kaisermeister - Tumblr blog

kaisermeister · 2 months ago

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— ALL (SIX) EYES ON ME

pairing: gojo satoru x f!idol!reader

tags: slight dubcon/yandere, idol AU, no curses AU, clothed/costume/mirror sex, body worship, sweat kink, armpit licking lol, praise, cunnilingus, pet names (princess, sweetheart, sweetie), satoru's just a little weird in this sorry

wc: 9.2k (ugHGUHGUHGUGHUGHGUHGU)

summary: Everything's lining up. The tickets to your first solo show sold out weeks in advance. Small problem: there's only one person in the audience.

a/n: i don't...? i don't know man. this is extremely self-indulgent, self-ship coded at times, and technically a reeeeally late birthday gift to myself lmfao. makes a lot of references to jp idol culture (once again). if you have any questions my ask box’s open! dividers by @/adornedwithlight. + playlist + ao3 link here.

It’s taken weeks of preparation but it’s finally going to pay off. Countless hours of rehearsal, dancing in dusty studios until your body’s on the verge of dropping, singing until your voice is almost hoarse, but not quite. You know your limits, and you’re not willing to break them before something so crucial.

On the dawn of your birthday, your obligatory solo live has been the only thing on your mind. It can’t be anything short of perfect, especially after the tickets sold out in record speed. The stakes have never been higher. At least when you sell out a venue as a group, you can rely on each other. There’s no one to catch you if you fall here, physically or otherwise.

The green room feels empty without your fellow members to back you up. It’s a bit unnerving, having all this space to yourself, the mirrors reflecting back to you, and just you.

The silence of the room gets to you, so the obvious course of action is to play your set list in the background. You know all of the songs well, singing along gently as you unpack your luggage. Ruffles and frills bounce out as soon as you unzip it. No matter how tightly you attempt to pack your outfit, it seems like it has a mind of its own.

Putting it on was an ordeal in the beginning. Too many straps, too much fabric, too much volume to get lost in. But it’s become a part of you in the past couple of years, a second skin of sorts.

The top, a cropped blouse with a sweetheart neckline, always goes on first before you do your makeup. That was a lesson you learned on your second live when you accidentally stained the collar with foundation. You tug on the zipper, which always gets caught in between a bulky seam, tugging a bit harder when you get there. From there you bring it over your head and awkwardly shift until it’s finally on. It fits snugly once you zip up the side seam, your curves emphasized by the ribbon lacing detail on the side.

Makeup is simple enough, just a bit more extra than your usual day to day. More exaggerated eyeliner, an extra pigmented blush, dramatic eyelashes you still haven’t gotten used to (seriously, it’s distracting when they’re constantly in your periphery). To finish it off, some glitter around the eyes so it sparkles extra bright like the stars in the sky under the stage lights.

Once you’re done, it’s time for the skirt, and it’s always heavier than you think it is. It’s a given though – several layers of circles coming together at the waist, and dozens of yards of ruffled lace hemming each edge. It’d be a scientific anomaly if it weighed any less.

You shimmy your way into the skirt, one leg at a time until the elastic cinches at your waist. With it secured, you jump a couple of times – half to test its stability, and half to just watch the hypnotic bounce of fabric. At this point, it’s customary to do a little spin around in the mirror, lose yourself in the swish of fabric moving like the waves of the ocean, encapsulated around your waist. It’s your favorite part, just watching everything come together, feeling like a real star – even if the venue barely fits a hundred attendees.

All that’s left are finishing details. A ruffly garter that hugs your thigh, soft satin gloves on your hands, and a tiara instead of your usual matching set of bows on your head. Last but not least, a pair of platform boots. It’s still something you’re adjusting too, the weight of them dulling your dance moves just slightly.

When you check your phone, it’s just a few minutes before call time. You neatly pack your casual clothes in your luggage and roll it off to the side before exiting the room. Everything’s so different when you walk the hall alone. It’s a bit lonelier, a bit longer – plain white walls converging to a point you know all too well. You know you’re getting close when the instrumental playing through the speaker gets louder, too loud to ignore, a sign for you to put in your in-ear monitor.

Then you make it there, on the back edge of the stage like you’ve done so many times before, though alone this time. Anxiety beats like a drum in your chest, and you can’t bring yourself to peek through the stage curtains. Curiosity killed the cat after all.

The background instrumental starts, a soft bump of bass rumbles the floor, rattles your body. It’s your cue to go. With the mic held close to your chest, you step out to the stage, bright stage lights blinding you momentarily.

“Good evening everyone! Thanks for coming out tonight, it really-”

Your voice involuntarily stops in its tracks when your vision comes back to you.

The crowd is empty.

Well, almost empty.

A single fan stands tall right in front of you, familiar azure eyes staring a hole into your soul.

You remember him – Satoru. Couldn’t forget him if you tried. His reputation precedes him. If you had to choose a fan who’s dedication bordered on deification, it would be him.

Your fellow members even had a silly nickname for him: Mr. Monopoly. For the frivolous amounts of money he spent on your merch, and how he monopolized your time at every meet and greet by buying out a dozen cheki tickets the moment a performance ended. In fact, there have been a handful of events where he’s the only fan you’ve spoken to.

Despite that, it’s not like he’s creepy or anything. In fact, he’s incredibly normal – from what you can see anyway. Never crosses the line, never goes beyond the casual small talk about performance quality, curious questions about the upcoming release. But something about how much time and money he spends attending your shows keeps you on edge. Someone who spends so much of his life tucked away in dingy live houses can’t exactly be a paragon of society.

But this can’t be right, right? Your heartbeat’s erratic, pounding so hard against your ribcage you’re scared it’s going to crack. Didn’t the venue sell out weeks ago? You remember the congratulations text your manager sent you, the way you bounced off the walls of your bedroom in excitement at the news. That wasn’t fake. And what reason would he have to lie?

Was this some kind of online troll campaign? There’s always a possibility, but you’re quick to write it off. You’ve never been the topic of any notable online conversation, positive or negative. For once, your habitual ego surfing escapades pay off.

The wave of Satoru’s dazzling penlights snaps you out of your mental spiral, albeit still shaken.

“Um, it really means the world to me.” The words come out shakier than before.

You’re a professional.

It’s the only thought repeating in your mind, a hamster running on a wheel with no end in sight. You hope it rings true.

“Anyways, since it’s my birthday,” you continue, your voice still unstable. Your eyes wander around the room only to confirm nobody else is here, save for your manager, who’s also playing the role of bartender for tonight. The reality of the situation sinks in a little more, your heart dull and heavy.

“I thought we could get started with a solo cover of one of my favorite singles.” There was originally more you wanted to say, but your words elude you. Everything comes out cold, monotonous. “I really hope you enjoy it. Thank you.”

Satoru cheers and you swear it nearly bursts your ear drums, roaring like a tiger’s battle cry.

The instrumental starts, a hum of stringed chords hits your ears and you break into your starting pose, a smile beaming on your face despite the hurt in your heart. You know this dance like the back of your hand, but it feels uneasy performing in an unfamiliar setting. Lost somewhere in the in between; not quite alone in a dance studio, but not performing to the crowds you’ve grown used to.

There isn’t the usual weight to your moves, slightly deflated like a balloon that’s been left out for hours. The irony isn’t lost on you, singing about staying strong in the face of adversity under the soul crushing weight of disappointment.

You can hear him inhale, suck in dramatically like a child preparing to hold their breath underwater, only to let out a barrage of chants. The usual calls, about you being his favorite, about how cute you are. If this was backed by an army of fans, it would inspire you. But for the moment, it’s a bitter reminder of what could have been. It’s hard. You don’t want to be ungrateful, but you were expecting a bit more for your big day.

It happens before you realize it, glassy eyes forming tears when you blink.

The slight moistening of your eyes doesn’t go unnoticed by Satoru, and his calls start to change. He’s improvising, his words customized solely for you. Clapping in triplets, shouting lines of encouragement at the pause between lyrics. From woo woos to ‘you can do it!’, from oo-ah oo-ahs to “I’ll cheer you on”, from hey heys to “my oshi’s the best!”

It’s hard to not feel touched by his efforts. You’ve grown as a performer, him as a supporter, alongside each other. It warms your heart a little. You’re caught by surprise when you hear yourself giggle in between the lyrics. To be acknowledged is its own reward. What originated from sadness morphs into something else entirely. A fire in your heart, rekindled. Even if no one else showed up, Satoru would always be here. And maybe that’s enough for you.

It’s common practice to choose a spot in the audience to look at, not making direct eye contact with anyone. But nobody tells you what to do when you’re performing to an audience of one. How do you stop yourself from being pulled into Satoru’s form, so bright and radiant he lights up the room?

The song finishes with a flourish, and you hold your pose for a moment just as you’ve practiced. You finally recollect yourself, chest visibly rising and falling from exhaustion.

“S-sorry about that.” You take a moment to wipe your tears as best as you can with the back of your arm. It’s hard not to mess up your makeup, and you can only hope there aren’t trails of black falling down your cheeks. You sniffle, careful not to do so in the mic, but you’re sure he hears considering he’s only a few feet away. “As long as someone’s here, the show will go on. So let’s have lots of fun tonight!”

He cheers at that, lifting his penlight and spinning it around in his hand. A single star in the endless night sky.

“The next song is something I haven’t performed in a long time.” You walk around the stage, your eyes never leaving Satoru’s gaze. “I don’t think I’ve performed it since debuting.”

Satoru gasps upon hearing, humming like a bee from excitement.

“So if you know it, I would love to hear you sing along.” You set your arms down to your side, turning around to face the back of the stage. This song was from the beginning of your journey, a bit more experimental and leaning on the side of cyber pop. Buzzy synths and blocky eight bit pads echo throughout the room, and it rumbles throughout your body. Something about it is more intense than you’re used to, the way the instrumental has no choice but to bounce off the walls and back into you. How it shakes your very being.

It’s easy to get lost in the stage backdrop, an endless sea of black. But when you turn and see your lone fan, lightstick in hand, it’s as if you’re a lost ship guided home by the draw of a lighthouse’s lamp.

Even if you haven’t performed this routine on stage in a year, it feels right. Like this was how it was always meant to be performed. Singular rhythmic claps, Satoru’s roaring voice piercing through your in-ear monitor.

As soon as the first words leave your lips, it brings you back. Back to a time when you and your group were still starting off. To the nearly empty rooms on a Friday night, to the countless hours you’d spend standing on busy streets handing out flyers to promote your show. The first time you ran into Satoru.

Late afternoon in Akihabara. Spring had just come in full bloom, bringing along a litter of cherry blossom petals on the pavement and the accompanying hordes of tourists. It had been a long day, then again, most of those days were long days. The heat always found a way to get to you when you’re standing in your costumes for hours at a time, competing alongside all the other dressed up girls promoting their respective maid cafes and idol groups. Then there were the faceless crowds ignoring you every time you gestured for them to take a flyer, to come to your show. It was the pinnacle of demoralizing work, really.

Satoru was just a faceless being until he stopped in his tracks, the first and only person to talk to you that day.

“Is this tonight?” he asked, his glasses slightly pointed downward just enough so you could see that magnificent blue of his eyes.

“Y-yes. It’d be great if you could come cheer us on,” you responded with a smile.

He took the flyer without a word, folding and putting it in his pocket and you assumed that was that. You didn’t actually expect to see him again. But you did.

When he came to your performance, you didn’t pay him much mind, and you assumed he did the same with you. He stuck out like a sore thumb, choosing to stand towards the back of the room and avoiding the handful of fans at the front, arms crossed as if he didn’t want to be there despite paying for the (admittedly hefty) entry fee.

Yet at the end of the show, he lined up at the counter. Bought only a single cheki ticket to meet with you, to tell you he enjoyed the show, that he looked forward to the next one. You didn’t believe him, but sure enough he showed up at the next concert. And then a single ticket turned into two. And then three, four, until it snowballed into the dozen ticket minimum you recognize him by today.

And now he’s here. Cheering you on so enthusiastically you can practically feel the passion oozing off of him. Oh, how times change.

The song’s over before you know it. It takes you a moment to return from your trip down memory lane.

“Wow, what a throwback, huh?” you sigh dreamily, reminiscing on the past, on how far you’ve come. “I think it’s actually my first time hearing anyone mix to it.”

Gratitude rises and swells in your heart like a river during a rainstorm, nowhere to escape but your lips. It overrides any rational thought in your brain. The words spill faster than you can catch them. “Thank you for being here, Satoru.” With that, you break the number one taboo of addressing anyone directly in the audience.

“Anything for you,” he says softly, smiling and tilting his head just slightly. He doesn’t need to shout or project his voice any further, he knows you hear him. Maybe it’s just the lighting, or your mind playing tricks on you, but you swear the whites of his teeth glimmer.

Heat darts to your cheeks, feverish, and it’s not from the oppressive stage lighting. Your next words do nothing to help.

“This next song,” you pause, “is a love song. Kind of.”

Satoru responds, a scandalous and elongated, “Ooooh?”

Your rehearsed speech falls apart with the reaction Satoru gives you. It wasn’t this awkward when you were practicing it in the mirror, but this feels too direct of a conversation. Expectant, adoring eyes look up at you, waiting with bated breath.

“I, I mean it’s more about following your dreams,” you continue, flustered and taking long, aimless steps across the stage before turning back to face him, “there’s love in that, right?”

“There is!” he says, waving his penlight in the air side to side.

“I’m glad you agree. Well, if you know this song, I would love to hear you sing along.”

That goes without saying. As soon as the instrumental blasts through the speakers, Satoru’s chanting his heart out. A hope intertwined that you’ll listen to him, hear him for who he really is.

Satoru’s energy shows no sign of declining, his voice still as thunderous as when the show started. Your voice guides him along, an adventure navigating between chiptune keys and artificial strings, until it reaches the bridge. A flurry of sugary sweet synths buzz, racing to a climax together. Satoru inhales to prepare for the speech to come.

“I have something to confess!”

This is far from the first time you’ve heard this speech, it’s a staple of the culture after all. But this is the first time it’s been so clear. No one else to muddle his voice. Satoru, and just Satoru.

When he’s the only one in the audience, you decide to indulge him. Bending down on one knee, cupping your hand behind your ear.

“Tell me, tell me!” you exclaim back, voice as sweet as the melody playing through the speakers.

“My oshi really is the cutest!”

It’s a back and forth, and it feels much more like a conversation than it normally would. The words bounce between the two of you so naturally, like a tennis ball during a rally.

“Really really?” You play into it, faux shock weaved into your tone.

“I like her, I like her, I really do love her!” Satoru chants it rhythmically, trance-like. Each syllable is aimed crystal clear, an arrow with startling accuracy shooting you in the heart.

“Do you, do you?”

“I’ve found my princess!”

It’s hard to pose, but you manage to give him a little curtsy before pointing at your tiara. With Satoru chanting his affections to you, you truly feel like royalty tonight.

“Did you, did you?” you respond, tilting your head with a smile.

“She’s my reason for living!”

No matter how many times you tell yourself that the two of you are practically relaying a script, you think there’s a morsel of truth behind his words.

“Is she, is she?”

“Let’s walk through this life together!”

It shouldn’t have such an effect on you, you’ve heard it plenty of times before. From other concerts, from larger crowds. But it does. It has you smiling so wide your cheeks start to ache.

That’s new. When was the last time that happened?

“Let’s go, let’s go!”

Maybe you’re crossing a line when you extend your arm further, his lips so close to the mic you can feel his breath on it. Not that Satoru seems to mind. If anything, his eyes sparkle a bit brighter, his smile eclipsing any doubt in your head.

“I love you!” Satoru yells so loud the volume of it makes you wince. For just a fraction of a second, your smile drops before you place it back on, a well-worn mask. If you didn’t know any better, you would assume this was a real confession.

“L-O-V-E Y-O-U!” It's just how the call ends, but it feels like he’s spelling it out for you with intention in every letter, just in case you didn’t hear him the first time.

With the end of the chant you’re thrown into the last chorus, getting off the floor and resuming your choreo. Satoru resumes to the usual chants, as if he wasn’t yelling something reminiscent of a love confession.

A kick and a pose and that marks the end of the third song of the night. Something about Satoru’s cheers are electrifying, static shooting through every fiber of your being. It takes you a moment to catch your breath before taking a bow.

“And now for the last song of the night,” you pant into the mic, breathless.

“Ehhhh?” A long, high-pitched whine, as is customary when the night’s almost over.

“I know, I know. It’s always sad when things come to an end, isn’t it?”

“But let’s make the most of this together! I want to hear you put everything you got on the line!” you scream into the mic, as if there’s more than a single pair of ears to take in your words.

Satoru cheers wildly at that.

“And I hope I’ll see you at the next event!” you exclaim, waving your spare hand before getting into position.

A guitar riff, followed by a soft bass announces your last song of the night. The notes dance on your skin and you welcome the sensation, taking them in and returning them ten fold. The ruffles of your skirt brush against your thighs as you roll your hips, entrancing like a bird’s mating ritual.

You thought you’d never get sick of the view of a crowd, but there’s a new contender rising in the ranks of your favor. As you circle around the stage in preparation for the chorus, Satoru also seems to be planning something. As soon as the words leave your mouth, Satoru mirrors your dance, penlights shining brightly in hand. Every jump, every sway of your hips, he meets you there.

You’re supposed to be the star of the show but he’s caught your attention, outshining your glow.

As the last chorus makes its round, the words escape a bit more desperate, dancing the line between singing and wailing. Despite everything that’s happened, you’re having fun, maybe some of the most fun you’ve had performing thus far. You’re not sure you want this to end.

With his hands armed with penlights between his fingers, he swipes swiftly across the air, as if he’s cutting the space in between. One, two, three large circles in quick succession before kneeling on the floor, pose akin to an over-dramatic archer. From there on, every spot he hits in the air is calculated, as if he’s aiming for a bullseye on a dartboard before his hands move down to his side. Then, a pulse of motion before he aggressively spins his lightsticks in the air. Swinging low, left, right, left, bringing up his lightsticks past his head, before repeating the motion all over again.

It’s silly. He’s silly. It’s another side of him you haven’t seen before, despite him being such a dedicated fan. Maybe the crowd was just a distraction from seeing Satoru for who he really was.

Maybe it’s a good thing they aren’t here.

That breaks your train of thought. You know you shouldn’t be thinking of him like this – it’s unprofessional. This doesn’t stop the thought from lurking in the background, from reappearing on the surface when you meet his gaze, see the way he smiles for you and–presumably–only you.

As the instrumental fades, you shoot your hands up, gently bringing them down with a graceful flair, pausing when they reach hip height.

Even after a performance of his own, Satoru still cheers with the same momentum from the start of the night. His energy truly knows no bounds.

“Thanks again for coming, I really appreciate it,” you breathe into the mic heavily, your exhaustion now catching up to your body.

“I really had so much fun performing today. I hope we’ll see each other at the next live!” You thank your single fan of the night with a 90 degree bow, before running to gather supplies for the meet and greet session. And knowing Satoru, he will be participating.

As soon as you finish speaking, Satoru’s quick to walk to the counter, as if there’s a tangible chance anything is going to sell out. An exchange of words and bills and he comes bearing a handful of tickets – his usual.

Before you’ve even finished setting things up, Satoru walks up to the stage. There’s no need to wait to be called up when you’re the only performer here, him the only fan.

He waits patiently as you grab a small table and a pack of paint markers hiding behind one end of the stage.

“Thanks for coming, Satoru!” You reach out to grab his hand.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He meets your gaze.

“How did you enjoy the show?”

“Do you even need to ask?”

“I guess not,” you chuckle, “I’m glad you had fun.”

You gesture your manager to come over, and he speedwalks over with an instax camera in hand.

“I know it’s your birthday, but could I ask for something?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Could I…” he trails off, a contemplative look painting his face as he chooses his next words.

“Yeah?” you ask, raising an eyebrow and gesturing for him to continue.

“Could I put my arm around you for this one?” he asks, with newfound confidence.

Your ears perk up at the question. “You’re not gonna post it anywhere, right?”

“‘Course not. You have my word.” He pats his hand against his chest and gives you a reassuring smile.

You give a contemplative glance to your manager holding the polaroid camera, who gives you a shrug.

“Okay, but only this once.”

Then you break a second taboo, letting a fan touch you past a fleeting handshake, the connecting fingers of a heart.

His arm wraps around your waist and you do the same to him. It’s no surprise he’s warm, which makes sense considering he’s been dancing around just as much as you, if not more. However, it is a surprise you’ve never noticed how nice he smells. Then again, live venues aren’t exactly conducive to scents that aren’t sweat and dust.

With a bright flash, the polaroid hums as it prints out the photo. Satoru doesn’t linger, even though you think he would. And when his touch leaves, you almost wish you savored his warmth a bit longer before shaking the thought out of your head.

Every other pose he asks for is within the realm of normal. Several different hand heart variants, cat paws, the occasional silly pose thrown into the mix. It almost feels like a couples shoot. Almost. Pose after pose, flash after flash and you’re left with a handful of polaroids to sign, laid out in a messy array on the table.

“What was your favorite part?” you ask.

At this point, you think you have him figured out. Though Satoru has been to several shows, his answer usually boils down to a few options when you sift through all the embellishments and wordy rambles. Your performance, your outfit, your energy, and –

“Having you all to myself.”

That catches you by surprise.

For the first time since the beginning of the night, your composure cracks. It takes a moment for your mind to catch up with the situation and attempt to put a smile on your face again, but your voice comes out cold and distant.

“Huh?”

“How’d you like your birthday gift?” he asks, ignoring your confusion.

“Gift? Like performing?” you ask back, shaking the paint pen to get ready to sign the polaroid. You look back at him with a wavering smile. “It was fun.”

“No, no, not that.” Satoru waves his hand in front of his face and shakes his head. “Your first sold out live! I bought all the tickets.”

Your hand seizes in the middle of writing, a growing blob of paint forming where the pen is pushed down against the film. There’s no air to be found in your lungs, as if the entirety of the concert hits you all at once. When you find it in yourself to look at him, he stands there with his usual innocent smile painted on his face, patiently awaiting your reaction.

You clear your throat before finally speaking. “Really?”

“Really,” he says with ease, almost prideful at the fact.

The idea of him spending thousands on selling out a show seems implausible, but then again it is Satoru. If anyone were to do something so ridiculous, it would be him.

A nervous laugh escapes you, your mind a whirlwind of thoughts. It feels like you’re on a tightrope, a delicate balance to toe between professionalism and fanservice.

“You like me that much?” It’s a true, honest question. You finally lift the pen off the film, frowning slightly at the pool of paint on the picture.

“Of course!”

You don’t know how to respond to that. There’s no training guide on handling situations like this, but there really should be. You choose your next words carefully, falling back on something safe, distant.

“Thank you for your continued support.” The words come out hesitantly, robotic, like you’re reading off a script.

“Anything for you,” he responds warmly, seemingly unaffected by your tone.

If you heard this at one of your usual concerts, you wouldn’t have paid it much mind – just one of those casual comments a fan says to their oshi. Now, his words have some weight. It’s not something you feel comfortable holding.

But a twinge of guilt hits your heart when you look at him, when he still smiles with admiration on his face, like you’re the one who hung the moon and stars in the night sky. Maybe you’re being too harsh on him; different fans show their support in different ways after all. Hell, you’re sure some of your members would kill to have a fan like him.

Regardless, it’s still hard to shake off the uneasiness that plagues your chest, even harder to come back from a conversation like this.

“Have you considered doing more solo activities?” Satoru asks, ignorant of the thoughts that plague you.

“Eh?” You jerk at his words, not expecting him to carry the conversation. “Not really,” you respond while drawing an assortment of random doodles across the polaroids. The usual decorations, hearts, sparkles, confetti, what have you.

“You really should, I’d be the first to cheer you on!” he says with a smile that puts the sun to shame and that twinge of guilt hits you again. Here he is supporting you in earnest, and you’re judging him for it.

“Would you now?” you attempt to joke but it comes out a bit shaky.

“Of course!” he exclaims, your unease going seemingly unnoticed.

“Well, if I ever do, I’ll be looking forward to seeing you there,” you respond with a soft smile before moving on to labeling the pictures with the date and your signature.

“You promise?” He holds out his pinky, waiting for you to reciprocate. You take a moment to ponder before raising your hand to meet his.

“Promise,” you reply, intertwining your pinkies together. The visible glee on Satoru’s face is a sight to behold. Part of you wonders if he only shows this side of himself to you.

“Oh, I think they should be dry, but still be careful with them.”

“I know, I know, wouldn’t let anything bad happen to them.” He holds them gingerly as you hand them off to him, as if he’s holding a newborn puppy in the palm of his hands.

“Have a nice night, Satoru.”

“You too. See you soon!”

----

The activities of the night catch up to your body when you make it to the green room, plopping on to the vanity chair. If you landed any harder or the chair was any cheaper, you’re sure it would’ve broken from the way you tossed your dead weight onto it. You spin around aimlessly on the chair, staring up at the ceiling as a form of decompression. All you need is a moment to recollect yourself after the emotional roller coaster of a night.

A knock on the door and your back immediately straightens, posture prim and proper as can be. Your manager opens the door, barely peeking through to greet you.

“Hey, good job tonight,” he comments, opening the door fully once he sees you’re just lounging around.

“Thanks.”

“I’ve finished closing up, so just turn off the lights when you head out.”

“Yup, got it.” You give your manager a thumbs up and a smile, and he takes it as a sign to leave.

Before he has the chance to close the door shut, you grab his attention, a question burning in your head. “Hey.”

“Yeah?” he responds, opening the door again so you can see him face to face.

“Was the concert really sold out?”

“Yep,” he states matter-of-factly, “you should get your cut by next week.”

The pay is the last thing on your mind.

“Okay.” It comes out hushed, strained.

“Anything else?” he asks, tapping his fingers against the door.

You ponder it for a moment, but you’re not sure you want to bring up your concerns to him, if it’s worth the fight. What are you supposed to say? The walking piggy bank that sponsored the entirety of your performance makes you just a tad uneasy? But then again, he’s probably just a nice and honest fan. He might have an interesting way of showing it, but at the end of the day he’s proved himself to be harmless. You don’t see a solution that doesn’t lead to an extreme, and you don’t necessarily want to punish him for his support. So you bite your tongue, letting your thoughts stir and simmer.

“No,” you sigh, resigned.

“Alright, then,” he says, none the wiser, “have a nice night.”

“You too.”

You plop back onto your seat with a groan. The desire to relax for another moment outweighs the desire to get out of your costume. It’s easy to find yourself lost in thought, daydreaming about being back home, taking a nice hot bath to relax your sore muscles.

There’s another knock on your door.

“I’ll be out in a few, just give me a moment-”

The door opens with a slow creak.

It’s not your manager.

“Oh, Satoru!” you say, shock coursing through your body as you jump up from your seat, “What are you doing here?”

“I just wanted to see you off,” he says, as if it’s normal for him to be back here. Didn’t your manager close up? He would’ve seen him and kicked him out, right?

“I thought we said our goodbyes earlier,” you respond, voice an octave higher than usual. It only comes out when you’re trying your best to defuse a situation. “You know, at the meet and greet portion?”

“I know, I know,” he says, waving his hands as if he’s shooing away your comment, casually walking towards you.

You don’t think he actually knows.

“But we had such a good time, didn’t we?” he asks, taking another step forward to close the distance between the two of you.

“I mean, yeah! But there’s a-”

“What if we let it continue?” he interrupts, “your birthday isn’t over yet.” He glances over at the clock and your eyes follow. 10:12pm. The second hand moves slower than you’d like.

“It’s your special day isn’t it? Let me treat you.” His body presses closer against yours. The pressure makes you more aware of his height against yours, of the muscular build you feel through the thin layer of fabric.

You can’t bring yourself to look at him, not this close. “I’m not sure if this is a line I should cross, Satoru,” you mumble, an attempt to convince yourself to abide by the silent oath all idols take when they first get on stage and declare themselves entertainers – be as innocent as possible. No male friends, no dating, and certainly no hookups.

“You don’t have to cross anything,” he says, voice low. His face is dangerously close to yours, and your heart skips a beat when you realize just how beautiful he is – the tufts of white carefully brushing across his forehead, the glint of sweat that makes his skin glisten, and those hypnotic crystalline eyes of his, glimmering with devotion just for you. “I’ll cross it for you.”

Without any warning, his lips press against yours, and it’s nothing like what you expected. Nothing like the crazed, enthused fan you’re used to seeing. It’s gentle, sweet. The taste of melon soda sits on his lips.

The moment your lips part to say something, Satoru takes the opportunity to slip his tongue in, teasingly pressing against yours. His hand grabs yours before you can react, fingers intertwining until it represents something romantic. You feel your defenses slipping as his other hand grabs your chin to deepen the kiss.

You hate to admit it, but he’s a good kisser. Somehow, it comes so naturally with him. A dance shared between the two of you, except there’s no stage platform keeping you apart. He’s right here, not an inch of space to be found between your bodies. Everything about him overwhelms you – his gentle hand holding yours, the softness of his lips, the way he nearly whimpers with every kiss, needy and desperate for more.

Satoru’s knee pushes against your thighs, pressing to split your legs apart until your crotch rests on top of him.

“Let me spoil you,” he pleads, out of breath.

It’s far from the end, it’s just the beginning. A love letter to each part of your body, delicately inked with the utmost care.

His lips bite the tip of your right glove, gripping the fabric before pulling off to reveal your bare hands. The sight sends heat rushing to your core, seeing him hold the glove between his lips before spitting it out. When you cover your face with your gloved hand from embarrassment, Satoru meets you there. A soft nip at your finger before peeling the other glove off your hand, eyes looking up at you with something dark, something low. You don’t recognize it.

Once your hands are bare, he holds them gently. No excited death grip like the first time he held them at a meet and greet.

“I’m so lucky I get to hold these cute hands of yours.” Open mouth kisses from the tip of your fingers, slowly making their way up your forearm, your bicep, until he meets your shoulder.

“W-wait, Satoru, I’m still kinda sweaty, let me-”

“You think that bothers me? I love every part of you.” He drags his tongue up your forearm again before kissing and sucking on the skin. “And I really do mean every part.”

Over the months, you’ve learned that Satoru is many things, but he’s not a liar. The way he explores every inch of your body is filled with admiration. You feel it in the way he leaves messy kisses on your skin, nearly moaning when he licks the sweat off you.

When he brings your arms up, you pick up on what he’s going to do next and rush to get your words out. “W-wait, S-Satoru it’s kinda gross, isn’t it?”

“Not to me,” he says it like it’s an undeniable truth, “but if you think so, then I’ll just have to clean you up, right?” As if to prove his point, Satoru flicks his tongue before dragging a stripe against the curve of your underarm. From there he licks the droplets off of you like a man at the brink of dehydration who just found an oasis. He’s messy and wet, leaving nothing behind but his spit as he licks up anything and everything perspired from your body. “Tastes sweet to me.”

With that he goes in for the other side, once again lapping at your sweat like it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted. Even when he’s licked up all there is to be savored, he’s not finished until he leaves sloppy kisses, sucking and nipping at the skin. He bites a little too hard for your liking, earning a yelp from you.

“Sorry, couldn’t help myself, you taste so good,” Satoru’s quick to apologize, looking at you with a cheeky smile, “wanted to have a bite to myself.”

And then he’s squatting onto his knees, hands delicately massaging your thigh as he looks up at you to ask, “could you lift your skirt for me, sweetheart?”

You comply, bringing up the hem of your skirt. Since you haven’t started your undressing process of the night, you’re still wearing your safety shorts. Satoru doesn’t seem to mind, basking at the sight of your upper thighs he’s only caught glimpses of when you jump on stage.

“You don’t need this with me.” He pulls on the hem of your shorts, swiftly bringing them down to your ankles, as if he’s unwrapping a present with a pull of a bow.

You’re not sure if it’s a good or bad thing that you can’t see him under your skirt, getting lost in the layers of crinoline and ruffles that blend in with his hair. It adds a layer of anticipation, being unable to see what exactly he’s doing, though you’re not sure if you would be able to look at him even without the barrier of the skirt.

Satoru starts low, plush lips pressed against your ankle, tongue tracing up your calf and leaving a wet kiss on your thigh. One moment you feel a hint of teeth around your garter, and the next you feel it loosen and fall to your feet.

Feeling too exposed, you instinctively press your legs together – not that this stops Satoru.

His tongue presses against the seam created from your thighs pressed against each other, and a soft moan slips from your lips.

“If you want more, you’ll have to open up,” he pants breathily, planting another open mouthed kiss on your leg.

There’s an aching want growing in your core, burning hot unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. When he looks up at you, you recognize the way his eyes glimmer with determination. You think you can trust him to tame it. And though Satoru was the first to cross the line, you aren’t any better.

You hesitantly shuffle your legs apart, unable to meet his eyes, waiting nervously for what’s to come.

Satoru is quick to take the opportunity.

He dives in, tongue pressed against the cotton of your underwear. His tongue rolls against your clit through the fabric, and you desperately wish the thin layer wasn’t there.

“Working so hard for me,” he coos, talking directly into your pussy, “you deserve a little treat.”

You want to protest that you’d work hard even if he wasn’t there, but you’re not sure that’s true anymore. The only sound that leaves your mouth is a whine as his tongue ghosts over your clit.

The wet sounds that echo throughout the room fills you with embarrassment, and you’d be regretting it if it didn’t feel so damn good. You don’t remember the last time you felt like this. Satoru’s just too skilled, his tongue pressing flat against your clit before flicking and you respond with a choked back whine.

It shouldn’t matter, you’ve crossed the line already. But there’s something about letting him hear you like this that sets your face ablaze.

Satoru’s fingers press against your folds through the fabric, spreading them apart before his tongue hones in on your clit. Each drag of his tongue draws shapes onto the bundle of nerves with intention. If you could think properly, maybe you’d be able to make out the letters, another confession of his love to you.

Only once your underwear is thoroughly soaked with a mix of his spit and your arousal, does he pull the fabric to the side. Your breath hitches at the sudden exposure, the cold air of the room fanning against your skin. The sensation doesn’t last long as Satoru’s face enthusiastically presses into your cunt. Everything about it is too much; the way his nose presses against your clit, his tongue lapping messily between your folds.

A finger slips in with little resistance around the ring of muscle and you can’t hold your moans back anymore.

“You like that?” he asks.

You give him a shy nod.

“Then lemme hear more of you,” he says, before planting his face back into your pussy.

The sounds get louder as he practically makes out with your pussy. Lips pressed against your clit before a sliver of tongue makes its way out, teasing you with a flick.

Satoru slips in another finger and you groan at the fullness. You knew his hands were large, you’ve felt them before countless times during your post-concert handshakes. Maybe you should’ve taken a longer look at them, analyzed them more thoroughly. The thought never crossed your mind that he would use them like this, knuckles deep into your cunt.

The way he explores your body scares you. How he knows where to press to get a reaction, how to hook his fingers to get you to lean into his touch. As if he absorbed anything and everything there is to know about you through your fleeting moments together. His fingers curl and hit a spot that has you weak in the knees, leaning back onto the counter to find balance.

“Wait, please,” you whine, high pitched and needy. It gets harder to keep your skirt up for him, legs weak from his ministrations.

“Hey, I said keep it up, didn’t I?” he pauses, taking a moment to look up at you from the ruffles.

“I-I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry about, gorgeous. Just wanna see your face when you cum on my tongue.” With that, he goes back in, far more aggressive than before. His fingers move faster, drawing out wet squelches from your pussy with each pass. The noises he makes are far too lewd for your ears, slurping and groaning as he laps at your clit. This is more the Satoru you recognize, the one you saw earlier tonight. Satoru, who loses himself in the heat of the moment, who eats you out like a man starved.

It’s obvious you’re close with how much your legs tighten. Satoru senses this too, his pace intensifying to get you there.

“Let it all out for me sweetie,” he pants into your cunt between flicks of his tongue. That winding coil in your core snaps and the grip around your skirt tightens as you cum on his tongue. You can’t hold your moans back, letting them messily spill from your mouth as a warm pleasure rushes through your body.

Satoru doesn’t stop, even after the moans have left your body and your muscles have started to relax again. Your heart races at the realization that he wants more.

“Please, please, please, it’s too much-”

“It’s okay, I know you can do it,” he coos, far too sweetly for what he’s asking for you,“lemme give you another, ok?”

Your legs tremble, muscles spasming as his tongue works around your clit in earnest, swirling around the nub as his fingers continue to press against your g-spot. He doesn’t relent when you hand grips onto his hair – if anything it encourages him to go harder. Whatever it takes to get you closer to clenching around his fingers and moan for him in that saccharine voice of yours.

And it works – almost hurts when you cum around his fingers a second time without so much a break. You can’t stop yourself from moaning his name, nearly on the same level of adoration he gives you during your concerts. Satoru seems to be getting a kick out of it, his breathing becoming more labored the more you call for him.

When he takes his fingers out, you wince at the feeling, still sensitive from your orgasms. Your legs threaten to give out on you, but Satoru’s quick to wrap his hand around your waist.

“You did so good for me,” he rushes in to kiss you, and the taste of melon soda barely lingers. You taste yourself– a bit bitter and salty–on his lips, on his tongue when you open and entice him to take you.

Satoru pulls on the elastic of your skirt, raising it up until it’s past your waist. The hem of your skirt now barely covers your exposed pussy, the ruffles brushing it against it as you shift.

He turns and bends you over the vanity, the mirror’s lights shining brightly in your face. It’s not that far off from stage lighting — white rings reflected back in your pupils as you stare back at your reflection.

“You know how cute you are?” he whispers into your ear, so close you can feel the warmth from his words. “Look what you’ve done to me.”

You can’t exactly look back to see it, but you feel it. Something solid pressed against you, wrapped in the cotton of his pants, sliding in between your wet folds. It only takes a moment for him to free himself from the confine of fabric, to feel something hot and heavy and real pushing against you.

“You don’t know how long I’ve dreamed of this,” he says, cockhead sitting on top of your folds. Just feeling you, skin to skin, earns a visceral reaction from him. He can’t stop himself from moaning at the warmth of your cunt, even when it’s just the tip sinking in.

Satoru savors every moment of pushing himself into you, hands shaking as he searches to hold yours. The sound you let out once he bottoms out is foreign to your ears. It stretches you out so much you regret not turning around to get a good look at it.

Satoru starts slow, but you can feel the restraint in his movements. A languid roll of his hips as he fucks into you, littering your neck with kisses. You attempt to tell him not to bite, but all you can let out is a sweet moan when he does.

The drag of his cock against your walls is dangerously addictive, like you could be hooked on this forever. And though it feels good, it’s not enough. His strokes are teasingly slow, as if he wants you to ask for more.

Again, Satoru stumps you by showing how much self control he has. If his wotagei was anything to go off of, you were expecting something frenzied and manic. But you do see a part of his passion reflected in his actions. In the way his words leave his tongue, honeyed and sweet. In the way he fucks you with a tenderness you weren’t sure he would ever be capable of.

“Feelin’ good?”

“Mmhm,” you nod, attempting to hold your voice back from sounding any lewder.

Satoru’s eyes watch over you through the reflection, corners of his lips upturned as you lose yourself into him, voice nothing but dulcet moans. A rush of red rises to his cheeks, making him burn brighter than before.

“God, you’re going to be the end of me,” Satoru groans, his chest pressing against your back until there’s no space left between your bodies, the heat radiating off of him making it feel like you’re melting. With the way he’s rolling his hips into you, you might as well be. Each drag of his cock makes you dizzy, makes you wish you threw your ideals to the side far sooner.

It just feels too good; part of you wonders if this is how lovers do. Maybe not in this particular location or situation, but in the way his hand reaches over to yours. Fingers finding each other and intertwining once again, as if this was always the way it was meant to be. Something drums up in your heart – you don’t want to let go. Desire unfurls in your chest and you want to live in the moment, but you also wish you could bottle it up and save it forever, especially when his soft lips gently kiss your neck before biting to leave yet another mark.

As sweet as it is, you think you’re getting a bit greedy. You want to see more, want to see the Satoru you’ve come to appreciate in all his frenzied affection. With the way he’s moving so slow, he has to be testing you, right? A way to make you say the magic words just so he can hear them, the tone and pitch of your voice, the way you enunciate every syllable so sweetly, commit them to memory. Or maybe he thinks you can’t handle it, in which case, you want to show him you can. A way of thanking him for his years of support.

You don’t do it on purpose – you just can’t help it, looking at him all doe-eyed and a slight pout to your lips. “S-Satoru, harder,” you whine, and something breaks in him. Any ounce of self control goes out the window as soon as you mutter those words.

“Whatever you say, princess,” he mewls, arms wrapping around your lower waist.

His fingers search for your clit, flipping through the layers of ruffles before pressing onto the bud. Within moments he’s playing with it like it’s all he’s ever known, until he has you whining and wincing from his touch. Drawing rough shapes around the bundle of nerves until your muscles squeeze around him.

He starts fucking into you harder, the sound of skin slapping far too loud to ignore. Your hand grips onto his harder, skin balmy from the sweat and heat emanating from both of you.

“You like that, princess?” he asks in a huff, barely able to contain his lust.

All you’re able to let out is a whimper and a nod, and Satoru takes it as a sign to continue.

You don’t recognize yourself in the reflection, tiara crooked, stage outfit unkempt, the debauched expressions you make as your number one fan fucks you senseless. But it doesn’t matter – there’s only one thing on your mind at this very moment, that hot tension in your stomach rapidly rolling towards its peak.

“S-Satoru, I’m, I’m gonna cum-”

“Cum for me,” Satoru growls breathily into your ear, gently kissing the shell before continuing, “let it all out just for me.”

When your climax washes over you, it’s far more intense than the others he’s given you tonight. Legs trembling as pure bliss rushes throughout your body, even as Satoru continues fucking you through it. It’s too much, moaning his name as a way to talk yourself through it. Every part of you is warm and fuzzy as pleasure runs its course.

Satoru isn’t far behind, he’d probably want this to last longer but he just can’t – not with the way your walls clench and squeeze around him. With a few more strokes he’s burying himself deep into you, huffing and panting as he empties hot, white ropes of his seed into you.

It takes a moment to peel away from him, and the second you do, he’s quick to tighten his grasp around you, to hold you in your arms just a bit longer.

Satoru gives you a kiss on the cheek, something gentle and chaste.

“Did you like your present?”

#i loooooved it #fanfic #jjk

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kaisermeister · 3 months ago

Text

WOULD THAT I: PROLOGUE

The Gojo boy doesn't have a soulmate.

When you're both children, you overhear him being referred to as inhuman, between his power and his lack of a mark. The next time you see him, you use a marker to write your name on his skin, too young to understand what it means.

You forget, but Gojo—

Gojo never does.

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT.

masterlist

pairing: gn!reader x gojo

wc: 2.6k

notes: thank you to my beta, as always! especially for putting up with my bratty ass and reading this early so i could post it earlier. this has been a fun fic to get started and i hope you enjoy the prologue!

content warnings: none. see masterlist for series content warnings.

The Gojo boy doesn’t have a soulmate.

You don’t think you’re supposed to know; it’s only ever talked about in hushed voices. The clans all speak like that, sometimes, each word a butterfly’s wing as it flutters from their mouths.

The servants, however, are louder.

One of them has a voice like a lark, a sweet, trilling song. It carries. You learn to hear her coming, to recognize her shadow against the shoji. You know the edges of her by heart. Sometimes she spreads her arms out as she makes her way through the hallway; her kimono sleeves flare out behind her like wings.

“There’s something wrong with the Gojo heir,” she sings one afternoon, her fluting voice half-muffled by the shoji. “Those eyes of his—it’s like he can see right through you. And Fujioka says he doesn’t have a soulmark.”

Another servant hushes her. “Don’t gossip,” she chides.

“It’s true, though!”

“That doesn’t mean you should repeat it.”

She huffs, grumbling something too soft for you to hear anything aside from the melody of it. The other servant laughs quietly before chivvying her forward. You watch until their shadows disappear, leaving only the hallway light to filter golden through the shoji.

You return to your coloring book.

The Gojo boy doesn’t have a soulmate, but that doesn’t mean anything to you.

Not yet.

—

There’s a boy in the courtyard.

He’s hopping from stone to stone in the koi pond, his snow-white hair glittering under the morning sun. He moves like a dancer, each step sure and swift, never once slipping on the wet rock. When he gets to the biggest rock in the pond, he crouches down, his back to you, and drags his fingers over the surface of the water. The koi rise to meet him, firework scales flashing in the sun.

You watch him from the engawa, peeking out at him from behind one of the columns. You’ve never seen him before, and you’d remember him, with his starlight hair.

“Who’re you?” he asks, not turning around.

You stay quiet.

“I know you’re there,” he says. “You can’t hide from me.”

He glances over his shoulder and the world goes blue.

It’s the cold burn of a comet’s tail streaking through the velvet night. It’s oceantide, relentless and unyielding. It’s a slice of the sky brought down to earth, heaven devoured.

Then he blinks, and he’s just a boy again.

“Who’re you?” you ask, stepping to the edge of the engawa.

He lifts his chin. “I asked you first.”

You introduce yourself the way your mother taught you, bowing to him shallowly.

He scoffs. “You’re not even from the main clan.”

“Are you?”

“I’m not part of your stupid clan.”

“Oh.”

He stares at you, his crystalline eyes sharp-edged, all prismatic ice. “You don’t know who I am?”

“Nope.”

He rises to his full height, unfolding like an elegant crane. “I’m Gojo Satoru.”

You tilt your head. The servants’ humming gossip made the Gojo heir sound ethereal, a fallen star that had burned away into human form as it plummeted through the heavens. His eyes are otherworldly, and you can feel the power rippling out from his lean form, as unstoppable as the tides, but—

“You’re just a boy,” you say.

He scowls. “Am not.”

“Are too.”

“I’m Gojo Satoru,” he says again, deeper this time, an intonation, a promise, a curse. His eyes flash, St. Elmo’s fire, a lightning strike of blue. “I have the Limitless and the Six Eyes. I’m not just a boy.”

You would believe him, but the last bit sounded more sulky than anything else. You’re about to tell him so when someone calls your name. You glance over your shoulder, but there are no shadows against the shoji yet.

When you turn back around, there are wet patches shining on the stones in the koi pond, an imprint of the past, but nothing else.

The Gojo boy is gone.

—

Your mother is hovering.

She smooths down your yukata, chasing creases from the thin cotton with trembling hands. There hadn’t been time to change; she’d pulled you out of your lessons and hurried you down the hallways of the estate.

“Bow low when you meet him,” she tells you, though she hasn’t bothered to tell you who ‘he’ is. “Understand?”

You nod.

There’s a fine layer of sweat gleaming at your mother’s nape as she kneels before the shoji. She reaches out to open it; her kimono sleeve slips down, revealing the elegant curve of her wrist. You focus there instead of the opening shoji, the slow slide of it a hissing snake, coiled to bite.

The shoji clicks, a chime of teeth, its maw wide open. You take in a deep breath and step through, your gaze on the tatami mats. Someone shifts.

“Oh, it’s you.”

You glance up, directly into the gaze of Gojo Satoru. His eyes are as otherworldly as you remember, a crisp, clear blue framed in long lashes, like a snowy-edged mountain lake. He tilts his head as you gape, his hair gleaming bone-white in the sun streaming through the open shoji.

You blink. “What’re you doing here?” you ask, and next to you, your mother hisses in a low, sharp breath.

Gojo shrugs. “Dunno. The clan said I had to come and they caught me when I snuck out.”

The woman behind Gojo clears her throat. “Gojo-sama,” she says, her voice like the shivering leaves when the summer breeze stirs to life, “they’re a candidate for you to train with.”

He eyes you. “Why?” he asks. “They’re not very strong.”

“Hey!”

“You aren’t, though,” he says. “I can tell.”

You throw yourself at him.

His eyes widen, a devouring sea, and he grunts as you make impact. He’s sturdier than you thought; he’s slight, but it’s all lean muscle, even though he can’t be much older than you are. Your mother calls out your name, horrified, but Gojo is already recovering, grappling with you for control.

By the time the adults pull you apart, Gojo is nursing a rapidly-purpling mark high on his cheekbone. Your split lip aches; you tongue at it and wince. You can taste blood, sour and metallic. You glare at Gojo even as your mother bows deeply to the woman.

“My deepest apologies,” she says, tightening her grip on the sleeve of your yukata and forcing you to bow with her. “I don’t know what came over them.”

The woman clicks her tongue. “The child should be punished,” she says, and your mother stiffens. “I would suggest—”

“No.”

Everyone looks at Gojo. He thumbs at a rip in his kimono, grinning widely. It bares his teeth.

“I’ll train with them,” he says.

“Gojo-sama—”

“I said I’d train with them. Now can we go? I want a popsicle.”

The woman sighs. “Yes, Gojo-sama.”

Gojo sweeps by you and your mother. He pauses right next to you. “You’re weak,” he tells you, ignoring the way you bristle, “but at least you’re fun.”

He’s out the shoji before you can respond.

—

Summer settles over Kyoto, a wet lick of heat. Even the wind seems to feel it; it ripples honey-slow through the trees, barely strong enough to stir the air. Frogs move into the koi pond in the courtyard; they sing along with the cicadas’ sawing choir.

“Catch it!” Gojo shouts as your hands spear through the murky pond water. It gushes free from between your fingers as you come up empty-handed, the frog you were aiming for frantically disappearing further below the surface. “You’re so slow.”

“Am not!”

“Are too,” he counters, holding out his cupped hands. A plaintive ribbit sounds out from between them. “I already caught one. It was easy.”

“You’re annoying.”

He stares at you, his blue eyes icy. “You’re annoying.”

“You’re the one who came over.”

He rolls his eyes. “We train at your estate.”

“How come?”

“How come what?”

“How come we train here? Your estate is probably better.”

He shrugs, opening his hands enough to peer down at the frog. It glistens in the sunlight, the same deep green as the lush courtyard. It makes a break for freedom; he closes his hands again, his long fingers sewing the gap shut. “I like it better here.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Why?”

“I just do,” he says, voice flat.

You don’t ask again.

—

“Why are we here?”

Gojo blinks, his long white lashes sweeping over the sweet curve of his cheek. “Why are you whispering?”

Your cheeks heat. The Gojo estate is a sprawling, massive maw; you’ve felt devoured ever since you set foot in it. Even the golden light that slants through the shoji feels cold. There are ikebana arrangements lining the halls, the leggy, deep purple irises sculptural as they rise proudly from the vases, but it still feels like a mausoleum.

“We’ve just never trained here before,” you say, taking care to use your regular voice. “So why are we here now?”

He shrugs. “They insisted.”

“Who?”

He dismisses the question with a wave of his hand, his long pianist’s fingers cutting through the air. You roll your eyes, long used to his occasionally imperious ways. The two of you continue along the hallways, you trailing after him closely, as if caught in his gravity, an orbiting moon.

You almost run into him when he comes to a sudden halt. You peek around him—in the last few months, he’s gone through a growth spurt, one that your mother says will come when you’re his age, and he’s too tall to peer over his shoulder—and see a servant bowing low, her ebony hair glinting.

“Gojo-sama,” she says. “Please follow me. The elders are waiting.”

He sighs, a dramatic heave of his chest. “What do they want?”

“They didn’t specify.”

“Ugh.”

“Gojo-sama—”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he says. “Go tell those geezers I’ll be there soon.”

You wince right along with the servant. Gojo’s disdain for the elders is not new, but it still unnerves you every time, as if they will come along and smite you down.

“C’mon,” Gojo says to you. “Let’s get it over with.”

The servant clears her throat. “Only you, Gojo-sama.”

He glares, his blue eyes burning, a comet streaking through the sky. “No,” he says. “They’re coming.”

“They cannot.”

“I said they’re coming.”

“It’s okay,” you tell him, eyes wide. “Really.”

Gojo looks back at you. For a second, his mouth is a wound, tender and pink, but in the next breath, it’s gone, frozen under a layer of ice.

“Fine.”

You bite your lip, but he’s already walking away. You catch yourself before you reach for him. He disappears down the hallway, his hair glinting like exposed bone.

The servant turns to you. “This way,” she says, her voice perfectly neutral.

You follow her to an empty room; she slides the shoji shut behind herself as you settle onto the cushion at the chabudai. You gaze around the room. There’s not much to take in; it’s wealthy in a subdued way. You fidget with the hem of your sleeve and then get to your feet.

You slide open the shoji leading out to the engawa; it opens onto a huge, lush courtyard. The plush flowers are weighted down by their own blooms, their stems curving like a dancer’s back. A shishi-odoshi rings out with a hollow thud; a few songbirds scatter, their wings rustling like leaves as they soar towards the sky.

You step out onto the engawa. It’s still early enough that the sun slants onto the wood, warming it. You sit down and bask in it, tilting your face up for the sun’s sweet kiss. You lay back, your eyes fluttering shut.

A voice wakes you.

“He’s an insolent brat!” a man hisses. “He needs to be taken in hand!”

“He’s too powerful,” another man answers. His voice is calm, but you can sense the ripples in it, the thing lurking underneath. “We can only do what we’re already doing.”

You go still. They can only be talking about Gojo. Their footsteps echo; they’re drawing closer and closer.

“It’s not enough.”

“He’s still young. Maybe we can mold him.”

The first man snorts. “You don’t believe that.”

“No, I don’t.”

“There’s something wrong with that boy,” the first man says. “Those eyes—that power—and not even a hint of a mark. He’s barely human.”

Their footsteps are starting to fade; their voices become murmurs. But you still hear it when the second man says:

“I don’t think he’s human at all.”

Then they’re gone, fading from your world like malevolent spirits, dissipating on the wind. You unclench your fists and find that your nails have bitten into your skin, little half-moon curves cutting through the leylines of your palms.

Gojo shows up a mere minute later. He slides open the shoji with a bang; his eyes find you immediately.

“C’mon,” he says, stepping out into the courtyard. His eyes are shadowed; his lips are pulled tight, an unstitched wound. He’s heard them, you realize. You’ve never seen him bothered by other people’s opinions; your chest aches, a pressed bruise. You open your mouth to say something, but you can’t find the words.

He grabs your hand as he passes by you, tugging you along behind him, ignoring your surprised yelp. “Let’s go before those stupid geezers find me again.”

“Where are we going?”

“Away from here.”

“But my shoes—”

He glances back at you and you drown in blue.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Let’s go.”

He doesn’t answer; he just tugs you along. You stare at the back of his head for a moment, trying to make sense of the expression you’d seen flash across his face before he’d turned around again. You can’t understand it, but you know one thing.

He’s never looked more human to you.

—

The next time you see him, you’re prepared.

You uncap the marker with your teeth. You reach out for Gojo’s arm; he pulls away before you can grab hold, as quick as a darting fish.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Give me your arm.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.”

He eyes you for a moment, but gives you his arm.

You push up his yukata sleeve to expose the tender underbelly of his wrist. You start to write, laboring over each stroke of the marker, keeping it as neat as you can. The silver ink covers the rivers of his blue-green veins as it sinks into his skin, a childish tattoo.

“There,” you say, finishing with a somewhat-shaky flourish. “Now you have a mark.”

Gojo stares at you, his cerulean gaze lit from within, the sea beneath the sun. He covers the katakana of your name with his free hand, careful not to smudge the still-drying characters. Under the shadow, they fade to gray, but they still glint and glimmer the same way real soulmarks do.

You hum, pleased with yourself, cap the marker, and toss it to the side so you can start training.

You don’t know it yet, but it’s your last session with him. He disappears into the dawn like a fading star, spirited off to Tokyo to continue his training. You’ve only spent six months with him. Still, it aches, a pressed bruise, but you’ve always known he would outgrow you; his power is a black hole, always devouring.

Life, ever unmoved, continues on.

The boy you knew fades from your memories, though you never forget him. It’s impossible, with the stories that come out of Tokyo, how he completes missions that no one his age should be able to handle.

Still, you forget things. The tilt of his mouth; the cadence of his voice. He becomes a shadow of himself, a shade with burning blue eyes.

You forget that you once wrote your name on the delicate inside of his wrist.

Gojo, though—

Gojo never does.

#incredible as always RAAAAHHHHH I LOVE THIS #fanfic

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