he sips his coffee. 

Exhibit A. 

“We’re not shooting for an hour,” you were on set after getting ready, waiting for the weather to clear up for the shoot, and he gives a gruff chuckle

“Not that shoot.” 

“Looks like Sukuna not only has taken over Itadori’s body, but also the heart of one of Jujutsu Kaisen’s fan favorites,” you groan, earbud slipping out for a moment, just like your life was slipping, “the actress and co-star were spotted getting cozy off set before shooting had even begun for the day,” 

Oh what the fuck. 

You toss your phone away before falling back in bed, far too empty without Satoru and Suguru, only their pillows to keep you company as you twisted in the sheets. You had passed off your social media to your agent to handle — it was bad enough when you were caught in a love triangle with Satoru and Suguru, but now Sukuna? You can only imagine what people would say about you. 

And you didn’t need to see it to do that. 

But that wasn’t important. It was your day off, you turned over in bed, burying your face against your boyfriends pillows — nothing a nap couldn’t fix. 

Knock. Knock. Knock. 

Or maybe not. You slide from the arms of sleep reluctantly, already missing the warmth of the covers as the cold air hits your skin. You’re rubbing your eyes as you check who it is before opening it. 

“Satoru? What are you—“ and his arms are around you in a moment, your breath catching, “Toru—“ 

“You see what they’re saying online?” His gaze is stoic, lips a thin line. 

“We can’t—“ and he’s shutting the door before locking it, before he’s had you pressed against the wood, the grain dragging against your skin. 

“They said you two make the perfect couple,” he cups your chin, his breath warming your lips, “even more than me or Suguru—“ his hand slides against the swell of your hip, “a walk, a coffee? Was that all?” 

Your brow knits together “Of course, you know I would never—“ and his lips ghost over the juncture of your neck and shoulder, nosing at the soft skin of your neck, “Toru—“ you bite your bottom lip. 

“I know you wouldn’t, sweetheart, I know,” he says softly, “but I have to make sure he knows that,” his teeth grazes over your soft skin, “knows that you’re mine,” and his teeth digs into your soft flesh, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips, pain melting into pleasure, as your head lolls back against the door. 

“Toru, no I have rehearsals in a week,” you whine, but that just makes him soothe the blooming love bite with his tongue, “Toru—“ 

“Do you really want me to stop now, sweetheart?” he’s pulling your mouth open with his thumb, “your face says you don’t,” and his large palm slides down your body and into your shorts, the wet squelch and the brush of his fingers through the drenched fabric, “and your pretty cunt seems to agree,” 

“Toru,” you’re biting your lip, “fuck, you’re impossible,” and his mouth travels lower, as his other hand slides up under your shirt, squeezing your chest. 

“You’re the one who slept without anything under your clothes,” he murmurs in your ear, lips sliding against your jaw, nipping at the sensitive skin there, “you’re so wet already, hear that? Did you touch yourself thinking of us? Want us to fuck you that bad after a week?” his lips ghost over your jaw. 

“Fuck, you talk so much,” you’re pouting, thighs pressing together, but he’s pushing them apart, “why are you teasing me so much?” 

And he pauses, ocean blues stormy instead of the tranquil skies you’re used to, “Sukuna touched you. He got to hold you,” he’s pouting now, “that privilege is for us, and he got to so easily,” 

“I didn’t want him to,” and he’s nuzzling your neck. 

“Let me erase his touch,” and he’s lifting you with the practiced ease he always had. 

“Where’s Suguru—“ and you yelp as he playfully tosses you on the bed, pulling his shirt over his head with one hand, a grin as he watches you bounce. 

“He’ll be here later,” and he’s kissing up your body, thumbs hooking into the waistband of your shorts to pull them down, half lidded eyes with deep lust finding yours, “for now, you’re all mine.” 

“I-I can’t,” you’re whimpering, your hands clutching at Satoru’s back, fingernails digging crescents into his perfect skin, only hoping he doesn’t have a shirtless shoot tomorrow, but you barely can register that with three of his fingers in your pussy, “Toru,” 

How many times had you orgasmed? Six or seven at least — it was nearly second nature at this point. Satoru knew what spots to touch, where to press, how to move to have you writhing underneath him in a moment. He’s knuckle deep, spreading your walls as his thumb toys with your clit, drawing another moan from your lips. Your release soaked his fingers and sheets underneath, his fingers surely wrinkled from their time spent inside your walls. 

And by his smirk against the swell of your breast, he knew it. 

“Yes you can baby, I know you have one more f’me,” and you’re already so close, but you have been — it’s been a repeated coil winding and snapping over and over, and you’re nearly to tears, back arching as he plunges his fingers somehow deeper, “know this pretty pussy too well, look at the way you’re sucking me in,” your insides flutter around his digits again, the tips dragging against your walls, “practically begging me to fuck you more, sweetheart,” 

“I’ll say,” and your eyes barely can flit up to meet Suguru’s wry smile, corners of his lips curled, “I see you’re as impatient as ever, Satoru — started without me,” and he’s tugging his shirt over his head, “but at least you’ve gotten her ready for me,” 

“Sugu—“ and Satoru adds a fourth finger, stuffed full with him, drawing a gasp from your lips. 

“Don’t want you to say Suguru’s name when I’m the one pleasuring you,” Sstoru clicks his tongue, “wanna hear you moan my name, sweetheart, when I make you cum,” 

“You’ll have plenty of chances to moan my name,” you make a whining noise in the back of your throat, pleasure felt as if it had burned out your nerves, but it still was able to overload them, the throbbing in your cunt a telltale sign, “you g’nna cum, pretty? Use your words for me?” 

“G’nna cum—ngh, Toru,” you feel that familiar knot in the pit of your stomach, your walls wring his fingers as you cum, hard, your head thrown back against the pillow. And the squelch of your cunt rings in your ears, as he finger fucks you through your orgasm. 

“Fuck, she’s so pretty everytime she falls apart for us,” Suguru groans, as Satoru leans over to kiss you, “so good for us, Princess,” you only moan in reply, lost in the pleasure that still floods your body, as Satoru pulls his fingers from you. 

And your eyes catch a glimpse of Satoru licking his fingers clean, one by one, “Still the sweetest thing I’ve ever had,” 

“Don’t hog her, Satoru,” Suguru is pulling Satoru away, settling between your thighs, “you both made such a mess,” and you gasp, as his lithe fingers brush against your still too sensitive folds, spreading them only for your juices to slip out, “I’m always stuck cleaning up, but in this case,” he drags the flat of his tongue up your needy cunt, a moan falling from your lips, as your fingers fisted in his black locks, “I don’t mind at all.” 

But that night wasn’t the end of it — no, not by far. 

It wasn’t enough for them to ravish you, now they have to show up on set — their schedules lining up just perfect to see your rehearsals (though you think their schedules had some help from using the words “contagious” and “sickly”). However the only thing they were seemingly sick with was jealousy — especially so as you sat with Sukuna, going over lines for the next scene. 

You rubbed at your neck, feeling lucky that the marks they left had faded, but they still had begged you to show up to the shoot. 

“We won’t make you uncomfortable,” Satoru pouted, nuzzling your side, as you snort. 

“Just like you said you wouldn’t leave hickies on me?” You scoff, and suguru buries his face in the crook of your neck, pressing sweet kisses along the marks Satoru left. 

“She has a point,” Suguru murmurs, but Satoru only pouts, “but I would like to be on set so that freak doesn’t try anything,” and you run your fingers through Satoru’s snowy locks, while leaning into Suguru’s touch, “he has a reputation of making moves on all his co-stars,” 

“So? It’s not like I’ll let him,” and Satoru’s gotten you pinned to the bed, your hands trying to break free but you can’t. 

“It’s not a matter of letting him, it’s matter of him trying to do something you don’t want,” and your brows knit together, as Satoru presses a soft kiss to your forehead. 

“There’ll be other people—“ 

“Other people who may very well look the other way, for someone like Ryomen Sukuna,” Suguru sighs, words almost whispered against your ear,  “you know that’s how this business can be,” and it was — it could be. The Jujutsu Kaisen set was a rare exception, but this movie — the director’s words still ringing in your ears — it was different. 

“Let us just make sure you’re safe, make sure you’re okay, and then we’ll go.” 

And that’s how you ended up with their states boring into the back of your head. 

“You bringing a pair of guard dogs with you everywhere now?” Sukuna spares a glance at your boyfriends, who were relegated to stand near your trailer — Satoru stood, arms crossed over his white t-shirt, a black jacket thrown over it, his blue eyes narrowed in frustration, as if his crossed arms were the only things holding him back from throttling Sukuna. While Suguru leaned against your trailer, scrolling on his phone in his dark navy button up, stealing glances at the two of you, his eyes narrowed and lips a thin line, “don’t know if they are ready to rip you apart or me,” 

You bite your tongue, wanting to say they had already ripped you apart last night, but you only shook your head, “They insisted on coming today, I don’t know why,” 

He grunts in reply, “It’s bad timing on your end, brat,” and your eyes snap to his, and he tilts his head, leaning against his hand, “you didn’t hear? The director wants us to film our big kiss at the end of the movie,”

Your blood runs cold, “Since when?” 

“Since you were late to our morning meeting, assuredly because of those two,” he jerks his head in the direction of Satoru and Suguru, before giving them both a wide grin, “they don’t know do they?” Your silence is all the answer Sukuna needs to give a rare laugh, “oh this will be entertaining, brat, and I thought acting with you would be boring.” 

Oh, you’re fucking screwed. 

“Cut!” The director called for the billionth time, and you were about ready to wring his neck, and you were not the only one — if looks could kill, Satoru and Suguru would have had the director skewered a million times over by now. Unfortunately for them, looks did not kill, “we need more passion,” 

And you’re biting back a groan, as Sukuna smirks, leaning over to whisper, “don’t look so disappointed, I see the two idiots haven’t taught you to kiss,” 

“More like the partner I have doesn’t make kissing him appealing,” you bite back, running a hand through your hair as you spoke to the intimacy coordinator again, but your eyes keep sliding over to Satoru and Suguru, “fuck,” how were you supposed to do this with them staring you down? 

“Let’s try it again,” you both get in place for the shot, the clap of the clapperboard, as Sukuna’s fingers brushed against your cheek again. You stepped into the role, letting yourself be consumed with the passion of your character, channeling what you felt for your own loves. 

And finally your lips met his — you felt nothing, only the pressure of lips meeting one another, but you tried to show emotion, fingers clutching at his shirt in desperation, the small gasps and sighs parting your lips between kisses, and the way your hand then slid up to rest at the nape of his neck. 

“I love you, more than anything,” you murmur against his lips, nose brushing against his, “more than anyone. You can’t go. Not without me,” 

“What choice do I have?” Sukuna mutters back, his arm coiling around your waist, “it’s too dangerous for you to come along,” 

“Who said you get to make my decisions for me?” your lips curl, “and who says I can’t buy my own ticket to come with you?” And he’s shaking his head, “listen,” your fingers cup his cheek, “don’t think, just let it happen,” and you’re leaning even closer, breath warming his lips, his breath hitching. 

“Cut!” And you’re trying to pull away, but Sukuna holds you there, leaning forward, making you flinch, only to whisper in your ear. 

“Sorry, just wanted to give them more of a show,” and he lets go, lips curled in a wide grin, “looks like we have a break now, so have fun, but not too much,” he laughs, as the director beckons him over. 

You glance at Satoru and Suguru — oh fuck. 

“Sugu—uumph—“ Suguru barely let you get a step inside the trailer before he pinned you to the metal door, his hands dragged over your sides.

“Hold still, Princess, I have to overwrite every place he touched you,” his fingers trace over your cheeks, lips grazing your jaw, his thumb dragged over your lips, before catching on your tongue, “did you brush your tongue against his — run it over the seam of his lips before slipping it inside? Flick it over like you do? Did you enjoy kissing him, sweetheart?”

“Of course I didn’t—“ and Satoru’s taking the opportunity to kiss you, teeth dragging over your bottom lip. 

“Course she didn’t, but I’m sure he did,” Satoru’s fingers traced over your jaw, “enjoyed our sweets’ even sweeter lips, didn’t he?” And Satoru kisses down your jaw, while Suguru is sinking down to his knees, large palms sliding up and hiking up your dress, “should leave some marks to remind him who you belong to,” his teeth dig into the soft of your flesh. 

“Toru! No, I still have to finish the shoot — the makeup artists—“ you whine, but god, it feels so good, as his tongue flicks against his teeth marks, “fuck,” 

“Be careful, someone will hear you, Princess,” Suguru murmurs, soft kisses to your inner thighs, “hear how good you’ll feel,” his teeth sink into your thigh, nipping and sucking, “and how good we’re both making you feel,” 

“Sugu, ah, I—fuck,” and Satoru is eagerly swallowing your moans with his lips, taking the chance to slip his tongue in, while Suguru noses at the soft of your thigh. 

“She’s already dripping, how are you so pretty here, Princess?” And he doesn’t give you a chance to reply, not that you could with Satoru’s tongue down your throat, as his lips press a kiss to your messy folds, nose bumping against your puffy clit, “tastes even better,” he moans, sound reverberating against your sensitive cunt. 

“Oh that won’t do at all, we’ve barely started,” Satoru tsks all the while tugging your sleeves down to reveal your bare chest underneath the dress barely on your body at this point, crumpled fabric pushed up and down into the middle by them, “no bra, Princess? For us or for the camera?” 

“For you,” you manage between moans, Suguru’s tongue tracing teasing circles around your clit, “always for you—“ the word trails off into a moan, as Suguru meanly sucks on the sensitive nub, “ngh, fuck—“ your knees are buckling, quaking as if your bones were made of rubber, a gasp pulled from your lips, when Satoru’s lips press a teasing kiss to your already erect nipple, while he toys with the other between his forefinger and thumb, pinching and pulling. And he switches, welcoming the other with a graze of his teeth and the flick of his tongue. 

The sounds of the lewd squelch of Suguru’s mouth against your dripping cunt filled your ears, volts from his touch reaching every inch of you, “so wet f’me, pretty, you like thinking someone could hear us fucking you?” Suguru mutters, his lips pulling away for a moment, as his long fingers spread your folds for him — every inch of you exposed, “fuck, you’ve dripped all over the floor of the trailer, Princess,” 

“All that just from Suguru’s mouth?” Satoru smirks, dragging a finger down your puffy lips, while his other hand gropes at your breast, “imagine how sopping you’ll be when we fuck you,” 

And you’re whining, as Suguru teases your entrance with a finger, “You fuckers—“ you yelp as Suguru picks you up with ease and tosses you into the nearby bed — a request you had made so you could nap between scenes or during times you weren’t needed on set — not that you had gotten to use it, until now. 

Satoru’s pulling the dress up and over your head, tossing the garment away, both of their gazes dragging over your exposed skin. Satoru flips you onto your stomach, and you hear the creak of the bed behind you and you know Suguru repositioned himself between your thighs. 

“On your knees, pretty,” Suguru’s hands are lifting your legs, his fingers already teasing your sopping hole again, and he’s bracing an arm around your thighs, “such a good girl,” and his fingertips breach you only to pull away, even as your walls try to beckon him inside. 

“Fuck,” you’re groaning, needy cunt begging for release, you needed it, needed it so bad. 

“Such a filthy mouth,” Satoru clicks his tongue, as he undoes the buckle of his belt, tugging his boxers and pants down to free his weeping erection. And god, his cock is so pretty — long and pink, with beads of pearly precum dripping from the slit, lovely veins running up and down his length, “how ‘bout I put it to use sweetheart?” 

And the tip brushes against your face, smearing against your lips, before you part your lips and let his dick slap against your tongue, before letting it part your pretty lips. The tip of your tongue traces his slit, tasting his pre, as you sucked and licked along his length, until his sweet grunts slipped from his lips. And fuck, you know he would feel so good inside you, long cock reaching the places he always did and that you never could. 

But it was hard for you to stay focused when Suguru bas two thick fingers buried in your right cunt, dragging against your walls, moaning around Satoru’s length. And it feels almost too good, as if you’d melt between them, burning from their touches. And you’d still always ask for more. 

Satoru’s fingers dig into your locks, as he moans, “Fuck, s’good for me, baby,” his hips buck against your mouth, his hair sticking to his forehead, sticky with sweat, “not gonna last much longer, Suguru,” 

And Suguru pulled out his fingers, licking them clean, his face still sticky with your cum, as you whine at the absence, “she’s not either, but I think she needs something more,” and you feel his cockhead drag against your folds, and you’re whining, “not gonna put it inside baby, too much of a mess, and can’t do too much, can we?” And you feel his lips curl in a smirk, “after all, your boyfriend out there might mind,” he’s pressing your thighs together, beginning to rock forward, sending you deeper onto Satoru’s cock, making him hiss. 

“Fuck, take it, sweetheart,” his fingers tilting your head up slightly to find your eyes glazed over in pleasure, puffy lips with saliva and precum dripping from the corners, and it only makes him want to fuck your throat, “gonna go back on set like this? All messy from your ‘side pieces?’” 

“Fuck, she twitched hard when you said that,” Suguru is fucking between your thighs, his hard cock rubbing against your dripping slit again and again, delicious friction sending you closer and closer, “fuck, g’nna cum for me sweet girl?” 

And you’re moaning around Satoru, and his tip brushes against your throat with one particularly hard thrust from Suguru, and that’s it. 

Satoru’s moaning your name, unable to hold back, as he cums in your mouth, his hot load pouring down your throat, dick twitching as it continues to spurt as he rocks his hips into you. Suguru pinches and rubs your clit hard, rocking his leaking cock into you, and you cum, walls fluttering around nothing, as you soak him in your release. 

The moans of their names on your lips send Suguru tumbling over too, as he pulls back and pumps, before cumming all over your back with his thick seed. 

You’re pulling yourself off Satoru, with a wet pop, cum and spit trickling down your lips, as your tongue flicks out to clean it off. And Satoru groans, as he lays down and settles beside you, “don’t make me fuck you right here,” 

And Suguru helps you turn on your side, legs still shaking from your orgasm, as he slips up behind you, his softening cock pressed against you, pressing sweet kisses to your sweat soaked skin. 

“Think anyone heard us?” you mumble, burying your face in the crook of Satoru’s neck, and their chuckles rumble against you, making you shiver. 

Suguru answers, “No, if someone did, they would have come—“ 

There’s a harsh knock on the door, followed by the call of your name, “The director’s calling you to set,” it was your agent’s voice, “so I suggest all three of you clean up and come out.” 

Well, fuck. 

“How has shooting the film been so far?” 

“It’s been wonderful. It’s so different from filming a television series, and I’ve loved learning the nuances of film and how it’s made,” you say, sitting in the worlds most uncomfortable chair behind Sukuna, who managed to look interestedly disinterested. 

“Speaking of which, you two have worked together before, right?” 

“We have,” Sukuna replies before you have a chance to answer, “the two of us haven’t had many scenes together before, so being able to finally act together is…fate,” 

You force yourself to give a wry smile, “I forget he’s such a romantic, when he isn’t too busy calling me a brat,” the words slip out and you’re instantly regretting your words — fuck, fuck, fuck. You really just said Ryomen Sukuna called you brat — in an interview that will air on TV but also live on the internet. 

“A brat huh?” The interviewer chuckled awkwardly, “is she a bit of a diva on set?” 

“Oh and off,” Sukuna’s grin grows all the more wide, leaning against his hand and stealing a glance at you, “but I know how to tame her,” and you self consciously tug at your high neck sweater, the bites Satoru and Suguru well concealed — and you’d never have him pass it off as his own. 

Oh, you would kill him. If not for the fact that you had dug your own grave, and he only did you the favor of pushing you in and burying you. No the only funeral was your own. 

“How bad?” You ask your agent on the way home, earbuds in your ear as you sit in the back of the car, partition up as the driver makes their way to your home. 

“How bad? You mean how great! We’re getting so much traffic on that interview. People keep talking about you and Sukuna. You’re trending again,” and that was the last thing you wanted to hear and the first thing she wanted to tell you. 

Why the fuck did you want to be an actor again? 

“What are they saying about me?” 

“There’s some negative stuff about both of you, but that’s expected — mostly people surprisingly, uh, like you better with Sukuna than Gojo or Geto—“ 

“What? Why?” God, fuck the public’s want for an older man. 

“I don’t know. You guys have this chemistry in interviews. The way you guys banter it feels so personal and electric I guess?” Her voice almost makes it sounds like she agreed.

“Are you saying that or the fans?” The only thing electric about your conversation with Sukuna was the feeling of rage running through your veins faster than a million volts. 

“I don’t know. I’m sure it’s mostly fangirls of Gojo and Geto who are relieved they aren’t taken,” she adds, your silence seemingly scaring her, “you should look on the bright side, people are really excited for the movie, and after what happened in your trailer…the director’s happy too,” you see a text from Satoru and Suguru. 

The Boys 💕🤍🖤

Bangs Baby: when are you coming home? 

Six Eyed Dork: we’re already making dinner. 

And you scrub a hand down your face, never having such irritation over the prospect of dinner, “Tell that to my makeup artist,” because you know you’ll be littered with marks by the end of this. 

“We’re adding a sex scene,” and you nearly spit out your drink that morning, sitting at the round table with the director, several staff members, and an extremely unfazed Sukuna. 

“What?” you say, trying hold your tongue, that was only writhing under your hold to say something much, much worse, “that’s not anywhere in the script or the source material,” 

“It was my suggestion,” Sukuna lifts his hand casually, before pressing his hand to his chin, painted black nails gleaming in the dim light of the early morning, “the characters felt lacking,” 

Then play your role better. That’s what you wanted to say. But instead you ask, “how so?” 

And Sukuna glances at the director, who clears his throat, eyes shifting from him to you, “We thought it would be better to build more intimacy between the characters. Add a certain level of—“ 

“Raunchiness?” you scoff. 

“Tasteful raunchiness,” Sukuna corrects, doing nothing to suppress his smirk, “if you don’t want to, I’m sure we can make due with the stunt double—“ 

Fucker. He could have his pick of any movie — he was a pillar of the industry, but you had to be stuck with him. And stuck with the director following his every, irritating whim. 

You grit your teeth, “when are we shooting it?” And Sukuna grins wider, leaning back in his chair. 

“About that—“ 

“You’re going where?” You resisted the urge to rub at your temples, as you pack your things, Satoru’s pout filling the majority of the screen. 

“You heard me. We’re filming in Canada,” with a flight that left the next day, you barely had time to pack, much less talk. Fuck, you don’t have a thing for the cold, but you were told that coats and thermals would be provided — or at least they better be, “I’ll be gone for a couple weeks,” you say, wondering if the sounds of you packing would be enough to drown out or enough sweaters would somehow soften the blow. 

“Weeks?” Suguru repeats, taking the phone from Satoru, “sweetheart, you had said filming would be over soon enough — you said a month of filming in Japan—,” and you sigh, it seems like you had been doing a lot of that lately. 

The throbbing in your head only got worse — the long shoots and lack of sleep weighing on your body like iron weights around your neck, “I know, love, but the director wanted to add more scenes,” you swallow the lump in your throat, “there’s one more thing,” and Satoru is pushing into view of the camera as well, a click of Suguru’s as he shoots a glare at him, “the director decided to add…an intimate scene to the film,” 

Silence, but Suguru speaks first, “And that wasn’t in the script before?” And you shake your head. 

Satoru gives a bitter laugh, “Such bullshit. They planned it and got you to invest yourself in the movie—“ he cuts himself off, “sweetheart, I want to have a word with the director,”

“No, Toru, it won’t help,” you run your fingers through your hair, trying to keep your tone level, “it just won’t. It will just make me look like I have to rely on my boyfriends for protection,” 

“It still isn’t right, what they are doing to you is exploitative,” Suguru cuts in, “adding a sex scene last minute after you already spent weeks filming—“ 

“You don’t think I know that?” you say quietly, “what am I supposed to do? Quit? Let you guys run to the director to protect me? Great, either way, my career would be over,” the words slip out far more cutting than you want, but this has been a knife you’ve honed against stones thrown at you, and you were tired of being the one to take the blows. 

Satoru furrows his brow, “What are we supposed to do? Watch you get taken advantage of?”

“No, but don’t talk down to me like I don’t understand what’s happening,” you snap, “these weeks I’ve had to deal with fucking Sukuna and these shoots, while balancing your feelings too and I’m tired of it. I’m just done,” you shake your head, willing your voice not to break, “I’ll text you both when I board and land, ok?”

“Sweetheart—“ 

“Baby—“ 

“Bye,” and you hang up, eyes burning not just from your lack of sleep but now everything else too. You didn’t know what to do. You couldn’t see them. You couldn’t quit the movie. You couldn’t fix this. You couldn’t do anything — you glanced at your suitcase — except keep going. 

“You look like hell,” you don’t bother looking at Sukuna when he speaks, and out of all the seats, how did you end up next to him? Either you had the absolute worst luck in the world — or bad luck had a little help from your agents and the director. 

“You look like you’d know—been to your kingdom lately?” you’re placing your suitcase away when a flight attendant rushes over to do it for you, and you thank them, before rifling through your bag for your headphones. Noise canceling headphones that were going to be your best friend as long as you were stuck with him. 

“Why visit a kingdom when my queen is here?” Your eye twitches, and you only wish that planes worked the same as ships when it came to jurisdiction. And if so, you would have tossed him into the high seas without a second though. You could start over — no extradition on Satoru’s island. 

You glanced at your phone — no reply to your text about getting on the second flight. And they had both barely responded to your other texts about boarding and landing. Maybe it was your fault. You had blown up at them, and ignored all their calls and texts all day, until they finally stopped (even Satoru had given up sending you selfies of him crying). You switched it into airplane mode and locked it, tucking it away into your bag, before taking your seat and buckling your seatbelt. 

“Trouble in paradise?” And you scowl, pulling out your headphones, “c’mon you can tell me about your other boyfriends — I know I’m your favorite,” 

“Do you ever shut up?” You put your headphones on, your eyes growing heavy as the plane begins to prepare for take off. You choose a playlist, and start to fall asleep. The only good thing about this flight was you could finally get some sleep. 

And maybe your life wouldn’t be hell when you woke up. 

“I already got us a private jet,” Satoru walks into Suguru’s place, suitcase in hand, as he tugs his mask off, “we can be in Canada by tomorrow—we just need to pack—“ 

“What are you talking about?” Suguru looks up from his phone, “have you even thought this through, dumbass? She barely wants us coming over because of paparazzi, you think if someone sees us in Canada with her that they will write it off as a coincidence?” 

“If we’re careful, it won’t come to that,” he sets down his things, “you heard her, Suguru, she said she’s done,” 

“She’s just tired and frustrated,” Suguru sighs, tossing his phone aside, “we haven’t exactly made this any easier on her either,” 

“I know, which is why we should go make it up to her,” Satoru sighed, “I can tell by her texts that she’s upset — it’s all periods and short one word responses. Y’know that’s bad,” he’s pulling out his phone to show Suguru your texts — and Suguru ignored the several sad selfies Satoru had sent, before handing it back. 

“And we should make her more upset by doing the one thing she told us not to do?” Suguru shakes his head, “we’re better off waiting for her to calm down and come to us—“ and Satoru stares at his phone, “what is it? Did she text?” 

“No, worse,” he shows Suguru a news article — ARE THINGS HEATING UP ON AND OFF SET? SUKUNA SPOTTED WITH HIS COSTAR GETTING COZY ON PLANES AND IN THE AIRPORT.  

And below were images of you and him asleep, fingers interlaced on the plane, and a picture of him with his arm around your waist walking through the airport. 

Suguru’s eyes narrow, “Do you want risk losing her, Suguru?” And he knows it’s a bad idea, he knows it may only make things worse, but — he looks at the pictures of you and Sukuna again — losing you would be far worse. 

“When’s the flight?” 

CLICK! 

You stir at the sound, as you hear it again and again, shifting in your sleep. Fuck, what was that noise? Everything’s heavy, thoughts swimming through thick syrup as it tries to break to the surface and into consciousness. Another click makes you grasp at your headphones with one hand, the other caught on something, but you feel nothing but your neck and shirt. And finally, your eyes fly open just to find a camera lens in front of your face, and something holding your hand. 

Or rather someone. 

“What the—“ 

“Finally woke up? How was your coma?” and the photographers are shooed away, as you pull your fingers free only for him to drop your hand, wiping your hand on the seat, “I didn’t do anything but hold it,” he shrugs, “probably—“ 

You scowl, “my headphones?” He holds them up, and you gape at him, “they fell off. You’re quite the restless sleeper,” and you snatch them back. 

“They fell off or you took them off for that photo op,” you snap, glancing at him, “since when did I give my permission to be photographed while sleeping?” 

“When you decided to go into this business,” he replies drily, dry as his skin was from holding his hand, “are you that naive? Can anyone keep anything from anyone without paying them off one way or another? I’m pretty sure that’s how your little throuple does it,” 

And you couldn’t deny it — the paparazzi more than ever was a toll or a tool — a toll to pay when you wanted word to stay quiet, and a tool when you wanted things to blow up. And Satoru had been paying them off since the three of you had started this — insisting that his connection gave him discounts, but it was more likely to blow his father’s money. 

“So what was that photo op about?” The plane is slowly descending now, your ears popping, as you spare a glance outside, and he only scoffs, as if to ask if you were that stupid? 

“To announce our arrival.” 

“Why are there so many security guards and people?” you mutter, tugging at your mask, as you hurry through the airport with what felt like a military and police escort of men around you. 

“To create a scene, generate interest,” Sukuna seemed uninterested as he strolled along the airport, raising an eyebrow, “not used to this? The adoring fans,” and you spare a glance at the crowds, taking pictures more than even looking at your actual faces. 

“This is adoring?” and then the security guards begin to stumble as the crowd grows a rowdy, as people push through to get through their gates, others try to duck between the security guards to get closer. A security guard knocks against you, nearly sending you tumbling,  “what—“ 

And a wrist grabs you and pulls you hard, as the security guard tumbles to the ground, another arm around your waist. He steadies you, as you sigh, glancing to find Sukuna. 

“Be careful,” you blink — wow was he actually a nice— and then he nearly shoved you away, “don’t need you getting injured and messing up my movie,” he strides off, and you watch dumbstruck, as you watch his back recede until bodyguards check on you and urge you along. 

You can’t believe you thought even for a second that Ryomen Sukuna was nice. 

And now you had to spend the entirety of tomorrow kissing up to him — literally. 

Fucking ass. 

“You can’t seduce me into letting you go,” Sukuna smiled, one hand on your hip and the other resting against the wall, pinning you against the headboard of the bed, “just because I let you win tonight—“ 

“Then I’ve won the battle,” you reply, fingers toying with a lock of his hair, twirling it around your finger, before dragging a finger down his cheek, “it’s only a matter of time until I win the war,” 

He chuckles, hand cupping your chin, “such a brat, how did I ever fall for you?” And you only lean close, brushing your lips against his chin, delighting in the way his body shivered, “fuck—“ 

“You love it,” and he’s gotten you pinned to the bed in a moment with one hand, the other large palm sliding up your body, dragging your shirt along with it— 

“CUT!” 

You both sigh, glancing at the director as you both untangle yourselves — how many times did that make? Twelve? Fourteen? 

“I think we’ll be dead before he gets it right,” Sukuna mutters under his breath, as a P.A. brings him a towel to dab at his skin. 

“We’re calling it for the day,” the director announced, hair askew from the number of times he had pulled at it, “we’ll resume tomorrow, first thing,” there was almost an audible groan from the crew as everyone packed up for the day. 

After all that, you’re making your way to your hotel room when someone stops you, you’re trying to brush past them absentmindedly, but his voice stops you dead in your tracks. 

“Can’t run from us that easy, sweetheart,” and your head snaps up, finding Satoru in front of you, and you’re speechless, no words finding their way to your lips, before the hotel room next to yours opens up. 

“Princess, in here, before anyone sees,” and Satoru’s hand tries to find yours, but you ignore it, walking into the room, not speaking until the door clicks behind Satoru. 

“What the fuck are you guys doing here?” and you waver when you see Satoru’s sad gaze and Suguru’s tight frown, and you sigh, evening out your tone, “sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped — what are you guys doing here? I told you it’s risky—“ 

“We didn’t want to leave things the way they were, I couldn’t. Not like that,” Satoru shakes his head, “we needed to see you, baby, I couldn’t—“ he breaks off. 

Suguru speaks in his stead, “We couldn’t fathom that was the last time we spoke,” 

Your brows knit together, “Why would you think—“ and you’re sighing, scrubbing a hand down your face as your words ring in your own ears, and you know where their minds had went — fuck, “I would never ever break up with you two,” you’re stepping forward, “you’re idiots, but you’re mine,” and their arms are slipping around you in an instant, “I just got frustrated with everything, it wasn’t just you guys — the movie, Sukuna, long shoots, lack of sleep, and not seeing you two—“ 

“We should be the ones who’re sorry,” Satoru mumbles, burying his face in the crook of your neck, “we made it all about us and didn’t see that you needed us,” 

“We’re never going to make that mistake again, Princess,” Suguru presses a soft kiss to your neck, and you sigh, stress melting under touch with the ease of a lit candle wick melts wax, “we’re sorry for being so selfish,” 

“Yeah, Suguru’s sorry—“ and that earns Satoru a sharp elbow from said actor, “and I’m sorry too. We didn’t mean to add more stress. You’re already dealing with so much. We should have been there for you, sweetheart,” he finds your lips in a sweet kiss that has you sighing, “we trust you — it’s just—“

“Him, I know, but I hate him,” you say, and Suguru chuckles, fingers turning your head towards him, pressing his forehead agaisnt yours, “seriously, everything we’ve done is just for the movie or for publicity,” Suguru kisses you, teeth teasingly running along his bottom lip. 

“You seemed pretty cozy with him in those pictures,” Satoru presses open mouthed kisses along your neck, and you blink. 

“What pictures?” and then it occurs to you, “on the plane? They framed those—“ and Satoru’s cutting you off with another kiss, “Toru—“ and Suguru nuzzles the nape of your neck, “Sugu—“ 

“Just let us take care of you tonight,” Suguru murmurs, lazy fingers drawing circles on your hips, “been too long since we’ve seen you, Princess,” 

In a moment they have you on your back on the bed, Satoru’s eyes gleaming with need, their hands slipping up your body, “I’m yours,” you murmur, “both of yours.” 

And that’s all they needed to hear. 

“Toru, I’m trying to make us breakfast,” you chuckle, half laughing, half exasperated, as he nearly engulfs you in a hug from behind, his face buried in the crook of your neck. 

“So? I’m not in the way,” Satoru mumbles, sighing as he kisses the skin behind your ear, “right, Suguru?” 

“You’re hindering the process, Toru,” you’re trying to flip pancakes for said boyfriend as he traces constellations of kisses against your shoulder and neck, “right Sugu?” 

“Now, now, play nice you two,” Suguru replies drily, glancing at the two of you from the couch, “can’t blame us for missing you, sweetheart,” 

“Y’know how many months I had to go without being able to cuddle you,” Satoru’s pouting against your skin now, “I have to make up for all that lost time,” 

Shooting had finally ended three months ago — after a month and half spent in Canada, you flew back to Japan. Satoru and Suguru had taken up residence in a hotel room next door (under fake names of course) for about a week before flying back because of work. Satoru had tried to convince you to let him fly back and forth, but for the sake of the environment (and your sanity), you sent them both home. 

And still, they both were acting as if you had been away for several years, not months. 

“Does it have to be now?” And Satoru nods, grinning, and you relent, “well, this is much better than having dinner with Sukuna,” 

“There’s a name we haven’t heard in a while,” Suguru raises an eyebrow, as he strolls into the kitchen, hands in his pockets. 

“Thankfully,” Satoru adds, brow wrinkled, “what does he want?” 

“Just a dinner to celebrate the end of production,” you sigh, as you step past Satoru to grab a plate for the pancakes, “the movie is going to have its premiere in a few months, so it’s also to plan ahead for that,” 

“Did they announce a date yet?” Suguru asks, leaning against the counter on the other side of you, beginning to prepare coffee. 

“Not yet, but it should be sometime this coming summer,” and you’re flipping pancake after pancake for the three of you, a stack forming, until you’re finally done. You catch the two of them shsring a look, until Satoru asks: 

“Can you get us tickets to the premiere?” 

“Of course I’m inviting the entire JJK cast,” you smiled, leaning over to press a kiss to Suguru’s cheek, “why would you two be any different?”

“And what about us two?” Satoru hums, as he shuts off the stove for you, daring less than an inch away from your lips, “Do we get the VIP treatment?”

“Uh-huh,” you bite back a laugh. 

“Does the VIP package include you?” Suguru murmurs, a smirk against your ear, catching your earlobe between his teeth, 

“Of course,” you murmur, as Suguru’s arms wrap around your waist, lips brushing against your pulse, “once we’re away from cameras and phones and press,” 

“All access?” Suguru murmurs, large palms slipping under your shirt, making you shiver from their cool touch, and you roll your eyes, as Satoru presses a kiss to your forehead. 

“All access.” 

“I don’t understand why we had to get ready together,” you grumble, assistants gather around you, one adjusting your gown, another fixing your makeup, and a third trying to tame your hair, “we could have just been picked up and taken to the venue together,” 

The two of you had been ushered into these adjoining hotel rooms bright and early — much too early for you to even be awake, much less have to deal with Sukuna. The only consolation was while you were getting your makeup and clothes on, you didn’t have to see him. 

“Someone might have seen us,” Sukuna replies, letting the assistant put his watch on, “or your throuple would undoubtedly get in the way,” you shoot a glare at him. 

“Can you not call us that? They have names,” and Sukuna scoffs, fingers running over his charcoal suit coat to ensure there wasn’t even a single crease, the cut of his lapels sharp as knives. 

“Like I care to remember them, brat,” and you raise an eyebrow. 

“Do you even know my name?” he bears no reaction, but the corner of his lips twitch, “you don’t even fuc—“ 

“Are we all ready?” Your agent enters the hotel room with the director, “we should start heading to the venue,” and Sukuna brushed past you, and out the door, his entourage following behind him. 

And you sighed, you were surely ready — ready to put this movie and Sukuna far behind you. 

But of course he wasn’t behind you, so much so that he was beside you. Plastered to your side for the press to eat up, his arm slithered around your waist, as you both made your way down the carpeted premiere. 

You had been to a premiere for both seasons of Jujutsu Kaisen — but never like this. The camera flashes were blinding, the sounds of the crowd deafening, and the walk down the carpet amongst all these others was disorienting. You were almost grateful for Sukuna’s gruff and short temper, he kept most interviews on the carpet from dragging too long, 

You finally make your way inside and Sukuna parts from your side a moment without a word, beckoned off by someone or another. And it feels like too much. The day, the long hours, the carpet — all of it bears down on you at once, and you feel as if someone sucked the air from your lungs, using it to fill this hall with the smallest remnants of oxygen. 

Fuck, you grasped tightly to your clutch, you were going to pass out if you didn’t go somewhere, somewhere else with less goddamn people, but where? 

And you only take a stumbling step forward, before an arm is around your waist again, and a different voice murmurs in the opposite side, “Lost without us, sweetheart?” Suguru’s voice steadies you, keeps you from slipping deeper away from them, while Satoru’s touch grounds you. 

“Let’s get her somewhere private, hm? Does that sound okay, Princess?” And you’re nodding; as the two of them discreetly usher you away, you barely can keep your eyes open, still feeling your breath lodged in your throat, choking on the very thing that was supposed to keep you alive. It doesn’t feel okay until you’re sitting on a bed, holding your head. 

You feel the bed divut in as they both sit on either side of you, and their bodies brush against yours as if to ask for permission; and you’re leaning against their touch, until they engulf you in it. 

And this was what you needed. 

You don’t think about premieres, ruining your makeup, tripping, cameras, or anything else — just both of them and you. 

“Are you okay, baby?” Suguru murmurs softly, and you’re nodding, “did you get overwhelmed?” And you nod again, and he sighs, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “I really wish you could have come with us,” 

“I told ya we should have just taken her with us anyway,” you know Satoru’s face is scrunched up in worry, “the movie’s out anyway,” 

“Not like I didn’t agree — I just told you she would never agree,” Suguru muttered, most assuredly rolling his eyes, “plus, we said we wouldn’t do that to her again,” 

“Can you guys not talk like I’m not here?” and they instantly refocus on you, as you bury your head in the crook of Suguru’s neck, while Satoru does the same to you, pressing butterfly kisses to your skin, as Suguru carefully carded through your locks. And you just sat like that for a while, until you grew calmer by the second and finally lift your head, “sorry,”

“What do you have to be sorry for?” Satoru furrowed his brow, “you didn’t drool all over Suguru’s suit did you?” and you elbow him lightly in the ribs. 

“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t mind anyway, I’m used to you drooling on me one way or another,” and now you glare at Suguru, “you’re the one apologizing for no real reason,” 

“There is a reason,” you sigh, shaking your head, “we should be out there enjoying the party, but instead, we’re—” 

“All alone, with the two most important people to us?” Satoru tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear, “if anything, this was exactly the VIP treatment I was looking for, just us alone, in a room together?” Satoru’s tilting your head if only to press kisses up the side of your neck, nosing your pulse. 

“He’s right, princess, we only came here for you — no one else, we’re so proud of you,” Suguru murmurs, his hand finding its way onto your thigh, “and all we want is to see you happy,” 

Happy? When had been the last time you had been happy in the last few months? It had been far too long since it had been consistent — but the two people that ran consistently through every up, far too little downs? Satoru and Suguru. It had been so hard — and now it was almost over. Only a few more interviews and public appearances, and you would be done with Sukuna.

But you didn’t want to think about Sukuna now — you wanted them. More than ever. 

Your lips find Suguru’s first, lips sliding against his — a hesitation for a millisecond, before he’s melting into it, his tongue dragging against the seam of your lips, before you’re pulling away, soft pants filling the silence, until a warm hand is turning your head, and Satoru kisses you next, needy and persistent, as he always was, his fingers threaded in your hair, grazing against the nape of your neck. But Suguru doesn’t waste time, a hand sneaking up the silt of your dress, dragging against your pantyhose, snapping the skintight, translucent fabric against your skin. 

You part from Satoru for a moment, a string of spit connecting your lips to his, and you see the lipstick smeared on both their lips — you can only imagine what little you have left is painting more than just your lips at this point. 

“If we don’t stop right now, don’t know if I can, baby,” Satoru murmurs, guiding your palm to his already hard erection, “it’s risky,” 

“It is, someone could catch us,” Suguru is still drawing tempting circles on your upper thigh, his nose brushes against yours as he presses his forehead against yours, “What do you want to do?” 

And you knew the right thing to do would be to fix your faces and return to the party, act as if this hadn’t happened, as the three of you suffer through an evening without each other — until you get home far too late and far too tired to fall asleep beside them. That was the right thing, the sensible thing. 

But your need for them both was hardly sensible. It wasn’t sensible when the three of you had gotten drunk multiple nights after shooting together — Satoru only drinking a shot each time at your and Suguru’s insistence to get far too plastered too quickly. It wasn’t sensible when the two asked you who the better kisser was — your character the envy of every fangirl as you got to kiss the two “strongest” sorcerers — and then when you cheekily replied you weren’t sure, they didn’t hesitate to kiss you then and there, one after another — and you realized you never wanted to stop (and the three you never did that night). It wasn’t sensible to hook up again a few nights later, heading back to Satoru’s place to hang out, only for the three of you end up in bed together yet again — a habit formed, but that you couldn’t quit. And it surely wasn’t sensible when the three of you had started to date — it was far from it, in a business like this. But you did it anyway — because it was them. 

It was always them. 

You rise to your feet, facing them a moment, before turning your back to them, looking over your shoulder at them, “Well? You’re going to have to help me get out of this dress because I’m not letting you two ruin it.” 

And they share a look, before their lips curl into grins, as they reply. 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“Of course, baby.” 

“Suguru no—“ and he snaps the fabric of your pantyhose against you making you whimper, “I told you not—“ 

“To ruin your dress, you said nothing about your pantyhose,” his nails digging crescents into your lovely thighs, “and you should worry more about Satoru,” 

Satoru’s lips were nearly glued to your neck, tongue dragging up the side, until he pulled away to scowl at Suguru, “Eh? Why me?”

Suguru shrugs, “who left all those marks all over her neck last time?” 

“You left marks over her thighs,”

“Jealous?” 

“No, but I think you are that everyone saw mine, but no one saw yours,” and Suguru scoffs, 

“My marks aren’t for anyone else but me,” and his fingers tear at the fabric of your pantyhose, as you whine, lips curling as your skin is freed, “and if anyone else was seeing them, well,” his thumb drags across the swell of your far too wet cunt, drawing a pretty gasp from your lips, “I’d have to punish her wouldn’t I?” He kisses the skin exposed between the patchwork tears, making you whimper, “make her cum over and over, until she begs me to stop, show everyone how I fuck her well,” 

“Not as well as I do,” Satoru replies, “isn’t that right, Princess?” 

“I’m not answering that,” you scoff — you knew nothing good came from getting between their fights, except maybe getting between their bodies. 

“Then maybe we’ll have to remind you,” Suguru’s hands drag over your legs again, tugging off the shreds of your pantyhose off, “give you our dicks over and over until you tell us which one’s better,” 

“Sounds good to me, yeah?” Satoru leans down to kiss the valley of your breasts, before his fingers follow, finding the front latch with a grin, “planned for this sweetheart? And I thought I was the one who wanted this the most,” and he undoes the clasp with practiced ease, your chest exposed to his touch, nipples pebbling under the cool air. 

“You still are,” Suguru replies, as he nips at your thigh, eyes flicking down to Satoru’s obvious erection straining against the fabric of his slacks, “ready to burst just from looking at her chest, bet you wouldn’t last a minute getting her off,” 

“Oh yeah? Then let’s see who lasts longer,” Satoru undoes and tosses his shirt with ease, his deep blue suit coat long discarded, before he pulls you up into a sitting position while he lies back, and then lifts you with ease onto the middle of his bare chest, “you in her mouth or me eating her out,” 

“Toru—“ you squealed, as you squirmed, your already embarrassingly wet panties clinging to your dripping cunt, slick against his skin, but he holds your hips steady with large hands, “I can’t — I’ll crush you—“ 

“Ride my face, baby,” Satoru smiles up at you, that same smile you could never say no to — the one that made your stomach tie itself in knots, “wanna watch you cum all over my face, wanna walk around covered with your slick m—“ 

“Fuck—“ you cover your face, cheeks burning, “stop,” 

“Already embarrassed? That’s not good, Princess,” Suguru clicks his tongue, as gentle but teasing fingers pry your hands off your face, “can’t have that, we barely started,” 

“Please, baby?” Satoru pouts, and you can’t resist — a small nod, and his thousand watt smile almost makes it worth it, “take your seat on your throne, Princess,” you snort, almost. 

You gingerly shift yourself over him, still hovering as you hesitate. You whimper as he inhaled, a shudder leaving his body, “how is it possible for you smell so fucking good?” And you hear the distinct sound of him unbuckling his belt and the zipper of his pants, and you knew he was already palming at his length. 

Yet still, insecurity creeps up your body from his gaze, as he gazes up at your messy folds “Are you sure I won’t suffocate—” and he leans up to drag his tongue up your clothed cunt, nose bumping against your puffy clit, “ngh, Toru,” his name comes out far too needy for your taste, knees already beginning to buckle, quivering when he tugs at your drenched panties to snap them against your glistening folds, “fuck—” and he’s pulling the thin fabric aside, his warm breath sending ribbons of heat up your body, nearly shuddering from anticipation alone, and it’s nothing compared to when he pulls you down to seat you fully on his face. 

“Fuck,” your body folds forward, and you barely catch yourself, as Satoru’s needy tongue drags over the length of your dripping cunt, “Toru, oh my god —- fuck,”

You barely register the creak of the bed, and the rustle of clothes or the click of the belt, “That’s the idea after all, princess,” Suguru knelt before you, his pretty cock aching for you and an inch in front of you — he was thicker than Satoru, lovely veins that you wanted nothing more than to trace, and pretty beads of pre-cum dripping from his slit, “are you going to be a good girl and—” he hisses when your lips part to suckle at his tip,tongue flicking over his slit, before you let his cock part your lips again. 

But Satoru wasn’t one to be ignored — his tongue circling your clit faster, as his hands rest on your ass, squeezing, before slapping his hand down against the sensitive flesh, sending you forward onto Suguru’s cock. 

Suguru grunts, fingers threading into your strands, nails digging into your scalp, “s’fucking good for me, princess. Such a good cockeater,” his fingers cup your chin, forcing your gaze higher, eyes blown out in pleasure, boobs bouncing with the way you rocked against Satoru’s face and Suguru’s shallow thrusts, the heavy weight of his dick on your tongue. 

And Suguru can’t resist — palming at your breasts because you’re so pretty when you whine, as he pinches your erect nipples before rolling them between his thumb and forefinger. You moan around Suguru’s length, your hands grasping at his hips, sloppily sucking him off, as Satoru grinds his face against your cunt. 

The wet squelch of your pussy rings in your ears, greedily lapping at your juices like a man wanting to drown, diving deeper and deeper to depths unknown. And when his thumbs reach up to part your hole further apart, you’re nearly choking on Suguru’s dick, as Satoru’s tongue slips into your entrance. 

You whine when he teasingly pulls away, pressing sweet kisses to your clit, “Gonna fuck you right, sweetheart — make sure you can’t remember anything tonight except the feel of my tongue inside you, that is, until I fuck you open,” and he’s burying you back, moaning at the feeling of your juices slipping off the side of his face, “gotta open wide for you baby — gotta swallow this whole cunt, yeah?” 

And you would have moaned if you hadn’t had your mouth full of Suguru’s dick, nearly beginning to choke on it when he began to lazily thrust into your mouth, a shiver down his spine as he looks at you drooling around his length, sloppily tracing his veins, a graze of his teeth against the sensitive skin, and a hiss parts his lips, “careful there,” and he gives a particularly hard thrust, “don’t want me to fuck this throat do you?” and your moan makes a mean smirk curl his lips, “or maybe you do,” 

Fuck, you were getting close — and so was Suguru by the way his hips began to buck into your mouth, and Satoru for that matter — the wet sounds of his fisting his cock along with the messy moans against your cunt sending more pleasure up and down your spine. And fuck, his bucking against his hand was making the bed shake — and god, you’d reach behind you and jack him off if you weren’t holding onto Suguru for dear life. 

“That’s it, sweetheart, swallow my cock, fuck, g’nna cum soon,” Suguru’s balls slap against your face as he begins to fuck your mouth in earnest, “Toru looks he’s about ready to burst too, gonna clean up our cocks before we fuck you, pretty?” 

“Fuck, she nearly clamped down on my mouth from that,” Satoru says, thoroughly muffled from your heat pressed tight to his mouth, his tongue then returning to fuck you, as you ride his face to find your release, unable to think about anything else but cumming, “cum on my face, baby,” and when Satoru sucks around your clit, a sharp palm bearing down on your ass again, you’re cumming, grinding and riding out your high on his face, as he welcomes your release with an open mouth. The wet sounds of his slurping and sucking, as your juices roll off both sides of his face and stain the mattress underneath him.

And then you’re eagerly sucking at Suguru’s cock, swallowing around him as he fucks your face, “g’nna cum, are you gonna let me cum alone — are you going to help Satoru cum too?” and he’s helping you reach back, leaning back with you so his cock never parts your pretty lips, and right as your fingers brush against Satoru’s cock, squeezing around the base, you hollow out your cheeks, letting Suguru’s tip brush your throat. 

They both groan your name as they cum, thick spurts of Suguru’s release down your throat, while Satoru cums all over his stomach and your hand. They slowly still their movements, Suguru slowly pulling his cock from your mouth, strings like a spiderweb of cum and your spit connecting your lips to his dick, and Satoru helps you off his face, eyes shut as your legs are still shaking from the way he ate you out still, as they lay you down on the bed. 

Your eyes flutter open to find Satoru licking his face clean, still glossy with your release and his spit, “Fuck, sweetheart, how do you taste so good?” he murmurs almost reverently, a grin on his lips, “I’ll have to sit on my face more often,” and you’re rolling your eyes. 

“I don’t know if I’ll be sitting on my throne very often, you weirdo,” you chuckle softly, far too breathlessly, and you turn to Suguru to find him leaning on his elbow, gaze still dark. 

“Well, you do have two thrones after all,” Suguru leans down to find your lips in a kiss, tasting himself on your lips, a soft moan pulled from your lips, “you’ll have to use the other at one point or another,” 

“Jealous?” you echo Satoru, and Suguru has you pulled into his lap in a moment, your back pressed flush to his chest, his cock already far too hard, far too quickly, and your head falls back as he drags the tip over your still sensitive folds, “a-ah, Sugu, I—” 

“The only thing I’m jealous about is that the only thing that’s been in this pretty pussy tonight has been Satoru’s tongue,” and he’s tilting your head down, to watch your cunt rub against his length, a whine leaving your throat that you barely recognize as your own, “think we should fix that, shouldn’t we?” 

“Room for another over there?” Satoru adds, drawing closer, his length in hand, as he lazily pumps it to full mast, and you whimper at the sight of him, “our princess is so needy, she needs two of us to fill her, yeah?” 

And Suguru takes the opportunity to spread your folds with his hand, and sink his length into you, your head falling back into his shoulder, as a pornographic moans parts your lips, and Suguru is shushing you all the same, as he works himself into you inch by inch, “Don’t want anything to think we’re filming a different kind of movie in here, hm?” 

“Imagine the headlines then,” Satoru hums, as he teases your clit with his cock, “movie star found cheating on her co star — one dick just wasn’t enough — she needs two,” 

“Can they blame her?” Suguru’s finally inside you fully, his stretch far too delicious, shorting out your nerves with the pleasure — and you swear your cunt was making a mold of his cock, complete with every lovely vein, pretty curve, and each inch, “this pussy deserves the best after all,” 

“S’full,” you’re a mess, walls already fluttering around Suguru, practically begging him to begin moving, while welcoming Satoru in with folds that only craved his cock, “so big,” you whine. 

“Mmhmm, I know, baby,” Satoru’s tilting up your chin, lips curled in a grin, “Suguru’s almost too much for me — how are you going to fit me too?” and you whimper, shaking your head, “you still want me?” and you nod far too eagerly, and he chuckles, “well, you heard our princess, Suguru, mind giving me a hand?” 

And you furrow your brow, unsure, until you feel Suguru’s hands reach around to your front and spreads your pussy lips wider for Satoru, making your cunt clamp down on him, “fuck, she just got tighter,” but Satoru takes it in stride, gathering some of your juices on his fingers to further lube himself up. 

“No matter how much we fuck her like this, she’s always so tight for us,” Satoru’s pressing his tip to your spread entrance, and you whimper, “maybe tonight,” his fingers tilt your chin upwards, “we’ll finally fuck her to remember our shapes,” 

And he guides his cock into you, and Suguru braces your body against his as your back arches, as both of their lengths stretch you open — like they said, no matter how many times they did this, you never quite got used to it. 

But this pleasure? You were far too used to — they had ruined you for anyone else, because no matter what, no man could please you like either of them, much less both of them. 

“S’full, fuck, I-I can’t—” your walls are squeezing them hard, dicks rubbing together, drawing deep groans from both of them. 

“Don’t have to break our dicks off to get us to fuck you all the time, baby,” Satoru mutters, panting, as he lifts your leg, hooking one around his hip, “already gonna fuck you stupid anytime you want,” 

“Shit, I’m not gonna last that long, Satoru,” Suguru says through gritted teeth, pressing heated kisses to your neck, “gonna start moving, sweetheart,” and you’re nodding, as they both begin to fuck you in tandem. Suguru thrusted upwards steadily, forcing you to ride him, allowing his dick to sink into sweeter depths, pleasure ripping up your spine, while Satoru fucked into you at a rough pace, hands gripping your thighs as he did. Both of their movements drove the other deeper into you, reaching depths you didn’t think were possible. 

“F-fuck, Sugu, Toru,” you’re babbling, lost in the thick haze of pleasure, dripping over your skin like hot molasses, slow but burning all the same, as your walls fluttered around both of them, “s’good, I can’t—” tears burning at your eyes, as your hands brace themselves on Satoru’s shoulders. 

“That’s it, such a good girl, been thinking about you spread out on me like this since the moment I saw you,” Suguru grunts, rutting into you faster, “couldn’t wait to rip off this dress to fuck you right — didn’t think you’d let us so soon,” and you swear their cocks were kissing your cervix at this point, and surely you’d look down and see a bulge in your stomach from how deep they were. 

“Pretty girl takes us so well, no one compares to you, sweetheart,” Satoru sighs, watching the way his cock sunk into you again and again, “you’re ours, just ours,” 

“I’m close, s’close, g’nna—” pleasure built like a coil in your stomach, ready to snap, and they were only more than happy to pull you apart, as long as they were the only one to put you back together. 

And Satoru rubs at your clit, a moan on his lips, “Cum for us princess,” and you do, toes curling as you cum hard with their names on your lips, clamping down around both of their cocks. Low moans of your name leave their lips as they fuck you through your orgasm, hips stuttering when they slowed, “g’nna cum,” 

“Where—” Suguru chokes out, and you’re leaning into Suguru, while your arms wrap around Satoru’s neck, pulling him close. 

“Inside, please, give me your cum,” And they both moan, slowing until they notch themselves deep as they both cum, thick releases painting your walls, continuing to fuck their cum deeper inside, “ngh, fuck,” And Suguru finds your lips in a messy kiss, all tongue and teeth, as Satoru digs his teeth into your neck, no protest coming to your mind, only just a want for more, more, more. 

And they slow, creak of the mattress and the pants stilling into silence, as you lean back against Suguru, Satoru’s face buried in the crook of your shoulder as the three of you bask in the afterglow. 

And finally, Satoru slowly pulls himself from you, groaning as he watches the evidence of the double creampie they gave you drips from inside you, “Fuck, sweetheart, we filled you up,” 

“A shame to waste it,” Suguru murmurs, as he pulls his softening erection from inside you, “should we plug her up, make her keep our cum inside her for the rest of the night?” and you’re biting back a moan, but Satoru doesn’t miss the way your lower lips twitch. 

“Oh, she likes that,” Satoru grins, cupping your face to find your lips in a languid kiss, and you taste yourself on his tongue that teases teasingly over the seam of your lips,  “or maybe we should fuck her again and give her more until it drips down her thighs all night, hm?” 

And the moment is fraught with tension, as the two of them lean in again to kiss you, before the door bursts open, making all three of you freeze. 

Fuck (and not in the good way). 

“Oi, what the fuck,” the three of you glance over, as Satoru and Suguru hurriedly covered you up with Suguru’s nearby discarded jacket, “you fucking idiots—” 

“Look who’s talking,” Satoru scoffs, “fuck off,” 

“I would say the same to you, but you already did,” Sukuna shakes his head, “all night you’ve been gone, and you can’t be bothered to keep track of the time?” and your brow knits together, “it’s nearly time for the fucking—”

“Question and answer, with the press,” the warmth of their embraces erased in a moment by the news, a bucket of ice water spilled over your head, “fuck,” you’re trying to scramble to get up, “fuck, fuck, fuck, I can’t out there like this—” 

“No fuck you can’t,” Sukuna scoffs, and Suguru glares at him, as he helps you into your dress, while Satoru stands with his jacket as a partition.

“Stop talking if you’re not going to help,” and you’re lucky the dress doesn’t require six people to get into, and you had chosen something relatively simple, with a fucking string corset you were beginning to regret as Suguru tried to retie it as best he could, “fuck, why was this dress so easy to take off?” But he finally gets it, as you open the bathroom to look at yourself in the mirror. 

“My makeup, my hair — I can fix it, but not the way it was before,” you’re covering your face, how was your career over before you barely started? “Fuck, what do I do—” 

“It’s simple,” Satoru sighs, “as much as I hate to suggest this, and I probably will go gouge my eyes out—” 

You sigh, “Toru—” 

“I have an idea,” Satoru’s eyes slide to Sukuna, disgust evident in his face, until he glances back at you, “but we’ll need his help,” 

“Don’t worry, I don’t know your name either,” Satoru’s head snaps back to Sukuna. 

“You don’t know—” 

Sukuna smirks, “What’s the plan?” 

Satoru’s expression sours, as he scratches the back of his head, “Well…” 

“You surprised me, brat,” Sukuna says, as he holds your arm, as the two of you make your way back into the ballroom, and you’re adjusting your dress, still far too self conscious — as if everyone could see what you did — even though that was the plan. 

“That I agreed to this?” you murmur. 

“No, that you bit me that hard,” he rubbed the mark you left on his neck, as your cheeks burn, “didn’t expect a tiny thing like you to be able to bite that well,” 

“Well, I had to make it look real,” you look away, but look back when you’re about to reach the doors of the ballroom, “fuck, everyone is going to look at us, aren’t they?” 

“Let them enjoy the show,” an arm slides around your waist, “you know they will.” 

~~~

It’s only been a few weeks since the film premiered, and it’s already far surpassed some of the top grossing films this year. A lot of the buzz generated from the film has been around rumors surrounding the relationship between the two lead co-stars—their tumultuous relationship seems to have come to an end—

And you tune out the video for a moment, scrolling into the comments to see what people are saying: 

sukunasthirdleg69: damn can i get on him next? 👅 

gegesnumber1hater: wonder if she got back with gojo or geto again? 🤭 I’d like to see that groupchat pop off. 

gogecutestprincess replied to gegesnumber1hater: no way she lost her chance with gojo and geto 😤 they deserve better…like each other

You chuckled, at least the news of you and Sukuna had spread as planned. You had enough of the coverage of the premiere with the zoomed in images of your clothes and the marks on both of your bodies. But finally it was done — but how long would it be until you slipped up with Satoru or Suguru and the rumors would begin again? 

“What are you thinking about so much? Aside from me,” Satoru collapses on the couch beside you, hair still damp from the shower, arm slipping around your waist, as he leans over your shoulder, “what are they saying now?” 

“Just more rumors — some are wondering if we got back together,” 

“How could they ever think we let you go?” Suguru presses a kiss to the top of your head, before sitting beside you. 

“I still hate that they think the marks I left are from Sukuna,” Satoru mumbles, as you flip through the comments, burying his face further into the crook of your neck, “how could they not realize it was my hard work that put those marks there?” 

“Because it’s so distinct,” you snort, and he’s pouting as you press a kiss to his cheek, “not everyone has your sharp eyes, Toru,” 

“And yet you saved every picture they got of her,” Suguru smirks, and Satoru glares at him, “but I did too,” 

“What are we going to do when they start talking about us again?” Satoru tilts his head at your question. 

“Let them,” Satoru leans back on the couch, fingers toying with a strand of your hair, “and if you really don’t like it, we can pay them off,” 

“And if I don’t want to pay them off?” Both of them furrow their brows, “what if I want them to know?” You add, chewing on your lip, “about us?” 

“You want to?” Suguru’s gaze softens, “but more than us, it could impact your career,” 

“It already had,” you scoff, when had it not recently? If it was going to be like this, you would at least like to be in control of the narrative, “everyone is always talking about us, well,” your lips curl into a grin, why don’t we give them something to talk about?” 

“And what would that be?” Satoru hums. 

You lock your phone screen, “When does shooting and press start for season three of jjk?” 

~~~~

A few months later….

“A successful film, several offers to be in other blockbusters, and now you’re back shooting season three of Jujutsu Kaisen,” the interviewer leans back, shaking her head, as she fans herself with her interview cards, “I think we were lucky to get an interview with you now! Although it isn’t in person this time,” 

“Well, you can’t forget your roots,” and you couldn’t — this was the first show that had requested you for an interview all those years ago when season one of Jujutsu Kaisen was airing, even if you had relegate them to a video interview, “it feels like this year has been that in many ways,” 

“Oh? How is that?” and your lips curl. 

“Last year with my first feature film and everything else, it felt like starting over — starting from scratch with something so new that I barely recognized myself at some point,” your hands clasped in your lap, “this year, after the film gained so much traction, and going back to film the show that made my career, it just feels like coming home — especially to the cast,” 

“Speaking of the cast, are you going to see more behind the scenes with Gojo and Geto?” she grins, “so many of your videos with those two went viral — are we going to see more of the three of you messing around?” 

And you can’t help the smile on your lips, “Oh definitely you will be seeing more of that,” you’re tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, and the lights glint off a set of two rings on your finger, diamonds glinting as if begging for notice, and you hear a small gasp. 

“Is that—” and you freeze a moment, before your smile grows wider, and the interviewer squeals, “Are you married?” 

“Guilty,” 

The interviewer grins harder than you are — and you’re not quite sure if she’s more thrilled at the news or of getting this exclusive, “Who’s the lucky man?” 

And you open your mouth, when the camera goes out of focus for a moment, only for it to come back into focus with Satoru and Suguru leaning into the frame of the camera, their arms around your sides. And Satoru lowers his sunglasses with a smirk. 

“Who said it’s just one?” 

✧ a/n: ahh this was super fun to write just because of how much crack it was hahah, i hope you guys enjoyed <3

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