lafleurperdue - Tumblr blog

lafleurperdue · 13 days ago

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reblogging for those who missed it last night — just want to thank you all for the love on this fic so far. i saw every single comment ♡

🔹pairing — photographer!gojo satoru x pop star!reader

summary — it's just another tokyo night — lights too bright, hearts too loud, and him, a stranger with snow-white hair and a camera that sees more than it should. you didn’t expect to end up in a photo booth with him. you didn’t expect him to notice the things you tried to hide. and you definitely didn’t expect the way your heartbeat synced with every flash of his shutter.

🔹word count — [ 16 k]

🔹content warnings — strangers to lovers 18+, explicit smut, performance anxiety, mentions of panic attacks, emotional vulnerability, comfort after anxiety, kissing, light crying, gentle handling, gojo being soft and reassuring, mutual yearning, lots of tender affection.

please read with care. your mental well-being matters. 🕊️

🔹a/n — this piece is close to my heart. it began as a simple one-shot inspired by a song, but, as always, the emotions carried me somewhere deeper. it's my first time writing for satoru gojo, and though i was nervous at first, it slowly found its rhythm. this story gently explores anxiety, panic attacks, and intimacy—written from a place of understanding and experience. if you’ve ever felt overwhelmed, i hope this brings you comfort. put on some soft classical music, take a breath, and let the words hold you for a while.

It would be believable if you said no — no, not completely.

That you never wanted fame. That the stage just found you one day and you woke up in Tokyo surrounded by diamonds, deadlines and strangers who knew your name.

But that's not the truth — it never will be.

Since the beginning, you wanted it all. The stage lights. The stadiums. The screaming fans who made you feel like a god.

And now you have it.

But, they never knew — the heartache of sacrifice, the isolation of fame and the loneliness of love, like tonight you can barely breathe.

Your shaking body curled up on the edge of a hotel bed, that costs more than your first apartment. Mascara smudged. Champagne untouched. The only light in the room flickers from your phone screen. Not a ‘how are you?’ Not a ‘you okay?’ Just —

Manager ,

“I know it's been a long week, but remember why you're here. This is what you wanted. Millions of people would kill to be in your shoes”

You exhale bitterly — that's just how they are, it's how they've always been since the day you signed that contract — name written in black ink to feed their eager souls. A team of stylist, handlers and publicists left half an hour ago, thinking you were getting ready for the after party.

But you're still in your hoodie. Knees pulled to your chest. Crying into silence. In this dark, lulling empty room you could feel the loneliness creep within your heart — shredding it piece by piece. And as tears shed, your voice barely audible, you let out a scream — a scream, these luxurious empty rooms would never seem to understand.

A neon light caught your eyes — no several neon lights.

The city below, it was alive. Neon. Noise. Freedom.

“Freedom,” you whispered to yourself as you stood up and walked towards the polished glass windows. It was freedom that you so deeply craved and yet in here — you feel like you're trapped in a glass case — on display, but invisible.

But tonight, you don't want to be seen.

You want to be felt.

You want something real tonight, even if it was temporary.

Something quiet. Something that doesn't ask for your name.

So you wipe your face — no makeup, nothing fake. Pull the first thing that isn't branded. Tuck your hair under a hat and you slip out the back exit. For once — no bodyguards , no cameras, no lies. Just you, a hoodie and the hope that someone, somewhere, might look at you and not see her.

The hallway echoes with the sound of your boots. The back exit of the hotel opens with a hiss — the cool warm air clug to your legs like moisture.

You were finally in Tokyo — not the city built with cameras, but the one that's known for living after dark — the city that never sleeps.

You smile to yourself as you look up and see the Neon signs flicker pink and orange. Drunken laughter spills out from a nearby karaoke bar. The air smells like summer rain and fried chicken, your breath fogs just slightly, warmth hitting the summer night. You walk with your hands buried in your sleeves, passing strangers who don't recognize your face — faces that don't ask anything from you.

You let your body melt within the crowds — normal you thought, for once…. not being seen feels like a relief. It's as if you can finally breathe for the first time in such a long time — you can breathe.

Having no direction and no way of understanding where you are heading, you see it. A small shop wedged between a 24 - hour bookstore and a laundromat. A single paper later sways outside the door, its soft orange glow lighting the kanji painted above the curtain entrance.

Deep down you had no idea what guided you there or — solely how you found this place. But it smelled like broth, the kind your mother used to make back home and the kind of peace that never lingered for long. You chew your bottom lip without realizing, cuff your sleeves tighter and finally slip inside — a little shop that, somehow, felt like home.

The moment you step in, the quiet wraps around you. There are maybe four other people — older men, a couple, one woman reading a magazine and a cat sitting on the counter top, eyes closed like a true old man.

The chef behind the counter looks up. His eyes linger on you for a bit too long — not unkind, just… unsure. Someone mummers something in Japanese and you offer a small bow — not sure if it is the right thing but hoping it's enough. The chef guides you to an empty seat near the far end of the counter. You nod and sit.

The chef gives you a menu before he leaves and you sigh softly — all the words are in kanji. And you can't read a single thing, the only thing you can manage to do now is show the chef a picture when he comes back.

You set the menu down — let your shoulders drop. Finally, you can breathe even if it was just for a moment.

The door hasn't even closed behind you yet, when you hear it.

Click

Soft but sharp. You hear a camera shutter. You glance up at the small window, you see him.

A man with shock-white hair and a loose coat with a camera strap hanging diagonally across his chest. He's standing in the street, angling the lens towards the glowing lantern above the shop — framing it against the dark sky.

Click

Then he tilts the camera, just slightly. Not aiming at you, not really — but he captures something, something close. You stiffen, your entire body tenses like you've been slapped — your body betrayed you again.

Not this again.

It starts slow. Not with tears, not with sobs — just the tightening. Your lungs are folding in on themselves. Like the air in this tiny shop was too thick, too sharp — like your breathing through a cotton and glass at the same time.

But suddenly, you hear the door open.

It was him.

He noticed, lowered his camera and the slight crease between his eyebrows was enough to confirm he didn't know you.

Behind you, you could hear the small door close.

He wasn't in a rush, you could feel his presence— suddenly like he was the only one that would understand you — whether that was through the agonizing pain you felt at the moment or through differentials you both shared.

He slid into the seat beside you, set the camera gently on the counter, for a moment — you glanced at it, instinctively. It didn't look like the cameras the paparazzi used. No flashy lense. No cold metal. This one was vintage — worn leather strap, scuffed corners, like it had lived more lives than most people.

“I didn't mean to startle you,” he says, voice light — almost amused. “I wasn't taking your picture. Not exactly…”

Oh, he speaks English.

You didn't answer right away — still coming down from the edge of a panic you'd barely concealed. Still unsure if you were imagining the gentleness in his voice.

“It's just —” he gestures vaguely towards the small window. “The light. The way the steam framed your face. The whole shop looked like a movie set for a second.”

And for the first time that night you looked at him.

He was tall, slightly disheveled, but with a kind of easy charm most people had to rehearse. A soft gray hoodie tucked beneath his dark coat, collar folded just so.

But it was the glasses that caught you. The thin frames that somehow made him look both bookish and ridiculous. And behind them —

Those eyes.

Ice - blue, startling in contrast to the warmth of the room. Not sharp, not cold — but clear. Like a winter sky before snow.

You hated how quickly you felt seen. And how badly you wanted to keep looking. Your cheeks rushed to pink, like a blooming sunset longing to be hidden beneath the horizon.

But you still say nothing. Your gaze never leaving his — chewing your bottom lip out of habit you could only stare even though the blooming sunset never left to hide beneath its horizon.

He scratches the back of his neck, “Okay, yeah. That sounded weirder out loud.”

Then suddenly holds his hands up in surrender. “I swear I'm not creepy — I'm a photographer. Street stuff. No models. Just… beauty when it shows up, you know?”

He nods towards you, and scratches his neck yet again.

“You showed up, ” but of course this time he was the one with a blooming sunset. He sighs and mumbles something only he would understand.

And for the first time you laugh, you don't know why you laugh — but you do. It's small. Tight. But real.

He grins like he's just scored a win in a silent game you weren't playing. “See I told you I'm charming,” he says. “I'm Satoru by the way.”

He beams with happiness, but you…. you're hesitant. You can't trust anyone in the world you live in, you two are from different worlds and that is why you could only shrug. But deep down you wish you were someone else — even just for a moment to give him some piece of yourself.

But he doesn't push it. Just nod.

“Mystery girl. Got it”

His hands tap against the wooden counter and finally take the laminated menu and squints at it.

“Wait — can you read any of this?”

You shake your head, and the crease between his snowy brows were more than enough to convince you that he was indeed worried.

“Ah no wonder — that explains your panic - order.” He waved over the chef. “She'll have the miso with garlic and egg.”

You didn't understand a thing he was saying to the chef but you were very thankful.

He finally looks back at you “I think you'll like the one I just ordered. Trust me. Best cure for whatever you're running from.”

For the slightest moment you felt naked — he could read you like a book. And this was something you were never used to… no one could ever peel your layers back that easily. But…. for some reason this Satoru Gojo man…. knew how to and he wasn't afraid to say it — fearless.

“Do you always talk this much?”

He suddenly chokes on the water he was sipping , and you couldn't keep yourself from laughing — this only made him smile deeper, much more warmer than usual.

“Sorry — about that…” he started and leaned in just slightly. “But yes, only to the people who look like they stopped being happy a while ago.”

He taps the side of his camera and smiles “Or to people the light seems to like”

You smiled at his little gesture — and just on time the chef brought your miso.

As you reached for your chopsticks, Satoru leaned over the counter and scribbled something on the napkin. You didn't notice at first — not until now. He slid it closer with a grin that said nothing at all. You glanced down. It was a messy doodle of a ramen bowl and a stick figure with spiky hair giving a peace sign. Below it written in surprisingly neat handwriting :

‘The light still likes you’

You don't say anything. Just fold the napkin, slow and careful, and tuck it into your hoodie pocket like it was nothing.

It wasn't nothing.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡//

Moments pass by and to your surprise the miso was perfect. So perfect, in fact, you didn't realize how much you needed it until the very last sip. Warm broth. Soft egg. Garlic that made you feel something again — you hadn’t tasted comfort in weeks.

“Told you,” Satoru said, watching you with a pleased grin of a man who knew he'd done something right. “The miso here changes lives.”

You roll your eyes playfully, but lift your gaze, the warmth from the food still lingering in your chest. “You hang around ramen shops, offering therapy often?”

“Only on Tuesdays,” he replied, without missing a beat. He paused for a moment and looked out the window, and you couldn't help but notice the grin forming on his pale pink lips. “Are you doing anything right now?”

The question caught you off guard — you hesitate. You had no plans. Just your empty hotel room, a blinking phone screen, and a list of other things you didn't want to think about. By now you knew that your managers, securities and even teams were looking for you.

“I was thinking….” Satoru stood, stretching like a cat that's been napping all day. “Come with me.”

He held out his hand, eyes sparkling like he knew this was the part where you'd say no — but hoped you wouldn't.

“Promise I'm not some serial killer. Just a guy who knows a good view when he sees one.”

You squint your eyes, “Don't all serial killers say that?”

He only laughed at your question.“Do you trust me?” he says, still holding his hand out — enough for your fingers to reach his own.

You were quiet for a beat too long. And then —

“... Where are we going?”

You finally press your hand in his. And they were soft but yet the corners filled with callouses from the works of his camera. They were cold, but touching him felt just like summer just beginning — slow, soft, and full of promises . Your eyes never left his and he grinned like you'd just said yes to the universe.

“To fall in love with Tokyo”

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡//

You weren't sure what you expected when you stepped out into the Tokyo night — but it wasn't this.

Neon signs blinked lazily above you, casting pink and gold on every slick surface. The streets buzzed with life. It was loud but not chaotic, full but not suffocating. The city didn't feel like it was closing in — it felt like it was opening up.

And for the first time in a long time… you were finally opening up too.

Satoru — walking beside you like he'd known you longer than a single bowl of miso — looked completely at ease. Hands tucked in his pockets, head tilted towards you with a half - smile that tugged something quiet inside your chest.

“Ever had takoyaki?” he asked.

You blinked, “Tako…. what?”

“Octopus balls” he replied, grinning like it was the most casual thing in the world.

You stopped in your tracks, arms crossed. “Absolutely not.”

He burst out laughing, bright, unfiltered, boyish Enough to earn an eye roll, but also enough to make you smile in spite of yourself. You weren't used to this kind of reckless ease but God… it was nice.

“Okay, okay bad intro, sorry for making you turn into a red tomato —” eyes twinkling like he'd discovered something private about you. “But they're good. Warm, crispy, gooey. Little fireworks in your mouth.”

“I'm not red. And that's the worst food pitch I've ever heard.”

“Mystery Girl, you trusted me with the miso,” he said confidently.

“I might not understand Japanese but I swear you bribed that chef,” you narrowed your eyes.

“Details.” He grinned. “Come on.”

He steered you gently toward a small stall, glowing under yellow paper lanterns. A man stood behind the counter, flipping golden spheres on the grill. The scent — buttery, savory — hit you by surprise.

“One box,” Satoru told the vendor.

Then to you :

“No running away”

You pouted instinctively — and he smiled like he was collecting every reaction.

You watched him pay. His profile under the lights made something in your chest thump — ridiculous, really. He was just… easy to look at. Familiar in a way he shouldn't be. You'd only just met — and yet it felt like you'd known him longer than the life you were running from.

He handed you a toothpick and motioned to the steaming takoyaki between you. “You first.”

“Do I have to….?” you asked — eyeing them with doubt.

“Trust me," he murmured, smiling. It came out more like a statement than a question.

You hesitated — then poked one and brought it to your lips. Hot. Soft. Salty. Just like he explained.

Your eyes widened.“...Holy shit.”

Satoru gasped theatrically. “A cuss word from the mystery girl?”

You laughed, hand over your mouth. “Okay, okay — they're good.” You confirmed as you continued to devour the delicious takoyaki.

He gave a dramatic bow. “Another win for the charming stranger."

“You're so dramatic, Satoru, like…. ” you paused for a moment to think of the right word”... drama king.”

“Excuse you but king is enough for me.”

And for some reason you couldn't help but again. It was a feeling nobody could describe, the feeling of being free, being you, being open — but mostly you weren't pretending.

Satoru picked up one too and blew on it — you caught him glancing at you. Just for a second too long.

“What?” you asked.

He shrugged. “You're smiling again.”

You blinked

You were. That real, rare kind of smile. The kind you hadn’t worn in months — not in photo shoots, not in press releases, not even in your dressing room mirrors.

“Told you,” he said. “Best cure for running.”

You looked down, cheeks warm, when suddenly—

Click.

The soft sound made your spin straighten just slightly but the sound wasn't loud, it wasn't aggressive. His camera hung around his neck, and this time you caught him in the act.

“Satoru.” you warned. Not with anger — but with a kind of hesitation that lived in your bones.

He froze, sleepish and unashamed

“Sorry… I couldn't help it. The light really does love you.”

You didn't panic. Not this time. There was no cold sweat. No racing thoughts. Just quiet. Him. His presence. His words. Somehow, the click wasn't loud enough to trigger the fear. Somehow… he wasn't.

“Delete it.” you said.

“Do you really want me to?” he asked, voice softer now — quiet like a baby's lullaby.

You didn't answer. You just kept chewing — a little slower this time.

He didn't delete it — because he never would. Because in the very second, you were real — and real was rare.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡//

The streets bustled with laughter and glowing lanterns. Drinks clinked in plastic cups. Skewers crackled over charcoal.

“Come on,” he said, grabbing your hand again, “We still got Tokyo to fall in love with.”

And all you could do was smile as you held your hand tightly. Hoping that this feeling would never pass by.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡//

The night air filled your lungs but it wasn't enough like the laughter you both are sharing beneath the glowing moonlight. Satoru playfully pulls your body flush against his warm one — maybe it was the beer you both shared earlier, maybe it was the chaos of laughter but…. the warm feeling within your heart was unbearable.

You were both halfway through your second beer when you stopped outside another glowing stand. A weird looking machine sat humming quietly

“You've never done a capsule toy before?” Satoru asked, pointing to it.

You blinked and it was enough confirmation to Satoru that you've never seen a gachapon machine before. “What did you do as a kid — work full-time?”

You cough, cheeks warm from beer and grilled skewers. “I was too busy trying to be someone, I guess.”

He feeds a coin in and twists the crank. A loud clunk — then a capsule rolled out blue and shiny. He cracked it open — eyes lighting up.

“Oh hell yeah.” he says. “It's a ring, you're mine now.” He slips the plastic ring on your finger dramatically, bending a knee in the middle of the market — not a care in the world on who was watching . “Married by skewers and squid balls. Peak romance, right?”

You snort so hard it hurts.

But don't take it off, not even when you pass the next stall. You look at the plastic ring scattered with all the fake diamonds — you smile.

“Guess that makes me Mrs Gojo?” you mumble the last part — flushed by your own words

“Damn right,” he smirks.

When the crowd noise faded and the drink wore off, you found yourself leaning on him. Arms wrapped around his. Eyes closed against his shoulder.

He looked down, watched your lashes flutter, then said quietly, “You look peaceful. But we've still got a lot of places to explore.”

You smiled without opening your eyes.

“Then take me wherever you want Mr Satoru Gojo.”

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡//

The night pulled you deeper — like a song you couldn't stop humming.

Lantern light faded into electrical ones. The street narrowed, signs flashing in kanji you couldn't read and somewhere between the laughter, grilled meat and your fingers still curled around his, you forgot to look back — just like how you are starting to forget the different version of yourself.

“Another stop,” Satoru said, grinning next to you.

“Where are we going,” you asked — your grip never falters. “Another food stand.”

He didn't say anything at first, just grinned like it was a secret. “ Better.”

You followed him through a small alley that opened into a bright buzzing corner lot with color — pixelated music playing from the inside. Glass walls framed a row of claw machines and retro cabinets, blinking in challenge.

“An arcade?” you asked, eyes widening.

“The arcade,” Satoru said with pride. “The best one in Tokyo, I swear. Been coming here since I was a kid.”

The childish grin on his face was enough to make you laugh. And before you could even protest — his hands tightened in yours.

The arcade buzzed with life. Neon lights spilled across the floor, reflecting in scattered patterns across your shoes. You paused at the entrance — slightly overwhelmed by the chaos and noise, but his hand… still wrapped around you, grounded you and it was enough to take all the sudden fear away.

“Come on,” he said, tugging you gently. “You're not going to chicken out on me now, are you?”

“Not yet,” you smirked, your voice softer now — lighter.

Satoru darted over to the claw machine, all glass and plastic, filled with colorful plushies, shaped like cats, frogs even a few questionable dinosaurs.

“I used to be a god at this,” he declared, inserting coins. “Watch and be amazed.”

You crossed your arms, arching an eyebrow. “I'm watching.”

He concentrated like a man diffusing a bomb. The claw dropped and…. missed. Then again. Missed.

And again.

“I swear it's rigged,” he muttered, frowning.

For a moment you caught the smallest pout — like a kid who just dropped all his candy. It made you laugh, quietly, like the sound belonged only to the space between you. And then —

Click

Only this time, your eyes locked with his…and he smiled.

But the strange thing was — that usual twist in your chest? That flutter of panic in your ribs? It didn't come. Your heartbeat stayed steady, like it trusted him. Your breath slowed. Your cheeks carried a warm flush like someone had painted them soft with sunrise. Your fingers didn't twitch to hide your face.

And you knew, in that moment, that whatever spell he'd cast — it was working.

“Don't show it to anyone,” you whispered, not even looking away. It felt like a secret you wanted him to keep.

He nodded but what you didn't see, what you didn't even think to say — was ‘delete it.’

Because deep down… you didn't want him to.

“So the ‘god’ of claw machines got defeated by plushie with bunny ears?” you questioned, while turning towards the machine — Satoru was quick to join your side.

“That bunny has attitude, can't you see its face?”

You giggle. He turned to you, mock wounded “Okay. Your turn.”

You gripped the joystick,carefully guided claw, and with an effortless click — the claw latched onto a soft, white cat wearing glasses plush and dropped it into the bin.

You turned to him with a proud as ever grin

“God, huh?”

“.... I let you win.” he scowled with an unreadable expression.

You held up your prize, grinning. “Sure you did.”

Then— quietly, without thinking —you extended it toward him.

“Here. For your collection of humiliating defeats.” you teased, tugging it towards his hands.

But he didn’t take it.

“Keep it,” he said, suddenly softer. “Something to remember tonight by.” And he suddenly smirked too proudly, “Plus if you look at it — kinda looks like me.”

“Shut up Satoru,” you said, shoving him playfully.

But he was right.

It did look like him.

Your fingers curled tighter around the plush.

Then you felt it — his hand, wrapped like silk in yours — his fingers no longer hesitating like they used to. This time they felt like home. Like the kind of touch that belonged to an old lover. His hands weren't anymore — they danced against yours to the rhythm of a heart slowly, but surely, falling for the lens that has been seeking your truth all along.

“Oh look — there's the Dancing Machine,” he murmured, smiling as he pointed ahead. “Let's go. You'll like this one.”

The machine flickers to life with neon fury as you approach it. It's screen pulsing like a warning sign — and in that moment you knew you were doomed.

“Satoru, I don't dance, ” you lie to him flatly, letting go of his hand, while you clutch your hoodie like it's a parachute.

Satoru smirks — smug and easy. “You won't be dancing sweetheart. You'll be surviving.” he winks and just like that your cheeks betrayed you.

“You know… whatever.” You scowled, gripping your hoodie tighter, like it could erase the color now blooming across your face . “Same thing. I'm not doing it."

Suddenly he was in front of you — close. And for a heartbeat, the light within his eyes rivaled the neon blues that wrapped around you both.

“You scared all of a sudden Mystery girl , don't cry on me now,” and the smirk was enough to make your heart skip a beat. And the sudden remarks you had were gone

“I'm…. not gonna cry,” you whispered, voice small — like a secret you were scared he already knew.

He smirks, and finally hops onto the left side of the machine — like muscle memory, arms loose at his sides, confidence radiating. You sigh, but follow — hesitant at first, shoes squeaking slightly as you step on the platform. The music begins — loud, fast and unapologetically chaotic.

The arrows fly up like an anxiety attack.

You step. Wrong.

You step again. Still wrong.

You mutter a curse, quietly, and Satoru lets out a laugh, not mocking — just delightful to see the sudden crease between your brows. “You said you didn't dance. You didn't say you'd actually be fighting for your life.”

“Shut up,” you say, grinning despite yourself, trying to keep up.

He's moving with rhythm and swagger,like he's showing off. And you're over here trying not to trip over your own two left feet — who knew a star like yourself couldn't keep up with a dancing machine.

Then in the midst of your own thoughts — a hand brushes yours.

He doesn't look at you, but you feel it, the flicker of it, like a little jolt of something unspoken. The tiniest accidental spark in all this ridiculous movement.

And maybe… maybe the beat isn't the only thing messing with your heart.

You laugh too hard when you stumble into him. He steadies you, hands instinctively around your waist, his face closer now than it's ever been all night.

His breath smells like cherry soda, while you can't make out the color of his lips under the neon sky but you were sure they were pink due to all the snacks you had earlier. His eyes — amused, curious — as they linger just a little too long.

“Still think you are gonna win?” you ask, recovering.

He shrugs, cocky. “I already did sweetheart.”

And then he jumps back into it, dancing like the floor belongs to him.

You smile, cheeks warm, feet still wrong — but somehow the rhythm doesn't feel so foreign anymore.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡//

The song ends with a whirlwind of light and breathless laughter. Satoru hops off first, barely winded, brushing imaginary duds off his shoulders like he just performed at Madison Square Garden.

You? You're clinging to the side rail like it's a lifeline, hoodie damp with effort, lungs dragging in air like you've just survived a war.

He glances over at your state and grins.

“Damn, that bad?” you pant, pushing the hair out of your face.

He clutches his chest dramatically. “Are you kidding? That was the most fun I've had in days. And look at that,” he gestures smugly at the screen. “Victory: Me. Humiliation: You.”

You roll your eyes but can't stop the smile tugging at your lips. “The machine is obviously rigged.”

He taps his temple. “Nah. Just superior coordination and let's not forget, legendary charm.” And then — a wink. It's always that damn wink of his.

You shove his arm, playfully, the kind of shove that says : you're ridiculous, but maybe I like it.

And the lights from the screen fade behind you, you follow him through the arcade. The neon glow softens now, quieter corners waiting for the next part of your night.

Then — he stops.

Right in front of the photo booth.

Your breath catches.

You stare at it like it's a ghost. A glass coffin dressed up in lights and silly props. You don't move, not at first.

Satoru’s the first one to notice — of course, ever since the ramen shop incident he's been very attentive, but he plays it easy. Hands in his pockets. That usual lazy grin on his adoring lips. “I've got a rule,” he says in a quieter voice than usual. “Any date that doesn't end with a photo strip isn't worth remembering.”

Your lips twitch. “This isn't a date.”

“Could've fooled me,” he hums, and steps towards the curtain of the photo booth.

You freeze. He turns back at the stillness of your silence. And then you say it, soft, and honest.

“Satoru…. you know how i feel about photos.” the small in your voice betrays you enough, your grip your sleeves once again as your eyes try to avoid his very own striking blue ones.

But you can feel him watching you, not with confusion, not pressure. Just… care. Like maybe… just maybe if he reached hard enough for you, you'd be able to see yourself through his lens.

And then — with the kind of gentle mischief — he lifts his camera instead. The one, slung casually over his shoulder, the one that's already taken two photos of you… and maybe two of you secretly. The one he never parts with.

“Then… let me remember you the way I see you.”

His confession ran dry, enough for you to finally look up and blink… enough for your heartbeat to increase.

“Satoru…”

“No pressure,” he says softly. “We don't have to look at it. I just…want to remember you here. With your hair all messy from fake dancing. And your face is still pink from dancing. That's all.”

Your throat tightens, but somehow — you nod.

He lifts the camera, and you hear it —

Click

One shot. No poses. No warning. Just you — bathed in arcade glow, hoodie clutched in one hand trying not to smile too hard.

You don't ask to see it.

He doesn't show it.

But you both feel it. The way the moment sinks into silence between the two of you. The way the laughter of people around you slowly fades away… and the way he suddenly reaches for your hand…was enough to filter through your aching heart.

He gestures to the photo booth again, you smile and whisper, “Only if we wear stupid hats.”

He lights up like the jackpot just hit.

“Deal,”

So you go in, hands still wrapped around his like it's meant to fit in your, like it's second nature.

The booth is cramped — closer than either of you expected — knees bumping, shoulder touching, the heat of Satoru’s arm brushing yours like summer heat.

He's fiddling with the touch screen like it's his first time. “Okay, okay. We've got ten seconds per frame. That's enough time to be iconic right?”

You're laughing nervously already, finger twitching in your sleeves again, your heart thudding harder now that the curtain is closed — private — but also vulnerable. The small space swallows sound. Neon slips through the edges of the curtains, the world hushed behind the curtain.

And then, it hits.

The pressure of the lense. The stillness. There is no way to hide. Your breath suddenly stumbles. The laughter fades from your lips. You glance towards the exit, and you want to bolt. It's stupid, it's just a photo —but your chest tightens all the same.

But then —

“Hey.”

You hear his voice, it was low, soft, the kind of gentleness that anchors.

You turn, close to tears — but he's already looking at you. Not impatient. Not annoyed — just there. Inspecting each and every little detail of your eyes, nose, lips… any sign of hesitation.

You nod quickly. Then shake your head. “I… I don't know if I can do this. I know it sounds dumb…”

“It's not dumb,” he says immediately, and shifts closer — just enough to keep you in the present, not enough to make it worse. “You don't have to explain anything to me. We can leave, right now.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, as your fingers clutched deeper within your skin. You hate this — the spiraling, the doubt, the unease, the hopelessness — you hated everything.

But then again —

You felt his hand within yours. This time it was different. This time he made you look at him as he whispered “It's gonna be okay.”

And smiles — not the bright, cheeky, confident grin he always wears if he won a silly plush or if he beat you with his swagger dance moves, but the soft private one… you've only witnessed two or three times for the night.

The one just for you.

“I'm right here,” he murmurs, not letting go of your hand. “And tonight…” he says looking around for the hats. He finally finds them, but he grabs a crooked plastic tiara off the side hook and jams it gently onto your head. “You're royalty.”

You blink. “And you?”

He dramatically slaps on a giant red nose, and a cone hat so crooked that it nearly falls off. “I'm your humble jester.”

You let out a breathy laugh at his words. He reaches over and selects the frame settings, tapping rapidly like a game show contest, and the countdown begins:

3…2…1

You try to smile — really, you do — but you end up just blinking, lips parted, unsure.

Flash

And you could feel yourself, squeezing Satoru’s hand so tightly — but suddenly he laughed, head thrown back as the crooked hat slowly fell from his snowy white hair. And in that moment you felt true peace — like he was grounding you, unconsciously.

“Okay, okay! Let's do better! C’mere — lean into me a little.”

You hesitate, then inch closer. His one arm slid behind you this time, not quite around you — but enough. You don't realize how close your faces are until the second countdown starts.

3…2…

He whispers, “Pretend you're having fun.”

Flash.

And you do — barely — your smile crooked, shy, but real this time. His nose brushes your temple

Third shot : You both try to make peace signs, but yours come out backwards and he ends up in front of your face. And for the first time in that tiny booth you burst out laughing.

Flash.

Last one

He suddenly grows quiet. You ace at him unsure of what to do but he doesn't move. Just stares at you, seriously this time, like he's memorizing something important.

You sift nervously under his gaze, “Satoru —?”

Flash.

You blink, caught off guard. The final frame freezes the moment you're staring at him — surprised, breathless — as he looks at you like you're the last photograph he ever wants to take.

The screen flashes white for a second longer, then fades. A soft mechanical whirring begins and the trip of photos starts to print.

The sound of photos printing was the only thing that consumed the tiny photo booth. You exhale like you've just come up with air. And Satoru — he leans back first, stretching his arms overhead like the whole thing was no big deal. But then he turns to you — really looks at you — like you've done something brave.

“You did good,” he says softly tugging the tiara forward so it sits more securely on your head.

“Like… really good.”

With his hands no longer wrapped around yours, you tug them in your sleeves again, unsure how to reply, the sound of your heartbeat slowly increasing yet again and the warmth that surrounded you both was still buzzing within your chest.

His eyes never left yours once, like he's watching a movie with each and every movement you made. And that's when the photo finally slides out — but still he doesn't budge.

“Satoru the photos…” you whisper, feeling slightly intimidated by his eyes.

“Right,” he grins, snatching them. “Let's see the damage.”

You lean in slightly as he holds them up into the neon light. The first one makes you both laugh — your awkward blink, his ridiculous grin — but it's the last one that quiets you.

He tilts the strip toward you. “This one's my favorite.”

You stare at it — at you, frozen mid - breath, wide - eyed and uncertain. And him, beside you, unflinching, like he has always meant to be in your frame.

“You can have it,” you whisper to him softly, while studying the stripped photo.

And just when you thought you could win with him — he does the unexpected. Tore it down the middle — carefully, gently, making sure he doesn't ruin the picture.

“Nope. Half and half,” he replied, popping the ‘p’. “That way I have an excuse to see you again.”

Your breath hitched slightly at the little confession but you didn't say anything , as you stared at the torn strip resting within your palm. At the way your faces were pressed together, at the way you both grinned, at the way…. you both looked ridiculous but yet… so happy.

And for the first time that night, you saw the girl you once were — slowly being unwrapped by a ‘stranger’ you barely knew. A stranger who doesn't even know the real you — guilt was one thing, but you knew that all of this will end by tomorrow.

You watch him fold the half torn strip and tuck it into his wallet, like something precious, you think your heart might actually stop.

And at that moment, you didn't want the arcade lights to dim.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡//

He nudges your shoulder. “Come on royalty. Let's get out of here before someone challenges you for the throne.”

You smile, slipping out of the booth behind him. The air outside the curtain feels cooler somehow — looser like the weight in your chest has lightened.

The rest of the arcade fades around you — the beeping buttons, the singsong clatter machines — until it's just the two of you walking slowly towards the exit. Your hands brush once, twice, before he finally laces his fingers through yours.

The night air kisses your cheeks soft and chilled. And from the warmth of your hoodie, the tiny plush—the one he claimed looked like him — peeks out again — a quiet reminder of the comfort you didn’t know you needed.

You glance up at Satoru, his white hair catching the glow of streetlamps. And he’s already looking at you again.

“You hungry?” he asks, swinging your joined hands. “Or are we surviving off that one victory cat plush for the rest of the night?”

You snort, tugging the little thing from your hoodie pocket and holding it up. “Well he's got more substance than the popcorn you inhaled, at the stalls earlier tonight.”

“Hey!” he clutches his chest, feigning heartbreak . “I'll have you know that popcorn was gourmet.”

“Sure,” you smirk. “If ‘gourmet’ means microwaved cardboard with fake cheese dust.”

He gasps — actually gasps — and spins you gently gently like your mid - argument in a fairytale dance. You stumble with a breathless laugh.

“You wound me princess,”

The sudden name caught you off guard, as the familiar warmth rose within your cheeks. “I'm not a princess, thank you very much.”

You're still giggling when the warm yellow glow of a 7 - Eleven appears up ahead.

Satoru perks up like a kid. “Wait. Emergency sugar run.”

You blink, confused by the shift —but he's already tugging you inside.

Fluorescent lights hum softly overhead, casting pale halos across neat rows of snacks. Satoru beelines for the sweets, arms sweeping across shelves like he's conducting a sugar–fueled heist. You trail behind, amused, a quiet shadow to his child like chaos.

He's already piling instant puddings,mystery cakes, and sweets you've never seen into his arms.

You raise an eyebrow, “This is extremely concerning.”

“This here Mystery girl,” he says solemnly, turning dramatically, “is called balance.”

You stare, “You're buying three types of cake in a cup. And soda. And whatever that pink thing is.”

“Exactly,” he grins, holding up a melon soda. “Fruit group: covered.”

You roll your eyes, but follow him to the counter . As he pays, your gaze drifts upwards —to the security screen behind the register. One angle captures you perfectly, standing behind him, the plush cat once again peeking from your hoodie.

You watch yourself, absentmindedly fixing your hair. And then —

Click

Your head snaps around instantly. But Satoru's already lowering the camera, that smug grin already blooming.

To your surprise, you don't flinch. Not this time. Instead you met his eyes and the way he looked at you, the way he smiled — warm, easy, and sincere makes your heart skip a beat.

The fear you usually felt in front of the lens to fades… because —

He was the one behind the lens.

“Satoru!”

“What?” he says, mock-innocently, twisting the camera’s worn leather strap around his finger. “Candid art. The lighting was perfect. ”

He scratches his neck awkwardly. “Plus… you looked kinda cute.”

You bite your lower lip, looking away. But then you spot his cakes — and a familiar, mischievous grin forms.

“I'm gonna steal your cakes.”

“You wouldn't —”

But you already are. You snatch the bag and sprint towards the exit.

“Oh no, Royal rebellion! ” he shouts , behind you chasing. “Come back here, you traitor!”

Outside you break into a sprint, laughing as you hold the cakes hostage. He follows — dramatic and loud — yelling something about dessert theft and snack justice. You round a corner, nearly tripping on your own feet as you shriek with laughter, and then —

Then — you trip.

Well, not quite. You both stumble into a heap onto a patch of grass. Not hard — more like a clumsy trip that ends with him catching you, kind of. Your back hits the grass, and suddenly he's hovering over you, one knee on the ground, one hand beside your head to brace himself.

His face is right there.

Both your chest rise and fall — laughter fading into silence. Laughter suddenly dies out, slowly — like the world no longer exists.

His glasses are foggy slightly but you can still see the way his gaze drops — from your eyes, to your lips and then back again.

Time holds its breath.

You reach up, fingers brushing the fogged lenses, gently adjusting them enough to see him again — clearly . In that moment you couldn't help but reach out for them — adjusting enough for the fog to clear. His eyes — sea-glass blue, aglow with some kind of softness you've never quite seen before.

He doesn't lean in. But he doesn't move away either.

The world has yet not awakened, it's just the two of you — breath tangled, time frozen — with only the night sky watching. And in the stillness your hearts are loud.

“You're red,” you hear him whisper, just above your lips.

You swallow. “And you're… heavy.”

That breaks it. He exhales a breathless laugh, and rolls onto the grass beside you. “You ran, with all my pudding.”

“You photographed me on a surveillance cam!” you argued.

“You're welcome.”

You both lie there side by side, the stars half-hidden above the city haze. His hand soon found yours again — lazily, comfortably lacing his fingers within yours — like it's been that way forever.

After a while, he sits up and offers you his hand.

“Come on, the night’s still young.”

You groan and pout slightly. “Ugh, where are you taking me this time you sugar demon?”

He smirks, “It's a surprise, Mystery girl. Plus I need to enjoy those cakes on the way.”

You eye him, “Fine. But I get a bite.”

He hums thoughtfully, smirking “So the princess does like sweets”

Your cheeks warm.“You know damn well I'm not a princess.”

The plush cat peeks out from your hoodie like it's judging you. You sigh and let him pull you to your feet.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡//

The elevator dinged softly, as the doors slid open, revealing a hallway bath in soft neon lights and muffled pop music coming from down from the corridor.

You blinked. “Wait — karaoke?”

Satoru strolled out ahead of you, casually licking a spear of frosting off his thumb — still working his way through the second mini cup he snuck from the convenience store, like a mischievous child.

“Suprise-” he singsinged with a grin over his shoulder. “Figured you can loosen up a bit before turning back into Cinderella.”

Your brows rose. “You planned this…?”

“Yup. Booked the room an hour ago. Had to pretend it was for a bachelorette party.” He wiggled his brows. “Don't worry. I asked for pink lighting and everything.”

In that moment you couldn't help it — the laugh slipped out before you could catch it. God, he was stupid. Stupid and tall and funny.

Inside the karaoke room was cozier than you expected. A plush L shaped couch wrapped around a glass table cluttered with menus, spare mics, and tiny lights. The screen on the wall rolled through generic music videos, waiting for input.

You lingered never the door for a second longer than necessary. Your throat tightened a little. It's just karaoke, you told yourself. He doesn't know.

Satoru plopped down dramatically, cake in one hand, remote in the other. “Beer’s coming soon. You're up first, pop princess.”

“I'm not a pop pri —”

“Don't even start,” he said pointing at you. “You already got convenience store staff smiling at you like you're a Disney character. I bet you sing like one too.”

You rolled your eyes, slipping beside him on the couch. The beer arrived minutes later, frosty bottles with enough bite to dull the nerves. One turned to two, and two turned to three. He challenged you to do Britney Spears in a bad accent. You dared him to sing Whitney Houston, and he tried — very, very badly.

You were laughing so hard your cheeks hurt.

And when you finally picked a song for yourself — something light, something dreamy — Satoru went quiet.

He leaned back, legs man spread, beer in one hand, watching you with that fond smirk of his — like you were some rare vinyl record playing in a quiet room.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you asked, lowering the mic after the first chorus.

“Just… didn't think you'd be that good,” he said with a grin, a little slower now, a little heavier from the drink. “You're kinda showstopping.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, “You're drunk, Satoru.”

“Not yet,” he winked. “But you keep singing and I might just… fall in love.”

For a moment, your eyes met his — once again it felt like the air was heavier within this room. He's watching you closely — but he's already close — you lower your head enough to keep yourself from heating up, yet again.

You nudged his knee with your own, “ You couldn't hit a note if it hit you.”

“Ride.I'm emotionally injured now princess.”

You both kept going — singing, teasing, the kind of tipsy closeness that made you forget the world outside. You kept dancing around the room at one point, mic in one hand, laughing as he howled off-key from the couch. You didn't realize how close you'd gotten until you dropped beside him again, still catching your breath.

His eyes flicker to yours.

You're softened.

And a quiet beat filled the air.

His hands brushed your knee, but you didn't move.

“Can I… please take a picture of you?”

His voice wasn't teasing this time. It was quiet. Hopeful. A little shy in the way you never imagined Satoru Gojo could ever be.

The barriers which surrounded you two, were slowly fading in the little karaoke. You could feel the veil you've used to cover yourself instinctively lifting and for him to finally open that door — was the girl you used to be.

You blinked, heart catching on the sudden turn. “What, now?”

He nodded slowly. “You look…” He fumbled, thumb tapping the lens nervously. “You look like something I don't want to forget. ”

Your stomach flipped. And still — you reached out gently, finger brushing his. “Yes. Only you can Satoru Gojo.”

He grinned, boyish and bright, and fumbled with his camera — suddenly all clumsy fingers and slightly drunken nerves. The flash didn't fire. He didn't need it.

You stood on the table again, this time slower, more deliberate. Singing softly into the mic, hips moving like they remembered the stage — but the stage was gone, and it was just him, just this moment.

Click

And Satoru lowered the camera slowly, like the moment had stolen something from him. His gaze locked on yours — blue azure eyes wide and soft with something achingly real.

“You're beautiful,” he said, barely audible over the music.

You froze. He blinked, as if realizing it had slipped out. “I mean — you've always been, I just — shit, sorry I didn't mean to say it like that —”

A warm flush crept up his neck. His words tangled. And you… you were just about to say something real — when —

Your phone buzzed

The screen lit up : Manager

And right then and there your stomach sank.

“Give me a sec,” you murmured, climbing off the table and stepping into the hallway, far enough so that he couldn't hear. You pressed the phone to your ear.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?”

Her voice was sharp, loud cutting through the high you'd been floating on just a few minutes ago.

“I told you to come to the event, you didn't come. You wander out in Tokyo and you can't even lie low either. There are photos, real ones this time — don't play dumb, we've already seen them.”

You froze in place. “Photos…?”

“I told you to be careful, and you're out there — dancing? Singing? God Y/N, if this breaks, it's not just you. It's the label. It's the tour. We had control. Now we don't.

“I'm sorry,” you whisper, your throat thick. You could slowly feel the lump in your throat.

“You're not just some girl who gets to play dress-up, and run around like no one's watching. You, out of all people know that.”

You didn't realize a tear had slipped until it hit your collarbone.

You took a shaky breath. And then —

Flash.

Right.Blinding.

Your name echoed down the hall.

“Y/N! OVER HERE!”

Panic snapped its fingers inside your chest like a rubber band.

More flashes. More clicks. More people. And the more your name slips from their lips.

Your breath caught.

The phone slipped from your fingers like gravity itself and that's when you cave.

You were no longer normal.

You were the star you were always meant to be.

And you were cracking, like bones with each and every flash.

Your knees gave out as the noise closed in, the flashbulbs stuttering like lightning in a storm — lights that were once your comfort, are now your enemy. Voices were overlapping — your name, your name —over and over again, like it didn't belong to you anymore.

Your chest constricted violently. You couldn’t get air. Not even a sip, as the crowd chanted your name from left to right.

Your hands clawed at the wall behind you. You didn't move. You couldn’t move. Couldn't speak. Couldn't run. You didn't even know where to go. You didn't have anywhere to go. Every part of you felt too small for the panic crawling under your skin — a screaming, suffocating thing that curled itself around your ribs like a vice.

You were choking on your own name.

A name loved by so many, but hated by the one person that created it — and it was you. The name you loth so deeply now, that you wish you could turn back time and live the life you've once wanted to escape.

But then —

Warmth.

Two hands. Familiar. Gentle. Steady.

“Shhh. Hey,Hey, I got you — hey. I'm right.”

Satoru.

You barely heard him through the noise rushing in your ears. Your vision was tunneling and the familiar tears rushed down your warm cheeks. Your hands shaking violently in his grip. You couldn’t look up. Couldn't face him like this. Not now. Not as the girl crumbling under the spotlight she asked for.

But he didn’t let go.

You felt his hand slide down your back,the other curling gently around your wrist — grounding you like he was trying to pull you out of the storm with nothing but touch.

“Breathe,” he whispered, right at your ear now, close and steady. “Come on, princess. Look at me. Just look at me. I need you to breathe, okay?”

You tried — you really did — but the tears came harder.

“Can't — can't breathe —” you gasp.

“Yes, you can,” he said, firmer now but still soft. “I've got you. I promise, I've got you.”

He lowered you both to the ground gently,away from the camera, behind the stone pillar just outside the entrance — somewhere quiet where no one could find you. He pressed your back against it and knelt in front of you. The city still screamed behind you, but he became your world.

Then he did something simple. Something so stupid but beautiful. Something that only Satoru Gojo would do.

He took your hand and placed it firmly against his chest — right over his lively beating heart.

“Feel that?” he whispered. “That's me. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere.”

You could feel it — the steady thump of him, beating for you when yours couldn't.

You clung to it. Clung to him.

Like he was the only oxygen you could ever need.

And slow… the tightness in your chest loosened. Not gone. Not entirely. But enough to breathe.

Enough to finally cry.

You let your head fall against his shoulder. And he held you like he'd done it before, like he knew how to carry someone breaking within his very hold.

“I didn't want it to be like this,” you whispered hoarsely, “Not like this…”

He cupped your cheek with one hand, tilting your face to him gently.

“I know,” he said, like it broke his heart too. “You didn't deserve this.”

And maybe it was the adrenaline, or grief, or the way he looked at you like you were still human — but you leaned in.

And he didn't stop you.

The world felt like it was pooling beneath your own palms. The beating of his heart keeping you steady enough to find, your own drumming against your ribcage

And finally —

His lips met yours — soft, slow, reverent. A promise and a plea. It wasn't perfect. It wasn't polished.

But it was real.

You melted into him, like you've been waiting all night. And when you pulled back, breathless, you rested your forehead against his and whispered —

“Please stay.”

His hand still pressed yours to his heart.

“Always.”

It wasn't a promise made in grand declarations — it was whispered barely, audible, something to shatter if you breathe too hard.

And somehow, you believed him — every word, every vow, and little letter that seemed to leave his promised lips was something to believe in.

It was the hope you held onto — it was his heart you clung to.

You stayed like that for a while. Neither of you moved, like the ground beneath you might vanish if you did. The world — the cameras, the noise, the name you hated — all blurred out behind the steadiness of his chest and the hush of shared breaths.

Eventually, Satoru stood, brushing his thumb under your eye to catch the last remnants of tears, that treating to leave you with more stains of heartache.

“Come on,” he said, quiet but steady. “Let's get out of here, I'm sure we lost them by now.” He added as he looked around every corner.

“Hopefully you'll like my apartment.” he whispered against your ear. And finally his hand reached for you unconsciously — making sure to lace his fingers through yours, to ground you, to hold you, to let you know that you are with him — and only him.

The walk to his apartment was wordless. Not because there was nothing to say, but because nothing needed to be said. He walked close, his finger brushing against your knuckles now and then, like a question he was scared to voice. The night air was thick with silence — not cold, not tense, just full.

His apartment was tucked between the city's smaller spots, inconspicuous and soft-lit, a place clearly meant for peace, safety and disappearing. He tucks your hands against his own as you both made your upstairs — a dim light shone against the walls, making it earlier for the both of you to find your way to his door.

“I know… it's not much you're used to,” he says smiling softly, while opening the door. “But it's home.”

Once inside, the darkness held you both, like little stars waiting for any source of light to ignite.

Satoru flickered the switch, and the apartment came to life with a quiet hum — not loud, not invasive, just soft light against cream coloured walls and scattered mangas. A half-empty mug sat on the shelf with a half eaten cake next to it and to your surprise — you smile. The faint scent of bergamot and cedar hung in the air, it was the scent that clung to him at times.

It wasn't grand. It wasn't polished. But it was warm — lived - in, in the way hearts are when they finally stopped running — from truth, hope, love and just finding acceptance.

He watched you for a moment, as if memorizing the way you stood in the doorway, unsure of whether to come closer or bolt. You weren't the stage name he heard minutes ago. You weren't the headlines. You were just a girl with tired eyes and a trembling heart.

“You can sit wherever,” he said gently, scratching the back of his neck. “Or — uh — I can make you tea. If you want. Or we can just —”

“Satoru, can I just…. be here?” you asked, your voice soft, like it might just shatter.

His expression changed — something between a breath and a vow.

“Yeah,” he said. “You can just be.”

You nodded, and for the first time in weeks — maybe months — you let yourself sink down, into the couch of an apartment — of a place called home. It creaked beneath you, like it was trying to familiarize your weight. Satoru sat beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed.

You couldn't help but lean against his shoulder, the warmth of his body slightly, warming your cold heart. There was silence yet again. But this time it wasn't it was full — full of something different.

Something much more meaningful.

There was no pressure. No panic.No fear. No anxiety.

Just his presence was enough to sing the word — calmness.

He didn't ask about you. He didn't mention the tears or the world you just escaped. He just leaned back, exhaled slowly, and let his hand find yours again, like it was always meant to be that way.

And that was the moment you realized —painfully, achingly — that he was the only person that hadn't asked you to be anything.

“Satoru,” you whispered his name, softly as if you were afraid he'd vanish any second,as if this was a dream you were never meant to have. “I…. I'm so sorry.”

And finally you felt it again — slowly tears started to weld within your eyes. You grip his hand softly, making sure it was the only thing grounded you within this moment.

“Princess…” he whispered, arms wrapping around you, as if holding you could keep you from falling apart as if he could catch every little piece before it hit the ground.

He gripped you tightly — not out of desperation, but out of certainty. Like this was something you've always wanted throughout all your years. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, and he held you through the tremble of your body, the apology in your tongue, the grief you've been carrying for God knows how many years… ever since you've entered your world of glamor and fame.

“You don't have to apologize,” Satoru murmured into your hair, voice low and quiet and steady,like the ocean pulling at the shore. “Not to me. no to anyone.”

You didn't respond. You couldn’t. You just held him tighter, like he could numb all the pain you've felt. And somehow in some way he understood.

He let his lips brush against your temple. Light. Soft. Reverent.

“I'm here remember.” he said gently, mimicking his action prior — and you could feel his heart again, beating beneath your palm.

“And you can breathe,” he whispered, barely audible.

The way he held you — not like some rescuing a damsel,but some who had been waiting for a very long time to find you — to come home — undid something in you. The kind of care you've always wanted, craved, dreamt of day after day. And this time…. therethere was no masks. No pretending. No demands.

He knew you now, he knew the real you.

You pulled back slowly,just enough to see him — your foreheads almost touched, your breaths mingling in the air between you. His eyes searched for yours, not for permission this time but for you.

And you were there — every broken, soft, tired part of you. Finally seen.

His heart still beneath your palms slowly started to increase, as your lips brush against each other, so close to kissing.

“Your heart is racing,” you whispered gently.

His gaze drops to your lips and back to your eyes. “It's because of you…”

The quiet between you changed. The kind of quiet that felt like gravity — pulling, heavy, inevitable.

His eyes flickered to your lips once again and then slowly — almost cautiously — Satoru leaned in.

He kissed you for the second time that night, like a secret he's been keeping too long. Like a prayer. Like he didn't know how to be gentle, but was trying anyway.

Your hand slid to the side of his sculpted face, holding him close,and his arms wrapped tighter around your waist, anchoring you both in a moment that neither of you wanted to end.

It was warm. Deep. Real.

You didn't realize how long you've been kissing until your lungs started to burn, until your hands were trembling and your body was pressed so fully against his that you could feel the flutter of his heartbeat, feel the soft rise and fall of his chest.

Satoru pulled back, just slightly, just enough for you to breathe — noses brushing together slightly as his lips parted like he was about to speak — but no words came. The outline of your lips, nose, eyes… everything was enough for him to be struck in awe — in awe only for you.

His eyes never left yours, he was studying you — like you were something fragile wrapped in starlight. Like he couldn't quite believe you were real. His long slender finger hovered just above your cheekbones — a slight pause — just to grasp this moment of truth, that you were truly real. The fear of touching you too quickly might just break the spell, he so desperately wanted to cling.

“You're…” he started, then laughed — shy, breathless. “You're so damn beautiful it actually hurts.”

You blinked, and he kissed your eyelids — slow, soft. “All of you. Even the parts you hide. Especially those.”

Your eyes fluttered closed for a brief moment — just long enough to feel the weight of his words settle in your chest, to let them echo in places that had long been quiet. Then, like instinct, your finger reached for him — the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his cheek. The cool rims of his glasses kissed your finger tips, and you hesitated… then gently slid them off.

“I've always loved your eyes,” you whispered more to yourself than to him — like it was a secret you held far too long.

He stilled.

The quiet tension passed between you — something fragile, something reverent. Your fingers drifted lower, brushing the button of his shirt, trembling slightly as they ghosted across fabric and heat. But before you could move further, his hand caught yours — not to push you away, but to hold it, to bring it to his lips.

“As much as I'd love for you to take control,” he murmured against your skin, pressing a wet kiss into your palm. “I'd rather be the one to pleasure you.”

Your breath hitched, shallow and sweet, as his teeth grazed tenderly across your wrist. He trailed higher over your arm, your shoulder, up the column of neck until his mouth hovered just beside yours. And then —

He kissed you.

Softly, reverently, like it was the only thing he'd ever been meant to do. The kind of kiss that melted time, unspoiled the tension between your ribs, and made you forget that pain ever existed. You melted into it — into him.

You — past the flickering lights of the kitchen, past the couch that still held your shape — and into the bedroom. The walls were muted blue, the kind that held onto moonlight like a secret. Everything felt still, as though even the night was holding its breath for you.

He laid you down carefully, slowly, like you were made of something too precious to be rushed. Your fingers found the hem of his shirt again and this time he didn't stop you.

His name was a breath on your lips.

And the way he looked at you — God, it was worship.

No — more than that. It was reverence wrapped in longing, the kind of praise woven into silent prayers only an angel like you could understand. Satoru's hand lifted to brush your hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered on his cheek, like he couldn't bear to stop touching you — not now, not after everything.

Your eyes shimmered with grief, but nestled between the pain, the frustration and the ache — there was still hope.

“Satoru… you're staring.” you whispered, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth, as your fingers continued to toy with the hem of his shirt, pulling it slightly.

“Can you blame me?” he whispered back, his gaze drifting to your lips. “You're so… unreal. I don't think you understand”

You glance down, flushing under his gaze, shy — but not pulling away.

Then you felt his hand slide beneath your hoodie. The sudden warmth of palm against your bare skin made your breath hitch, your back arching slightly — aching for more of his touch, for more of him.

And when your eyes fluttered open, he kissed you.

But this time, the kiss wasn't tender.

It was desperate. Messy. A collision of want, of apology, of finally. You gasp against his mouth when you felt his fingers flick against your nipple — and it only makes him smirk.

“You've been naked under this hoodie this whole time?” he murmured, his tone dark with mischief and then did it again — that teasing flick, enough to make your back lift off the bed as soft cry escaping your lips.

His mouth dipped to you exposing neck, pressing warm kisses against the sensitive skin there. “God, you smell amazing.” he breathed between kisses, voice raw, low, reverent.

Your hoodie began to to ride up, under his touch, his finger dragging it slowly, teasingly — until the swell of your breasts was fully exposed.

And then he stopped.

His gaze lingered longer than you expected, as if he was memorising every part of your body — like you were something holy, as if your body was a scripture and he was about to learn every verse by heart.

When his mouth finally descended, his tongue flicked softly against your nipple, earning a whimper from you, that had your hands flying to his hair, clutching at the strands for support. He hummed against your skin, savoring the way you fell apart so easily for him.

“Satoru…” you moan, your eyes squeezing shut, hips twitching gently beneath him.

A gentle pop echoed in the room as he pulled away from your breast with a soft suck, giving the other one equal attention as much as possible.

“You're so fucking perfect,” he whispered — and there was a tremble in it, as if even he couldn't believe you were real.

He shifted slightly, his finger grazing your inner thigh beneath your hoodie. You felt his mouth press one more kiss to your nipple, before he moved lower, his lips dragging down the curve of your stomach, hot and open, slow enough to make you whimper again.

Your back arched subtly when his hand cupped your heat — warm, calloused fingers reading your body like scripture. He watched your every reaction, patient, devoted, drinking in the way your breath hitched and your legs shifted beneath his touch.

Satoru found the band of your shorts and hooked his fingers beneath it, dragging the fabric down with excruciating slowness. His lips followed the trail, pressing hot, reverent kisses to your thighs as he bared you, inch by inch.

“God,” he breathed, voice low and rough, “your skin’s so soft…”

His lips ghosted over your ankle, then the arch of your foot, and higher still—open-mouthed kisses blooming like fire across your inner thigh. Wet, deliberate, worshipful.

You squirmed beneath him, whimpering, “Satoru, please…”

He glanced up through silver lashes, the corners of his mouth curling just slightly as he reached your center—thumb grazing the sensitive skin just beside it, like a tease, like a test.

The wet patch against your ribbon pink underwear didn't go unnoticed.

“You're so wet,” he whispered, his tone dark.

Your breath hitched when he reached the band of your underwear, his thumb hooking into the elastic. But he paused — not to tease this time but to look up at you.

“You okay?” he asked, and it was so soft — the way he always asked like you were something delicate, breakable, precious.

You nodded, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy.

“Good,” he smiled, voice low, sultry and he began to pull your underwear down with agonizing slowness. “Because I want to taste the way you mourn.”

He whispered it like a vow.

And when he settled between your legs, his breath ghosting against your core, you knew —

He wasn't just going to touch you.

He was going to ruin you

His breath was hot against your thigh. You felt it before you felt his mouth. Nipping slightly at your clit, teasing you like a man that's ready to take on his meal.

“Satoru please—” you whine beneath his gaze.

Then — he finally kissed you there, where you needed him most — slow and deep, as if offering a prayer. You gasp his name “Satoru…”

He hummed in response, the low vibration of his voice rumbling against your wet folds, like a secret that's only meant for you. His tongue was slow, tender but sure, parting you with care, as if he was reading grief straight from the folds of your body.

You writhed beneath him, your hands tangling in his snowy white hair, pulling slightly — not to stop him no, but to anchor you from the waters that's been daring to release. You needed something to hold onto and right below you was, the man that's devouring from within — was the only thing keeping you from unraveling completely.

“That's it,” he whispered, pausing to kiss your inner thigh, dragging his lips up, then returning to your core one again. “Let me hear you.”

You felt him spit on your clit, that's when he sealed his mouth around it — sucking gently, sending a jolt of pleasure that made your back arch instinctively.

“Oh my god —” you gasp at the sudden sensations that's about to take over.

Your thighs trembled around his shoulders, when he continued to suck, lightly, slowly, deliberately. His fingers gripping your hips, grounding you - guiding you through it. He was so attentive. So focused. Like he was trying to memorize the sound of your pleasure, the movement of your body, your weaknesses, your strengths — as if he was trying to replace every single memory of your pain with something sacred.

“You taste… like sweets,” he murmured against you, voice dripping with awe, like he was losing himself in it too. “I could spend a lifetime right here.”

And then you felt it — a single digit — no two, his fingers pushed within your walk. The sound of you clenching walks wrapped around his fingers like they were made for him.

“Can you hear how wet you are,” he asked, as his tongue flicked against your clit. One here, one there. A kiss on your thigh as his fingers continue to work through your went hole.

“Satoru… I..” you couldn’t even finish your sentence, and he continued to pump faster. Your eyes squeeze shut at the sudden sensations of pleasure — and for the second time that night his lips sealed your clit sucking — faster, deliberate — his tongue flattened, stroked long and slow, curling just right.

You back arched as a moan ripped through you, messy and high pitched. You felt tears prick the corners of your eyes. Maybe from the pleasure, maybe from the grief still lingering at the edges. You didn't know anymore.

“Good girl,” he said again, and you could hear his voice — how much he needed this, how much he needed you. The way he kept pulsing his fingers within your walls, the way he kept sucking and licking you like you were his last prayer. “God, you're perfect. I've got you baby. Let it go.”

Your body obeyed before your mind could. Your thighs clamp tight around his head as the heat built and broke — wave after wave until you were trembling, chest rising and falling as your hands covered your face.

Satoru only kissed your inner thighs then your knee, softly as he continued to work you through your orgasm. And finally, he moved up your body slowly, carefully, like he was putting the pieces back together with every kiss he pressed to your warm, dewy skin.

His voice was hoarse when he asked, “Still with me?”

You nodded, barely able to form words, your chest heaving, heart still pounding lively in your throat.

You reached for him this time. And as your lips met his desperately, tasting yourself on his tongue — you knew :

He wasn't trying to heal you.

He was mourning with you. And this was his prayer. His body a psalm. You, the alter.

Your kiss deepened, slow at first — like a silent exchange between sorrow and want — and then something stirred within you. And yearning not to receive, but to give. To worship him, just the way he had worshipped you.

Your fingers trailed down the planes of his back, to the hem of his shirt, tugging it upwards with shaky hands. He broke the kiss only to let you pull it off him, and when your palms met bare skin, the heat between you deepened. He was beautiful — not just physically, but in the way he looked at you, like you were salvation in human form.

“Satoru… let me touch you, ” you whispered against his jaw, voice fragile but full of promises.

His breath caught, and for once he didn't hide behind teasing words nor cocky smirks. He nodded — almost shyly — and let you shift you onto his back.

You move over straddling his hips, fingers trailing down the expanse of his chest. His hand came into contact with your hips, as you kissed him again, slower now, your lips brushing over his and your hand drifted downward. When you palmed him through his pants, a low groan escaped his throat — like a silent plea — waiting for your touch to flood him.

“God,” he rasped, “you're… dangerous.”

You smiled, soft and sure, “So are you.”

You unzipped his pants with care, letting your fingers linger just a moment too long over the skin beneath his waistband. When you finally pulled him free, his head tilted back against the pillow, a quiet, broken noise leaving his lips.

You couldn't help but bite your lower lip, his member was glistening with precum. It was large, and you couldn't help but wonder if it would ever fit. Slowly you took your time, kissing down his chest, his stomach, until your breath hovered over his aching member.

And then with one last glance upward, your eyes met his. “Let me mourn you too.”

Then — you took him in your mouth.

You began slowly, the same way grief moved through the soul — carefully, respectfully like you understood the weight he carried — just like he carried yours. He tasted like skin and sorrow, like everything he couldn't say pressed against your tongue.

His hand found your hair, not to guide you but to anchor himself — just like you did — to remind him that this was no dream, that was reality itself

That you were here, offering the kind of solace no prayer could match.

“F-fuck… ” he breathed, voice already shaking. “F-feels… so good, fuck.”

You moved with tenderness, each stroke of your tongue an act of devotion, not lust — and he felt it. Every piece of it. Felt like it was stitching something inside him back together, only to tear him open again.

His head tilted back, eyes squeezed shut, and then he looked down at you, breathless.

“Don’t look away,” he whispered. “Stay with me, baby… please.”

You hummed softly around him, and his whole body trembled.

“God– your mouth,” he groaned, hand tightening just a little in your hair. You could feel him shutter at your touch. A broken sound escaped him when you deepened your pace, slow and purposeful, and he covered his eyes with the back of his hand like he couldn’t take it.

You pulled back slightly, lips still kissing along his length, eyes locked with his. “I'm mourning you too,” you whispered again. And then you took him in fully, and he let out a quiet, aching, “Fuck, I'm gonna come — please — princess.”

His hips stuttered, and he reached for you blindly, not to stop you, but to hold on. As if letting go meant losing you again.

You let him fall from your lips with a soft gasp of breath, and you kissed your way back up his body, letting your chest rest against his, letting him feel your heartbeat—fast and full and alive.

He cupped your cheek when you reached his face, and when he kissed you, he could taste himself on your lips.

“Say my name,” he asked softly.

You smile, cheeks warm. “Satoru Gojo.”

You couldn't help but giggle at his sudden behavior. He smiled, and when he kissed you it was much different — his lips lingered longer on yours, not hungry,not rushed just… aching. Like he needed to taste every breath you offered, like your kiss could resurrect something lost. You felt the shift in the air — the kind of silence that held meaning. The kind of silence where one would reminisce in silence.

When he rolled you gently beneath him, it wasn't dominance — no this time it was him surrendering to you, and you to him. He looked down at you, like you were something fragile, sacred. Like he feared you might just be a dream, ready to slip from his hold if he moved too fast.

His forehead pressed to yours, his breath still warm and uneven. “Are you sure?”, voice tight almost pleading, “I don't want you…” but before he could even continue you kissed him.

Kissed him — pulled away, nodding as your fingertips brushed along the curve of his cheek. “You were the first man to make me feel normal…” your voice half broken, soft, “Make me remember I'm here, with you.”

And so he did.

He entered you slowly, inch by inch, and you gasped — not from pain but from the depth. From how full it felt. From how deeply it fit, like he was carved for you.

Neither of you moved at first. He just held you – inside and out — letting your bodies adjust, letting the moment stretch.

His lips pressed to your shoulder, to your collarbone, to the hollow of your throat. “You feel like… heaven, I swear.” he murmured, voice breaking against your skin as he marked the flesh.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, your legs wrapped around him instinctively, pulling him deeper, closer. “Oh my god —” a soft gasp leaves your trembling lips.

He started to move, slowly, reverently like every thrust was a vow. Ever sigh a confession. You clung to each other like salvation.

The sound of your bodies — soft breaths, whispered names, the quiet rhythm of skin meeting was the only music the moment needed.

“There — right there…” you let out a breathy cry, your voice shivering with need as his rhythm deepened, unhurried but sure, like he knew every itch of you by instinct.

“Yeah? Right there, princess?” he whispered into your skin, his breath hot and trembling, forehead pressed to yours. “You're taking me so well — fuck your perfect.”

Your body moved as one, the type of synchronicity that didn't come from practice, but from the depth within both of you. From mourning. From reverence.

His hand slid between you, fingers circling your swollen clit, with aching gentleness. “I want to feel you fall apart,” he breathed heavily, voice cracking. “I want to feel you lose yourself. Can you do that for me?”

You could only nod, not trusting your voice enough — your hands clawing at his back, trying to keep yourself grounded as the pressure inside you coiled tighter, your breath hitched with every thrust. Behind you — you could hear the soft thud of the headboard tapping the wall with each deep thrust — a quiet rhythm that matched the desperate way he moved inside you.

“Satoru —” his name tumbled from your lips like a prayer, and he groaned in return, lips pressing to your cheek, your jaw, your mouth.

“You're so beautiful like this,” he rasped. “Fucking breathtaking. I could die right here.”

His movements grew a touch more desperate, not rough, never rough with you — but like he was trying to memorize you from the inside out. Like he was etching his soul into yours with every motion.

“I'm close,” you whimper, voice trembling.

“Me too princess. Fuck — me too. Let go for me, yeah? Come with me,” he pleaded, the sound of it wrecked and unfiltered. “Please…”

You felt it hit — the crash of sensation, white-hot and consuming. Your body arched, your vision blurred, and his name left your lips in a broken sob as you clenched around him.

He wasn't far behind.

With a strangled moan, he spilled inside you, holding you so tight like he was afraid you would disappear. His whole body shook, and for a long moment neither of you breathed — just trembled in each other's arms, undone and reborn.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was full of everything unspoken. Grief. Healing. Worship.

And the echo of your names on each other's lips.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡//

You stayed like that for a long time, your chest rising and falling against his, breaths uneven, skin still warm from what had just passed between you. Satoru's fingers remained tangled in your hair, your cheek pressed to his shoulder, your legs still curled around his.

No one spoke.

The silence wasn’t suffocating—it was sanctuary. It was the lull after a storm, where hearts beat softer and the world fades away to nothing but skin and soul.

And then —quietly, you shifted.

You rolled to your side, his hand reluctantly slipping from your body, but not far. It found your waist instead, grounding you in the afterglow.

You stared at the ceiling for a while. So did he.

“You have a beautiful name,” he whispered, his eyes never leaving the ceiling. As his hands slowly started to form shapes against the warmth of skin.

You could only smile, you realize now that he knows you. He knows the other part of your life — he knows the you , you've been hiding from him too long.

And suddenly you realize just how vulnerable you both were in this moment, your voice was almost too soft to be heard.“Do you ever get scared of your own art?”

Satoru turned his head toward you, brow furrowed.

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. “I used to sing to heal,” you whispered, “but somewhere along the way, I started singing just to be heard. And now… I don’t know the difference.”

There was a pause — just long enough to hurt.

“I think I take pictures for the opposite reason,” he said. “Not to be heard. Just to see. To really see. And sometimes… to help people see themselves again.”

You swallowed. Slowly. Delicately. “I used to hide from the flash,” you confessed. “Like it might capture something I didn’t want anyone to see. That’s why I panic. I think… I thought the lens could turn me into something I’m not.”

He didn’t say anything. But his hand squeezed your waist.

You finally turned to face him, naked in every sense of the word.

And then, voice like dusk, you asked:

“Will you show me what you see?”

Satoru didn’t smile. He didn’t tease. He sat up slowly, reaching for his camera near the edge of the bed — far forgotten after your flush encountered, the lens glinting faintly in the city light seeping through the curtains.

He offered it to you, gently, like it was sacred, a secret he only shared with you.

“Come here,” he murmured, scooting back until you were both sitting cross-legged on the bed, legs barely touching. “Look through this.”

You took it with tentative fingers. Brought it to your eye. And for the first time, the world didn’t spin. Because through that lens, you saw him — Satoru Gojo. Raw. Beautiful. Tired. Honest.

The kind of man who listened with his whole body. Who didn’t ask for more than you could give. Who saw you without trying to fix all your broken parts.

“Now,” he whispered, brushing a hand over yours, helping guide your grip, “gently press right here.”

The shutter clicked. You lowered the camera.

And he was smiling.

Something warm bloomed in your chest. It didn’t have a name, but it sat beside the ache of goodbye. You handed the camera back to him.

And then you laid beside him again, not touching, just watching his face as he admired the photo you'd taken.

“Is that how you see me?” you asked.

He looked at you—not through the lens this time, but with the same stillness.

“No,” he said, voice rough with sleep and truth. “That’s how you see me.”

You didn’t say anything after that.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡//

Eventually, you drifted. His breathing slowed. And when you were sure he was asleep, you kissed him—just once—like you were pressing the memory of him to your lips.

Then you rose quietly, redressing in silence.

And as dawn crept in behind you, you slipped out the door and back into the world that never stopped watching.

But for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you were running.

You felt seen.

You saw yourself, through his lens.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡

3 MONTHS LATER

The soft hum of the aircon the only sound. Your phone lay facedown beside you, but you hadn’t touched it in hours. The headlines had already done what they always did — Pop Star’s Breakout Ballad 'Bliss' Stuns the Charts. A Song That Sounds Like a Goodbye.

They called it haunting. Beautiful. Vulnerable.

They didn’t know it was a confession.

You blinked slowly, lashes wet with unshed tears. The room felt too big tonight, like the shadows had grown long enough to reach inside you.

The clock flashed 2:17 AM. The same hour you left him in Tokyo. The same hour you slipped back into your skin and out of his arms. A sob broke from your chest before you could stop it. You gripped the sheets — but it wasn’t enough. You stood, restless, and with a sudden, angry motion, you kicked your suitcase over.

Its contents spilled everywhere. Clothes. Sunglasses. Lipsticks.

And then… something else.

A hoodie. The hoodie you wore that night.

Your breath caught in your throat.

You dropped to your knees. One by one, the memories fell out.

The tiny cat plushie that looked just like him — smug, sleepy-eyed.

The bent photobooth strip — the two of you caught mid-laugh, eyes crinkled, cheeks pressed together. He was staring at you in the last frame.

Your fingers shook.

Then you saw it — a polaroid. You. That night. Hair tousled, bare face , glitter clinging to your collarbones. Eyes soft and tired, looking right at him.

He took it when you weren't looking, while you were singing.

You flipped it over.

His handwriting.

You were always my lens.

If you ever need to find me…

- G.

(xxx-xxx-xxxx)

Your breath hitched.

And then you were dialing. Hands trembling. Tears dotting the screen.

The phone rang.Once.Twice.Three times.

Your heart clenched.

Then—

“Hello?”

His voice.

Rough. Sleep-warmed. Gentle.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

“…Is it you?” he asked, softer this time. “Is it really you?”

You pressed the phone tighter to your ear, choking back a sob.

“I wrote it for you,” you whispered. “The song. I—I didn’t know how else to say it.”

Silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t cold.

It was breathing.

And then, in that quiet, you heard it — the sound of him exhaling like he’d been holding his breath for three months.

“…Come home,” he said.

🔹author's note — i can genuinely say i’m proud of this piece. it took me two weeks to complete—not just because of the writing itself, but because i had to step away at times. some parts were intense, emotionally and mentally, and i wanted to give them the care they deserved. if you’ve made it this far, thank you for reading. i’d love to hear your thoughts, so feel free to let me know what you think. your support means the world.

much love always,

katherine ♡

🔹taglist — @angelkiyo, @imjustheretoreadgeto, @emochosoluvr, @lazyjellyfish300

📌 for updates or to be added to my taglist, please use the link in my navigation, i'll also add the link here for the taglist —> 💌 ♡

ps i do not own the art used in this post. credits goes to the original artist (unknown).

©lafleurperdue. please do not copy, translate, repost, or claim my writing, art, or designs. dividers, words, and worlds belong to me. katherin, with soft ink & heavy heart 🤍

#icymi <3 #satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x y/n #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo fluff #satoru gojo smut #jjk smut #jjk fluff #jjk x reader #gojo x reader #jjk #jujutsu kaisen

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lafleurperdue · 14 days ago